June 6th, 2025
Corvian, Age 3180
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The shelter stank of breath and sleep. Of lives packed too tightly in one space, pressed together until the air itself began to sour. Each exhale hung heavy, mingling with the musk of worn sheets, damp clothes, and unwashed despair.
I stood by the doorway and breathed in through my nose, instantly regretting it. The place was barely alive—no, wounded would be the closer word. Wounded but still twitching. Rows of iron bunk beds lined the walls like cages, men folded beneath thin blankets, faces hollowed by surrender. The flicker of a weak light trembled against the ceiling, as if afraid to stay.
How peculiar, I thought. Out of all the things he could have chosen to become, Hugo chose this—a creature of endurance, content to rot slowly rather than starve quickly.
"What a perverse person you are," I murmured under my breath. "Accepting such conditions instead of changing them. And when the chance came to claw your way out, you took the short road."
He was sitting on his lower bunk, cigarette between his lips, eyes half-lidded. He didn't look surprised to see me, not even faintly disturbed. That unnerved me more than I cared to admit.
"I'm not staying here," I said finally.
He didn't look up. "Then go find yourself somewhere else."
The words were thrown out carelessly, like ash.
"You shouldn't talk to me like that," I replied. My voice was calm, though the irritation behind it licked like slow fire. "You're lucky I'm feeling generous, or else I would've done something very unpleasant."
That made him rise. He crossed the small distance between us with a deliberate slowness that would have passed for defiance if it weren't so devoid of energy. When he stood before me, the smell of smoke and something human—salt, skin, exhaustion—reached me.
"No need to threaten me with empty words, Corrin," he said, his voice low. "I know what you are. I know the difference between us. But you don't expect me to kneel before you, do you?"
"That," I said, allowing a smile, "would be a splendid sight."
"You're so full of yourself."
He said it without venom, as though it were a fact, not an insult.
I studied him then, properly. He was far too calm, far too composed for someone standing before me. Was it because he saw a human face and mistook it for safety? Or had something inside him already gone dark enough that fear no longer registered?
The light from the corridor brushed over his features, revealing the shape of him with quiet precision. His hair fell loosely across his face, long enough to touch his jaw, strands black and soft as silk, catching what little glow the room offered. His eyes were green—muted, tired, but still sharp, the kind that hold back more than they give. He had that pale, sleepless complexion humans acquire when their nights are spent more in thought than in rest. The lip piercing gleamed faintly as he spoke, a small glint of rebellion surviving in a man otherwise hollowed out by the world.
There was beauty in him, though not the kind that sings of life. It was the beauty of things that persist in ruin—weathered, quiet, unwilling to die.
And standing before him, I wondered if that was why I'd been drawn here at all. Not because he'd called—but because something in his stillness had already belonged to me.
"I said I'm not staying here," I told him, my tone even but final. "Follow me."
I didn't wait for a reply. The staleness of the shelter clung to me like smoke, heavy and unrelenting. I needed air, even if the night outside was just another version of the same rot. My footsteps carried through the corridor, slow, deliberate. Behind me, I heard his—hesitant, then steady, trailing after mine.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I told you," I said, not looking back. "I'm not staying here. This is the third time I'm saying it. Do you not understand English? Should I start spelling it out for you?"
The door creaked open as I pushed through, the cold night sweeping in with a shiver of relief.
"Well, then where are we going?" he pressed, his voice closer now.
"To a hotel, of course."
"With whose money?"
I allowed a short laugh to break the silence between us, though it wasn't born from amusement. "I told you, I'm feeling generous today. So I'm paying."
He caught up to me, his shadow brushing the edge of mine. "With my money? Is this the same lump sum you took from me?"
I stopped mid-step, turned to face him. We were in the middle of the street now, the pale light from a distant lamp wrapping him in thin gold. "I told you," I said quietly, "we burned your money. I can still smell the resin of your ink cooking. And I'm not going to use money. Do you ever stop asking questions?"
His expression wavered between confusion and defiance. I didn't linger long enough to decide which one it was.
The street was empty—just the two of us and the sound of our footsteps echoing against stone. I walked ahead, letting the rhythm of his steps behind me remind me he was still there. I didn't need to look back; I could feel his presence, the uneven pulse of a human following something he didn't trust.
