The scissors whispered through my hair, steady and practiced.
"Let me just trim a bit," she said.
"Okay."
Dark strands slid to the floor like cut threads. Watching them, I thought hair keeps memory—rooms, touches, smoke. Maybe that's why people feel lighter once it's gone.
She brushed my shoulders clean. "You can get dressed now."
Next station. Poppy beside the stylist, arms folded, already measuring me.
"Are you sure you want that?"
"Yeah. Keep it minimal."
They exchanged a look, then went to work. The fabric was cool against my skin at first, crisp where it met my wrists. They fastened, adjusted, smoothed, until I was no longer myself but some version of who I was meant to be.
When they finished, I stood before the mirror again.
The man staring back looked almost deliberate—hair falling in loose waves that grazed the edges of his eyes, dark enough to look like shadow, soft enough to look accidental. The shirt hung open at the collar, careless but clean, the white bright against the black suit. The jacket hung a little loose, the structure collapsing just enough to feel human.
I tilted my head. The light shifted across my face, catching the hollow beneath the cheekbone, the slight curve of the mouth. My eyes looked quieter than they should, though not empty—just waiting, maybe, for something to move through them.
There was a kind of balance in the look, an elegance born from disorder. Poppy grinned from behind me, and I thought, absently, that maybe I should get something inked into my skin one day—something to mark the parts of me that couldn't be dressed.
But for now, this would do.
The reflection held. Detached, calm, a stranger I could almost believe in.
Poppy leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, her mouth curving into something halfway between admiration and mischief. The soft amber lights caught her in a kind of quiet glow—skin pale, smooth, her hair pinned up in a dark, elegant sweep that framed her face like brushstrokes over porcelain. The fabric of her dress shimmered black with subtle movement, trimmed with lace that traced the edges of her collarbone. And her eyes—blue, crystalline and unflinching—watched me like they could see through the layers of fabric and skin into whatever pulse still hid beneath.
"You look so hot," she said, grinning as she tilted her head, voice rich with satisfaction.
Behind her, Corvian exhaled, a sharp, unimpressed sound that landed somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
Poppy turned, her brow lifting. "What was that?"
"Shh," I said, pulling at my cuff. "Please. No banter. I'm about to perform."
She placed a hand over her chest in mock offense but softened immediately, her grin never fading. "Alright, alright. We're ready. Crew says you can head down."
I met her gaze in the mirror—her reflection bright, mine shadowed. "I'm very ready," I said. Then, quieter, more to myself than to either of them, "Let's do it."
She straightened the lace ribbon on her shoulder, smiled once more, and followed as I turned toward the door. The hallway beyond waited, lit gold and trembling with the anticipation of noise. I could feel the night breathing through the walls, ready to swallow whatever version of me stepped into it.
Poppy left first, her perfume lingering in the air like a soft afterimage. The crew trailed after her—stylists, hairdressers, assistants carrying brushes and laughter that faded as the door closed behind them. The room dimmed in their absence, the silence returning like something that had been waiting its turn.
I turned toward the mirror again, but before I could study the reflection, I felt a hand take mine—steady, deliberate. Corvian's grip wasn't firm, but it anchored me all the same. He pulled me closer until I could see the small flecks of light in his eyes, the kind that made it difficult to breathe evenly.
"All your life," he said, his tone low, even. "Since the first time you laid eyes on Igor Ivanov, you wanted to be like him."
I felt the words enter rather than heard them. They settled somewhere deep, where truth and pride twisted into one.
"And it so happens," he continued, "that you became even better than him. Even stronger." His hand didn't move, but his voice sharpened, carrying a rhythm that demanded attention. "So this is not a moment of admiration, Hugo. This is the moment when all eyes turn toward you—the focal point. They admire you and only you. Igor is nothing. He's weak. He's repetitive. He's boring. And you—" his gaze flickered briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes, "you have everything you need to bring him to shame. To send him weeping into his room."
The space between us pulsed with something electric. His words coiled into me like fire spreading through dry air.
"Make Kent learn that he messed with the wrong man," Corvian went on, quieter now, but the weight in his voice deepened. "That you're capable. You hear me, Hugo?"
I nodded slowly, and a small smile broke across my face before I could stop it. It wasn't confidence, not exactly. It was something sharper, more dangerous.
Corvian inhaled, long and measured, the sound almost a sigh. "Alright," he said, letting the breath go. "It's your time to shine."
When he released my hand, I reached for him instead—fingers catching the edge of his sleeve. He stopped, brow creasing slightly. "Something wrong?"
I shook my head. The air between us changed, stretching taut. I didn't know why I did it—maybe I'd already stopped thinking.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. For a second, he didn't move. Then, slowly, his arms came up around me, the gesture less a response than a possession. I stayed there, feeling the quiet hum of him beneath the surface, the rhythm that wasn't human but felt almost like one.
