Pre-dawn hangs in the Command Coil as a thin hour of violet pressure, the sort that turns the Axiomatic Veil into dark glasswork and makes every corridor feel newly varnished by consequence. The upper galleries are asleep, while the lamps keep working behind that blackcurrant-coloured membrane, their whirr trapped and magnified until it feels less like electricity and more like a rule being recited under someone’s breath. Starless colour slides down the tower’s ribs in long panes, tilting through the galleries and pooling along balustrades where the metal has been worn smooth by generations of hands that needed something steady.

I take the long stairs.

Elevators here are seductive, eager to erase the fact that height comes at a price. I take the stairs because they make my lungs count; the burn in my calves is proof I chose this climb with my own body, and the Coil registers that proof as it registers a signature pressed into paper hard enough to leave an imprint.

I replay the holoband call with Hiroyuki once, long enough to take what the feed gives and what it withholds, because the second viewing is where my mind starts pleading, and pleading pays in bodies.

Static worried the image around his jawline, a thin snow of interference chewing at the pixels, yet Hiroyuki remained immaculate amid the damage, collar straight, cuffs clean, gold hair falling in disciplined waves that refused to take on the mess behind him; one strand alone had flattened itself against his cheekbone, unnoticed, and that small lapse told me how much of himself he’d spent keeping the situation contained. 

The frame held Kyoto at a slight cant, the skyline skewed by a camera moving too fast to honour the view, and the tilt made the city look like a stage knocked askew in the dark. He gave me four lines I could spend without burning the channel—Aphelion down, air breathable, cover holding, danger close—and kept the fifth truth sealed in the place where he stores anything that might invite fate to lean in.

The fifth truth lies beneath those four spendable lines. Hiroyuki chose to reach for my channel. He could have sent Doctrine a sterile packet, could have let the Coil swallow the data and return a bulletin with a seal on it, could have left me to learn the situation from other people’s frightened paraphrase, yet my pane bloomed with his face, and his voice arrived, curated and controlled. Control is what he offers when he cannot afford to offer need. I know him too well to confuse restraint with ease. 

He kept the channel narrow, his words tidy, and his tone warm enough to prevent me from making stupid promises. Still, there was that thin pressure behind his sentences that told me he was standing somewhere the world would love to swallow him, that he intended to keep standing, and that he wanted my hand on the rope even while he refused to ask for it.

I can hear his unspoken words even now, in his voice: come without spectacle, come without giving the enemy a handle, come without forcing me to admit the shape of this danger, come in a way that lets me remain Hiroyuki D’Accardi on the record—composed, unshakeable, a man whose composure keeps other people alive—while the private truth sits between us with its teeth bared.

He is alive. He expects to stay that way. He wants me near enough to matter. He will not beg for it, and he knows I won’t require the word.

It was the Umbrakinetic, the Weaver of the Last Beautiful Thing, Atropa Alstroemeria. 

Fleet becomes fantasy the moment her name touches the board. Overt movement turns into a funeral documented from every flattering angle Doctrine can afford, because Atropa doesn’t need to swat at what threatens her; she edits. She unthreads memory until mourning loses its coordinates. Send something large, bright, and organised, and you hand her a story.

So the move must be small, the kind of action that refuses to become a myth.

On the westward balustrade, the glass gives me back my own outline—black coat unbuttoned, glove seams catching violet, hair clean because the Coil notices when you come asking for something dangerous, and it prefers its petitioners presentable. I lean my spine to the rail and open the inner ledger where I keep constraints pressed flat and warm against skin, because they only become useful once they stop being poetry.

Earth first: the blue planet cloaked in surveillance, with machines programmed to admire faces and track paths. Any plan that presents a pristine image becomes the story of the morning, packaged and shared before lunch, simplified into a form that the planet can echo until it convinces itself that it created the outcome. We arrive as a void. We arrive as misplaced information. We arrive as a rumour without a photograph.

Kyoto second: the noon seam—Ananke’s mess—turning the city into a clock that stutters and then pretends the stutter was a feature. The hour drags, stops, smiles, lies; the under-day has a mouth that prefers errands to truth. Seams like that bite through stepwork unless your feet know the floor’s true name. Hiroyuki stands inside it already, graceful enough to keep his edges from being chewed clean, and grace doesn’t make hunger kind.

Rail yard third: fourteen minutes when the camera net stops seeing, confirmed by Doctrine’s taps and corroborated by Innovation’s glee. Fourteen minutes is a window that closes on bone. Treat it like a door, and it takes your shoulders first, then your exit.

That is the board. That is the dare.

I closed my eyes and allowed the Coil to communicate in its preferred language: field equations interspersed through ancient hymns, with Sophia’s handwriting etched into the very bones of the place. Even now, one of her sentences seemed native to the room: strategy begins as architecture, and ends as an apology. Hiroyuki would have smiled at that line, then corrected the punctuation until each pause had its purpose. He would guide me on where to stand, using the voice he employed when the floor had already decided to support him.

So I will stand where he placed me.

Beside him. With him. Not above, not ahead.

I walk. The Coil listens. Doors practise their manners. Beneath the War Archive, the long balcony that overlooks the planetary core throws up a low coral glow. I lean my elbows against the rail and let the plan gather at the back of my head.

