Still Trying to Figure Out Life

You decide to stay up. The full moon is out, beaming through clear skies, and leaving little work for your lamp as you kneel beside the flower beds. You pick up a clay pot housing a budding flower and tilt it just enough to see the automatic watering spell drawn on the bottom of the pot. Licking your thumb, you smear parts of the spell to nullify it. Tomorrow the kids will work on filling in the original spell.

You're sure they'll figure it out quickly—they're smart kids, after all. The only ones you're worried about are the twins and Isaiah. They'll be too busy trying to figure out how to turn the pot into an elaborate prank, but you could never fault their creativity.

"Working hard as always."

Your hands retreat into your cloak on instinct, reaching for the palm quire tucked away in your inner pocket. With ease, you flip to a page where a defensive spell is pre-drawn. All you need to do is aim and close the circle. Only, the person you find on the other side of the fence sends a cold shock through your body.

"Leave now or I'll call the Knights," you say, leaving your voice devoid of any emotion despite the ache in your chest as you glower at the Brim Hat lingering by the fence.

"I know you wouldn't."

It's strange how so much can change in so little time. Only two months ago, you stitched up his pointed hat after the twins' fire ball prank got too out of hand and left a crater in the field behind the atelier. He sat at your side the whole time, arm resting against yours as you worked. The two of you settled in a peaceful silence, basking in the summer sun while the kids worked on fixing the field under Rafayel's semi strict supervision.

You blamed the summer heat for the warmth crawling up your cheeks as Caleb leaned in to praise your careful stitch work. His fingers brushed the valley of your knuckles, slipping your hands together in a swift movement, forcing you to stall your work. "It's no wonder you're a talented witch. You've got such steady hands."

You rolled your eyes, but made no move to remove your hand from his. Instead, you gazed into his violet eyes and leaned in to place a quick peck on his lips. "Do you want your hat fixed or not?"

His stunned expression melted into an easy grin as he hummed, "mhmm."

You tapped the tip of his hat against his cheek, ignoring the way he leaned in. "Then stop flirting and let me focus."

"You started this," he teased, eyes flickering down to your lips.

"Did n- mph!" He pulled you into a deep kiss, silencing your argument. His hat falls from your hands as you thread your fingers through his hair instead.

The memory burns.

As you look at the man before you, clad in dark robes and a brimmed hat that covers the eyes you once knew, it get harder to breathe. You want nothing more than to run up and tear that stupid hat right off his head. It doesn't suit him. It never will.

"I could scream, and Zayne will be out here in a second," you threaten, though, it holds no real weight. You turn your head. It has always been hard to lie to him. Even now, when he has betrayed everything you thought you knew about him. You find it too easy to want to forgive him, especially when he still looks at you like you were the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Maybe things would be easier if he just let the Knights Moralis erase his memories—even if that meant forgetting you and everything you shared. It'd be so easy to capture him, shout for Zayne, and have him taken away, yet you don't move an inch.

"Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"You should have stayed away." You wish your voice held more conviction instead of teetering off into a quiet waver.

"But I can't," Caleb admits. He reaches for you with his ink stained hand. Intricate sigils permanently etched into his skin cover the expanse of his hand and lead up his arm. You can't quite tell exactly what he has drawn onto himself without being able to look closely. But even when you had the chance to study it, you couldn't comprehend anything other than horror.

"I miss you," he whispers, now. His touch is warm, just like that summer day memory permanently etched in the corners of your mind and heart. And you still can't find it in you to pull away. "So much."

Your mouth twists into a frown as traitorous words dare to form on the tip of your tongue. So, you stay silent, letting him inch closer, allowing his hand to travel over your shoulder and neck.

"I know you don't understand why I'm doing this, and you don't have to."

You didn't understand then—and you don't understand now. You never will.

A mysterious illness befell you last winter, leaving you bedridden and weak. Everyone in the atelier was worried. The children kept you company when they could, telling you about all the new techniques they learned that day. Zayne and Rafayel took turns visiting you throughout the day in an attempt to keep your spirits up.

But, Caleb was a constant at your side. He refused to let you be alone for a second. He hand fed you breakfast, lunch, and dinner despite your insistence that you were strong enough to feed yourself. He held you tightly in his arms as he carried you to the restroom when your legs wobbled. He stayed with you though the night, pulling you to his chest and letting you fall asleep in his arms.

As the days passed, you found yourself slowly getting better. You were able to get out of bed, spend more time with your students, and bask in the sunlight rather than the stuffy four walls of your bedroom. But as you got better, the less and less you saw Caleb.

Reclusive and seemingly always tired, he lingered in the shadows longer. You figured it was hard for him watch as you deteriorated, but now that you were better, he could finally relax. A hopeful and foolish thought.

When you decided enough was enough and he couldn't keep hiding away in his room, you barged in one night to find him hunched over his desk. Crumpled paper was scattered around the room and pools of ink stained his desk. He held a wand in one trembling hand.

"What are you doing here?" He didn't sound surprised, just tired. The exhaustion had sunk into his bones and rotted him inside out.

Your eyes darted to the uncovered arm resting on the table. Circles of ink covered his unnaturally pale skin. The ink swirls and blurs on his arm like it's alive, siphoning the life from his arm.

You rushed forward and gripped his arm, nails digging into his pale flesh, now forever scarred by his foolishness. "What have you done to yourself?" You voice trembled with both fury and panic.

There was a cold, hollow look in his eyes as he regarded you with silence.

Your hand scrubbed over the ink, scrubbing, hoping that it would disappear with the motion and it was just a cruel prank. But you both knew his choice was final and nothing would ever be the same.

It's hard to look at him beneath that brimmed cap.

"I just want you to be happy," he admits.

"How can I be? When you're throwing everything away, and for what?" Your body is so tense it aches and sways. All you want to do is grab him by the shoulders and shake whatever ridiculous ideas he has in his head, scream your heart out and beg him to rethink his decisions. "Please—just stay. We'll find a way to fix this together."

His eyes waver on yours, eyes glossing over. His breath catches in his throat.

"I… can't." He shakes his head. The hesitation on his face dissolving into resolve, hardened and nothing like the gentle violet eyes of the man you love. "I'm sorry it has to be like this. You deserve so much more than me."

Caleb lunges and clamps his hand around your mouth, forcing you to the ground and pinning you with his body. He smothers your voice and brings a palm quire toward your eyes. The dark hands of his spell reach toward you with spindly fingers that latch onto your temples.

Your back hits the grass and cold, harsh realization claws at you, dragging you under, as the spell begins to work its magic on your mind. This isn't the first time he's done this, is it?

Your words are muffled behind his hand that refuses to let you scream. How could you?

"If only you could understand," he whispers as the edges of your vision blur and fade until there is nothing left but him twisted with anguish. "If saving you means my body rots away, I hope there's nothing left for you to mourn."

Your body grows weaker, slipping into unconsciousness. Like ink washing away, images of tonight—flower pots, moonlight, a brimmed cap—blur and fade into nothing until there is only a blank canvas.

—

"Hey! Hey, wake-y wake-y, teach!"

"You think they're dead?"

"Don't say things like that!"

Gentle hands coax you out of your slumber. Heavy, fluttering eyes open to six familiar children peering down at you, a mixture of worry and relief on their faces.

"Are you alright?" Hands belonging to caring green eyes ease you to a sitting position. "Careful now. Did you collapse?"

You groan, "I-"

What remains of your memory are fragments of moonlight and warmth blossoming on your hand. You stare down at your open palm as if you could concentrate hard enough to bring that fleeting warmth back.

"I think I… fell asleep out here."

Zayne's cold hand moves to cup your cheek as he examines the far away look in your eyes. "Is the new medication making you drowsy?"

"Um," you think, but all that comes up is blank.

Rafayel stands to the side, analyzing the area with quiet scrutiny before clapping his hands and drawing the childrens' attention. "Why don't you all help them inside and get breakfast started?"

The twins are the first to hop up, exclaiming at the same time, "I'll start the fire!"

The children along help you stand. They guide you back to the atelier while Zayne and Rafayel stay behind.

Rafayel doesn't waste time before pointing his finger at Zayne. "Isn't your whole job to—oh, I dunno—watch?" he hisses. "So things like this never happen?"

Zayne doesn't let his expression give anything away. He lowers Rafayel's hand and replies with steady ease, though his heart is anything but. "He's concealing himself from my spells."

"Obviously," Rafayel drawls, rolling his eyes toward the drifting, scattered clouds. "We have to tell them he's been visiting."

Zayne glances toward the kitchen window where you're lifting Tara up so she can reach for bowls. Your smile is light, tired, and doesn’t light your eyes the way it used to before Caleb left. "Carefully,” he replies slowly. “It won’t be easy."

The purple haired witch sighs. His head is beginning to ache. All he wants is a long soak in the bath. "Our old friend really is an idiot."

A/N — was this just an excuse to write caleb w a full sleeve? maybe……… i hope this au makes everyone go and read/watch witch hat atelier bc it’s so amazing i need everyone to enjoy it

Which is why your body stirs before your mind does, catching on the absence of him. You’re half-awake when you feel him easing out of your arms with practiced care, like he doesn’t want to wake you but still lingers long enough to savour the warmth. The room is dark, shadows pooling in the corners, but there’s a soft gleam where the moonlight catches in his silver hair.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, eyelids barely lifting. Sylus pauses mid-step, then sits on the edge of the bed beside you, his weight dipping the mattress ever so slightly.

“Fishing,” he says, quiet and calm, as if he hasn’t just said something utterly ridiculous.

You blink. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “That’s why it’s called night fishing.”

You frown in confusion, which turns into a yawn. He leans down, his lips brushing your forehead in the gentlest kiss. “Now, go back to sleep, sweetie,” he whispers, tucking the blanket snugly around your shoulders with such care it makes your chest ache.

You squint up at him. “Is ‘fishing’ code for something? Because if you're doing something illegal, you can just-”

He hushes you with a finger to your lips, ruby eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s not code. I just...felt like going.”

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking lightly across your cheekbone. It’s such a soft gesture, and his touch is so warm, you can’t help leaning into it.

“…Can I come with you?” you ask quietly, heart fluttering even though you know you don’t need to be nervous around him.

There’s no hesitation. “Of course.” His smile is faint but genuine as he pulls the blanket off you, taking your hand to help you sit up. “Come on, sleepy.”

You stagger slightly, still bleary-eyed and warm from bed, and he steadies you with an arm around your waist.

“Put this on,” he says, handing you a sweater. One of his sweaters, soft and oversized, smelling just like him. You tug it on with a sleepy sort of satisfaction, immediately cocooned in warmth. You pull on some cozy pants too, your brain slowly catching up while he casually gathers fishing rods, bait, and something else that you don’t know the name of but you’re pretty sure is also for fishing.

Then, just like that, he’s taking your hand again and guiding you gently out of the base, fingers interlaced like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One short motorcycle ride later, you find yourself standing on the edge of the N109 zone pier, your hands still warm from holding onto Sylus the whole way there. The helmet feels oversized and snug, and when he gently pulls it off your head, it takes a moment for the world to refocus.

His hands linger on your cheeks for a moment too long, his thumbs brushing over your temples like he’s trying to memorize your face. Then he sets the helmet aside and looks at you softly, like you’re his favorite sight in the whole world.

The pier is washed in silver-blue light, quiet and dreamlike. The moon hovers low and full in the sky, casting long reflections on the dark water below, like black ink with strokes of soft shimmer. A breeze sweeps gently through your hair as you follow Sylus down the planks, the wood creaking under your steps and his duffel slung over his shoulder like this is just a casual midnight stroll.

And then you see it. His boat.

You blink. That’s his fishing boat?

It’s a sleek center console, sixty feet of pure shiny black with blood-red accents curling along the trim like a signature. The upholstery gleams under the moonlight, and the vessel looks more like it belongs to a futuristic spy than someone going out to catch trout.

Your jaw hangs slightly. “This is your fishing boat?”

Sylus tosses a look over his shoulder, his red eyes twinkling in amusement. “Well, it’s difficult to fish from a yacht,” he says dryly, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You huff, covering your mouth to hide the grin that’s growing. “You are ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are,” he replies, already climbing aboard with practiced ease. He turns and holds out a hand for you.

You take it, and just as you step on, the boat gives a gentle rock beneath your feet. You gasp and nearly lose your balance but before you can fall, tendrils of black and red mist rise from nowhere, curling around your waist and steadying you as if they were made for it.

Sylus’s hand never leaves yours.

“Got you,” he murmurs, gently pulling you forward.

You let him guide you to the bow where plush red cushions invite you to sink in. He rummages in a side compartment and pulls out a thick, fleece-lined blanket, wrapping it carefully around your shoulders. Then, without being asked, he tugs the ends tighter around you and smooths a hand over your arm, grounding you in place.