I raised my hands, studying them in the light. Skin smooth, unmarred, too perfect for something pretending to be alive. I turned them over, palms open to the air. No lines. No maps of fate. No trace of the story that should have been written there. Just emptiness.
A body borrowed, yes—but even a suit should remember its maker.
I flexed my fingers, watching the motion, the absence of creases or age. For a moment, I wondered if I'd made an error in choosing this form, if perhaps it wasn't crafted as well as I'd believed.
Then his voice reached me again, softer now. "What's that on the back of your neck?"
My head tilted slightly. I reached behind me, fingertips brushing skin. I hadn't realized the hood had fallen. Beneath my touch, something rough—raised, irregular. A bump, or a scar that had already healed.
"I don't know," I said. "I told you—it's a suit."
He stepped closer, curiosity sharpening the air. "This is such a weird place. Is that a marking?"
"No," I said, my hand still against my neck. "Not a mark. A seam"
I withdrew my hand and lowered the hood again, the fabric brushing the edge of the scar. The sensation lingered, faint but unsettling, as if something beneath the skin had stirred at his question.
We kept walking, the distance between our footsteps tightening until they began to fall in unison.
The hotel loomed at the end of the street—its façade a patient face of stone, remembering every shadow that had ever passed beneath it. The lights above the entrance were still the same: dim, too warm for comfort, glowing like something alive behind smoked glass. The revolving door turned lazily, exhaling air that smelled faintly of old perfume and something sweeter underneath—regret, maybe.
I didn't need to look at Hugo to feel the shift in him. The moment we stepped into the lobby, the air around him changed. His body slowed, his gaze caught on the walls, the marble floor, the chandelier that trembled faintly with the motion of the fans above. Memory pressed down on him like a hand. He tried to hide it, but even silence carries shape; I could sense the recognition, the buried ache of someone walking through the ghost of his own life.
The place was clean, too clean—polished to distraction. The soft lilt of a piano slipped through the air from hidden speakers, a melody designed to soothe, but it only made the stillness worse. Behind the counter, a young man in uniform looked up, his smile routine and practiced. I despised the way humans smiled for work—smiles without warmth, all teeth and submission.
"Good evening," the receptionist said, straightening. "Do you have a reservation?"
"I do now," I said. My voice slid across the room, low but clear enough to command attention. The clerk blinked, confused, but the hesitation lasted only a second. His fingers moved over the keyboard, obedient.
Hugo stood behind me, his hands buried in his jacket pockets, shoulders drawn. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. I could feel the pulse of memory rippling under his stillness. The same carpet he'd once walked on with someone else. The same scent of lilies that haunted the corridor. He wasn't looking at me, not at the clerk, but at the past stitched into the corners of this place.
"Name?" the clerk asked.
"Corrin Vale," I answered, smoothly. "Two rooms."
Hugo's head turned slightly at that, though he said nothing. I felt his attention flicker to me, the quiet question hanging between us, unanswered.
The clerk nodded, his eyes already dimming back to indifference. "Of course, sir." He handed over two keycards. His fingers brushed mine, and the smallest tremor of discomfort crossed his face—barely visible, but there. I'd learned that humans could feel it sometimes, the small wrongness in touching something that doesn't belong to their world.
"Thank you," I said.
We turned away from the counter. Hugo's steps trailed a fraction behind mine. The elevator waited at the end of the corridor, its golden doors reflecting the distorted shapes of our bodies as we approached.
I glanced at him. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes—those betrayed him. The recognition in them was no longer sharp, but old, worn, like a wound that never healed right. It wasn't the hotel that unsettled him. It was the memory that had followed him here and refused to stay buried.
As we waited for the elevator, I thought how human it was to return to places that hurt. To seek pain just to feel something familiar.
When the doors opened with a whisper, the sound felt almost reverent. I gestured for him to step in first. He didn't look at me, but I caught the flicker of his reflection in the brass—his eyes, heavy and far away.
He entered. I followed. And as the doors slid shut, the lobby—and everything waiting behind it—fell silent again.
"Just like that?" he asked, turning to face me as the elevator doors shut. "He let you in just like that?"
My mouth curled faintly. "I have my ways."
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Something's off."
