Blink… blink… blink…
The world kept nudging me, even when I begged it not to. A pale light pulsed against my shut eyes, stubborn as breath. My lids twitched but I didn't open them. Not yet. Not for the light. Not for the buzzing that carved its way through the silence, wings slapping against glass, against my nerves.
I reached up, half-hearted, swiping at the air. My hand cut through nothing. The sound kept drilling.
I wasn't asleep. Haven't been in a long time. Just stubborn. Just unwilling to admit another stretch of hours had dragged me into it. I didn't want to wake because waking means remembering. Moreover, remembering means saying it again:
There is no day. Not for me. Not anymore.
I repeated it like a curse, over and over inside my skull: I am dead. I am dead. I am dead.
However, the damn bug never stopped. It hummed, it clawed the silence, and it made the light blink harder as if it wants notice. And for all my resistance, I lost.
My body gave in before my mind did. Shoulders rolling forward, eyes opening heavy, reluctant.
The park stretched around me like a hollow room. Still. Too still. Only the hiss and flicker of the old lamp above broke it. The bulb shivered with life, bugs smothering it in desperate circles. Every so often one would burn itself out and drop. A soft tick on the ground, or on me. I brushed them off my lap with the back of my hand, disgusted but too tired to care.
It was still night. Or morning. Or something between, where time holds no meaning and the air hurts your lungs more than it soothes. A bench is no bed, but at least lying down would've made it easier. I thought of trying. But I didn't.
I turned, and saw them.
Two of them, tangled in a mess of limbs and carelessness. One snoring with his mouth open, the other, a girl, half-sprawled across him, face buried in his chest. His arm locked her there like she was treasure he'd die clutching.
They both looked gone to me. Corpses that hadn't been told they were dead yet.
I looked away quick. I didn't want to imagine the hours I'd missed, or what noises the night had swallowed while I tried to fake sleep.
So I stood.
The air hit me sharp the moment I pushed my hands deep into the sweater pocket, fists clenching against the fabric. Cold air, cleaner than where I came from. Too clean, almost. It cut through my teeth when I breathed.
Above, the sky wasn't what I knew. It carried two moons, white and identical, side by side. Staring. I caught myself staring back. Wondering if they'd blink too, if they'd vanish like lights back home when the power cut out.
But they didn't. They only watched.
My steps turned me to the edge of the park, where trees lined the path like guards. Their leaves swayed faint, like they remembered wind better than I did. My eyes caught on a flower, pale in the dark, blooming stubborn against the night.
I reached. Picked it. Turned it in my fingers, the petals smooth, fragile. I lifted it to my nose.
Sweet. Too sweet.
And memories came. Not of faces, I've forgotten those, but of weight. Of warmth I once knew but couldn't name anymore. It flooded me until I stuffed the flower into my back pocket, like I could bury the past along with it.
My eyes dragged, heavy with exhaustion that sleep never fixed. I walked anyway. Out of the park. Onto the streets.
The streets were empty. Deserted. Like even ghosts had better places to be.
My thoughts didn't leave me. They never do. They crowded closer with each step. Why? Why am I here? The question echoed every time the lamp flickered behind me.
I kept thinking. Couldn't stop. Two options. Always two. A new life, whatever that means. Or the end. The same end I already met once.
Both roads waiting. Both impossible.
I slowed at the corner. Looked at my hands. Cold, cracked, still trembling. My sweater was thin. My jeans older than my memory. My body looked alive, but I wasn't fooled.
"My name is Corben Hale," I whispered, just to test if the world still cared to hear it.
Nothing answered. Not the sky. Not the moons. Not the streets.
Only the buzz lingered, faint now, distant.
Somehow, I was still here.
I had a vague memory of my death.
If I wanted, I could have clawed it back from the dark corners of my mind, the smell, the pain, and the last sound I heard before everything shut down. Nevertheless, I didn't. I chose not to. Death is final, and digging it up again would only prove what I already knew.
Still… when I opened my eyes here, in this strange land, I felt something I never expected. Relief. A quiet, dangerous happiness.
Reincarnation, they called it.
I could live again. Not in the old world, not surrounded by old faces I couldn't bear to see again, but here. A new place. New faces. A new experience. A chance to crawl out from the rubble of my regrets and maybe… maybe breathe like a living man again.
I could dream again.
However, dreams, dreams mean nothing without freedom.
My steps dragged me forward, down the hollow road. The street was empty, washed clean by silence. My eyes caught on a stone resting in the middle of the path. Small. Ordinary. Something that should've been nothing.
Yet… I nudged it with my shoe. Watched it roll ahead.
I followed. Kicked it again. The sound cracked the stillness, and then vanished. Again, and again. A game for children, maybe. However, to me, it was something more.
Freedom.
The stone went where it wanted. Or maybe I made it go where I wanted. I couldn't tell the difference.
I have been presented with two options. Two, and no more. That was what the people responsible for my "rebirth" had told me.
Option one: agree to embark on a journey, alongside countless others, through places I couldn't yet imagine. Option two: return to what I was. To death.
Simple, wasn't it? And yet, each time my foot struck the stone, I felt the weight of that choice in my chest.
The road stretched, narrow and quiet. When the stone skittered to a stop at a crossroads, I froze.
There it was. A line split into two. The stone lay dead center, waiting for me to decide.
I stayed there, staring at it like the thing might answer for me. Like it might whisper where to go.
It didn't. It just sat, dumb and gray, like all choices do.
After a long breath, I ignored it. Turned right.
The road was too clean. Too empty. Not a scrap of paper, not even a stray cat to claim it.
"Of course," I muttered, my voice rasping out into no one. "Couple hours past midnight. Who'd be here?"
However, I knew better. Back home, even at this hour, the streets would've been alive, bars spilling laughter, cars swearing their horns into the dark, someone fighting, someone crying. Noise. Life.
Here, nothing. A graveyard silence.
And I hated to admit it, but I missed it. I missed the filth, the chaos, the reminder that the world was awake even if I wasn't.
They had told me, warned me, that a journey awaited. Four days, they'd said. That was two days ago. Which meant tomorrow.
One day left.
One day to make a choice.
As I walked the path, the first thing that broke the silence was light.
A sign, glowing faintly in the distance, half-dead and flickering. The letters buzzed in and out, as if they were fighting to stay alive. A supermarket.