The air is crisp and carries that cool, open-water bite, but with the blanket cocooning you and the oversized sweater he insisted you wear earlier, you feel perfectly tucked in. You settle in as the engine hums softly and the boat begins to glide forward, the wind whipping your hair gently behind you. Sylus stands at the controls, backlit by moonlight and shadows, and you watch him with quiet awe.

After a few minutes, he slows to a stop, letting the boat drift peacefully in the water. The pier lights are a faint glimmer in the distance now, replaced by the overwhelming presence of stars above, countless and sparkling like crushed sugar scattered across a velvet sky.

Instead of picking up his fishing rod, Sylus makes his way toward you.

You blink. “You’re not gonna fish?”

He simply shrugs. “I was going to,” he says, settling beside you, “but you looked quite cold, and I figured…this would be a lot nicer.”

Before you can reply, he lifts the edge of the blanket and slides under it with you, his arm immediately wrapping around your waist like it was always meant to be there. You go willingly, leaning into his side, letting your cheek rest against the warm plane of his chest. His heartbeat is a quiet, steady rhythm beneath your ear.

“I’m a pretty good distraction, huh?” you murmur.

He tilts his head, brushing a kiss to your temple. “The best kind.”

The boat rocks gently beneath you, the water lapping softly against the hull like a lullaby. Sylus shifts so that you’re lying down together, his arms cradling you and the blanket forming a warm bubble around you both. He kisses you then, slow and sweet and unhurried, like there’s all the time in the world.

You smile against his lips before pulling back, settling once more against his chest. His fingers run slowly through your hair, untangling knots without complaint, and his other hand rubs soothing circles against your back.

“You’re such a romantic for a guy who owns a murder-boat,” you murmur, your words muffled by his shirt.

Sylus laughs quietly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “It’s not a murder-boat. It’s a multi-purpose vessel.”

You snort, and he hums again, his fingers drawing slow, idle patterns along your back beneath the blanket. The sky above you stretches wide and endless, stars blinking softly like they’re eavesdropping. The waves lap against the hull in gentle rhythm, rocking the boat just enough to lull you back toward sleep.

But you don’t want to fall asleep. Not yet. Not when you’re here, warm and safe, wrapped up in a sweater that smells like him, his hand still ghosting along your spine like a promise.

“You do this a lot?” you ask quietly. “Come out here by yourself?”

“Mm,” he murmurs, tone unreadable for a moment. “Sometimes. When I need to think. Or not think. Depends on the day.”

You turn your face up toward his, resting your chin on his chest. His silver hair glows faintly in the moonlight, and his red eyes look softer now. Less guarded and less distant. Just tired, maybe. Or peaceful.

“I’m glad you brought me,” you say, and the words feel more important than they should.

His lips twitch upward. “Me too.”

A breeze rolls in, carrying the scent of salt and lakewater. The city lights are barely visible this far out, and for once, everything feels still. No alarms. No missions. No expectations.

Just the two of you and the stars.

You snuggle closer, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt as if to anchor yourself. He tilts his head down and presses a kiss to the top of your head, then rests his cheek against your hair.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and something heavier, “I’ll actually teach you how to fish.”

“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a next time,” you tease softly, even though you already know there will be.

He chuckles again, a low vibration against your ear. “There’ll be hundreds.”

He was like something you couldn’t scrape off your shoe. No matter how many corners you turned, there he was — standing there with that smug grin, like he’d been waiting for you the whole time.

Why?

Why was he so hellbent on showing up in front of your coworkers? Was it just to make you sweat? Was this all some twisted game for him?

It was such a bad idea, flaunting himself in a room full of hunters. Did he really think he could waltz in and walk out again without anyone batting an eye? Or was he that cocky — that sure of himself — that he believed they’d never connect the dots?

You thought back to your argument in the car, the way you’d scolded him, sharp and panicked, about the risk of being recognized. And tonight, he’d just… done it anyway. Walked right into the lion’s den with a drink in his hand. Was that his way of proving you wrong? Showing you that even if he was spotted, no one would suspect him?

Or worse — was that his idea of an apology?

If he even had the capacity for one.

You stripped the last of the night’s clothes away and pulled on an oversized t-shirt, teeth gritted against the restless energy still buzzing under your skin. You didn’t like the feeling — the sense that you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because surely, surely, they wouldn’t buy the “humble fruit vendor” story forever.

You crawled into bed, pulling the blankets up like they might shield you from the thoughts crowding in. The subtle glow of the city outside painted faint shapes across the ceiling.

You shut your eyes and told yourself not to think about Caleb. Not to think about how dreams of him had the uncanny power to hollow you out and leave you raw for hours after waking. Not to think about the way those dreams never stayed good for long — how they always turned, rotting into something you didn’t want to see.

You prayed tonight would be different. You prayed you wouldn’t dream at all.

You don’t remember drifting off, only the sensation of your body going slack and the city’s distant hum fading into nothing.

Then you were there.

Back on that road you’d walked a hundred times before, the one that led to your childhood home. The air was warm, tinged with the faint smell of cut grass, but it did nothing to calm the storm twisting in your chest.

You knew what was coming.

Caleb was a few paces ahead of you, steeling his face. He never could hide the disappointment when you hid something from him, and now it settled over you like a lead blanket.

“Caleb, I was telling the truth. It was just an accident! You and Gran have enough to deal with…”

You were lying to him. In his final moments.

You sped up, your lungs tight, your heart hammering, trying desperately to catch his gaze. The dread crawling up your spine refused to be silenced.

“I understand you wanna hide it from Gran. We’ve caused her enough trouble since she brought us up. Now that she’s older, it wouldn’t be a good idea to make her anxious.”

You stopped walking. The hurt in his eyes froze you mid-step, a vice around your chest.

He turned to you, brows furrowed. “But why do you have to hide it from me? Can’t you trust me now that we’re all grown up?”

The words struck like knives, and you felt the sting of your own deceit. You wanted to cry, then and there, your throat tight with the weight of everything unsaid.

“…I don’t want you worrying about me. It’s not often you get to come home these days, ruining the mood is the last thing I want to do.”

His gaze fell as you spoke, as if the words themselves were foreign to him. He’d worry about you no matter what — you both knew it. And yet, every syllable you spat out was another brick in the wall separating you, a wall you couldn’t tear down fast enough. A wall you’d never get the chance to tear down. 

You sighed, the sound barely escaping your lips. “Also… I’m a grown up now. I need to be the one in charge of my own safety. You can’t protect me forever.”

Each word was a razor, slicing through your chest, and the shame of it made your stomach churn. You couldn’t look at him. Your fingers pressed against the railing for grounding, but it did nothing.

His hand quickly filled the space before yours, warm and unyielding. His voice snapped your eyes back to him.

“Why is that a problem? If not me, who could you possibly turn to for…”

Each word looked like it physically pained him, like he was bleeding from the effort. His eyes fell, searching yours, before a small, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I told you, pipsqueak. Forget it.” He ruffled your hair lightly, trying to brush away the tension, as if the moment had never existed.

He turned from you then. “We’ve been outside for too long. Gran is going to be worried.”

And there it was. The inevitable.

Your stomach knotted, your palms slick with sweat, your chest tight with the knowledge that nothing could stop what was coming.

“You’re doing it again.” 

Turn around. Look at me.

“Go inside by yourself. I’m not your sidekick.”

Please don’t leave me.

You wanted to bite your tongue, rip it free from your throat, beg, scream, do anything to undo it.

You had never regretted your words more.

“Fine. But hide the blood on your sleeve before heading inside.”

His hand wrapped around the handle. The door swung open.

He looked at you, one last time. “Since you’re grown up now, I won’t cover for you this time.”

The door shut in your face.

You wanted to scream his name. To run inside. To wrench him back. But you couldn’t. You were pinned in place, a helpless observer as the scene unfolded exactly as it had in reality, every heartbeat stretching into an eternity..

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Only watch.

Then,

Your world erupted.

A deafening BOOM split the air, a bloom of fire and splintered wood bursting from the doorway, swallowing the front of the house. The force slammed into you like a wall, ripping the breath from your lungs, hurling you backward.

You hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through your bones. Ears ringing, vision swimming, you blinked at the wreckage — and there, in the dirt inches from your face, lay Caleb’s necklace. The chain was hot, the silver apple charm dangling limply against the scorched metal.

Your hand shook as you reached for it, but your fingers passed right through.

Somewhere distant, muffled through the high-pitched whine in your ears, you heard it.

“Pipsqueak.”

You froze.

“...Pipsqueak.”

Closer now.

You turned.

He was standing there. Or — what was left of him. Skin blackened and peeling, hair burned away, clothes in tatters that clung to charred flesh. His eyes were still his, but the rest of him…

You staggered forward, tears already spilling hot down your cheeks. “Caleb— oh my god, are you okay? I’ll get help, I’ll—”

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

Then, without warning, his hand shot out and clamped around your arm with bruising force. The grip was so strong you swore you felt bone grind.

“It should have been you.”

The words landed like a knife to the gut.

You blinked, stunned, barely able to rasp, “...What?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s your fault.”

Your chest seized, the tears coming harder now. “No— no, I never wanted this to happen—”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” His voice was a snarl now, each syllable laced with venom. “Why did you let it happen?”

“I— I didn’t know—”

“You killed me.”

“No!” Your voice cracked. “I— Caleb, I didn’t—”

“It's your fault. All of it.”

His fingers dug in harder, pain blooming along your arm until you thought it might snap—

You bolted upright, gasping, the sound of your own breath ragged in your ears. Sweat slicked your skin, hair damp against your neck. 

Your arm ached.

The morning light was pale and unforgiving, slicing through the curtains in harsh lines across the floor. You blinked against it, chest still heaving, and slowly registered the wetness on your cheeks.

Tears.

Your fingers trembled as you brought them to your face, brushing against the salty tracks. You hadn’t even realized you were crying — your body had betrayed you in sleep, carrying the weight of everything you’d tried to shove down. The nightmare clung to your skin like a second layer, a searing reminder of what you had witnessed, what you had lost.

Your throat felt raw, your stomach twisted, and your hands were still clutching the sheets as if letting go would somehow erase the horror you’d just relived.

Caleb’s voice echoed in your ears, ragged and accusing. 

It should have been you.

It’s your fault.

The words were heavier than lead, and your chest tightened with guilt that didn’t seem to belong entirely to you. You wanted to shake it off, to tell yourself it was just a dream, that nothing had changed. But every detail — every moment — felt burned into your mind, as vivid and cruel as the real thing.

You buried your face in the pillow, drawing in shaky breaths, trying to will the fire of guilt and grief to fade. But it didn’t. It wouldn’t.

Eventually, you forced yourself upright again, staring blankly at the room, letting your fingers linger on the edge of the mattress. Your body was trembling, and the tears wouldn’t stop. You were left with nothing but the echo of the nightmare, the weight of guilt pressing down, and the sick, hollow ache that maybe you’d never escape it.

The clock on the bedside table read too early for anything but silence, yet you felt anything but.

You finally blinked, forcing yourself to acknowledge reality. Plane. Linkon. You had to get there, had to move, had to face Sylus in a confined space for hours. The thought alone made your chest tighten.

With a shuddering exhale, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and scrambled to your suitcase. Clothes, toiletries, chargers — you shoved everything in with frantic hands, your movements jagged and uncoordinated. Hairbrush in one hand, toothpaste in the other, you attempted some semblance of normalcy. Teeth brushed, hair roughly combed, bag zipped shut with a frustrated tug. You glanced at the clock again and winced. Too little time, too many things undone.

A sharp knock made you jump, heart lurching.

“Did you sleep in, kitten?” Sylus’s voice called through the door, light and teasing as always.

You hesitated, mouth dry. “Uh… kind of,” you muttered, stuffing a pair of socks into your bag. “Sorry, I… I’ll be ready in a second.”

The door swung open before you could finish, and there he was, leaning slightly in the doorway, hands in his pockets, calm and unbothered. You were still a whirlwind of motion, hair falling in your face, fingers fumbling with your bag strap.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, his tone carrying no judgment, just an almost awkward patience. He didn’t step closer, just lingered, letting you have your chaotic moment. The silence stretched a beat too long, but you were too scattered to notice.

Finally, you slung your bag over your shoulder, smoothing your clothes as best you could. You opened the door, moving toward the elevator, still shaking slightly, trying to shove the lingering nightmare out of your chest.

Then he called after you, voice low but deliberate. “Your watch.”

You froze. “Huh?”

“Your hunter’s watch, sweetie,” he clarified, voice patient, almost amused. “You’re not wearing it.”