When I finally pulled back, I stayed close. The world outside the walls didn't exist for that small moment. I rose onto my toes, my hands finding his face—the sharpness of his jaw beneath my palms, the coolness of his skin where no blood ran. His eyes flickered once, a dark glint, but he didn't stop me.
I kissed him.
Not out of gratitude, or devotion, or even want. It felt like sealing something that had been growing between us for too long—something wordless and inevitable. His mouth was cold, still, but alive in a way that words could never hold.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might pull away. He didn't.
The kiss held still at first—like a held breath suspended between us, unsure which of us would claim it. His lips were colder than I expected, smooth and unmoving, but not lifeless. There was awareness beneath the stillness, the kind that listens more than it responds.
Then his hand moved. A single motion—fingers brushing the side of my neck, settling at the hollow of my throat. The touch was light, almost reverent, but I felt it all the way through me, a quiet possession disguised as gentleness.
My own breath broke the silence. The air between our mouths warmed, then vanished altogether as I deepened the kiss without thinking. It wasn't hunger that drove it—it was certainty. I didn't want softness. I wanted to know he was real, that the connection binding us wasn't illusion or mercy.
Corvian didn't resist. He met the kiss with a kind of precision, not passion. Measured. Certain. The way a man touches something he already owns. I could taste the calm on him, that strange lack of pulse, the steadiness that both soothed and terrified me.
The back of his hand slid against my jaw, thumb pressing beneath my chin until I tilted upward. The movement was wordless command, an unspoken stay here. And I did.
When I finally pulled away, the air came back like a tide. I opened my eyes. His face was close enough that I could count the reflections in his gaze—each one of them mine. His expression hadn't changed, but something in the stillness between us had shifted, like a curtain drawn back from a window that had always been there.
He looked at me for a long moment, then spoke quietly, almost a whisper. "You shouldn't have done that."
"I know," I said, voice barely a sound. "But I wanted to."
His hand remained at my throat for a beat longer, the pressure soft, almost thoughtful, before he withdrew it.
"Then let that be your last want for tonight," he said. "The rest belongs to the world."
I nodded. But when I looked at him again, I knew the truth he didn't say out loud—something had been exchanged between us, something small and irreversible. The kiss wasn't an ending. It was a mark.
I left the room still tasting the quiet from his lips. It clung to me, thin as breath, but it burned through my chest like something lit from the inside.
The corridor outside was washed in gold light, the kind that comes before dusk but pretends to be dawn. I didn't bother looking back. I pressed the elevator button, feeling the pulse behind my ribs sync with the soft mechanical click. When the doors opened, I stepped in, exhaling a small laugh that escaped without reason. It felt too light for what the night promised.
The ride up was brief, but time stretched thin in that mirrored box. My reflection looked different—like the moment before lightning touches ground. I ran a hand through my hair, still freshly trimmed, still smelling of the stylist's perfume, and the world suddenly felt possible.
When the doors opened again, the noise of the roof swallowed me whole. Backstage was alive with motion—crew members moving cables, voices overlapping, the air heavy with heat and light and preparation. Someone led me toward the private rest space set aside for performers. It wasn't large, but it had a window overlooking the city, and that was enough.
"Just wait here until you're called," one of the crew said. I nodded, already half-absorbed in the sound of everything beyond the door—the shifting of instruments, the thrum of speakers testing for breath.
I sat down, hands clasped loosely together. For a moment, nerves crawled their way up my spine, quick and deliberate. I pressed my palms against my knees, trying to quiet the tremor, but then I remembered Corvian's voice—low, assured, the kind that could part storms if it wanted to.
All your life, you wanted to be like him.
He was right. My life had been a long series of looking. Watching others shine while I stood in the dim edges of rooms—watching, absorbing, wishing. Whether it was a pair of shoes in a shop window, an apartment too expensive to imagine, or someone laughing in the kind of light that never reached me. People who seemed effortlessly alive, perfectly placed in the world. And then there was Igor Ivanov—the unreachable height, the name that filled air before I ever could.
I had watched him for years. Studied every gesture, every pause, the way his silence commanded attention. I'd wanted to mirror it, maybe steal some of it. But now, tonight, I'd been given something more than imitation. Corvian had given me power—terrible, beautiful power—and with it came the certainty that this was the last time I would ever look up to anyone.
It wasn't admiration anymore. It was arrival.
To stand face to face with Igor, to wield what burned beneath my skin in front of him and the world—it wasn't just a performance. It was reclamation.
The air felt sharper suddenly. I sat up straighter, heart steadying into rhythm.
For once, I wasn't the boy pressed against the glass, watching others move in their gilded worlds. I wasn't waiting for a chance, for an invitation, for someone to notice.
No. This time, I was the thing to be seen. The one they'd look at and whisper about. The one they'd measure themselves against.