I laughed once, quiet but sharp. "You are so fucking brilliant, Hugo. Truly. Something's off? Are you kidding me? You think you've only now noticed? It seems like you're still in denial—or you still don't understand the situation you're in."
His eyes narrowed, catching the reflection of the light between floors. "I thought you booked two rooms."
"Well, yeah," I said. "I was just flexing. No need for two rooms. I'm your companion."
He exhaled slowly, pushing open the door once we reached the floor. "But there's only one bed here."
"Who said we're going to sleep?" I said, walking past him into the room.
The light in the room was dim, the kind that draped rather than illuminated. The air held that faint, sterile chill of conditioned luxury, and beneath it, the scent of old linen and perfume—human traces that always lingered where bodies had stayed too long.
He blinked, his voice steady but quieter now. "Okay then. Teach me something."
I turned to him, letting the question sit between us for a breath before answering. "Do you have your cards with you?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
I moved toward the bed, the floor soft beneath my steps. Without thinking much of it, I crawled onto the mattress and sat cross-legged in the center, the way humans often do when they're about to play at rituals they don't understand. "Show me something," I said.
He hesitated at the edge of the bed, his hand brushing the blanket as though testing the texture of the moment.
"No, no," I said, motioning him closer. "Come on. Sit opposite me. Show me your tricks."
He gave me a look that hovered between caution and resignation, then pulled himself up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged across from me. He tugged the blanket over one of his legs, a small, nervous gesture.
"I'm not going to touch you," I said.
"Oh no," he murmured, not meeting my eyes. "It's just a little chilly."
"In June?" I tilted my head. "All right. Whatever helps you sleep."
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and took out a deck of cards—creased, worn, and familiar to his hands. The sound of the shuffle filled the silence like rain against glass, soft and rhythmic. He began his performance, eyes lowering in concentration, movements deft but deliberate.
I watched him. The way his fingers moved was almost graceful, though I could already see the gaps, the illusions he thought I wouldn't notice. When he lifted a card, I spoke before he could finish. "Ace of hearts."
His gaze snapped up. "How did you—"
"Your thumb pressed too tightly," I said. "You revealed the corner when you flipped it."
He reset the deck and tried again. Another flourish, another attempt to disguise the method. "Queen of spades," I said before he could show me.
He stared at me, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
"Don't stop," I told him. "You'll get better if you keep failing."
He tried again. Different motions, different rhythm. His hands trembled slightly now, though his expression didn't betray it.
"Three of clubs," I said.
He froze, the card still between his fingers. For a heartbeat, I almost felt something akin to pity—but pity was a useless emotion. I didn't carry it. I studied him instead: the flicker of frustration behind his composure, the quiet way he swallowed his pride and tried again, even knowing I'd catch him.
It was almost admirable.
I leaned back slightly, resting my palms against the bed. The cards whispered between his hands, and I watched not for the trick but for him—the boy who thought he could impress the devil with sleight of hand.
He didn't know yet that I'd already seen every illusion man was capable of. What interested me wasn't the magic he practiced, but the persistence that burned behind it. The strange need to be seen doing something—anything—that mattered.
When he drew the next card, I didn't say a word. I let him finish it. Let him believe, for a heartbeat, that the trick had worked.
And when he finally looked up, waiting for my reaction, I simply said, "Not bad."
Because sometimes, silence was kinder than truth.
"Are you ready to do some real work? You'll manage sparks and candles. Anything hungrier asks for me." I asked.
He nodded, meeting my gaze without flinching. His eyes struck me again—wide and charged, the surface always a breath from spilling. He was excited, I could feel the quickness in him, yet his eyes looked forever on the verge of breaking. Teary, like a small lake stranded after the river moved on.
I took both his hands in mine. His palms were cool, the pulse restless. "It has to rise from within," I said. "Tell me, what do you feel when you see fire?"
He lifted one shoulder. "Warmth."
"Marvelous." I let the word settle. "Think on it. The warmth of it, the beauty of it. Go there."
He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. I watched the breath move through him, the chest steadying, the jaw loosening. I did not speak. I let the room narrow to the circle of our hands and the quiet weight of the bed beneath our knees.
"Now," I said softly, "see it."
Fire is not only light. It is patience turned bright. It begins as a whispering thread, a wick taking to spark, the smallest bead of orange licking at air. It learns its borders by tasting them. It feeds until the borders change.
