#hsr cipher

Tribbie/Transfer Loop/Information Connection Timeout: Tribbie was the demigod of Passage, they transferred people place-to-place and kept the city-states connected and informed via the Century Gate.

Hysilens/Assertion Failed/Detection Unresponsive: Hysilens earned her path of Nihility; she was unable to assert herself and live on her own after the loss of her home, her family, her people. She was desperately clinging to Cerydra and her reign as a reason to live right up until the moment she killed her.

Cerydra/Illegal Protocol/Firewall Deactivated: Cerydra was the demigod of Law, and it was her death that changed the protocol of the Sceptor and allowed Herta and Screwllum back in, and to accomplish as much as they did.

Aglaea/Throttle Failed/Performance Overload: Aglaea pushed the limits of what a demigod could handle. She spent centuries enduring the gradual wear and tear of her very soul; even if Caenis hadn't killed her, she wouldn't have lived much longer. She was still trying to fulfill her duties, up until the very end.

Anaxa/Malicious Code Injected/System Out of Control: Anaxa's entire life's goal was to "sow the seeds of doubt." He lived to upend things and pulled zero punches doing it. I can't think of anything more fitting than him just straight up injecting malicious code into Irontomb, no notes 10/10

Cipher/Parameters Distorted/Logic Errors: Cipher was the demigod of Trickery and she used her talents well. She could trick people into seeing a completely different reality, and make their own sense of logic lie to them.

Mydei/Data Wipe/Copy Lost: Mydei was thorough in his eradication of the black tide, he worked endlessly to wipe out as much of it as he could. He was also insistent on doing it alone, even though Krateros and his people would have followed him anywhere.

Castorice/Subprocess Frozen/Unable to Terminate: Due to Polyxia's actions, the River of Souls was dammed, freezing that entire process and leaving people unable to fully cross into the sea of flowers. Castorice herself had the touch of death, but refused to use it, good or bad.

Hyacine/Stack Overflow/Insufficient RAM: Fat fu- Aquila was probably one of the most corrupted titans, due in part to the black tide, but also because of Seliose's hatred after merging with them. You can see it in the scrolls in Okhema and the Skydome after Hyacine usurps the Coreflame. And you see it's effect in 3.4- the corruption stacked and overflowed, until Hyacine couldn't bear it. When Phainon goes to kill her, she's already one foot in the grave. In following cycles, she holds out only until the last human being left on Amphoreus passes away, then loses her sanity and dies.

Dan Heng/Storage Anomaly/Unable to Delete: As the Imbibitor Lunae and a scion of the Permanence, Dan Heng carries the weight of 90+ reincarnations, including a lot of their memories, whether he wants to or not.

March 7th/Time Rollback/Infinite Loop: Even before becoming the demigod of Time, March 7th wanted so so badly to be able to look back in time and into her own past. And because of that loss of memory, she is desperate to infinitely preserve what she has now, to the point of taking selfies with everyone once a day.

Phainon/Merge-Split/Core Damaged: *gestures to 3.4* kind of what it says on the tin. Phainon exists as Phainon, as the Flame Reaver, as Khaslana. He took on so much that it damaged him right down to the core of his very being. The original body exists now only as a battered, broken corpse buried in the Ruins of Time.

His dad, Hieronymus, on the other hand, was a man with scars etched into his eyes that even a child like you could see, and spoke of the stories you had heard since birth as if they were facts, not fiction —a truth that all but he were deluded about. He shared the same blue eyes as his son, a clear blue after early sunrise, or like the calm waters of the creak where you both used to go swimming. Yet his eyes were duller, heavy with a burden, the weight of it sagging his broad shoulders. 

He once sat you both down one night behind their backyard, a small fire was lit to keep you all warm, as if both of you weren't already swaddled with four layers of warm clothes at his mother’s insistence. 

 Phainon didn't handle the cold well. His hands would always become cold and red come winter, his cheeks full of fat resembling little ripe tomatoes that you would tease him relentlessly for whilst attempting to squish them. It was one of the few things you would miss, one of the few things he would shed, like a cicada molting out of its skin on a hot summer day.

“Khaslana, throughout the ages, has favoured our family the most in the village.” His dad’s voice was gravelly, the air choked with the scent of cigarette smoke, and unusually quiet that night, as if he were sharing a well-guarded secret under the curtain of stars —a secret not meant for any ears to hear. Especially yours.

“Why Phainon's family, Unca?” You had asked, curious eyes gazing at his ember-lit face. 

He had smiled, his face lined with more scars, more burden. “That's because we give him the biggest offerings, the biggest prayers. Which none of the other villagers do. That's why we get more gifts.” 

“So, Khaslana is like Santa?”

“No, dummy,” Phainon had said, bonking you on the head with the stick he roasted his marshmallows with. “Khaslana is real, Santa is not.”

“Santa isn't real?!” For a nine-year-old, it was quite a devastating revelation. 

His dad had laughed while he ruffled a bird’s nest out of your carefully pinned hair, glancing at his son in shared amusement. “Don't listen to Phainon, (name). Santa is real, but he only gives gifts to good children,” he had explained carefully for you. “Khaslana, though, is a being that simply favours our family more because we are their best worshippers.” 