It was time for me to be the example—the one others wanted to become.
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Corvian, 3181.
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The ballroom gleamed like a living artery of gold. Light clung to every surface, ricocheting off crystal chandeliers and polished marble, catching in sequins, silver cuffs, and jeweled throats. The Morrison knew spectacle—knew how to dress decadence in reverence. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and self-importance.
They led me to my seat. The usher bowed with mechanical grace, muttering the practiced welcome of someone who has long stopped meaning it. Across the tables, faces turned—some familiar, some new—but all wearing the same expression of disguised hunger. Humans always glow when gathered in worship of themselves.
Then came Kent.
He was draped in arrogance disguised as charm, the same as ever, his smile too broad, too white. He took the seat beside me like a man settling into his own reflection. "Nice to see you here!" he said, voice sharp with sugar. "Our boys are all together again. Isn't this surreal?"
"Aha," I said, the sound neutral, almost careless.
"Come on," he pressed, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Why don't you want truce? What's wrong with you being so stubborn?"
I turned slightly toward him. My expression did not move, but the smile I gave him was deliberate—tight, like something drawn across glass. "I have no interest in befriending you, Kent. We go way back, and you know better than anyone why we can't be friends."
His jaw shifted, but the grin didn't falter. "Even if I told you I regret it?"
"Then you'd be a cheater," I said quietly. "And a liar. There's no way you feel regret—unless that's your human half speaking, which I also doubt."
The words landed softly, but I could see their effect ripple through him. He looked away, smiling to no one, the way guilty men do when trying to look unbothered.
Then the sound system cracked to life. A sharp pop from the microphone silenced the room. I lifted a hand slightly. "Shh," I said without looking at him. "The show is about to start."
The presenter's voice rang out, smooth and proud, cutting through the murmurs. "Welcome, everyone, to the annual Fall Ball!" Applause scattered through the hall, polite, anticipatory. "The Morrison never fails to remind us why tradition must be kept alive—this is not an evening to miss, is it now?"
Her laughter trickled over the speakers. "I see beautiful fashion tonight, truly. Some of you, I must say, look absolutely divine. I caught a few of the interviews outside, and I can tell you, our attendees this evening are not just anyone. We have actors, singers, visionaries—and of course, our esteemed politicians." The names rolled one after another, titles polished until they no longer sounded like people.
Glasses chimed. Conversations dimmed.
"And of course," she went on, "we have a very important event later this evening. One I'm sure many of you are waiting for. But that's not for now—no, no, we must savor that. Let it linger until the end, yes?" She laughed again, a little too rehearsed. "For now, I want you all to join me in welcoming the orchestra!"
Applause erupted—civilized noise dressed as enthusiasm.
Beside me, Kent exhaled dramatically, tossing his napkin on the table. "Ugh, boring," he muttered.
I didn't respond. My eyes stayed fixed on the stage, where musicians began to take their places. The violins were being tuned, the cellos groaned low, and beneath it all, I could feel the evening shifting—an undercurrent gathering, subtle and electric. The mortals around me were only guests. They had no idea that before the night was over, the stage they so admired would become a place of revelation.
And Hugo—my beautiful, ruinous creature—was about to take it.
The orchestra carried on endlessly, filling the hall with polished sound—grand, opulent, the kind meant to make people believe in civility. Violins rose like well-trained doves, the brass section swelling as if the air itself were bowing to the spectacle. Couples drifted toward the dance floor, the soft shuffle of silk and leather sliding against marble. Laughter mingled with perfume, and somewhere nearby, the smell of champagne began to sour against the heat.
I stayed seated. Watching. The music wasn't for me; it was for those who still needed distraction to justify their joy.
Kent, of course, could never resist an audience. He leapt to his feet with that grating exuberance mortals mistake for charm, offered his hand to a woman in a gown of shimmering gold, and began to twirl her across the floor. The crowd admired the scene—how easily he blended into their world, how convincingly he could mimic delight.
I laughed under my breath, though the sound held no humor. It slipped out of me like air escaping a wound.
He moved like he wanted to be seen—like every step was a plea for acceptance. Watching him, I wondered whether I was mocking him for his desperation to be human, or for reminding me that I have begun to orbit their warmth more closely than I should. The thought unsettled me.
It was not envy. It was disgust—at the idea of resemblance.
Kent had always been the sort who would kneel for approval. If the old war were fought again, and the same question asked—whether to bow to humanity—he would not hesitate. He would lay his crown at their feet and call it evolution. That was the sickness that ran through him: regret, envy, and a hunger for forgiveness from a species that barely remembers its debt to us.
He believes that to become small is to be redeemed. I know better.
We were not made to destroy humans for sport; that is the mythology they invented to soothe their fear. No. What I do is not destruction—it is refinement. I strip them of illusion, peel back the layers until they are forced to see the raw truth of themselves. That is where understanding begins. That is the only language worth speaking.
