Inside the lamp was just gold. Endless gold, heavy silk, and thick, spiced smoke that made the back of his throat scratchy if he breathed too fast, and Leorio was face-down in violet cushions that felt impossibly deep, totally plush. He held a gold cup, watching the wine inside rise back up to the brim the second his lips left the glass. He used to fight for stale bread crusts on freezing cobblestones. This felt fake. A dream.

His street rags vanished. No warning. Just a weird, tingling chill across his skin, and suddenly he was wearing a sleeveless vest and loose pants that slid against his waist, so he blinked and looked down at his legs.

Barefoot.

He pressed his soles into the rug. It was thick. Warm. His toes sank completely into the fibers, and a breathless, stupid laugh escaped his throat. No worn-out leather pinching his heels anymore. No holes in his soles.

You dropped down from the smoke, floating just an inch off the floor before kneeling by his chair, and you didn't say anything at first while your hands just found his shoulders, thumbs pressing hard into the rigid knots in his neck.

"Wine good?" you mumbled, your voice dropping low, right into his ear.

Leorio let out a ragged sigh, his head rolling back against your leg because he was just so tired. "Man... you weren't kidding. I asked for a taste of luxury and you built a whole kingdom. I could get used to this."

You leaned down. Your breath brushed his cheek. "You fought hard out there, Leorio. The world's been a piece of work to you. Why shouldn't you just sit back? Forget the rest of it. Let me handle things."

He closed his eyes, his skin totally flushed from the alcohol and the heavy, suffocating warmth of the room until his shoulders went completely slack.

The next morning—or whatever it was in a room where the sky never changed—you brought out the tables. White stone. Cold. You waved a hand and rows of illusionary patients appeared, their chests rising and falling, fake injuries painted across their skin, and then you slid a silver scalpel into his palm.

Leorio scrambled up from the cushions, his bare feet sliding across the gold floor as he rushed over. "Are these... for me? To practice on?"

"Sure, master," you said, watching him from the shadows. "You wanted to learn. No one dies here. Practice until your hands stop shaking."

He worked for hours. Sweating. He bandaged fake lacerations, tracked fake pulses, and stitched perfect, neat lines into the illusionary flesh, and he looked so alive with a huge grin breaking across his face as he wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. "Look at that. I did it. I'm actually gonna make it out there."

You just watched. Let him believe it.

Weeks blurred, maybe months, because there weren't any clocks, just an endless loop of rich food, music, and your hands constantly on his shoulders, keeping him soft. But the fog in Leorio's head finally started to clear up, and a sudden, sharp spike of guilt hit his stomach while he sat straight up on the velvet, staring at the glittering piles of coins in the corner. They looked like a trap now.

"Hey," Leorio said. His voice was gravelly. He stood up, bare feet flat on the rug, clearing his throat hard to shake off the lazy daze. "Listen. This has been insane. Seriously, you've been great to me. But... I gotta go back to the real world. I can't stay here forever."

You stopped moving, your back turned to him, and for a split second your face went totally blank with your eyes turning dead and ancient in the dim light before you turned around and that warm smile snapped right back into place.

"Go back?" you asked, tilting your head. "Why? Something wrong with the room?"

"No, no, it's not that!" he waved his hands, frantic. "It's my dream. I need to study. I have to become a doctor so I can help people who are actually hurting out there. I can't do that sitting on pillows. Open the door."

Your eyes glowed with something dark behind the candlelight. "Of course, master," you whispered, bowing your head just a little too low, and you flicked your wrist until a tall, jagged tear of purple smoke ripped open right in the middle of the gold room, showing a tiny glimpse of gray daylight on the other side.

Leorio exhaled, his shoulders dropping. "Thanks. See ya." He turned and stepped right through.

Cold rain hit him like gravel.

The sky was a bruised, ugly purple. The air smelled like wet copper and rotting garbage, and Leorio gasped, spinning around to go back, but the smoke was gone, completely sealed, and he was standing in a warped, rotting version of his old city square.

"Look at the street rat!" someone yelled from the dark.

Leorio turned, heart slamming against his ribs, and the townsfolk were crowding him with their faces all blurry and stretched out into wide, distorted grins with too many teeth. "A beggar in silk! Look at him! You're nothing! You'll always be filth!"