You looked at him, a man who had fed you more sweets than you were allowed to have, the dad of your best friend, and another parental figure, and held his words like they were as precious as the star hung above them. “So, if I also give them a big offering, will I also get a gift?” 

He looked at you after those words left your mouth, keeping silence like a vigil for a good while before he burst out laughing, clutching his sides. You had seen his dad do pretty weird stuff after drinking a few too many cups, but his laugh never felt hollow, so empty that it made you look at Phainon for answers. 

He was mirroring your confused expression, his head tilted to your side as well.

His dad finally stopped laughing, but that smile, that stretched, forced smile never left his face, when he said those words that now haunt you in your dreams– “You can, if you want, kiddo. But better come up with a good offering, our lord does get quite lonely up there. He might come and steal you away as a bride if you don't hurry.” 

You never could ask what he meant, why his words felt like a bad prophecy. 

Phainon's dad would later turn up dead, his head missing, a year after that conversation, and in the same spot, Phainon would be found five years later, and not quite himself either. 

But you wouldn't know that until three years have passed, that your best friend’s warm body has long since gone cold.

You wake feeling hot, beads of sweat accumulating and rolling down your forehead. The air conditioning was set to the lowest setting all night, yet you woke up with your t-shirt wet, as if you had taken a swim in the river. You run a hand over your sweaty face. 

The sun has broken in the dawn, the first rays of light rushing through the sheer blinds. The floral scent of mosquito repellent you had lit the previous night still lingers in your room. Gravity pulls you back down, your head cushioned by pillows that don’t feel quite right. You haven’t been able to sleep in your bed since that day, after all. Those golden, frigid, inhuman eyes follow you everywhere you are, even the sanctuary of dreams isn’t spared from it. Either that or you would be dragged back into the cruel torment of bygone memories and wake up crying for his gentle blue irises that you will not gaze into again. 

Two hours pass, and by then the sun has already stretched its arms towards all of the village. Your mother calls you down for breakfast, along with the reminder that you are going to be late for school. Sitting up in the bedroll on the floor, you stare at your shaking hands. 

You cannot keep dodging him. He has already been courteous enough not to take it further than he could have the last time you saw him. That windless night, your room blanketed in cold darkness, the suffocation pressing into your ribs, and the heat of his paranoia and rage at your fear for him. How could you remain calm when the skin that you were intimately familiar with, as if it were your own, turned to dust at your frightened touch, cracks forming to reveal molten gold so hot that it still burns whenever you think of it? 

Still, you do not know what caused him to pause mid assault. You only remember through the haze of evaporating tears the flicker of soft blue that passed beneath the tyranny of gold, his boiling hands hovering with a lag like an overclocking operating system. He had let you scurry out of his scalding hold, your back pressing against the wall as you gawked, mouth open, when he returned to human. 

 The moonlight had caressed his blonde hair with a silken ivory touch, and his eyes had faded to a blue darker than black, a chasm with its maw open in a lure. His face never betrayed any emotion, any signs of Phainon were buried deep if they were there, but he only showed you the cold indifference of a silent, petulant god to whom you had done a great disservice.

Do not run. He spoke in a voice belonging neither to a man nor a woman, and it had coalesced into a single haunting melody too inhuman to comprehend.

But the intention behind his words was clear, if not apparent– you will not get a second chance. 

So, you do what your weary, sleep-deprived mind can allow. You freshen up, iron your shirt, pack your bag, and get ready for school like it's any other ordinary day. 

Phainon is standing at the entrance, chatting with your mother, when you leave the dining room with the food untouched. His eyes immediately find yours, cornflower blue, not molten gold, and the smile he gives you almost makes you run back to your room. Almost.

“What took you so long?” she chides you lightly as she smacks your arm. “Do you know how long Phainon has been waiting?” It's not him, though, you want to answer, but remain silent. 

 He laughs in the polite way that Phainon did, his mimicry perfect to the finest detail. “It's okay, Auntie, I am used to waiting for her.” His eyes are especially bright today, seizing you up from the threshold of your house, not coming in but not leaving either. He is waiting for permission, one that you aren't happy to give. “Aren't I?”

You smile back, your facial muscles taut. “I am sorry. I overslept.” 

You pick up your shoes and throw your mother a glance. She is looking at you, her eyes full of apprehension and unsaid worries she has kept since you locked yourself away for the entire week. You don't want to hear them right now. You are sure to break apart under her gentle caress. 

“I will be back late,” is all you say before you grab his all too warm, familiar hand in your home and rush out of the house like it has caught fire. 

His touch on you, his fingers digging selfishly at the morsel of skin, burns with agony, with barely held possession, scraping at your insides and filling them with hot lava. 

The door shuts behind you two, and you both stand under the scrutiny of the sun. You break away first, and his hand comes after you with longing, only to retract back when he catches the poorly concealed melancholy on your face. 

“....I am sorry,” Phainon’s apology is desperate, curled out of his chest like smoke. You are sure he would bare his heart for you, the organ thumping bloody in his hands, just to prove how sorry he is. It's just you don't know whether it would be his heart or the body he had so casually turned into his home. But it's not his heart that you want.