I want an operator who can alter a street’s outcome without altering its expression, a mind that can enter a room and leave everyone inside believing mercy was their own idea. I want force disguised as charm, because charm passes through cameras, and violence leaves stains that never stop shining. I want hands that can dismantle a machine into better components while the outside still reads as “normal.” I want a weapon that can turn applause into cover and rumour into a corridor. I want a medic whose presence can take panic apart and return it in a usable form. I want myself where I work best, knocking, smiling, leaving the truth untouched by fingerprints.

Below, the lower galleries wake in their own colours: Doctrine’s pale scroll-light, Innovation stirring with undomesticated intelligence, Logistics’ ghost-grid running its currents through pipes and walls. I could draft the plan in any of those rooms and the walls would sign it, thrilled to participate in danger. I keep my first draft above the core, where the planet’s glow comes up through the rail and reminds me that a mistake here echoes into more than pride.

The Axiomatic Veil sluices dark amethyst down to the heart and back up—an inhale, an exhale—while the star below offers agreement or indifference with equal usefulness.

I speak the constraints aloud as an anchor.

Keep signatures narrow. Let fleets stay grounded and quiet. Let monuments remain unbuilt. Use the blind window without pretending it lasts longer than it does. Treat the noon seam like a mouth that bites. Assume witnesses will turn into stories, then build the route so the story has nothing to hold.

Then, beneath all that, the thought I refuse to give this building in full, because it carries too much of my throat with it, settles against my ribs: Hiroyuki is working without me, and he is alive inside the work, and the knowledge makes my hands want to shake the world until it becomes kinder.

The Coil warms my gloves, a small comfort offered like a cup. I let it happen. Anger echoes in this place; affection grows teeth. Atropa gets neither.

The rail bites cold through leather. I lift my left hand and read the old scratches under the glove by memory—sigils etched in youth and arrogance, names outgrown one alley at a time. I keep the glove on. The Veil doesn’t need my past to trust my present.

On the far parapet, one of Innovation’s shy little holo-birds wakes uninvited, stuttering from sleep into usefulness, offering Kyoto in anxious wireframe: arteries, tunnels, choke points, the rail yard’s camera net pulsing with scheduled neglect. Noon shows up as a white smear at the centre, the seam blooming on the map. The system wants to help. I let it hover. Maps with opinions grow bored and start coaching.

I close my eyes again and let the holoband call sit where it belongs.

Hiroyuki had been composed; composition is his mercy. He spoke only what could be spent without burning through the cup. The rest lived in corners: fatigue drawn under one eye that he refused to disguise, the effort it took to keep the feed level, the way he refused to let his voice turn into a plea. There are things I know about him that Earth does not deserve, where patience lives in his mouth, how grief changes the space between his sentences, what sound he cages behind his teeth when he wants to laugh at himself and forbids it. I carry those details. I do not spend them to justify my stake in this plan, even though the stake is real.

All right.

A blind window. A seam that turns noble intent into errands. An enemy who edits machines, memory, and names. A city that rehearses normal and performs it by noon. A Summoner learning to move minutes like coins, still learning what it costs her skin to do it. Hiroyuki working inside it all, refusing to call for help in any way that would expose him.

And me, building a corridor out of rumour.

The plan settles into its final contour in the back of my throat, where language wears better suits: approach as accident, arrive as gossip, depart with nothing to photograph. Let cameras choose other priorities without ever realising they chose. Lay rope across the seam using words the seam recognises. Bring care that doesn’t announce itself. Bring competence that refuses to pose. Keep the count. Pay what we owe. Leave receipts only we can read.

I look down into the Coil’s throat until corelight thins my pupils and the rail cools my wrists, and I speak to the star below with the seriousness it rewards.

“He told me where to stand,” I say. “So I’ll hold that line.”

The Coil dims the lamps along my path to the stairs, turning my route into shadow and good manners. I smile, because the tower has taste even when frightened. I tuck the plan against my ribs where I keep the names I refuse to lose, and I take the stairs.

I do not rehearse what I will say when I find him.

Words in this place take root. Mine need to soar.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Simulacrine Enclaves never welcome divinity. 

They are built to mimic squalor with a craftsman’s care, grit embedded in brick, damp painted into the air, neon hung low enough to bruise the faces of anyone who looks up too long. Every cracked wall is an authored lesson, every gutter a rehearsed confession, every alley a corridor for desperation that has been measured, tuned, and replayed until it behaves on schedule. False rain falls in thin threads that leave no puddles worth drinking. Surveillance fog clings to corners with the devotion of a faithful animal. Cameras blink and blink again, the dead ones placed where children find comfort and the living ones where children learn shame. The district practises poverty the way the Command Coil practises ceremony, and it does so with purpose. 

D’ivoire Nnamani belongs to that purpose the way a knife belongs to a palm. 

He is nine (shy of a thousand years old in Spectrian years), dark-skinned, bright-eyed, with long coils gathered and tied high because hair is something hands can grab, and hands are everywhere here. 

He knows which lanterns lie. He knows which doorways report footsteps. He knows the angle of every blind corner and the timing of every “random” patrol that arrives whenever someone looks too hopeful. He steals without flinching and smiles without believing it. He observes the world like a hungry creature watching a trap, with interest and contempt.