"Get him out of here!"

Heavy iron boots crunched on the stone behind him. Giant, faceless guards emerged from the fog. Before Leorio could even put his arms up, a heavy iron rod slammed right into his ribs.

Crack.

He choked, collapsing hard onto the wet cobblestones, and the sharp, icy rocks cut his bare soles open instantly. He tried to scramble away in the mud, but a heavy boot kicked him squarely in the teeth, knocking the wind out of him, so he crawled through the filth, spitting blood, yelling into the rain for someone to help—but the crowd just laughed louder.

He dragged his broken body out of the square, slipping into a narrow, dark alley because he just needed to hide, he needed to wake up.

The alley wasn't empty.

In the furthest corner, lying on a heap of soaking, rotten straw, was a small boy.

Leorio’s breath caught, and his blood went entirely cold. "No... no, please."

Pietro.

His childhood friend was white as a sheet, skin slick with fever sweat, his chest hitching in small, ragged gasps, and it was the exact night the sickness took him, all over again.

"Leorio...?" Pietro choked out. His hand trembled in the mud. "It hurts... help me..."

"Pietro!" Leorio shrieked, and he threw himself into the dirt beside the boy, completely forgetting his own cracked ribs while he frantically grabbed at his waist, but his medical bag wasn't there, his hands were totally empty, and his mind went completely blank. "I'm here! I've got you! I'm gonna save you this time, I swear to God! just breathe!"

Nothing worked. He was useless. He had to sit there in the freezing rain and watch Pietro’s eyes roll back, and the boy's chest went dead still until his small, cold hand went completely limp in Leorio’s grip.

"NO! WAKE UP! PIETRO, PLEASE!" Leorio screamed, slamming his bloody fists into the mud, and his head felt like it was splitting open under the weight of it.

"I told you, master," a dry, quiet voice whispered right against his ear.

The alley vanished. The rain stopped. The smell of rot turned back into spiced incense.

Leorio gasped, his eyes flying open, and he was flat on the velvet floor of the lamp while his ribs didn't hurt anymore and his skin was clean, but his chest was heaving, big, ugly tears spilling over his cheeks as he curled into a tight, shaking ball on the rug, sobbing so hard he choked.

You knelt right next to him. Your arms went around his shoulders, lifting his dead weight up against your chest, and your fingers slid through his hair, rocking him slowly in the quiet room while he buried his face into your vest, weeping into the silk.

"The outside world is mean, Leorio," you murmured, your voice hitting that soft, rhythmic hum that always made him drowsy. "They beat you. They mock your dreams. They take everyone you try to save. Why go back out there just to break?"

"I... I couldn't do anything..." Leorio choked out, his fingers twisting into your clothes, holding on like a drowning man. "I couldn't save him... I'm too weak..."

"I know," you cooed, your grip tightening around his back, because you had him now and his walls were completely gone. "But you don't have to deal with them anymore. Out there, you're just a target. In here, with me? You're a king. No more pain."

Leorio’s breath shuddered, and the thought of stepping back through that smoky door made his stomach turn over with pure, paralyzing dread, so his ambition, his books, his dream of becoming a doctor—it was all gone, crushed under the memory of that wet alleyway.

You reached into your vest and pulled out a small gold key, letting it dangle right between his eyes, and it spun slowly, catching the light.

"You still have wishes left, Leorio," you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You can wish to leave. You can go try again. Or... you can use your last wish to give the lamp to me. Lock the door. Let me handle things."

Leorio stared at the key and then at his shaking, pale hands, because he didn't want to choose anymore, he didn't want freedom if it meant watching people die in the mud.

"Stay here," you whispered, tilting his chin up so his empty, hollow eyes had to look at you. "Let me keep you safe forever. Give it up, Leorio. Let me be the master."

Leorio looked at your face, and the last bit of fire in him just went out, his whole body going completely limp against you, totally defeated.

"Okay," he whispered, and you could barely hear him over the incense smoke. "I'll stay. Just... don't make me go back out there."

You smiled, and it was beautiful and totally terrifying all at once while the thick golden smoke rose up from the floor, heavy and warm, wrapping around both of you until the room disappeared entirely.