My stomach tightened. Hunger had been gnawing at me for hours, and thirst had been worse.
I had no money, not in the way I used to know it, but I had the card. They'd given me that on the first day, a little piece of plastic that carried both an ID and a promise. With it, I could eat, drink, and use a handful of facilities scattered across this town. Free of charge.
But only for four days.
Four days of borrowed life. Four days before the card expired.
And then?
Then I'd either walk the new road they kept talking about… or die all over again, just like this card would. Nothing but plastic in my pocket.
At the start, I'd been hesitant to use it. It felt too much like feeding a sacrificial lamb a feast before dragging it to the altar. Mercy with a deadline. But hesitation doesn't fill a stomach, and eventually, hunger wins.
Therefore, I used it.
I walked past the supermarket without going in and instead turned down a side street I'd already memorized. That's where the vending machines lined up like soldiers in the dark, a whole parade of them. Their lights hummed steady, untouched by the broken flicker of the supermarket sign.
That was where I'd been eating for three days now. Soda and noodles. Nothing else. It wasn't healthy, but what did it matter? This was my last day anyway.
My footsteps slowed as I scanned the row of machines. In daylight, these streets would've been different, buzzing with people, kids crowded around the glass, fingers sticky with sugar, hoping for some rare prize hidden in a packet of chips. Laughter, shouting, the sound of coins clinking. Childhood pressed against the glass.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the road was empty. Almost.
Almost.
Someone was there, crouched on one knee in front of one of the machines. From a distance, all I could see was a shape bending in close, arm jammed deep into the slot where drinks were meant to come out. At first, I thought he was just rooting for something he dropped. But the longer I looked, the clearer it became, no, he was stuck.
Curiosity tugged at me. I drew closer.
He came into view piece by piece under the glow of the vending machine's light. Lean frame, not the kind of muscle that comes from training but the wiry kind, like a stray animal that survives on scraps. His skin was pale, almost too clean against the dirt of the street. He wore a leather jacket and pants, worn but sturdy, with boots that matched. And then there was his hair, yellow. Not blond, but a bright, burning yellow, unnatural, like paint that hadn't faded.
He hadn't noticed me at first. His focus was locked on freeing his arm, pulling and jerking, panic etched in his movements. When he finally did look up, I caught the fear in his face. Young. Too young. Seventeen, maybe.
I stopped two machines away from him. Close enough to see the sweat gathering at his temple. Far enough to pretend I wasn't paying him any real attention.
I turned to the machine in front of me instead. Rows of noodle cups blinked back at me, their labels strange and overdesigned. None of them familiar. I'd been eating the plain mustard ones for days, the taste already turning sour in my memory. For my last night, maybe I deserved something different.
My finger hovered, then pressed the button for the "Mega Hot Chili Noodles with Pepper Sprinkles." The branding was obnoxious, red cup, flames painted across the side, like it wanted to shout its existence into the world.
I pulled the card from my jeans pocket, tapped it against the panel. The machine whirred, rattling as though it might break down, then spat out a cup sealed tight with a thin plastic lid. I could feel the heat even through the cardboard when I crouched to pick it up. The broth was already inside, scalding hot, the noodles cooking as I held it. Not like the vending machines I'd known in my world, these didn't just hand you a packet and leave you to find hot water. No, this one gave you the meal ready, steaming, like it had done all the work for you. A strange kind of kindness.
I crouched down, one knee on the ground, and pulled it from the slot.
When I turned my head, I saw him again.
The boy had given up his struggle. He was sitting now, legs crossed under him, his arm still caught in the mouth of the machine. His face had shifted, not fear now, but something sharper. Annoyance. Maybe even anger. Like I'd embarrassed him just by existing.
I met his eyes, holding the cup in my hand.
His eyes narrowed at me, lips tightening as though I'd done him some personal wrong just by noticing.
"What are you looking at?" I said, voice flat, a little tired.
He snapped back instantly, "Not you." The words came quick, sharp, but his voice cracked halfway, betraying the weight he was trying to put behind it.
I raised an eyebrow, not moving. "Could've fooled me."
He shifted on the ground, legs unfolding and folding again in irritation, his free hand curling into a fist against the pavement. The stuck one gave another desperate tug, rattling the machine with a hollow clang. "Mind your business," he muttered, though the heat in his face gave him away. He was embarrassed. Caught in a stupid situation, and hating every second of it.
I set my cup of noodles down on top of the machine, leaned against it, arms crossed. "That's hard to do when you're making enough noise to wake the dead."
His eyes flicked up, sharp and uncertain, as though the word "dead" carried more weight than I intended. He didn't answer that.
Instead, he kicked at the machine with the heel of his boot, childlike frustration spilling over. "Damn thing… just ate it."
"What did?"
"My snack. It dropped, but it didn't come out." He jerked his head at the dark slot where his arm was still wedged. "I almost had it. Then," another tug, another useless clang, ", this happened."
For a moment, I said nothing, just watched him struggle, his stubbornness almost comical against the cold quiet of the street. He wasn't weak, he had strength in him, but it was the wrong kind of strength. Wild. Unguided.
"You know," I said finally, "most people would've walked away by now."
His mouth twisted, somewhere between a pout and a scowl. "Most people aren't me."
"No," I admitted, studying him. "They aren't."
He gave me a look, like he couldn't tell if I was mocking him or not. Maybe a part of him wanted me to be.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the chopstick that came with my noodles, and bent down beside the machine. "Move your hand."
He blinked at me, surprised. "What?"
"Move. Unless you plan on sleeping here tonight."
For a second, he hesitated, pride flaring in his face. Then, with a grudging sigh, he yanked his arm back, red marks circling his wrist where the metal had held him tight. He rubbed at it, eyes narrowed as he watched me kneel in his place.
I slid the chopstick into the slot, careful, angling it just so. A second later, a crumpled bag of chips came tumbling out, bouncing against the ground.
The boy's eyes lit up instantly. He grabbed the bag before it even stopped rolling, tearing it open with all the eagerness of a child.
He shoved a handful into his mouth, crunching loudly, crumbs dusting his jacket. For the first time since I had seen him, a smile broke across his face, unguarded, honest.
Then he noticed me watching. The smile faltered, turning back into a guarded scowl. "I could've done that," he muttered through a mouthful.