Today, the street breathes wrong.

He feels it first in the rhythm of the watchers, the way their attention drifts a fraction too far from the usual prey, and he feels it again in the way other children give ground without understanding why, shoulders rolling back, heads turning, bodies making a path they never make for one another. 

The Enclaves do not part for anyone. The Enclaves swallow. The Enclaves grind. Yet a corridor opens anyway.

A boy walks into that corridor wearing gold.

Gold is usually a lie in the Enclaves. Paint flaking from cheap trinkets, metal-plated badges passed hand to hand until the plating wears through, little trophies won in games rigged by adults who enjoy watching children bargain for scraps. This gold is different. It is a bloodline made visible. It is a privilege that doesn’t beg belief. 

His hair falls in thick, radiant waves, arranged with a care that belongs to a family that keeps servants to argue over silk, and it trails far past his waist, heavy enough to catch light and throw it back. His uniform carries Spectrian elite workmanship—chromafibre lace that doesn’t snag, sigil-thread that holds its pattern without fraying, gloves cut to the exact line of his fingers—an overcloak draped from his shoulders with the ease of someone who has never had to make cloth last longer than a season. His face holds that pale, nacreous glow the Enclaves never manage to manufacture convincingly, and his eyes burn with a dawn-bright gold.

He walks like someone who has never been chased, and the Enclaves register that, too.

He stops at a broken water kiosk, a rusted thing that exists to teach that thirst can be engineered, and mercy can be switched off.

D’ivoire watches him tilt his head—not in confusion, in assessment, like the kiosk has offended a private standard—and opportunity lights up in D’ivoire’s chest with a quick, hot greed. 

Foreigners carry pockets. Foreigners carry stories. Foreigners carry softness that can be pried loose and sold.

He saunters up close enough to be seen, not close enough to be grabbed, his voice already lacquered in charm.

“Water doesn’t work here,” D’ivoire says, letting the sentence land with the casual authority of someone who knows the district’s rules by heart. “But I can make it pretend. For a price.”

The golden boy turns.

The gaze that meets D’ivoire is cathedral-quiet, full of light that refuses to soften, and it carries the weight of someone trained to hold power without spilling it. He looks at D’ivoire the way Doctrine examines a clause that could potentially break a treaty: with careful attention, measurement, and a keen interest in the consequences.

“What price?” he asks.

D’ivoire’s smile flashes, bright and dangerous, and he chooses his demand the way he chooses his targets—by searching for the soft seam. “A memory. Yours, preferably. Something you’d miss. Your favourite flavour of sky. Or a middle name.”

The air shifts.

The kiosk answers.

Droplets rise from the rusted spout, suspended in the air between them. Each bead catches the neon light, collects dust, and reflects the slight tremor of the world’s breath. They hold their shape as perfect spheres, defying gravity with a calm that seems almost insulting in a place designed to enforce rules. The water gathers into a ring around the golden boy’s shoulders, forming a small constellation.

His hands remain at his sides. He keeps his posture easy. The water obeys anyway.

D’ivoire’s grin freezes for half a beat, because the trick he expected is not the trick he receives. Power in the Enclaves wears desperation. Power in the Enclaves sweats, bargains, and looks over its shoulder. This power wears composure and lets the world accommodate it.

“I don’t give away names,” the boy replies. His voice is clear and fine-boned, still unmistakably young, yet every word arrives with the settled confidence of someone long accustomed to being listened to. “But I’ll trade you a question.”

D’ivoire recovers fast—he has to, the district punishes hesitation—and his smile returns, edged now. “Ask.”

The boy’s eyes stay on his, unblinking, and the suspended water doesn’t wobble.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t see you coming?”

The question lands cleanly, without flourish, without mockery, and it strips D’ivoire’s little performance down to the bones. He feels his throat go tight from the sudden awareness of being read. He takes a single step back with his weight centred and his shoulders loose, a movement disguised as casual that keeps his options open, and his gaze flicks over the boy again, searching for the seams.

He finds none that belong to the Enclaves.

He finds, instead, the subtle burden of a child bearing the weight of adult expectations. He recognises a discipline shaped in luxurious environments, where mistakes can have serious consequences and punishment often comes in silence.

“You don’t belong here,” D’ivoire says, and the words carry a warning.

The golden boy’s expression shifts—not smug, not cruel, and not amused in the way D’ivoire expects from rich children who venture into manufactured poverty for a lesson. Instead, his face carries something older and sadder, a recognition of endings and a familiarity with consequences that goes far beyond his nine years.

“Neither do you,” the boy says, soft and certain, as though he is not arguing at all, only placing the truth where it belongs.

The water drops remain suspended, ringing the space between them with bright, impossible calm, and the Enclaves around them keep watching, all their algorithms of suffering briefly confused by a variable they did not code for. D’ivoire feels the district’s attention sharpen, feels the cameras adjust, feels the street try to decide whether this is prey or a threat, and he understands, in a sudden flash, something that has nothing to do with theft.

Spectra has introduced divinity into the Enclaves to observe what bends first. It anticipates that the Enclaves will yield.

