The city felt thinner now.
Not quieter—just more hollow. Like everything was being watched from just beyond the corners of sight, and no one dared admit it.
Keiran walked with his hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning windows that never opened, alleys that seemed deeper than they had yesterday.
He'd been monitored. Tested. Bled. And then released like an animal with a tracker embedded behind its spine.
Not arrested.
Not welcomed.
Just watched.
He didn't go home. Not yet. The building no longer felt like shelter—it felt like the lid of a box. He needed to breathe something that didn't smell of dust and secrets.
So he went down the slope past the old copperworks, where the sewer canals split, and walked until the stones beneath his feet turned slick with moss.
Midday light tried to bleed through the fog. It failed.
The mist here didn't drift.
It waited.
The first time he heard the footsteps behind him, he thought they were his own.
The second time, he stopped walking.
The footsteps did not.
They came from behind—quick, careless, close.
He turned sharply.
A boy stood ten paces back, half-shadowed by the leaning wall.
No older than Keiran. Gaunt, with sharp eyes and a split lip. His knuckles were red and scarred. His left eye twitched when he saw Keiran's face.
"You're back," the boy said.
Keiran said nothing.
The boy took a step forward, hands balled into fists.
"I heard you were dead. We all did."
He spat.
"You should've stayed that way."
Keiran frowned. "Do I know you?"
A laugh—bitter and loud.
"You don't get to ask that, Vayne. Not after what you did."
"I'm not—"
The boy charged.
Keiran staggered back as the boy lunged, striking hard. A punch to the ribs. Another to the shoulder. Keiran blocked the next with his elbow, stepping aside.
He didn't want to fight. But the boy's fury wasn't theatrical—it was raw. Real.
"You think no one remembers what you did to her?" the boy growled, driving a fist toward Keiran's neck.
Keiran ducked. "Who? What are you talking about?"
"You don't even know her name," he hissed. "You carved her memory like she was a book."
Then he struck again—open-handed this time—toward Keiran's temple.
The mark flared.
Not on purpose.
Not controlled.
Reflex.
There was no light.
No wind.
Just silence.
The moment the boy's fingers touched Keiran's skin, he went rigid. His eyes widened. Then he staggered back like he'd touched a live wire.
He clutched his head.
"No—no, wait, what—what was I—?"
He dropped to his knees.
"Mira?" he whispered. "What was her… what… what—?"
And then he looked up at Keiran with tears forming in his eyes.
"Who are you?"
Keiran stared.
The boy wasn't faking it.
His memory—the memory of the girl—was gone. Torn from him, or erased, or… something else.
"I didn't mean to," Keiran said quietly. "It just—happened."
The boy rose slowly. Confused. Fearful.
Then he turned and ran.
Disappearing into the mist.
Keiran stood alone.
Breath shallow.
His wrist burned.
The mark—now a two-pronged symbol—flickered faint violet beneath his sleeve.
Not just light.
Heat.
And beneath it, in his mind, something pulsed. Not thought. Not voice.
A single emotion:
Hunger.
He clutched his wrist, pressing it to his chest like he could smother it.
Whatever had just happened—it hadn't come from training. It hadn't come from instinct.
It had come from the mark.
It had reached into someone else's mind.
And taken.
Not a memory for himself—but one from them.
He didn't realize he was being watched until he turned back toward the canal.
On the rooftop above—barely visible through the mist—a figure stood still.
Cloaked.
Tall.
A shimmer of silver curled along their arms—runes woven into their gauntlets.
The figure didn't move.
Didn't call out.
Just watched.
Then they were gone.
No flash. No sound.
Just vanished between one blink and the next.
Keiran reached his building by nightfall.
His limbs were sore. Not from the fight.
From something deeper. As if his body had moved through water that hadn't yet finished letting go of him.
He climbed the stairs slowly. Entered his room.
Closed the door.
Didn't lock it.
He sat on the bed and stared at the wall.
The mark on his wrist pulsed again.
Not painful now. Just present.
He touched it.
And saw—just for a moment—a girl's face.
Dark eyes. Pale hair. A ribbon tied to her wrist.
Crying.
Whispering something.
But the sound was muffled. The image was fading. Fragmented.
Then it was gone.
Keiran pulled his sleeve down and curled into himself, back against the wall.
He wasn't sure what was worse.
That he'd stolen a memory—
Or that he couldn't give it back.