See the first lick become a tongue, quick and curious. See how it bends with every draft, how it leans toward anything that promises a meal. Hear the brittle crack of kindling surrendering, the little snaps like joints loosening after sleep. Smell the resin waking in the wood, sharp and sweet, the breath of sap remembering forests. There is smoke too, soft at first, then thicker, carrying the taste of scorched sugar and old rooms, the kind that clings to hair and throat.
Feel the heat gather, not as a blow but as a steady hand laid to the skin, a promise that grows. It strokes before it bites. It paints your palms with a slow burn, climbs the wrists, settles in the chest like a second heart beating quicker than yours. Watch the colors shift inside it—the pale core where it is hungriest, the orange rim where it plays, the brief blue where it drinks deepest. Every color is a mood. Every flare is a thought made bright.
There is movement inside flame that never repeats itself. It dances without music, yet everything around it learns the rhythm. Shadows bow and stretch on the walls. Air warps above it, a tender shiver, as though the world is breathing harder to keep up.
Think on hands held near a hearth after long cold. Think on paper curling into black lace. Think on candles in a chapel, each wick a tongue speaking names no one says aloud. Fire remembers the old language of offering. It takes and gives at once: warmth for hunger, light for ash. It is mercy until it is not.
"Stay with it," I murmured, tightening my hold on his fingers. "Do not chase it. Invite it. Let it come to you like a creature that trusts your quiet."
His breathing evened. A stillness drew over him that was not emptiness but focus, like the hush before a match is struck. I watched his lashes tremble, the soft shine at the corner of his eyes, the way the muscles in his forearms answered the thought before the thought became action.
"Good," I said. "Again. Feel the heat rise through the bones. Let the warmth choose you."
His eyes snapped open, bright and startled. "There's something," he whispered.
I eased his hands apart with my thumbs, opening his palms as if parting a curtain. A thread of fire rested there—small, sure of itself, a living ember cupped in flesh.
"Move it," I said.
"How?" His breath grazed my wrist, quick, uneven.
"Feel it," I answered. "And move it."
He tilted his palm, slow as a tide turning. The flame slid with the motion, skimming the fold of his hand without leaving a mark. Light crawled over his skin, gold along the lines at his wrist, warm against my knuckles where I still steadied him.
He looked up at me—joy breaking across his face with sudden, disarming clarity. In all the hours I had watched him, I had never seen that expression. It changed the set of his mouth, softened the shadows under his eyes, made him ridiculous and, for a heartbeat, almost beautiful.
"It doesn't burn," he said, half laughing. The sound caught in his throat and turned light.
"Of course it doesn't burn," I said. "It won't burn you, only. It honors the hand it answers. Everything else is meat. Don't try it on someone else… or do, actually. That might be interesting."
"You're deranged," he murmured, still grinning.
"Close your palms," I told him.
He obeyed. The light thinned, then folded inward and went out, leaving only the heat lingering in his skin and the faint smell of warmed air. The room dimmed again. I watched the joy fall from his face as if someone had pinched a wick.
"Why the hell did you tell me to do that?" The gloom returned to him like a familiar coat.
"Try it on your own now."
He stared a moment—suspicion pricking at the edges—then drew a breath and focused. Nothing. His hands remained dull and ordinary. He flicked a glance at me, brow knotted. "It's gone."
"No," I said. "It's not gone. Try again. Slowly. You haven't mastered it."
He set his jaw, brought his attention to his fingertips, and snapped. Heat blossomed. Four small tongues caught at once; the fifth stuttered—guttering down to a coal, a stubborn ember trembling on his pinky—then flared back to life as if remembering itself. For a heartbeat the light was uneven, five pulses out of time; then they found each other and steadied, perched on each tip as delicate as candle flames, throwing honeyed light over his face.
I let the moment stretch. The soft hiss of the vents, the whisper of linen shifting under our knees, the dry sweetness of singed oxygen in the air—each detail pressed itself into the quiet. He laughed under his breath, fragile and sincere, a boy discovering the door he'd been pounding on actually opens.
So these are the creatures for whom we were cast out of heaven, I thought, taking in his shining eyes and trembling hands. This small, greedy radiance over a trick of warmth. What a bitter joke—and how exquisitely human to glow as if it were the sun.