You cursed under your breath and spun back into the room, spotting the sleek band sitting on the nightstand. Your hands shook as you fastened it around your wrist, the familiar weight grounding you just slightly, a small tether to normalcy.

“Okay,” you muttered, finally straightening, exhaling sharply.

Sylus tilted his head, watching you, but said nothing further. Together, you stepped out of the room, the morning light catching the city outside, your bag heavy on your shoulder, your chest still tight with grief and guilt, but slowly, bit by bit, you were ready to face the flight ahead.

-

The hum of the jet’s engines greeted you as you stepped aboard, the luxury of the cabin doing nothing to soothe your nerves. You dragged your bag to the seat by the window, trying to act like everything was normal, but your hands wouldn’t stop trembling slightly as you set it down.

Sylus slid in across the aisle, casual as ever, giving you a small smirk. “You’re awfully quiet today, kitten.” he observed, voice teasing but just soft enough to make it a nudge rather than an accusation. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m… fine,” you replied, your voice flat, almost lifeless. It wasn’t the sharp, biting tone you normally used around him, and it made him pause, brows knitting just slightly.

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, leaning back in his seat. “Is the jet not fancy enough for you?”

You chewed your lip, forcing a tight smile. “I just… didn’t sleep well. Too tired to appreciate all your wealth right now.”

He tilted his head, sensing the lie — or maybe just sensing that the explanation was only a fraction of the truth. “Really? Were you so excited for our trip you couldn’t sleep?”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re… impossible,” you muttered, but the words didn’t carry their usual bite.

Sylus leaned a fraction closer, eyes sharp and curious now. “That’s all? You’re not even going to call me a pompous bastard?”

You avoided his gaze, staring out the window at the fading city below, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “No,” you murmured. “Not today.”

He didn’t push further, not yet. Something in his gut told him this wasn’t just fatigue — or the usual disdain for being in his company. He settled back in his seat, watching you fidget with your hands, noticing the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw clenched just slightly.

Maybe it was something that had happened after you’d parted ways last night. Maybe a fight with a friend. Or maybe you’d simply not slept at all. Or maybe… it was something he didn’t understand yet. 

The engines thrummed steadily, and you shifted again in your seat, drawing your knees up slightly, hugging yourself. Sylus’s gaze didn’t waver, quiet but insistent. He wouldn’t push you outright, but he’d already marked this day differently. His fiery hunter had all but disappeared on him, a mere shell of her sitting just inches away. 

Sylus watched you for a few more moments, letting the quiet stretch. He flexed his fingers absently, considered retrieving a tablet from his bag, but even that seemed unnecessary — the hum of the engines and the soft cabin light provided enough focus for him.

He leaned back, letting his gaze drift lazily to the window opposite, the city lights shrinking behind them, and allowed himself to just observe. There was still a subtle weight in the air, one he couldn’t name, and yet he sensed it was not something he could prod at or tease out — not without breaking the fragile thread of your composure. This was something he would have to approach delicately — a foreign concept to him.

Your fidgeting slowed, almost imperceptibly. The tight grip on your knees loosened. Shoulders sagged a fraction as your eyelids grew heavy, the rhythmic thrum of the jet almost lulling you into something softer than wakefulness.

Sylus didn’t speak again. You were grateful. His presence — the quiet steadiness, the lack of intrusion — was enough to pull some of the taut edges from your mind. A warm, subtle reassurance you had never felt around him before, seeped through.

Before you realized it, the tension in your jaw unclenched. Your hands rested lightly in your lap instead of grasping at your knees, and your breath slowed, regulated. The world shrank down to the gentle vibration beneath you, the low whine of the engines, and the quiet solidity of the man across from you.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body, heavy with fatigue and lingering grief, surrendered to the small, unspoken comfort, and sleep finally claimed you. The plane hummed on, steady and unyielding, carrying you back toward Linkon, while you dreamed of nothing at all.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The door of your apartment clicked softly behind you, and for a moment the silence swallows you whole. Your apartment smells faintly of stale air and leftover fabric softener from the sheets you haven’t changed yet, a quiet reminder that you’ve been gone for a few days. The city outside hums faintly, muffled by thick glass, but inside, it’s a vacuum of stillness pressing against your chest.

You let out a quiet sigh, dropping your bag on the couch. The plane ride had been… tolerable, surprisingly so. Being trapped in the sky, alone with Sylus — you were certain it’d be the second worst thing that had ever happened to you. But to your surprise, you managed to rest the whole way. The hum of the engines, the dim lighting, the subtle vibration beneath you — somehow, it had let you sleep. You’re still not sure why. Part of you resents the fact that you could rest even briefly, knowing the weight of what you carry is still there, a constant shadow just behind your ribs.

The other part of you was eternally grateful, the last time you drifted into that comforting, quiet, nothingness was not something you could recall. 

As you unpack the last of your clothes, folding them with distracted care, the apartment feels oddly oppressive. The quiet you’d craved during the flight now seems too empty, too unyielding, like a mirror reflecting back the rawness you’ve tried to hide from everyone else.

It’s a weekend. No calls, no urgent missions, no chaos to throw yourself into. If you want distraction, you realize, you’ll have to make it yourself. Goldwood had been far from peaceful, but at least there the action occupied your mind, kept your steps moving, your focus elsewhere — at least during the day. Here, there are only walls and memories. A quiet place where your mind slips into its darkest recesses. For now: being alone with yourself isn’t an option. 

You lean against the counter, fingers tracing the edges of the tiles as your mind wanders. Maybe you could go out. Explore the city. Find a café you haven’t tried before, get lost in the rhythm of people moving around you. Anything to keep the tide of your thoughts from crashing back too hard. The idea of filling the next two days with activity is appealing, even if it’s a fragile plan — one you can cling to as the clock ticks forward, toward the emptiness of your apartment again.

For a moment, you let yourself linger in the quiet, aware of every small sound: the soft whir of the refrigerator, the faint rustle of your clothes as you move, the occasional distant horn from the street below. You try to imagine this quiet as neutral, harmless, but it presses at your mind, nudging at the corners where grief still lingers, raw and patient.

You exhale and straighten, giving yourself a small shake. Distractions. That’s the plan. You’ll make the weekend yours, carve it out from the stillness, keep yourself moving and thinking and alive. It’s not a solution. Not really. But it’s a start.

You reach for your phone almost out of habit, thumbing through notifications you’ve already seen, messages you don’t feel like answering. It takes you a moment to remember why you opened it in the first place, but then your notes app catches your eye — a list you’d made weeks ago, back when Tara had been teasing you about always working, never taking time to do anything “normal.”

You scroll absently until her name jumps out at you in a note she had airdropped you: café recs for the workaholic. A few places are listed beneath it, but one in particular pulls your attention. She’d said it was cozy, quiet but not too quiet, with good coffee and better pastries. You’d tucked the recommendation away, never once making the time to go.

Now, it feels like the perfect out. A place to sit among strangers, to let the noise of other people’s lives fill in the space where yours feels thin. A sweet treat and a caffeine jolt to nudge you into something like momentum — something to cut through the weight pressing at your chest.

Decision made, you slip your phone into your pocket and move toward the door before you can overthink it. Jacket, bag, keys. Small, familiar motions, grounding in their simplicity. The apartment is left as it is — clothes half-folded, silence intact — and you step into the hall with the faint relief of shutting the door behind you.

Outside, the air carries a different kind of quiet, busier and less personal, filled with the muted sounds of the city. You let it settle around you, welcome the distraction as you make your way toward the nearest bus stop. No rushing this time; you’ll take the long route, let the city pass by your window, see what it feels like to be part of the flow again.

The bus arrives with a sigh of brakes, doors hissing open. You climb aboard, slip into a seat by the window, and watch the familiar blur of streets, faces, and shops move past. It’s not exactly peace, not really. But it’s motion. And for now, motion is enough.

The bus jolted around another corner, tires groaning against the wet asphalt. You kept your gaze on the window, temple against the cool glass, letting the blur of unfamiliar streets slide past.

When the light changed and traffic slowed, you thumbed your phone awake. Notifications stacked across the screen — muted group chats, a couple of direct messages left unopened, a string of moments from people you hadn’t spoken to in months. You scrolled without really reading. Someone had gone on a ski trip, all smiles and scarves against white slopes. Another posted their dog bounding through a field. A girl you’d once sat beside in class was flashing a ring, the caption packed with exclamation marks.

You double-tapped a photo out of habit and immediately regretted it. The blue glow made everyone else’s lives look clean, polished, deliberate. You stared at the feed until the bus hissed to a stop.

The café was only a short walk from the station. A bell above the door announced your arrival, thin and bright against the muffled hum of the city outside. Cool air brushed your skin, carrying the smell of roasted beans and sugar syrup. A couple sat tucked into a corner booth, leaning close over their laptops. Behind the counter, the barista was laughing at something her coworker had said.

You joined the line. The chalkboard menu blurred while your thoughts wandered — you weren’t hungry, you realized, but the routine is what you truly craved. Order, wait, sip. At least it would pass the time.

When it was your turn, you spoke your name low, like it might disintegrate if you gave it too much weight. The barista nodded, scribbled it onto a paper cup. You stepped aside, watching steam rise from the machines, the hiss and churn filling the silence in your head.

Then, clear above the din:

“Caleb—iced americano!”

A man at the end of the counter raised his hand, stepping forward to collect it. Ordinary. Common. Nothing at all to do with you.

Still, the sound of it slipped between your ribs like a cold draft. Your head turned — muscle memory — only to realize the man you were looking for wasn’t there. He’ll never be.

You looked down, adjusting your grip on your phone until your knuckles went white. You drown yourself in your feed, allowing the algorithm to occupy every space in your mind where a thought might occur. Luckily, your name is called, snapping you out of the mindless act and back into the present. Coffee, treat.

You settle into a corner table, the warmth of the shop wrapping around you in soft waves of roasted beans and cinnamon. A hum of conversation weaves through the air, but you keep your gaze on the small plate and cup in front of you. The pastry is flaky, sugar catching the light in little crystals, and the drink is rich enough to chase some of the chill from your bones.

It should be comforting. And in some ways, it is — a small, ordinary ritual to cling to.

But the sound of that name still lingers, too sharp against the calm. It loops back in your head the way a stone skips across water — not sinking, not vanishing, just jumping back into view again and again. Caleb. Common enough. Meaningless.

You tell yourself that twice. Three times. You even take another bite of your pastry, slow and deliberate, as if taste could anchor you more firmly into this moment. The sweetness bursts on your tongue, the buttery crumbs melting away, but still there’s that restless hum underneath your skin.

The warm light, the chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine — all of it feels too still, too heavy, pressing you into the seat. You cross one leg over the other, uncross it. Fingers tap the rim of your cup. The restlessness won’t pass.

So you finish your drink in three slow swallows, gather your things, and rise. The bell above the door chimes as you push it open, and the warmth of the atmosphere spills off your shoulders the moment you step outside.

The street greets you with slightly humid air, faint with exhaust and fried food. Life goes on here — cars passing, voices blending, shoes striking pavement — but for a second, you only stand there, caught between wanting to go somewhere and not knowing where at all.

Your feet move before your mind decides. Left, then straight, then another left, letting the city guide you instead of forcing a destination. The sun glows brighter as you turn a corner, music spilling into the open air — laughter, shouts, the rise and fall of a busker’s guitar. A crowd swells ahead, its hum thick with energy, and then you see it: a street fair, stretched down an avenue alive with stalls.

Flags are strung overhead like low-hanging flowers, dancing in the afternoon breeze. Vendors call out their wares, their voices weaving into a patchwork chorus: grilled skewers hissing over open flame, sweet syrup poured over shaved ice, handmade bracelets and polished stones catching the sunlight. Children chase each other between legs, faces painted with clumsy butterflies and tigers, shrieking when caught. The air smells of sugar, smoke, and spice — heavy, chaotic, and strangely comforting.

It looks like the perfect place to lose yourself.

You let the flow of the crowd carry you. A stand piled high with candied fruit catches your eye — ruby-glazed strawberries skewered neatly, their sheen sticky under the glow. You don’t buy any, but you linger, just to watch a little boy tug insistently at his mother’s hand until she caves, his grin lighting the whole street. A few steps further and someone thrusts a paper sample cup toward you, the fizz of soda prickling your tongue when you accept.

It’s almost easy to forget yourself in all this noise, all this color.

Halfway down the stretch, you pause before a table laid out with rows of keychains and pendants. Tiny animals, cartoon characters, charms shaped like planets or teacups. Your hand drifts, almost absently, until your fingertips brush over one — a small, polished apple rendered in silver. Something tugs sharp and low in your chest.

Your other hand lifts before you even think about it, brushing lightly against the chain around your neck.

The moment freezes — but only for a breath.

