I lost time staring at my reflection in the mirror. I was snapped back by my mom's voice, "Dinner's ready."
"A minute, mom," I said while staring at the bag on the floor.
I pulled out my notes first. The pages were swollen, ink bleeding at the edges, formulas and sketches warped like they'd been left out in the rain for years instead of hours. I flipped through them carefully, wincing at each ruined page. Then I took out the uniform, soaked with river water as well. I went to the bathroom and hung the uniform, and changed clothing.
While folding the used clothes, I noticed something peculiar. The hood and pants were torn where blades and needles had struck shrank.
The tears were shrinking. Not fast, not dramatically, but enough that I could tell I wasn't imagining it. The fabric tightened, fibers knitting themselves back together like skin closing over a shallow wound.
"Of course, should I expect more?" I muttered.
I wanted to ask Tristan. I really did. But I didn't have his number, and even if I did, I didn't have the energy to deal with his half-smiles and cryptic jokes and the way he'd act like building impossible things under his house was perfectly normal. The thought alone made my head ache again.
I changed into clean clothes, shoved the soaked notes back into my bag, and headed downstairs when Mom called for dinner.
The dining room light was warm, familiar. The table was already set. Steam rose from the pot in the middle, carrying the smell of spices and meat that made my stomach twist—not with hunger, but with something closer to fear.
I sat and picked up my spoon.
The first bite froze me.
It tasted… good.
Not just edible. Not tolerable. It was rich, savory, layered the way Mom's cooking always had been. My brows knit together. Yesterday—after everything changed—food had been ash. Flavorless sludge that barely registered on my tongue.
My hand trembled. This isn't a normal meal, not a normal beef heart stew. The spoon slipped from my fingers and clinked against the bowl.
Mom was in the middle of a story, animated as ever. "—and can you believe it? They're holding the wedding in a beach resort. Her dress alone—" She stopped and looked at me. "Is there a problem with the food, son?"
I glanced at Dad. He was eating calmly, eyes on his plate, like nothing in the world was out of place.
"N-no," I said quickly. "It's fine, Mom. I just… remembered something."
She tilted her head, concern softening her face. "What troubles you, son?"
Before I could answer, Dad spoke up, casual as ever. "Probably his breakup with Mae."
The air shifted.
Mom's expression changed so fast it startled me. The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced by something sharp, cold, and entirely unfamiliar.
"That little wench," she said flatly. "How dare she hurt my son. I'll make sure she suffers."
My stomach dropped.
This was the first time I'd ever seen her like that—not the gentle woman who fretted over scraped knees and overcooked soup, but something darker, almost… unhinged.
"I'm the one who broke up with her, Mom," I said immediately. "Not her."
She turned to me slowly. "So she didn't hurt you?"
I swallowed and nodded. "No. It's just… I fell out of love."
The tension melted away as if it had never been there. She smiled again, warm and maternal. "I see. You're still young. You'll find better."
Cerberus' voice murmured in my head, dry and amused. Find better or find dead.
I ignored him and nodded along.
Mom resumed her story like nothing had happened, talking about flowers and dresses and distant relatives. I glanced at Dad again. He met my eyes briefly, then looked away.
He knew.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He paused mid-bite. "Did your uncle Tristan give you what you needed?"
"Yes."
He nodded once, satisfied.
Mom perked up. "You visited Tristan?" She pouted. "Why didn't you tell me? I would've come with you. It's been so long since I saw him."
"He's been busy lately," Dad said smoothly. "We'll visit when we have time."
"This weekend?" she asked.
"Sure."
I finished eating in silence after that. When the plates were cleared, I stood. "I'm going upstairs."
"Don't stay up too late," Mom called after me.
I nodded and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, as if the house itself had gained weight. The realization clung to me, sharp and suffocating. My parents' love was deeper than I had ever understood—deep enough that they would share an inhumane meal without hesitation, just to make their inhumane son feel normal.
By the time I reached my bedroom, my vision had blurred. I shut the door quietly, afraid the sound might betray me, and that was when the tears finally fell—hot, uncontrollable, and full of gratitude, guilt, and a fear I didn't yet know how to name.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight, familiar, grounding. For a moment, I just stared at the floor, listening to the muted sounds of the house—my mother rinsing dishes, the television murmuring in the living room, the quiet proof that everything was normal. Or pretending to be.
I picked up my phone. The screen was spiderwebbed with faint cracks and smudged with dried river water, but it lit up obediently. Even soaked, it still worked. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I opened a shopping app and typed in simple words.
Black hood.Cargo pants.Durable fabric.
My thumb hovered, scrolling through rows of models who smiled too much, wearing clothes meant for comfort, not survival. None of them knew what it was like to run through fire or feel needles kiss your skin. None of them knew what it meant to need clothing not for fashion, but for hiding—hiding claws, hiding fear, hiding what you were becoming.
The hood and pants Tristan gave me lay folded on the chair by my desk. Torn, yes, but already healing in that unsettling way. I looked at them and felt a knot twist in my chest. I couldn't rely on them for now. Not until it's fully fixed.
I added a few items to the cart. Cheap. Plain. Forgettable. Things that wouldn't draw attention if I had to disappear into a crowd. When I checked out, my finger hesitated over the confirmation button. Buying clothes shouldn't feel like preparing for war. And yet, it did.
I set the phone down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Night pressed gently against the window, deep and patient, like it was waiting for me. The streets would look different after sunset now. So would people. So would I.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered to the empty room.
Cerberus didn't answer. Maybe he was resting. Maybe he was listening. Either way, the silence felt heavy.
This life wasn't something I wanted. It wasn't something I chose. But fate had already made its decision, and the night was calling me to adapt. To endure. To survive.
I closed my eyes, breathed in slowly, and let the darkness settle. If this was the path ahead, then I would learn how to walk it—even if every step hurt.