"Sure," I said, picking up my noodles again. "Eventually."
I peeled the lid off my noodles, the steam rising in thin wisps into the cold air. The smell of spice was sharp, almost stinging my nose. I let it sit for a while, chopsticks resting across the cup. No sense in burning my tongue.
The boy plopped down cross-legged on the pavement a few feet away, chips in hand. He tore through them without care, crumbs spilling down his jacket, onto the ground, even sticking to his cheek. It reminded me of a stray dog with its first meal in days, greedy, unashamed.
The silence between us was thick but not entirely unpleasant. Just the crunch of his chips and the faint hum of the streetlights.
"You eat like you haven't seen food in a week," I said finally, not looking at him.
His cheeks puffed as he chewed. He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Maybe I haven't."
I glanced at him. It was hard to tell if he was serious.
He caught my look, scowled. "What? You think I'm lying?"
"I think," I said, stirring the noodles gently, "you don't need to prove anything to me."
That seemed to stump him for a moment. He shoved another handful into his mouth, chewing slower this time, like he was suddenly aware of himself.
I sat on the edge of the sidewalk, steam fogging my face, and finally took a bite. It was hotter than I expected, bitter with spice, but it warmed me all the same.
He tilted his head, watching. "That's all you're eating?"
"For tonight."
"Boring." He crumpled his bag once it was empty, tossed it carelessly behind him. "If it were me, I'd eat everything I could. Fill my stomach 'til it hurts."
"You'll regret it," I said.
"I don't regret things." His chin jutted out, stubborn.
I gave a small, humorless smile. "You will."
He frowned, not liking that answer, but didn't argue. Instead, he pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them, looking suddenly smaller than before. The bravado drained out of him with the empty bag.
For a while, we just sat there, me blowing on my noodles, him tracing circles on the pavement with his finger. The quiet stretched, and in it, I found myself studying him. His hair, too bright for this dim street. His face, young but already hardened in places where it shouldn't have been. A boy, yet not untouched by ruin.
I wondered, not for the first time, what kind of world would drop someone like him here.
The boy leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him now. He kicked the toe of his boot against the ground, a restless rhythm that echoed faintly down the empty street.
"You're quiet," he said after a while, almost accusingly.
"I prefer it that way," I answered.
He made a face, like he couldn't understand. "I don't. Quiet makes me think too much."
"Maybe that's the point."
He let out a noise, half scoff, half laugh. "That's stupid."
I didn't bother to argue. The noodles had cooled enough, so I ate in small bites, letting the heat fade on my tongue before swallowing. He watched me again, like the way I ate meant something. His eyes followed every movement, curious but not asking.
I could feel the weight of it, the way children sometimes stare, blunt, unfiltered, without shame. It was both irritating and oddly grounding.
Finally, he spoke again, softer this time. "You really don't care, do you?"
I looked at him, puzzled. "About what?"
"Anything." He shrugged, hugging his knees again. "You look like nothing matters. Like… like you're already gone."
I set the cup down beside me, steam curling into the cold. "Maybe I am."
That seemed to hit him harder than I expected. He frowned, tracing circles with his finger on the scuffed leather, distracted, not meeting my eyes anymore. For once, he had nothing sharp to throw back.
The silence returned, thicker now. A stray breeze cut through the street, rustling the trees along the boundary of the park we'd left behind. The faint buzz of a vending machine filled the space between us.
I leaned back against the lamppost, watching him from the corner of my eye. He looked younger in that moment. Not the reckless, half-defiant boy who tried to pull chips from a machine, but just… young. Fragile in the way the world forces you to hide.
I wondered how long it would last before he remembered to put the mask back on.
"Do you live around here?" I asked, mixing the last bits of noodles in the cup.
The boy didn't answer.
After a while, when I'd sipped the remains of the broth and felt the burn settle at the back of my throat, I looked at him again. His gaze was fixed upward, at the two moons, at the stars, or maybe at nothing at all. I thought about asking the question again, but with the few words we'd exchanged, I didn't know what might leave a mark on him. Some people, especially the young, carry silence like armor.
So I let it be. I stood, stretched my legs, and walked back toward the machines. At the very end of the row, a dented bin leaned against the wall. I dropped the empty cup inside and dusted my hands. I thought about another drink for myself, and my fingers hovered over the glowing buttons. Then I paused, glanced over my shoulder, and saw him still sitting there, head tilted, lips pressed thin, the faintest crease of thought crossing his brow.
I bought two cans.
When I returned, I set one down beside him without a word, then stepped back to my own spot. I cracked mine open, and the sharp hiss filled the air. The first sip stung, almost numbing my tongue after the heat of the noodles.
A moment later, I heard another pop. Out of the corner of my eye, the boy lifted the can, drinking in small, quick swallows. I didn't stare; I let the quiet linger, sipping my own drink.
The silence didn't feel as heavy anymore. For a brief moment, I found myself smiling.
Then his voice came, small but cutting through the night.
"…I don't live here."
I tilted my head toward him. His eyes were still on the sky, the soda can resting against his knee.
"Where, then?" I asked.
He shrugged, a sharp little motion. "Not here. Not in this… city, or whatever it is. I don't belong." He glanced at me quickly, as if to see how I'd take his words, then looked away again.
"You think I do?" I said, raising the can.
That earned me the faintest laugh from him. Not quite genuine, not quite forced. Just a sound that slipped out because it couldn't stay in.
"You talk like an old man," he muttered.
"I've been told worse."
He smirked at that, finally turning his head. For the first time I caught his eyes in full, bright, restless, too alive for someone who was clearly lost.
"You didn't have to get me this," he said, lifting the can slightly.
"I know," I answered. "But you looked like you needed it."
He didn't argue. Instead, he took another long sip, still cross-legged on the pavement, the can resting against his knee between swallows. A few feet away, I leaned my shoulder into the rusted pole of the streetlamp, its dim light humming above me.
For the first time since I'd noticed him, the tension in his shoulders eased. Not gone, but softened, like the soda in his hand had given him something small to hold onto.
"I had a son once," I said quietly, not even sure why I let the words fall into the night. They felt too heavy to stay inside, and too light to carry meaning if I kept them there. My voice surprised me, it came out softer than I expected, almost cautious, like speaking of him too loudly might break whatever memory of him I still carried.