D’ivoire watches the boy in gold and sees a different outcome waiting at the end of the corridor—a boy trained to command, a boy built to survive scrutiny, a boy whose composure is a weapon that doesn’t look like one—and he watches himself reflected in the boy’s eyes, a child engineered by hunger into intelligence, shaped by neglect into grace, turned into a little predator who learned early how useful a smile could be.

Names do not pass between them. The district is listening too closely for that, eager to catalogue, eager to own.

And still, something passes anyway.

A connection forms where none should have been possible, thin as filament and twice as stubborn, strung between Enclaves neon and empire gold. Recognition moves through it first, then friction, then that more perilous thing that will one day call itself rivalry and mean far more than that. D’ivoire feels it enter him like a splinter driven under the skin, small enough to miss at first, deep enough to ache whenever he moves. He hates it immediately. He hates even more the way it leaves him newly, helplessly alert.

D’ivoire lets his smile return, slower now, tempered into something that can survive being seen. 

“All right, then,” he says, because he refuses to give the district the pleasure of watching him flinch. “Keep your questions. Keep your names. Walk your pretty little corridor.”

The golden boy holds his gaze a moment longer, and the suspended water holds with him, then the droplets release all at once, falling back into the kiosk’s rusted basin with a soft scatter of sound that feels indecently gentle for this place.

D’ivoire steps aside.

The boy in gold continues down the street, and the Enclaves swallow behind him the way they always do, neon closing over the gap, cameras resuming their blink, false rain threading down from pipes that have never known real weather. The corridor collapses. The district returns to its rehearsed cruelty. Children start breathing again.

D’ivoire remains by the kiosk for a beat, one hand resting on the cold metal, eyes following the last trace of gold until it disappears around a corner the district pretends is random.

He has no name to hold. He has no file to steal.

He carries a question in his mind that won’t leave him, taking it into the alleys like contraband, more dangerous and valuable than water.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Grand Spectaculaire maintains a private weather system for rehearsal days: glitter falling in light flurries, confetti thermals that rise with the stadium’s heat, and a barometric pressure adjusted to applause. I step out onto the observation rim, and the air immediately decides I am someone worth flattering. The glitter veers, furs my lapels, and then—caught by a correction in my expression—redirects to a chorus line of junior performers practising deaths that end in splits.

Bells hang everywhere. Some nest in the rafters with their mouths pointed at the floor, some dangle in the arcs between spotlights, some stand in midair. When a dancer lands clean, a bell answers with a bright, laughing strike. When a lift falters, the nearest bell clucks disapprovingly. The bells keep count as well as tempo; their math is better than ours.

Mid-stage, Tasi whirls through a storm of silk flags that insist they are swans. 

She’s in rehearsal blacks that never read as black; sequins find excuses to be born, fabric finds reasons to shine. A silver half-mask haunts her cheekbone. Around her ankles are bracelets that sound like a trickle of water over stones and then, when she pivots, turn into a cascade that could drown a city block’s worth of dread. Her troupe shadows her in widening circles, every wrist ribbon answering her lead as if she pulled tide by thread.

I wait at the rim long enough to count the rehearsed casualties. Three dramatic faints. One magnificent, operatic “stab” that ends with the victim sneaking a bow. An aerialist pretending to break a fall, then purposely snagging a bell-rope with her heel to chime a chord the colour of triumphant gossip. A small boy in feathers who somersaults through a rain of paper tickets and emerges wearing someone else’s applause like a cape.

“Tasi,” I say, across a sensible distance, when the musical director cuts the orchestra to argue with a xylophone that insists it is a glockenspiel.

Her head turns as if pulled by a spotlight. The bells turn too, lazy as cats, amused. She doesn’t stop moving; she never gifts stillness for free. A strip of silk rolls from her shoulder to her palm on its own and becomes a sash. She ties it around a prop dagger until the knife decides it is jewellery and stops glinting.

“D’ivoire~” she sings back. Not loudly, but this room is engineered to make charms carry. “We’re closed for the hour unless you brought scandal.”

“Scandal takes too long to curate,” I answer, stepping down from the rim. Glitter gives me clear footing, changing the friction coefficient under my soles because Entertainment likes you to look competent on approach. “I brought work.”

“Lie to me,” she says cheerfully, “and say it’s easy work.”

“It is exact,” I say. “And rude to failure.”

Three bells chime in agreement, or perhaps in amusement. With Entertainment, the difference often wears the same shoes.

She tosses the dagger-sash to an assistant, crooks a finger at a pair of lyricists to keep the drums from mutiny, and walks to meet me at the centre. Up close, her mask casts a thin crescent of shadow across one iris, making her smile look sharper than it is. The bracelets settle from river to stream to beads clicking.

“You took my weather,” she says, because even compliments here must be blue at the edges. “When you walked in, the snow remembered gravity.”

“I’ll give it back when you’ve finished stealing it from everyone else,” I reply. “If you’re amenable to being borrowed.”

“Oh?” She lifts two fingers; a bell above us descends to ear height and listens. “From whom?”

“From your own legend,” I tell her, enjoying the way she tips her chin when a sentence earns a second bell. “For a job that wants your consequences and your kindness in the same outfit.”