“Let's get going,” you answer, already taking out your bike from its spot. 

You both remain silent the rest of the way, the sweet scent of wheat and summer dancing in the air. You almost cry how much it smells like him, and how much you wish you could smell it again. A single tear glides away with the smothering wind as if it were never there. 

You bike your way to school with Phainon behind you on his cycle.

Like it's any other day.

“Thank Oronyx, you are still alive!” It's not the first thing that came to mind when you thought about how you would be received, but it isn't off the mark either. 

Cyrene rushed the minute she saw you parking your bike in the rack. Her bright pink hair seems almost orange under the morning sun as she jumps at the opportunity to smash you into a hug. Her hugs have always been tight, but this time, they're tighter, like a noose hung around your neck, ready to break it with a single tug.  

Phainon stays behind you, close, watching, his eyes sharpening at every breath, every tremble, every moment of your body, like he is attuned to it. 

“Cyrene. Can't. breathe.” You paw at her arms in surrender, and she mournfully lets you go as she entwines her arms together with you, her eyes alight and blue. She starts walking towards the classrooms, Phainon following closely behind.

“It's just not the same without you here! And this big oaf was pouty all week,” she glares at him from her shoulder with a moue. It surprises you when he doesn't talk back; his expression remains unmoving and calm. “Talk about being cold. Forget about talking, he wouldn't even pick up my calls or meet me after class. He even refused when I said that we should visit you at your house together.” 

That's because he already gave me a visit before he could ask you; he won't take it well if you say all of this. You remain quiet, your lips pressed together in a fake smile, your eyes anywhere where you couldn't catch his, and say a hasty ‘bye’ to her when you reach your and Phainon's class. 

Hyacine spots you first and waves enthusiastically from your desk. Around her, Castorice and Cipher also turn around to see you entering the class, surprise and relief evident on their faces. 

“You're back!” Her pink pigtails are especially curly today, and they bounce in her shared positivity when she comes to hug you, too. It's like you have won a war against cancer rather than the supposed cold that you were nursing. 

“Thought we lost you for good, kid,” Cipher says, making her voice scratchy like an old man’s, as she pats your shoulder with a strong hand. “It's been tough without you here. Look at the mess you left me to work with!”

“I have only been gone for a week …” you say with exasperation. Castorice remains behind them both, but the smile she gives you says enough; she is relieved that you are okay. You smile back, glad for the non-dramatic welcome you got from at least one sane person. 

“Do you know how worried we were when you didn't pick up our calls? Little Ica has been depressed all week, not seeing their favourite person.” Hyacine pushes her white, iridescent, giant plush key chain that she has been lugging around since elementary school in your face. Cipher and Castorice both nod in affirmation. You mumble a small ‘sorry’ to both Little Ica and the others as you look away from them in guilt. 

You could have answered their calls or their messages if they weren't buried under the massive pile of missed calls and unopened voice messages. Once, you made the mistake of picking up a random call after making sure it wasn't his number, only to be met with a static so deafening that you thought your eardrums would bleed. Even the texts, all from numbers you didn’t know, were becoming more nonsensical, bizarre, and downright chilling, so you threw your phone straight at the wall, causing it to break. 

Of course, you cannot, in good conscience, and for personal safety, say all of that.

A warm hand pulls you towards them, your head knocking against his hard chest. “Okay, okay. Enough with the questions.” Phainon says blithely while pushing away the plush toy from your face. Jealous bastard. “She had one common cold, and now she is fine. Can't we leave it at that?”

Cipher scoffs, her arms folded in front of her. “Says the one mopping around like a child who lost his mommy.” 

Phainon shrugs, a small grin playing on his lips, but the warm fingers on your shoulders that are tightening ever so slightly say otherwise. “Well, she is back now.” 

“Thank god for that! Hey-” Cipher’s snickers usually are a signal that she is up to no good, but her timing this time couldn't be any more wrong. She comes up behind you, her feet swift as ever, and grabs you, your back hitting her. The immediate glare you see light up in his eyes makes you panic. She throws her arm over your shoulder, her smirk still not gone as she pushes her face near your ears as if she was spilling some classified government secrets. 

“Did you know? The class prez even tanked his test last week! His mom came all the way for a chat with the teacher too. Talk about being down bad–” 

“That's enough, Cipher.” The voice, the freezing cold voice of his suddenly transports you back into your room, hiding in a corner in your blanket, only to be wrenched out of them to cower under his glaring radiance. 

Similar to how he grabs your hand right now, still too warm to be human, as he pulls you back towards him. Where you belong. 

“Don't forget she is still sick. Let's get back to our seats, and you, back to your class. Homeroom is in three.” 

Cipher gives an exaggerated sigh, it doesn't seem like she picked up on Phainon’s anger, and says ‘yes, prez!’ before giving him a mock salute. She walks out of the class while pulling up her cat-eared hood over her pale hair. 

Hyacine goes after her with a promise to save a seat for you during lunch. Castorice, the only member of the group in your class, stares at you for a second longer than necessary, as if she has something to say. 