You blink, pull your hand back, force your eyes away. It’s nothing. Just a keychain. Just another trinket in a sea of them. You step on, folding yourself back into the current of people.

The further you walk, the easier it is to shake it off. A man juggles fire batons to delighted gasps; a woman sings in a voice so rich it cuts through the noise, her guitar case filling with bills and coins. A child darts past you clutching a balloon, his laughter trailing behind him like a ribbon. Someone presses a flyer into your hand, promising discounted entry to a gallery you’ll never visit.

And for a while — longer than you expect — you let it all be enough. The buzz, the brightness, the jostle of strangers’ shoulders against yours. The world spinning fast and careless around you.

You drifted further down the street without much intention, the soles of your shoes carrying you more than your mind did. The crowd thinned as you went, shopfronts giving way to longer stretches of brick walls, some windows dark and shuttered. The city’s rhythm beat on behind you — horns, chatter, the distant whine of a motorbike — but already you felt a faint relief as it dulled.

At the corner, you caught sight of the park. A quiet pocket carved into the sprawl of the city, green pressed against the skyline. You veered toward it, drawn by the promise of stillness, of air that hadn’t been filtered through a dozen other lungs before reaching yours.

The entrance opened into a broad path. Gravel crunched under your shoes, the sound sharp against the hush of leaves moving in the early evening wind. As you walked deeper, the city seemed to fall away piece by piece, traded for the rustle of branches and the scent of damp earth.

That was when you saw them.

A cluster of asiatic apple trees, their blossoms clinging desperately to the branches, pale pink and ghostly at the edges. Their season had nearly run its course; petals littered the ground in scattered drifts, fragile reminders of something already half-gone.

You froze.

It was impossible not to think of him. Caleb had always walked beneath trees like these when leaving for Skyhaven, the petals catching in his hair, brushed from his coat as if they refused to let go of him. They had framed every goodbye you had ever given him, silent witnesses to each parting. Back then, you hated them for it — their beauty made every farewell ache sharper, every return feel more fragile. You had gone out of your way to avoid them after, unwilling to stir that resentment.

But now, looking at the blossoms barely hanging on, you felt something else. Not sadness, not even grief exactly — something quieter, almost tender. As though they were offering you a chance you had been denied. A final farewell you were never able to give — not with how sudden he left.

Your chest tightened with a dull, aching longing. For a moment you stood perfectly still, letting the sight of them hold you, because it felt like the closest thing to closure you might ever have.

You carried yourself deeper into the park, where the air softened and the hum of cicadas hid behind the sway of trees. Paths curled through stretches of green, dotted here and there with bursts of color where late-blooming flowers held on in patches of fading sunlight. You slowed your steps, pausing to admire a bed of begonias ablaze in gold, then the violet crowns of petunias bowing beneath the wind. It was quieter here, calmer, enough that you finally let yourself ease down onto an empty bench tucked beneath a broad-limbed weeping willow.

The wood was cool beneath your palms as you leaned back, fishing your phone out almost out of habit. A few messages blinked up from group chats, friends posting photos from lunches or weekend-getaways, their smiles caught mid-laugh, the glow of string lights overhead. You scrolled without really reading, thumb moving on autopilot until the screen dimmed from disuse, leaving your own faint reflection staring back.

It was then a soft voice cut across your drift.

“Pretty girl,” the stranger said warmly, and you blinked up to find a woman standing just before the bench. Her arms were filled with bundles of flowers wrapped in simple paper — wild carnations, sprays of daisies, and lilies so stark and white they seemed to glow. The woman gave a small, earnest smile, tilting her head. “A pretty girl like you should have something just as pretty. Don’t you think? A lily for luck, or maybe for love.”

The offer wasn’t pushy; it was gentle, coaxing, the kind of tone that made refusal feel unkind. And the lilies… their petals were flawless, tender and luminous against the green. You found yourself nodding, reaching for your wallet before you could think twice.

She slipped a single lily from the bundle, wrapped the stem with care, and handed it to you as if it were something precious. “See?” she said with satisfaction. “Suited to you. Keep it close, it will keep you safe.”

You murmured a thank-you, and she moved on, her cart of blooms trailing behind her down the path. Left alone again, you lifted the lily to your nose. Its fragrance was faint, a breath of sweetness almost lost to the air, but it lingered enough to catch at your chest. You stayed there for a moment longer, the bloom cradled loosely in your hand, smiling softly to yourself.

The lily sat light in your hand, its pale bloom catching the last threads of sunlight as you drifted down the path again. You barely looked at the couples passing, at the families clustered around benches; the soft brush of petals against your fingertips was the only thing keeping you tethered, the only thing you let yourself focus on.

You weren’t watching when you walked straight into someone’s back.

The impact jolted you, the lily nearly slipping from your hand. He was tall — broad-shouldered, dark hair slightly ruffled. He wore a dark jacket — orange and blue accents trailing down the back. For one frozen instant your breath tangled in your throat, a hollow ache rising in your chest. 

No.

He turned, and the illusion shattered. A stranger’s face, sharp but unfamiliar, eyes narrowing briefly at the collision.

You stood there, stunned into silence, before the word finally scraped out of you. “...Sorry.”

It was only then you realized he wasn’t alone. A small knot of men stood with him, their voices carrying the lively energy of comrades-in-arms. Uniform jackets slung casually over shoulders, patches you recognized — the Deepspace Aviation Administration. The air around them shifted, subtly authoritative, claiming space without effort.

One of them looked up. His gaze snagged on you, and his expression cracked wide open.

He called your name, his voice was warm, surprised, and threaded with something fond — a note of familiarity that hit you like a hand pressed gently against your chest.

Gideon.

You blinked, and Gideon was already stepping forward, his expression splitting into a broad grin as he enveloped you in a hug that nearly lifted you from the ground. It was all warmth and fondness, his laughter rumbling in your ear like no time had passed at all.

Pulling back, he looked you over with genuine delight. “It’s so great to see you.”

You found yourself smiling despite the hollow weight still pressing at your ribs. “You too, Gideon.”

“What are you doing in Linkon?” you asked, easing a step back as if to catch your bearings.

He gestured over his shoulder to the group of uniformed boys lingering just beyond. “Showing around some of the new recruits. Thought I’d take them by some old haunts, places I used to go when I had breaks from the academy.” He glanced back at you, still smiling, though there was something more searching in his eyes now. “Funny thing is, I’d been thinking of contacting you. Maybe seeing if you wanted to meet up. But…” His expression softened, touched with something heavier. “…we haven’t spoken since…the funeral.”

The words landed heavier than you expected, knocking the air from your chest. Guilt stirred sharp in your stomach. Your gaze dropped to the path beneath your shoes, shadows stretching longer across the stones as dusk slipped in. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, the words clumsy, fumbling. “I’ve just… been busy.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, and you knew he saw right through it. Gideon always had.

He turned, addressing the boys with an easy authority. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sir” before they drifted off down the path, their laughter carrying faintly behind them. The park quieted again, leaving only the hush of leaves rustling in the cooling breeze.

Gideon fell into step beside you, his presence steady, unhurried. You matched his pace without thinking, the gravel crunching softly under your shoes.

“So,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now, “how have you been?”

You let out a breath, trying for nonchalance. “I’m alright.”

But even to your own ears, the words sounded thin.

He glanced at you sidelong, his expression tender but not pressing. “I miss him too,” Gideon said, and his voice carried the weight of it, low and steady. “It’s been… rough. Not having Caleb around. Trying to accept it.”

Your throat tightened. The evening air felt cooler now, threading through the branches, stirring the scent of earth and grass. You kept your gaze ahead, on the winding path, afraid that if you looked at him you’d crumble.

Gideon’s hands slid into his pockets as he walked, giving you the space you needed. “I know it must be hard for you too,” he added quietly, as though he didn’t want to push the words too hard against your walls.

Gideon glanced at you again, the quiet stretch between your steps lingering. His voice was softer now, almost tentative. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” he said, watching your profile in the deepening dusk.

You looked up at him then, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. Something in your chest loosened, and you whispered, “Thank you.”

He smiled faintly, a curve of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t just miss Caleb,” he went on, “You’re my friend too. And I mean that. I’ll always be here if you ever want to talk… or even if you just want to get together and catch up.”

Warmth swelled in your chest at his words. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear them until just now. “That… means a lot,” you admitted, your voice quiet but earnest.

The two of you walked on, the crunch of the path underfoot filling the silence. The lamps along the park’s path flickered on one by one, halos of light casting a gentle glow over the leaves as the evening settled. You tried to lighten the air, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You always were better at keeping up with people than me. I guess some things don’t change.”

He chuckled, a low sound that eased the heaviness between you. “Or maybe you’re just stubborn,” he teased. “Could be both.”

You rolled your eyes, though the faint smile that tugged at your lips betrayed you. “You haven’t changed much either.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gideon said, giving you a sidelong glance that carried the hint of a grin. For a moment, the grief in his expression lifted, replaced by something gentler, more familiar.

By the time you reached the end of the path, the park lay quiet behind you, shadows stretching long across the grass. Gideon slowed to a stop, his gaze sweeping over the street beyond. “It’s getting dark,” he said, his voice lined with concern. “Let me walk you home.”

You shook your head softly, giving him a small smile. “I’m too far to walk. I’ll probably just grab a cab.”

His brows knit slightly, as though reluctant to let it be. But after a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Just… be safe, okay? Try to get back before it’s too late.” His eyes lingered on yours, steady and sincere. “And call me soon. Promise?”

“I promise,” you said, and you meant it.

The goodbye came with a certain weight, softened by the warmth of the moment you’d shared. He gave you one last small smile, then turned toward the path he’d left behind, leaving you with the faint echo of his footsteps and the comfort of knowing you weren’t as alone as you’d thought.

The glow of the streetlamps bled a soft amber over the pavement as you stepped onto the main road, the night air cooler here than in the park. You slipped your phone from your pocket, thumb trembling slightly as you opened the app and ordered a cab. The confirmation buzzed back: fifteen minutes. A reasonable wait, you told yourself, though it felt like forever. Weekends meant most drivers were caught in the thick of the city center, shuttling crowds in and out of the neon sprawl. You sighed and shifted your weight, clutching the lily gently in your other hand as though its fragile stem could steady you.

You stared at the white bloom, tracing the curve of its petals with your gaze. The silence around you pressed in, making it harder to keep the day at bay. Too many reminders. Too many ghosts.

You thought of the café, the barista’s cheerful call — echoing with a sting sharp enough to cut through your chest. Not him, never him, yet the sound of his name had carved a hollow space in your lungs anyway.

Then the apple charms at the little market stall, dangling innocently from their hooks. Silver — just like his necklace — cool and gleaming in the light, the etched grooves catching shadows like veins. They were delicate, harmless things, meant to look pretty, to draw the eye. And still, you’d felt the air lodge in your throat the moment you saw them. You forced yourself to keep walking, to pretend they were just trinkets. Just trinkets. Not a reminder, not a weight, not a knife sliding between your ribs.

And the trees — those Asiatic apples lining the path, branches heavy with pale blossoms that reminded you of afternoons long gone. Times you couldn’t step into anymore, though their memory still pulled at you with cruel persistence.

Even Gideon. Especially Gideon. Running into him had felt like the universe’s last nudge, a reminder you couldn’t escape. The warmth in his eyes when he said your name, the way he’d tried to make you laugh. He missed Caleb too, of course he did — but he could still say it. Still name the grief out loud, while you hid yours like some shameful secret.

A bitter laugh slipped out of you before you could swallow it down. How ridiculous. You’d gone out today to distract yourself, to breathe, to be anyone else for just a little while. And the world had closed ranks against you, conspiring at every turn to whisper his name back into your ear.

You pressed your lips together, jaw tight, anger swelling hot under your ribs. Not at anyone else — not at the strangers who had no idea, not at Gideon with his kind patience. At yourself. Always yourself. You couldn’t even open your mouth to tell him. You’d smiled, nodded, thanked him for understanding when you couldn’t give him the truth he’d offered to hold.

What was wrong with you?

You wrapped your arms around yourself, lily still caught in your hand, its stem damp against your palm. You felt hollow, as though everything inside had been scraped out and left raw. A shell walking the streets, going through the motions, while the real you stayed locked behind some door you couldn’t find the key to. Distant with everyone. Useless with your own feelings.

And worst of all — you didn’t even know how to start.

The sky darkened with a sudden weight, clouds rolling over the city like a stormed-over sky in a painting you’d once seen but never believed could feel this alive. The first fat drops hit your cheeks before you realized it was raining. Hard.

Thunder rolled across the horizon, low and growling, and a flash of lightning split the distance in jagged brilliance. You laughed — sharp, brittle, incredulous — and it fractured into a sob before you could stop it. “You’re kidding,” you muttered to no one, the words swallowed immediately by the roar of rain.

