Kant's footsteps echoed softly across the kitchen tiles as he paced, back and forth, back and forth, the sound of his own restlessness taunting him. His eyes darted every few seconds to the wall clock hanging above the shelf, its ticking needle gnawing away at his nerves. 9:42 PM. Each passing second seemed louder than the last, like a countdown he had no control over.
On the counter, the mug of tea sat like a poor disguise for his agitation. The liquid was almost gone, the last swallows already coating his throat, but he still gripped the cup as if it could anchor him. It wasn't even about drinking anymore—it was about keeping his hands busy, giving Madam Rowena something to see if she came downstairs again asking whether he was still not done. He imagined her sharp eyes narrowing, her voice clipped with suspicion, and it only made him swallow the remaining lukewarm sip with a grimace. Now the mug was empty. He would have to think of something else. Something to keep her away.
His chest tightened.
The silence of the house pressed in on him. The refrigerator hummed, the clock ticked, and outside the wind rattled faintly against the windows. It should have been an ordinary night. But Marin wasn't home yet.
Kant ran a hand through his hair, his pacing growing quicker. He thought of the way she had smiled, insisting she'd be fine, promising she wouldn't be long. A stupid promise, he now realized. He shouldn't have let her go. He shouldn't have nodded, shouldn't have told himself it was harmless.
His stomach twisted. His eyes flicked again to the clock—9:44. Too close to curfew. Too close to trouble.
He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening. Every part of him screamed to go out and look for her, to run down those dim streets and drag her back himself. But what if Madam Rowena caught him sneaking out? What if she came down now and demanded to know why he looked so pale, why he had emptied the teapot yet still lingered in the kitchen?
Kant's breaths grew shallow. He turned toward the door, his body swaying with indecision, his ears tuned to every creak in the house. Any second now, Madam Rowena could appear at the top of the stairs..... Or any second now, Marin could come through the door—safe, smiling,and apologizing for not keeping to her promise.
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Meanwhile; few distance from Hillbrook, Marin kept close to the boy as he led her through the path towards Hillbrook. Her shoes scraped against the uneven pavement, her breath ragged from the endless switching between sprinting and speed-walking. Every inhale burned her lungs, but she bit back her complaints. She had no right to be tired or ask him to slow down—not when he was the only one willing to guide her out of Crover Lane tonight.
The boy with the damp ebony hair didn't falter. His steps were sharp, precise, and calculated, like someone who knew exactly how to measure danger. Marin noticed the way he glanced over his shoulder every now and then, eyes cutting through the dim streetlights, searching for movement. He didn't say much, and that silence only made the air feel heavier, pressing against her chest like a warning.
Marin's pulse hammered harder with every corner they turned. The neighborhood around them was eerie, a stretch of lifeless bungalows with their shutters rolled down, hollow windows staring back at her like empty eyes. The vicinity was deserted, and though she told herself that was normal near curfew, but the silence had an unnatural kind of weight.
Then, up ahead, something familiar glimmered faintly through the fog of streetlamps and shadows. Her gaze shot upward, and her heart lurched in recognition. A massive billboard rose above the dark stretch of road, the bold words 'Hillbrook Lane' stood out in large fonts.
Her lips parted, and for the first time that night, a smile pushed through her exhaustion. Relief washed over her in a rush so sharp it nearly buckled her knees. They were close. All they had to do was keep moving.
She lifted her wrist and flicked her eyes to her watch. 9:46 PM.
Her smile faltered. Her chest tightened again.
Fourteen minutes left until curfew. Fourteen minutes before the sirens began, before the patrols sealed off the streets, before anyone caught roaming was either fined or arrested.
Her throat ran dry. She looked up at the boy again—his stride steady, unflinching, as if he carried no fear of the deadline looming over them. Marin quickened her pace, nearly stumbling to match his rhythm, her shoes slapping the pavement louder than she'd like.
Finally, they reached the bus stop, its flickering lamp casting a pale halo over the cracked pavement. Marin squinted at the route map bolted to the metal pole, her chest rising and falling with relief when she traced the familiar line leading back toward Hillbrook's residential area—their neighborhood, her safety.