She folds her gloved hands in front of her tightly, her gentle eyes downcast under someone's fiery gaze, and walks to the front row where her seat is without a word. 

I’ll have to talk with her later, you think as you sit and ready yourself for another gruelling school day. 

You cannot do this. 

It's too much for your dumb human brain to tolerate– the constant eye contact with your back, sending messages in class through the ancient art of chits, pulling up by your desk after every bell, smiling that cold, stupid, smile full of teeth–

The contents of your empty stomach are expelled promptly from your body. You wipe the bile messily from your lips. Your legs feel numb in the cold, dirty washroom stall, and you cannot get them to pull you up without thinking of going back to class. To him. 

It's insane, no matter how you put it, no matter how much you decorate it with sparkles and affirmative words– he isn't your Phainon. 

He is gone, has been gone for three damn years, and you only got to know by pure coincidence, or you could say late intuition. Phainon had played Phainon so well, the parallelism so remarkable that it guts you even more that no one else knows this terrible secret, this horrifying truth, maybe except you.

 Phainon went to the mountain those three summers ago, and he stayed there, rotting and forgotten in that forest, his insides getting chewed on by the forest and its ilk, and what came back was– 

What is he exactly? 

Phainon looks like him, talks like him, moves like him, but even if you change the stuffing of the teddy bear from cotton to wool, that doesn't mean that it's the same teddy bear as before. Its insides are completely different. Replacing them and calling it the same is an ill-mannered joke. 

A cruel joke. 

A knock comes on the door, and you jolt at the sudden noise. When you don't answer, a knock comes again, this time in threes. 

It cannot be him….right? Doesn't he have general boundaries and basic decency, or did he come to check since you said five minutes but took ten? 

A voice comes from the other side, soft and delicate in its cadence, and it's a voice you know all too well.

 “It's me, (name).” Castorice. You almost cry happy tears at how relieved you feel, how light you feel that it's not him standing behind that door with that look plastered on his face. 

You quickly open the door and see her standing there, about to knock again. She looks surprised, her bright lilac eyes widened, but not in alarm. It is gone as a small smile graces her face. “You didn't look too good,” Castorice says as she pulls out a tablet and a water bottle, which you take kindly from her hands. 

You can count on Castorice to come through when you are in a bind. She always has been kind and warm, even when she has kept some marginal distance from others; her hands have never been bereft of her purple gloves. She looks at you, her eyes assessing, both in worry and apprehension, as you chug as much water as you can from the bottle. 

When you finish, you know she is going to ask the most dreaded question you have been waiting for the whole day– “Is everything okay?” 

Your throat constricts, yet you answer, “Y-yeah, why do you ask?” 

“Because you look too pale. Also…” she looks away, her lips playing with the words resting on her tongue. “Phainon is strange today.” 

“Strange?”

Castorice nods, her gloved hand playing with the wisps of her bangs.“Yes, like the air around him has gone cold. Dead, even. He was fine until a week ago, before you got sick, but now it's like he has become a different person. Hyacine feels it too.” 

She looks straight at you, and you feel all strength leaving your body when you meet her eyes. “Do you know anything about this?” 

Do you? How can you tell that the Phainon has never been fine, that the thing she calls ‘Phainon’ has been wearing his skin and deceiving her, and everyone else, for three years? How do you tell her that the last time you ever saw him was the day when the summer was at its peak, and he was determined to go, no matter how many times you tried to dissuade him? That you failed to stop him, his unfair demise, just like with–

No, you do not know anything. You are the last person who does. You couldn't even tell that he wasn't who you thought he was. 

You shake your head, your fingers curling on the inside of your palm, you hope to draw blood. It doesn't sting as you hoped it would. “No, I don't.” 

You emerge just before the lunch bell is about to ring, Castorice has long since gone back to class, and you know that you will find him standing, waiting, like a pup waiting for his master, like he has been doing for the past three years. 

Phainon looks way too comfortable standing there, leaning against the windows, but you can tell by the strained movement of his arms and his limbs as he walks towards you, the balls of his feet skidding against the floor, that he is restraining himself. That is something he has in spades.

“You were in there for quite a while,” he says, his voice casual. “Everything okay?”

You nod, staring at his school shoes. 

“Do you need anything? Water, snacks, medicine? Do you need me to take you to the infirmary?” 

“No,” you start to walk towards the class when he suddenly grabs your arm, warm and foreign, your skin feels raw with fear. Phainon lets go when he sees the expression carved on your face, his brows knitting in displeasure. “I-I am sorry. I was a bit too hasty,” he lets go of your arm and instead latches onto your shirt, but it doesn't make it any better. “Please, don't be mad. Please don't hate me.” 

I could never hate you. You feel appalled at how easily such a thought comes to you. 

It's instinctual, not something you have control over. There couldn't be a single day, or a single second, where you could feel genuine hatred for the one person you have loved selflessly for years and years, and you don't think you will stop now. 

Even if it's not him? You remain quiet, to both him and the annoying voice in your head. 