No umbrella. No shelter. The cab you’d ordered still ten minutes away, like a cruel countdown ticking in the wet. The rain plastered your hair to your neck, ran down your sleeves, soaked your jeans. Each drop felt like it carried the weight of everything you’d been holding in, everything you’d been trying not to remember.

A sudden, booming crack of thunder made you flinch, heart hammering, and you clutched the lily in your hand like it might anchor you to something, anything real. “Caleb,” you sobbed aloud, the name spilling from your lips raggedly, desperate. It echoed off the empty street, but it was swallowed immediately by the storm.

Ridiculous. That’s what you felt. You should have been over this by now. Fear of storms, of the dark, of the sudden strike of lightning — you should have been over it. And yet, here you were, drenched, shaking, sobbing like a child in the rain.

You wanted him here. He should be here. Should have been here. Every thought spiraled, sharpening like broken glass against your ribs. And then the anger hit — slow at first, like a low rumble beneath your bones, and then a full, white-hot blaze. How could he leave you? How were you supposed to do this alone? Who would protect you now?

Your feet moved before your mind caught up. Steps splashing through puddles, boots pounding on wet asphalt, hands clutching the lily like it carried him with it. You didn’t stop. You didn’t pause. The storm followed you, relentless, drenching, echoing the turmoil in your chest.

And then you saw it. The cemetery, quiet and gray beneath the hammering sky. You were already walking past the wrought-iron gate before you realized it. The rain plastered you against reality, and there he was — the marble headstone, simple but stark, the engraving clear even through your tears.

You stopped at the foot of his grave, hands still clutching the lily, rain streaming down your face. The storm felt like it belonged to him now, to you, to everything you hadn’t said and couldn’t take back. 

“Why did you leave me?” you whispered, voice lost in the thunder. “Why did you leave me like this?”

The anger was molten now, spilling over, mingling with grief, twisting every ache in your body. You wanted to scream, to hit, to shake the world into acknowledging the injustice, the cruelty. You wanted him to be here, to see that you weren’t fine, that nothing was okay, and no one could fix this.

The rain drenched you to the bone, plastering hair and clothes against your skin, but you barely noticed. Kneeling at the foot of his grave, the lily slipping from your grasp into the mud, you let the fury rise, uncontained.

“How could you leave me alone like this?!” Your voice cracked, reverberating against the tombstones around you. “What am I supposed to do now? Huh? Tell me, Caleb!”

Your hands slammed against the damp earth, fingers clawing at it as if you could claw back what was lost. “I hate you for leaving me like this! You’re a fucking liar, Caleb! You said you’d always be by my side!”

Tears mixed with the rain, stinging your eyes as your chest heaved. “You knew… didn’t you… you fucking knew!” you sobbed. “And you just… just walked right into it!”

Your voice fell for a heartbeat, then surged again, trembling with anger and grief. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be left behind? To live in the shadow of your choices, in the shadow of your death?”

You clenched your fists, rain running over knuckles, and screamed at the marble. “You’re haunting my dreams… everything reminds me of you—” you fell into a whisper now. “I hate you, Caleb, I really do.”

Every word felt like it tore something out of your chest, and yet it wasn’t enough. It never would be. The helplessness pressed in like the storm itself, heavy and unrelenting. “I… I can’t fix this. Tell me how to fix this, Caleb, please,”

You fell silent for a moment, chest heaving, rain running down your face, smearing tears and mud together. Then, almost whispering, but still raw with rage and grief, you spoke again: “You should’ve stayed. You should’ve fought to stay. I—I need you. I’ll always need you. And you—”

A ragged breath tore from your chest. “I want to go home—please…” The words cracked apart as you sank into yourself, forehead collapsing against the rain-slick marble. Cold bit through your skin, but you clung harder, pressing yourself to the stone as if you could fold into it, as if he might answer from beneath. “Come home, Caleb,” you begged, voice breaking on his name. “Please… take me home.”

The plea dissolved into sobs, each one dragging up from the hollow pit where your heart used to be, raw and ugly. Your fingers clawed at the base of the headstone, nails scraping against wet stone until they ached, until you couldn’t tell if it was the rain or your tears streaming down your face. The marble was unyielding, merciless. And still you pressed your cheek to it, as if you could wring warmth from a grave.

Your hands dug into the wet ground again, gripping it like it might anchor you from collapsing entirely. Your thoughts were chaotic, spinning, bouncing from grief to fury to despair. Every moment of the day, every reminder of him, every small thread of what was lost, pulled you closer to something decisive. You couldn’t stay in this helplessness forever.

Your gaze flicked to the lily at his feet, waterlogged and fragile, and then back to the gravestone. Your anger burned hotter, a spark in the storm. You didn’t even know who you were angry at anymore — Caleb for leaving you, the world for stealing him away, or yourself for being the one still left behind.

The decision, barely formed but inevitable, coiled in your chest like fire waiting to ignite. The spiral you’d been trying to avoid — the rage, the grief, the desperate helplessness — had found its full expression here, in the rain, at the foot of his grave.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The forest did not remember how you had arrived — neither did you. One moment you were slumped against Caleb’s grave, the next your boots sank into muck and roots, thunder rolling above like some cruel drumbeat. The ache in your chest had hollowed you out, stripped you of anything but the raw, staggering need to move, to do something. Thought had abandoned you somewhere back at the gates. What remained was haze.

The warnings had screamed at you as you crossed the boundary: harsh red on your Hunter’s watch, the insistent shrill that meant turn back, turn back. You ripped the device off your wrist and hurled it into the mud without a second glance. If the mud swallowed it whole, good — better than the void that had already eaten you alive.

Standard-issue sidearm. One extra magazine. That was all you carried. You knew it was laughable, knew it would not be enough. And still you pushed forward, the rain soaking through your clothes, lightning flaring to silhouette the twisted spires of trees. Every breath tasted like iron and smoke, every step like trudging deeper into a grave you didn’t bother to resist.

The first Wanderer emerged from the dark — a flicker of wrongness against the storm. You didn’t flinch. You raised your weapon and fired until the shrieking body collapsed, twitching in the mud. A breath tore from your lungs, not relief but something close to satisfaction. Anger surged like blood through a wound.

Another. Then another. Shapes materializing in the shadows, their hunger cutting through the hiss of rain. You fought them back, each shot a ragged prayer, each pull of the trigger a curse you spat at the world. Mud splattered your face, your knees, your arms as you staggered, shoved, drove your knife between ribs when they got too close. The creatures wailed, their gore hot on your hands, the rain washing it away only for more to spatter you again.

Pain flared in your side when claws raked you open. You barely felt it. Another set slashed across your back — your body lurched forward, your hands kept swinging, stabbing, firing. You did not stop. You couldn’t. If you stopped, you would have to feel.

The thunder roared louder, a cruel applause. Your lungs burned, each breath ragged. You thought you saw Caleb’s face in the flashes of lightning, pale and accusing, but you blinked and there was only darkness and teeth lunging toward you. You pressed your weapon against its skull and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

You kicked the creature back and dropped the mag with trembling hands, sliding in the last one, breath coming in sharp gasps. The truth pressed hard against your skull — you weren’t here to burn off rage. You weren’t here to prove anything. You had come here because the idea of walking away alive felt unbearable.

Your hand shook as you slammed the chamber closed, rain streaming into your eyes. Around you, shadows moved closer, closing in.

You lifted the gun anyway.

The thunder rolled like a dirge above you, drowning out the sound of your own ragged breaths. Every part of you was raw and spent, skin slick with blood and rain, body shuddering under the weight of exhaustion. You kept swinging, stabbing, pulling the trigger until your wrist ached, until every bone in your body felt hollow, until the last magazine clicked empty and you were forced to abandon the gun in favor of your blade.

The forest floor was sludge beneath you, the muck swallowing your boots, sucking at your knees every time you fell. You barely felt it. Pain no longer registered as it should; the burns of claw marks, the shuddering impact of blows, the warmth of your own blood seeping through torn fabric. It was all distant, muffled, as if you weren’t inside your own body anymore. Like you’d already let go, and this flesh was only moving on borrowed will.

And then it came — larger than the others, its presence warping the air, a high-ranking wanderer cloaked in shadow and malice. Its eyes glowed with cruel hunger. You stared back at it, unflinching. There was no fear left in you, only the quiet, bone-deep acceptance that seeped into your veins like cold water. This was it. At least it wasn’t running. At least you’d fall here, doing what you were meant to do.

You fought it anyway. Every movement tore something deeper inside of you. You ducked under one blow, slashed upward, felt your blade bite into its hide — but it wasn’t enough. It struck you across the chest, sent you crashing into the mud. The taste of iron filled your mouth, hot against your tongue. You staggered back up, legs shaking, lungs burning, vision tunneling at the edges. Still you pushed, throwing yourself into another clash, forcing every ounce of your dwindling strength into strikes that grew weaker and weaker.

Caleb will understand, you thought grimly.

He’d be proud. I died fighting.

The words carried you like a mantra, even as your blade grew slick in your grip, even as your arms trembled from the strain of each strike. You stood there, breath rattling, steel heavy and unyielding in your hands. The wanderer loomed before you, barely slowed, untouched by anything you’d managed to carve into him.

It struck again — harder, deliberate this time. The blow knocked you from your feet, back crashing into the sodden ground. Your body screamed at you to rise, but you couldn’t. Your limbs were lead. Your chest heaved but air wouldn’t come properly. The monster above you raised its claws for the final strike.

You closed your eyes. A wry smile ghosted across your lips.

I’ll see you soon, Caleb. 

I’ll come home.

But the strike never landed.

Instead, a shriek split the night — piercing, inhuman. Your eyes fluttered open to a blur of black feathers and a rising tide of red mist that shredded the wanderer into nothing. It dissolved into shrieking ash, devoured by a storm that was not your own. The earth trembled with the sound of it.

Through the haze, you heard your name. Once, faint, like an echo. Then again, closer, urgent. Your body sagged heavier into the mud, the rain stinging your face as you struggled to focus. The ground shifted beneath you as arms swept you up, pulling you from the filth.

“Sweetie,”

The voice broke through, low but ragged, almost pleading. “Hey. Open your eyes.”

Your lids felt like stone, but you obeyed. Just barely.

And there he was. Sylus. His face inches from yours, rain plastering silver hair to his forehead, his crimson eyes wide — terrified, raw. You’d never seen him look like this. Grief-stricken. Desperate. He held you as though you might vanish in the space between heartbeats.

You wanted to say something, but your throat was thick with blood, words caught in the storm inside you.

“Don’t fall asleep.” His voice trembled. “Stay with me. You’ll be alright. I’ve got you.”

His voice cracked like glass, low and fervent, spilling words meant to tether you when you’d already let go.

But you hardly registered them. The cadence was distant, blurred at the edges, each syllable dragging you further into haze. Your body was so heavy. Your pulse, a frail whisper.

Home, you thought again, drifting. I’ll see Caleb soon.

The warmth at your side, the trembling urgency in Sylus’s voice — none of it mattered. You slipped past it, down into the dark.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You woke slowly, as if clawing your way out of a heavy, suffocating fog. The first thing you registered was the faint press of soft linen against your cheek, the scent of lavender clinging to the sheets. For a few disoriented heartbeats, you weren’t sure where you were. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar — plain, pale, with faint shadows cast by lamplight.

You tried to sit up, but the moment you pushed against the mattress, a sharp lance of pain tore through your side. The breath left your lungs in a gasp, and you collapsed back onto the bed, sweat prickling at your skin.

A sound cut through the haze — shrill, guttural, and unmistakable. A caw. Your eyes darted toward the corner, and there he was, perched with gleaming eyes that seemed to watch too closely. Mephisto.

The sight snapped something into focus. If Mephisto was here, then you weren’t just anywhere — you were in one of Sylus’s safe houses. The realization settled uneasily in your chest, heavy with implications. You remembered — fragments, at least — his arms around you, the blur of his silver hair, the sensation of being lifted away from mud and despair. Your pulse kicked up, unease blooming as the reality settled. Sylus had seen you like that — weak, broken, barely clinging to yourself.

You couldn’t name why it unsettled you so deeply, why it prickled along your nerves like embarrassment. But you knew with cold clarity that you would have rathered anyone else not see you in that state — least of all him.

Before the thought could tangle further, the door opened. The sound was soft, deliberate, but it carried the weight of inevitability. Sylus stepped into the room.

“You’re awake.” His voice was simple, almost matter-of-fact, yet it cut through the hush of the room like a blade.

You swallowed, throat dry. “What… am I doing here?”