“That sounds like me on a Tuesday,” Tasi says. She gestures; the band stops quarrelling and starts a six-count sway that keeps the room’s heartbeat steady while we talk. The troupe knows the cue: keep moving so fear can’t find purchase. “How difficult, exactly, is your ‘exact’?”

I don’t waste the room’s attention span with suspense. “Hiroyuki’s down-world. The planet is devout to its cameras. Kyoto’s noon is sick in the way that demands poetry and invoices. We have fourteen minutes of institutional looking-away at a rail yard two days from now. I need you to teach a city not to look where we are.”

The bell hovers between us, interested. Tasi’s eyes brighten like a newly-tuned marquee. “So you want a circus to out-sing Death.”

“Yes.”

Her grin shows all the reasons Entertainment is a Division, not a hobby. 

“You’re fortunate,” she says, and not to be coy. “Our choir has been practising the key of catastrophe since we were old enough to steal tickets.” She twirls a wrist; a ribbon unspools from the air because it wants to. “Who else are you asking?”

“An Intensive Care medic who can rearrange a city’s panic into breath without giving speeches,” I say. “Innovation will send someone who can make the cameras believe they’re on break. Doctrine owes me a ledger. Logistics owes me a small prayer. I owe you an apology in advance for how tight the perimeter will be.”

She laughs. The bells hear the laugh and harmonise. It sounds like the inside of a carousel when all the mirrors are pleased with what they reflect. 

“Finally,” Tasi says, “a gentleman who tells me what he intends before I agree to be grateful.”

“I never beg,” I say, mildly.

“I never needed you to,” she answers, and drops the banter long enough to show me the part of her face that performs grief without handwriting it. “Tell me why me.”

A compliment from me is a currency with strict minting. I spend it with care. “Because you can turn panic into choreography without lying to the breath.”

Her mouth softens. It’s as if the bell kissed the air above her ear. “You noticed.”

“I always noticed,” I say, and the honesty surprises both of us a little. “Even when you were nobody and tried to hide by doing the most.”

She executes a small bow toward the orchestra pit, as if I had handed her a bouquet. “All right,” she says to the room as much as to me. “What’s the scene?”

“Noise-cover across three blocks,” I say. “Misdirection at two intersections. Crowd-herding into corridors that look like choices. Civilian joy turned to smokescreen without becoming a riot. We cannot afford any fatalities that carry our handwriting. Laughter incidents must end with everyone breathing and wanting to tell the story for reasons that have nothing to do with us.”

A contortionist drops from her silk to land in a backbend behind Tasi and hisses, “Love.” The bell assigned to her gives a little trill, proud.

Tasi draws a quick square in the air and an imaginary stage obeys, slotting itself over my description so we can both see the routes. “Window?”

“Fourteen minutes,” I say. “Hard stop. If we are not through, we become legend in the wrong direction.”

“Spectacle creep?” she asks, already knowing the answer but loving the ritual of hearing it from me.

“You get veto power,” I say. “If anything grows a second head, you cut it. If the city gives you a knife, you make it a ribbon. If the crowd begins to think they are the show, you bruise their vanity into applause and return them to errands.”

“Permission to be impolite to anyone who thinks a bouncy castle will save the day?”

“Granted.” The glitter gusts in approval; a small snow of sequins decides to coat my shoulders. The bells hum like a cat pressing into a hand.

“And my terms,” she says, rolling her bracelets until the sound becomes a pleasant threat. “I get a tight perimeter. I get final say at minute twelve whether the last two are worth the risk. Nobody second-guesses my call about when joy stops being safe. And if your medic bleeds on my stage, I keep him. He can cure hangovers between matinees.”

“Vasche doesn’t bleed unless it would be theatrically useful,” I say. “You can keep him for a curtain call if he behaves.”

“Mmm. I make bad men behave for a living.” She flicks a sequin off my lapel with unearned intimacy, as is her habit with every person she intends to keep alive. “Any other contracts I should sign in glitter?”

“No rib-snapping giggle plagues,” I say. “Unless provoked.”

She presses knuckles to her heart in mock offence. “I retired those! Mostly.” She winks at the aerialist. “But if Death brings poor manners, I reserve the right to light the chandelier.”

“Light the chandelier,” I agree. “But if it begins to burn the house, we leave the house.”

Tasi tilts her head toward the rafters, and one of the bell clusters glides lower, counting us, curious. 

“The rail yard,” she muses, tasting the syllables. “Trains are easy. They already believe in timing and spectacle. And they come with songs. We can put a brass line on a freight car roof and call it tradition.”

“Keep the brass under your heel,” I say. “Two decibels beneath panic at all times. Upbeat enough to sculpt attention, not so loud that the cameras want to taste the melody.”

“Cameras?” The word is love and disgust all at once in her mouth. “What do they see?”

“What you want,” I say. “Our Innovation liaison will make lenses daydream about birthdays. Your job is to give them something else to tell stories about later.”

“Done,” she says with a little shrug that throws ten stories worth of light off the sequins that weren’t there a moment ago. “Do I get costumes?”

“You get obedience,” I say. “Costumes if they can be peeled in under a second, stepped out of in under half, and mistaken for local pride.”