“Stop stretching out my shirt,” you try to swat him off, but he clings to you like a damn mosquito. After a few minutes, when you have come to realise that he will not let you go or leave, you sigh for the hundredth time, as all life force leaves your beaten body. It's agitating how they both behave the same way and also don't. 

“Fine,” you say, and his ears perk up. “I don't hate you. Happy now?” 

“Very,” he says. The boyish grin on his face makes you ill. With what, you don't wish to elaborate or have knowledge of it.

He lets go of your shirt, and you begin to smooth it out, but it doesn't seem like the conversation is over. “Hey, let's go to the fields after school,” Phainon says suddenly. “I have something to show you.” 

Is there something you forgot to show me last time? You think cynically but answer him anyway, “Okay.”

It’s not like he will take no for an answer. You have seen what happens, and you can only push his capriciousness so far.

His smile is so big that it splits his face in half, and his eyes shine with a deep blue (it feels so wrong) when he tugs you by the arm, leading you back to class. 

Or to your slaughter upon the altar. There isn't much difference left between the two. 

You let yourself be led.

Five years have passed since you last visited the shack. It was a storage unit for grains before Phainon’s dad repurposed it as a playhouse for the three of you. 

You, Cyrene, and Phainon have always played in the fields, sometimes getting lost in them as they were as tall as trees when you were little. The shack was a small respite from the country life, a hidden nook for the three of you to play, sleep, and eat to your heart's content. You remember one time staying the night in the shack for a sleepover and getting bitten all over by mosquitoes. The sobs you and the other two let out when you found each other pocked with red marks still brings out a snicker from you.

Why did we stop coming here? You think about it as Phainon leads you, his hand in a tight grasp with yours. Maybe you will ask Cyrene later. You wanted to invite her too, as you were still afraid to be alone with him for more than a few seconds longer than necessary, but no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't find one trace of her. 

“Just a bit more,” he says, as he moves stray ears of wheat from his view. All around you is a golden sea, endless and sprawling. Phainon’s family has owned this land since the olden days when the village was established, and is one of the first residents.  

Past the fields, you see the big old tree, its canopy casting a big shadow across a patch of land, where, under its embrace, there is one piece of childhood memory you haven’t visited in a long time.

The shack is just as you had left it. Old, dusty, dilapidated, with the roof caving in, and several patches of wild weeds and grass grow around it. Although it looks like the roof has been recently patched. 

“We are here!” He announced, looking back at you expectantly. “I took some liberties with remodeling the place a bit. Don't worry if it looks a bit shabby on the outside, it's super nice and cozy inside.” 

Phainon seems proud as he tells you, and all you can think of is how he has stained another cherished memory of yours with his burning hands. 

Calm down, you scold yourself. It's not a big deal. 

Yeah, no big deal, it's just a tiny little hovel where you used to play and spend time with Phainon until he went and died on that hill. 

Phainon gingerly pushes you inside the cramped shack. Maybe when he took that creative liberty, he didn't realise that the body he had stolen wasn't as small as it should have been to fit. Nonetheless, he persists, and so do you, and you both collapse on a mattress that wasn't there before when you last visited. 

Phainon snorts while cushioning your fall, a strong arm balancing your back. “Sorry, I didn't realise this place had become so small.”

You push away from him immediately, turning your face to hide the sudden, growing heat. 

“It’s because we have grown bigger, stupid,” you say, and catch yourself immediately regretting it. But Phainon doesn’t seem to mind or care.

“Yeah, you are right,” Phainon says.

He touches the old stack of comic books sitting near him, his eyes narrowing with wistfulness that shouldn’t be there. 

Then, all of a sudden, without warning, he is shedding his school shirt. Your eyes widen when he throws it somewhere like it's a ball.

“What are you doing?!” You scream, flabbergasted by his nonchalance. 

Phainon raises an eyebrow, “What? It is hot in here.”

You don't have a retort for that. It is actually hot, sweltering even, and mid-day has long since passed. “S-still! You shouldn't do that!” 

“So you want me to die from the heat? Fine, I'll listen and stand in the sun until it melts me away like wax.”

“What are you even saying? As if you aren't hot enough as it is.” 

It's too late to take it back. The context is apparent to you both, yet the devilish smirk that appears on his face as the skin beneath his eyes crinkle in mischief, you know you have screwed up. Big time. 

“To think I could make you say something pervy like that,” he hides his face behind his palm, but it flares up your embarrassment even further. 

“Y-you know what I meant! Stop twisting the words.” 

“I am not twisting. If anything, you are twisting my heart saying things like that,” that damn bastard is even coquettishly fluttering his lashes like some maiden in love.

You smack him hard with your bag, and he laughs. It's the same cheerful, sonorous laugh you have been hearing for the past eleven years, but hearing it now, again, is strange.

Phainon keeps saying ‘stop’ in between broken barks of laughter, and in the end you decide to end your siege by throwing back his crumpled shirt in his face. 

“Cover yourself, you moron,” you say when he grabs the thrown shirt with one hand. He acquiesces, wordlessly wearing back the shirt but leaving the buttons opened, the shadow of a smile still on his lips. A golden sun peaks from his neck, but is covered when he tugs on the collar.

The memory of you first seeing the tattoo floods your mind.