He moved further inside, the door shutting with a decisive click behind him. The sound made the air feel heavier, like there was no slipping away from this place. From him.

“I had a doctor look at you,” Sylus replied, calm as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “Your wounds were treated. You’ve been out cold since.”

Your fingers curled in the sheets, restless, wanting something to anchor yourself against. The images came back slowly — the dirt, the blood, the crushing weight of the fight, and then arms lifting you, too strong to fight against. His arms.

“Why?” The word was sharper than you meant it to be. “Why were you there? How did you know where I was?”

He tilted his head, silver hair slipping loose from where it had been swept back. That faint, dangerous smirk touched his mouth. “Do you really need to ask?”

Your breath caught, nerves knotting tighter.

He stepped closer, and though he didn’t crowd you, his presence filled the room all the same. “Are you going to get mad at me for saving your life?”

You stared at him, words tangling in your throat, a thousand responses fighting to be spoken and none finding their way out. The silence stretched between you, tense, oppressive, until all you could do was look back at him — caught between gratitude, anger, and the strange embarrassment of being seen this fragile, this undone, by him of all people.

“I just don’t understand… why,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could swallow them back.

For a heartbeat, his expression faltered — confusion sparking, then something closer to hurt. He masked it quickly, but not quickly enough. The shift in his features lingered in the air like smoke, impossible to ignore.

“Sweetie…” His voice dropped low, softer than you’d ever heard it. For once he seemed at a loss, searching for words he hadn’t yet rehearsed. His mouth quirked as though he might force a smile, but it never came. “I don’t mean to coddle you. But do you honestly believe I’d sit back and watch you die?”

The question landed heavy between you, sharp enough to sting. You didn’t have an answer. Your throat tightened around silence, leaving you staring at him, searching his face for some clear reason that never came. All you could do was shift against the pillows, uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze — and immediately, pain lanced through your side. A wince escaped before you could stop it.

In an instant he was moving closer, his long frame folding down to your level. “Don’t,” he said firmly, red eyes flicking to where the bandages pressed against your ribs. “You’ll reopen the wound if you push yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you forced out, the words harsher than you meant them.

He studied you in silence, his eyes unreadable, his face caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Then — softer, with a flicker of something you couldn’t name glinting behind his gaze — he murmured, “You don’t have to be so strong right now.”

The way he said it sank under your skin, unsettling in ways you weren’t ready to face.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle. When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened, stripped of all its usual sharp edges.

“You’ve been carrying something,” he said. The words were almost tentative, careful in their tread. “You don’t need to explain yourself. Just know that I’m here.”

Something tightened in your throat. You wanted to scoff, to push him away with some barbed remark — but there was no venom left in you, not now. The sincerity in his tone unsettled you more than his dangerous charm ever had.

Sylus shifted onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, tilting you slightly toward him. His presence filled the space, the faint scent of smoke and steel clinging to him, and though he sat with an easy posture, you could feel the tension simmering beneath it.

“I know my words might not mean much to you,” he admitted, a flicker of unease beneath the steadiness. “I’ve never done this before. But… I hope that you’ll consider them.” The rawness in his tone was unfamiliar — stripped of the teasing armor he wore so easily. For a fleeting moment, he almost looked as though he’d said too much.

Your breath stuttered, nerves prickling under your skin. The weight of his words was foreign, frightening in its intimacy. You curled your fingers into the blanket, staring at him, trying to decipher him — the man who had pestered you with danger and chaos, now sitting across from you with a trace of raw honesty bleeding through.

The air seemed thicker, the silence pressing against your ribs. And for the first time, that creeping thought slithered in unbidden: perhaps there was more to Sylus than you had believed.

You shut it down quickly, too quickly, as though denial alone could banish it.

Your lips parted, the words catching before they finally slipped out in a hushed mumble. “...Thank you.” It was shaky, uncertain, as though you weren’t sure if you meant it — or if you even wanted him to hear it.

A sharp pang lanced through your ribs, stealing the breath from you before you could mask it. You stiffened, tried to swallow the grimace, but his eyes narrowed instantly.

“Still pretending?” he murmured, voice low, knowing. He shifted, the bed dipping as he leaned closer. “Can I try something?”

The wary glance you flicked up at him was automatic. “What—going to make me your lab rat now that I can’t fight back?” Your tone was dry, an attempt at humor that wavered, thin around the edges.

It startled a soft laugh out of him anyway, the sound warm and unguarded. “No,” He lifted a hand between you, palm open. “Give me your hand.”

You hesitated, suspicion flaring, but curiosity tugged harder. Slowly, cautiously, you set your hand in his. His fingers threaded through yours in a firm, grounding hold, the simple touch strangely intimate.

“Now,” he said, voice soft but steady, “Resonate with me.”

You blinked, uncertain. “Resonate—?”

“Just focus,” he urged gently, squeezing your hand. “On the energy inside yourself. Let it reach for mine. I’ll meet you halfway.”

So you closed your eyes, steadying your breath, searching for that familiar thrum deep in your core — the current that had always been yours. With effort, you drew it forward, let it pulse into the point where your palms connected.

Heat stirred instantly. A hum coursed between you, soft at first, then stronger. Your eyes flew open to see a glow blooming from your joined hands, a molten orange-red light that seemed to breathe with your heartbeats.

Then — movement.

Thin trails of dark mist began to peel away from your skin, black-red tendrils unraveling like smoke tugged by invisible strings. You gasped as they crept upward, winding toward the glow, before spilling back down across your body.

Each ribbon of mist sank into the angry wounds hidden beneath your bandages. With it came warmth — deep, searing, but not painful. A pulsing relief spread through your ribs, your back, even the raw sting of cuts you’d nearly forgotten.

Your eyes widened, a trembling breath escaping you as the realization hit. It wasn’t just numbing the pain. It was mending.

You stared at him, at the impossible glow binding you together, at the way his eyes — bright and unyielding — remained locked on yours as though daring you to look away.

The glow pulsed one last time, then dimmed, fading into the quiet between your palms. You drew in a breath that no longer scraped so sharp against your ribs, no longer pulled at half-closed wounds. The ache had lessened — more than lessened. It was gone. The silence that followed was almost reverent, as if even the air understood what had just shifted.

You blinked down at your body, at skin that only moments ago had been torn and burning, now knit smooth beneath the faint trails of crimson-black mist. Slowly, you lifted your gaze back to him. “I… didn’t realize your Evol could heal others too.”

His mouth tilted, not into his usual smirk but into something smaller, more wondering. “Neither did I.” The words were plain, honest, carrying their own kind of weight.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His fingers remained laced with yours, firm but not possessive, as though he was testing how long you’d let him hold on. His eyes searched yours, uncharacteristically open, and the world seemed to narrow to just the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the warmth that lingered between your palms.

Then, softly, he asked, “Do you feel better?”

It wasn’t flirtation. No teasing edge. Just him, speaking to you as though the answer mattered more than anything else in the room.

You swallowed, surprised by the earnestness that left you with no defense, no easy retort. “…I do,” you admitted. Your voice was quiet, a little hoarse. You squeezed his hand once before letting it rest. “Thanks, Sylus.”

For once, you couldn’t summon anger to armor yourself with. Couldn’t muster the reasons to push him away. Not when he was looking at you like that, not when the pain in your body had eased because of him. And even if some stubborn part of you still wanted to cling to resentment, it felt fragile, insubstantial in this moment — like smoke, already fading.

a/n: ermmmmm when i came up for the plot for this story i did not intend for it to be this heavy initially. unfortunately, i am obsessed with caleb haunting the narrative and i've been listening to too much ethel cain so this was born. the series might be on hiatus for a while, i need to regroup and figure out where i'm taking this. hope u enjoy, sorry for being so angsty <3

The world hadn’t ended when he did — but it might as well have. Nothing moved the same. Nothing tasted the same. Even joy, when it came, felt like a dull ache stretched too thin across your chest. Everything that used to brighten the edges of your days — the little notes he’d sneak into your lunch, the way he always waited to walk you home, or tugged you into something ridiculous just to hear you laugh — it all vanished with him.

There’d always been a warmth to Caleb. Like a sun orbiting just close enough to pull you toward it without ever burning. He was your gravity. You followed him like instinct. You never once thought he wouldn’t be there.

And now he was gone.

You curled tighter beneath the blanket, fists pressing to your chest. One hand clutched the thin silver chain tangled between your fingers — the necklace you gave him once upon a time. The one he’d worn nearly every day since. When the explosion took your childhood home — and everything with it — it was the only thing recovered. Slightly bent, blackened at the clasp, but unmistakably his.

Sometimes you told yourself he left it for you to find.

That he knew what was coming when he walked into that house, boyish grin plastered on his face. That he’d already made peace with it.

That leaving you behind was okay, so long as he knew you were safe.

But that was bullshit. You didn’t want to be left behind.

You didn’t know what to do without him.

You didn’t get to say goodbye. You didn’t get to tell him what you felt — not really. There were so many years, so many moments, and still you let him go without ever once saying the words aloud.

I think I’ve loved you since we were kids. I think I always will.

Maybe the necklace was his way of saying I love you too.

But now he was locked in time. Forever the boy who stood beside you — childhood best friend, never more.

And that’s the thing about death, isn’t it? It freezes everything. No second chances. No answers. No truth. Just silence and memory.

You wiped at your eyes, but the tears didn’t stop. Silent, steady. You weren’t sobbing. You weren’t even breathing all that hard. You were just… breaking. Again.

Gran’s face flickered behind your eyes.

She died in that explosion too. The only parent you’d ever known. But even now, even after grieving her, there was an ache beneath the grief you couldn’t quite name — a confusion, a betrayal.

Growing up, you never would’ve imagined Gran was involved in Ever’s experiments. That you were her subject.

You remembered the way your memories used to go fuzzy as a child. The gaps in your days. The missing time. The strange feelings in your bones, the headaches that followed tests you didn’t remember. You always blamed it on accidents. Dreams.

But now you knew better.

And Caleb… Caleb always knew, didn’t he?

He was a part of it, too. You still remembered the way your heart stopped when you caught a glimpse of his name in those files Gran left you.

The way he looked at you sometimes — soft, pained. Protective in ways that didn’t make sense at the time. It used to irritate you. Now you understood.

You were reckless, sure. He reminded you of that often. But you weren’t throwing yourself at death’s doorstep for fun.

The way Caleb sheltered you — from your early childhood up until the day he left — never quite made sense until you saw what you’d been spared. Until you realized what he must’ve seen. You, small and helpless, strapped to some table, treated no better than a lab rat.

He must have gone through the same. Maybe worse. He was older than you. He never knew his parents. How long had he been there?

He’d suffered so much. Shouldered so much. And he never told you.

Why?

Why did he always smile anyway? Why did he stay, why did he protect you, why did he act like nothing hurt when clearly everything did?

Why did he choose to carry it all alone?

You buried your face into the pillow, muffling a sob.

He should still be here. He should be sitting at the edge of your bed, scolding you for not eating. He should be teasing you about your messy hair, offering to cook something, or dragging you outside for a walk. Something. Anything.

He always knew how to pull you toward the light.

Now everything felt pointless. Your job. The missions. The medals. Who cared if you saved the day when Caleb wasn’t here to see it? He was always the first to tell you he was proud. The only one who really meant it.

You didn’t realize your fingers had curled tighter around the necklace until the chain bit into your palm.

You were tired of crying. Tired of hurting.

And more than anything — you were angry.

Angry that you still hadn’t found the truth. That all your searching, all your sleepless nights, had led to nothing but false leads and dead ends. That you let your rage blind you — let it drive you straight into the arms of the enemy.

Sylus.

The name flared like acid in your chest.

He was supposed to be the key — the dangerous, elusive leader of Onychinus. The perfect scapegoat. You wanted to believe it. Wanted to blame someone.

But it never added up.

And when the pieces started to fall apart — when your theories cracked open and the dust finally settled — the truth sat quiet and ugly beneath it all: Sylus wasn’t responsible for the explosion.

You’d been wrong.

And you hated that. Hated how easily he slipped out from under your accusations. Hated how he never explained anything. He left more questions than answers, always half a step ahead, always withholding.

He confused you. Infuriated you.

He was cold. Dismissive. Downright cruel. And yet his desperation was obvious — naked in those rare, electric moments when the mask slipped. You could feel it — that need, gnawing and raw beneath his skin. He wanted something from you.

He wanted to resonate. Needed it. When that failed, he let you shoot him. 

You didn’t know what to make of that.

It was like he expected you to hurt him. Or maybe he wanted it.

He wanted to modify you — reshape your evol, force a bond that wouldn’t come naturally. When that failed, he left you stranded in the workshop. Only to offer you help right after, not without making you jump through pointless hoops, however.