Before she could take a step, she turned to the boy, breathless but firm.
"You're coming with me, right?"
The boy's lips parted, but no words came. His dark hair swaying to his forehead due to the breeze, his expression caught between hesitation and confusion, as though no one had ever asked him such a thing before.
Marin's brows pinched together. She lowered her voice, glancing at the time on her watch.
"Curfew is minutes away. You'll need somewhere to stay for the night… otherwise you'll get caught by the officers."
Her words seemed to hang in the cold night air. The boy's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, lips pressed together in thought. After what felt like too long, he gave a small, careful nod.
Relief washed through her again, and she managed a faint smile before motioning for him.
"Come on. Follow me."
They left the bus stop and turned onto the wider route leading to Hillbrook Lane. The boy walked at her side now, and his eyes darted about curiously. He noticed how different this street was—the houses lined up neatly on both sides, porch lights still burning, warm yellow glows seeping through transparent windows. It was a far cry from Crover Lane's stagnant environment and subdued darkness. He seemed almost unsettled by the normalcy.
Marin slowed her pace and scanned the street ahead. Then, her heart leapt—there it was. Her home. Even from a distance, she could see the familiar cream-colored siding and the steady glow of the front porch light. A beacon.
She broke into a run, the boy following closely. Soon they stood before the large cream house, its two-storey frame looming quietly against the night. The boy tilted his head back, eyes roaming over the façade, studying it like it was something foreign to him, like a place from another world.
Marin pressed her palms against the gate and pushed carefully, wincing at the faint metallic squeak. She slipped in first, then pulled it just wide enough for him to enter. He stepped inside slowly, his gaze wandering across the manicured hedges and neatly paved walkway as though he didn't quite trust his surroundings.
"Be quiet," Marin whispered, motioning for him.
They crept past the side of the house, their footsteps crunching faintly against gravel before softening on the grass. The wooden fence loomed to their right, and above them, windows reflected the night sky like dark mirrors. Potted plants clustered along a small patio, their shadows long in the moonlight. The boy's eyes lingered on every detail, wide and cautious, as if memorizing the world he had stumbled into.
When they turned the corner, the backyard opened before them. A small lawn stretched out, dotted with garden chairs, a table, and a lone swing swaying gently in the night breeze. At the far end, the back door waited—painted a deep brown, set firmly against the cream siding.
Marin wrapped her fingers around the knob, twisting it slowly until it gave way. The hinges groaned just faintly as she pushed it open. She glanced back at the boy, pressing a finger to her lips, before they slipped inside.
The kitchen greeted them with stillness. Its white tiles gleamed faintly under the single light left on above the counter. And there—leaning against the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward—was Kant. His back was turned, but the moment the door creaked shut, his head swiveled over his shoulder.
His eyes locked onto Marin's first.
Then onto the figure behind her.
Kant's body stiffened. In a flash, he pushed away from the counter and strode toward her, his face taut with restrained frustration.
Marin quickly shut the door, heart thudding. The boy stood frozen, his eyes scanning the kitchen with wary fascination—as though he'd never seen a kitchen before or a large one at that. His gaze lingered on the polished counters of the refined island with its seatings,the opulent light fixtures, the arranged cutleries, the wide refrigerator, high-end cabinets and drawers lined aesthetically, his dark pupils reflecting every detail.
Kant's whisper cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
"Why are you this late?"
Marin winced at his tone, leaning closer to hiss back.
"I'm sorry. I can explain—but not here."
Kant's jaw ticked. His eyes darted again to the boy. Marin followed his gaze and quickly added, her whisper hurried:
"I'll explain him too."
Kant's expression shifted, the storm in his eyes contained but not gone. He gave his sister one last look, long and heavy, before turning on his heel toward the stairs.
Marin gestured subtly to the boy. "Come on."
They followed. Kant moved up the staircase with practiced, quiet steps, the kind drilled into him from years of avoiding Madam Rowena's notice. Marin mirrored him, but behind them, the boy faltered. Each step creaked under his uncertain weight, his body stiff, movements awkward—as though stairs themselves were unfamiliar.