The boy beside me tilted his head, half listening. His knees were pulled up to his chest, the soda can balanced between them. He didn't speak, but his eyes flicked toward me, curious in that way children look at adults when they sense something important but don't understand what it is.
"He was… close to your age," I went on, staring past the vending machines, past the empty street. "Maybe a little older now, if time even matters anymore. We didn't talk much. Not the way we should have. I can't even remember our last proper conversation. Maybe because there wasn't one. I kept telling myself, later. Later I'd make time. Later I'd sit down with him and ask him about his life. Later I'd be a father, not just someone who came home late and left early."
I gave a small, humorless laugh. "But later never came."
The boy took a sip from his can and studied me. After a pause, he spoke, his voice small but clear. "You… talk like somebody really old."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Old?"
"Yeah," he said, as if the word explained everything. "Like a grandpa or something." He made a little face, scrunching his nose, not unkindly, but with that blunt honesty only kids seemed to carry.
I frowned, confused, and turned toward the glass of the nearest vending machine. My reflection stared back at me. Brown hair, unlined skin. My shoulders still carried strength, not yet bent by years. I looked young, far younger than I felt. The sweater and jeans they'd given me fit cleanly, no trace of the wear and tear my old clothes had always carried. For a moment, it was jarring. Like I was looking at a stranger mimicking me.
"I forget sometimes," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. "Guess I don't look the way I remember."
The boy gave a small shrug, as though it wasn't anything strange at all. "You sound tired. That's why."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Tired. That was one way to put it.
Pushing off from the old streetlamp, I stepped closer and lowered myself onto the pavement near him. The stone was cool against me, grounding in a way the reflection hadn't been. For a while, we sat like that, two figures under flickering lamps, the empty road stretching in either direction, the sky above painted with twin moons.
"I was thirty-five," I said finally, as though confessing to the night itself. "In my old world. I had two kids. A wife. A family I kept at arm's length. Even when they were right there, sitting across the table from me, I was never fully there. I thought I was doing what was right, working, providing, keeping everything steady. But really, I was just… absent. I thought I had time to fix it later. To say the things I should have said. To listen. To really see them."
I shook my head, forcing back the fragments that tried to surface, shadows of laughter, faces blurred by distance and neglect. "And then it ended. All of it. Just like that. No later. No second chances. Until I woke here."
The boy's can made a soft clink as he set it down by his foot. His eyes searched my face for a long moment before he spoke again, quietly. "So… you're not just tired."
I turned to him and smiled, though it was thin and worn. "That's right. I'm already dead."
I braced myself for confusion, fear, maybe even the silence of someone who didn't want to know more. Instead, his eyes widened, brightening like I'd just told him a secret worth keeping. His lips curved into a grin far too alive for the word dead to carry.
"Me too," he said, almost eagerly, like it was a discovery we shared.
The air felt tense, yet cold against my skin. I didn't know why, but his words left me unsettled. I had looked at him only a moment ago, his face tilted toward the sky, the faintest smile resting there as though he had found something above worth holding onto. That expression didn't match what he had just said. I lowered my head, eyes tracing the cracks on the pavement, trying to steady the thoughts rushing in.
Most people here were true inhabitants of this world. This wasn't some hollow stage made only for people like me, dragged from the end of their lives into something new. I had seen them, their mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. They belonged here. But there were others too, scattered few like myself, plucked from other worlds and given another chance. Rare, but not impossible. So why was I so shocked to hear him claim it? Was it just because of his age? Because I couldn't reason why someone so young would already be here?
The question weighed on me until I finally gave it voice. "Why don't you have your card?" I asked quietly.
He didn't even glance my way, still gazing upward as if the sky itself was speaking to him. "The what?"
I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the thin card they had issued me. Its edges were already fraying from how many times I'd handled it. I held it up so he could see. "This. They give it to you when you wake up here. Mine's got my photo, my ID. With it, I can get food for four days… today being my last."
That got him to lower his head. His eyes flicked to the card, but only for a second, no real interest, no recognition. "Nah. Never seen it."
I blinked. My brows pulled together. Was he joking, playing dumb like a kid would? Or had something happened, had it been stolen, or taken from him? Or… had they never given him one in the first place?
Another thought pressed into me, sharper, and I asked, "Then how did you get that bag of chips from the machine?"
This time, he turned fully toward me, frowning like I'd just asked the most ridiculous thing in the world. "I told you. I dropped a coin."
"A… coin?" The word felt foreign in my mouth.
He let out an exasperated breath, like my confusion was tiring him out, and shoved both hands into his pockets. After a bit of fumbling, he pulled them out again. His palms opened to reveal a scatter of objects, shiny, metallic, some circular, some square. They caught the dim light of the street lamps, glinting faintly.
I stared. Coins. Actual coins. "…Where did you get those?"
He shrugged, his expression flat, almost annoyed by the question. Without a second thought, he closed his fingers tight around them and slipped them back into his pocket. "I don't know. I just… had them. When I woke up."
The way he said it, simple, dismissive, sent a ripple through me. Because either he was lying… or something about him truly didn't add up.
Did he steal them? The thought scratched at the back of my mind as I studied him. No. No, it didn't add up. The boy didn't have the posture of a thief, nor the cunning eyes of someone who knew how to plan. He was too loose, too fidgety, the kind of person who tripped over his own feet if asked to keep quiet for five minutes. A robbery? Impossible. Even a simple pickpocket would've been too much for him. He looked like the sort who would get caught before even trying.
"Where did you wake up?" I asked finally, the question heavy as it left my mouth. That was the deciding point. If he really was one of us, one of the summoned, he should've woken the same way the rest of us did. Naked, stripped of everything, dumped into those stone halls like livestock. I remembered the shouting, the crowd pressing in, the priests of the Order surrounding us with cold eyes. Everyone scrambling for answers they'd never get. That was how it was supposed to be. That was the start.
"Well…" he began, dragging the sound as though stalling for time. His head tilted to one side, his lips pursed like he was sifting through thoughts he didn't quite have. His eyes flickered, not steady, almost like he was trying to convince himself before me. "I woke up at my place. Yeah. That's right."
I blinked. "Your… place?"