You didn’t understand him. You didn’t like him. And you definitely didn’t trust him.

But somehow, he was the only one left offering you answers — when he felt like it. When it suited him.

That made everything worse.

You hated relying on him. Hated needing anything from him. But your determination to avenge Caleb burned brighter than your pride. You wanted to make Caleb proud, one last time. Give his death meaning. Justice.

If that meant making a deal with the devil, so be it.

Your comm buzzed suddenly on the nightstand. You blinked, rubbed your face, and rolled over with a groan to check the call ID.

Captain Jenna.

You hesitated. Then picked it up.

“Tomorrow,” she said without preamble, voice sharp and familiar. “The UNICORNS are relocating to Goldwood City. We’re seeing increased metaflux fluctuations — and wanderer spikes. You’ll be briefed on arrival.”

You nodded, voice rough. “Got it.”

The line clicked off. You stared at the ceiling again.

Another city. Another mission. Another dead thing to chase.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning came whether you wanted it to or not.

You peeled yourself out of bed just after dawn — not because you were rested, but because routine demanded it. The shower was quick, cold. The water helped, but only slightly. You stood there until your skin was numb and your thoughts dulled to static.

Then: towel, uniform, weapons check.

You pulled your hair back into a tight tie. Stared at your reflection in the mirror, unsmiling, the hollows under your eyes deepening in the fluorescent light. You looked like someone performing the idea of herself. A mask of competence. Function.

But your fingers lingered on the chain around your neck.

Caleb’s necklace — tucked beneath your shirt now, close to your heart. As always.

You said nothing.

The ride to the Hunter’s Association building was quiet. The streets of Linkon City pulsed with morning haze — cars humming, storefronts yawning open, newsboards flickering with day-old headlines. People moved like they didn’t know the world had ended. Or maybe they did, and they were just better at pretending.

The headquarters loomed ahead, sleek and familiar — glass and steel cutting into the sky, humming faintly with metaflux stabilizers. You passed through security with practiced ease and made your way to the UNICORNS briefing room.

They were already gathered inside.

Tara was the first to notice you.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” she chirped, bright as always.

You gave her a small nod, then slipped into your usual seat near the back of the conference table. The others were chatting softly — something about last week’s mission in Eastshore, how a Wanderer had thrown a vending machine at Nero and he’d caught it midair like it weighed nothing.

You tried to focus. Failed.

Tara slid into the seat beside you, her short hair swishing as she leaned in.

“You okay?” she asked gently, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You hesitated.

“I’m fine,” you said, automatically.

She smiled — not in disbelief, but with that warm patience that made her impossible to lie to.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she said. “I know you and Caleb were close. Everyone does.”

You stared ahead. The screen at the front of the room was still dark, waiting for the captain to arrive.

“I just…” Tara paused, choosing her words. “I think he’d want you to keep going. He was always cheering you on, right?”

Your throat tightened.

“Right,” you echoed, softly.

Tara offered a soft pat to your knee. “Just… don’t forget to take care of yourself too, okay?”

Before you could reply, the door hissed open and Captain Jenna strode in — tall, sharp-voiced, and already halfway through a datapad in her hand.

“Listen up.”

The chatter died instantly.

She tapped the pad against her palm as the briefing screen lit up behind her — a wide-angle map of Goldwood City, its skyline highlighted with crimson overlays and spiraling metaflux readings.

“Goldwood’s our next site,” Jenna said. “We’ve had two confirmed metaflux ruptures in the last seventy-two hours. Wanderer appearances are up 200% compared to last month. Civilian evacuations are underway, but resistance is high — the local government’s still under the impression they can handle this alone.”

Andrew snorted. “They’re always under that impression.”

“Which is why you’ll be polite and efficient,” Jenna said sharply. “We don’t need more politics in our way. The mission is containment. We stabilize the metaflux, eliminate all active threats, and assess any underlying anomalies.”

“Anomalies?” you asked.

Jenna’s eyes flicked to you. “Something’s off in the data. Interference patterns that don’t line up with known metaflux behavior. We’ll have a better picture once you’re on-site.”

She clicked a new slide — a visual of Goldwood’s central district, now warped by pulses of metaflux energy like heat rising from concrete. You could already hear the buzz of it in your ears. The headaches would follow. They always did.

“Prep to leave in twenty. You’ll get final coordinates on approach.”

Everyone rose. Tara squeezed your arm once more, then bounced off to grab her gear. You moved slower, methodical, your hands steady even if your insides weren’t.

As the others filed out, you lingered for just a moment. Alone in the conference room, fingers brushing the pendant under your collar.

You closed your eyes.

I miss you, you thought, and let the words sit in the hollow of your chest like a truth you weren’t allowed to say out loud.

Then you turned and walked out to meet the day.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Goldwood wasn’t what you expected.

You stepped off the dropship and into the humid weight of late afternoon, the city skyline stretching upward in layered glass and ironwood — shimmering under the burn of metaflux distortion. The air smelled sweet, almost metallic, and the light bent strangely against the tops of the highrises. Everything was just a little too still.

You kept your gun holstered at your side and followed the team through the quiet district. Captain Jenna peeled off quickly toward City Hall to negotiate deployment routes, leaving the rest of you to check in at the Association-provided hotel on Eastwind Street.

You made your way to the lobby, Simone and Tara trailing close behind. You could hear them discussing cafés with limited edition drinks they wanted to try.

You checked in on autopilot, barely registering the conversation you had with the woman at the front desk. With a slight wave, you bid Simone and Tara a goodbye, murmuring something about catching them later.

You padded your way to the elevator, glancing down at your keycard for your room. A wave of confusion swept over you as you noticed your room was on one of the top floors. You brushed it off and leaned against the wall as you started your ascent. 

After a while, the ding of the elevator snapped you out of your daze and you made your way through the hall towards your room.

When you stepped inside, you paused.

It was… nice.

Too nice.

Cream-toned walls, darkwood floors, plush bedding still untouched. A large bay window offered a perfect view of Goldwood’s central district, the faint flicker of metaflux haze just visible in the distance like heat waves off metal. The room even smelled clean — like citrus and cedar.

This wasn’t normal. You were used to cheap rooms on missions. Sterile, basic, forgettable. Not this.

Still, you were too tired to question it. You set your gear down by the door, peeled off your jacket, and gave yourself two minutes to just breathe.

Then your phone buzzed.

Tara

you alive??meet me and simone outside in 5. city center. wanderers are acting weird.

You grabbed your weapons and went.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Goldwood’s city center looked more like a ghost town than a populated district.

The metaflux readings were spiking hard — your watch beeped every few seconds, and you could feel the thrum of it in your teeth. Reality felt thinner here. Quieter. Like the air was holding its breath.

Tara and Simone were waiting at the edge of a closed-down metro line, both suited up and scanning the ruins.

"Finally," Tara said as you jogged up. “We’ve got five confirmed signatures in the tunnel and something bigger past the third platform. Think you're up for a little fun?"

You nodded once. “Let’s move.”

The battle was long.

The first few Wanderers were easy — a few low ranking minions, quick but predictable. But the further in you went, the worse it got. The air grew thicker, the shadows deeper, and the last two creatures were near unrecognizable — massive, snarling things with warped limbs and bodies that flickered in and out of visual sync.

You fought hard. Everyone did.

It was manageable. But not easy.

By the time the final body hit the ground, you were drenched in sweat and barely keeping your balance, the edge of your vision tinged with black from overusing your Evol. The static in your comms finally cleared as the flux quieted.

Tara exhaled, dropping to sit on a nearby bench, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

“That was gross,” she muttered. “Did you see the second one’s face? It looked like it had been turned inside out!”

Simone grimaced, leaning on the wall. “If we get nightmares tonight, I’m blaming you.”

You stood silently for a second longer, heart still pounding, hands still tight on your weapon.

You weren’t sure what felt worse — the fight, or the fact it didn’t shake anything loose. You were just as heavy now as you were this morning. Grief still knotted in your ribs.

Tara glanced up at you, then smiled gently.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s get food before my body shuts down. I’m buying.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The café was a few blocks off the main drag — a little place with high stools, cracked menus, and string lights that hadn’t been turned off since sunset. You sat by the window, half-watching the flux haze ripple faintly in the skyline while your bowl of noodles slowly disappeared.

Tara was halfway into a story about a failed blind date she’d been set up on “He said he was a pilot, but he meant drone pilot. Like remote piloting freight crates.” while Simone stirred her drink with all the patience of someone enduring the same chaos daily.

You didn’t say much. Just listened.

Let yourself exist in the moment. Let the noise of friends and food and a busy, unfamiliar city keep your ghosts quiet — if only for a little while.

But when the conversation lulled and the laughter softened, your hand drifted instinctively to the chain under your shirt.

You clutched it for a moment. Let your thumb brush the cool edge of the pendant.

Your silence must’ve stretched too long, because when you looked up, both Tara and Simone were watching you.

“You okay?” Tara asked, head tilted. She wasn’t teasing now, her voice lower, softer. “You’ve been kinda quiet.”

You blinked once, then nodded. “Just tired.”

Simone leaned back in her chair with a knowing sigh. “Today was rough.”

That seemed to satisfy them, and the conversation picked back up again. Tara started recounting a team exercise last month where Nero accidentally trapped himself in a grav-field bubble for an hour. Simone countered with a report she filed that got rejected because she used the phrase ‘extremely haunted energy’ in a formal log.

Laughter spilled over the table, easy and light, the kind that didn’t ask for anything in return. You offered a smile here and there. Tried to mean it. Let yourself float in their noise and warmth, grateful they didn’t push further.

Eventually, someone checked the time.

“I’m turning into a pumpkin,” Simone groaned, stretching her arms overhead. “Let’s head back before the captain gets twitchy.”

“Agreed.” Tara stood and looked at you. “Coming?”

You shook your head. “In a bit. I want to walk off the headache.”

She hesitated like she might argue, then softened. “Okay. Don’t wander too far, alright?”

You watched them disappear around the corner, their conversation fading into the hum of the city.

The night air was cooler now, tinged with flux particles and the faint buzz of neon. The streets had mostly emptied — shops closing, windows shuttering, the occasional drone gliding past overhead. You walked aimlessly, hands in your jacket pockets, letting your feet lead without thinking.

Before long, you found yourself in front of a tiny convenience store tucked between two closed boutiques, its old fluorescent sign flickering in blue and pink.

You stepped inside.

The lights buzzed faintly. Shelves were half-stocked, music low and staticky from a hidden speaker. You picked up a couple of canned drinks — something bitter, something sweet — and a small packet of lemon candies you used to keep in your jacket pocket back in training.

When you stepped out again, the street had gone quieter.

And colder.

You didn’t even get a second to register the shift before your senses screamed.

Two Wanderers emerged from the alley like smoke — tall, sharp-limbed, skin stretched in strange, inconsistent ways. You dropped the drinks and unslung your gun in one motion, firing off clean shots before they could charge. They screeched, their bodies spasming mid-lunge, then crumpled onto the street.

You exhaled.

But before you could lower your weapon, static cracked across your watch.

Another one.

It materialized behind you — fast, silent, almost invisible against the rippling metaflux. You turned on instinct, aimed—

Click.

Nothing.

Your gun jammed.

Your breath caught. No time to switch weapons. No time to run. You braced your body for impact, ready to fight barehanded if you had to—

A single shot rang out.

The Wanderer collapsed mid-step, clean hole between its eyes.

You didn’t fire.

And then, his voice.

“That was a close one, kitten.”

You froze.

The comm in your ear fizzed for a moment, then cleared.

Sylus.

Your expression twisted, annoyance flaring sharp beneath your ribs. You turned a slow circle, eyes scanning the shadows, but saw no one.

“Where are you?” you snapped.

A familiar shimmer to your left — and there he was.

Leaning casually against a lamppost, dressed in dark clothes, sleeves rolled to the elbows, not a trace of urgency on him.

“I could ask you the same,” he said. “It’s a bit late for grocery shopping, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I own property in this city. Came to check on one of my hotels. You happen to be staying in it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are the odds.”

“Goldwood’s small,” he said easily. “You’re not that hard to find.”

You crossed your arms, still tense. “So you were following me.”

His lips twitched — not quite a smirk, but close. “Please. Your arrogance is showing, sweetie.”

The way he said it — airy, dismissive — only annoyed you more.

You turned sharply. “Whatever. I’m going back.”

He pushed off the lamppost and fell into step beside you like he had every right to.

You glanced at him. “I thought you weren’t following me.”

“I’m heading back to the hotel,” he said mildly.

You rolled your eyes. “The suns down. Shouldn’t you be working right now?”

He tilted his head. “I am.”

The lobby was quiet when you walked in, the only sound was the click of your boots on polished tile. The concierge nodded at Sylus without a word.