She thinks for exactly one bell’s swing. “Uniforms that pretend to be street festival staff,” she decides. “Clipboards and hats with fish. Bells that can pass for good-luck charms. Shoes quiet as secrets. Masks tucked in pockets that only come out if the light insists.”

“Minute fourteen,” I remind her. “Hard exit.”

“On fourteen,” she says. “If you’re not already under a train out of sight, I start a fight with God and lose beautifully to buy you two more.”

“You will not need to,” I say, and the way the Veil’s architecture beneath the dome dims and then brightens tells me it either approves of my hubris or is making a note of my future apology. “But thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Flatter me for morale.”

“You’re the only person I know who can make a room decide to be brave without promising anyone immortality,” I say. “You turn fear into rhythm and give it a better job title.”

She smiles fully. One bell drops low enough to kiss the crown of her head. 

“There. That’s your consecration for the day.” She claps twice; the troupe stills in ripples. “My loves,” she calls, voice bright and threaded with the authority you give to people who have saved your life without using their hands. “We have been invited to dance in a rail yard and teach a city to breathe. The dress code is survival. The partner is Death. The music is ours.”

Applause answers. The bells modulate into a march that makes even dread want to keep time.

She looks back at me. “Send me your map and your liar’s calendar. I’ll write the chorus.”

I offer my arm because I am old-fashioned where Entertainment is concerned; they know too much about loneliness to refuse small courtesies. She takes it, mostly for the picture of it. We walk the arc, letting the room study the outline of what we intend.

“Atropa,” she says under the bells, private as breathing. “You said it without saying it.”

“I did,” I answer. “We will not say it again where the walls can learn the shape.”

“Death loves an audience,” Tasi says, mouth slanting in disgust. “I’m an audience that bites.”

“Save the teeth,” I tell her gently. “We’ll need them for the applause.”

She releases my arm at the wings and turns back to her stage. The glitter thickens, pleased she agreed. The bells, satisfied, drift higher to resume their real work of grading miracles.

“Minute fourteen, D’ivoire,” she calls over her shoulder, bracelets running like water. “If you teach me to leave, I will. If you make me choose not to, I won’t forgive you.”

“I don’t ask forgiveness,” I say, because truth saves time. “I ask performance.”

She laughs once. “Then you came to the right church.”

I leave her to write the weather and walk back into the Coil’s shadow with a timetable that now has rhythm. Morale is a weapon. I’ve put a bell on its hilt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

They meet again where the Enclaves rehearse “ordinary” with the same cruelty it uses for hunger.

A transit arcade runs through the Third Circle like a vein, tile floors scrubbed too clean to be honest, ceiling panels set to a perpetual late afternoon that never warms, vendor stalls stocked with props that look edible until you bring them too close and taste the cheap chemistry. 

Above the stalls, advertisement light crawls across glass in looping slogans about safety, about belonging, about the honour of buying what the system has already decided you deserve. The arcade is built to teach children how to become commuters, how to queue, and how to accept delays with a smile that reads cooperative on camera.

D’ivoire moves through it at thirteen with the ease of someone who learned the rules by stealing their edges. 

His hair is longer now, coiled and tied up tighter. His shoulders have started to broaden in that uneven way boys do when time pulls on them with impatient hands. He wears his charm like a coat cut for misdirection, the kind that makes adults misjudge him and makes other children orbit him without understanding why. A small satchel bumps against his hip, light enough to run with, heavy enough to matter.

He doesn’t come here for commerce.

He comes here because the arcade has blind corners where cameras can’t clearly catch mouths, and because the system loves this place enough to watch it lazily.

He finds the boy in gold near the timetable wall, where the transit routes scroll in luminous lines that never connect to anything real. The first time, divinity had walked into the Enclaves and forced the street to make a corridor. The second time, the Enclaves has learned. It doesn’t part. It tightens. It tries to smother the shine by pretending it never happened.

The shine remains.

Hiroyuki is older too—hair still long, still impossible, gathered back with an elegance that makes the tie look decorous rather than practical, uniform immaculate in a way the Enclaves cannot understand. The same nacreous pallor, the same gold eyes that turn neon mean by comparison, but there’s more bone to his face now, a sharper line at the jaw, a faint seriousness that sits behind the smoothness like a second layer of glass. He stands with a book open in one gloved hand, the other hand loose at his side, and his attention rests on the page with the calm of someone who has been taught to treat focus as a weapon.

D’ivoire watches him for a moment from behind a kiosk selling imitation fruit.

He does the math in his head the way he does it for escape routes and ration thefts: the distance to the nearest corner, the camera angle over the timetable wall, the shift in foot traffic every nine minutes when the programme plays the “service announcement” jingle and the crowds unconsciously re-form. He notices the two Doctrine observers by the way their shoes avoid grime, by the way their gazes skim past children’s faces without ever settling. He notices the lack of escort with more interest than suspicion.

Hiroyuki is alone on purpose.

That lands as a challenge in D’ivoire’s chest.

He crosses the arcade with a saunter that looks lazy and is nothing of the sort, sliding between bodies that never touch him, letting his shoulder brush a vendor’s hanging charms so the little metal pieces clink and cover the soft sound of his steps. He stops close enough that Hiroyuki has to acknowledge him without looking up, and D’ivoire lets his mouth curve into the same fox-bright smile he used the first time, older now, less a child’s dare and more a calculated offer of trouble.