He nodded eagerly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, like a big house, y'know? Big garden, maids, cooks, all of that. The kind of place where you don't have to do anything if you don't want to." He laughed once, almost to himself. "But… honestly? I'd rather eat these chips than deal with that cook's stare. Creepy bastard. Whoa. Those people are scary."
I stared at him. Just stared. My brows furrowed tight, and for a second I forgot to breathe. The words clung to me like smoke, absurd and unreal. He said it so plainly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My jaw slackened, and I nearly let it fall open before catching myself. Slowly, I pressed my palms against my knees and dropped my head, staring into the cracks in the pavement. I dragged in a breath, but it didn't feel steady. Was I really letting myself get pulled into this? Walking beside him, listening, trying to piece sense from his words, only to find it was smoke and nothing else. He was a boy, spinning stories. That's all. And I was the fool willing to believe.
Shame burned hot in my chest. I bit it back and pushed myself up. Enough. The only way to salvage what was left of my pride was to walk away. Go back to the park. Spend the last night there, alone, even if it was only a few hours before morning broke.
I turned and started walking. Behind me, his voice called out, higher, uncertain, almost pleading, but I ignored it. My feet quickened against the concrete, echoing in the empty street. I didn't want him trailing after me. Didn't want his lies sticking to me. Whatever he was, runaway, lunatic, inhabitant, I didn't need him knotted up in my own mess.
A left turn. Another left at the crossroads. My steps carried me back to the entrance of the park. The gates loomed quiet, the trees still in their unnatural silence. The air was thinner here, sharper, as if colder than the rest of the town. It filled my lungs with a bite, the kind of cold that made you feel smaller than you were.
I shoved my hands into the sweater pockets, shoulders hunched, and walked through the gravel path. There it was the bench. The same bench I had woken on that first day, stiff with confusion, the weight of another life still clinging to me. It was the only one left unbroken. The others were splintered, rotting, overtaken by weeds.
I thought about lying down, about shutting my eyes and ignoring everything. The flickering lamp above, the bugs circling in the dim light, the hard wood biting into my back, I'd endure it. Just sleep. One last night. That's all I asked for.
But when I reached the bench, I froze. My body locked in place, a knot rising in my throat.
The couple. The same couple I'd woken beside. They were there now, alive, tangled together in ways I didn't want to see. Moving against each other in a rhythm that made bile sting the back of my mouth. Their sounds weren't loud, only hushed grunts and shallow breaths, but in the empty park it was enough. Enough to make the air feel sour, heavy.
"Shit," I muttered, barely above a whisper. The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Woah. What's that?"
I flinched. The voice came sharp behind me. My head whipped around, and there he was, the boy. Standing close, too close, peering over my shoulder like he'd been watching the whole time. His eyes, wide and curious, glinted under the weak lamplight.
He'd followed me.
My stomach turned. Hopeless as I'd been in my old world, a father who failed at everything that mattered, the sight of him there twisted something inside me. I couldn't let him see this. Whatever else he was, whatever story he carried, he was still just a boy. And some things… some things, I knew, were better left unseen.
The couple's hushed groans still lingered in the air, twisting it into something damp and sour. I shifted my gaze away, jaw tightening, wishing I'd never come back here. The bench, my bench, was tainted now; their shadows sprawled across it, claiming it as though the wood had always belonged to them. The light above flickered, buzzing, and I could almost hear it mocking me.
"Shit," I muttered again, more to myself than to anyone else.
"Woah, what's that?"
His voice broke into me like a stone against glass. I stiffened, turning sharply, and there he was, the boy. Standing just behind me, close enough that I felt his breath brush my arm. His sea-blue eyes gleamed under the weak lamp, wide and unashamed. He craned his neck over my shoulder to the sight I was trying not to see.
I stepped to the side, blocking his view, though it was already too late. "Don't look," I said flatly.
"Why?" His tone was light, innocent, as though asking why the sky was dark or why the vending machine ate coins sometimes.
"Because," I snapped, sharper than I intended. Then softer, through a breath, "Just don't."
He tilted his head, still curious, but he didn't push. Instead, he shifted his gaze to me. His hair caught what little light there was, shining like threads of gold against the night. His expression, smiling faintly, didn't match the world we were standing in.
We stood there a moment, listening to the broken rhythm behind us. My skin crawled. Finally, I stepped back, away from the bench, toward the darker stretch of the path. He followed without hesitation, like a shadow stitched to my heel.
After a while, he spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet. "So… is that where you sleep?"
My steps faltered. "…What?"
"That bench." He pointed with one hand, the other hanging loosely in his pocket. "Is that your place?"
I clenched my jaw, staring ahead into the dark path. I didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to hear the word yes come from my own mouth. "It's nothing," I muttered. "Don't worry about it."
He hummed, clearly unconvinced. I picked up my pace, hoping to bury the question under silence.
But he wasn't done. After a stretch of walking, he piped up again. "Then… where do you sleep?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was watching me intently, chin lifted, waiting. So I did what I always did, deflected. "Where do you sleep?"
His grin came quick, easy. "Back at my place, of course. In that comfy bed, not on some rotting bench like yours." He let out a laugh, bright and careless, the sound carrying far too freely in the dead night.
I shook my head, exhaling through my nose. "Pathetic," I muttered, though I wasn't sure if I meant his stories or myself for listening. His tales were stitched together from nonsense, but he told them with such confidence that, for a moment, you almost wanted to believe. Almost.
We walked on, the gravel crunching underfoot, the night around us stretching thin and quiet. The cold bit deeper, and I rubbed my hands together inside my sweater pocket. My mind was restless, heavy. I needed to think, about where to spend the last of my hours, about the morning that loomed closer with every breath. Sleep felt impossible, yet the thought of lying awake on another bench, haunted by the buzzing lights, was worse.
"I don't want any more nonsense, you know," I said at last, my voice tired. "I need to figure out where I'll sleep. Or at least how I'll spend what's left of the night."
He didn't answer right away. He just walked beside me, steps lighter than mine, as though the weight of the world wasn't tethered to him like it was to me. Then, suddenly, he brightened. "I have an idea."
I groaned softly, bracing myself. "What now?"
"Why don't you come to my place tonight?" he said, almost bouncing with the suggestion.
I stopped mid-step and turned toward him. His face was earnest, serious in its own way, though the grin still tugged at his lips. "Your place," I repeated, flat as stone.