Phainon had just graduated from middle school, and his white-mess of a hair was shorter back then. He had worn turtle necks all week before you threatened to strip him bare in front of the entire school if he didn’t fess up.

You also remember how you had felt when he stretched his pale neck out for you to see the inking closely.

Maybe he was red in the face, maybe you had something warm deep in your stomach pounding madly in its cage, but you distinctly remember him staring down at you, his white lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks.

You also remember trying to hold yourself from bursting when his mom beat the hell out of him with her sandals for getting inked. 

“Have you lost your mind?! Getting a tattoo before entering high school, and on the neck of all places?!”

You certainly did lose your mind when he tearily apologised to her, vowing to never let any needle touch his skin again. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have other ways of driving the poor woman mad. 

You tear yourself away from Phainon to look around the place.

 Many things have changed, and many things have been replaced. Toys that Phainon had carved from wood and lined along the broken window are still there.

The astral chart Cyrene had stuck on the wall, drawn with a broken blue crayon on paper, has yellowed beyond recognition.

The three of you used to stargaze all night when Phainon had developed a sudden obsession with it after reading about it in a comic. Cyrene had sat him down and carefully mapped each one on a piece of paper while she pointed them out from their heavenly abode. 

You notice the small trunk sitting underneath it, and you immediately gravitate towards it. 

It was as Cyrene had left it, the old box with its edges dented and scarred, like an ancient treasure finally unearthed.

You take it with shaky fingers (you don't know why they are shaking), and open it after blowing off the dust.

Inside, along with several cheap romance novels, neatly stacked in a corner, are the hand-painted oracle cards Cyrene had made all those years ago. 

“Hmm, what are those?” you almost shriek in horror at the closeness of his voice.

Phainon scoots beside you and throws you a confused look as he juts his chin towards the deck in your hands. 

“You …. don’t remember?” you ask cautiously, slowly levelling your breathing. 

Phainon shakes his head. “Not really. They do look familiar, though.” 

You spread them out on the mattress as he looks curiously at each card.

Everything that Cyrene touched always glowed with radiance; such is her talent that even after almost a decade, they still look the same as the day they were painted.

She used cheap paper and those chalky paints that she got from the convenience store three miles from your village. How can someone’s hands be this blessed? She would probably be happy that you managed to recover them since they were thought to be lost forever. 

“These cards are really pretty,” Phainon says as he picks up a card to admire it up close. “Did you make them?”

“No, Cyrene did.” The admission chokes you up a little. 

Phainon would have remembered them, but it doesn't seem like this imposter does.

He stares at you, his expression unreadable, and your mouth goes dry. It unnerves you more when he smiles and says, “Is there anything else in there?”

You blink, pushing away the unease. “No, just some romance novels.” 

“Oh, maybe we could read some together!” he takes out one book after another; he is careful with their fragile binding as he inspects the dust-covered novels.

You have half a mind to remind him that Phainon never liked those kinds of novels. He always gagged when Cyrene read them while giggling at a particular romantic scene; she is romantic at heart after all.

Phainon used to call her ‘childish’ and ‘immature’ for reading such novels while he hypocritically gravitated towards action-packed adventure novels featuring heroes who, after overcoming several adversities, always triumphed at the end. Talk about the kettle calling the pot black. 

“Hey, look! I found something,” Phainon holds up a book, coincidentally: the book that Phaion hated the most, in front of you like some trophy. “Can we read this together?” 

You want to laugh.

“Sure,” you say as Phainon makes space for you.

Time passes with each turn of the page.

You can recite each word of the novel by heart, that is how much love you and your other best friend shared for this book. Yet, watching the person who, in his childhood, swore off romance novels like a plague, reading every word with child-like wonder squeezes your heart painfully. 

“Phainon,” he stills beside you when you speak his name.

You haven’t said it since that night, and your face burns with the warmth of its remembrance. 

You see him look at you, his fluffy white hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, his cerulean eyes blown wide but never gold, and he takes in deep breaths, his attention solely on you. “Yeah?” 

“Did … the things you said, back then…” You shouldn’t ask, you cannot ask, but the memory of this creature's admission, the truth he laid bare to you in a paranoid frenzy, haunts you every time you stare into his eyes and find him gone.

(“He died thinking about you, maybe that's what made me love you too.”)

“Was it all true?”

Somehow it feels like all breathable air has been sucked out from this place.

You hold his stare, and your breath, while you wait for any emotion to pass by his neutral facade.

“Yes,” he says it with flourishing finality, with self-assured confidence that maims you in your uncomfortable seat. 

“What all I said that night, it's all true.” 

The sun sets, and he takes you back home. 

“Thank you… for coming with me,” he looks so much like him underneath the street lamp, standing there in front of your door, so big and tall, and meek like the boy you used to run after. “I didn't think you would agree.” 

There is a lot you could say, a lot you want to say, there are questions that demand to be answered, as cruel as they may be.

But all you do is smile at him and tell him to get back home, as it's getting late.

The cicadas chirp as loud as ever, louder than they are supposed to. 