“Your arcade is lying,” D’ivoire says, flicking his gaze toward the scrolling timetable. “Those routes never arrive.”

Hiroyuki turns a page with one slow movement, then lifts his eyes at last. The gaze meets D’ivoire’s without drift, without hurry, and it carries the same cathedral weight, the same quiet insistence that he has already assessed the room and decided what matters.

“It’s a simulation,” Hiroyuki replies. His voice has deepened a shade since the kiosk, and the sound sits in the air with controlled warmth. “Arrival is optional. The lesson is the waiting.”

D’ivoire laughs under his breath, the sound sharp with humour and irritation. “You speak like a pamphlet.”

“I speak like someone who has read the pamphlets,” Hiroyuki says, and the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth suggests amusement he refuses to give away cheaply.

D’ivoire studies that mouth for the blink it takes Hiroyuki to decide what expression to wear. It is a small tell. D’ivoire loves small tells. They are doors.

He leans in a fraction, bringing the conversation into the narrow space where the arcade’s noise can blur it, where a camera might record their posture but not their words. His eyes stay on Hiroyuki’s face, and his voice drops into a more intimate register without becoming soft.

“You came back.”

Hiroyuki closes the book with a gentle snap. “You’re observant.”

“I grew up here,” D’ivoire says, and he lets pride sit in the sentence the way it sits in his spine. “Observation is food.”

Hiroyuki’s gaze flicks across D’ivoire’s satchel, across the frayed edge of his sleeve, across the faint bruise-coloured shadow near his wrist that suggests a recent grab. The look is fast, polite, and complete. D’ivoire feels it as a hand measuring his bruises and deciding what it means to touch them.

“I heard you were moved,” Hiroyuki says.

D’ivoire tilts his head. “You heard.”

“I listen,” Hiroyuki answers. The word carries weight without boasting.

The arcade’s programme jingle plays overhead. A family of simulated commuters moves as one organism. A child drags a toy suitcase through the crowd and bumps into D’ivoire’s leg, then recoils when he recognises D’ivoire’s face, muttering an apology and scurrying away. D’ivoire doesn’t look down. His gaze stays fixed on Hiroyuki, like a blade held at throat level.

“I also listen,” D’ivoire says, and he reaches into his satchel.

He doesn’t draw a weapon; he shows a piece of paper.

A folded slip, crisp-edged, the sort that comes only from better places. Academy stationery, or Doctrine’s internal memos, or the kind of sealed correspondence that never belongs in Enclaves’ hands. He taps it once against Hiroyuki’s closed book, a small, rude gesture that forces Hiroyuki to look at it.

Hiroyuki’s eyes drop to the paper, then return to D’ivoire’s face. The gold in them stays steady, but something behind the steadiness shifts, a muscle tightening around the fact of being recognised.

D’ivoire lets the smile widen.

“I got tired of calling you ‘gold,’” he says. “It’s lazy. It flatters you.”

Hiroyuki neither reaches for the paper nor flinches. He maintains his posture like a shield.

“What did you learn?” he asks.

D’ivoire lifts his shoulders in a shrug that feigns casualness. “Your House likes spires. Your House likes light. Your House likes to pretend it can’t be touched.”

Hiroyuki’s expression becomes steely. “You went digging.”

“I live in dirt,” D’ivoire replies. “Digging is a skill.”

A pause stretches between them, filled by the arcade’s artificial noise, the fake commerce, the programmed waiting. D’ivoire watches Hiroyuki’s face for any crack that reads panic. He doesn’t get one. He gets a small exhale that settles Hiroyuki deeper into himself, the way someone settles a cloak back over their shoulders.

“You’re proud of this,” Hiroyuki says.

D’ivoire’s mouth twitches. “I’m proud I can do it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is here,” D’ivoire says, and the sentence comes out with a bluntness he usually reserves for knives. “Here it’s the same thing.”

Hiroyuki’s eyes linger a fraction longer on the paper. “If you wanted to threaten me, you would have done it loudly. You would have chosen a place with more witnesses.”

D’ivoire’s laugh flashes again. “That’s cute.”

“It’s accurate,” Hiroyuki says, and his voice carries no need to win. It carries something else—an insistence on naming reality cleanly.

D’ivoire rolls the paper between two fingers. “You always talk like you’re allowed.”

“I am allowed,” Hiroyuki answers, and the words land with the weight of lineage. Then, without changing his tone, he adds, “I also know what it costs to be allowed.”

D’ivoire’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. He hates that the boy in gold can put a fingertip on the seam in him and not even smirk about it.

He recovers with speed because speed keeps him alive.

“So,” D’ivoire says, “I know what your name means in rooms I’ve never been invited into. I know the way adults’ mouths change when they say it. I know what the Oriflamme Ring does with its children.”

Hiroyuki’s eyes narrow slightly, the first visible sign of irritation. It isn’t fear, so D’ivoire respects that.

“You’ve done your research,” Hiroyuki says. “What do you want for it?”

D’ivoire’s grin returns, wide and fox-glorious. “You think this is a transaction.”