He nodded eagerly. "Yeah. My place."
I shook my head, muttering under my breath. "I told you, I don't have the ti-"
But my words cut off. He had something in his hand, held loose between his fingers. Keys. Small, metallic, clinking faintly as they caught the lamplight.
I stared at them, the sound ringing in my ears louder than it should've. Keys. Real, solid. Not some figment of his imagination. Not another childish story.
For the second time that night, I was left stunned, my chest tight, words choking in my throat. He just looked at me with that same half-smile, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
And I didn't know what to believe anymore.
The keys jingled once more in his hand, sharp and clear, before he slipped them back into his pocket as if they were nothing special. But the sound lingered inside my head. I couldn't shake it. They were too real, too heavy to be just another one of his wild tales.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only smiled wider, like a child proud of a secret. "Come on," he said, jerking his chin toward the road ahead. "I'll show you."
The words clung to me with an uneasy weight. I should've walked away. Should've left him and gone back to the broken benches, the buzzing lamps, and the emptiness I knew too well. But my feet didn't listen. They followed, step by step, after his.
The streets were dead quiet, as though the whole city had fallen into a dreamless sleep. Lamps buzzed faintly above us, casting pale circles on the cracked pavement. Some lights blinked, struggling to hold on, while others had given up completely, leaving long stretches of darkness where our shadows vanished.
The boy walked a little ahead, his steps light and careless, hands tucked behind his head. His blond hair, too bright for this night, caught the glow of every lamp we passed, flickering like a flame that refused to burn out. I trailed behind, my hands buried deep in my sweater pocket, shoulders hunched against the chill. The cold bit harder as the silence thickened, broken only by the hollow scrape of our shoes on gravel.
Here and there, I noticed the world breathing around us. A cat leapt from a dumpster, eyes glowing briefly before disappearing into the alleys. A stray bag fluttered across the road, tumbling like a ghost until it snagged on a bent signpost. The scent of damp concrete and faint rust drifted in the air, mixing with the stale sweetness of flowers planted in cracked pots along some doorsteps.
He hummed at one point, a tune I didn't know, and it echoed oddly through the empty street. "You walk too slow," he teased without looking back.
I muttered, "And you walk like you've got nothing to carry."
"Maybe I don't," he shot back, his grin almost audible.
We turned a corner, the roads here narrower, the lamps fewer. The shadows grew taller, spilling across the walls of old shops with rusted shutters and broken windows. Signs dangled crookedly, swaying in the faint night breeze. For a while, neither of us spoke. I watched my breath curl into the air, pale clouds fading quickly.
The boy finally broke the silence. "Hey… do you really always sleep on benches?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "Does it matter?"
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting under the light. "Just wondering. Doesn't look comfortable, that's all."
I didn't answer, so he pressed. "If you don't like it, why not find somewhere else? Like… anywhere else?"
I scoffed lightly. "Where, exactly? You think I've got choices lined up? This isn't my world. My time here isn't mine to spend however I want. That bench is enough."
He gave a low whistle, shaking his head. "Man, you sound… heavy."
"I sound real," I muttered.
But his words stuck to me anyway. Heavy. Maybe that's what I was. A man carrying everything he couldn't put down.
The streets opened up a little as we kept walking, leading us past a row of tall, crooked houses. Their windows were dark, curtains drawn tight. Faint wind chimes tinkled above one doorway, brittle and hollow. The air grew colder the further we went, and my legs began to ache, but he never slowed down.
Finally, after what felt like far too long, the boy stopped. He lifted a hand, pointing ahead. My eyes followed, and I froze where I stood.
At the end of the street, rising like some shadowed promise, was a pair of iron gates. Tall, ornate, the bars twisting into sharp, elegant shapes that caught the light of the nearby lamp. Behind them, I could just make out the faint outline of a path lined with trees, their branches stretching over like guardians. The place loomed with a presence that didn't belong to the crumbling streets around it.
The boy turned to me, his smile faint but steady. "See? Told you. My place."
The words landed heavier than I expected, and I found myself staring at those gates, unable to decide if I should laugh, scoff, or believe.
The gates groaned when the boy pushed them open, a low metallic sound that echoed in the hollow street. The iron bars swung wide as if they hadn't been moved in years, though his hands knew exactly how much weight to put on them, how far they'd bend before snapping back. He walked through without hesitation, leaving me standing there with my arms folded and my brow furrowed.
I followed, if only because I didn't trust leaving him alone in a place like this, or leaving myself out in the street to wonder what I'd just seen. My shoes crunched on the gravel path, lined with trees on both sides. Their branches tangled together above, blotting out the sky and the twin moons. The only light came from old lanterns mounted along the path, faint and flickering, as though the place was half-forgotten.
The boy walked with his hands swinging at his sides, humming again, careless as ever. I watched him, then the gates behind us, then the house ahead that slowly revealed itself through the branches. A mansion. Not the sort you see in fairy tales, gleaming and perfect, but something darker, its stone walls veined with age, its windows staring down at us like tired eyes. Still, it was no lie: this was a real place. Too real.
I cleared my throat. "Earlier… you said something. About maids. And a cook." My voice carried low, like I was afraid the house might hear me. "Are they here now?"
He glanced at me, then shrugged. "They come in the morning."
I frowned. "Morning?"
"Yeah. Not at night." He skipped over a loose stone in the path, his blond hair catching the light. "Morning's when they show up."
I didn't like the way he said it, too simple, too matter-of-fact. "Why only morning?" I pressed.
He stopped for a second, turning to me with a look that was almost mischievous, almost bitter. "Because they don't serve me."
The words landed like a stone in my stomach. I opened my mouth, ready to ask who they served, then shut it again when I saw his grin. It wasn't the grin of a boy telling a lie. It was the grin of someone who knew the truth was stranger than anything I could guess.
He started walking again, and I followed, silent this time. The mansion loomed closer, its front doors tall enough to swallow us whole. Lantern light spilled across the steps leading up, each one chipped but polished, as though someone cared for the place just enough to keep it breathing.
When he reached the doors, he fished the keys out of his pocket again and held them up for me to see, shaking them with that same childish pride. "See? Told you," he said. The metal glinted in the dim light, proof undeniable.
I didn't answer. My hands tightened in my pockets, and I kept my eyes fixed on the door as the boy slid a key into the lock.