I hate summer, you think when you see Phainon’s retreating figure from your porch becoming smaller and smaller, fading away as the sun is swallowed by night. 

The countryside isn’t as romantic and enchanting as the influencers on the internet might make it out to be.

Not when you have to paddle three goddamn miles just to get a decent cup of ice cream from a 7-Eleven in this sweltering heat. 

But the allure of a sweet treat doesn't fix your sour mood when you are armed with a grocery list that you aren't sure you can haul by yourself.

Why did you let yourself be caught on one Phainon free day? And where is Phainon when you need his absurd muscular strength? 

But it's not ‘Phainon’ that you are talking about, is it?

You want to stomp on the intrinsic voice in your head. You have enough things to worry about. 

The cart isn't even half filled with the list items when you spot something in the snacks aisle.

It's the brand of cookies that Phainon liked, those teeth-rotting baked lumps of sugar that he could munch on all day if he could.

There is a limited edition sale promoting some collab with an obscure anime you haven't heard of. 

Does ‘he’ like these? You think as you put them in your cart without a single thought.

Phainon can eat anything, you have noticed, and is fast about it too, licking his plate off the remaining crumbs when you last visited his place for dinner. Maybe he has a sweet tooth as well. You hope he does. 

You pull up at the billing counter and an exhausted, sleep-deprived guy greets you in a robotic tone like he couldn't care less if you left with your stuff without paying.

He looks new because you know all the kids your age who come to school, since there is only one in the entire district.

His mess of dyed blonde and red hair is tied in an even messier bun, his sun-tanned skin complementing such sloppiness.

The worn-out merch t-shirt he wears is too tight for his body, his crimson tattooed biceps peeking out as he scans the bar code languidly.

This explains why there has been an influx of female clientele as of late. 

He is partway through finishing when you feel the pinpricks of a stare you are all too familiar with.

You glance back furtively and find two middle-aged women, both from your village, conversing near the drink aisle with their shopping carts filled to the brim. They think they are being sneaky, but you know they are looking at you. 

You can also tell that they are talking about you and what their conversation topic might be. It's all that the adults with too much free time can talk about– that and those unsolved murders that still pop up from here and there. 

Their gazes are becoming bolder, their whispers becoming loud enough to scream in your ears. Their voice drones out, and you find yourself back in the chair of your therapist’s office, where you were an hour or so ago. 

(You always expected a shrink’s area of practice to be immaculate.

Beige or white walls, potted succulents adorning the built-in shelves, and a long couch where anyone could fall asleep before reciting why their life sucks while an older man with a graying moustache pens everything on a clipboard, the tiniest of details jotted upon his inferences. 

But this place isn't like that.

It's above a mom-and-pop noodle shop, the smell of seafood and vinegar tickling both your nose and stomach.

An older lady, no more than fifty, sits on a ratty couch opposite you, asking preliminary questions that she asks before every session, and you keep your eyes trained on the splotch of stain behind her on the wall in the shape of a star while answering her questions. 

What star would it be if you had to guess? Vega? Sirius? Or Betelguese? Maybe you could ask Cyrene later.

Your mouth moves in tandem with your brain, speaking when you can or humming when you can't or don't want to talk.

If you were back in the city, in Okhema, from where you had shifted to this small farming village almost eleven years ago, it wouldn't be strange for a kid your age to go to a doctor just to yap about your current mental status and your pressing problems. The elders here don't think the way the city folks do. 

There is a prolonged silence that shouldn't be there.

You turn away from the star stain to look at your therapist, who is not amused.

She closes her worn diary and sets it over the coffee table you are sure will die if she sets the little thing the wrong way. The table doesn't break, and the sigh she exhales isn't mirthful. 

“I thought we were making progress,” she says quietly, more to herself than you. “You have been regular, but you are not engaging.” 

‘That's because only you thought that,’ you sneer inside while crossing your arms. It's not like you asked to be put here, coming each week for the longest hour of your life just to waste it on pointless drivel.

You didn't ask to sit here on this shoddy couch, in a room that stinks like a fish market, only to satisfy your parents with answers they would like (you are sure she is breaking her therapist-client confidentiality, you saw her taking extra money from your dad). 

You have nothing you want to say, and nothing you could say overturns what has already happened. And even if you did say it, she will not believe you, and worse, will tattle to your parents. 

She keeps on talking, and you keep on staring at the stain.)

A heavy thud pulls you out.

You look up to see the guy with the golden glare, and the frown he gives is enough reason to run without saying ‘thank you’.

You rush out of the store, the bag full of groceries and miscellaneous items that you are sure to be scolded for. 

You don't see her coming from behind you when you unlock your bicycle from its spot.

A hand, pale and strong, rests upon your shoulders in a comfort that immediately disarms you and makes you afraid at the same time. 

“You should stop right now,” a voice, smooth and sonorous, comes from behind you. 

You whip your head to see the most gorgeous woman you have ever laid eyes on.

She wears a huge trimmed sun hat, the gold spun hair resting beneath the article curling against her blushed cheeks softly.

The white and gold dress looks straight out of a magazine cover, the outfit tailored and form-fitting. She regards you from behind her cat-eyed sunglasses like she has walked out of a runway, taking you in. 

