Soulbound

by wintergrl

Summary:

One moment you were in your room, drifting to sleep.
The next, you woke up under a red sky — staring down the barrel of a gun.
The man holding it knows your face.
You know his name.
But neither of you knows the full story. Not yet.

Chapter 1: Long Awaited Revelry

The door to your bedroom creaks open with its usual groan, offering a half-hearted greeting as you shuffle inside. The ache in your limbs feels deeper than bone — the kind that settles after a week that’s wrung you dry.

You kick off your shoes and drag yourself to the bed, the plush soles of your slippers offering a poor defense against exhaustion. You collapse into the mattress like you’re sinking into quicksand, tension leaking out of your muscles one knot at a time.

Deadlines. Canceled plans. Passive-aggressive emails. Conversations that soured halfway through.

You’re too tired to untangle the knots in your head.

All you want now is quiet. Something comforting. Something familiar.

Burrowing under the covers, you let out a long sigh and reach for your phone. The motion is automatic by now. Your thumb hovers over Sylus’s face before you even register what you’re doing.

Love and Deepspace.

It’s stupid, maybe. Pixelated affection from a virtual man. But who cares? It’s not your fault they gave him a lethal face card and velvety smooth voice that anyone would fold for! 

You open the new quality time feature that allows you to sleep next to him, that familiar warmth spilling into your ears.

His breathing.

His low, steady murmurs.

A comfort that melts through the noise still clawing at the corners of your mind.

You shift one last time under the blankets, eyelids drooping, letting the tension slip from your body as your pulse slows.

“Need to hold her… tighter..”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The first thing you notice is the smell.

Not fresh air. Not home. Not anything from your world.

It’s ash. Smoke laced with something green –  wet soil, cut stems, the faint sweetness of dying roses.

Your head throbs in time with your heartbeat. You blink against the harsh red light flooding the rooftop. Skyscrapers like needles claw at the bleeding sky, and everything – everything – feels too real. Too saturated. Like waking up inside someone else’s life.

You crane your head to the side, trying to survey your surroundings. A strong wave of confusion washes over you, you can’t pinpoint anything you recognize. Unfamiliar sirens wail in the distance, almost as a warning.

As you push yourself to your elbows, a harrowing sound stops you in your tracks. ‘Did someone… just cock a gun?’

“Don’t move.”

Your stomach drops.

That voice… that, you recognize. Venom laced in silk, it’s seared into your brain.

Sylus.

Your eyes dart up in the direction of the voice. eyes locking with ruby irises you’ve stared into for hours – eyes that usually bring safety, familiarity. But here, now, they are sharp. Cold. Staring at you like a threat. Piercing your soul. 

Sylus is nonchalant. You know this. He carries an unwavering confidence in himself – rightfully so. Letting a crack in his demeanor show is not an option. Even the smallest fault line can be used against him. Despite this, you still catch the slightest glimmer of confusion in his gaze. He’s staring at you like he’s looking for someone he almost recognizes.

“Sylus?”

Your voice betrays you, weak and hesitant. You hate how small it sounds. You hate how afraid you sound.

“Who are you?” His tone is steady, sharp. But you can feel the warning buried beneath it.

Your brain scrambles for an answer. Nothing makes sense. There’s a gun pointed at your head. How the hell did you find yourself in this situation? If it’s a dream, which it has to be, why would your brain make this man hold you at gunpoint? What subconscious would give you Sylus and then immediately turn him into your executioner?

“I asked you a question. I suggest you answer before my patience runs out.”

That snaps you back to the moment.

“Um… I… my name is… [y/n]”

To your shock, he lowers the gun.

But that doesn’t ease the tension.

He steps closer, his gaze sharpening as he closes the distance. He lowers himself slowly to your level, knees brushing the rooftop. You’re afraid to breathe. His eyes rake over you with practiced precision – but there’s hesitation, too. You can’t hold his gaze. He’s too close. Too real. 

“Look at me.”

You feel like your heart is going to stop. Knocking at your chest like it’s trying to break through bone and escape this moment. You take a shaky breath and obey, lifting your head to meet his eyes.

He frowns.

“You’re not… her”

The words cut deeper than they should.

You flinch inwardly, unsure how to answer. You’ve spent countless nights imagining what it would be like to be in his world – to stand in front of him like this.

It was never supposed to feel like this.

“Your voice… it’s… different.” He’s no longer hiding his confusion, whether that’s intentional remains a mystery.

“Y-yeah, it is, I guess.” Your words tumble out hollow, fear warping every syllable. Your mind’s still racing, trying to figure out what the hell this is. A dream? A breakdown?

“Who sent you?” His voice hardens, like snapping glass. The change is sudden, jarring. You can feel your throat tighten. You’re praying to anything that will listen to just wake up already.

“Nobody! I just… woke up here. I honestly don’t know how I got here.” Tears prick at your eyes, but you fight them back. If he sees weakness, you’re done. He studies you in silence, and it’s the longest silence you’ve ever endured.

“You don’t believe me” Your mouth moves before your mind does, instantly wishing you could swallow the words. Why would he believe you? 

“Forgive me if I have trouble believing your… story. Your likeness to her could have fooled security, allowing you to infiltrate. So tell me, why are you really here?” 

Every word slices like a knife. You can hear the steel in his voice. You can feel it in your chest.

Panic rises like bile in your throat. You need to shift this.

“I’m not lying! Use your eye on me if you don’t believe it! I’m just as clueless as you right now!”

That makes him pause.

The surprise is subtle, but you catch it.

“And what do you think my eye is going to solve right now?” 

His voice is calm. His stance doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens like a scalpel, eyes narrowing just slightly as if trying to carve the truth out of you on sight alone.

He tilts his head. Not mocking. Assessing. Curious.

“The core in your eye, you can see the desires of others right? Can’t you check if I'm lying too?” 

Sylus is caught off guard, a rare and unwelcome sensation. He doesn’t show it, but curiosity sharpens behind his eyes, quiet and calculating.

“You shouldn’t know that.”

Before you can respond, his fingers wrap firmly around your shoulder. His eye glows.

The throbbing in your head increases tenfold. You want to pull away, but your body won’t move. His gaze pierces straight into you, and the world begins to bleed around the edges.

Voices rise in your mind. Distant. Fragmented. 

One cuts through the noise – quiet, but clear.

“He’s yours.”

Chapter 2: Familiar Stranger

Summary:

You wake up in Onychinus. Alive, somehow. Sylus is real, and he has questions. Faced with suspicion and a loaded gun, you do the only thing you can: tell the truth. About the game. About him. About her.

Black fades to grey as your senses begin to trickle back in. You’re no longer lying on concrete, there’s something soft beneath you now. Your limbs are heavy. Your breath shallow. Overhead, an unfamiliar ceiling stares back.

Two things settle like lead in your chest:

This isn’t a dream.

And you didn’t arrive as the girl you’ve been playing as.

You lift your head, slow and aching. Across the room, Sylus sits in a leather chair, methodically polishing the same gun he’d aimed at your skull not long ago.

“Where am I?” Your voice is scratchy but stronger, though anyone could still hear the shake beneath it.

Sylus hardly spares a glance at you as his signature smirk graces his lips.

“Don't you already know?’ There’s a taunt in his tone. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. But it does. The man you’ve held so dear, spent so much time trying to understand, is ready to assume the worst of you.

“What?” You sound dazed, unsure. Your thoughts are still a tangle of disbelief and panic. Processing the situation has you slow on your feet, leaving much to be desired with the responses you’re able to spit out. You’d be embarrassed if you had the capacity.

“You know who I am. You knew about the Aether Core in my eye. So tell me—where do you think you are?”

“We’re in Onychinus’s base, right?”

“Correct.” 

He places the gun down with care, finally looking at you, his eyes hard.

“Would you like to share how you managed to enter now? Surely you didn’t come for a tour of my garden.” There’s a glint of amusement under the steel in his voice. You might’ve laughed, if you weren’t still expecting to be shot.

“I told you already. I don’t know how I got here.” Your voice steadies, even as your stomach turns. You sound annoyed, agitated. You’re scared, the grip on your emotions slipping through your fingers like sand.

Cautiously, you murmur “Didn’t your eye… confirm that?”

“My eye found that you are very familiar with me, yet I know nothing of you. You appear out of nowhere, claiming a name that does not belong to you, bearing a striking resemblance to someone important to me.”

He leans in, quiet and deliberate.

“What exactly am I supposed to make of that?”

Well. He’s got you there. 

What is he supposed to make of that? Sure, you could explain. Tell him you’re so familiar with him because he’s your favorite love interest in a video game. Who would believe that? Every idea feels like a shovel that will only aid in digging your grave deeper.

“I… listen. I could explain why I’m familiar with you, but I need you to take me seriously.” The dread is clawing at your throat like thornes at this point. Even if he does believe you, what then?

“Bold,” he murmurs. “Making requests as an intruder.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just– I know I’m going to sound crazy and you probably won’t believe me, but if you do it might be… tough to digest?” You want to crawl out of your own skin, rambling like this.

His eyes narrow, dark and stormy. His gaze is challenging.

“Try me.”

You take a deep breath. Where do you even start? 

“I know you from… a video game. It’s called Love and Deepspace. There are five love interests including you. I share a name and resemblance to the girl I assume you’re referring to because I created her. She’s the character we play as and experience the story through.” You put on your best PR voice and pray he’s feeling open minded.

Silence. Heavy and absolute.

Sylus doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His expression is impassive, but something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Whatever he was expecting, that was outside the realm of possibilities. Frustrating, for a man like him. 

“I know how insane that sounds. But it’s true. You can use your eye again!” Your words are dripping with desperation.

Sylus stares at you a while longer before finally breaking the silence.

“A video game.” A huff.

“So, I’m supposed to believe I’m just a character? In a game?” The disbelief in his tone sends a pang of guilt through your chest.

“Well not necessarily… I– You seem real to me. The world, it feels real. Maybe in my world, it's just a game? But still real?” You can’t help but scramble to find some explanation that might satisfy him. You can only imagine the spiral or potential consequences of a video game character becoming self aware. Your efforts feel pointless though, you don’t even know what’s going on yourself.

“Right. And what is this world exactly?” 

“Well it’s still earth. The game… it’s futuristic. In my world it’s only 2025, and there’s no… deepspace stuff.”

“I see.”

The urge to explain, to ask if he believes you, bites at your throat. Before you can open your mouth, a sudden buzz cuts through the air.

Sylus pulls his phone from his pocket and you catch a glimpse of the name on his screen.

Kitten.

Fuck.

Panic sets in for the millionth time that night, as you pray her sudden call doesn’t indicate her arrival at the base. What if she sees you? Telling Sylus has already left you unbearably guilty, how the hell are you supposed to tell this poor girl you created her? What kind of mental break would that cause? You do not want to find out.

Sylus' voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

“Sorry sweetie, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy tonight. I can send Mephisto your way however.”

His words are a balm to your nerves, at least you can assume he’s on the same page of keeping her away for now.

His call ends, and he looks at you again.

“Tell me more about your world.”

You do. Earth in 2025. Cities. Screens. No deepspace tunnels, no wanderers, no evols.

He asks a few questions about you and your own life, trying to surmise what kind of person has stumbled into his hands. Eventually, a silence falls between you two.

“Your explanations are… vivid. Your fear seems genuine. Maybe there was a spatial anomaly in the deepspace tunnel.” A pause. “For now, you’ll stay here.”

Sylus appears done with the conversation as he begins to stand.

“Wait! Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Sylus stills.

“What? You don’t want to?”

“I just… I don’t want to run into her. The girl I–” you falter, “—created. I can’t imagine what seeing me would do to her. And… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do here.”

Sylus pauses. Something shifts – not pity, but recognition. Like he hadn’t expected you to care about that.

“I’ll make sure you don’t cross paths.” He reassures. “You’ll lie low. Until we find a way to send you back.”

Your breath catches. “You think that’s possible?”

He turns to glance over his shoulder. “You want to go back, don’t you?”

“Yes! Of course I do.”

That earns a small, dry sound from him, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.

“Then follow me.”

Sylus leads you into an elevator. It ascends smoothly, quietly, until it reaches the highest floor of the base. When the doors part, you step into a world that once existed only in flat images and dialogue boxes.

Now it breathes around you.

Familiar decor lines the halls. Black walls, withered flowers, golden fixtures. You find yourself staring, overwhelmed, watching the world you once knew as pixels come to life with depth and gravity.

The two of you walk in silence until Sylus stops before an ornate black door.

“You’ll stay in here,” he says. “Luke and Kieran will bring you a change of clothes soon. Rest. You look like you need it.”

You would be offended, if your body didn’t feel like it was made of wet cement. The adrenaline crash has hit you full force. Your chest is heavy. Your eyes sting. You don’t even have the energy to argue. You nod wordlessly and step through the door.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Sylus watches you disappear into the guest room.

Only when the door clicks shut does he turn and make his way to his study.

The space is quiet, too quiet. He settles into the chair behind his desk, rests his elbows on the wood, and presses his fingers together.

The reality of it finally settles in.

A video game character?

He thinks back to when he first used his Aether Core on you. You hadn’t seen his reaction, he didn’t let it show, but what he saw…

It unsettled him deeply.

He saw his own life through your eyes. Moments he’d never shared. Moments no one had witnessed. Except her.

But what disturbed him wasn’t just the now.

It was the past.

The datura field. Taurus City. Fleeting images that no stranger should know. And yet… they were seen through you. Remembered by you.

Had all that suffering really been nothing more than someone else’s entertainment? Lines of code? A narrative?

No. It felt too real. All of it. Too vivid. Too painful. If anything, your so-called game must be a window, not fiction. 

But the memories weren’t what shook him the most.

It was the feeling.

There had been warmth. Fluttering affection. The kind that blooms in the chest, soft but undeniable. You’d felt something for him. Something kind. Familiar.

Something that, couldn’t possibly form from behind a screen.

He remembers his reunion with her. The only time he’d let himself feel guilt. He had been cold. Harsh. Desperate for clarity. He swore to never face her that way again.

So why does it feel like he just relived that moment?

You didn’t mention what he was. You didn’t even realize he believed you weren’t a threat before you’d woken up. Your scrambled explanations had almost… amused him.

No, not amused. Endeared.

There’s a quiet fire in you. Determined. Honest in your fear, but unflinching. He doesn’t know what you are, or how you got here – but he knows what you’re not.

You’re not a threat.

He leans back in his chair and exhales slowly, eyes narrowing as he reaches for his datapad. If the deepspace tunnel is responsible, there may be traces of disruption in the last recorded cycle.

He begins his search. But a thought lingers.

Why did she end up here… with me?

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that echoes in your chest. You lean against it for a second, taking in the silence. The room is dimly lit, spare but elegant. The kind of decor you’ve only ever seen in screenshots, background renders, where the world felt more like a set than a space.

But this room is tangible.

You move slowly, heart still pounding as you cross the floor. There’s a plush armchair near the wall, a small vanity, and a bed you desperately want to collapse into. Instead, you stand still. Your thoughts won’t let you rest.

The conversation replays in your mind. His tone. The way he looked at you. That call from her. Her name in his phone. Kitten. You, once upon a time.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. You need to think. You need to calm down.

You need a shower.

The attached bathroom is minimal and sleek, like something out of a luxury hotel. The kind of detail you never noticed during gameplay because the story didn’t linger here. You step in and twist the faucet on, steam rising like mist as the water heats. It fogs the mirror in front of you almost immediately.

And maybe that’s why you don’t notice it at first.

You’re already stripping off your clothes, your mind a blur of disbelief and denial, when you glance up.

Then freeze.

The mirror’s fog clears in a slow sweep. Just enough to show your face.

And it’s you.

But not you, exactly.

There’s no screen-glow softening the edges. No model slider tweaking jawlines and eye shapes. You’re not her. Not the MC you customized, but you’re close. Too close. A high-resolution, tangible version of what you were never quite able to recreate.

Same eyes. Different slant. Same hair color. Styled how you like. Same mouth. But fuller, real.

It’s your face. But it’s hers too. And it makes your blood run cold.

Your hands grip the sink, knuckles white.

If you look like this to you, how do you look to them?

The thought hits hard – Rafayel. Zayne. Xavier. Caleb.

If they saw you...

No. No, no, no.

You can’t let that happen.

A sick wave of guilt rolls through your gut. She doesn’t know about you. She can’t. And the others? What would they think? Would they mistake you for her? Would they sense something was off? Or worse, would they believe something isn’t?

You stare into the mirror, water still running behind you. This was supposed to be a fantasy. A story. You were never meant to be in it.

You swallow hard and pull away from the glass, blinking quickly to push the sting behind your eyes back down.

This is temporary. It has to be temporary.

Sylus said he’d find a way to send you back. You’ll lie low, keep your head down, and avoid the others. That’s the best way to protect her. To protect you.

You’re not here to rewrite a story.

You’re just passing through.

Right?

Notes:

cross posting from tumbr. i apologize for any errors in formatting, just lmk in the comments pls!

Chapter 3: Echoes

Summary:

Time drips slow in the N109 Zone. As you settle into life inside Onychinus’s base, isolation begins to wear you thin. Sylus remains distant but watchful, and when your paths cross again, truths start to unravel. Memories don’t match. Training begins. And in the shadows of a corrupted city, something stirs...

You wake slowly.

No buzzing alarm. No city sounds outside your window. No phone light blinking with texts you don’t want to answer.

Just silence. Deep and unbroken.

Your body registers warmth before your mind fully stirs. Expensive sheets. Egyptian cotton, maybe. The bed underneath you is impossibly soft, and for a moment you forget where you are.

Then it all comes rushing back.

You sit up too fast, a wave of dizziness catching you off guard. The guest room Sylus gave you is dark, but not cold. Midnight velvet walls and dim golden fixtures glow softly, casting amber light across the room. A decanter sits untouched on a low table beside you. The carpet feels like crushed velvet under your feet. The place is silent, decadent.

You pad quietly across the floor, trying to orient yourself.

No sun. No sky. Just N109’s endless darkness pressing in through floor to ceiling windows.

Right. I’m still here.

Still inside the game.

You crack the door open and step into the hallway. The opulence continues outside, a long corridor lit with warm sconces and art that feels alive. You can’t help but study a portrait in passing, a striking oil piece of a crow with too many eyes. You don’t recognize it from any game asset.

Was this always here?

Your feet lead you to an open space at the far end of the floor. A kitchen, or something like it. Sleek black marble counters, gold fixtures, crystal glasses that look like they belong behind museum glass.

And then there’s him.

Sylus.

Leaning casually against the island, arms crossed, dressed in black like the hour. His silver hair is swept back loosely, and in the dim underlighting of the kitchen, the crimson of his eyes glows faintly as he watches you approach.

“Sleep well?” he asks, voice dry.

You freeze for a second, then nod. “Yeah. Alright, I guess.”

“I wanted to speak with you. Come here.” His tone is easy, but there’s always something careful about him. Like every word’s been weighed before it leaves his mouth.

You step forward. Your heart thuds. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you now. A stray? A threat? Something between?

He gestures toward one of the tall stools at the island and waits for you to sit before continuing.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. The ‘game.’ The world.” His gaze sharpens. “I’d like you to explain what that actually entails.”

You nod, folding your hands. “Right.”

You swallow, trying to untangle your thoughts. “So… it’s like a visual novel with some animation. But it’s also gacha-based. We collect Memories. Like… interactive cards with story. And the main story plays out in chapters.”

“And this ‘main story,’” he says slowly, “involves… who?”

You hesitate, not out of secrecy, but out of awkwardness. “You play as the character you create, and you follow her story. You’re also introduced to the love interests, and learn about your connection to them.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“She’s connected to all of them, in different ways. You each have your own arc, your own backstory, and your own romantic plotline. You don’t really pick anyone in the main story.”

Sylus’s brow raises at that. “So you… entertain five men at once?”

You flush. “Not exactly…” You pause. “The main story kind of introduces your characters while unraveling the truth behind her existence. There’s moments where you’re… affectionate, but I wouldn’t say it’s all romantic. The romance is moreso in the Memories.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable behind his gaze.

“And what about these memories?” he asks.

“So, that’s the gacha aspect. There’s always events where we can pull for cards, sometimes for just one guy or all five. Each card is tied to one of you. You, Rafayel, Zayne, Caleb, Xavier.” you explain.

“They all have different concepts, like there’s the one where you get turned into her cat butler.” You mention the strangest card you can think of, hoping to lighten the mood.

Sylus blinks. “That never happened.”

You pause. “Oh. Well, I don’t have that card, maybe thats why…”

“There’s one where you hide in a closet with her. Do you remember that?”

“...I don’t. None of what you’re describing has happened between us.”

You sit back, thoughtful.

“Maybe the memories haven’t happened yet? Just the main story.”

“Seems that way.”

It leaves an odd feeling in your chest. Have you glimpsed the future? Has your arrival disrupted the story? A new wave of guilt you can’t exactly place floods your system.

You glance up to find Sylus watching you carefully. His expression is unreadable, but he’s quiet. Thinking. Judging the pieces you’ve given him.

“I see,” he says at last. “Your information is… valuable.”

You exhale. “You’re taking all this better than I thought you would.”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” he murmurs. Then adds, more lightly, “I’ve been stranger things.”

You laugh, soft and startled, and to your surprise, it nearly draws a real smile from him. Not just the half-smirks he wears like armor, but something close to genuine.

“About that…” you start, shifting a little closer in tone. “There’s also the myths. They show past or future versions of you. All of you have them.”

Sylus hums, low in his throat. Thoughtful. “So that’s how you know what I am.”

“You knew?”

“I saw it, with my eye.”

Your mind flashes back to the rooftop. The first time you saw that flicker of red.

“Oh. Right.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. His gaze drops for a moment, and when he looks back at you, there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the usual restraint. Melancholy, maybe. Something older than the man standing in front of you.

“You’re not… scared of me,” he says. It isn’t a question. Just a quiet observation.

“No.” You meet his gaze, steady. “I don’t see a reason to be.”

Sylus doesn’t answer. But his eyes linger on you, and the corners of his mouth tug upward. Not quite a smile, but something near its shadow.

The moment passes. The kitchen lights buzz faintly above you. Somewhere deep in the base, Mephisto lets out a faint metallic caw.

You’re still not sure where you are. Or why. But at least now you know this: The memories you know don’t exist here.

You’re inside the main story.

You think.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Time in the N109 Zone doesn’t pass. It drips.

There’s no sun to track across the sky, no birdsong or wind to hint at morning or night. The base is always dim, lit by candlelight and the low ambient hum of violet screens, but never bright.

At first, you try to keep your Earth schedule. Wake up when you assume it’s day. Go to sleep before you feel delirious. But that quickly unravels. Days blend together. Time starts to lose meaning, like the faint buzz of a lamp you inevitably tune out.

Some mornings, or nights, you’re not sure, you find yourself staring out of the window in your room, hoping for even a crack of natural light. But there’s only the glow of holograms and the faraway flicker of surveillance drones buzzing over the skyline.

You miss light. You miss time. You miss people.

The twins, Luke and Kieran, are the closest thing you’ve had to consistent company.

They’re kind, in their own strange way. Luke teaches you how to recalibrate your datapad and once gives you an old Onychinus bomber jacket that nearly drowns you. Kieran likes to hover while you read in the lounge, pretending not to care about the plot of whatever book you’ve pulled from the base archives, only to throw out offhand critiques an hour later.

“Why are you even reading this? That scientist character’s gonna die.” “What?! No he’s not!" “Too moral. He’s toast.”

They make it easier. You laugh more around them than you expected to. Still, you know they’re busy. You try not to be a burden.

Sylus, on the other hand…

You’ve seen him more than you expected to, but only in passing. Sometimes at odd hours when he emerges from meetings or missions, silent and sharp-eyed. He’ll pause near you, offer a nod or a comment. Once, he handed you a slice of black sesame cake from an auction he returned from. You didn’t even ask.

But he hasn’t mentioned progress. Not on the tunnel. Not on your return. Not on anything.

You tell yourself it hasn’t been that long. That you just need to be patient. That this place is not your home. Not yet, not ever – and he knows that.

But some nights, lying in that velvet-wrapped room with the city’s constant mechanical hum clawing at your ears, you wonder if anyone is still looking for you back in your world. Or if they ever even noticed you were gone.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You don’t plan to go to the rooftop. Not really. But after another sleepless stretch of not-quite-day, the walls feel like they’re closing in. So you wander.

The elevator doors open with a soft hiss, revealing the familiar scent of wilted daturas and something more ancient; crushed leaves, wet iron, faint ash. The rooftop garden is just as it was the night you arrived: eerie, surreal, beautiful in a way that doesn’t comfort so much as haunt.

You’re halfway across the gravel path when you see him.

Sylus.

Leaning on the iron railing that rings the rooftop’s edge, looking out over the glittering ruin of the N109 Zone, a pack of cigarettes by his side. His profile is sharp against the void, silver hair tousled by wind, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight with thought. He doesn’t turn when you approach.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he says quietly.

“I don’t even know when ‘by now’ is anymore.”

That earns a faint huff. “Fair.”

You hesitate at first, but after a second, he gestures for you to join him. You step up beside him, resting your arms on the railing. The wind is cold. You can’t see the stars.

“I owe you an apology,” he says after a moment.

You blink. “For what?”

“I haven’t found anything. No data spike. No tunnel breach. No quantum fault signatures. Nothing.” His voice is low, unreadable, but sincere. “You’ve been here for weeks. And I’ve offered you nothing but theories.”

You glance sideways at him. His eyes stay fixed on the skyline, but his fingers tap absently against the iron rail.

“I wasn’t expecting this to be easy,” you say softly.

“No. But I think you were expecting not to be… forgotten.”

That stings. Not because it’s cruel, but because it’s close to true.

You exhale, your breath curling into the cold.

“I’ve never felt so… out of place.” Your voice is quieter now. “Like I’m just wandering in someone else’s life. Watching people I thought I knew treat me like a stranger. Trying to stay out of the way so I don’t ruin anything.”

Sylus finally turns to look at you. His gaze is steady. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

“I feel like I’m one step away from it. Like if the others see me… if she sees me–”

“They won’t,” he says firmly.

You nod, grateful, but something still twists in your chest.

“I just feel so… disconnected,” you admit. “This base is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like I live here. The twins have been kind, but they’re not really my friends. And you…” You falter. You weren’t planning to say that part.

Sylus raises an eyebrow.

“…Well. It’s…strange.” you say with a slight smile.

There’s a beat of silence. Wind stirs the flowers beside you. Sylus’s voice is softer when he replies.

“You’re not a threat,” he says. “You’re not a burden. And whatever brought you here… it didn’t choose randomly.”

You meet his gaze. Red, steady, honest. And for a moment, something eases.

“…Thanks,” you murmur.

He shrugs lightly, tossing his crooked grin your way.

You smile. And that’s when it happens.

A flicker. A shadow behind his eyes.

He watches you, just for a second longer than needed – and something unplaceable crosses his expression. Familiarity.

Not memory. Not recognition. Just a flash of something half-remembered.

But it’s gone before it fully lands, and Sylus turns back toward the horizon.

“Get some rest,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”

You glance over. “For what?”

A faint smirk curls at his lips. “Training.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Tomorrow, we’ll spar.”

And just like that, he steps away, disappearing down the stairs with his usual liquid grace.

You remain a moment longer in the dark, the night heavy on your shoulders. The rooftop garden hums faintly behind you.

For the first time in days, something loosens in your chest.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next day in the base passes like the rest. Too slow, too quiet, too dim to tell what time it actually is. You pace your room more than once, flip through channels with static, and stare at Mephisto for a full five minutes before he caws and flies off, deeply unimpressed.

So when there’s a knock at your door, you practically jump.

Sylus stands on the other side, backlit by the hallway’s low lighting. He’s shed his blazer, rolled up sleeves exposing the thick leather wraps on his forearms. You clock the usual glint in his eye, half amusement, half unreadable calculation.

“I’m heading to the training deck,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Unless you plan to keep biting your nails to bone.”

Your gaze falters in embarrassment. “You noticed that?”

He gives you a pointed once-over. “I notice everything.”

You narrow your eyes, but follow him.

The space is massive. Metal-lined walls, neon strips running the length of the ceiling, a rubber sparring floor in the center. A few training dummies rest against the wall, all in varying stages of having been violently dismembered.

Sylus tosses you a towel and a bottle of water. You catch them with a small fumble, already suspicious.

“I’ve never like… seriously sparred before, just so you know.” you say, eyeing the gear in the corner like it might bite.