The sound of it turning was sharp, clean, and final.
The lock clicked, and with a push, the heavy doors opened inward. The hinges gave a low groan that stretched out into the silent night. A current of air spilled past us, dry, faintly perfumed, like old wood and dust. I stepped after him, reluctant, my hand brushing the frame as if to steady myself.
The boy strode ahead like he belonged here. I lingered on the threshold for a breath longer, then crossed over.
Inside, the mansion swallowed me whole. The entrance hall was massive, wider than most streets I'd seen in this place. The floor was polished stone, dark but glimmering faintly under the chandeliers above. They weren't lit, not really, the crystals caught what little light spilled in through tall windows, scattering it across the room in pale fragments. I could almost imagine the hall filled once, the air bright, footsteps echoing, servants rushing back and forth. But now, it was silent.
A red carpet trailed up a staircase in the distance, splitting into two sweeping curves as it reached the second floor. The banisters were carved, intricate, yet worn smooth by years of hands passing along them. Paintings hung on either wall of the hall, faces I didn't know, their eyes following us in the dimness.
My steps were heavy, echoing. His were light, quick, pattering across the stone. He didn't pause to look at anything. He didn't marvel at the size or the silence. He walked straight down the middle, humming again, his voice bouncing against the walls.
"Where are the lights?" I asked after a while. My voice felt too loud, too fragile in the emptiness.
"They come on in the morning," he said, simple, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I let that sit in my head as we passed beneath the towering staircase. On either side, hallways stretched out into the dark, their doors closed, their ends unseen. I had the sense of a house asleep, waiting for something to stir it.
"And the maids?" I pressed again, my voice hushed now.
"They come in the morning too," he repeated, swinging his arms.
I stopped, frowning, my eyes drawn again to the faces in the paintings. Men, women, some regal, some grim. They stared as if they knew something I didn't. "You said they don't serve you."
"That's right," he said without turning around. His tone was quick, final, like the sound of a door shutting.
I swallowed hard, following his small frame as he turned left into one of the halls. The walls here narrowed, lined with shelves full of books I couldn't recognize. Dust clung to them, but not too much, like someone had tried to clean but didn't care to finish.
"Then who do they serve?" I muttered under my breath.
He either didn't hear me or pretended not to.
We walked deeper, past door after door. Some were ajar, showing brief glimpses of what lay beyond, rooms with heavy curtains, armchairs draped in white sheets, dining tables set but untouched. It was as though the house had been expecting guests for decades but none ever came.
I found myself moving closer to him without realizing it, my footsteps quickening to match his. His yellow hair glowed faintly under the thin light, a small flare of life in a place that seemed abandoned by it.
At last, he stopped before a pair of smaller doors at the end of the hall. He pressed his hand against one, pushing it open with ease. "This way," he said, and for the first time since we'd entered, he looked back at me, eyes bright, expectant.
And I followed, though every instinct in me whispered caution.
The boy pushed the doors open, and what lay beyond stopped me cold.
It wasn't a child's room, nor some forgotten broom closet tucked at the end of the hall. It was a chamber fit for someone far older, someone who mattered. A broad bed stood against the wall, layered in thick blankets and sheets so clean they looked untouched. Curtains hung heavy over tall windows, drawn shut but still whispering in the draft. A desk sat by the side, its surface clear, its drawers shut neat. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender, as though someone had only just stepped out.
"This one's yours," the boy said, stepping aside with a little bow of his head. "You can sleep here tonight."
I lingered by the threshold, glancing from him to the room again. The comfort of it clashed too harshly against the streets, against the vending machine light and the park bench I had been preparing myself for. "This… is yours?" I asked carefully.
He grinned, shaking his head. "Nope. Mine's down the hall. This is a guest room."
The word clung to me, guest. It carried too much weight for a boy who had found me on the street. Still, I stepped in, my boots muted by the carpet underfoot. I sat at the edge of the bed, pressing a palm against the blanket. Soft. Warmer than it had any right to be.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. "Better than your bench, huh?"
I let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Anything's better than that bench."
He nodded, satisfied, and for a moment the silence stretched. He hummed again under his breath, then pushed off the frame. "I'll be in my room. Down there." He pointed toward the hallway. "If you need anything."
I gave a nod, unable to find more words. He smiled, quick, fleeting, and slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
Alone now, I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The chandelier above was smaller here, its crystals still faintly glimmering with stolen light. My thoughts tangled in restless knots. Could this house really belong to him? The way he spoke, so casually, so carelessly, it didn't line up. Maybe he had found the keys under some hidden stone or tucked beneath a mat. Maybe this wasn't his place at all, and by morning it would be crawling with whoever truly lived here. Maids. Guards. Owners.
The weight of it pressed on me, the unease gnawing at the back of my skull. I should leave, I thought. Find another corner to crawl into before dawn, disappear before the real inhabitants return.
But before I could take the thought further, the bed seemed to swallow me. The blanket drew me down, soft, heavy, inevitable. My body betrayed me, surrendering all at once. The exhaustion I had been carrying for days, or maybe since the very moment I woke in this world, crashed through me.
And just like that, I was gone, asleep as if it were my last night.
The morning crept in quietly, though there was no sun to mark it, only a pale, shifting light that filtered through the curtains and softened the edges of the room. I stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, reluctant at first to leave the warmth that had wrapped itself around me through the night. For a moment I lay still, listening. The silence was different from the streets: no buzzing lamps, no distant footsteps echoing through empty roads. Here the quiet carried a hush of order, as though the house itself insisted on peace. My body, long accustomed to hard benches and the restless press of exhaustion, almost refused to move. Every muscle seemed heavier, unwilling to believe I had truly slept in comfort. Slowly, I blinked myself awake, the carved ceiling above me swimming into focus. That was when I remembered where I was, and more importantly, whose house this might be.
When I finally shifted upright, rubbing the weight of sleep from my eyes, I nearly stumbled back into the sheets at the sight beside me. A young woman stood there, dressed neatly in a maid's uniform, her hands folded before her as though she had been waiting for the very moment I woke. My chest tightened, panic rushing in before thought could steady it. Caught. I've been caught. The boy wasn't lying after all, this wasn't his house, and I had trespassed into some stranger's bed. For a moment I imagined guards pouring in, accusations hurled, punishment swift and merciless. My throat dried, and I could hardly bring myself to speak. But then, instead of raising alarm, the maid simply dipped her head with a gentle smile and asked in the calmest voice if I would like some coffee to start my morning. The words disarmed me, loosening the knot in my chest. Slowly, I began to realize, I hadn't been discovered as an intruder. To her, I belonged here. Whatever role I had been cast into by stepping through these gates, the house itself seemed determined to accept me.
