Michael had planned the trip months in advance, which mattered more than he wanted to admit.
It wasn't an escape. That was the story he told himself, at least. It was something else—something closer to maintenance. Proof that his life still had room in it for motion. For noise. For places that didn't know his name or care about his past.
Mardi Gras had felt like a good enough excuse.
He arrived in New Orleans late in the afternoon, the sky low and pale, clouds stretched thin like gauze. The city greeted him with warmth that pressed against his skin the moment he stepped outside, heavy with moisture and scent. Not unpleasant. Just insistent.
He liked that.
By the time he checked into his hotel—small, narrow, with creaking floors and a window that looked out over a tangle of balconies—the street below was already coming alive. Music drifted upward in loose threads. Laughter. Shouts. A trumpet somewhere off-key but earnest.
Michael leaned against the window frame for a moment, watching people move like they belonged to something larger than themselves.
Then he grabbed his jacket and went back out.
Mardi Gras at night wasn't chaos so much as rhythm.
The streets pulsed. Beads flashed in the glow of streetlamps. Someone danced barefoot on the corner while another person clapped in time, laughing like they'd forgotten something important and were happy about it.
Michael wandered without direction, hands in his pockets, letting the city take him where it wanted. He stopped to listen to a street band near Royal Street, then drifted on when the crowd grew too thick. He ducked into a quiet bookstore that smelled of old paper and incense, flipping through a battered copy of Inferno before deciding not to buy it.
He didn't want souvenirs.
He wanted moments.
By the time hunger set in, it had gone past sharp and settled into something dull and patient. Cafe Du Monde glowed ahead like a promise, its white awnings luminous against the dark. The line moved quickly, fueled by anticipation and caffeine.
Michael ordered without thinking—coffee, beignets—and found a small metal table near the edge. Powdered sugar coated his fingers almost immediately. He didn't bother wiping it away.
The first bite was perfect.
He was halfway through the second when a voice spoke nearby.
"You're doing that wrong."
Michael looked up, blinking.
The man standing there wasn't imposing, exactly. But he held the space around him differently, like the crowd unconsciously adjusted to make room. He wore dark clothes, well-kept but unremarkable, and his expression carried mild amusement.
"There's a wrong way?" Michael asked.
The man gestured to the beignets. "You're trying to keep clean. It's a losing battle."
Michael glanced down at his sugar-dusted hands and laughed. "Fair point."
"Mind if I sit?" the man asked, nodding toward the empty chair.
"Go ahead."
The chair scraped softly as the man sat. He folded his hands loosely on the table and looked around, as if savoring the noise.
"You look like you're enjoying yourself," he said.
"I am," Michael replied. "Which surprised me."
"That usually means you needed it."
Michael studied him briefly. "You a local?"
The man smiled faintly. "In a sense."
"That sounds like a dodge."
"Experience," the man said lightly.
Michael shrugged. "First Mardi Gras. Figured I should see it at least once."
"You chose a good night," the man said. "The city's in a generous mood."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "It has moods?"
"Oh yes."
They talked easily after that. About food. About music spilling out of places too small to hold it. About how New Orleans felt like it existed slightly to the side of everywhere else.
"My name's Michael," he offered eventually.
The man hesitated—just long enough to be noticeable. Then nodded. "Louis."
The name settled strangely, like something remembered instead of learned.
"You don't seem like a Mardi Gras type," Michael said.
Louis's smile was soft, almost wry. "I've had many types."
Michael didn't know why, but that answer felt heavier than it should have.
He noticed then that Louis hadn't touched the food. His coffee sat untouched as well.
"You're not hungry?" Michael asked.
"Not for that," Louis replied.
There was something in his eyes when he said it—an awareness that made Michael shift slightly in his chair.
They sat for a while longer, watching the crowd ebb and flow. Louis spoke about the city like someone who knew its quieter corners intimately.
"It changes after midnight," Louis said. "Not dramatically. Just enough."
Michael smiled. "Everything good does."
Louis looked at him then, more intently. "Would you like to see something?"
"Like what?"
"Something real."
Michael hesitated. Then nodded. "Sure."
They walked.
Not far at first. Through streets still loud with celebration, then into narrower paths where the sound softened into echoes. The architecture changed subtly—older, heavier, as if the buildings themselves were leaning in to listen.
"You bring everyone on midnight walks?" Michael asked.
"No," Louis said. "Only those who don't ask why."
Michael snorted. "Guess that explains it."
The air grew cooler as they neared the river. The crowd thinned, replaced by long stretches of quiet broken only by distant music and the low hum of traffic.
They passed iron gates worn smooth by countless hands. Courtyards shadowed by trees heavy with moss. Windows dark, but not empty.
Louis moved with certainty, never hesitating.
"You ever feel like places remember things?" Michael asked suddenly.
"Yes," Louis said. "And like people leave more behind than they realize."
They reached a small, gated park tucked away between buildings, easily missed unless you were looking for it. The gate stood open.
Inside, a stone path led toward the Mississippi.
Michael stopped near the railing, staring out at the river. It moved slowly, deliberately, carrying the weight of centuries.
"It feels… old," he said.
Louis stood beside him. "It's seen more endings than most."
They leaned there in silence. The city felt distant now, like something happening in another life.
"I bring people here sometimes," Louis said quietly. "When they're stuck."
Michael glanced at him. "Am I stuck?"
Louis didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was gentle. "You're surviving something you haven't named yet."
Michael's chest tightened.
"How do you—"
"I listen," Louis said. "It's a habit."
The wind shifted. Michael caught a strange scent beneath the river air—iron, faint but unmistakable.
"Do you ever get tired?" Michael asked, surprising himself. "Of carrying things?"
Louis looked out over the water. His reflection wavered on the surface.
"Yes," he said. "But stopping isn't always an option."
Michael nodded slowly. "Yeah. I get that."
They stood there longer than Michael realized. Time stretched, unmarked by urgency.
Eventually, Louis straightened. "You should head back. Tomorrow will be louder."
Michael didn't argue.
They walked part of the way together, then Louis stopped at the edge of the Quarter.
"This is where I leave you," he said.
Michael felt an unexpected weight at the words. "Will I see you again?"
Louis's gaze softened. "That depends on what you become."
Before Michael could ask more, Louis stepped back—and was gone. No rush. No drama. Just absence.
Michael stood there for a long moment, listening to the city reclaim him.
He returned to his hotel with powdered sugar still on his jacket and the sense that something inside him had shifted—not broken, not healed, just moved.
Far beyond the city, far beyond Earth, Varaek felt the thread settle into place.
Not pulled.
Not severed.
Simply acknowledged.
The Law who fed on existence itself allowed himself a quiet certainty.
This one would matter