“I figured,” he says, stretching his shoulders back. “Thought I’d see what kind of instincts you do have.”

“I mean, my reaction time is pretty good in games, at least. If that counts.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

The first round, you barely last thirty seconds. He steps in, fast and fluid, and you’re stumbling before you can process the way his weight shifts.

But by the second round, something strange happens.

Your body adjusts. Faster than it should.

You start to read his movements. Not clearly, not perfectly, but like your limbs know something your brain hasn’t caught up to. You block a jab before you even register he’s thrown it.

Sylus pauses, expression flickering briefly. Not surprise. Something quieter. Recognition.

You grin, chest rising with uneven breath. “That one almost landed.”

He circles you slowly. “You’ve done this before.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t lying! Don’t act like my fumbling is convincing!”

There’s something like amusement in his eyes.

Another move, a lunge, and you pivot just in time to avoid it. You’re still breathing hard, still clumsy in places, but your body reacts with more fluidity than it should.

You finish a final round, hands on your knees, catching your breath.

“You learn fast,” Sylus says, reaching for a towel.

You huff. “You went easy on me.”

He throws the towel at your face.

After a short break, he leads you down the hall to a smaller, locked area. Inside is a clean, echoing chamber lined with targets and tech you don’t dare touch without guidance.

“Ever fired a gun?” Sylus asks, already knowing the answer.

You give him a look. “Just plastic ones at an arcade.”

He hands you a sidearm.

“Cool,” you say, holding it like it might be cursed. “I feel like I’ll shoot myself if I breathe wrong…”

“I can tell you’ve never held one.” he says dryly.

You point the barrel vaguely downrange. “Oh really? It’s that obvious?” You shoot him a little glare.

He snorts. An actual sound of amusement, low and sharp. “Keep your stance square. Don’t lock your elbows. And please, don’t close your eyes.”

“No promises.”

You exhale, steady your hands, and fire.

The recoil jerks your arms back, but the bullet hits just shy of the target’s center.

You blink. Then smile.

Sylus’s brow lifts slightly, but he says nothing.

The last bullet echoes through the range before falling into silence. The target downrange is peppered with shots, most clustered near center mass. You lower the pistol and glance back, breath slightly heavy, face flushed with pride.

Sylus stands a few feet behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess my time at the arcade was well spent?”

You try to lean into sarcasm. Internally, you have no idea what’s possessed you today.

He says nothing at first. Just watches. His eyes flick to your stance, the gun, the steady rise and fall of your chest.

“You shouldn’t be that good,” he says flatly.

You huff. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m not insulting you.” His eyes narrow, voice calm. “I’ve taught Onychinus recruits who’ve trained for months and didn’t learn that fast. Same with combat. You don’t just adapt to recoil like that. Or pick up movement timing mid-spar.”

You pause, the breath catching slightly in your throat. “I guess… I’ve always been a quick learner?”

His jaw tightens faintly. Not from frustration, more like discomfort with the unknown.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe there’s more going on.”

You look at him for a moment, but don’t press it. The weight of his stare makes your skin itch.

Then he shifts, tone turning businesslike.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you’re coming with me on a hunt.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Sorry– what?”

“Wanderer. Controlled environment. I’ll pick the location.” He uncrosses his arms and starts walking. “Consider it… practical education.”

“Wait, hold on–”

He stops and turns halfway back. “If you're going to survive here, you need to learn how to handle yourself when things bite back.”

He says it with a cool finality that tells you it’s not up for debate. But when you catch the faint twitch of a smirk, you can’t help but smile.

“Just because I’m a good shot doesn’t mean I’m ready to fight some monster!” You half-laugh. Half amusement, half disbelief.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I won’t let anything happen. It’s better you learn soon… We aren’t sure how long you’ll be here.”

Your mood drops at the reminder. He’s right, and you know it. Being in this world means you’ll have to face your new reality eventually. You feel grateful, all things considered.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The city feels different outside the base. You're deeper in the Zone now. Narrow alleys, flickering neon, haze rising from cracked vents in the ground. The buildings here lean like tired giants, stitched together with steel scaffolding and electric cable.

You shiver in the still air.

Sylus walks beside you in silence, sharp eyes scanning the perimeter. A comms device blinks faintly at his hip.

“You’re quiet,” he notes.

“Just preparing to get mauled.”

“You won’t,” he says, almost casually. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You flash him a look. “Mm… comforting.”

His eyes glint.

A low distortion hums through the street, like the air’s gone out of tune. You turn toward the alley up ahead, your body tensing instinctively.

Then you see it.

The Wanderer.

Spindly. Wrong. Its joints move like they were screwed in backward, eyes glowing faint and unnatural.

You step back. Sylus doesn’t.

His hand lifts, and without warning – snap –  a red glow unfurls from beneath his skin.

From his hand, crimson tendrils of energy lash outward like coiled lightning. One cracks through the air, wrapping around the wanderer, dragging it closer.

In a blink Sylus disappears from your sight. You gasp as he reappears in a flash just beside the creature, tendrils cracking through the air like whips.

It screeches and swipes, but he’s faster.

“Stay sharp,” he shouts. “It’s coming your way!”

You spin just in time to duck the blow aimed for your head. You roll to the side, grip tightening on your gun, and fire a shot. It clips the creature’s leg. It stumbles, just enough for Sylus to grab it with a glowing red tether and yank it off its feet.

“Nice shot,” he mutters.

“I was aiming for the head.” You breathe out.

It charges again, and this time, you move together. You don’t know how, but your body syncs to his rhythm like a second nature. He pulls, you duck. He blinks behind it, you land a shot to its protocore shield.

No talking. No planning.

Just instinct. Coordination. Like choreography you've never rehearsed, but still know by heart.

The last hit lands as Sylus’s tendrils spear through the creature’s core. A final shriek echoes, and it collapses in a smolder of static and ash.

Silence settles.

You’re breathing hard, eyes wide.

“That was… insane,” you mutter, adrenaline pounding in your ears.

Sylus turns to look at you. Sweat on his brow, but expression calm.

“You moved like you’ve done this before.”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “I haven’t.”

Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Then Sylus says, quieter: “That’s what worries me.”

The sky in the N109 Zone never changes. Still dark. Always dark.

But something about the air tonight feels different. Sharper, almost.

Sylus stands beside the remains of the downed Wanderer, watching its corrupted body dissolve into dust and flickering static. The faint red glow of his Evol flickers along his fingertips, then fades, absorbed back beneath his skin like smoke returning to fire.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Behind him, he can hear your footsteps crunching glass and gravel, your breath still a little uneven.

You shouldn’t have moved like that.

You shouldn't have been able to.

He replays it in his head, the way you synced with him mid-fight, no hesitation, no second-guessing. A split-second dance of timing, spacing, instinct. That’s not something people just learn, not without years. And definitely not the first time they face something that wants them dead.

But you kept pace. Matched his rhythm like you’d always known it.

Like muscle memory.

His jaw tightens as he flicks a glance over his shoulder at you. You’re wiping sweat from your brow, flexing your fingers. Your expression is still bright. Exhilarated, surprised, young.

You looked like you belonged out there.

And that unsettles him more than it should.

He turns back to the ashes at his feet.

It’s not just your skill. It’s the way you responded to his Evol without flinching. Without fear. People don’t look at those tendrils and stay calm, especially not if they know what he is.

You did.

And in the middle of the fight – your smile. Just a flicker, when he tossed you a dry joke between swings. But that expression…

He closes his eyes for a second.

That smile…

There it is again. That pulse in his skull. A flicker of something from a long time ago. Like a thread yanked loose in the fabric of memory. He can’t place it, not yet, but the echo lingers.

A face.

A voice.

He shakes his head once, sharply, like it might scatter the thought.

“Something wrong?” you call, stepping up beside him.

He doesn’t answer right away. His expression slips back into the cool confidence he always wears.

“Just thinking,” he replies simply.

“Dangerous habit,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh.

You look at him, sincerity in your eyes.

“Thank you… for teaching me how to survive while I’m here.”

“Don’t mention it.” His voice is soft. “I know being here is… strange. I hope I can make it easier for you.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but you quickly stifle the feeling.

“I appreciate it.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ride back to the base is quiet.

Not tense, just calm. The silence hums between you and Sylus. Your body still buzzes from the fight, your heart beating out a steady rhythm, the adrenaline lingering like static in your veins.

You lean back against your seat, trying to make sense of what just happened. It had been your first time facing a Wanderer; and yet, something in your body had known exactly how to move. How to breathe. How to fight.

Maybe it’s muscle memory from all the hours spent playing the game? Somehow, your brain managed to transfer its knowledge to your limbs?

The thought feels flimsy, but it’s the only thread of logic you have. Everything else, the world, the people, even your own reflection, is still too much to process. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle while blindfolded.

Your arrival back at the base is welcomed by Luke and Kieran, running up to you to examine for any scratches or bruises.

“You owe me twenty bucks Luke!”

“Come on!” Luke groans. “Hey! Miss not-hunter! Did boss save you? Or did you take the thing out yourself?”

You can’t help but laugh. Their energy is chaotic in the best way, and after the rush of danger, it’s a relief.

“I landed some shots, I swear! I probably would’ve died without the boss-man though.” You giggle, shooting Sylus a quick glance over your shoulder.

Kieran crosses his arms smugly. “I told you she’d survive.”

You turn to Luke, mock offense written all over your face. “You bet twenty bucks on my life!?”

He raises his hands like a man facing down a firing squad. “Hey! I’m a gambling addict! Don’t take me seriously! Stop! What are you–”

You swat his arm and take off running, chasing him down the corridor.

Laughter fades as your footsteps echo down the hallway. Sylus watches the scene in silence, the corners of his mouth tugging, not quite a smile, but close.

“She’s adapting,” Kieran says quietly beside him. “Better than I expected.”

Sylus doesn’t look at him. “She is.”

A beat of silence passes.

“She didn’t hesitate today,” Sylus says. “Some of the rookies freeze the first time they see a Wanderer. She didn’t.”

Sylus’s gaze lingers on the corridor where you disappeared, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes. 

Kieran looks at him.

“Interesting.”

Chapter 4: Unspoken

Summary:

An invitation. A new role. A gala that doesn’t go as planned. As the lines start to blur between you and Sylus, you find yourself drifting. Away from what you thought you had under control, and toward something comforting. A sea breeze brings a new (old) face. Cracks in a carefully built foundation start to form.

The knock on your door is soft, deliberate – just enough to pull you from your thoughts.

You open it to find Sylus standing there, a quiet urgency in his gaze.

“Come with me,” he says, voice low and direct.

You follow him through the dim corridors of the base, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. He leads you to his study, a room lined with dark wood shelves, scattered gadgets humming faintly beneath the warm glow of a desk lamp.

He closes the door behind you, gesturing toward the leather chair across from his desk.

You sit. He remains standing, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.

“You’ve been here long enough to know this base isn’t a place for idling,” he says. You nod slowly, unsure where he’s headed.

“I want to give you something to do.”

You blink. “I’m not sure I’m exactly qualified…”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We work well together. That fight with the Wanderer-”

“Was luck,” you interject, too quickly.

“No,” he says simply. “You reacted faster than I expected.”

You lower your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I’m offering something more than training,” Sylus continues. “You’d accompany me on business.”

You pause. “Business? Like Onychinus business?”

“For now,” he replies. “I know being stuck here isn’t what you asked for. But sitting around waiting for something to change must be… taxing.”

You stay quiet, heart beating faster.

“No pressure,” he adds. “But I thought I’d give you the choice.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t that make me a target? I thought the idea was to lay low?”

“We’ll keep things contained,” Sylus says. “Onychinus has its methods. You won’t be exposed more than you already are. I’ll make sure of it.”

That doesn’t fully settle your nerves, but it does something.

He steps forward, his voice quieter now.

“It’s also smart to keep you close.”

Your eyes meet his. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says. “But your appearance here still doesn’t make sense. And if someone is targeting you, it’s better we control the circumstances.”

You chew on that, the weight of it settling in your chest. You’re not entirely sure you believe it’s about protection.

But you nod. “Okay. That makes sense.”

A subtle exhale leaves him. “Good.”

You don’t say it, but part of you is relieved. You’re tired of watching the world from the sidelines.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The days blur together after that conversation. Long hours of training, missions in simulation rooms, instructions barked through comms, drills that leave your muscles aching. It’s a welcome kind of exhaustion. The kind that leaves no room for overthinking.

He gives you a comms device. Then a phone.

Your contact list is small: Sylus, Luke, Kieran. The twins send you memes you don’t fully understand, but you laugh anyway. Sylus messages you sporadically; updates on his location, what the chef’s making for dinner, the occasional reminder not to skip meals.

Something in your chest begins to settle. You’re not home. But you’re no longer floating.

One evening, you curl up on the lounge’s chaise with a book, half-lost in a chapter, when Sylus steps in.

“There’s a negotiation happening soon,” he says. “An arms deal. I want you to come.”

You lower your book. “Should I expect trouble?”

He tilts his head. “You should always expect trouble here. But it should go smoothly. This one’s mostly for you to observe.”

You nod. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“A seamstress will come by tomorrow. It’ll be held in a hotel, under the guise of a formal gala. You’ll need to look the part.”

He leaves before you can ask more. But your pulse skips anyway.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The night arrives faster than expected.

You sit at your vanity, adjusting your earrings, your reflection split between nervous anticipation and quiet resolve. The dress, delivered just hours ago, is almost too beautiful. Smoky silk drapes around your form, dark and iridescent – not black, not gray, but something ghostlike in between. A ripple of shadow made real.

You slip on your heels and step into the hallway, nerves humming under your skin.

Sylus waits for you in the common room, leaning against the wall with the quiet poise of someone who doesn’t need to say a word to command a room. His suit is sharp, gray with subtle pinstripes and a burgundy tie that draws your eye to his collarbone before you force yourself to look away.

He glances up – and lingers.

A second passes. Then another.

“You’ll blend in well,” he says, and there’s something clipped in his voice, something he doesn’t elaborate on.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Good.”

He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker in his expression. Approval? Restraint?

Whatever it is, you feel the weight of it as you walk beside him toward the elevator, toward the unknown.

Something flutters in your chest. You clip its wings before it fully takes off.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The hotel hosting the gala is nestled deep within a pocket of Linkon you hadn’t seen before. Opulent, polished, humming with old money and quiet danger. As you and Sylus step out of the sleek, nondescript car, your heels click softly against the marble entryway. You're immediately hit by the chilled air of the lobby, scented with faint citrus and something more artificial. Clean, but too clean. Like a cover-up.

Sylus offers his arm without a word.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to take it, but because you’re hyperaware of the hundreds of tiny eyes in this place. Both mechanical and human.

Still, you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow. His suit is warm against your skin, and despite your practiced posture, your heartbeat betrays you with its speed.

He glances at you, brief and unreadable. His voice is low enough to be mistaken for nothing but a murmur.

“Relax. Tension draws attention.”

You press your lips together and nod once. You match his stride, walking through the lobby’s grand doors into a ballroom drenched in gold lighting and soft jazz. Crystal chandeliers hang low, glittering like cages. The room is full – men and women in extravagant attire, murmuring behind champagne glasses and false smiles.

You can’t tell who’s rich and who’s dangerous. Maybe they’re all both.

The walk from the door to the reserved meeting room feels longer than it should. You keep your head high. Eyes soft. Every movement deliberate, like Sylus taught you.

At the edge of the room, Sylus finally steers you toward a more private area, where the music fades and the air turns heavier.

You enter a smaller, curtained chamber just past the main hall. A private suite. Plush seating. A long, polished table. The kind of place where deals are signed. Or where people go missing.

The man waiting already reeks of money and malice. His suit fits too well. His smile is too tight.

Sylus releases your arm and steps forward with casual confidence. You follow, quieter, slipping into the role he carved out for you.

“Mr. S,” the man drawls. “Fashionably late.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

The man chuckles and gestures for you both to sit. You take the seat just beside Sylus, letting him take the lead.

A briefcase is set on the table. Two men in black flank the dealer like shadows.

“You have the Protocore?” Sylus asks, his tone crisp but unbothered.

The man nods toward his assistant, who places a sleek, rectangular case on the table and unlatches it. Inside, a glowing crystal – humming faintly, lit with a cold blue pulse.

It looks right.

But something about the way the man’s fingers tap on the briefcase makes your stomach knot.

Sylus doesn’t blink. “You tested it?”

“Of course,” the man says smoothly. “You’re welcome to run diagnostics yourself, but let’s not pretend we’re strangers to one another. This is my best piece.”

“Funny,” Sylus says, leaning back. “I’ve heard you say that before. The last one shattered in a week.”

The tension tightens like a rope around your chest.

You don’t move. You don't speak. You focus on your breathing. Count the seconds between Sylus’s words. Watch the guards for any twitch of impatience.

The man’s smile thins. “And yet you came back.”

“Maybe I’m feeling generous,” Sylus replies. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you'd try screwing me over a second time.”

A flicker of something cold flashes in the dealer’s eyes.

The room stills.

Then–he laughs. Loud, unconvincing.

“Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest, Sylus. You brought the money?”

Sylus glances at you.

You slide the compact tablet from your clutch. Encrypted, activated with his biometric code. He brushes his thumb across it and slides it across the table.

“Transfer will initiate when I confirm it’s real.”

The dealer gestures again. One of the guards steps forward with a device and starts running a scan on the Protocore. Blue lights flicker across the surface. Sylus watches with a hawk’s patience.

You feel it before you hear it – the subtle click of a safety being released.

Your eyes dart. One of the guards shifts, hand on his belt. Sylus doesn’t move, but his voice drops.

“Don’t,” he warns.

But it’s too late.

The room explodes into motion.

The first shot doesn’t come from Sylus.

It comes from the man on the right, the one who’d been pretending to check the Protocore.

You duck instinctively as the guard draws, the gun leaving its holster in one smooth, practiced motion. Sylus is already moving.

In the blur of motion, he kicks the chair back and slams the table up as a makeshift barrier, knocking the briefcase clean to the floor. The gunfire rips through the air just above your head. You cover your ears, heart pounding.

“Down!” Sylus orders, dragging you behind the heavy sideboard.

You barely register it as the second guard lunges forward – only for Sylus to meet him with a clean, brutal elbow to the throat. The man crumples against the wall.

You scramble to steady your breathing, hands flying to the holster at your thigh.

Sylus fires once, sharp, clean, and one of the attackers drops.

But more are coming.

The dealer himself is gone. Vanished behind the curtains, like a magician at the end of a failed trick.

“Of course he ran,” Sylus mutters.

You press your back to the wall, eyes wide, trying to orient yourself. “How many more?”

“Hard to say. Four. Maybe six.” He checks the clip. “More if they were smart enough to set up backup.”

Your hand shakes slightly as you pull your gun. He notices, of course he does, but doesn’t comment.

Instead, he reaches into his coat and passes you an extra clip.

“Eyes open,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the far door. “We’ll push through together.”

You nod. “Got it.”

The next few minutes feel like a blur.

You move with Sylus through the chaos. You cover each other in short bursts. He draws fire; you return it. He barks sharp commands. You follow without hesitation. Somewhere in the mess, you clip one of the attackers in the shoulder – a clean shot. Your ears are ringing, adrenaline surging.

But then it happens.

One of the guards, you hadn’t seen him, lunges from the side. You don’t have time to aim.

His elbow slams into your ribs, and you crumple back, gasping as the wind is knocked out of you. Your shoulder hits the wall hard, pain flaring sharp.

The gun slips from your hand and skitters across the floor.

A boot rises, aiming for your side.

And then he’s gone.

Sylus barrels into him with a ferocity you haven’t seen before. No words, no quips. Just a sharp, punishing blow to the jaw followed by a twist of the wrist that sends the guard crashing to the ground, limp.

He’s kneeling beside you in the next breath.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Where are you hit?”

You shake your head, trying to catch your breath. “I’m fine. Just winded.”

His eyes sweep over you anyway, quick and clinical, hands hovering like he isn’t sure where to touch.

“Your side–”

“Just bruised. I’ll live.” You force a tight smile. “Still breathing.”

His jaw tenses.

For a second, just a second, he looks furious.

Not at you.

At himself.

You shift, trying to sit up, but Sylus stops you with a hand against your shoulder. His voice drops.

“You don’t move until I say. Got it?”

There’s something in his expression that halts you. Something unguarded. Almost too raw.

You nod.

He exhales slowly, then stands and retrieves your gun, returning it to your hand without a word. When you rise this time, he doesn’t stop you, but he keeps close. Closer than before.

The fight is almost over. Backup from Onychinus is sweeping in through the back hall. You move with them, clearing the final rooms. The dealer, of course, is gone. So is the Protocore.

But you’re both alive.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The soft click of the study door echoes louder than it should.

You slip inside first, the weight of the evening still clinging to your shoulders. Sylus follows behind, closing the door with a quiet thud before flicking the lock. He doesn't say anything at first–just walks past you to the desk and begins peeling off his blazer, movements methodical.

You hover near the window, arms crossed, trying to slow the rapid beat of your heart.

"You're hurt," Sylus says without looking at you. His voice is steady again, not like in the chaos of the fight, but there’s a quiet strain underneath. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Your response is automatic. Too quick.

He glances at you, unconvinced. “You were grazed.”

You lower yourself into the armchair by the fireplace. Your hands rest on your lap, fingers laced tightly. “It barely nicked me. I didn’t even notice until it was over.”

Sylus moves to a cabinet and pulls out a slim medical kit. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “You don’t notice until it’s too late.”

You don’t reply. You just watch him as he kneels in front of you, placing the kit beside your chair. He doesn’t ask for permission, just reaches out and takes your arm gently. You flinch, not from pain, but from how careful his touch is.

It startles you more than the fight did.

He’s silent while he cleans the wound. It’s shallow, just a clean slice from debris. Still, he handles it like it matters.

You look down at him. Really look. The set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. His hands are steady but his eyes are distant, somewhere far away from this room. The fire crackles behind him, casting a warm glow across his skin, softening the edges of someone you’ve only seen as sharp.

A flicker moves through your chest–something small and dangerous. You look away.

“It’s really not a big deal,” you say quietly. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Sylus says. His voice is lower now. “You shook when you reloaded your gun.”

You blink. “I was nervous. It’s different when you’re not in a simulation.” You look away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“I notice everything.”

That silences you.

He tapes the bandage down and stands, putting distance between you again. “I should apologize.”

“For what?”

He sighs. “I told you things would go smoothly. The situation got out of hand, now you’re hurt. For that, I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone steals the words from your throat. You can’t do anything but stare at him.

Sylus picks up the first-aid kit, placing it back in the cabinet. His back is to you, but his shoulders are tense. Too tense.

He shouldn’t care this much. He knows that.

You're not her.

But you look at him like she used to. Before things got complicated. 

Before fate placed two flowers who bloom together in separate gardens.

He breathes out slowly, keeping his voice even.

“You did well tonight.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You stand to face him, unsure what to say. There’s something thick in the air now–something heavier than adrenaline or gunpowder.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Your eyes meet. You expect him to look away, but he doesn’t.

Neither of you speaks.

You think about what it would mean to cross the distance between you. Just one step.

Don’t.

You already know how that ends. Feelings don’t belong here. Not when your presence in this world is borrowed, fragile. Not when it could all collapse the second you stop being careful.

“I should go rest,” you say abruptly, retreating a step.

Sylus doesn't stop you. Just watches.

He tells himself it’s because you're so alike, you and her. That’s all. That’s why he feels this… shift. He’d do the same for her. He would’ve protected her just as fiercely.

It’s not different.

It can’t be different.

But he’s still standing there long after the door clicks shut behind you.

And for the first time in years, he feels something ancient crawl up his spine.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You’ve kept to yourself since the night of the gala.

Not coldly. You answer messages, show up to training, eat your meals. But you’ve become practiced at slipping out of rooms before Sylus enters them, or lingering just long enough to be polite, then vanishing before conversation starts.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

Until tonight.

You’re tucked into a corner of the lounge, fiddling with the screen of your comms device, pretending to read. You don’t hear him approach — just the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint smell of smoke and spice that always lingers around him.

“...You’ve been quiet,” Sylus says, stopping a few feet from your chair.

You glance up. “I’ve just been tired.”

He watches you for a moment. “That’s not it.”

You look back at your screen. “You and your noticing,” You huff.

“I pay attention.” His voice is mild, but direct. “Is that a crime?” He cracks a slight smile.

You sigh, then close the screen and set it down. “I’m fine, Sylus. Really.”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Lying isn’t your strong suit.”

That almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

You tilt your head back, looking toward the ceiling, eyes tracing the wood beams and dim lighting strips.

“There’s no sunlight here,” you murmur. “No stars. No real sky. I didn’t think it would get to me, but it has.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. You hear him shift slightly, like he’s leaning against the wall nearby.

You press your thumb to your lip. “In my world, it was summer when I left. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss the sun. Or the sound of waves. I just want to sit by the ocean…” You trail off. “Is that stupid?”

“Not stupid.” He murmurs.

“I have a safehouse in a coastal town,” he says, casually. “Not much. Quiet, secluded. Luke and Kieran could take you.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods. “You’d have privacy. And sunlight. You’d like it.”

You study his face, the nonchalance in his voice doesn’t quite mask the thought behind the offer. It feels deliberate, even if he’s pretending otherwise.

“That’s... kind,” you say carefully. “Thank you.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment, unreadable.

Then, lightly, “You could use a break.”

You smile faintly. “You too.”

He pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll let the twins know.”

You watch him leave, and for once, you don’t look away when he glances back at you over his shoulder.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ride starts off quiet, the hum of the cruiser and the occasional turn signal clicking beneath the low bass of music playing from Kieran’s phone.

“You always sit in the back like that?” he asks, glancing at you over the seat. “Knees up, arms crossed, like a cryptid?”

You lift an eyebrow. “I’m comfortable.”

“You look like you’re bracing for a crash.”

“With you driving,” you say, “maybe I am.”

Luke chuckles from the passenger's seat. “She packed like we’re dropping her behind enemy lines.”

“Hey,” Kieran grins, “I like it. Brings balance to the team. Luke forgets his socks half the time.”

“False,” Luke says mildly. “I forget one sock. Very different.”

You huff a small laugh and rest your cheek against the cool window. The city thins out as the cruiser climbs the highway, shadows giving way to hazy sunlight. The deeper into the journey you go, the more the air seems to breathe – cleaner, less metallic. For the first time in what feels like forever, you catch a glimpse of blue overhead.

You smile a little to yourself.

Luke twists around, passing you a bottle of water and a small bag of dried fruit. “Here. Rations.”

You blink. “Thanks?”

“You’ll thank me later when Kieran refuses to stop for food.”

“I never said I wouldn’t stop,” Kieran replies. “I said the last time we stopped for street noodles, someone got food poisoning.”

“One time!” Luke throws his hands up. “And you always bring it up!”

“You’re a liability,” Kieran says flatly.

You stifle a laugh behind your water bottle. “I feel very safe in this car.”

Kieran hums playfully. “You’re on thin ice.”

The cruiser curves around a bend, and then you feel it, salt in the air, distant and familiar. You glance up just as the ocean comes into view. The coastline stretches along the horizon, glittering in the mid-morning light.

Kieran lets out a whistle. “Man… Whitesand Bay. Haven’t been here in ages.”

“Feels weird seeing it again,” Luke murmurs. “Used to be our regular drop zone.”

Your heart jolts.

You keep your expression steady, but your pulse stutters.

Whitesand Bay.

Of course it’s here. Of course.

Of course it’s where he is.

You shift slightly in your seat, fingers curling around the fabric of your pants. They don’t notice – they’re still caught in the nostalgia, trading half-remembered stories about nearly botching deliveries and hiding from local security.

You tune them out for a moment, focusing on breathing slowly.

It’s fine. He stays in his studio.

It's on a private island. I won’t see him.

You press your knuckles gently against your lips.

You’ve been careful. You’ve stayed quiet. You’ve stayed hidden.

You have to believe that’s enough.

Kieran yawns and stretches in the passenger seat. “Man, I’m hitting the beach the second we get a free hour. Think we still have that hammock in the safehouse?”

Luke’s mouth twitches into a smile. “If the raccoons haven’t taken it over.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

You manage a faint laugh and look back toward the coastline.

The sea glitters, endless and open – and somewhere in the back of your mind, something ancient stirs.

You tell yourself not to listen.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You arrive at the safe house with the twins in tow, duffle bags slung over your shoulders and snacks tucked under your arms. Luke and Kieran immediately launch into a “grand tour,” flinging open doors and pointing things out like real estate agents on fast-forward.

Sylus’s words echo in your mind.

‘Not much’

You suppose that’s one way to put it.

The place is sparse, sure. White walls, high ceilings, clean lines – but there’s a quiet elegance in the way it's put together. Even stripped of excess, it still feels expensive. Like someone who wears plain clothes, but only the kind you’d need to take out a loan to afford.

You pick one of the guest rooms and start unpacking. It’s got big windows, a soft bed, and a faint scent of salt in the air.

Not long after, Luke and Kieran tumble in like overexcited kids.

“Hey, miss! We’re heading to the beach!” Luke grins, already halfway out of his shirt.

“You coming with?” Kieran adds, holding up a pair of mismatched flip-flops like they’re weapons.

You pause, halfway through setting your beach bag down. “It’s close by, right? I might explore a bit first and meet you there.”

It’s probably not the best plan, considering your whole “lay low and don’t attract attention” lifestyle, but the thought of wandering through a touristy beach town, just for a little while, is too tempting to ignore. You want normal. Just for a day. Maybe a seashell or a fridge magnet to pretend this was a real vacation.

Luke gives a dramatic salute. “Bring back something shiny!”

“I want a shark tooth,” Kieran says solemnly, like he’s placing an order at a deli.

You laugh as they disappear down the hall, already bickering about who packed the better sunscreen. Their masks stay on even in their swim trunks, a sight that would be absurd if it weren’t so completely them.

You grab your phone and sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little lighter. The sunlight filters through the curtains, warm and golden.

You step out into the coastal breeze, ready to lose yourself in tiny shops and meaningless souvenirs.

Ready to pretend, just for a little while, that you belong.

The air in Whitesand Bay is bright with salt and citrus, the kind of place that smells like postcards. Sunlight pours like syrup over stone streets, reflecting off turquoise waters and bleached rooftops. You meander through the market strip, alone. 

For the first time since arriving in this world, you feel almost… human again. The warmth on your skin, the sound of gulls overhead, the bustle of life without danger at every corner.

Still, you keep your head down.

You’re hyper-aware of who you might run into.

The thought of seeing him makes your stomach knot, but this place is busy. He rarely leaves his studio. You can blend in.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You round a corner and find yourself in front of a tucked-away shop. The kind that sells old trinkets and strange antiques, painted in pastel flaking paint with a curved glass window displaying everything from jewelry to jars of sand. The bell above the door jingles softly when you enter.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

From a shadowed balcony overlooking the winding streets of Whitesand Bay, someone watches.

The sunlight spills across the city like liquid gold, but his eyes stay locked on the figure weaving through the crowd below. She moves cautiously, blending in, but never enough to escape his notice.

A slow smile spreads across his lips. After all this time, finally... she’s here. 

Her steps falter as she nears a small shop nestled between a worn bookstore and a café with cracked umbrellas. 

She hesitates briefly before stepping inside.

His fingers tighten on the railing, a flicker of anticipation flashing in his gaze.

Soon, he thinks, you won’t be able to avoid me.

He steps back into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You step into the quaint shop, the scent of old wood and sea salt wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Shelves creak under the weight of curiosities–tiny glass bottles filled with shimmering sands, seashells polished smooth, delicate trinkets you don’t quite understand but somehow want to hold.

Lost in the quiet charm, you don’t notice the man moving quickly down the narrow aisle until he collides softly into you.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he says with a teasing smirk, though his eyes flicker with something more, something electric. “Careful where you wander.”

Shit.

Your heart skips. You find yourself looking up into eyes like twilight waves, a pull you didn’t expect, catching you off guard.

“Oh! Sorry,” you stammer, trying to steady yourself and your racing thoughts. “I…uh…I was just looking around.”

Dusky violet hair falls perfectly around his face, framing his eyes like a masterpiece. He’s dressed like he wandered in from a daydream: loose cream shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, a pair of thin gold rings on his fingers catching the sun.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Whitesand,”

He smiles like it’s a secret.

“Did you miss me that badly?” he adds, stepping closer.

You fumble for words, mind racing. He’s calling you “Miss Bodyguard” —so he thinks you’re her. You can work with that. Probably.

“…It’s been a while,” you manage, voice higher than usual. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew.”

He tilts his head. “So this was a solo trip? Not like you.”

You force a soft laugh. “Yeah, well… I wanted some air.”

He hums as he picks up a glass pendant from the counter, inspecting it idly. “Still no calls, though. Tsk. I was starting to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Before you can come up with another half-truth, you try redirecting.

“Have you been painting lately?” you ask, hoping he’ll take the bait.

“I live in paint,” he murmurs with a grin. “But none of it’s as captivating as this sudden, silent ghost haunting Whitesand.”

Your breath catches as he glances at the phone in your hand, which you’d reflexively pulled out in your nerves.

Rafayel’s expression shifts slightly. A click behind his eyes. But the smile never fades.

“Oh?” he says. “You got a new phone? Is that why you haven’t been calling me, Miss Bodyguard?”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Right. New number.”

“Let me fix that.”

Before you can object, he takes the phone smoothly from your hand, his fingers brushing yours like it was always meant to happen. He types in his number and sends a quick message to himself.

"There. Now I’ll know when you’re thinking of me."

You open your mouth–maybe to argue, maybe to explain–but he’s already stepping back, tucking his hands into his pockets.

He starts toward the door, the bell chiming behind him. But before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his grin wicked and soft at once.

“Remember to call me, cutie.”

Then he’s gone, the shop door shutting quietly behind him.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thudding.

You're not sure what just happened. He was flirtatious, sharp, like you remember from the game, but something about the way he looked at you. The way he didn’t react to your nervous fumbling.

It didn’t feel like meeting someone new.

It felt like being studied.

Does he really think I’m her? 

Sylus noticed right away, there’s no way you’ve grown that convincing in your time here. You don’t even know what she’s really like, beyond the constraints of the game. 

You shake your head.

He doesn’t sleep a lot, maybe he was too tired to notice the fine details.

Your eyes snap back to your phone, and your mind presses the most urgent matter.

He just got your number.

It’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back at the base, Sylus sits alone in his office, the glow from his holopad casting long shadows on the wall. He opens a photo Luke sent a few hours ago. You and the twins, seated on sun-warmed rocks, colorful seashells piled high in your hands.

The twins are beaming behind their masks. You’re smiling too. But your eyes... your eyes look distant.

His fingers hover over the image. He knows that look. You’re somewhere else entirely – a world away, even when your feet are in the sand.

He feels it, a tug in his chest.

Is the trip not helping?

You said you missed the ocean. Missed the warmth of the sun. And yet, the waves couldn’t quiet whatever’s still echoing inside you.

He leans back in his chair, uncertain whether the ache he feels is frustration or concern.

A sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. He glances at the caller ID.

Kitten.

A wry smile touches his lips before he answers.

“Miss Hunter. What a rare surprise,” he drawls.

“Sylus,” her voice is brisk. “I’ve just been assigned a mission in Charon. A gang’s been smuggling Protocores. I need intel.”

Straight to the point.

He thinks back to the Zoion Hunt, to the fleeting moments when it felt like she was starting to look at him differently. Trust him, maybe.

It’s always like this. One step forward, two steps back.

Still, he says lightly, “Of course I can, sweetie. Send me the details.”

She hangs up after a quick “Thanks, Sylus.”

Nothing more.

He stares at the empty screen a beat longer than he means to.

A few minutes later, the mission file pings in. He scans it. The gang’s familiar, slippery but arrogant. He sends her a location.

“Meet me at their HQ in an hour.”

He closes the file and stands, slipping his holsters back on.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The two of them stand just beyond the crumbling exterior, silhouettes haloed in red light from a nearby neon sign that flickers with tired electricity.

Sylus glances sideways at her – sharp-eyed, focused, already drawing out a small scanner to detect Protocore signatures.

"Four heat signatures. Two posted near the crates," she murmurs.

He nods, Evol already humming under his skin like a fuse waiting for flame. But even as it stirs, something feels… dulled. The usual clarity he gets when she’s beside him, the intuitive flicker of her intentions before she even moves, isn’t quite there.

He tries to brush it off. Focus.

She gives the signal. They breach together.

The first few seconds go clean. She takes the left, sweeping low, quick shots disabling the nearest thug. Sylus vaults over a metal divider and disables the next.

But then the rhythm begins to stutter.

She shifts right too early – he’s a step behind. A warning flares in his mind too late, and she narrowly ducks a strike from a bat-wielding smuggler.

“Watch out,” he calls, more sharply than intended.

“I’ve got it,” she huffs, already retaliating.

He hurls an energy burst toward the rear crates, but it spreads wider than he anticipated. She slips around it just in time. He curses under his breath.

His energy usually wraps around her like instinct – bending with her presence, adapting to her movements. But right now, it moves like it’s guessing. Uncertain.

It happens again when she aims for the lead smuggler – he calls to her – ready to resonate. They do. But it’s weaker than usual.

Their abilities grind against each other instead of harmonizing.

This is supposed to be effortless.

Still, they push through. A few hits exchanged. One thug takes a grazing bullet to the leg, another is knocked unconscious by a joint strike — her elbow, his energy.

But it takes longer than it should. Too many near-misses. Coordination sloppy.

The final enemy flees. Sylus doesn’t chase. He lowers his fists, eyes scanning her as she wipes sweat from her brow.

“You alright?” he asks, more than just casually.

She nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.” He holsters the gun. “But we were off.”

That earns him a glance. “We finished the job.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice is quiet now. “Your Evol – it wasn’t syncing with mine. Not like before.”

A pause. She doesn’t respond.

He studies her for a moment longer. The warehouse glows faintly behind them. Heat still clings to the air.

What changed?

Is it her?

Or is it him?

He doesn’t press the question. Instead, he hands off the case of recovered protocores and signals their exit.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The base is dead quiet at this hour. Just the faint hum of old ductwork and the occasional creak of settling metal. Shadows stretch long across the walls, and the bar lights cast everything in warm, smoky hues.

Sylus sits alone at the corner of the base’s modest bar. One elbow rests against the counter, his fingers loose around a short tumbler of something amber and sharp. He hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

The ice inside clinks softly as it melts.

He stares straight ahead, but his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Not the mission. Not the target. Not even the fight – though that part should’ve bothered him more.

It’s her.

Again.

He sighs once through his nose, sets the glass down with a soft tap, and folds his hands, thumb grazing the condensation off the rim.

Something was off.

He could feel it the moment they stepped into the warehouse.

Their movements were still sharp. She still had his back. But when he reached out with his Evol, reflexively, instinctively, there was static. Like trying to tune into a frequency that no longer responded.

Like it was rejecting him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

It reminded him too much of that first encounter.

Back when she landed in his world – confused, cornered, angry, defiant. The moment he tried to reach her, even with a flicker of power, she flinched. Not just physically. Deeply. Like something in her soul pulled back.

Back then, he told himself that she didn’t remember yet. But she would.

But now?

She still doesn’t remember. But she knows enough. She’s fought beside him. Laughed with him. Let him in – just a little.

And still…

He tips the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip. It burns. He lets it.

Was she pulling away again?

Why?

Nothing in her face had changed. She smiled, when she remembered to. She spoke gently. She still listened when he gave orders, still moved in rhythm with his steps.

But her Evol, the part of her that was finally starting to match his without hesitation, was colder. Fainter. Like it didn't trust him. Or no longer wanted to.

Sylus swirls the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid spiral.

He doesn’t want to ask the question, but it circles anyway.

Is she starting to see me the way she did at the beginning?

A threat. A monster.

Disgusting.

A man who dragged her into shadows she never asked to walk through.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

It shouldn’t get under his skin. It might not mean anything. Just an off day.

She doesn’t owe him anything – not her trust, not her warmth, not even her presence. That was never part of the deal.

It’s her choice. Always hers.

But that doesn’t make it sting any less.

Chapter 5: Siren's Song

Summary:

You didn’t mean to be seen. But Rafayel was already waiting. A quiet beach, a slip of truth, a hand that shouldn’t have felt familiar. Back in the N109 zone, Sylus doesn't push–but he waits. You tell yourself nothing changed. But the air feels different. Like something important has already begun to unravel.

Dinner had come and gone, but the heaviness in your chest hadn’t. You’d smile when Luke cracked jokes. Tried to laugh when Kieran handed you a drink with an exaggerated wink. But your mind wasn’t in the safehouse anymore.

When the dishes were cleared and the rooms grew quiet, you slipped out. No one stopped you.

You made your way down the slope barefoot, the wind cool on your skin. The sea stretched wide and quiet, its breath steady against the sand. You walked until the water kissed your toes and the dunes were a blur behind you, then sank into the damp shoreline, pulling your knees to your chest.

The silence felt good.

You stared out at the horizon, letting the tide lap closer. Letting the thoughts come.

Then–

“Cutie, you always sneak off this quietly, or am I just lucky tonight?”

You’re kidding.

You flinched, startled. Turned.

Rafayel stood a few steps away, barefoot, boots dangling from one hand. His coat hung open, and the sea breeze played at his hair. The moonlight caught on the pale skin of his collarbone and the gleam in his watercolor eyes.

He gave you a crooked little smile.

“I’ve been accused of showing up uninvited,” he said. “But I prefer to think of it as good timing.”

Just pretend everything is okay.

He won’t know.

You huffed softly, looking back toward the water. “How did you know I was here?”

“I was wandering,” he said, coming closer. “You happened to be where I ended up.”

Without asking, he lowered himself onto the sand beside you, elbows resting on his knees. Not too close – but closer than anyone else had dared to get lately.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment. “You seemed kind of… far away earlier.”

Don’t panic.

You didn’t answer right away. The tide crept closer, dark and slow.

He looked sideways at you, his voice softer this time. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just felt like something was weighing on you.”

Something about the way he said it – not prying, not performative – cracked something open in your chest.

You wish you could tell him.

You sighed, eyes on the ocean. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

A pause. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the instinct to stay silent.

“I just feel… out of place,” you said finally. “Like an imposter, I guess.”

Very subtle.

What are you doing?

He didn’t look at you. Just nodded slowly, like he was waiting for more.

“It’s like…” You exhaled. “I don’t know… sometimes it feels like,” You paused. “I’m not where I’m meant to be.”

He let the quiet sit for a moment before answering. “Yeah,” he said. “I know that one.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He shrugged, almost to himself. “Sure. Doesn’t matter where you go or how long you’re there. Sometimes it feels like there’s another place, calling your name. But you can’t hear it clearly anymore.”

You didn’t respond right away. His voice had changed, still calm, but no longer playful. Like something had shifted just under the surface.

Of course he understands. He’s not supposed to be here either. Not on land.

You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to take someone’s place. I didn’t even ask to be—” You stopped. Realized too late how close you’d come to saying the wrong thing.

He looked at you, still and steady. “Someone’s place?”

You didn’t move.

“I meant…” you scrambled, “...sometimes it feels like someone deserves my place more than I do. Imposter syndrome, I guess.”

He didn’t press. Just studied you for another moment, then looked back out toward the sea.

“You know,” he said after a while, “some people spend their whole lives trying to make sense of where they landed. Trying to make it feel right.” He shifted, leaned back on his hands, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. “Maybe you don’t need to understand everything yet. Maybe it’s enough to just be. It’ll make sense eventually.”

You glanced at him – the cut of his jaw, the light in his eyes, the ease with which he sat in his own body.

You two are talking about entirely different things. He doesn’t even know who he’s really talking to.

But you feel seen.

“You make that sound easy,” you said quietly.

He smiled faintly, still not looking at you. “It’s not.”

The waves pulled closer again. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

You weren’t sure what was happening, only that it felt strange and quiet and important. And that there was something about Rafayel that made your skin feel warm in places you hadn’t felt human in for days.

He didn’t ask anything else. Just sat beside you like he’d been there before. Like he’d known this exact kind of silence.

And for now, that was enough.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there. The moon rose higher, dragging the tide with it. At some point, your hand had dipped to your side, fingers trailing faint lines in the sand. You hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten.

Then, Warmth.

Rafayel’s hand brushed lightly against yours, just enough to nudge away a bit of wind-scattered grit from your knuckles. His touch was casual, unhurried. But precise. Like he’d been waiting for the exact moment you wouldn’t flinch.

“Sand’s got a mind of its own,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You glanced at him.

He didn’t meet your gaze. Just let his fingers linger a second longer than necessary before pulling back.

Your heart stuttered.

It wasn’t the touch. It was the way he made you feel like he already knew what you were feeling, before you’d even figured it out yourself.

And the worst part?

You didn’t hate it.

You stood a few minutes later, brushing the back of your legs off. Rafayel rose with you without a word. The air between you felt... heavier. Not in a bad way. Just full – like something unspoken had passed between you and was now hanging in the salt-heavy air.

“Don’t disappear cutie,” he said, voice quieter now, but still with that amused edge. “Or at least leave a trail.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out soft.

“Alright.”

He gave you a lazy two-finger wave, then turned back toward the dunes, disappearing into the shadows like he’d always belonged to them.

You didn’t follow right away.

You stood there in the dark, waves lapping at your ankles, your heart still tangled in the warmth of a hand that shouldn’t have felt like home.

The walk back from the beach felt heavier than before, even though the night air was cool and the stars were scattered like secrets overhead. The sand under your shoes shifted with each step, but your mind was miles away, twisting and turning on itself, unable to settle.

You shouldn’t have let yourself stay out that late. You shouldn’t have let Rafayel get that close. You shouldn’t have let yourself pretend, even for a moment, that you were someone else. 

The truth gnawed at you–sharp and relentless–that she was out there somewhere, and you were an impostor tangled in her life, her people, her world. The thought made your throat tighten and your chest ache. You wanted to run back, to undo what had already happened, but there was no rewind.

Back at the house, the quiet felt different now. Thicker. You slipped inside, careful not to wake anyone. The creak of the floorboards underfoot was the only sound accompanying your restless steps up to your room.

You collapsed onto the bed, the weight of your own thoughts pinning you down harder than the mattress ever could. You clenched your fists at your sides, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Why did I let it happen? Why do I feel like I’m betraying her – or worse, myself?

What else could I have even done?

A part of you longed for something steadier, something honest. Sylus.

You wanted to see him, to tell him everything. The fears, the guilt, the confusion tangled in your chest. Maybe with Sylus, it would be easier to breathe.

But for now, you lay there, caught between the truth you carried and the secret you couldn’t share.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The elevator hisses open, and the cool, familiar air of the base spills out into the corridor. You’re carrying your shoes in one hand, the faint scent of salt water still clinging to your clothes. The silence is comfortable–but only just.

Luke is the first to break it.

“If I find a single grain of sand in my bed, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

You glance back at him, lifting a brow. “We all shared the same beach.”

“I didn’t roll in it like a happy seal.”

Kieran grunts behind him, shifting his duffel over his shoulder. “We get it. You’re delicate.”

Their voices fade into the upper level as they split off toward their rooms, and you linger in the hall for a breath longer than you need to.

You’re not ready to be alone with your thoughts.

Not yet.

Your gaze flicks toward Sylus’s quarters. 

You pad toward his door and hesitate.

Then you knock softly.

A beat.

“Who is it?” His voice is low, muffled through the panel.

You crack the door open and step into the dim light.

“Can I talk to you?”

Sylus turns slightly from where he’s standing at the edge of his desk, arms crossed. His eyes narrow, just barely. “What’s wrong?”

You shift your weight, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about Whitesand.”

He motions for you to come in. You cross the room and sit on the couch, fingers lacing tightly in your lap.

“I ran into someone,” you begin, heart already beating too fast. “Rafayel.”

Sylus’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak. Just waits.

“I wasn’t looking for him. I was panicking when I found out where we were going, told myself I wouldn’t see him.” You take a shaky breath. “He bumped into me in some shop.”

You glance up at Sylus, then quickly away.

“He called me ‘Miss Bodyguard’ and I realized he thought I was her. I just played along and tried to stay calm.” You swallow. “But then he grabbed my phone. Sent himself a message before I could even say anything.”

Sylus’s jaw tightens just slightly.

“Then he just left.” You exhale hard, pressing a palm to your forehead. “Later that night, I was sitting on the beach. Alone. And he found me again. Like he knew I’d be there.”

Sylus finally speaks. “What did he say?”

You hesitate. “He said I looked like I was far away. That I seemed off.”

“And?”

“I don’t know why I did it, but… I told him he was right.” You laugh once, bitter and breathless. “Not the whole truth, obviously. Just enough that he thought I was her, having a rough week.”

Sylus is quiet, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say quickly. “I was just…so tired. I feel so guilty. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

“Did you tell him anything else?”

You shake your head. “No. But he got my number. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes something is wrong. What if he already knows I’m not her? What if I made things worse?”

He moves closer, sits next to you. “Take a breath.”

You do. Barely.

“I can’t stop thinking about how easy it was for him to look at me and assume I was her,” you whisper. “And I just… let him. I played along. It wasn’t even deliberate, but it happened. And now I feel like I betrayed her.”

Sylus’s gaze flicks over your face. “You didn’t betray anyone.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re not impersonating her.” He pauses. “At least, not with bad intentions. There’s nothing else you could have done.”

You bite your lip, trying not to let it wobble.

“I should’ve said something. I should’ve shut it down.”

“But you didn’t. And you can’t undo that. So let’s just figure out what’s next.”

His voice is calm, even. But you can sense something under the surface. Tension, a flicker of emotion he’s swallowing down.

You search his face. “You seem… tense. More than usual.”

He leans back slightly, folding his arms.

“I went on a mission with her.”

You go still.

“It was fine,” he adds quickly. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. But something felt off. She was quiet. Followed every order to the letter.”

Your brows furrow. “What felt off?”

He takes a deep breath, eyes unfocused. “Our resonance. It was weak.”

There’s a weight behind his words that makes your chest ache.

“Maybe she’s dealing with something,” you offer. “It might not mean anything.”

He nods, but there’s doubt in his eyes.

You move before thinking, heart fluttering as you reach out and place a hand over his.

“You’re right.”

His fingers curl gently around yours.

“It just…reminded me of where we started.” He sighs. “How she saw me.”

You frown. “You’re a good man Sylus. She knows that. She’ll see it.”

He huffs, a small sound of amusement and disbelief.

He squeezes your hand slightly. “...Thank you.”

The corners of your mouth tug a bit.

“Course,”

And for a moment, there’s nothing else. Just the quiet hum of the base and the heat of his palm against yours.

A part of you wishes that he was reaching for you the same way he reaches for her.

But you don’t have the right.

The comfort lingers longer than you expect.

And when he lets go, it’s with the softest kind of reluctance.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Your hand still buzzes with the lingering touch as you lay in bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

You want to run.

From Sylus. From this world. From the way everything keeps getting more complicated.

But where would you even go?

You really thought you could handle it. That staying close to Sylus wouldn’t affect you. That you could exist near him without feeling anything.

And for a while, you believed it.

When fear and confusion still ruled your every thought – waking up in a foreign world, overstepping and ruining the story, accidentally wearing her face and name.

But time passed. You settled in. Fell deeper into Sylus’s world. Saw the man beyond the screen.

And what kind of fool would believe they’d never feel something?

He’s gentle. Kind. Far more human than anyone gives him credit for.

You tried to get away. Thought the ocean would clear your head, center you again.

Instead, it handed you a new problem.

Him.

You looked at Rafayel. Talked to him. Let him believe you were her.

Everything you promised yourself you’d never do.

And now? Now you can’t stop wondering what’ll happen if–when–he finds out. Will he hate you? Call you unwell? Think you’re some delusional girl chasing a fantasy? 

Will he think you wanted this?

You think about your world again. How quiet it was. How safe. How ordinary.

You weren’t thriving, but at least things made sense there.

Here? You’re starting to feel like you’ve long overstayed your welcome.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You wake with a dull ache behind your eyes, like your thoughts were fighting through the night.

You roll over and grab your phone, expecting some nonsense from Luke and Kieran.

But it’s not them.

Maybe: Rafayel

hey cutieeee

dun tell me you forgot to call again :(

im working on a new painting, need inspo

come take a walk w me?

Fuck.

Fuck.

It’s fine. Just tell him you’re busy.

Or ignore him.

Yeah. Ignore the man with abandonment issues. Great plan.

You sigh and type quickly:

Hey. Sorry, a bit busy today. Association is swamped. Maybe another time?

You watch the typing dots form.

booooo

ill just come to u then

see u at work cutie

Well. That was the worst possible response you could have hoped for.

No need! My captain actually just said she’s letting me off early today! I’ll come to you.

yay

meet me at [location sent]

You groan, tossing the blanket off. You drag yourself out of bed, half-limping toward the hallway. You don’t even look in the mirror.

You make a beeline to Sylus’s study.

“Sylus, help me.”

He glances up from the tablet in his hand, one brow slightly raised. A corner of his mouth twitches.

“What happened? Did Mephisto steal your earrings again?”

You shoot him a flat look.

“No. This is serious,” you huff, stepping inside. “Rafayel texted me. Asked to meet. I panicked. I said yes.”

You drop your face into your hands.

Sylus leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “So much for laying low.”

You glare at him through your fingers.

“He said he’d go to the association! What was I supposed to do? He gave me no room to back out. I didn’t want to agree, but–”

You cut yourself off with a groan.

Sylus doesn’t laugh. But there’s something fond in the way he looks at you.

“I know you’ve been careful. Trying not to stir things up,” he says. “But… maybe this isn’t the worst thing.”

Your hands fall to your sides.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe if you meet him, it’ll be enough. Might buy us time to figure out the rest.”

“Or it might make things worse.”

Sylus shrugs gently. “Possibly. But I trust you’ll handle it.”

You hesitate.

“…You really think I can?”

His gaze holds yours for a beat too long.

“I do. And I don’t think you have much of a choice, either.”

You sigh.

You steel your nerves and brace yourself like a prisoner awaiting their verdict.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You walk through the park Rafayel said he’d be waiting in. You try not to look nervous as you search for his figure between the willow trees.

“y/n!”

You spin around.

“There she is,” he says. “Cutie, I was starting to think you bailed on me again.”

You give him a half-hearted glare, hands clasped behind your back. “I should have.”

“Too late now. You’re stuck with me.” He closes the distance, hand outstretched to you. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

The streets are warm, the late sun setting everything in gold. You fall into step beside him, letting the quiet stretch. Rafayel doesn’t fill it with needless chatter, just swings his hands loosely at his sides, occasionally nudging you gently with his elbow when the silence gets too heavy.

It’s weirdly… relaxing.

You’re still on edge, every cell humming with what you know – what he might know – but he doesn’t press. Doesn’t interrogate. Just walks.

He leads you toward a small gallery nestled into the side of a stone building. There’s no sign, just a copper door and a quiet hum of music bleeding from within.

Inside, it’s cooler, dimmer. The scent of varnish and citrus cleaner lingers in the air. Paintings line the walls – coastal landscapes, abstract shapes, portraits that seem to watch you as you pass.

One catches your eye.

It’s a person, maybe a woman, but blurred, almost dissolving into her surroundings. Something about the way her shoulders tilt, the way her eyes are fixed just slightly left of the viewer. She looks… lost.

You stop walking.

“She looks like she doesn’t know where she is,” you murmur. “Like she stepped through the wrong door.”

Rafayel stops beside you. His voice is softer now.

“Maybe she stepped through the right one,” he says. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”

The words settle in your chest like an echo.

You glance at him.

He’s already watching you – not intensely, not like he’s waiting for a reaction. Just watching. Calm. Present.

The moment stretches.

Then he breaks it.

“Come on,” he says, slipping his hand into his pocket. “I wanna show you something.”

You end up at the beach.

The sun’s long gone, and the sand is cool beneath your shoes. Rafayel kicks his off immediately, padding barefoot toward the waterline like he’s done it a hundred times. You follow, slower.

It’s quieter here than the gallery. Just the waves and the occasional cry of a distant seabird. You can hear your pulse in your ears.

You try to keep your guard up. Try not to let your steps betray the way your thoughts are racing.

“I knew,” Rafayel says suddenly, voice low, just above the hush of the tide.

You freeze.

You blink. “Knew what?”

He glances at you, half-smiling. “That you weren’t her. From the start.”

Your breath catches. You stop walking.

His tone is too casual – like he’s talking about the weather. That only makes it worse.

“Then… why did you invite me out?” you ask, voice wary. “If you already knew?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe curiosity. Maybe instinct. You looked like someone who needed a night off.”

You stare at him. “How could you tell?”

“There’s something about the way you looked at me,” he says, raising a brow. “Not like a stranger. But not like her, either.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy trying to figure out if this is a setup – a test – a trap.

He turns his gaze to the sea, hands slipping into his pockets. “I told myself maybe she had a twin. Or I’d hit my head. But when I called your name earlier, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. That’s when I knew.”

You look down. The sand shifts beneath your feet.

“I’m not–” you begin, then falter. “I’m not trying to fool anyone. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I figured,” he says gently. “Still. I had to know who you were.”

You glance at him, wary. “Why?”

“No reason that matters,” he says. “Just wanted to understand. For myself.”

A pause.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

Your chest tightens. You didn’t want this conversation. Not like this.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you admit, voice low. “It feels impossible.”

“Try me,” he says, softer now.

You hesitate. Then you exhale, slowly.

“I’m from a different world,” you say. “A different reality.”

He doesn’t react.

After a beat, he says, “Really?”

You nod.

“Guess that explains the way you looked at everything,” he says, like you just confessed to being from out of town. “You’ve been walking around like nothing quite belongs to you.”

You blink at him. “That’s it? No freak out?”

“I mean,” he gestures to the waves, “weirder things have happened. Probably.”

That earns the smallest smile from you.

He looks at you again, head tilted. “But you knew who I was. Back at the shop.”

You sigh. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

You hesitate. Then: “In my world… you were part of a video game.”

He blinks, then grins. “That’s a new one.”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. When I first ended up here, I thought maybe I’d been dropped inside it. But this place – it doesn’t feel like a game. It feels real.”

“Maybe it was a window,” you add. “Or a trick. Or I’ve just completely lost it.”

He hums, thoughtful. “You don’t sound crazy.”

“You sure? Because I definitely feel it.”

He glances over at you, amused. “Cutie, I talk to the ocean and name my pigments after sea creatures. If you’re losing it, at least you’re in good company.”

You laugh – small and breathy – but it’s real.

“I could’ve just ignored it,” Rafayel says. “Pretended I didn’t notice. But you looked like you could use someone who didn’t ask you to explain yourself. Someone who didn’t expect answers.”

You swallow. “Why would you want to help me?”

He shrugs. “Because you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’ve been carrying a planet on their back.”

His words hang in the space between you, unspoken weight meeting quiet understanding.

A breeze brushes past, lifting your hair. You hear the soft retreat of waves against the shore.

Rafayel reaches his hand out to you.

“Come paint with me.”

His studio smells like salt and turpentine and rain-dried wood. The ceilings stretch high above you, and the walls are crowded with half-finished canvases. Strange, lovely things, some turned away like secrets.

Rafayel moves through the space like it was built around him.

He sets two stools before a blank canvas and hands you a brush.

“No rules,” he says easily. “Just paint whatever’s stuck in your head.”

You hesitate. “That’s the problem. I don’t even know what’s in there anymore.”

He grins. “Perfect. Start with that.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The brush feels awkward in your hand, and the colors run too fast, but it doesn’t matter. Rafayel hums something tuneless and soft, flicking pigment across his own canvas in sweeping arcs of color.

Eventually, he breaks the quiet. “So… you said you knew me from a game?”

You glance over at him.

“What was I like in it?” he asks, voice light but curious.

You try not to smile. “Honestly? You weren’t that different from how you are now.”

He hums like he’s pleasantly surprised. “What kind of game are we talking about?”

Your face warms. “…A dating game.”

Rafayel laughs, leaning back with exaggerated delight. “A dating game? Cutie, you’ve been holding out on me.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Don’t make it weird! It’s not like I chose it just for that. You were just–part of it.”

“Part of it,” he echoes. “So I wasn’t your favorite?”

You groan, trying to dodge the question. “You were the favorite. The face of the game, actually.”

He smiles, a little smug, and turns back to his painting. “Mm. Glad to hear I had good taste in timelines.”

“You knew about her too, was she in the game?’

You nod to yourself. “Yeah, we create her. Play the story as her.”

He hums. “I see. Same name, same face, makes sense now.”

You huff. “Does it?”

He chuckles. “I’m trying to be understanding here, cutie,”

You laugh despite yourself. For a while, you both return to your work, the silence between you easy now.

Then, more softly, he asks, “So. How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks. Maybe longer. It’s hard to tell.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “You remind me of myself,” he says. “When I first left home. Everything felt too loud and too far away.”

You nod. “It’s been… strange.”

He leans his elbow against the edge of the canvas, watching you from the side. “Where’ve you been staying?”

You hesitate. “I… ended up in the N109 zone.”

His head turns fast. “Seriously?”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly get a choice. One of the love interests lives there.”

Rafayel blinks once, slowly. “One of the–wait.”

You nod. “Sylus. He’s the one who found me.”

There’s a flicker – a shift behind his eyes. His fingers pause mid-stroke on the canvas.

“Ah.” His voice is still smooth, but quieter. “So you’ve been with Sylus.”

“I sort of talked my way out of being seen as a threat. I’ve been staying at Onychinus since.”

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, then smiles again, easy. “Cutie,” he murmurs, “you might be the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

You grin, a little bashfully. “It’s not that crazy.”

“If we made a movie out of it, no one would believe it.”

You pause, your brush lingering at the edge of the canvas. “Do you think I’m… awful? For not saying anything? For pretending to be someone I’m not?”

Rafayel sets his brush down.

“I think,” he says, “you did what you had to. No one drops into another world with a guidebook.”

You glance at him, surprised by how gentle his voice is.

He leans back on his stool and gives you a quiet smile. “Besides… I was pretending, too.”

You blink. “What?”

“I acted like I didn’t know. But I saw it in your eyes. You weren’t confused, you were trying to protect yourself.” He shrugs. “I get that.”

A pause.

He adds, “And now that I do know a little more… well, you’re still here. That has to mean something.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. But your chest feels lighter than it has in days.

You look back at your painting – the chaos of it, the strange colors, the way nothing really fits – and for once, that doesn’t feel so terrible.

The paintbrush starts to drag in your hand. You don’t notice until your strokes turn uneven.

You blink, realizing how heavy your limbs feel. “I should probably go,” you murmur, setting the brush down. “It’s late, and Sylus is probably wondering where I am.”

You don’t catch the shift in Rafayel’s posture.

He leans back slightly, elbows on his knees. “Back to the N109 zone at this hour?” His voice is casual, but his knuckles flex once, slow and deliberate. “You’d only be halfway there by sunrise.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, though you’re not sure you believe it yourself.

“You just got comfortable,” he says, glancing toward the wide windows, the ocean glowing faintly beneath a fractured moon. “No one’s going to mind if you take one night off from survival mode.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t want to intrude,” you offer, though your body’s already aching at the thought of making that long trip back.

“You won’t,” Rafayel replies gently. “I’ll take the couch. You can have the bed, clean sheets and everything, promise.”

You glance at him.

He lifts a hand, mock solemn. “Swear on my best brush.”

A beat.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Good.” He stands, stretching. “Bathroom’s down the hall. The door with the chipped koi on it.”

You nod and step away to wash the paint off your hands.

When you’re out of sight, Rafayel runs a hand through his hair and exhales, slower than necessary.

The studio feels different now. Like something in the air shifted.

He moves quietly, dimming the lights, rinsing off brushes, setting canvases to dry. It’s muscle memory by now, the motions smooth, effortless. But his thoughts aren’t as still.

You said Sylus was probably waiting for you.

Of course you’d say that. And of course he is.

His fingers press briefly against the edge of the worktable, a knuckle whitening before he lets go.

He casts a glance toward the hallway where you disappeared, then to the couch.

You’d been exhausted – trying so hard not to show it. The weariness in your voice, the weight in your shoulders… he’d seen it. Felt it, like something echoing in his own chest.

Offering you a place to rest had been instinct. But there’s more to it than that. And he knows it.

Still, he doesn’t say it out loud. Not even to himself.

This isn’t the time.

Not yet.

For now, he leans back against the counter and closes his eyes, letting the ocean breeze slip in through the cracked windows. It smells like salt and clean air and the faintest trace of the citrus soap you used.

He stays there a long while.

Just listening to the waves.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The study is too quiet.

Sylus leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyes unfocused as the soft hum of the base’s systems fills the silence. The time glows steadily on the screen in front of him.

You’ve been gone for a while.

He told himself not to hover. You weren’t stepping into danger – just meeting someone. Someone familiar. 

Still… his fingers tap restlessly against the desk.

No message yet.

He eyes the comms panel. Mephisto’s idle. He could send him, just a quick check-in.

But he doesn’t move.

Rafayel wouldn’t hurt you. He knows that.

Probably.

He grabs his phone, thumbs hovering for a second before typing:

Everything alright?

The reply comes fast.

he knows.

His jaw tightens. He barely has time to process it before the next message follows:

but it’s okay. i think. turns out you’re not the only understanding man around here?

i’ll be back in the morning

Sylus stares at the screen.

His first reaction is relief, the kind that hits too hard, like a wire pulled too tight finally snapping loose.

You’re safe.

You’re not panicking. You’re joking.

It should be enough.

He sets the phone down but doesn’t look away from it. There’s a strange pressure behind his ribs. Something unsettled. Restless.

He tells himself it’s concern. Simple as that.

You’re not exactly predictable. And Rafayel… well, Sylus doesn’t know what he wants.

He told you to go.

He said it might buy time.

But now that you have – now that Rafayel knows – he can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s shifted. That something slipped out of his reach before he realized he’d even been holding it.

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

He’s just concerned. Maybe you’re too trusting.

He just wants to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.

He exhales quietly, then picks the phone back up.

Be safe.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning creeps in quietly, slow sunlight filters through the linen curtains, casting soft golden bars across the paint stained floorboards. It smells faintly of ocean air and drying pigment.

You wake curled beneath unfamiliar sheets, the bed bigger than it looked the night before. It’s too quiet. Peaceful in a way that makes you hesitate before moving.

You sit up slowly, the comforter sliding off your shoulder, and pad into the studio barefoot.

Rafayel is already awake. He’s perched on a stool by the open balcony, sipping something from a chipped mug, one leg folded beneath him. His hair is slightly tousled. The wind lifts it from his face.

He glances over when he hears you. “Morning, cutie.”

Your voice is hoarse. “Didn’t mean to sleep in.”

“You needed it.” He nods toward the hallway. “There’s coffee, if you trust my taste.”

You find the cup waiting in the kitchen, not perfect, but warm, and kind. You sip it quietly beside him.

After a moment, he speaks again, gaze still on the ocean.

“If you ever need to get away again… you know where I am.” He taps a loose rhythm against the railing with one finger. “The door’s always open. Doesn’t have to be a crisis.”

You glance at him.

He meets your eyes briefly. No pressure. No insinuation. Just… calm.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “That means a lot.”

“Good.” He gives a crooked smile. “Now go before the vampires start wondering where their sunshine went.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The N109 zone feels darker than usual when you step back into it – all the steel and shadow, the buzz of faint neon against the gloom. Your body still carries a lingering warmth from the coast, a calm you’re not used to.

You make your way inside the base. The twins are arguing over a drone part in the hallway. Kieran offers you a lazy wave, Luke flashes a grin.

You don’t see Sylus right away, but when you step into the common room, he’s there – arms crossed, standing by a massive digital map spread across the wall. He turns when he hears you.

His expression doesn’t shift much, but his eyes skim over you like he’s scanning for bruises.

“You’re back,” he says simply.

“Didn’t mean to stay out so long,” you offer. “We ended up painting. I lost track of time.”

A pause.

Sylus nods, slow. “You seem… relaxed.”

You blink. “Yeah…” you trail off. “It was nice, I was so worried going into it, but it went better than I expected, I guess.”

Another pause. His gaze sharpens just slightly.

“He seemed trustworthy?”

You catch it – the way his voice dips half a degree, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Honestly, it was nothing dramatic. He was just nice.”

He looks at you a second longer than necessary.

Then: “Good.”

You move past him, toward the hallway. “I’m gonna drop my bag off and go change,”

He doesn’t stop you. But you feel his attention linger like a pulse at your back until you’re gone.

Your room is just as you left it – dim, cold, a little impersonal. But after the surreal calm of Rafayel’s studio, it’s grounding.

You drop your bag on the side table and sink onto the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly. For the first time in days, your pulse isn’t clawing at your throat.

It went better than it should have.

So much better.

You had imagined every worst-case scenario: confrontation, exposure, betrayal. But instead, Rafayel had just… listened. No tense interrogation. No fear. Just that easy warmth of his, disarming without even trying.

You shake your head slightly.

Strange, how simple it felt to be around him.

Not safe, exactly – you know better than to believe that already – but seen. Like you didn’t have to fight for every piece of yourself to be understood.

You stretch your legs out and lean back, glancing toward the small window. The skyline of N109 looms jagged against the artificial dark.

But in your chest, there’s still a faint echo of wind and sea air.

Maybe it makes sense. You’ve always sought the ocean when things get heavy. The salt, the endless blue, the quiet rhythms, they’ve always steadied you.

Of course you felt calmer there.

You hum softly to yourself, some tune that's lived in your mind longer than you can remember – airy and strange, like a half-forgotten lullaby.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your door.

Sylus hadn’t meant to stop.

He was just passing by. 

But the sound catches him. That humming, faint and familiar, threading through the air like a memory.

And just like that, something in him breaks open.

The hallway dissolves.

He’s somewhere else – somewhen else.

A chapel. Shadowed and quiet, filled with the scent of stone and herbs.

He’s on the floor, barely conscious, blood drying along his ribs. The pain sharp, but distant.

That tune – that same tune – floats to him through the haze. Hummed softly, steadier than his heartbeat. A balm against the ache.

And then another detail,

The smell. Something sharp and herbal, like salve pressed into a wound with trembling hands.

His chest tightens.

He’s not alone.

There’s someone there.

He feels them – kneeling beside him, smoothing his hair back. He can’t see their face. But they’re humming. And they’re warm.

Sylus exhales sharply, blinking hard.

His hand is braced against the wall, jaw tense. The humming has stopped.

Reality seeps back in.

He stays there for a moment, heart beating fast.

It was clearer this time. More vivid than any fragment before. Not just a dream. Not some trick of memory.

But even now, he pushes it down.

Is she remembering?

Why do these memories keep coming back to him?

Why now?

He leans against the wall outside your door, still caught in that strange whirl of memory and tension, when suddenly a pair of energetic footsteps come barreling down the hall.

“Boss! You gotta see this!” Luke’s voice echoes, a little too loud and urgent.

Kieran follows right behind, grinning widely. “No, seriously, you have to check it out.”

Sylus exhales sharply, pushing off the wall and straightening up as the twins approach.

“What is it this time? The vending machine finally decided to eat your money?” he asks dryly.

Luke chuckles. “Better. Some dumb kid in N109 tried to rob a corner shop with a plastic knife.”

Kieran snorts. “The shopkeeper chased him down with a broom. Epic defeat.”

Sylus can’t help the small smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s… hardly critical.”

Luke grins. “Can we go check it out?”

Sylus shakes his head. “Not necessary. Let them learn their lessons.”

Kieran elbow-jabs Luke. “Come on, boss, you love the chaos.”

“Love it or not,” Sylus says, voice low but steady, “I’d rather not deal with it right now.”

Luke and Kieran exchange a quick look, sensing his mood, and then fall back into their usual banter as they walk off.

Sylus watches them go, then lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He leans back against the wall, the sound of their laughter fading behind him, and quietly runs a hand over his face. 

If she does remember…

If that’s true… it changes everything.

He turns away from the door and disappears down the hallway, footsteps quiet in the dim light.

Chapter 6: Mirage

Summary:

Desert heat and shadows press close. Sylus is wounded. The line between control and chaos blurs. Tensions fracture, and a moment almost slips beyond words. When the world feels too heavy, the ocean calls — a fragile refuge amid the storm.

Another week passed in the hollow rhythm of steel corridors and synthetic air.

You settled back into life in the N109 base–if it could be called life. The routine took hold again. One night it was an auction, all cold lighting and silent tension, your heels echoing against the floor as Sylus handled the bidding with unnerving calm. The next, you were trailing behind the twins through a derelict warehouse, retrieving something that buzzed faintly in your palm and made Luke mutter weird under his breath.

Everything in between bled together–long stretches of silence, training sessions that left your muscles aching, and the distant hum of Onychinus systems reminding you that time passed whether you wanted it to or not.

Rafayel texted sometimes. Not often. Just enough to make you wonder if he was still thinking about that night.

A meme with a flamingo wearing sunglasses and the caption: me heading into the void again

A blurry photo of some experimental pigment swirled across canvas, captioned not sure if I hate this yet.

A seashell with strange ridges and faint gold inlay, sent without context.

You replied once or twice.

A simple lol

A picture of your lunch shaped into a frowning face.

One night, you almost sent a voice note. You didn’t.

Now the silence just... holds.

You were coming back from the gym when Sylus found you. Hair still damp at the edges, your joints stiff, your mind already halfway to a shower and sleep. His footsteps didn’t echo in the hallway the way yours did–he had a way of appearing without warning.

He didn’t smile, but something about his expression felt less rigid than usual.

“There’s a new retrieval happening soon,” he said. “Big one. Protocore confirmed, deep in the desert. Looks like another syndicate’s trying to move it quietly.”

You blinked. “Desert?”

He nodded. “Hot zone, harsh terrain. Everyone’s being mobilized for this one.”

You hesitated. “And… you’ll be okay out there?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You gave a faint shrug, trying to sound casual. “You don’t exactly thrive in direct sunlight.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you like he couldn’t decide if you were teasing or concerned.

“I'm not made of wax,” he said at last, dryly. “But it’s noted.”

A beat passed.

“You’ll be coming,” he added. “Assuming training goes well.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sounds ominous,”

“Just preparation,” he said. “We don’t walk into unknown territory without knowing who’s on our flank.”

You didn’t ask if he meant that as a vote of confidence or a warning. Maybe it was both.

He paused, eyes narrowing–not in suspicion, but thought.

“Rest tonight. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be running drills with me. We’ll escalate until I’m satisfied.”

You gave a small salute that earned you the slightest twitch of his mouth, something barely there. He turned, like that was all he came for, but–

“Wait,” you said. “Can I ask you something?”

He stopped. Didn’t turn fully around, just glanced at you over his shoulder.

“I know things have been hectic,” you began lightly, “but I was wondering… have you found anything new? About how I got here?”

A longer pause this time.

“Or… if there’s any chance I could get back?”

He’s quiet. And when he does answer, his voice is even. Measured.

“I haven’t found anything new,” he says. “Not yet.”

You nod, but something tightens in your chest. You try not to let it show.

“I’ll keep looking,” he adds. “You know that.”

You do. Or you want to.

He watches your face a second longer than he needs to, like he’s measuring something he doesn’t quite want to name.

Then he turns fully away, walking off without another word.

Inside his mind, something dull shifts.

He should be looking. Should’ve been digging every night after lights out, tearing through theories, reaching beyond what’s classified.

But lately…he hasn’t been.

Not because he doesn’t care– it simply… slipped his mind. How you’ve managed to keep pace with him on missions. The way your laughter echoes through the halls. How you’ve slipped so easily into the twins' chaos.

It feels… right.

And some quiet, selfish part of him has started to feel that maybe it’s better this way.

He doesn’t name it. Wouldn’t even call it hesitation. But as he slips back into the hum of base routines, he doesn’t reopen that file.

Not yet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The training bay was cold.

Artificial light flickered above the reinforced walls, casting long shadows over the matte flooring. Targets lined the far end, glowing faintly with heat signatures. Drones buzzed like distant wasps as they reset themselves midair.

You adjusted the grip on your pistol and took the next shot.

Miss.

“Wider spread this time,” Sylus said behind you. “Recoil control’s decent, but you’re anticipating it. Let your body absorb it. Don’t fight the motion, follow through.”

You nodded, jaw tight. Reset.

Fire. Hit. Hit. Miss.

He walked beside you toward the wall, reviewing your score silently as the panel refreshed. You could feel the weight of his presence more than his footsteps.

“Not bad,” he said at last. “Better than last week.”

“That’s a low bar,” you muttered, exhaling.

He glanced at you sidelong. “Still a bar you cleared.”

Later, it was close combat drills. You’d lost track of how many times you hit the mat today. You knew he was holding back. That didn’t make it less frustrating.

When he finally called a break, you slumped on the bench against the wall, arms burning, throat dry.

He handed you a bottle of electrolyte water and sat on the edge of the mat, hair damp with sweat, head tilted back like he was listening for something in the vents above.

You took a sip, swallowed hard, then said quietly, “How dangerous is this going to be?”

His head didn’t turn right away, but you saw the flicker of movement in his expression.

“I mean… the mission,” you clarified. “You said it’s big. Everyone’s going. That’s not normal, right?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”

You hesitated, then voiced what had been coiling in your stomach since he first mentioned it.

“Do you think I’m ready?”

This time, he did look at you. Steady. Clear.

“I don’t want to be dead weight,” you added. “I know I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t want to be the one slowing you down.”

He was quiet for a moment. Not like he didn’t have an answer, more like he was choosing the exact shape of it.

“You’re not slowing anyone down,” he said. “You’re learning fast. And you’ve done more than hold your own under pressure.”

“I don’t think that’s the same as what we’ll be facing.”

“It’s not,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you to be there.”

You blinked, caught a little off guard by the word trust.

His voice dropped slightly, not soft, but gentler than usual.

“You’re allowed to feel uneasy. You should be cautious. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

Your fingers tightened around the bottle. You nodded once, letting the words settle in the quiet.

“Alright,” you said after a long pause, exhaling. “No more dead weight.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not a smirk, not condescension. Just approval.

“Good.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Somewhere above the clouds, the hum of the engines was the only steady thing.

You sat by the window, knees drawn loosely to your chest. Below, the sky broke open into a blazing amber horizon–the kind you only ever saw from planes or half-remembered dreams. The sun hadn’t dipped low enough to sting yet, but the gold was already turning sharper, like something on the verge of cutting skin.

Most of the others were quiet. Luke had dozed off with one arm flung over his eyes, mouth slightly open. Kieran was flicking through something on his tablet, eyes darting side to side too fast for fiction. Occasionally he muttered to himself and adjusted the brightness like it was fighting him.

Sylus was up front, talking in low tones with one of the mission leads. He hadn’t looked back once since takeoff.

Your phone buzzed.

cutie

are you haunting whitesand again this week or do I need to file a missing persons report

You smiled faintly and typed:

wish i was there. :(

i’ll be gone for a while, onychinus stuff.

stuck in the desert. signal might suck :p

A pause.

Then:

desert? that doesn’t sound like your vibe 

or his

You didn’t answer that part.

A final ping.

be careful cutie

dont dry up like a beached fish :p

You reread it twice, letting out a soft laugh.

You were setting the tab down when Kieran glanced over, brows raising slightly.

“Texting your boyfriend?”

You blinked. “No.”

“Suspiciously quick answer,” he said, leaning back and stretching. “But alright.”

Luke stirred beside him, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Are we there yet?”

Kieran nudged him with his foot. “What are you, five?”

Luke ignored him and turned toward you instead. “First desert op?”

“Obviously?”

“You’ll be fine,” he said around a yawn. “Worst part is the dry air. That and the bugs that scream.”

“She doesn’t need to hear about the bugs,” Kieran muttered.

“She should be prepared,” Luke said, completely serious. “You don’t want to go in blind.”

Kieran rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. He got bit by a caterpillar once and thought it put a curse on him.”

“It glowed,” Luke insisted. “And it growled at me.”

Despite yourself, you laughed–and the tension in your chest eased just a little.

Kieran tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his mouth. “You’ll be alright, you know. You’ve already lasted longer than most people would’ve.”

Luke nodded, oddly sincere. “We’ve seen new recruits go white just walking into Sylus’s office. You didn’t even flinch.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you looked back out the window instead.

The sun had fully bloomed–high and white and unforgiving. It burned through the clouds in molten streaks, promising nothing kind.

You leaned your forehead briefly against the cool glass.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The heat hit like a wall the moment the aircraft’s doors opened.

Dry, stinging wind scraped across your face as you stepped onto the cracked stone platform. Everything shimmered – not from beauty, but from sheer temperature. The sand here wasn’t golden; it was bone-pale, the color of ash and burnt pearl. Jagged rock formations jutted from the ground like broken teeth, and the air pulsed with a silence that felt unnatural.

Sylus walked ahead without pause, coat flaring behind him in the wind. Sweat already clung at your temples just from standing still. He showed no sign of it.

“This outpost doesn’t show up on most maps,” he said without turning. “Old mining base. Abandoned after they bled it dry and started losing people.”

You fell into step beside him, boots crunching against dried clay. “Should I have brought a pickaxe or something?”

“No,” He laughed. “We’re not digging. We’re extracting. One of our teams narrowed it down to a sealed sublevel. Could be the last clean Core left in the zone.”

He stopped beside a half-buried bunker entrance and keyed in a sequence. The outer wall groaned and slid open, revealing a tunnel carved deep into the cliff face. Cool air breathed out from within.

You started to follow him inside, but he stayed at the threshold, eyes scanning the ridge beyond.

“Before we go under,” he said, “I want to see how exposed this place really is. If we’re compromised during retrieval, this whole layout becomes a killbox.”

You hesitated. “Sylus… how long are you planning to stay out here?”

“Long enough.”

His voice was calm, but you noticed the way he rolled his shoulders, not stiff, exactly, but deliberate. Controlled. As if bracing.

You didn’t press. Not yet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You crouched behind a dune, peering through your scope at the excavation site below. The perimeter was still quiet, but it felt like the kind of quiet that breaks the moment someone breathes wrong.

Sylus knelt beside you, one hand resting lightly on the ground. His other arm was braced across his knee, sleeve pushed back to expose a device blinking faintly at his wrist.

“How’s the heat sensor?” you asked.

“Stable. No movement underground.”

You turned to glance at him – and stilled.

His face was pale, even for him. The light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, but the flush you’d expect from sun exposure wasn’t there. No sweat. No obvious signs. And yet,

His breathing was slightly shallower than usual.

“How long have we been out here?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted his stance and looked toward the horizon, where the sun still clung to the edge of the sky like a dying god.

“Too long,” you said quietly. “Isn’t this… hard for you?”

He glanced at you then. “I have it under control, there’s no need to worry.”

“You’re not built for sunlight.”

His mouth tugged at one corner, something wry but distant. “There’s no one else I trust to map the entry plan.”

“Still.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t move either.

Eventually, you stood and offered your hand.

“We’ve seen enough, haven’t we?”

A beat. Then he took it, cool skin against your sun-warmed palm, and let you help him up.

The sun dipped lower.

But not before it took a little more from him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You had dust in your throat and static in your ear, and the only thing sharper than the adrenaline was the unrelenting heat still radiating off the rocks from the daytime. The underground base was cool enough now, sure – but everything out there had been sun-soaked for hours, including you.

Sylus hadn’t said much since they breached the entry vault. No complaints, no signs of weakness. Just that same unreadable focus, red eyes glinting as he moved ahead with one pistol drawn, body close to the walls.

You kept pace behind him, heart pounding harder with each checkpoint cleared.

“Clear,” he said into his comms. “Sector C secured. Luke, Kieran–status?”

A burst of static, then Kieran’s voice: “North flank holding. No movement yet.”

Luke followed a second later: “Got two drones in the outer corridor, dealt with ‘em. Heading back your way.”

You and Sylus shared a quick glance. He gave the faintest nod – let’s move.

The next few minutes passed in tense silence. The hallway sloped downward, slanting deeper into the earth. Cracked panels glowed dimly from rusted ceilings, casting fractured light across the metal floor. A Protocore signature pulsed faintly on Sylus’s scanner, just ahead.

You were so close.

The moment the reinforced door hissed open, everything broke.

Gunfire lit the room in staccato bursts – a perimeter squad lying in wait, half-buried in shadows behind old consoles and collapsed support beams.

Sylus moved like lightning. You barely caught the blur of him firing, ducking behind a pillar, dropping one assailant, then another. You followed instinct, diving low and sweeping to cover his flank, pulse in your ears louder than the gunfire.

“You alright?” he barked over the noise.

“Fine!”

Two more shots. You hit one center-mass. Sylus took down the last. Silence.

Everything stilled. Just your breaths, too loud. The faint hum of the core unit pulsing in its cradle, like a heartbeat.

You turned to Sylus.

He hadn’t moved.

He was standing there, hunched slightly, jaw locked tight – one hand pressed against his side.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sylus?”

He looked at you.

And even though he tried to smile, you saw it – the blood slipping between his fingers. The way he swayed just a little before catching himself against the wall.

Fuck.

You rushed to him, dropped to your knees, hands already moving before your brain caught up. “You’re hit. When did you–”

“During the first wave,” he muttered, wincing. “It’s nothing. Through-and-through, I’ve had worse.”

“You should be healing.”

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes flew to the wound. The bullet had gone in clean – lower ribs, left side – but there was too much blood. You reached out instinctively, pressing your hand to the spot, trying to staunch it, trying to buy time.

Still nothing. No warmth. No red glow.

Just blood.

“Sylus, why isn’t it healing?”

He exhaled slowly. “The sun. I told you I’d be fine, I–”

“No you didn’t. You said you had it under control. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” he said, voice too soft.

“That’s not your job!” you snapped, breath catching in your throat. “You can't just die because you didn’t want me to worry!”

Your hand was still pressed to his side. His fingers came up slowly, covering yours. Not forcefully, just enough to make you stop.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Sweetie,”

You froze.

It was the first time he’d ever said that to you. Quiet. Deliberate. His voice had dipped low, velvet-soft, and something in you broke at the sound of it.

“I’m not dying,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You’ve seen me take worse. You’ve seen me crawl out of worse.”

“No I haven’t,” you whispered. “Not like this.”

He didn’t answer.

The room was suddenly too quiet. His hand was still over yours, his long legs folded in front of him, back pressed against the wall. There was a slight tremor in his grip now – and in your chest, something was vibrating at a frequency you didn’t understand.

Your vision swam. A sharp pain bloomed behind your eyes.

A ruined sky. The scream of metal against bone. Your hands on a sword, driving it forward. His face–familiar, scrunched–eyes dull as the blade passed through his chest. A voice screaming his name.

You gasped. The moment vanished.

Gone like smoke.

You blinked, heart pounding, your breath suddenly ragged.

What the fuck?

Why would I see that now?

He was still watching you, brow furrowed now, as if he’d seen the flicker of something behind your eyes.

Your face was too close to his. Your mouth opened to say something, and nothing came out.

He looked at you like you were about to disappear.

And for a second, a brief, electric second, it felt like he might lean in.

Not for comfort. Not for want.

Just because there was nowhere else to go.

Then he blinked, like shaking off a spell, and looked away.

You did too.

You swallowed hard and pulled back, hand leaving his side, already fumbling for your comms. “Luke, Kieran, Sylus is hit–he’s not healing. We need evac, fallback point B, now.”

Static.

Then: “Copy. On our way.”

You turned back to him. He was still watching you, barely hiding the pain now. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You just moved beside him, bracing your shoulder against his and helping him to his feet. His arm slipped over yours, heavy and trembling, but he didn’t complain.

You didn’t let go.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You had blood on your hands, and none of it was yours.

The room was dim, built into the rock itself – no windows, just cool concrete, shadows, and low amber light from a single ceiling fixture. One of Sylus’s many bolt-holes across the map. You didn’t ask how many.

He sat on the edge of the cot, shirt discarded, the white bandage at his ribs already stained dark. You knelt beside him, patch kit open, gloves abandoned. The cut on your palm from earlier throbbed faintly, but you didn’t notice it.

“You’re lucky it missed your lung,” you said under your breath, peeling away the soaked gauze.

Sylus tilted his head, watching you work. “You planning to report me to HR?”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

He smirked. A pale thing. His voice came quieter this time. “I am immortal. This isn’t even top ten.”

“That’s not the point,” you said, not looking up. Your hands were steady, but your voice wavered. “You didn’t tell me you were weak earlier. You brushed it off like it was nothing.”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered.”

Silence. A slow, searing silence.

You finally looked at him. “I don’t like seeing you like that.”

His smirk faded. That faint amusement drained away under the quiet weight of your words.

“I’m sorry,” you added quickly. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I was just–scared.”

The last word came quieter than you meant it to.

You were still holding the clean wrap in both hands, but hadn’t moved to press it against his side yet. Your fingers stilled in the space between you.

Sylus studied your face.

Something in his expression flickered. Less guarded. Less amused.

“You did good tonight,” he said, voice low. “You kept your head. You got me out. And you’re still here.”

You exhaled, shaky. “Barely.”

“It counts.”

You didn’t reply. Just leaned in and pressed the bandage against his ribs, careful, but firm.

He hissed softly through his teeth, eyes scrunching shut.

“Sorry,” you murmured, even though you weren’t. “Maybe if someone hadn’t downplayed their weakness to sunlight like an idiot–”

He chuckled under his breath. “You wound me.”

“Gonna make me patch those too?”

That got a twitch of a smile out of him.

The silence returned, but it was different this time. Thicker. Denser. Like the walls were leaning in around you, trying to listen.

You both stayed still longer than you should have – your fingers brushing just barely along his ribs, your legs folded beneath you, his breath soft and shallow, like he was still deciding if he could trust it.

There was something warm in the space between you now. Something unspoken. Almost unbearable.

You swallowed. “So. What’s the immortal recovery plan? A nap?”

“Maybe two. If you’d stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re kneeling in front of me with a death grip on medical gauze.”

You flushed and pulled your hands away, but you didn’t move back.

His voice dipped. “You really were scared?”

You hesitated. “Of course I was.”

Another long pause.

Then, softly–like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud:

“You didn’t have to be.”

You looked up at him, eyes locking again. That same pull, quiet and gravity-heavy, like something between you had almost shifted but hadn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood finally, wiping your hands on your pants, backing away like it was nothing. Like your pulse hadn’t jumped. Like you weren’t still trying to ignore the look on his face.

“I’ll let you rest,” you said.

He didn’t stop you.

But his eyes followed you all the way to the door.

The second the door closed behind you, your breath left you like a wave crashing out.

Too much.

It had been too much.

You leaned back against the cold metal, pressing your spine into it like you could anchor yourself. Your palms still smelled like antiseptic. Your heart hadn’t slowed down. You could still feel the heat of his skin against your fingers, the rasp of his voice in your ear.

“Sweetie…”

You shook your head sharply.

That wasn’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to care like that. 

This world was never meant to be yours. You knew that from the start. Every thread you’d tugged at, every choice you’d made – it was all just survival. Keeping your cover. Staying out of the way. Just until you could get back home.

But then Sylus got hurt. And something unspoken cracked open in you.

You covered your face with both hands and exhaled again, harder this time.

He didn’t look afraid.

He didn’t even look surprised.

But you had been terrified.

And not just because of the blood.

It was the way his voice softened. The way he looked at you. Like he’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to mean anything to him. Like maybe you did.

The vision. Hallucination. Whatever the hell that was. 

It was exactly what you had seen in the game. But more… real.

Why did it feel so real?

You couldn’t do this.

You needed air.

You fumbled your phone out of your pocket and tapped quickly through your contacts.

Rafayel.

It rang twice before the line clicked on.

“Hey cutie,” His voice was warm, easy. There was ocean behind it — seagulls, maybe. Wind through open windows. “Miss me already?”

You swallowed and tried to laugh. It barely came out. “I was wondering… when I’m back from the desert–would you mind if I came to Whitesand for a bit?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Of course you can.”

You blinked fast, staring at the far wall like it might give you strength. “I just need to clear my head. Nothing serious.”

“You sure?” He asks, with a note of quiet concern. “It doesn’t sound like nothing, did something happen out there?”

“I’m okay,” you said quickly, forcing your voice to lighten. “Just sandy and probably sunburnt.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, me too.”

You smiled faintly. Let the quiet settle a second longer before thanking him and hanging up.

Then you lowered the device and stared down at your hands again.

This wasn’t about Sylus. At least, not entirely.

This was about everything pressing in too close. The heat. The silence. The fact that you were starting to forget what life before this had even felt like. That the man bleeding on a cot in the next room had made you feel something real. Something you have no right to feel – not in this world. And that terrified you more than anything.

You didn’t need to figure out what any of it meant.

You just needed distance.

Time.

A new horizon to look at so you could breathe again.

You weren’t falling.

You were just tired.

And if you left now, maybe you could still convince yourself that was true.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The plane ride back to the base was quiet.

You’d pretended to sleep the whole way, head leaned against the window, eyes half-lidded behind Sylus’s spare jacket. No one spoke much. Kieran kept fiddling with the comms receiver like it might say something different if he tuned it just right. Luke watched the clouds like he was trying to memorize their shapes. Sylus said nothing.

When the engines cut and the bay doors opened, you were the first one out.

No one stopped you. Maybe they thought you needed space. Maybe they just didn’t know what to say. You didn’t blame them.

Inside the base, you moved on autopilot. Through the dark corridors, past the still-glowing mission board, into your room. You didn’t unpack. You grabbed a bag, stuffed in the bare minimum. A change of clothes. A small vial of disinfectant Sylus had given you with a flippant, “For when I’m not around.”

You didn’t leave a note.

By the time you reached the base level, your hands had stopped shaking. Almost.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The wind off the water found you before he did.

You stood in the studio doorway, half-shadowed beneath the salt-bleached awning, watching the waves roll in through the slatted window. Rafayel was inside, finishing something – a canvas leaned against the far wall, half-drenched in blues and burnished golds. You weren’t really looking at it.

You just needed to be somewhere else.

When he saw you, he didn’t smile right away. He set down his brush, walked toward you, and looked – really looked – like someone measuring the shape of a storm before it broke.

“You’re not okay,” he said softly.

You shrugged.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the beach.”

You walked beside him in silence. Sand gave underfoot, cool from the breeze, the sky above faintly overcast, a relief after the dry bite of the desert. Rafayel kept a respectful distance, hands in his pockets, humming low now and then, like he didn’t want silence to feel too sharp.

You told yourself you wouldn’t cry.

But it came anyway. Sudden. Heavy.

Like your body couldn’t hold it anymore.

You stopped walking and pressed the heel of your hand hard against your eyes, trying to stifle the tears. It didn’t work. Your shoulders shook.

He turned back instantly.

And without a word, Rafayel stepped close, wrapping his arms around you, guiding you gently to his chest.

You went with him.

Didn’t even think.

Didn’t care who saw.

You buried your face in the fabric of his shirt, his scent faintly oceanic and earthy – paint, seawater, something warm and unfamiliar. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, slow and steady.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you cutie.”

You clutched the front of his shirt a little tighter. Your throat hurt. But the sobs quieted, not because the pain was gone, but because something steadier was holding it up now.

After a while, he shifted just enough to rest his cheek against the crown of your head. And then–

He started to hum.

Soft. Low.

Some old melody you didn’t know, but it felt familiar in your bones. He began to sway, slow and rhythmic, guiding your body with his like you were dancing in a memory neither of you could name.

You let him.

Because for the first time in days, maybe longer, it didn’t feel like the world was slipping out from under you.

It just felt like the tide.

And Rafayel was the shore.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The base was quiet. Too quiet for this time of night.

Sylus moved through the corridors with no real destination, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing lightly against the polished concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a door hissed open and shut. Equipment clinked. Life went on.

He hated this part. The aftermath.

No bullets to dodge, no protocols to follow, no one bleeding out in the dust.

Just silence. And memory.

He hadn’t spoken much since they got back. Kieran had patched him up and cracked a few jokes. Luke asked if he wanted to run duos. Sylus brushed them both off.

He told himself it was because of the injury. Said he needed rest. Said it was nothing.

But the truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your hands had trembled over his chest. The way your voice cracked when the wound wouldn’t close. The way you’d looked at him like you weren’t ready to lose him.

And that scared him more than bleeding out ever could.

He walked until he found himself near the game room, not even remembering how he’d gotten there. The space was dim, lit by low strips of LEDs along the ceiling. Empty, except for the twins leaning against a gaming pod, sharing a snack and arguing about some side bet.

They noticed him before he could turn back.

“Boss!” Kieran said, mouth half full. “You’re up. Feeling better?”

“Fine,” he said shortly.

Luke squinted at him. “You’re not looking for her, are you?”

That stopped him.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

Kieran popped another bite into his mouth, watching him. “She’s not here.”

Sylus kept his expression neutral. “Where?”

“Whitesand,” Luke said. “Left a few hours ago. Didn’t say much, just said she needed air.”

He exhaled through his nose. A beat of silence stretched long between them.

“Didn’t seem upset or anything,” Kieran added, trying to fill the space. “Just kinda… quiet. Like she had something on her mind.”

Sylus didn’t reply. But his jaw tensed, subtle. Barely there.

He turned, murmured something like “Let me know if anything changes,” and walked away.

What would he even say if he called?

That he didn’t like the silence she left behind?

That he’d gotten used to her voice filling the base like it belonged there?

No. That was ridiculous.

She needed space. Fine. He’d give it to her.

He didn’t have the right to get attached.

But somehow, every step he took away from that room felt heavier than the last.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Morning came slowly in Whitesand.

Golden sunlight poured through the arched windows, casting soft waves across the sheets. The ocean murmured somewhere beyond the glass, a quiet hush-hush rhythm that folded over the silence like a lullaby.

You blinked up at the ceiling, bleary and warm. Your body ached in places you didn’t remember bruising. Salt clung to your skin like a memory.

Last night felt far away. The beach. The dance. Rafayel’s arms around you, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

It should’ve been awkward – but it wasn’t.

It should have felt wrong. But it didn’t.

You sat up, stretching until your joints popped. Somewhere down the hall, the sound of soft humming drifted in, familiar and low. It was the same tune he’d hummed last night. That strange little lullaby. You weren’t sure if it was from Lemuria, or just something he made up.

You followed the sound barefoot through the airy studio. The smell of paint met you first, sea salt and turpentine and something floral. He was there, back turned, brush in one hand, the other tucked behind his back. Barefoot, of course. He always was in the mornings.

“You hum in your sleep too,” you said, voice rough with sleep. “Could hear you from the living room.”

Rafayel didn’t turn around. “Do I?” he said, amused. “I must be dreaming in tune.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “What’re you working on?”

“Something hideous.” He turned slightly, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “It’ll be perfect once I ruin it a little more.”

You smiled despite yourself. The air in the studio was warm, tinted with that lazy, golden serenity only Whitesand ever seemed to have. It was impossible to hold tension here. Like the walls refused it.

And for the first time in days you let your shoulders drop.

“Can I ruin it with you?” you asked.

That got a real look from him – full attention now, gaze flickering to your face like he was studying something new.

“Absolutely not,” he said dryly. “You’ll ruin it far too beautifully. I’ll get jealous.”

You laughed. Really laughed.

And just like that, the heaviness receded another inch.

“C’mere, I want to show you something.”

He took you to the back wing of the studio, where the salt scent grew heavier and the windows spilled afternoon light in long golden blades across the floor.

“This is what I’ve been working on,” he said quietly, gesturing toward the room.

Paintings – maybe twenty of them – lined the walls. None of them signed. All of them unfinished in some way: a missing figure, an edge left blurred, a gesture half-realized. They were strange, aching things. Not abstract, not realistic, somewhere in between. They looked like memories.

“I haven’t shown anyone this room,” he said. “They’re for a private exhibition. Something… quiet. Not sure when I’ll hold it.”

You didn’t answer. You were still staring at one painting in particular – a shape rising from black water, burning. A silhouette reaching toward something just out of frame. Your chest ached, and you didn’t know why.

“I painted that one a while ago,” He murmured. “Can’t decide if it’s finished yet.”

“What does it mean?”

“I lost something,” He almost whispers. “...something important.”

You don’t ask what.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You woke late, salt-crusted and sea-heavy, in one of the spare rooms Rafayel had offered without question. Morning had already passed, sunlight curling lazily across the floor in wide slats.

He didn’t ask if you’d slept. He just handed you sandals and said, “Come on. You haven’t seen Whitesand properly.”

The day unfolded in pieces. Quiet ones.

Rafayel took you through side streets painted in coral and faded turquoise, where flowering vines spilled over balconies and the air smelled like sugarfruit and sea brine. He led you to an old stone market near the harbor, where vendors called his name and offered you samples like you were already part of the landscape.

He bought you a ring – a thin silver band with a starfish and a pearl.

“You don’t have to,” you’d started.

“I know,” he said, already placing it in your palm. “But I wanted to.”

You tried to thank him. He just shrugged, looking away a little too quickly.

The afternoon softened. You stopped for grilled flatbread at a stall beside a fountain and sat in the shade while a group of street kids danced through the plaza. Rafayel didn’t talk much, but when he did, his voice always carried.

And later, when the sun dipped toward the ocean and the sky turned amber, he walked with you down to the beach.

You stayed close to the cliffs, where the sand turned pale and cool beneath your feet. The tide was coming in. You walked in silence, the breeze tugging at your sleeves, the sound of gulls giving way to waves and wind.

When the moon finally rose, low and white and heavy over the water, Rafayel stopped.

He shrugged off his jacket, spread it out on the sand, and sat.

You joined him. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just was.

For a while, all you did was watch the ocean. The kind of quiet that hurt and healed at the same time.

Then, softly,

“Will you… tell me about Lemuria?”

Rafayel’s gaze didn’t move.

But his voice did.

“It’s… not what people think,” he said. “There’s no gold. No towers. Not anymore.” 

“But when there was, it was… beautiful. It’s vast.” he sighs, “It was lively.”

You glanced at him.

He was watching the horizon. His features were softened by the moonlight, less untouchable, more real.

“It’s dark down there. No sun. Just light from the creatures, or the stones in the walls. You start to hear things – your breath, your thoughts, your heartbeat. You can’t outrun anything.’

You didn’t realize you were shivering until his shoulder brushed yours, close enough to feel warmth.

“I miss that part of it sometimes,” he said. “The stillness. Not the isolation. Just… the way everything settled.”

You looked at him.

And for a moment, in the hush between words, something in you eased.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The moon was still high by the time you made it back to the studio.

Rafayel held the door for you, wordless, his silhouette lit faintly by the lanterns inside. He didn’t ask how you were feeling, didn’t comment on the quiet that had settled between you. He just moved toward the back room, murmuring something about making tea, and disappeared behind a curtain of gauze-draped fabric.

You stood alone for a moment. The salt still clung to your skin. Your sandals were full of sand. You didn’t want to move.

But your phone buzzed.

Not a call.

Just a text.

You need to come back.

We’ve got something. You’ll be briefed when you’re here.

No greeting. No explanation. 

You stared at the message, thumb hovering just above the screen.

The last time you’d seen him, his blood had been on your hands. Literally. The bandages. The trembling weight of his arm around your shoulders. The echo of his voice saying sweetie like it meant something.

You hadn’t talked since.

Another buzz.

Tonight, if possible.

That clipped tone again. Cold. Professional.

You swallowed hard. A pit opened in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was still there.

Behind you, the floor creaked softly.

Rafayel returned, holding two mismatched ceramic cups. “Didn’t know if you’d want chamomile or sea fennel,” he said, offering both. “So I made both.”

You took one without thinking.

His eyes lingered on your face.

“Something wrong?”

You shook your head. “Just got a message. I have to go back. Sylus needs me.”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t press.

Just nodded once, slowly. “Of course.”

But something in his expression shifted. Just slightly. Not hurt, not even surprised – but… quiet.

Like the tide pulling back.

You looked down into the tea. Your reflection trembled faintly on the surface, fractured by ripples. You hated that your first thought wasn’t what does Onychinus need – it was what will Sylus be like when I see him again.

You took a breath. Shallow. Bracing.

“Thanks,” you murmured, eyes still on the cup. “For the tea. For everything.”

Rafayel smiled, and this time it was faint – one corner of his mouth, like he knew you’d never really stay.

“Be careful,” he said gently. “Don’t forget there’s a world outside of him.”

You looked up.

But before you could respond, your phone buzzed again.

Chapter 7: Drift

Summary:

Tension simmers between you and Sylus: silence, too many missions, and everything that should have been said weeks ago. When the weight of it all drives you to Whitesand Bay, you’re not ready for what Rafayel’s touch stirs… or what his bond mark reveals. And in the quiet that follows, you’re left wondering whose arms you’re truly safe in.

The ride back to the N109 zone was quiet.

Even Whitesand’s sunlight hadn’t stayed with you, as if your body knew where it was going, and decided to go dim.

You didn’t text Sylus.

Didn’t ask why he wanted you back. Didn’t ask if he was still recovering. Just showed up at the base like you always had, bag on your shoulder, moving quick through corridors that never saw daylight.

It was Kieran who caught you first.

He was leaning against the doorframe near the armory, tossing something between his hands. “Hey. You’re back.”

You nodded, too tired for anything else.

He looked you over – not unkind, just sharp-eyed, even through the mask. “He’s in the upper wing. Already knows you’re here.”

You hesitated.

Kieran didn’t miss it. His tone softened. “He’s fine.”

“Right,” you said quietly.

He paused, then added, almost offhandedly, “He met with her yesterday. Miss Hunter,"

You blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Guess he wanted to check on something.” Kieran shrugged. “Didn’t say much afterward.”

Something cold settled behind your ribs.

The path ahead seemed darker somehow, the lights more fluorescent. You walked past him without another word, pulse a little unsteady.

Whatever Sylus had been hoping to find in that meeting, 

He hadn’t found it.

The upper wing was quieter than you remembered.

Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was you.

You slowed at the door to Sylus’s office. It was cracked open, just enough to show slanted shadows across the floor, papers strewn haphazardly on the desk. Light bled in through a single lamplight. Pale. Cool-toned. It made everything feel washed out.

You hesitated, then knocked once and stepped inside.

“I’m back,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He didn’t speak right away. Just studied you. There was no obvious expression on his face, no tension, no smile, no questions, but you still felt the weight of him watching.

Then: “Didn’t think you’d come this fast.”

“You said to.”

“Didn’t think you’d listen.”

You huffed a small breath. “Well. Here I am.”

Another silence.

You dropped your gaze, fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. The air between you felt dense – not cold, not hostile, but weighted. And not just with unspoken words.

With the memory of a hand over yours, blood on your fingers. His voice, broken, trembling. You hadn’t talked about it. Didn’t want to. You’d pretended it didn’t matter.

But it did.

It lingered.

He exhaled slowly, then pushed off the desk.

You blinked.

“In the desert,” he said, “When you saw I wasn’t healing.”

You looked up.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he said. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I know.”

He paused. “You looked scared.”

You hesitated. “I was.”

There was something naked in that admission. But it didn’t make him gloat. He just nodded slightly, lips pressed together like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

You stepped further into the room.

“I didn’t mean to mess up the mission,” you said. “If I overreacted–”

“You didn’t.”

You looked at him again.

He didn’t flinch. “You were right to worry. I was careless. I should’ve prepared better.”

You let that sit between you.

Then: “So. What now?”

His arms folded again, but not in defense. Just habit.

“Now?” he said. “We get back to work.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

After your conversation, things with Sylus were… strange.

Not strained, not tense – but quiet. Measured. Like neither of you wanted to name the thing pressing under your ribs. You avoided it by working harder. He avoided it by assigning you more.

At first, you didn’t mind.

The schedule picked up. Two mission briefings, a gallery sweep, then an overnight stakeout with Luke and Kieran. You were tired. Busy. Focused.

But every time your phone lit up – an image from Whitesand, a photo of seashells laid out like constellations, something twisted in your chest.

You didn’t even respond, not right away. You waited. 

You thought:

I’ll just go in a few days.

And then you didn’t.

Because suddenly there was always something else to do.

A last-minute inspection. A client debrief. A surprise event Sylus wanted a full presence for. Not an order, exactly. Just a nudge, phrased like a choice.

And when you finally said, I might go to Whitesand this weekend, Sylus nodded once and said, “Let’s talk after the weapons drop in Charon.”

You didn't bring it up again.

Not directly.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

It was late when you found him.

You were tired.

The mission board was aglow in low light, and Sylus was standing in front of it, arms folded, the glow washing faint gold across his face.

You watched him a moment before you said it:

“Do you not want me to go?”

He didn’t turn. “Go where?”

“To Whitesand.”

A pause.

Then,

“Why would I care where you go?”

That clipped tone again – the same one he used when he didn’t want to answer something.

“I don’t know,” you said. “You tell me. I’ve been here everyday for almost a month, and every time I mention going, you suddenly have a reason for me to stay.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

He sighed, eyes still locked on the glowing map in front of him.

“I’m not stopping you,” he said. “You’re the one who signed on with me. Business comes first.”

“Because it made sense at the time,” you shot back. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to leave. I’m not a prisoner, Sylus.”

“You’re not being treated like one.”

“No?” Your voice raised half a note. “Then tell me what this is. Every time I try to get a moment away, you suddenly have a schedule full of things I ‘need’ to be at. You never used to care if I had downtime.”

“That was before I realized I couldn’t trust–”

He stopped. The word hung.

You stared at him. “Can’t trust me?”

“No,” he said – too fast. “Not you.”

You took a step forward. “Then who?”

A beat.

He looked at you. Finally, directly. And for the first time in a while, you didn’t see steel behind his eyes. You saw uncertainty. Frustration. The kind that made his voice go quieter when he spoke.

“I don’t trust him.”

Silence.

You didn’t even pretend not to know who he meant.

Your mouth parted, slow and disbelieving. “You don’t even know Rafayel.”

“I know enough.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t. You’ve never met him. You don’t know what he’s like, or what we’ve–”

“--what you’ve what?” he cut in, voice still calm, but sharper now. “Talked about? Texted about? Walked on a beach while he played nice?”

You blinked. The tone was worse than the words. Not jealousy. Maybe. But something close – not possessive, but protective in a way that stung.

“Why does it matter to you?” you asked, breath catching. “Why do you care who I spend time with, when you won’t even give me a straight answer about why I'm here–about how I got here?”

Sylus flinched – subtly, but you saw it.

You pushed.

“Have you even looked into it lately?” you asked. “Or have you gotten so used to me being here you just forgot it was temporary?”

His stomach dropped.

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is being dropped into a world I didn’t ask for and constantly being expected to wait. To help. To adjust. While you–while you start treating me like some kind of wildcard you need to keep reined in.”

His jaw worked. You saw the muscle flick.

“You don’t know what he wants from you,” he said, voice tight. “And I don’t want you to get hurt trying to find out.”

You laughed once – bitter, quiet. “And I’m supposed to trust you instead? The guy who still hasn’t told me anything about how I got here? Or if I’m ever getting back?”

You locked eyes with him.

“You promised you’d figure it out, Sylus.”

He said nothing.

The silence felt cold this time.

You stared at him a second longer, and when he didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything – you turned and walked out.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You didn’t slam your door when you got to your room.

But only because it would’ve felt too loud. Too childish.

Instead, you shoved it closed with your shoulder and leaned against it, just for a second. Just long enough to get your breath back.

Your hands were shaking.

It wasn’t even the fight itself. You’d had worse. Sharper words, deeper cuts. But something about this one – about the way Sylus looked at you, like you’d crossed some invisible line by wanting space, had thrown you off center.

You exhaled.

Then, without really thinking, crossed the room in three fast strides.

Your bag was still half-packed from last week’s false start. You tossed in the rest – jacket, charger, toothbrush, and the book you hadn’t been able to finish – before pulling the zipper closed.

You didn’t bother to leave a note.

Your phone was already in your hand when you hit the hallway.

hey

i’m coming over

is that okay?

The reply came almost instantly.

you’re always okay cutie

studio or the beach?

You stared at the screen. Something in your chest cracked.

studio

i’ll be there soon

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

​​The trip to Whitesand Bay passed in a blur.

You took a small transport vehicle from the base. Didn’t wait for clearance. You didn’t need it. Not anymore. Not for this.

The sky darkened as you crossed through the neutral zones, twilight pooling across the coastline like spilled ink, that familiar ocean tang sliding under your skin the closer you got. By the time the glass dome of the studio rose in the distance, you could already feel your lungs unclench.

You were halfway to the front when the door opened for you.

Rafayel was standing there barefoot, paint on one hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair lightly tousled, catching moonlight like silk.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just stepped aside, letting you walk in.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy.

It was… waiting.

You set your bag down near the door and exhaled through your nose.

“I needed to get out,” you said finally.

“I figured.”

“I had a fight with Sylus.”

Just a flicker, barely visible, but it was there: the subtle shift in his posture. A blink too slow, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth before it flattened again.

Most people wouldn’t have caught it.

You didn’t.

Rafayel just nodded, expression unreadable again. “Let’s get some air cutie,” he said. “You look like you’re about to melt through the floor.”

You didn’t argue.

The stars weren’t quite visible, but the moon was full – its silver light poured across the tiled balcony like water, catching the ridges in the salt-scuffed railings and the windblown strands of your hair. Below, the tide whispered over the rocks, a slow inhale and exhale that mirrored your breath – or tried to.

You couldn’t stop pacing.

“I don’t know what he wants from me,” you muttered, arms folded tight. “Like– I said I’d work with him. I meant it. I am. But every time I breathe too far in any other direction, it’s like I’m doing something wrong.”

Rafayel didn’t interrupt.

He sat perched on the edge of a lounge chair, long legs folded, the tip of one foot brushing the floor like he was keeping time. You felt his gaze on you, not sharp, but steady. Measuring.

You kept going.

“I’m not trying to piss him off. I’m not doing anything. I just–” You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration cracking your voice. “Being there is too much sometimes, I just want to get away. But when I try he acts like– like I’m making a mistake,”

“He keeps pulling me back. And I keep letting him. And I don’t know what’s worse- the guilt when I go or the relief when I’m away.”

That earned you a soft hum. “And which one are you feeling now?”

You hesitated. “…Both.”

He nodded, like that made perfect sense.

You turned away from him slightly, hugging your arms tighter.

“Tell me what I’m doing wrong,” you murmured.

Rafayel exhaled through his nose. “You're asking the wrong person.”

“There must be something,” you said, quieter now.

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

You heard the creak of the chair. The sound of bare footsteps against tile.

And then his hand touched your back – slow, deliberate – between your shoulder blades. Just enough pressure to be steadying. Just enough to make your heart stutter.

His hand moved in slow circles, then down your arm, fingers trailing softly. Not possessive. Not even asking. Just… staying, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

When you turned to face him, the space between you felt impossibly small.

The night pulled tighter around your shoulders.

Rafayel’s eyes weren’t just watching you. They were reading you. Like a poem he couldn’t quite memorize. Like a painting he wasn’t finished with.

“I don’t want to fall apart,” you whispered. “I just wanted somewhere to breathe.”

“You found it,” he said softly. “With me. Always.”

His thumb brushed along your arm, barely there. Then, slowly, his other hand reached up – tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your skin, grazing your cheek.

He was so close now. His breath mingled with yours.

You felt something in you shift – not desire exactly, but something deeper. Something ancient. You felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark. Like realizing you’ve already leaned too far forward.

Rafayel’s hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge just below your ear. His gaze flicked, just once, from your eyes to your mouth.

He whispered your name like a prayer, soft and reverent.

Your hand found his chest. Just to ground yourself. Just to feel something solid.

You weren’t sure who moved first. But you were closer now.

And then–

Warmth. Under your palm.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flicked downward.

A glow. Fiery orange. Soft at first, then unmistakable.

Your heart dropped.

“The mark,” you breathed.

Rafayel stiffened. “What–?”

You took a full step back.

“Your bond mark. She needs you. I–I should go.”

His hand reached out instinctively. “Wait– it’s not-”

But you were already turning, already backing away.

Grabbing your bag.

Not looking at him.

“I’ll text you later,” you said quickly. “Sorry–I just– I need to-”

He didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

Didn’t say your name.

He just stood there, chest still glowing faintly beneath the fabric of his shirt. 

The door clicked shut.

The waves whispered like they were trying to fill the silence.

And Rafayel… stayed perfectly still.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

She was gone.

The door hadn’t even finished swinging shut before the silence hit – sharp, surgical. The kind of quiet that made it feel like something vital had just slipped out of reach.

Rafayel didn’t move.

He stood where she’d left him, hand still loosely hovering near his chest, like some part of him hadn't quite accepted the moment had ended. Like maybe if he stayed still enough, it would rewind.

It didn’t.

A breath dragged in slow. Salt air. Cold now.

He turned away from the railing and sat heavily on the chair beneath the window, elbows to knees, shoulders tense.

Fucking idiot.

What the hell was I doing?

He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tightening as he exhaled through his teeth.

Stupid.

He knew better.

She hadn’t come here for that. She hadn’t come to be seen or touched or understood like that. Not tonight. 

And yet he’d stood there – let his hands linger, let his eyes wander, let the space between them narrow until there hadn’t been any left.

Of course she ran.

He pressed his palms together, fingers laced tight, knuckles whitening.

He should've stopped it before she had to.

The wind picked up again, tugging at the awning overhead, rattling the salt-warped frame of the balcony. He stared out at the dark surf beyond the cliffs, expression unreadable.

One misstep.

One moment too far.

And now–

Now he wasn’t sure what would happen next.

But it was already too late to pretend nothing had happened at all.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The studio door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t slam it. You didn’t speak. You just walked.

Down the stairs, across the moonlit boardwalk, toward the far edge of Whitesand Bay. Your hands were shaking. You wiped your face twice before you realized the tears hadn’t stopped.

The air felt too warm. Too soft. Like the night was trying to be gentle with you and failing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

You reached into your pocket, pulled out your phone, and hit his number without thinking.

It rang once. Twice.

Then: “Sylus-”

You stopped walking. Voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m in Whitesand.”

A pause. You heard him shift. “What’s wrong?”

Your throat closed around the answer. You didn’t want to talk about it. Couldn’t.

“Can I stay at your safe house?”

Another beat.

Then, “I’m coming.”

Click.

You stood there in the quiet, the soft rush of waves at your back, still trembling – not from fear, not from cold, not even from whatever that had just been – but from something you didn’t have a name for yet.

So you walked again. To the safe house. To the person you weren’t sure you were running to or from.

And waited.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The lock clicked open.

You didn’t move.

You were still sitting on the edge of the couch, back hunched, hands curled in your lap like you were trying to hold something together that kept falling apart. Your hair clung to your cheeks, damp from crying, your breath hitching in stuttered pulls as you fought to calm down.

The door opened. Closed.

Sylus called your name. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

You heard footsteps – slow, deliberate. “Sweetie,”

Your head jerked up.

Sylus was already across the room, his coat dripping with night air. The moment he saw your face, he crouched in front of you – one hand coming to your knee, the other reaching like he wanted to touch your face but stopped short.

“What happened?”

You blinked. More tears spilled over.

“I…” You tried to swallow the sob in your throat. “You were right.”

Sylus stilled.

“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered, “but everything’s too messy now, I don’t know what I’m doing– I keep messing it all up–”

“Hey. Stop.” His hand rose again, this time brushing gently over your cheek. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you cried. “I’m not supposed to be here– I didn’t even want to be– and now I’m hurting people and lying and I– I can’t fix it– it’s all just–”

Your words collapsed into a broken sound. You turned your face away, ashamed, eyes burning.

But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t question it. He just leaned forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you into him.

You didn’t resist.

You sank against his chest like you were falling, like your bones didn’t want to hold you anymore. His coat was cold, his heartbeat steady beneath it. He rested his chin gently against the top of your head and held you through the shaking.

“Shh,” he murmured, voice low, barely above the breath he exhaled. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“I shouldn’t have come,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have–”

“You’re not the villain here,” he said firmly. “You were thrown into something impossible and expected to survive it. And you did. You are.”

Your fingers clutched at his sleeves.

“I just wanted to stop feeling like I was drowning– Everything it’s just– It’s so overwhelming-”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “You’ve been swimming blind. This whole time.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your voice was hoarse when it finally came. “…I’m sorry I snapped at you. At the base. I shouldn’t have cornered you like that.”

Sylus pulled back just enough to look at you – not with anger or surprise, but with something weighted, like guilt that had settled and made a home there.

“No,” he said quietly. “You had every right to. I should’ve been honest with you from the start.”

Your eyes met his.

“I was too harsh,” he said. “Too… controlling. I thought if I kept you close, I could keep you safe. But all I did was trap you.”

You shook your head, the motion weak. “You were trying to help.”

“I was mean,” he murmured. “You didn't deserve that.”

A shaky breath escaped you – something between a sigh and a sob – and finally, your breath evened. Not because anything had been fixed.

But because, for now, you didn’t feel like you had to hold it all by yourself.

And Sylus was still there, his hand steady on your back, like he meant to stay that way.

The tears had slowed. Then stopped. Then came the silence – thick, heavy, but not unbearable.

You weren’t sure when your eyes closed. Sometime between Sylus murmuring that you were safe and the way his thumb had started to move in slow, absent circles along your back. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep – hadn’t thought you could, not like this – but everything in you was exhausted.

And he was warm.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You woke up slowly, bleary-eyed, the room still wrapped in gray dawn.

You were curled slightly, cheek pressed to something solid. Familiar.

Sylus.

You froze for a moment, blinking into the soft fabric of his shirt. His shoulder rose and fell beneath your head, breathing even, relaxed. He hadn’t moved.

Your heart gave a small, confused stutter.

Carefully, you sat up.

He glanced at you almost immediately. He hadn’t been asleep. Just sitting there in the dim light, eyes a little distant.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Yeah. Sorry–”

“Don’t be.” He sat up straighter, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve. “You needed to rest. I wasn’t going to wake you.”

The clock on the wall read just past seven. Pale light was filtering in through the blinds, Whitesand’s gentle kind, soft and golden and too quiet to feel real.

You looked at him. Really looked.

There was no trace of judgment on his face. No pity either. Just the same quiet calm, like he’d made space for you and hadn’t moved from it since.

You nodded again. “We should get back.”

“Yeah.” He rose to his feet, then held a hand out to you. “Come on.”

You took it.

No more words were exchanged. The silence between you on the way back to Onychinus was different this time – not sharp, not tense. Just soft around the edges.

Chapter 8: High Tide

Summary:

A week passes behind drawn curtains, with only silence for company. When the world finally stirs again, it arrives with rain, a dress tied in crimson ribbon, and a face you didn’t expect to see again. Shadows flicker behind velvet lights. A storm brews, inside and out. And when the power goes out, so does the illusion of truth.

You spent the week inside your room.

Not because anyone told you to. There was no mission to complete, no chain dragging you down – and yet, you stayed.

Blankets tangled. Curtains drawn. The lights dimmed until the days bled together. The bed grew warm from how long you lay there, your pillow cold only on one side. Sometimes you fell asleep without meaning to. Other times you stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, hollow and weightless.

It was a strange thing – this ache to vanish.

To press pause on the world and sink beneath it.

You thought back to all the nights you’d felt this way before – back home. How often you’d used the game to escape the dull weight of loneliness. The hours you’d poured into it just to feel comforted by something safe and far away. Characters who said the right thing. Music that softened your chest. Love that never asked for more than your attention.

You let out a brittle laugh.

How did it all get so complicated?

How could the very thing that once soothed you leave you in such ruin?

And the worst part – the part that kept circling like a wound you wouldn’t stop picking – was that you weren’t even sure you wanted to go back.

How were you supposed to return to that world and pretend this one hadn’t changed you?

How could you ever open the game again and pretend you hadn’t pressed your hand over Sylus’s wound – felt the warmth of his blood under your palm, his breath catching as he tried to shield you from the pain?

How could you forget the way Rafayel looked at you beneath the moonlight – like your name was the only one he remembered, like he would’ve burned the world down just to hear you say his again?

How could you sit on your bed back home, phone in hand, and tell yourself it didn’t mean anything?

You couldn’t.

Not anymore.

But you didn’t want to stay here either.

You weren’t from this world. You didn’t belong to it. No matter how tightly it tried to pull you in.

You were stuck between two lives – one you no longer fit inside, and one you were never meant to claim.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure where you belonged at all.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

No one pried.

Kieran came by twice – dropping off meals you never finished, cracking a quiet joke through the door the first time, falling silent the second.

Luke didn’t speak at all. Just left a folded blanket on the edge of your bed one morning, tucked in neatly with a small packet of your favorite tea.

Sylus knocked once on the third day. Said your name – just once – like maybe that was enough. It almost was. You thought about answering. But the words got stuck in your throat, too soft to be heard.

So the days passed. Quiet and shapeless.

Until the ping of your phone broke through the stillness on the seventh day.

cutie

i’m sorry. im so sorry i shouldn’t have let it get that far can i explain? not to ask for anything, just so you know i didn’t mean to hurt you. it wasn’t what you think.

You stared at the messages for a long time. The screen lit up your face, pale and cold.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you rose slowly, pulling on a hoodie that still smelled like sand and salt and oil paint, and made your way out of the room for the first time in days.

The hallway lights felt too bright. You blinked against them, bare feet brushing the cold tile. It wasn’t until you reached the kitchen that you heard the soft hum of someone else already there.

Sylus.

He stood by the counter, back to you, hands braced on either side of a ceramic mug. His hair was tousled – still drying from a shower, it looked like – and there was a faint crease between his brows.

He heard your footsteps before you spoke.

“Hey,” he said, turning gently. Not surprised. Not startled. Just relieved.

“Hey,” you murmured.

His eyes skimmed your face, then lowered. He set the mug down slowly. “You’ve been… in your room a while.”

You gave a small nod. “I know.”

He didn’t press. Just moved a little closer, voice softening. “I’ve been giving you space. We all have, I know you… have a lot on your mind. But–”

“I know,” you repeated, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

A long pause.

Then, quietly:

“I want to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

You glanced up.

He met your eyes, something careful and patient in his. “Just us. It’s not business. I just think it might help. Clear your head.”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“I don’t know if I’m really up for–”

“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “You don’t even have to enjoy it. Just come with me. Let me try.”

That quiet again. But it wasn’t heavy this time.

“…Okay,” you said.

His mouth twitched – almost a smile – and he nodded once, stepping back.

“I’ll come by around noon.”

You gave another small nod, turning toward the sink, reaching for a glass.

Neither of you said anything else.

But as he left the room, you realized:

A small part of you didn’t feel like disappearing anymore.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You were still brushing the sleep from your eyes when you heard the knock.

Three slow taps – soft, but distinct.

You opened the door hesitantly, and there he was. Sylus. Dressed down, black slacks and a dark button-up open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was slicked back just enough to look intentional. In his hands: a box. Matte black, ribboned in crimson.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

He held it out to you. “A gift.”

You took it slowly, glancing up at him. “Why?”

“For that thing I mentioned yesterday,” he said. “Get dressed. I’m taking you to a fashion show.”

You stared.

A beat passed.

“You’re kidding.”

He almost smiled. “You’ve been locked up for a week. I figured something extravagant might tempt you.”

Your fingers worked the ribbon free, lifting the lid – and your breath caught.

Inside was a dress unlike anything you’d ever worn. Silken and weightless, in a deep burgundy that shimmered like starlight when you tilted it against the light. Alongside it, nestled in a velvet compartment: earrings of silver and diamonds, delicate and fluid like drops of water frozen mid-fall.

You looked up again, voice softer now. “I’ve never been to a fashion show before.”

“First time for everything.”

A small smile flickered at the corners of your mouth. You let your fingers linger on the fabric, then finally looked up and murmured:

“…Thanks, Sylus.”

His gaze warmed, just slightly. “I’ll wait downstairs. We'll leave in the evening.”

You nodded, retreating into your room. As the door clicked shut behind you, you held the dress up to the light again – and for the first time in days, something inside you sparked. Not joy, exactly. But curiosity. Maybe even anticipation.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The car slid to a stop in front of the venue just as thunder cracked overhead.

Rain sheeted down, heavy and sudden, drumming against the windshield in sharp staccato bursts. Through the fogged glass, the soft glow of the event hall shimmered like a mirage – all marble and glass and chrome, a clean-cut elegance dulled slightly by the haze of the storm.

Sylus leaned forward and gave the driver a nod before placing his coat around your shoulders. “Stay close.”

He popped the door and stepped out first, umbrella snapping open with a practiced flick. When he came around to your side, he was already half-soaked, collar damp and dark, hair dripping from the rain.

You laughed despite yourself as he offered you his hand. “You’re going to be drenched by the time we get inside.”

“Then let’s make it quick.” He smirked. “Come on.”

You took his hand and let him guide you out. The umbrella was barely wide enough for the both of you – your arm curled around his, pressed close as the two of you half-jogged through the puddled pavement and up the stairs. The doormen ushered you in fast, and the door shut behind you with a hiss, sealing off the storm like a held breath.

Inside, warmth and color bloomed.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sprawling gallery bathed in violet lights. Rows of seats flanked the catwalk, which gleamed like glass down the center of the room. Guests milled around, high fashion dripping from every sleeve, champagne glasses catching the low light like prisms.

You slipped off his coat and smoothed your dress, heart fluttering.

“This is… wow,” you murmured.

Sylus leaned toward you slightly. “Not bad for a last-minute invitation.”

“You know people?”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “I am people.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. Still locked into his arm, you let him guide you to your seats – front row, near center. 

You sat down beside him, still adjusting the hem of your dress even though it was perfectly fine. The lights overhead dimmed a touch, casting everything in cooler tones – purples, silvers, shadows. The kind of atmosphere that made your skin buzz.

Music began to drift in – low and sleek, the sound of velvet being dragged over glass. The room was filling fast, the buzz of conversation rising and falling in waves.

Sylus leaned in slightly, voice warm near your ear. “This part always drags. The fashion is great, but the crowd pretends it’s more dramatic than it is.”

“Are you saying rich people are bad actors?”

“Half of them are here for a photo. The other half are hoping they get seated next to someone interesting.”

“And which are we?”

He glanced at you, lips twitching. “The people who’ll make the front page either way.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re with me.”

You gave him a light shove, laughing, but your cheeks were warm.

You turned slightly to look out over the rest of the crowd – scanning rows, taking in the colors and couture, the shimmer of silver against skin, the flicker of phone cameras and whispered commentary.

And that’s when you saw him.

Rafayel.

Sitting across the runway, directly opposite you.

Hair slicked back from the rain. Sharp black suit. No umbrella. No one at his side.

His gaze wasn’t on you – not exactly. It was angled low, distant. Jaw tight. One hand curled on the armrest, white-knuckled.

He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Of course he’d be here.

Your breath caught, but before you could dwell on it, turn to tell Sylus, the lights dimmed. A hush fell. The show began.

Maybe he didn’t see me. Just keep your head down.

Music poured in, ethereal and slow. Models emerged, clothed in gauzy, impossible designs, dreamlike silhouettes and colors that shimmered like oil on water. You should’ve been mesmerized.

But outside, the storm had grown louder.

Wind howled against the glass. Thunder cracked so loud it swallowed the music whole. Lightning splintered the sky, and then–

Darkness.

A jolt of confusion swept the room. The music stuttered and died. Whispers rose. Emergency lights buzzed to life along the exits, dim and red.

Sylus turned to you, hand already brushing your arm. “Power’s out. We should go.”

“Bathroom first,” you said quickly, standing. “Just give me a minute.”

I need to breathe.

He nodded, scanning the crowd. “Don’t take too long.”

You slipped off toward the back.

“How long do you plan on playing house with her?”

Sylus turned.

Rafayel stood just behind him, half-shadowed by the dim lighting, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He wasn’t smiling.

Sylus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Rafayel said. His voice was low, cool. “Stay away from her.”

Sylus scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from the man she ran from in tears.”

Rafayel didn’t flinch. “You don’t even know what you’re involved in.”

Sylus squared his shoulders, brows lifting. “Then enlighten me.”

A flicker of emotion passed through Rafayel’s face – something bitter, something old.

“You don’t even recognize her, do you?” he said, voice sharp with restrained fury. “You spent all that time with her. You got to her before I did. And you still don’t see it.”

Sylus’s face shifted. His confidence faltered.

“What are you talking about?”

Rafayel’s eyes glinted.

“Who she truly is.”

Sylus’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

A low breath left Rafayel’s chest – not a laugh, but something like it. Bitten through with pain, bitterness, and reverence.

“My bride.”

Sylus blinked. “What–?”

“The one I forged my covenant with,” Rafayel said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Not some mimic… not a shade meant to keep me quiet. But her.” His gaze was miles deep now, somewhere ancient. “The one I’ve waited lifetimes for.”

Rafayel’s voice dropped low, laced with venom. “If you truly loved her, you would have seen it – before she even got here. But you didn’t. You missed the signs, the truth beneath the surface. You don’t deserve her presence.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, searching Rafayel’s eyes. 

“Don’t you feel it?” Rafayel pressed, stepping closer. “You’re bound to her too, aren’t you? You don’t feel the pull? Don’t see the life in her eyes? You don’t feel the weight of everything you’ve shared?”

Sylus was nearly speechless, the weight of it settling in his chest.

He did feel it. 

But he hadn’t let himself believe it.

“Did you… bring her here?” he finally asked, voice barely steady.

Rafayel’s gaze deepened into something darker. “She’s supposed to be here. I brought her to where she belongs.”

Sylus didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Lightning cracked again, illuminating Rafayel’s face in stark relief. For a second – just a second – he looked haunted.

Then:

“Sylus?”

The voice was far-off at first. Faint.

You.

He turned, scanning the thinning crowd.

You were threading your way toward him, eyes searching. “There you are,” you said, relieved. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He turned back.

Rafayel was gone.

Sylus’s jaw tensed, but he forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “I’m okay.”

You studied him, unconvinced.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said softly. “Come on, sweetie.”

He took your arm, pulled you close, and led you through the crowd, back into the storm.

Chapter 9: Anchor

Summary:

Rafayel was lost. Until he found you.

The ocean was a constant.

Even on days when the world beneath his feet felt like it might come apart, Rafayel could still count on the tide to return. The pull and retreat. The endless breath of something older than time. He’d built his studio near it for that reason–so he wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be tethered to something.

But even that had begun to dull.

He hadn’t finished a painting in over a month.

He told himself it was seasonal. A creative lull. Something about the humidity in the air, the pigments reacting differently. But the truth lived in the half-drunk bottles of wine left on the edge of the balcony, in the way his eyes moved across blank canvases like he was waiting for them to paint themselves.

There were days he didn’t speak to anyone.

Not by choice exactly, but because the silence had settled too deep. He existed in it now–woke up, drank black tea from a chipped mug, smeared paint on surfaces he never intended to show. He wandered the cliffs barefoot, brushing past wildflowers he couldn’t name, letting the wind comb through his hair without resistance. He didn’t feel like a man. He felt like a rumor.

And then, one morning, she came.

He didn’t notice her at first. She had walked through the main door, catching his attention after knocking over a paintbrush holder. Rafayel was perched on a tall ladder, working on one of his largest canvases.

He turned, expecting Thomas.

Instead, she stood there.

The woman he had once bled for.

There was a badge half-tucked into the side pocket of her uniform. Hunters association. His ladder wobbled, sending him crashing. He thought she would catch him. 

She didn’t.

She asked if she could speak with him about a case–wanting to learn more about materials he used to make paints. He’d been flagged as a suspect.

He stared at her for a long moment before remembering how to move.

He rambled. Tried to tease. Asked her about lemon-shaped wanderers.

She looked far away. Uninterested.

And that was the moment Rafayel knew something was wrong.

The curve of her lips was right. Her hair, the color–it all lined up with memory. But the light in her eyes…

It was missing.

She asked him questions. He answered them. She accused him, blamed him for Raymond's erratic behavior. She looked through him with crisp, analytic focus. Her eyes never lingered on him the way yours had. 

He deflected. She tried to leave. Until a wanderer appeared. 

Something was off.

He knew it before the bond mark failed to glow.

Still, he checked.

He fought alongside her, waiting for the chance to resonate.

Nothing.

No memories. No pull. No familiar glow on his chest.

Maybe this is a fluke. Maybe it's too soon.

He asked her to be his bodyguard. 

She didn’t flinch, not when he covered her hand with his own.

But when her eyes flicked up to meet his, even when she agreed to the proposal, it was like staring into a mirror with no reflection. The words were right. The inflection was close. But the soul behind them was absent.

The light he had dreamed of–sunlit and wild, soft around the edges–it was gone.

And in its place, empty familiarity.

She left a few minutes later, promising to hunt for more coral with him. He said nothing. Just stood there long after the door shut, watching the spot where she’d been.

He didn’t remember walking back into his room.

All he knew was that, at some point, the pain hit.

Not all at once.

It crept in slow, like floodwater.

She was here. Alive. Whole.

But she wasn’t his.

And worse–maybe she never would be again.

He had held your dying body once. Felt the heat slip from your hands. He had prayed to gods he no longer believed in to bring you back. When he’d seen her for the first time, he thought maybe some wish had been answered. Some old promise fulfilled.

But fate had only returned a shadow.

That night, he sat alone in the dark, one hand over his heart. Waiting. Begging.

He whispered her name.

The bond mark remained cold beneath his palm. Silent. Unmoved.

He tried again the next night.

Tried holding the ring you gave him, pressed tight between his fingers, knuckles bloodless. Stared at a painting you once inspired – seafoam caught mid-crash – until his vision blurred. He traced the mark with paint, then burned incense from your favorite blend, lit a candle with gold flecks in the wax, the kind that used to make you smile.

Nothing.

The mark stayed dark.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Your light did not return to her eyes.

And still, he tried.

He saw her again days later – wandering through the city, searching for pigments. He let his fingers brush her wrist. Nothing.

Afterward, he offered her wine.

Nothing.

He told her a joke you had once laughed at.

She blinked. Tilted her head. Said nothing at all.

He watched her walk away that night and swore he saw the sea swallow the sun behind her – like the world itself had given up.

He returned home in silence. Tried to paint again. Stared at the canvas for hours.

Then, he pressed a brush to his chest, to the mark, and painted over it in black.

Just to see how it would feel.

It didn’t.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He didn’t paint for seven days.

Didn’t sleep much either.

The canvases remained untouched, save for one he took a knife to in the dark.

He didn’t remember doing it, but when he woke up, there it was–slashed through the center. Gold leaf peeled back like old wounds.

Food rotted on the counter. The house smelled like turpentine and regret.

He couldn’t stop replaying it–her voice, her smile, the fact that it had meant nothing. The bond mark had stayed dark. Like the connection between them had never existed. Like what they’d shared had truly died in that past life, unmourned.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe the universe had moved on.

Maybe she had.

And if that was true, then there was no place left for him in this world.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He wasn’t looking for anything the morning he left the studio barefoot.

The sky was overcast. The gulls screamed louder than usual. His body moved on instinct, drifting past tidepools and jagged rock, saltwater biting at his ankles. He just… walked.

And then he saw it.

A shimmer.

A bend in the air near the cliff’s edge, subtle but unmistakable–like heat rising from concrete, but wrong. Too precise.

He stared at it for a long moment, unable to name what he was feeling.

Then, a memory.

A text she had sent weeks ago, casually mentioning “spatial anomalies.” Something about Deepspace. Gateways that opened under the right conditions.

He had laughed it off at the time.

But now…

Now it hummed. Quiet and alive.

Something in him shifted.

He stepped forward.

Through the light.

And into your world.

The light inside was strange.

Flat. Diffuse. Not the golden warmth of Whitesand Bay, nor the sapphire haze of ocean-filtered sky. Rafayel stepped in cautiously, tension curled in his shoulders. The doorway sealed behind him without a sound, and for a moment, he wondered if this was a dream.

Not because it was beautiful.

Because it was wrong.

Everything was off. Like stepping into a memory preserved in amber.

The design was dated – styles that had fallen out of trend cycles decades ago. Nothing about the room adjusted to motion. The glass wasn’t temperature adaptive. No screens hummed along the walls.

He scanned the room once. Twice.

This wasn’t from his world.

But it wasn’t alien, either. It was human. Deeply. And hauntingly so.

That was when his gaze landed on the mirror.

There, tucked into its corner, were photographs.

Not projections. Not holoprints. Actual photos. Slightly faded. A little warped from time and warmth. Printed on something that looked like paper, and taped with a kind of tenderness.

He moved forward slowly. Like if he stepped too loud, it would all vanish.

And then he saw your face.

Laughing in one. Tired in another. A coffee in hand. A sweater too big. A dozen moments of a life being lived – real, tactile, full of imperfection and warmth.

These weren’t just images.

They were proof.

This wasn’t her.

This was you.

His bride.

You were out there. You were alive. And you were not here.

He didn’t remember sinking to the floor.

Didn’t notice how his breath hitched until it caught in his chest like a blade.

For a long time, he just sat there. Unmoving. Trying to understand.

You existed.

But not in his world.

That version of you – the one who used to smile at his teasing, who once held his heart like a wave cupped in her palms – you weren’t in Whitesand Bay. You weren’t at Mo Art Studio. You weren’t the woman who knocked on his door weeks ago asking for cooperation with an investigation.

He’d already known something was wrong when he saw her again. When she walked into his studio with that perfectly modulated voice, and disinterest in her eyes.

She wore your face.

But the light he remembered was gone.

The light he watched fade as he plunged that blade through your chest.

When he glanced down at his chest, the mark – the bond – had stayed quiet. No glow. No warmth. Just silence.

At first, he thought the bond was broken. That centuries apart had finally erased you from the fabric of his soul.

But this…

This meant something worse.

You hadn’t forgotten him.

You hadn't stopped loving him.

You’d been separated.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He didn’t sleep for days.

He burned through favors. Contacts. Old IOUs. He pulled strings that hadn’t been touched in years. And the name that kept coming up?

Ever.

The biotech company. Research-heavy. Fringe-adjacent. Not exactly illegal – just never where they were supposed to be. Specialists in artificial dimension-lock stabilization. One of the only organizations with active data on spatial memory fractures, the exact signature found near the studio gate.

He reached out.

They refused at first. Then asked what he’d give.

He offered paintings. Blueprints. Then secrets.

Finally, his signature. In blood.

Ever couldn’t “retrieve” anyone. Not with certainty. Not without a lock point. The best they could do was open a signal, leave a traceable resonance in the Tunnel and hope it connected. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t sanctioned. It had a 2% success rate.

Rafayel didn’t hesitate.

He knew exactly what resonance to give them.

The ring you’d once slipped onto his finger – centuries ago. A silver band with a pearl. The ring he’d clutched the moment he lost you.

They ran the trace.

He waited.

But nothing came back.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Weeks passed.

He was painting.

Memories. Dark visages. All of his grief, laid bare on canvas.

He kept them in a room not even Thomas could enter.

He’d show you one day.

The woman in this world – the version of you walking around in hunter’s gear – never changed. She never questioned. She never looked at him the way you once did.

It made him sick.

He stopped speaking to her altogether.

The bond remained quiet. Nothing in his chest stirred.

And yet… something told him you were here.

He searched every record, every anomaly logged in the studio district’s archives, every report of glitches in local space. Anything strange, anything out of place. Most of it led nowhere. Some of it felt too coincidental to ignore.

He felt crazy.

He began scouring the Nest every week, trading favors, paying spies, asking questions with a calm smile that masked a growing desperation, drinking himself to sleep when nothing came of it.

Until one night–

A name.

Your name.

A girl with no history, matching your face, reportedly joined Onychinus.

He froze.

Then burned everything else.

Within days, he knew your base coordinates, rough schedule, and deployment history. He never breached it–never risked tipping the balance. He just watched.

He didn’t act immediately.

Didn’t reach out. Didn’t chase.

He watched.

Waited.

Made sure you were safe.

Until he heard you were traveling to Whitesand Bay.

That was when the decision became real.

He cleaned the studio for the first time in months. Picked up fresh citrus and lined the windows with crystals you never believed did anything – but always treasured when he gifted them to you centuries ago.

Then he waited.

And when you walked through that door – alone, trailing your fingers across a shelf of glass animals – he felt the mark on his chest flicker for the first time in centuries.

His feet carried him in.

Straight into you.

And when your eyes met his, something stilled between you.

Something unspoken.

Something ancient.

The light he had been searching for twinkled like stars in your eyes.

He stepped forward, every part of him on fire and frozen all at once.

He had to check, one last time.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he said, voice light, steady, just barely teasing. “Careful where you wander.”

You blinked. Hesitated. Tripped over your words.

Not her.

You.

So adorable, he thought.

My beloved bride.

You didn’t realize who he truly was yet.

Didn’t realize who you truly were yet.

But the sea always finds its way back to the shore.

He could wait.

Chapter 10: Interstice

Summary:

Sylus can’t sleep. Guilt drips through him like a slow poison, heavy and inescapable. The truth gnaws at the edges of everything he thought he understood. Meanwhile, the night hangs heavy when you return from the auction, silence clinging to you like a second skin. The confrontation still echoes, sharp and unresolved. Something in the air feels wrong—off-kilter. The city blurs past your window, but it isn’t the skyline that makes your chest tighten. Later, alone in your room, sleep comes slowly. And when it finally does, it brings something else with it. Something old. Something waiting.

The door clicked shut behind him with the faintest sound. No echoes followed. Just stillness. The kind that felt colder than silence.

You had gone straight to bed after returning from the fashion show. No tension, no lingering suspicion–Sylus had made sure of that–just fatigue softening the way you moved. You hadn’t seen Rafayel confront him. Hadn’t learned what he learned.

And maybe that was what was eating him alive.

Sylus leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed tight over his chest as the low hum of a fan filled the space between thoughts. His jaw was locked. He should have laughed it off. Should have dismissed Rafayel’s words as delusion or manipulation–the sort of provocation a man like him would enjoy planting like a thorn.

But he couldn’t.

He replayed it in his head, over and over. The tone Rafayel had used. Too calm. Too knowing.

“You don’t even recognize her, do you?”

Sylus exhaled hard through his nose. A humorless breath, almost like a scoff. “Bastard,” he muttered to no one, pushing off the wall and walking down the hall.

His steps led him to the upper levels of the base, where citylight filtered in through cracks in the ceiling, casting broken lines across the floor. He found himself in the garden–the place you'd first woken up.

He sat on the cold bench in the center, back hunched, fingers interlaced.

At first, he told himself he didn’t believe it. Rafayel was lying, twisting things like he always did with words and colors. But denial was a shallow shield. And cracks had already begun to spread.

He thought of your smile–the first time he saw it, here on this rooftop. The quiet curve of your lips, soft and unguarded. It had stopped him cold, like déjà vu made flesh, or a memory waking up inside him.

He thought of your coordination. Perfect without rehearsal. The way you had matched his stride, the way you knew how to move beside him without looking. Your lack of hesitation, lack of fear. The unspoken trust you two seemed to share without explanation.

He remembered you humming, absentmindedly, while he passed your room. A melody you shouldn’t have known. He had closed his eyes and been transported to another time. A time he didn’t share with you. 

At least, that’s what he told himself at the time.

He hadn’t wanted to question it then.

He wanted it to be her.

He needed it to be her.

Because if it wasn’t, how could he look you in the eye knowing he had been so blind?

But wanting and truth… they rarely shared a bed.

The following afternoon, Sylus stood at your door, one hand resting on the frame.

“I’ve got an errand to run,” he said when you opened it, his voice neutral.

You blinked at him, hair slightly mussed from sleep. “You want me to come?”

He shook his head. “No. Just me this time.”

You nodded. Didn’t press. Just gave him a soft smile.

“Okay, be safe.”

And that, too, carved at something in him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

She opened the door halfway. Her hair was damp, a towel slung over her shoulder. She looked annoyed.

“You could’ve called. Someone could have seen you. My neighbor is a hunter too, you know.”

“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Sylus said, stepping past her into the apartment before she could decide whether to allow it.

“You’re in a mood,” she muttered, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair.

“I just need to talk.”

She didn’t sit, just stood by the window, waiting for him to speak.

Sylus’s eyes were fixed on her–but not in the way they used to be. There was distance now. A subtle misalignment, like a song just out of tune.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked quietly. “Something’s… off.”

She tilted her head. “Off?”

“Our coordination. It’s not the same.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I just figured we’ve been out of sync lately. You’ve been busy, so have I.”

“Maybe,” Sylus said. But his voice was low, uncertain.

He stepped closer. “Just humor me. Let’s try resonating. One more time.”

Her brow furrowed, skeptical. “Why? You still think my evol is weak?”

“I just need to know.”

She didn’t argue. Just extended her hand.

Sylus took it. The contact was warm, familiar–but that was all. No pulse of shared memory. No surge of emotion. 

But worst of all,

No linkage.

Nothing.

She blinked. “Huh. Well, it’s not a big deal. That linkage only caused me trouble anyway.”

Sylus let go.

Not a big deal.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t explain. Just gave a tight nod and turned to leave.

Behind him, she asked, “Was that what you came for?”

He didn’t answer.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back at the base, his room felt smaller than it ever had. He sat on the edge of his bed, coat still on, shoulders bowed.

He stared at the floor. At the memory of your legs trembling slightly when you were first brought in. At the spot where you had once stood, nervous, trying to make sense of the world you’d woken up in.

And he–

He had looked at you. Right into your eyes. And he hadn’t seen it.

Hadn’t let himself.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered.

His voice was barely audible above the hum of the lights.

“I should’ve known the second I saw you.”

The guilt was rotting him from the inside.

You had been here for weeks. Wandering, unsure, careful, but scared. Maybe you didn’t even know yourself–but he could’ve helped you. If he’d only looked closer. If he hadn’t been so blinded by his own assumptions. His need to cling to what he thought he understood.

And Rafayel–

Rafayel saw it first.

That fact alone made Sylus want to break something. Not out of jealousy. Not even pride. But grief.

Why hadn’t he noticed?

How could someone else see your soul before he did?

Had you known? Had you felt alone in this all along? Had you wanted to say something and stopped yourself, because you thought he didn’t notice the signs?

He lowered his head into his hands, fingers pressing hard into his temples. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again, to no one.

“I failed you.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next day, he found you in the kitchen, staring into a mug of coffee gone cold.

You looked pale. Your eyes had a haze to them, like your mind had been somewhere far away and hadn’t fully returned.

“You alright?” Sylus asked, keeping his voice even.

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just… weird dreams.”

“What kind of dreams?”

You shrugged, brushing a hand over your face. “I don’t remember. Just… I saw myself in a mirror. I looked so tired. And I felt… I don’t know. Sad. I woke up before anything happened.”

Sylus’s chest constricted.

You looked so drained. You had fought so hard to keep the peace. But you were suffering, despite your efforts.

He felt responsible.

He wanted to tell you. To kneel beside you and take your hand and say, I know who you are now. I’m sorry it took this long.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not when he already put you through so much, even if he didn’t realize it at the time.

So instead, he said, “Get some rest if you need it. Things are quiet today.”

You gave a vague nod, already drifting away in thought again.

That night, he stood in your doorway.

You were asleep, turned slightly away from the door. One hand curled beneath your cheek, your hair spilling across the pillow.

The dim light from the hall cast a soft line across your back.

He watched you breathe. Slow. Steady. Peaceful in a way you rarely seemed when awake these days.

He thought of the first night. The wariness in your eyes. How scared you were. But you were determined. Even when he pointed that gun to your head.

He let out a bitter laugh. 

You had trusted him so easily. Slipped into place by his side like you were meant to. Like she was meant to, he had thought.

Even then, he had felt it. That fragile familiarity. That pull toward something he didn’t yet understand.

You shifted slightly in your sleep.

Sylus stepped inside, careful as silence, and crouched beside you. His hand hovered just above your hair–hesitating–before he lightly brushed a strand behind your ear.

Your breath caught, just for a moment, before deepening again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He didn’t know if he was apologizing for not seeing you sooner.

Or for what would happen when you finally learned everything.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The corridors of N109 felt quieter at night. Not silent – not ever – but in the deep hours before shift rotations, when most of the base settled into a rhythm of rest and soft hums from the generators, you found yourself drifting toward the common level like a ghost.

Your steps were soft, hesitant, as if you were still unsure whether you had the right to move through this world at all.

Sylus was alone in the garden atrium, seated at the far edge near the railing that overlooked the glow of the underground city below. A faint blue flicker moved across his cheekbones from the holographic interface hovering above his wrist, some half-finished report he wasn’t really reading.

You stepped closer.

“Sylus?”

His gaze lifted immediately. He didn’t smile, but something in his face softened at the sight of you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

He nodded once and deactivated the screen. “Do you want to sit?”

You did. There was a long pause between you as you settled into the seat beside him, your fingers twining together in your lap. Your eyes were puffy, a little red. He didn’t ask why – he already knew.

“I was wondering…” you started, then hesitated. “Are you free tonight? I mean–still here. At the base.”

Sylus turned toward you more fully. “I am.”

“Would you… want to have dinner? With me?” you asked, your voice more tentative than you'd intended. “Not out. Just here. I’ll help cook, or not cook. I don’t know if it even counts as dinner since the sun will probably be rising everywhere else. I just– I wanted to spend time with you.”

He blinked. Slowly. The kind of blink he did when he needed a second to regroup.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You smiled, but it was small. Wobbly.

“I feel like I’ve been hiding since… everything. I keep telling myself I’m just overwhelmed, but maybe that’s just an excuse. I know I shut you out.”

“You didn’t,” Sylus said quickly.

“I did.” Your voice cracked. “And I’m sorry.”

Sylus’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’ve been through hell. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do,” you said, looking down at her hands. “You’ve been there for me. Even when I was being difficult. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He tilted his head. “You always deserve it.”

You swallowed. “I know the fashion show didn’t go how you planned. I’m sorry about that too. You were just trying to cheer me up. I just– I really appreciate you trying.”

“You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

“I want to.” Your eyes lifted to his again, earnest. “It meant a lot to me. You’ve done so much. I just… haven’t said thank you. Not really.”

He stared at you for a moment, the weight of your words pressing something sharp into his chest. There was a kind of hope in your voice, fragile and blooming – and he knew if he said what he was holding back, that light would flicker out.

You seemed better than you had in days. Finally out of your room – speaking again – just a little steadier. But he could still see the fracture line behind your eyes. One wrong word, and you’d fall through it again.

He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. His thumb lingered at the edge of her jaw before he pulled back.

“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.

You ducked your head, but your lips curved.

“You’re sweet,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said, then added, “Sweetie.”

Your smile faltered – almost imperceptibly – but he saw it.

You went still for a beat too long. Then said, quietly, “You don’t have to call me that.”

Sylus blinked. “Why not?” His voice was still light, teasing, but there was caution underneath it. “Do you not like it?”

You didn’t look at him when you said it.

“That’s what you call her.”

Silence.

The quiet bloomed between you, heavy and cold.

Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned back, eyes fixed on the far wall now. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s okay… I just don’t want to cross a line.”

But the light had dimmed. Not gone – just flickering now, like something unsteady in a storm.

He turned his head toward you again, eyes searching yours.

“You’re not her.”

You looked up sharply.

“You’re not a replacement,” he clarified, voice low. “I don’t see you that way. I just… get it wrong sometimes. You’re not crossing any lines.”

You stared at him, trying to read between the lines. There was something unspoken in his gaze. Something trembling just beneath the surface. You didn’t push.

Instead, you reached for his hand.

And for a little while, you just sat there – two people trying to hold something steady that neither of them had the courage to name.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The dining room in the base always felt too vast, too polished for the two of them alone. It echoed–softly–with the clink of utensils and the low hum of ambient city static filtered through the walls.

Sylus had chosen a seat not at the head of the long obsidian table, but beside you, close enough your elbows nearly touched. The chef had already disappeared behind the sliding doors, and the candlelight flickering off the matte black walls made the space feel more intimate than it had any right to.

You chewed slowly, savoring something buttery and delicate you didn’t have the culinary vocabulary for. “This is insane,” you murmured, wiping your lips with the edge of your napkin. “Is this what you eat every night?”

Sylus gave a soft chuckle. “Only when someone’s here to appreciate it. Otherwise it’s protein rations and black coffee.”

You turned to him, mock-gasping. “You? Mr. High Taste?”

“I’m efficient when no one’s looking,” he said, his tone sly.

A small, real laugh escaped you. Not the tired kind, not the careful one you’d been offering lately–but something looser, warmer. Sylus felt it like a blade between his ribs.

He looked over at you–head tilted back slightly in the candlelight, a smile tucked beneath tired eyes—and he thought again: tell her. Tell her now.

But the thought of watching that laughter vanish, of the weight crashing back down on your shoulders after you’d only just begun to shrug it off–

He picked up his wine glass instead.

“You know,” you said after a beat, twirling your fork idly, “I’ve been thinking about getting back out there. Onychinus stuff, I mean.”

Sylus paused mid-sip. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes dropping to your plate. “I think I’m ready. I don’t want to hide in the base forever. I miss moving. Only if it’s okay with you, of course.”

He considered you quietly. The set of your shoulders was still a little slumped. Your wrist trembled faintly when you reached for your glass. But your gaze was steady. And the fire in it was returning.

“I’ll make it happen,” he said gently. “But we take it slow. I’m not throwing you back into the deep end.”

You smiled, a little sheepish. “Deal.”

He reached forward, almost without thinking, to brush a crumb from your cheek. “I like when you talk like that again.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the contact–and something else in his voice. Something closer than usual.

“…Like what?”

“Like you haven’t given up.”

There was silence between you for a moment, full of things unsaid. You shifted, setting your fork down. “I guess I haven’t.”

He watched your eyes flick to his hand, still resting near your face. You didn’t lean away.

“You’ve helped me more than you know,” you said quietly. “Even when I wasn’t making it easy.”

He gave a soft hum. “You never make it easy.”

“Hey–!”

“But you’re still here,” he added, voice softer. “That’s what matters.”

You gave him a look–wry and a little too fond. “You’re going to make me cry again.”

He smiled. “Don’t. I just had this floor polished.”

You snorted, covering your mouth, then turned away to compose yourself. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Yet charming.”

You rolled your eyes. “Debatable.”

He took a slow breath and leaned back slightly. “Sweetie, just admit you–”

You froze. The smile slipped, just barely–but enough.

Sylus cleared his throat, gaze shifting. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“It’s alright,” you said softly.

He tilted his head, watching you for a beat too long. Then, with deliberate ease, “How about I come up with something else?”

He looked away like he was thinking hard, but there was a glint in his eye you didn’t trust.

“What about… little alien?”

You laughed, loud and disbelieving. “Little alien? You can’t be serious.”

Sylus chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “What’s so bad about being an alien? Technically, you could say I’m one too.”

You nodded with mock solemnity, humming. “Right, I almost forgot you came here after breaking out of space-time prison.”

Sylus nearly choked on his wine. “And how do you know about that?”

You gave him a look, playful and sly. “I have my ways… and I’ll find a way to send you back if you keep giving me bad nicknames.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a low laugh slipping through. “Blackmailing the leader of Onychinus? Seems I’ve taught you well, little alien.”

You swatted his arm, grinning despite yourself.

He rubbed his arm, feigning injury. “Alright, alright. I’ll come up with something else,” He grinned. “It’ll be a surprise.”

The conversation flowed from there, drifting into safer waters–Kieran’s latest tactical disaster, Luke nearly getting banned from another arcade, some chaotic detail about a botched mission in Sector F4.

And when you laughed again–eyes crinkling, hand to your chest–Sylus didn’t look away.

He knew he wouldn’t tell you tonight, either.

Not when you finally looked like you were breathing.

Not when the truth would only take that away.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He’d torn the canvas before he realized what his hands were doing.

The shredded gesso fluttered like skin, curling from its frame, and for a moment he just stared – hands open, aching, daubed in cadmium red and streaks of ash black. Somewhere on the floor behind him, a shattered jar still bled ultramarine across the tiles. The whole studio reeked of linseed and oil and rot, thick with heat and bitterness. He didn’t remember knocking anything over. He didn’t remember picking anything up.

He hadn’t slept in days.

The walls were full of ghosts. Half-finished illusions. Brushstrokes that blurred into your face, even when he tried to paint anything else. Your hand, your hair, your mouth – always a little too close to the real thing. And he’d told himself it was just study. Just discipline. But now–

Now all he could think about was whether Sylus had told you.

His chest tightened like a fist.

Sylus. That liar. That coward.

That bastard might’ve already told you everything – and if he did, it wouldn’t be the truth, not really. Not the way it mattered. Sylus would frame it like a tragedy. A crime. He’d present it cleanly, precisely, in that measured voice of his: Rafayel brought you here, he’s been lying to you. I’m so sorry. He’d cut it down to logic and resonance and leave the rest to rot. But he wouldn’t say the parts that mattered. He wouldn’t tell you that it wasn’t just some mistake.

That it was done out of love. Devotion. Desperation.

That you were his.

Rafayel braced his arms against the ruined easel, spine bowed. The wood groaned under his weight, like it might snap if he leaned just a bit harder. His breath came short. Shallow.

“I shouldn’t have let it go that night,” he muttered. “I should’ve–”

But what? Said it then? When your eyes were rimmed red and your voice trembled every time you looked at him? When you were already slipping through his fingers?

He’d seen the way you looked at Sylus in the dark.

That confused, aching softness. The weight of trust.

It made him sick.

And Sylus – Sylus was eating it up like it didn’t taste like poison. Like he wasn’t keeping you tied to a story that wasn’t supposed to be yours to begin with.

You were supposed to be here. With me.

“She still doesn’t know,” Rafayel whispered, half a prayer, half a curse. “She can’t.”

Because if you did, wouldn’t you have come to find him? Wouldn’t you have said something, anything, instead of leaving him in silence? No... no, Sylus hadn’t told you. You wouldn’t just let that go. You’d come give him a piece of your mind, and he’d kneel at the chance just to hear your voice, even if you were spewing hatred. You still thought he was some villain in this, the one who broke your little sanctuary. Your carefully crafted house of cards, trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

But you didn’t understand.

You didn’t know what he had seen. What Sylus had failed to see. What was lost – what was real.

He shoved the easel away, let it crash to the floor with a hollow thud. His footsteps tracked pigment like blood across the marble. The studio was stifling, oppressive, too full of memory and paint and grief. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, pacing, jaw locked.

He had to get you alone.

Away from Sylus. Away from that cursed zone with its red lights and glass walls and synthetic people. That place was killing you, slowly, like erosion. You were shrinking there. He could feel it. You needed to see the truth – not the manufactured version Sylus would feed you in pieces, but the whole thing.

He could give you that. Even if it hurt. Even if it meant burning everything down.

The mirror caught his reflection as he passed: wild eyes, bruised mouth, shirt torn at the collar. He looked nothing like the man you remembered. Maybe that was good.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending he could be calm about this.

His tablet lit up where he’d left it on the sideboard. A notification blinked – one of his informants reporting in. Routine activity tracking in the N109 zone. He swiped it open with a shaking hand and scanned the data.

An upcoming auction. High-tier. Not one Sylus would miss. Energy core trade, tightly secured, but public enough that he'd show.

Will he bring her?

He stared at the date, the time, the coordinates.

He had to be there. If Sylus brought you – even if it was just to observe – it was the window Rafayel needed. A crowded room. Neutral territory. No one could stop him from speaking to you, not without drawing eyes.

He just had to get you to look at him long enough to see.

“I’ll make you remember,” he whispered to no one.

Then louder: “You’ll understand.”

He crossed to his desk and began firing off commands to his network, blacklisted a few names, restructured his security. This time, no artifice. No show. No masks.

Only truth.

And if it ruined your image of him?

So be it.

I can handle it.

He has enough love for the both of you.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The auction hall is dim – gold-leafed columns, floor-to-ceiling panels of smoky glass, lights lowered to an intimate flicker. The air is thick with perfume, credits, and concealed tension. Soft orchestral notes play over the hush of murmured bidding.

Rafayel leans against the inner balcony, half-shadowed by the deep burgundy curtain drawn back just enough for him to see the floor. From up here, he’s just another silent observer – another ghost.

He’s waited.

Too long.

And then–

Finally.

There you are. Stepping into the hall beside Sylus like you belong in this world. The lights catch against your collarbone, your hair, the quiet hesitance in your posture – like a note held a beat too long. You’re not dressed like the usual N109 parasite. You don’t move like one either.

You’re so beautiful.

He exhales slowly, tension leaking from his shoulders like pigment from water.

Sylus is already scanning the room – probably checking for threats, patterns, tells. But he hasn’t looked up.

Rafayel steps back from the curtain.

He’ll find you first.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

“I need to speak to someone. It’ll take five minutes,” Sylus murmurs beside you, voice low. “Stay in this wing. Eyes up.”

You give a small nod, resisting the urge to trail too close behind him.

The crowd presses around you – draped in silk, armor, and vanity. Too many stares. Too many secrets. You drift toward one of the less-crowded exhibits, letting the noise blur.

A display case to your left glows faintly with containment lines – something mechanical, humming softly, too sharp for your eyes to parse.

You barely notice the shift in the air behind you until–

A hand brushes yours. Not rushed. Not forceful.

Just deliberate.

A man’s voice at your ear.

“Walk with me.”

Before your mind fully catches up, you’re pulled gently to the side – a wall panel sliding open at the touch of his hand, leading you into a hallway that shouldn’t exist.

By the time you think to resist, it’s too quiet to call for help.

And too familiar to want to.

“Cutie,” Rafayel says gently, the nickname cracking on his tongue like he’s testing it for the first time. “I know I upset you, but we really need to talk.”

You stop walking, but you don’t turn to face him. Your jaw tightens. Your hands are clenched at your sides, fingernails biting into your palms. Still, your voice is steady.

“I’m not upset,” you say quietly. “I just don’t know what to say to you.”

There’s a pause. Footsteps. He’s closer now. Not too close – not touching – but close enough that his warmth brushes your shoulder, close enough to feel his gaze searching your profile.

“You don’t have to lie,” he murmurs. “Not with me.”

You flinch. It’s small, but he sees it.

“I promise,” Rafayel continues, lowering his voice, “whatever you’re thinking, it’s a misunderstanding–”

You round on him, stepping back. The movement is sharper than you intended.

“A misunderstanding?” Your voice cracks with disbelief. “What’s there to misunderstand?”

Rafayel’s lips part like he wants to answer – maybe he even means to – but nothing comes out.

“I don’t know why you wanted to get so close to me,” you go on, shaking your head. “I should’ve realized you let me in way too easily. I’m not sure if you just see me as some replacement–but I’m not.”

Rafayel can feel his heart crack.

Is that what she thinks?

You take another step back. Rafayel follows instinctively – but he stops himself, hands half-raised, like approaching a wounded animal.

Your next words fall heavy between you.

“We both let things go too far,” you say, quieter now. “And I don’t think it’s smart for us to see each other anymore.”

He stiffens. His lashes lower, casting shadows across his eyes, but when he speaks, it’s firm. Almost raw.

“You’re not a replacement.” His voice nearly breaks. “You’re not her. I’ve only ever seen you.”

I love you. Only you. 

You don’t look away – but you want to. You hate how your throat tightens, how part of you almost wants to believe him.

“Your bond mark glowed, Rafayel,” you say. “We both saw it. We can’t ignore that.”

He takes a slow step forward. You hold your ground, but your hands are shaking now.

“No matter what you think you feel,” you say, “you’ll always be bound to her. No matter what I might feel…” You breathe in sharply, bracing yourself. “I can’t do that to her. To myself. I’m sorry.”

Your voice cracks on the last word, but you don’t give him time to reply. You turn on your heel.

“Please just stay away,” you throw over your shoulder – and you walk.

Rafayel doesn’t follow.

Not because he doesn’t want to. But because for the first time in a long time – maybe ever – he’s afraid that if he does, he’ll lose you completely.

You disappear around the corner, footsteps soft but final.

Rafayel doesn’t move.

His breath fogs in the air, slow and shallow. A breeze kicks up from the corridor vent, rustling the hem of his coat – but he feels nothing. He’s anchored in place by the weight of what he didn’t say. Of what he couldn’t.

He runs a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair, then down the back of his neck like he’s trying to squeeze the hesitation out of his spine. His throat burns. His chest aches with something stupid and bright and irretrievable.

“I should’ve told her,” he murmurs aloud – and hates how broken it sounds.

Why didn’t I tell her?

The hallway echoes, cold and unkind.

He turns and leans his shoulder against the wall, then slides down slowly to sit on the floor. The stone bites through his clothes, but he doesn’t shift. He lets the silence crush him. Lets your words replay like a cracked record:

“I can’t do that her. To myself.”

You said it like a closing door.

And the worst part is–

He agrees with you.

Not in logic, but in fear.

Because you’re right. Right not to trust him. Right to walk away.

He waited too long. He moved too carefully.

And now the truth feels like a knife. One that would cut through your already-thin trust and leave nothing but blood and regret in its wake.

Rafayel presses the heel of his hand to his eyes.

Why didn’t I say it?

Because you would’ve looked at him like he was some monster.

Because if you knew he was the reason you were here – that he pulled you across universes, tore you from a life, even if it was done with love – you’d never forgive him. There’s hardly a chance you would even believe him.

Not yet.

And you shouldn’t.

He thought he could handle it. 

Until you looked at him with so much pain in your eyes. Pain that he caused.

A low sound escapes his throat – half a laugh, half a choked breath. For a moment, he rests his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. There's a crack in the paneling above, just wide enough to let a sliver of artificial light spill down across his cheek like mock moonlight.

He swallows hard.

“I only ever saw you.”

He meant it. But it wasn’t enough. Not to convey the truth.

And now he’s afraid. 

Not just of losing you – but of what you’ll do when you do learn the truth.

Because it’s coming. The shape of it is already in the air like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Will she hate me forever?

What if I can’t come back from this?

His bond mark still burns faintly under his skin.

Rafayel closes his eyes.

He’s not ready for what happens when you look at him and see a liar.

But it’s too late now.

You’re walking into the next chapter – and he’s no longer the one turning the page.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The corridor outside the private room is too quiet, the hush of the auction muffled through thick walls. You don’t know where you're going – just forward, past gold-trimmed doors and display pedestals, past glances that barely register as your vision tunnels.

You round a corner, breathing too fast, hands trembling as you press your fingers to your lips. The words you’d just thrown at him echo in your chest. I can’t do that to myself. You meant it. But God, it hurt.

And then a familiar shape turns into your path.

“Sylus–” you breathe out, a little too raw.

He’s already moving toward you.

“What happened?” he asks, tone low but urgent. His eyes flick over your face, then to the hallway behind you – assessing, always calculating, always a step ahead. But he doesn’t press.

You shake your head, your voice caught somewhere between shame and frustration. “I’m sorry. I–I need to go. Can we leave?”

He studies you again, gaze narrowing like he’s trying to solve an equation he’s missing too many variables for. But when he speaks, it’s gentle.

“Yeah,” he says. “Come on.”

You expect him to lead the way back through the main entrance, maybe call a car – but instead, he falls into step beside you, hand lightly grazing your elbow, not quite touching. Protective, but not possessive. Not yet.

You walk in silence, the air between you thick with whatever it is you’re both not saying. When you pause to catch your breath, he finally speaks again.

“You’re shaking.”

You look down at your hands, surprised to find he’s right. “I’m fine. Just–overwhelmed, I guess. It’s been a while.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t challenge you either. Instead, he steps slightly in front of you as you exit into the quiet loading area, his stance like a shield, like something dangerous might follow you out. You realize, in a flicker of clarity, that you’re safe with him – and it only makes your throat tighter.

As the car door clicks shut beside you and the city moves past the tinted windows, he finally breaks the silence again.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says, voice softer than you’re used to. “But if someone upset you, I’ll deal with it.”

Your fingers curl in your lap. You almost laugh, but it’s hollow. “It’s not that simple.”

He looks at you then, not with suspicion or frustration – just with quiet understanding, the kind he rarely lets show. “It never is with you, but I don’t mind.”

You don’t answer. You just look out the window, hoping he’ll sit with you a while longer in this strange, shared quiet. And he does.

Even when you finally lean your head back and close your eyes, he doesn’t speak again. But you feel the warmth of his presence beside you – and it’s almost enough to stop the ache.

Almost.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

By the time you reached the base, the adrenaline had worn off. Your confrontation with Rafayel sat in your chest like a splinter – small, but sharp. You kept replaying it, as if anger could overwrite confusion. As if it would change anything.

You made your way to your room like a ghost. Nothing but a half-hearted goodnight and tired wave to Sylus and the twins.

The lights inside flickered once when you stepped in.

You didn’t notice. You were already moving by muscle memory: shoes off, earrings dropped on the counter, dress unzipped and left folded across the chair. The room felt a little too still tonight. Airless. Like it was waiting for something.

You rubbed your arms as you padded toward the bed, tension trailing like a shadow.

Sleep would help. That’s what you told yourself.

But as your eyes drifted shut, a strange feeling settled in your bones– not fear, not peace, but something in between. 

As if the world had tilted by a fraction, and you wouldn't understand how much until morning.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The first thing you felt was the cold.

Not biting or cruel – just still. A kind of emptiness that settled into your bones the moment your eyes opened.

You were lying on stone.

The sky above was violet, stretching endlessly overhead, and when you sat up, the world around you didn’t match anything you knew. The trees were tall and bleached white, like coral petrified under moonlight. The air shimmered faintly. Everything felt both ancient and untouched.

You stood slowly. Your limbs were heavy. Like you hadn’t used them in centuries.

And yet, everything was real.

The dream wasn’t loose at the edges like the others. It didn’t float or stutter. It clung.

You made your way to a stream, washing your face in the icy water. When you looked up, a mirror hung between two trees, unnaturally still.

You stepped toward it.

Your reflection blinked back.

Same features. Same face.

But your eyes looked hollow. Tired. Like something had been peeled out of you and never quite returned.

Your hands trembled as you touched the glass.

And that’s when it began.

The memories.

Not of this world – but of many others.

A voice shouting your name across sunlit waves.

A dagger trembling in Rafayel’s grip, tears streaming down his face as he drove it into your chest against his will.

Sylus, kissing your forehead one last time as he faded to petals in your arms.

A tower – a cage – where Zayne sat, silent and waiting.

A field of jasmines, heavy with grief and memory.

Xavier, walking away without looking back.

Caleb, drifting through space as your first and final kiss shattered your bodies into stars.

All of them.

All of you.

Lifetime after lifetime, heartbreak after heartbreak – some blurred at the edges, some sharp enough to bleed. You remembered the love. You remembered the pain. And you remembered how each story ended the same:

With you losing them. Or them losing you. Every time.

Your knees gave out.

You collapsed in front of the mirror, sobbing, choking on the weight of it all. Not just one heartbreak – a thousand. Centuries of suffering carved into your bones.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t do it again.”

You crawled away from the stream, away from your reflection. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled – low and ancient. You followed it. One step after another.

You walked until your feet blistered. Until the sky turned gold. Until the trees faded and marble steps rose in their place.

The temple was waiting.

Carved from stone that shimmered like pearl, lit from within by flame that didn’t flicker. Pillars etched in languages you half-remembered. And at the far end, a shrine – no gods visible, only a pedestal. And a place to kneel.

You approached, trembling.

There was a rumor. You couldn’t remember where you heard it, but it echoed now like a prayer:

If your grief is true enough, if your offering is high enough, the gods will hear you.

You didn’t have gold. Or sacrifice. 

But you had your heart.

And you gave it willingly.

“I don’t want them to suffer anymore,” you said.

Your voice echoed through the chamber.

“I don’t want to be the reason they suffer. I don’t want to be the girl they bleed for, or die for, or fall apart trying to protect.”

Your breath hitched. You bowed your head.

“If there’s a way… let them be happy without me. Let them find peace. Even if it means–”

You choked.

“Even if it means I never see them again.”

Silence.

And then–

A sound like waves crashing in reverse. The walls shimmered. The altar lit up, slow and aching, like the stars were trying to mourn you.

The gods heard you.

And they answered.

Not in words, but in sensation.

Warmth around your chest. The weight of a promise binding tight around your ribs. A deal made. One that fate would not undo.

You would not cross their paths again. Not in this lifetime. Not in another. Not directly.

But fate is never truly severed.

Not when the heart keeps beating.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You woke with a sharp breath, heart pounding like you'd been running.

The room was quiet. A draft crept through the sealed windows, brushing against your skin like something ancient.

You stared up at the ceiling, disoriented.

Not from the dream – from the weight it left behind.

It hadn’t felt like a dream at all.

There was no logic to it. No cutscenes. No structured narrative. Just… raw feeling. Memory you didn’t remember having. A temple. A wish. A grief so deep you could still taste it in the back of your throat.

You sat up slowly, fingers pressed to your chest.

Was that me?

You hadn’t dreamed like this in your world. Not even when you were playing the game every night. The one you downloaded on a whim – Love and Deepspace – thinking it was just some beautifully animated escape.

It was more than that. You’d felt it the first time you opened it.

Like being pulled.

Like stepping into something you hadn’t meant to remember.

But you convinced yourself it was just good writing. A beautiful simulation. A story with just enough truth to sink into your bones.

The characters felt familiar. But not in the way characters normally did.

It was more like… recognition.

But couldn’t quite place how.

You told yourself that was the immersion talking. High-end game design. Smart personalization. Whatever logic you needed to keep from feeling parasocial.

You didn’t think it could be something else.

A trick. A veil.

A window.

You had never questioned how real it all felt – the way your chest tightened when Sylus narrowed his eyes, or how warmth bloomed in your hands when Rafayel called you cutie.

But tonight’s dream changed something.

It was as if a wall had cracked.

You weren’t just playing something.

You were looking into something.

Through something.

And for the first time, a question bloomed in the silence:

What if it had never been a game at all?

What if it was just the only way your world could let you see them?

What if it was never about escape, but containment?

A gift from some half-merciful force. 

Because you had made a wish, hadn’t you?

You remembered the ache.

The weight in your limbs, the sense of falling even while standing still. The feeling of losing something precious again and again. Of watching them suffer. Of breaking and breaking and still not being enough.

You’d wanted it to stop.

And maybe – whatever was listening – had granted that.

Sort of.

Until you peered through a window you were never meant to.

Until you stepped behind her.

Took control of her, without realizing the weight behind it.

Maybe the gods couldn’t break the threads. Not entirely.

So instead, they rerouted them.

Not severed, but suspended.

A life lived just adjacent to theirs. Close enough to see. Never close enough to reach.

A version of you, to keep them happy.

A version of them, to keep you happy.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not for Rafayel.

Not for Sylus.

Not for you.

Not anymore.

You glanced toward the window, the storm outside finally quiet.

This wasn’t your world.

You knew that.

But you also knew it wasn't fiction.

Not anymore.

All you could think now was:

I need to see him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

sylus

rafayel

Notes:

two endings for this fic. pick your own canon !

Chapter 11: Soul Tie

Summary:

The truth is out, you and Sylus finally get the ending you deserve.

You stood outside his door longer than you meant to.

The hallway stretched quiet, dimly lit by the soft, perpetual glow of the base’s artificial lighting. The air was still. Heavy. You could hear the faint hum of machines somewhere behind the walls, and your heartbeat – too loud, too unsure.

Then the door opened.

Sylus was already awake.

His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, shirt slightly disheveled like he hadn’t slept. His eyes met yours, quiet and unreadable, but not surprised.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice hoarse.

He held your gaze. “So do I.”

He stepped back to let you in, and the door sealed behind you without a sound.

The room was clean but lived-in – the bed unmade, a glass of water half-full on the table, the scent of metal and tea faint in the air. There was no music, no distractions. Just silence. And tension like a string drawn too tight.

You turned toward him. “I had a dream.”

Sylus didn’t speak, but something in him stilled.

“I don’t know if it was a dream, or a memory, or something else–.” You swallowed. “But I woke up somewhere else. Somewhere unfamiliar. And I looked in a mirror, and I looked… wrong. Like something had been scraped out of me. Like I had already died.”

The words sounded too thin in the quiet.

“And then it all came back. The myths– or memories, pastlives–whatever. All of them– but it was… real. Like I lived it. I went to a temple. I made a wish.”

You took a breath. It trembled.

“I asked the gods to let all of you go. I didn’t want anyone to suffer anymore – not them, not me. I wanted to break the cycle. I begged to never cross paths with any of you again, not in this life or the next.”

You lifted your eyes to his.

“I know it was just a dream. But it felt so real, Sylus”

Sylus stepped closer. Not too close. Enough that you could see the way his expression shifted – not surprise. Something older. Something heavier.

“I believe you,” he said softly.

You blinked.

“At the fashion show,” he murmured, “Rafayel told me something. Something I didn’t want to hear.”

You said nothing. Your chest ached.

“He told me you didn’t know who you truly were. That I don’t know who you really are.”

You stared at him, breath unsteady.

“...He brought you here.”

You let out a soft gasp, chest burning at the realization.

“I didn’t tell you when we got back,” he continued. “Because I didn’t know how to say it. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the last little bit of hope drain from your eyes. Because I felt like I should’ve known– should’ve seen it for myself. And I hadn’t. I let another man see what I couldn’t, and that shame has sat with me since.”

The pain in his voice was quiet – but razor-sharp.

“I think I always knew,” he said. “But I refused to believe it. I told myself I was imagining things. That the feeling in my chest wasn’t what I thought it was. That the way you look at me didn’t mean anything.”

His voice dipped lower. “But when you came into my life, pieces of myself started coming back. Memories I thought I’d buried. Feelings I thought I wasn’t allowed to feel anymore. The way I looked at you, the way I started watching your every move – it scared me. I’ve spent so long trying to be careful with you, trying to protect what I thought was real, but the truth is–”

He broke off, hands flexing at his sides.

“Half of my soul came back the moment you arrived.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I just didn’t let myself believe it,” he whispered. “All the signs were there. The way my instincts screamed when you were gone too long. The way you reached for me even when you were scared. You fit into my life like you’d always been meant to – and I still convinced myself it was coincidence.”

You didn’t mean to start crying. It just happened – silent, stunned, grief-streaked tears that blurred your vision and made the room feel very far away.

Sylus looked stricken.

“Please,” he whispered, “don’t cry.”

He bridged the space between you, taking your hands into his with a reverence that made your breath catch.

“I was so afraid to admit what I already felt,” Sylus said, voice tight, shaking. “Because if I was right… then I had been blind. And I don’t know if I could forgive myself for that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said – not a whisper this time, not a formality. It cracked something inside him. “I should’ve known it was you. Not her. You.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you. But I didn’t know how to hold the truth without shattering everything else. And the idea that I might lose you–” He trailed off. “I didn’t want to accept that.”

You looked at him. Quiet. Tears slipping silently down your face.

“I see you now,” he said softly. 

“I see the person who crossed through worlds. Who tried to spare everyone but herself. Who has been right here beside me, waiting for me to open my eyes. Even when neither of us realized it. When we couldn’t admit it.”

You let out a sound – not quite a sob, not quite a word. Something breaking.

Finally, he held your hand. Not to pull you close. Just to steady you. Just to stay.

His touch was warm. Unshaking.

“I won’t let you fall alone again,” he said.

And in the stillness that followed, you realized how quiet the pain had become–still present, still sharp, but no longer solitary.

He was here. And this time, he saw you.

And you finally saw him.

You didn’t know who moved first.

One moment, you were watching him–heart in your throat, hands trembling–and the next, he was reaching for your face with both palms, cupping you like something fragile. Something sacred.

His thumbs swept gently beneath your eyes, catching a tear before it could fall. His brow knit, and his voice broke on a whisper.

“You’re crying again,” he murmured. “And I’m the reason.”

You couldn’t speak. But your hands found him anyway–one resting over his heart, where his pulse jumped beneath your palm, the other curling in the fabric at his waist like you were afraid of floating away.

“I missed you,” you breathed. “Even when I didn’t know I was missing something. I still missed you.”

His throat bobbed. And then he bent forward–kissed you like a man stepping into light after a lifetime of darkness.

It was slow. Reverent. Testing something sacred. He kissed you like he didn’t believe it could be real, like he needed proof you were here. And when you kissed him back, when your fingers slipped into his hair and held tight– he broke.

A soft sound escaped him, ragged and low.

His arms wrapped around you all at once, crushing you to his chest. The kiss deepened, no longer tentative, but aching. His mouth moved over yours with hunger, yes, but something gentler too. Grief. Regret. The kind of longing that lived in the marrow.

He kissed you like he’d drowned once–and was only now breathing again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your lips, between kisses. “Sweetheart–God, I’m so sorry.”

Your breath hitched. You clutched him tighter, and he kept going.

“I should’ve said something the first time I saw you. I should’ve known. I did know. I felt it. But I pushed it down. Told myself it wasn’t real.”

His hands moved–slid up your back, down your spine, gripping you like you might vanish again.

“I won’t do that again. I won’t lie to myself. Or to you.” His voice cracked. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the second I felt you in the room. I just didn’t have the words. Or the courage.”

You were breathless now, tears mingling between your mouths.

“I’m done ignoring the pull,” he said, forehead pressed to yours, voice frayed and raw. “Done pretending I don’t know what this is. I do. I feel it in my blood. In my soul. In every part of me.”

You exhaled shakily. “Sylus…”

He kissed you again. Fiercer this time. Needier.

“I’ll never be blind to you again,” he murmured against your cheek. “Never.”

Then, softer–more broken:

“I don’t deserve you. But if you stay–if you give me this–I’ll spend every second trying to.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “You do deserve me. You’ve been by my side since the beginning, Sylus. You never gave up on me.”

The emotion that flickered across his face was too deep for words.

Then he kissed you again, and again–tears caught between your lips, hands roaming without aim. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, slow, reverent, just needing skin. Needing proof.

You gasped softly as his palms settled against your waist, warm and steady.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, voice hoarse, forehead resting on yours as his hands moved up your sides, coaxing you closer. “Let me love you right this time.”

You nodded–barely. He saw it anyway.

He guided you toward the bed in silence, his touch careful, patient, but never uncertain. You sank together into the sheets, limbs tangled, mouths meeting again and again between whispered apologies and promises spoken into skin.

There was no rush. Just reverence. Just release.

He moved with a desperation edged in awe–like he couldn’t believe you were real, like every inch of your body was a prayer he didn’t know how to finish. His hands stayed on you–your back, your hips, your thighs, your jaw–as if trying to memorize every part of you.

“I see you,” he said again, between kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your temple. “and I’m not looking away this time.”

And in his arms–through every brush of skin, every breath-shaking kiss–you finally let yourself believe it.

You finally let yourself be seen.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He wakes before the sun.

Not that it matters.

You never came.

Light means nothing now. Color means nothing. Not when the pink he spent lifetimes chasing has slipped through his fingers for good.

You're gone.

He doesn’t need to check the Nest. Doesn’t need to ask the wind, or the tide, or the quiet ache in his chest. He already knows.

You’re not coming back. You chose him. And Rafayel…

Rafayel chose wrong from the start.

He stands at the window of his studio, the sea yawning out in front of him, vast and still and cruelly unchanged. The easel beside him is bare – has been for days. The paints have dried in their jars, untouched. The brushes hang limp in their cups, like wilted flowers no one had the heart to throw away.

He was a fool.

A selfish, desperate, deluded fool.

He told himself it was love. That bringing you here was a miracle. That fate had cracked open and whispered yes, and he’d simply listened. That the dream he lost centuries ago had finally come home to him.

But none of it was true. Not really.

He didn’t save you. He stole you.

Stole your life. Stole your peace. Stole your right to choose.

And now?

Now you’ve made your choice. And it wasn’t him.

He lets out a bitter sound – not quite a laugh, not quite a cry. Something broken. Something hollow. He presses a hand to the mark on his chest that never lit up again after that night under the moon, that final night, when you whispered your last goodbye.

He can still feel your warmth, even now. And it makes him sick.

This is what he gets.

For lying. For waiting. For hoping.

For thinking the universe would reward a man who once chose death over truth.

He should’ve told you. From the beginning.

Told you what he did. Why he did it. That he didn’t care about right or wrong – only you. That every moment he spent watching from the shadows was a thousand knives in his ribs, because he knew you deserved more than someone who had taken your freedom and called it fate.

He didn’t deserve your forgiveness. He never did.

But god, he wanted it anyway.

And now he’s alone.

His bride has left him.

His muse, his myth, his miracle – Gone.

So he walks.

Barefoot. Quiet. Still wearing the shirt you once complimented offhandedly, sleeves streaked faintly with old pigment. He doesn’t lock the studio. Doesn’t leave a note. Doesn’t take anything with him. Except your ring.

The cliffs don’t protest his steps. The sky doesn’t mourn. Only the sea waits – eternal, unfeeling, open.

He steps into it without ceremony.

No prayers. No pleading. Just silence.

The cold takes him slowly, curling up his legs, into his ribs, into his lungs. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shiver.

Because he’s already gone.

The only thing he ever painted with love has left him behind.

And the tide? The tide does what he cannot. It carries him under, quietly, without judgment.

Without resistance.

Until all that’s left is salt and silence.

Goodbye, my beloved bride.

Chapter 12: Everlasting Bond

Summary:

The truth is revealed, you and Rafayel finally get the ending you deserve.

You didn’t remember leaving your room. Didn’t remember running out of the base like a woman possessed. Didn’t remember crossing half the island.

You only remembered that your feet carried you to him.

The studio door slammed open with the force of your arrival, rattling the glass, the bell above it chiming once like an afterthought.

He was already looking at you.

Rafayel stood near the windows, brush in hand, drenched in morning light – the kind of light you used to dream about. His eyes lifted slowly, catching yours like he’d known you were coming before you did.

You didn’t greet him.

You just stared, chest heaving, voice shaking as the words spilled out.

“I remembered everything.”

He didn’t move.

“I don’t know how – it felt like a dream, but it wasn’t. I was there, Rafayel. In another life. Alone. I saw myself, and I looked dead inside. I remembered what it felt like to make that wish. To kneel in front of those gods and beg them to let me go. To let all of you go.”

You took a step forward, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like they were the only thing holding you together.

“I remembered choosing to forget you. Choosing to forget all of it. And it hurt, but I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was setting us free.”

Rafayel said nothing.

“And then I woke up and I realized–” Your voice cracked. “None of it worked. Because even in a world where I wasn’t supposed to find you, even when the gods tried to keep us apart, I still ended up in your arms.”

Tears blurred your vision. You let them fall.

“And then it hit me.” Your eyes met his, sharp and wet and burning. “You knew.”

He froze.

“You knew,” you said again, louder this time, trembling. “From the beginning.”

Rafayel’s lips parted, a thousand denials dying before they reached air.

“I–”

“Just admit it!” The words came out broken. “You fucking lied to me! You brought me here, didn’t you? You let me believe I was losing my mind while you stood there and pretended like you didn’t already know who I was. You charmed your way into my life because that was your plan from the start!”

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You took everything from me,” you said, voice rising. “My world. My choices. Do you even understand what you did?”

“I do,” he said.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Hard.

You stared down at him, heart thudding in your chest like it wanted to break free.

“I wasn’t thinking about right or wrong,” he said, looking up at you with eyes so full of grief you could barely stand it. “I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. I just– I saw you. Alive. Breathing. And I couldn't go on without you.”

You tried to steel yourself. Tried to stay angry. But the way he looked at you made your resolve waver.

“I remembered what it felt like,” he said. “To hold you while you died. I remembered the way your breath shook, the way you faded from my arms. I’ve lived with that image burned into me. I’ve lived with it every day since. And when I realized it was you – the real you – that you were still out there…”

“When you were finally here–standing in front of me again, I…”

He pressed his forehead to the fabric of your shirt, hands trembling as they clutched your hips like a lifeline.

“I broke. I couldn’t let you go again. I didn’t care what I had to do.”

Your voice cracked. “How did you even…?”

He looked up at you, something reverent behind the devastation in his eyes. “Spatial anomaly,” he whispered. “A rupture, just wide enough. I stepped into your world. You can’t tell me that wasn’t a sign.”

You stared at him, heart thudding in your ears.

“I thought–I knew–it had to be the gods, or fate, or something greater. Because the ring you gave me–” his voice shook, “--I used it. I fed it into the Deepspace Tunnel. I brought you back through it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought it was a gift,” he said. “A way back to you. A way to rewrite the end we never deserved.”

You were silent.

“I should have told you,” he said, eyes wet. “I know I should’ve. But I was scared. If I told you what I’d done, maybe you’d hate me. Maybe you’d walk away. Maybe I’d lose you all over again.”

He looked up, eyes shining with tears that slipped down his face freely now.

“But I love you. I’ve only ever loved you. And if I had to choose between losing you again or damning myself to have one more moment– I’d choose damnation every time.”

Your knees gave out before you could think.

You sank to the floor in front of him, trembling, your hands reaching to cup his face.

“You idiot,” you whispered. 

He leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I just wanted you back.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t quiet.

It was devastation in the shape of a kiss – desperate, messy, wet with tears. You clutched at his shirt as if it could ground you, while his hands pulled you closer, dragging you into his lap, into his arms, into the space that had always been yours.

He whimpered against your mouth, broken and breathless, hands ghosting across your waist, your face, your back, like he couldn’t decide what part of you he’d missed the most.

His mouth moved like it couldn’t find enough of you – over your lips, your jaw, your cheeks, your throat. Each kiss came with a whispered apology. A declaration. A prayer.

“My bride,” he murmured, kissing your tear-streaked face. “My heart. My love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

“I know,” you breathed, barely able to get the words out. “I know.”

You kissed him again, harder, pulling his face against yours, his hands cradling the back of your neck as your bodies pressed together. There was no rhythm. No restraint. Just the wild, unspoken ache of two people who had been broken open by time and found each other again.

Your fingers buried in his hair. His name on your lips like a prayer. The two of you tangled on the paint-stained floor, lost in each other, grief and longing melting into something almost holy.

“I love you,” he said, over and over, between kisses, between sobs. 

And you clung to him like the earth might split in two, because this was the only thing that had ever truly been real.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there.

The world narrowed to the heat between you, the tear-slicked skin, the rasp of breath where mouths met again and again. Rafayel kissed you like a man starved – like you were the first sunlight after a century of night. His hands shook where they touched you, not from fear, but reverence. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like if he let go, you'd vanish.

“Say it again,” you whispered, breath trembling against his mouth.

“I love you,” he choked, voice wrecked. “I love you, more than anything, I love you–”

You kissed him to shut him up, fingers digging into his shoulders, needing to feel the weight of him, the reality of him. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, drawing you into his lap like he could fuse you to him. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed, still crying, still whispering your name like it was a plea, a curse, a miracle.

“My beloved bride,” he whispered, and it shattered something in you.

You made a sound – broken, desperate – and his hands came up to cup your face, to kiss away the fresh tears falling from your eyes.

“I would’ve waited lifetimes,” he said, voice hoarse. “I would’ve wandered through every world until I found you again. But I saw you in front of me, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“I was there,” you whispered. “I was right there the whole time, and I didn’t even know.”

His hands dropped to your hips, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. “You looked at me like I was a stranger. Do you know what that did to me? To know my heart was calling for you with no way for you to hear it?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t remember–”

“Don’t apologize,” he said fiercely, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.”

And then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, slower – not frantic now, but claiming. The kind of kiss that tasted like ownership and devotion and desperation all tangled into one. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, trembling as they touched bare skin like it was sacred.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he murmured against your lips. “Not now. Not ever. Just don’t leave me. Not again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

Rafayel exhaled like you’d just pulled him from drowning.

His hands moved more urgently now, not with lust but with need – the need to feel everything he’d lost, to memorize you again. His kisses trailed down your throat, shaky and reverent, his breath catching every time your fingers tightened in his hair.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he said. “Do you understand? When I realized it wasn’t really you in this world, everything went grey.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face in both hands. “You didn’t lose me. You found me. Even when you weren’t supposed to.”

A choked laugh escaped him – part joy, part pain – and he surged up to kiss you again, messier this time, needier, until you were both gasping, clinging, your bodies pressed together like two halves trying to remember what it meant to be whole.

Paint smeared against your knees. His tears soaked your collar. The floor was cold but you barely noticed – all you could feel was him, and the weight of everything you hadn’t said until now.

And through it all, he whispered it again and again, like a vow sealed in breath and fire and time.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

You buried your face against his neck and said it back, over and over, until there was nothing left between you but heat and memory and the knowledge that no gods, no distance, no lifetime would ever truly keep you apart again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

He doesn’t need to check the comms. Doesn’t need to ask the twins, or pull a report, or send Mephisto.

He just knows.

You’re gone. Not missing. Not taken. Gone.

He can feel it like a thread pulled clean from his chest – a soft, unraveling ache he’d spent weeks trying not to name. The emptiness hits before the clock even turns over. Before the lights flicker. Before the silence sinks in deep enough to feel permanent.

You’re in Whitesand. With him.

Of course you are.

Sylus doesn’t move from his chair. Doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t storm out to stop you. What would be the point?

This is what he gets. What he deserves.

For waiting too long. For treating you like a puzzle he couldn’t allow himself to solve. For standing there, paralyzed, when every instinct told him you were already his.

He should’ve said something the moment the memories started. He should’ve taken your hand the night you returned from the show. He should’ve trusted the way your soul called to his – not questioned it. Not doubted you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let Rafayel see what he couldn’t. He watched a man he'd once called untrustworthy recognize the very thing Sylus tried so hard to suppress.

Maybe that’s the truth of it. Maybe he didn’t love you enough.

Or maybe he loved you too much.

Too much to reach out first. Too much to believe what stood right in front of him. Too much to risk scaring you, to ruin the one thing that made him feel human.

A bitter laugh curls in his throat, but it never leaves his mouth.

A few tears slip free, unnoticed – trailing down a face that’s still too proud to shatter out loud. He rubs them away roughly, but they keep coming. Not loud. Not violent. Just slow, and steady, and full of a grief that’s been waiting for a place to land.

He breathes deep. Lets it settle in his bones.

This is his punishment for waiting too long. Not losing you. No – letting you go.

Letting you walk into another man’s arms, when you’d once looked at him like the answer to a prayer you didn’t remember making.

He closes his eyes, pressing a hand to the center of his chest where the ache is sharpest. You’ll be happy there. He tells himself that. Over and over again. He tries to mean it.

But the silence in the room is deafening.

And this time, it’s not just in his head.

It’s real. Because you’re not coming back.

And he has no one left to blame but himself.

Truly, a curtain call grander than death itself.

Notes:

cross posting from tumblr. check it out & my other works @fiendsgf !