"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice quiet but carrying. "Would you care for coffee? Or tea, if you prefer."
For a moment, I didn't answer. My body still heavy, my mind still somewhere between the blanket's pull and the memory of the streets. I rubbed at my face, trying to ground myself, and sat up slowly. "Coffee," I muttered, my voice rough.
She dipped her head once more and stepped away with no wasted movement. A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a silver tray with a porcelain cup and saucer. The aroma of fresh brew filled the room, bitter, rich, grounding. She placed it gently on the bedside table and withdrew her hands as if the cup itself deserved reverence.
I reached for it, my fingers brushing the handle. The heat sank into my skin, sharp but pleasant. I sipped, and the bitterness cut through the remnants of sleep, jolting me further awake. It was unlike the canned drinks from the vending machines, unlike the thin liquids the Order handed out to the newly arrived. This was something measured, intentional. The thought of it unsettled me more than it soothed.
She waited in silence until I set the cup back down, her eyes on me but never prying. Then she spoke again. "When you are ready, I will show you to the bath. Afterwards, the master will be expecting you at the dining table."
The word master snagged in my head. I frowned, but she was already at the door, her hand resting lightly on the knob. "Take your time, sir," she added, then slipped into the hall.
When I finally rose, I found her waiting just beyond the door. She bowed lightly and led me down a corridor lined with tall windows, sunlight, or something that mimicked it, seeping in through gauzy curtains. The air carried a faint fragrance, a mixture of polished wood and the same lavender I had noticed last night.
She stopped before a tall door carved with patterns I couldn't place. "The bath," she said, pushing it open.
Inside, the room was large, too large for bathing alone. Marble tiles stretched underfoot, polished to a sheen. A wide basin lay sunk into the floor, filled with steaming water that caught the light and threw it back in wavering lines across the ceiling. Brass fixtures gleamed, and along one side sat neatly folded towels, soaps arranged in careful order.
"I have prepared it for you," she said, her hands clasped before her. "Please, take your time. When you are finished, I will be waiting to show you to the dining hall."
She stepped out, leaving me to the silence of the room. I hesitated at the edge of the basin, the steam rising to dampen my face. It was strange to be here, stranger still to think of lowering myself into something so pristine. But the ache in my bones made the choice for me. I stripped off the clothes, the sweater and jeans the Order had given me, and folded them by habit, leaving them on a small bench nearby.
The water embraced me the moment I stepped in, hotter than expected, wrapping me in heat that seeped into every joint, every knot of tension. I let myself sink to my shoulders, leaning back against the smooth edge. My head tilted up toward the ceiling, and for the first time in days, maybe longer, I breathed without feeling the weight of the world pressing down.
Time blurred. The heat dulled thought into haze, but even there, questions lingered. The master. Who was it? The boy? Was he the one she meant? It made no sense, but neither did the coins in his pocket, nor the keys he had brandished, nor the house that seemed to accept him without protest.
I submerged my face briefly, the water muffling every sound, then surfaced with a gasp. My doubts hadn't drowned with me. If the boy was not the master, then who? And if he was, what sort of place had I stumbled into?
When at last I rose from the bath, steam clung to me, rising in ghostly wisps. I dried myself with one of the towels, its fibers soft, clean. Fresh clothes had been laid out nearby, simple but of fine make, not unlike the garments I had worn last night, only more fitting of this place. I dressed, each piece a reminder that nothing about this house fit the logic I carried from the outside.
When I stepped back into the hall, the maid was there, as though she had known the exact moment I would emerge. She bowed lightly, her expression unchanged. "This way, sir. The master will see you shortly."
And as I followed her steps, the question returned, heavier than before: was the master she spoke of really that boy? Or had I walked myself into something deeper, something far beyond the walls of this house?
The dining hall was nothing like I had pictured when the maid mentioned it, high ceilings held by carved beams, chandeliers that glittered faintly in the filtered morning light, a long table stretching across the room with polished wood that seemed to drink in the glow. I entered cautiously, each step too loud against the marble floor, until I saw him seated at the far end. My shoulders eased at once. The boy. I almost laughed at myself for having worried, there he was, small frame upright in the chair, waiting for me.
"Morning," I said with an unguarded smile, letting my tone soften. For a second, it felt natural, like I was speaking to a familiar face rather than the stranger I had met under a flickering lamp.
But as I drew closer, the smile faltered. My eyes adjusted, and what I thought I saw changed into something else entirely. The figure at the head of the table was not the yellow-haired boy from last night. This one was older, his body lean yet sharply defined, the lines of muscle showing even beneath his clothes. His hair was jet black, cropped neatly, and his eyes, darker still, cut into me with a gaze that belonged to someone who had long since learned to command. There was no trace of mischief, no carefree grin. Instead, there was the weight of presence, the unshakable certainty that he belonged here, that this place answered to him.
I froze halfway down the table, the word boy still lingering in my throat. Had I truly mistaken him? Had I, in my ignorance, just spoken to the master of this house as though he were some street child? My palms itched, and shame prickled the back of my neck.
Yet before I could stammer an apology, he spoke, his voice smooth but firm. "It's alright," he said, and the weight of his gaze softened just enough to keep me from collapsing into the silence. He shifted in his chair, resting one hand on the armrest, the other brushing the edge of his vest. "I know who you took me for."
My eyes caught the detail of his attire now, an elegant, tailored suit of black with subtle silver threads woven through the seams. A waistcoat hugged his chest, crisp white shirt beneath, collar neatly set. On his cuffs, small onyx studs glimmered faintly. He carried the air of one who had no need to prove himself, because the house, the table, even the walls around us already bore witness to who he was.
I swallowed hard, unsure whether to speak, but he spared me from the weight of my own confusion. "Allow me to introduce myself properly," he said, voice calm, yet edged with a gravity that left no room for doubt. "I am the master of this house, Mikael Aurelyn"