You feel small in your own skin when you question back– “Ummm, err…Stop what?”

“Whatever it is that you are doing with that being,” she says, and you feel like you have stopped breathing. 

She knows? You cannot tell if the voice is incredulous or jovial, but it loops in your mind like an unskippable ad, and you don't like it. 

“I-I think you have the wrong person,” you quickly put your purchase in the basket in front of your cycle. 

The lady chuckles, “It's okay. I know it must sound strange coming from someone you don't even know,” she takes your open hand in hers, her palm pleasantly warm. Comforting. “But trust me when I say this, I can help you.” 

Somehow, you have ended up in a booth inside a local desert shop with the lady. 

She discarded her wide hat when she sat across from you. Not one hair out of place. You need to ask about her hair care routine. But what surprises you more is when she puts her sunglasses on the table and looks at you with eyes that you can only think of as ethereal. 

They are two-toned, glassy, and her faraway gaze suggests her blindness. With the way she carries herself, you couldn't have guessed.

“What would you like?” She asks, already holding up the menu in front of her. 

“It's okay! Y-you don't need to bother with this,” you stammer. 

Behind the laminated cardboard, you cannot tell what expression she wears, but her tone remains neutral. “You aren't bothering me,” she tells you and beckons the waitress over with a wave. “If it were, we would be here having this conversation.” 

Somehow, you feel flushed with shame as if you are helping cover up a crime you had no hand in. The waitress, with her customer-service smile, comes up with a notepad, and the lady is quick to tell both orders. 

Minutes later, an absurd-looking parfait sits in front of you in a huge glass. There is a little flag sitting atop the melting ice cream. You remember the ones you bought and mourn their melted fate and your wallet. 

The lady sips on her coffee, her lipstick pristine after wiping the cream from her lips. “I should introduce myself– my name is Aglaea,” the woman called Aglaea says. “I have just recently moved here and own a small tailor shop just around the corner.” 

She hands out a card, it's in the same gold and white colour scheme, but the name is what knocks your socks off.

‘GARMENTMAKER’ is embossed in elegant gold cursive writing, and you look back and forth between her and the piece of paper with your mouth open. 

It isn't just any small shop, nor is it small by any means.

It is one of the most sought-after clothing stores in Okhema with its month-long waiting lists. Normal people can't even afford it with their meager salaries, and she says it's a ‘small shop around the corner’? 

Your bewildered look must have thoroughly amused her as she chuckles, still elegant and demure, her eyes crinkling with mirth.

“You seem quite surprised, but that's okay, you can visit whenever you like,” Aglaea says as she winks at you. “Maybe I will give you a discount if you bring any friends over.”

“T-thank you,” is all you can muster up before stuffing it in your pocket. “But, I still don't understand what you meant by that?” 

The suggestion isn't lost on her. She smiles, resting her hands on her lap. “I meant what I said. You should distance yourself from whatever entity that has latched on to you,” she says. “And don't deny it. I think you know better than I about what I am talking about.” 

You do, somewhat. The entity she must be mentioning should be Phainon. There is no one else who comes up in your mind and fills you with dread. “But, how do you know about him?” 

“Ah, seems like I was right in assuming it was someone close to you,” Aglaea remarks. “And, as far as I know, there is a simple explanation for that.” She sits up a bit straighter, her posture still beautiful but there's stiffness in her shoulders that wasn't there before. 

“My eyes are …. special, in some sense.” 

Her glossy green eyes fall on you and suddenly her story doesn't seem all that crazy. No set of eyes can look like they can make out the material of your very soul. None like Aglaea’s. 

“Long ago, I was in a similar situation just like yours, and somebody who should have died came back,” her eyes rest upon the condensation of your melting treat. “It took me some time and a significant loss to realise that the person I knew had long since gone. But by that time the damage was done…” 

“Is that why your eyes are…?”

She nods, “It isn't complete blindness. I can make sense of the things happening around me, but it's like a fog has spread over my vision.” 

“I-I see. Sorry for bringing it up.” 

“Nonsense,” she waves her hand dismissively. “What's done is done. It's now gone and has left its scars that could heal with time, but it has also left something else,” she tapped underneath her eyes. “I can see things now that shouldn't exist.” 

“‘See things’?” You parrot, and she smiles again. 

“I can tell you more if you are interested,” she says, suddenly standing up, and you follow her, your hands straining not to clutch onto her.

She glanced at the analogue clock behind you, hung on the wall. “My apologies, but I have to leave now,” she looks at you apologetically.

“We can continue to chat on a different day. My number is on the card, please feel free to use it.” Her concern seems genuine, and the underlying feeling that you get from her peeves your interest.

She knows something. 

Aglaea calls your name with soft fondness; her eyes are already hidden behind the glasses again, but you now know that they see more than they let on. “Give me a call when you feel like you need help. I will wait as long as I am able.” 

With that, the elusive lady leaves you in the booth, alone, with your barely touched ice cream. The wafers have softened under the wetness of the ice cream when you take a bite.

“It's too sweet,” you think out loud, filling the void she has left behind.

‘Just like Chimera cookies.’