You stopped halfway across the floor, eyeing the gold-etched logo on the back wall.

“…You really own this hotel?”

“Among others,” he said, already stepping into the elevator.

You didn’t follow.

Until he turned slightly, glancing back. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“I’m going to my room,” you said flatly.

“Sure,” he said. “After.”

The elevator doors stayed open.

You exhaled through your nose, annoyed at yourself more than anything, then stepped in.

Of course his room was the penthouse.

Top floor, private key access, ridiculous marble tiling and warm, low lighting. The entire suite looked more like a diplomatic residence than a hotel. You stood awkwardly near the doorway, refusing to sit.

He moved toward a sleek black case near the minibar and opened it, revealing a line of weapons — all customized, sleek, unfamiliar.

“Your standard issue’s awful,” Sylus said without looking at you. “Barely enough to keep you alive.”

“It usually works fine,” you muttered.

“It jammed on you today. That could’ve killed you.”

You tensed.

He pulled out a modified sidearm and held it toward you.

“Try this. Lightweight, more reliable, and tuned for metaflux interference.”

You eyed it, but didn’t take it.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“Because I’d rather not scrape your body off the pavement next time,” he said. “And because I’m tired of watching you work with outdated toys.”

You scowled. “So you are watching me? I thought I wasn’t important.”

He looked at you then — calm, unreadable.

“Importance and usefulness are different things, kitten.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t trust him. That hadn’t changed.

But damn if it wasn’t hard to tell when he was lying.

“…Thanks for the gun. I’ll head back now.”

You turned toward the elevator, but his voice followed.

“Thanking me? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head out there? Maybe we should get you checked out before you go.”

You scoffed.

Any other day you might’ve laughed. Might’ve even thrown the teasing back. But not tonight.

“I won’t do it again.”

He laughed, low and rough.

“Then we should celebrate this rare occasion. Why don’t you have a drink with me?”

You turned to glance at him, hoping the pure exhaustion in your body was written all over your face.

“Not tonight, Sylus. I’m tired.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

“You were going to drink tonight anyway, kitten. Those Wanderers stole your loot.”

He wasn’t wrong. As much as you wanted to crawl into bed, something cold and strong sounded like the only thing that might shut your brain off. You didn’t want to feel tonight. You just wanted to forget — even for a few hours.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “Just one.”

His smile spread like a slow-burning flame as he moved toward the minibar.

“I’ll make you something. Go sit on the terrace. The moon is beautiful tonight.”

You said nothing, just turned and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, pushing them open.

The cool night air curled against your skin, crisp and electric. You stepped outside and leaned on the balcony rail, inhaling deep. The lights of Goldwood shimmered far below, fractured through flux distortions that danced like fireflies in the sky.

The moon hung heavy and silver above it all.

It reminded you of Caleb now — once the sun in your life, now a pale echo. A softer light, distant, haunting. Unreachable.

“I told you it was beautiful tonight,” Sylus said behind you. “You wouldn’t have a view like this from your room.”

You turned to find him approaching, two glasses in hand. He held one out.

You accepted it, fingers brushing his briefly — warm, calloused.

You stiffened slightly, but he only smiled.

“How do you know which room I’m staying in?”

He chuckled — a rich, velvety sound that never quite revealed what he was thinking.

“I own the hotel, sweetie. I know everything.”

You didn’t respond, taking a sip instead. The drink was light, citrus-forward, fizzy with a sharp edge that settled low in your chest. Better than whatever canned beer you would’ve gotten.

Then he added, offhandedly, “I had your room upgraded, by the way. The Association isn’t very generous with their accommodations.”

You might’ve been surprised, but you were too tired to fake it.

“You don’t have to do things like that,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to owe you more than I already do.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “You don’t owe me, sweetie. You’re here, sharing a drink with me. Consider that payment.”

You looked at him then, trying to read past his usual half-smile. He looked softer in the moonlight — less infamous leader of Onychinus, more... something else. Something watchful, still.

Moments like this reminded you just how little you truly knew about him.

Sylus was a mystery wrapped in arrogance, cloaked in contradictions. Always close, never reachable. And yet — curiosity gnawed at you in ways you hated to admit.

What turns a man into this?

You’d never ask. Sylus didn’t offer pieces of himself freely. Every question you posed, he batted away with a smirk. Every truth you chased, he cloaked in charm and distraction.

“I can almost hear you thinking, kitten. Speak.”

His voice cut through your thoughts like a knife — smooth, sharp, far too pleased with itself.

You set your drink down with a soft clink. “It’s just… we’re not friends. You don’t have to bribe me with drinks or upgraded rooms.”

Sylus didn’t flinch. Just let out a soft, almost amused exhale.

“Not friends? Truly, you wound me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Your voice came quieter now. Sharper. “Whatever it is you want from me… I’d prefer if you just said it. Instead of pulling strings I didn’t you to and pretending it’s generosity.”

That made him pause.

The look on his face didn’t shift — not quite. But the air felt different. Quieter. He regarded you a moment longer than necessary, unreadable.

“You have quite the imagination, kitten,” he said finally. “I offer you a drink, and suddenly I’m the villain of your little story?”

You scoffed. “Aren’t you always?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not dramatic — just… cold.

You downed the last of your drink in one swallow, not caring if the burn lingered.

“...I’m heading back,” you said, rising to your feet. “Don’t bother me on my missions this week.”

You didn’t wait for a reply, already striding toward the door.

Behind you, Sylus watched with something shadowed in his gaze — some flicker of emotion that didn’t make it to his voice.

“Goodnight, sweetie.”

You left the penthouse and returned to your floor in silence. Your room greeted you with dim lights and too much space.

You stripped off your jacket, toed off your boots, and sank into the edge of the bed. For a long moment, you just sat there, head bowed, elbows on your knees.

Sylus was… confusing.

He always was.

You didn’t believe for a second that he just happened to be in Goldwood tonight. Not with the upgraded room. Not with the perfect timing. Not with the way he always seemed to show up right when your guard slipped.

You didn’t like the way he disarmed you — not with weapons, but words. Gestures. That knowing look in his eyes like he’d already mapped out your entire mind and was just waiting for you to catch up.

Lost in thought, your hand drifted to the pendant beneath your shirt again.

You sighed.

You were still thinking about Caleb. Every day. Every breath.

No matter what Sylus did or didn’t want — it didn’t matter. He was just a means to an end. He was a powerful man, your closest shot at getting you the answers you need about Caleb's death.

Sometimes you felt like it was pointless. Getting revenge wouldn’t bring him back, you knew that. 

But you weren’t ready to let go of the boy who held your whole heart long before he ever knew it. 

Even though he’s gone, he’s all you have left.

You lay back on the bed, curling slightly onto your side, the necklace cool against your skin. Your eyes drifted shut before you even realized they were heavy.

Sleep pulled at you softly.

And this time, you didn’t fight it.

a/n: new series is hereeee. updates will prob take longer than soulbound bc i'm still not fully decided where i want to go with this, so i need time to cook. also: i recommend re-reading long awaited revelry to get into the readers mindset here, being a sylus hater feels so foreign to me now😭 thats pookie i almost can't believe he was so mean in the mainstory

lmk if you want to join the taglist!

his bedroom is quiet when he wakes. the steady stream of sunlight illuminated small particles of dust in the air, touching his shoulder as if to wake him. 

to his right, kyros’s bed is already empty. he’d gone down to get some breakfast, no doubt. 

in the humming glow of morning, he wonders if papa is home. last night, he’d felt the familiar shadow creep into his bedroom and plant a kiss on his forehead. along with a whispered farewell and a promise to return by morning.

it is morning, as much as lucian can tell— mornings have suns.

he first travels to the bedrooms. kieran and luke have both left their doors ajar. to lucian’s surprise none of them were there either. 

he checks your book-room, where he knows he can find you writing on your armchair on occasion. but again, you are not found.

emptiness cuts through his feeling heart for a moment. not the kind that saddens, but a realization. an eye opener— that he exists. 

just as he understands everyone else’s states going beyond his sight, he successfully inverses the theory and pieces together that he too is here.

beyond anyone’s perception.

practically invisible.

papa and mama’s bedroom is his first target. rushing bare feet thud thud thud on the carpeted ground as he practically flies there.

the beddings are nearly ripped off the mattress. his fingers dig nail-deep into the creases of the blanket as he hauls himself up the bed. and when he gets there, he jumps.

giggling and squealing like a tickled toddler. he sings about monkeys on the bed, hopping and jumping and falling off and bumping its—

“lucian. stop that.”

every limb turns to ice. he freezes. his ankle catches in a twist of the duvet, and he rolls into the pillows. 

a cool stone sinks to the pit of his stomach. his breath turns measured, yet quick. and the beginning of a tummy ache makes itself known.

his eyes flit to each corner of the room, only to find no one. his mind short circuits. he tries his voice. he speaks over it. 

“hello?” 

“— i told you not to jump on the bed—“ 

“—hello?!” 

“hello, angel.” the voice sighs. strange. it sounds so much like papa… which cannot be. because papa isn’t home yet.

“who’s dis?” 

the voice pauses. “lucian, it’s me. it’s pa—“

“—papa? no! who’a you!”

there is an unmistakable chuckle through the robotic crackle of static. the image of lucian on the screen looking frantically left and right made sylus’s stomach hurt in the best way. he clears his throat, “stop—stop jumping on the—“

“where!” lucian yelps helplessly. heels digging into the mattress, briskly pressing himself to the headboard, hidden amongst the pillows. “come out!”

sylus doesn’t like laughing at his children’s misery. honestly, his heart twinges at the pure innocence of it all. but can you truly blame him when his sons are the funniest creatures on the planet? “angel, i can see you through—“

“‘top! ‘top t’eeing me!” he screams, truly frightened now. then comes out, crawling through the walls of his throat, a desperate screech. “mama! mama!” 

there's a commotion downstairs.

“lucian!” mephisto interrupts. he is laughing, deep and familiar, as he lands on one of the pillows before the boy. his beak opens to resonate the voice box sylus speaks through. “calm down, angel.”

“mephie? talk?” up close, lucian is near tears.

sylus’s fingers ache to reach through the colored monitor to squeeze his cheeks. “it’s papa. i can see you through mephisto, sweetheart.” 

“oh,” lucian mutters, still shaken up. but that makes sense. the back of his sleeve is used to wipe away trail of snot onto his cheek. 

calmer now, he greets, “hi, papa. can see me?”

sylus grins on the other side. “yes, angel.” 

lucian reaches for mephisto, who hops into his embrace and offers his services as a comfort animal. warming his energy core to imitate blood-flow, fluffing his feathers extra for a plushie finish. perfect for the little one’s needs. 

lucian’s breathing steadies. his heartbeat slows. his words cease their wobbling. “home yet?” 

sylus should bring it up— the jumping on the bed. he isn’t allowed to in the first place. naughty, he’d remind him. 

but then again, he did make him cry.

and your reaction to the yelling from your son was turbulent, a bottled storm breaking loose. you'd practically fallen off your chair. had it not been for him stopping you, you’d have ripped the house in half with your terror. in turn, you glare daggers at him. 

so, he lets it go. calling it even. for now, he says, “here.”

and appears at the doorway. pocketing his phone, it takes five long strides to get to lucian and fish him out of the nest, into a tight embrace. little arms squeeze his neck in return and he can’t suppress the amusement he has for his boy, no matter how impulsive he can be.  

“come have breakfast.” he says. his nuzzles are sweet and seeking. lucian grabs his earlobe in return. a grounding gesture, comforting like an attached charm. attached to papa. because now, papa is here.

“did i scare you?” sylus inquires. soft breath ruffling lucian’s bangs like a breeze before a rain shower.

lucian sniffles. needing to be cradled closer. “yes.” then he rubs his eyes. in spite, he murmurs. “naughty papa.”

sylus is struck silent. his shoes are suddenly lined with iron, not leather. and his son weight strains his arms a little more. 

he smiles despite it. even at the edges of fear, lucian still manages to humble him completely. “i’m sorry, angel.” 

stealing his script, the toddler huffs. “don’do it again, okay?” 

sylus raises an inquisitive brow. processing the emotions that run through him at the accusation. guilt. disappointment. quietly, he makes a mental note of limiting the usage of the word to his children.

“I won’t.” his lips press reverent kisses into his son’s silver crown. in the place of what was, he implores, “oh, lucian, my brave boy.”

lucian blinks. 

his stomach untwists. gone is the sunken stone; broken down into powder. his belly feels lighter, his breath freer. he hides his shy smile into the lapels of his father’s clothes.

lucian is a brave boy. 

yes, he likes being brave. 

smthin sweet for sweet lucian. thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹ᰔ