HOME IS A LOADED GUN
The gates recognized his gait before
his ID.
Metal shivered in the walls of the
compound as the outer defense system temporarily disengaged. Flare stepped into
the threshold like a soldier entering a trap he'd memorized — the pattern of
safety within danger, of routine laced with mortality. Beneath his boots,
pressure sensors scanned his weight, his pulse, his stride. The retinal scan
blinked green.
Welcome, Lt. Flare Nacht.
The airlock hissed.
Two steps in, the biometric suite
mapped him. Two degrees to the left or right and it would have triggered
turrets, hidden in the archways, behind the picture frames, in the floor tiles
beneath the rug Jessael had picked out herself.
This was home.
It just happened to also be a coffin
with better furniture.
The entryway hummed with quiet life.
Warm lights. A table with a stack of photos Jessael never stopped updating. A
scent of ginger and rice in the air — she must've cooked early tonight.
Flare unlatched his sword from his
back and leaned it against the steel-frame umbrella stand beside the door. Most
people didn't keep enchanted weapons forged from bone beside their umbrellas.
Then again, most people didn't come home with blood still drying on their
collar.
He didn't wipe it off yet.
He wanted to see them first. While it
was still there. While it still meant something.
The kitchen was lit with a soft orange
glow from the overhead strips. The soft hum of ventilation. A pot simmering on
the stove.
Jessael stood barefoot, stirring
something slow and rich in a ceramic pan. She wore those loose joggers he liked
— the deep burgundy ones — and a fitted tank top that left her dermal gem
glinting in the low light. Her hair was up, twisted in a quick bun, a single
curl sliding free and brushing her neck.
She didn't turn to face him.
Didn't need to.
"You tracked blood through my clean
floor again," she said evenly, still stirring.
Flare smiled quietly.
"Not mine."
"That doesn't make it better, Nacht."
He stepped closer. Gently placed a
hand on her lower back. The muscles under his palm were soft but coiled, the
kind of strength that didn't flaunt itself.
"I missed you," he said into the space
between them.
Jessael let out a breath that was
almost a laugh. "Mmmhmm. You say that every time you survive. One day I want to
hear it before you walk back in the door
with ash still on your boots."
"You'd just roll your eyes."
"I'd still want to hear it."
He didn't reply.
She reached up — not to embrace him,
but to tap his temple gently with the back of her stirring spoon. "Go clean up.
You smell like ozone and testosterone."
Upstairs
The walls of their home were lined
with blast-resistant material that doubled as sound dampening. Every Slayer
room came with it. Not just for privacy — for safety.
Flare stepped into the bathroom,
peeled off his outer layers. The shirt stuck to him in places where dried blood
had crusted over cuts — nothing deep, just reminders.
The mirror didn't lie.
A scar across his left collarbone. One
above the hip. A line at the corner of his jaw where an Ashen claw had kissed
too close.
He washed slowly. Deliberately.
By the time he returned downstairs, he
was in fresh black fatigues and barefoot.
"Where's Anira?"
Jessael didn't answer.
From the hallway — a blur.
Then a flash of blonde and a warcry
that would've impressed a god.
Flare dropped to one knee and caught
the fist aimed at his throat a millisecond before impact.
"She's behind the curtain," Anira chirped,
eyes gleaming, teeth bared in a grin. "She's gonna come for your ribs next."
"That so?"
"Yep."
She swept at his legs with a practiced
low kick.
He jumped it — barely.
Anira flipped back, bounced off the
couch, and lunged again.
This time, he let her hit him.
A jab straight to the liver.
"Oof—!"
He grunted, stumbled back half a step.
She followed with a spinning backhand.
He caught it with one hand and raised
his eyebrows.
"Nice form," he said. "But you dropped
your shoulder on the pivot."
"You dropped your guard, old man," she
countered.
Jessael walked past them with a bowl
of rice and a hand towel, completely unbothered.
"I swear," she muttered, "your bonding
method is just child-approved domestic violence."
"It's tactical resilience training,"
Flare and Anira said in perfect sync.
"Uh-huh." She set the bowl down on the
side table, eyed her husband. "You are going to stop before someone cracks a
rib, right?"
"Eventually."
"Soonish," Anira added with a smirk.
Jessael gave a long, exaggerated sigh.
"And this," she said, waving toward
the two of them squaring off again, "is why I keep the med kit in the living
room. You're both too proud to admit you need it after round three."
Flare looked at Anira. She grinned
like she had a secret.
He relaxed his stance — then flicked
his fingers at her wrist.
She dodged. He advanced. She swept
low, fast, spinning like she'd practiced it a hundred times.
And she had.
Later
The floor was littered with training
mats, a cracked cup, and one of Jessael's decorative pillows that had not
survived the encounter. Anira sat half-draped over the couch, her face flushed
with victory. She'd caught him once in the thigh hard enough to deaden the
muscle — he limped just a little on the way to the kitchen.
Jessael handed him a cold compress.
"You two are going to break something
one day."
"Not it," Anira called from the couch.
"Me neither," Flare muttered.
They locked eyes.
Shared a grin.
Then, quieter, Flare leaned in toward
Jessael. She met him with her usual calm, with the silver-flecked eyes that
always seemed to see what he couldn't say.
"She's getting stronger," he said.
"Mm."
"And faster."
"She's your daughter. Of course she
is."
"She caught me twice. Clean."
"She's eleven, Flare."
He paused.
Jessael leaned in close. Not angry.
Not mocking. Just honest.
"And what happens when she's twenty?"
she asked. "When she's better than you, and still thinks fighting is love?"
Flare swallowed.
"She won't lose herself," he said.
"Not with us."
Jessael nodded slowly. But her eyes
didn't soften.
"I'm not worried about her, love. I'm
worried about you."
He didn't know what to say to that.
So she kissed his temple and walked
away, pausing just long enough to say:
"Dinner's getting cold, Slayer."