Kent, spinning under the chandeliers, had long since forgotten that. He moved like a creature begging for absolution. I watched him lift the woman's hand to his lips and smile like a man rehearsing faith.
I felt no pity. Only distance.
He would never understand that to be what I am is not to hate mankind, but to hold a mirror to its face and refuse to look away.
The music swelled, and the dancers spun faster, drunk on the illusion of rhythm. The chandeliers shivered overhead. Around me, mortals laughed, clinked glasses, touched each other's arms, whispered names of power and promise.
It struck me then, watching Kent parade beneath the chandeliers, that perhaps I am no different in my fixation—only more honest about it. The more I have studied humanity, the more it has begun to seep into me like slow poison. Their gestures, their grief, their fragile rituals of meaning—they cling to me, stain me in ways I cannot undo.
This is my tragedy: not Hugo, not the boy's hunger or his ruin, but the quiet infection that has been festering in me. I had thought I was shaping him, refining him through flame. But it is I who has been reshaped. I am learning their sickness of attachment, their ache to be seen, their endless reaching for warmth.
I used to think I could stand apart, untouched, the observer dissecting creation from a distance. Yet now, when I look at them, I no longer feel the purity of detachment. The line between comprehension and contagion has blurred.
It isn't his corruption that endangers me—it's my own.
They called the guests to dine. The sound of movement rose like a tide—chairs scraping, laughter renewed, silver clinking against porcelain. The orchestra softened into a waltz, polite and hollow. I didn't move. Hunger was never the sort of ache that lived in my flesh.
I stayed seated, watching them gather around their tables, and felt that strange tremor again beneath my skin—the vibration of the mark. It pulsed through me, not as pain, but as dissonance. It was wrong in its construction, yet too perfect in its intention.
The mark was not born from lust or conquest. It was the opposite of destruction; the imitation of genesis. When I breathed into him, it was not possession I sought—it was creation. The reversal of what was once divine: the giving of breath to dust, the spark that separated being from void.
That is why the marking matters. It is my blasphemy made sacred. My attempt at creating life, at mirroring the moment I once witnessed at the dawn of everything—the moment when the Divine bent over clay and spoke existence into it.
I learned to breathe against locked doors.
I remember what it felt like to stand in that radiance, to exist within perfect order. The silence that shaped galaxies, the unbearable symmetry of it. It was not love. It was structure, law, breath turned to being. I was made of that light once, until I wasn't. Since then, I've been trying to rebuild it—piece by piece, sin by sin.
I'm not chasing power. Power is a child's desire, and I am far older than that kind of hunger. What I chase is remembrance—the memory of divine craftsmanship. The need to understand how creation could come from command, from breath, from love that never trembled.
Every act I commit is an imitation of that first moment, distorted through what remains of me. Every corruption I make is a failed experiment in art. I try to sculpt as He did, to shape meaning from nothing, to breathe life into something hollow—but my breath no longer sanctifies. It decays.
Decay is my only medium now. My clay, my palette, my proof of what remains possible.
Around me, mortals laughed, lifted their glasses, their eyes glittering with the same vanity that once lit the heavens. I watched them, and for a fleeting instant, I almost understood the Creator's exhaustion. The knowledge that even perfection rots, and that one keeps creating not out of hope—but out of habit.
And so, I keep breathing into dust. Even if all it ever becomes is ruin that bears my name.
The irony does not escape me.
By trying to mimic creation, I have never made anything new. I only infect what already exists. The closer I move toward that first divine act—the giving of breath, the ordering of chaos—the further I drift from its meaning. Every attempt at life becomes distortion. Every imitation of grace rots before it can take form.
What I make does not live. It lingers.
Hugo's transformation is the proof of it—the closest I have ever come to creation, and the clearest evidence that I was never meant to hold that power. He is not merely touched by me; he is rewritten by me, and in that rewriting lies both beauty and ruin. The mark that binds us is the echo of what once made angels breathe and galaxies obey, but through me, it corrupts instead of sanctifies.
He is my masterpiece because he bears the precision of my intention—the symmetry, the devotion, the trace of something godlike. But he is also my failure, because no matter how perfectly I sculpt him, the outcome will always decay.
The Divine built universes from silence; I build echoes that consume themselves. He spoke and called light into being; I whisper and the flame devours.
He made you delicate so you'd need each other. It's cruel genius. I can't look away.
And yet I cannot stop. I keep reaching toward that impossible memory, trying to rebuild what I destroyed in my fall, trying to feel the shape of creation again through ruin.
Hugo is both the result and the cost of that yearning—the living contradiction between art and aftermath. My reflection, my rebellion, my echo of the breath I once served.
He is what I made in place of prayer.
'You're on in sixty.'