“In the Enclaves, everything is a transaction,” Hiroyuki replies.

D’ivoire leans closer, enough that Hiroyuki can smell the cheap soap on his collar, the metal tang of coins he’s held too long, the street itself. D’ivoire keeps his voice low.

“What I want is to know why you came here at all,” he says. “You could have stayed in your light. You could have let this place exist without your eyes on it. You could have let children like me rot politely for Doctrine’s studies.”

The word “rot” lands heavily between them. D’ivoire watches it hit. Hiroyuki takes it without flinching.

“I was sent,” Hiroyuki says.

D’ivoire’s smile goes thin. “Of course you were.”

“And I returned,” Hiroyuki adds, the correction placed carefully.

D’ivoire feels the air change. He hates that he feels it. He hates that the boy in gold makes the arcade’s lies feel less stable.

“Returned for what,” D’ivoire accuses, “your conscience?”

“For you,” Hiroyuki says, and the sentence lands without drama, without pleading, without an appeal to tenderness.

D’ivoire freezes, not because he believes it, but because the audacity of it snaps something in his chest. He wants to laugh it off. He wants to spit. He wants to shove the paper into Hiroyuki’s book and walk away with his pride intact.

Instead, he stays.

He stays because he has learned that leaving too quickly grants the other person control of the ending, and D’ivoire hates endings he doesn’t author.

Hiroyuki continues, steady as ever. “You saw me on the first day. Truly saw me. You addressed me as a person, not an example to be discussed after I’d gone. Then you told me I did not belong. I understood that for what it was: recognition.”

D’ivoire’s throat tightens. His eyes flick away for the first time—to the scrolling timetable, to the false routes, to the glowing lines that promise arrival and never deliver. He forces his gaze back.

“Recognition doesn’t feed anyone,” D’ivoire says.

“It does,” Hiroyuki replies. “It feeds the part of you that refuses to be owned.”

D’ivoire’s smile tries to return. It doesn’t fit.

He stares at Hiroyuki, at the immaculate uniform, at the unwavering composure, at the golden eyes that continuously uncover the truth beneath his words. Fury rises within him, not because he is being seen, but because of how effortlessly Hiroyuki articulates it. There’s a confidence in his words that suggests naming the reality makes it real.

“You talk like you can save me,” D’ivoire says, and the sentence carries poison he pretends is humour.

Hiroyuki lifts the book slightly, a small gesture that keeps his hands occupied, that keeps him contained. “I talk like I can stand beside you without lying about what this place is.”

D’ivoire’s fingers crumple the edge of the paper. The Academy slip creases under his grip.

He wants to weaponise what he learned. He wants to make Hiroyuki pay for being born into light. He wants to make the boy in gold admit something ugly, admit fear, admit need, admit that the Enclaves get to stain everyone eventually.

He also wants—more quietly, more dangerously—to believe that standing beside someone can be real, that it can exist without a blade hidden in it.

D’ivoire lowers the paper. “Say your name,” he says.

Hiroyuki’s gaze holds. “You already know it.”

“I want to hear you choose to give it,” D’ivoire replies, and the demand comes out rawer than he intended, a hunger dressed in arrogance.

Hiroyuki considers him for a moment, eyes steady, posture composed, the arcade’s noise rolling around them like a tide that never reaches shore. Then he speaks, and he gives it without flourish.

“Hiroyuki D’Accardi.”

The name changes the air. It changes the way the Enclaves hear them, even if no camera catches the syllables clearly. D’ivoire feels the district recoil and reach forward in the same motion, wanting to catalogue, wanting to devour.

He smiles again, because he needs a mask back on his face before the world sees what he is carrying.

“Good boy,” D’ivoire murmurs. “Now you know I can break you with a mouthful of vowels.”

Hiroyuki’s eyes narrow. “Will you?”

D’ivoire tilts his head. “That depends.”

“On what?” Hiroyuki asks.

D’ivoire’s grin turns bright again, more honest now, because honesty is easier when it’s dangerous. “On whether you’re here to study me, or whether you’re here to make yourself uncomfortable on purpose.”

Hiroyuki holds the question without rushing to fill it with comfort. That choice alone answers part of it.

“I’m here,” Hiroyuki says, “because the Enclaves teach children to vanish. I prefer children who refuse.”

D’ivoire watches him for a long moment.

Then he lifts the paper and flicks it—lightly—against Hiroyuki’s book, a final punctuation, a little insult that reads friendly only if you already understand the language of boys who survive.

“Fine,” D’ivoire says. “Keep your light. Keep your spires. Keep your book.”

He steps back, sliding into the flow of bodies with the ease of someone born to disappear in crowded places, yet his eyes stay on Hiroyuki while he retreats, because retreat is still a kind of holding.

“And Hiroyuki,” he adds, voice pitched to carry under the arcade’s noise without needing volume, “next time you want to return for me, you pick a place that isn’t owned by cameras.”

Hiroyuki’s mouth shifts, an expression that lives between amusement and acknowledgement, and he inclines his head a fraction, a gesture that reads like agreement without becoming a promise.

D’ivoire turns away before he can stand there and feel too much.

His satchel bumps against his hip. His fingers flex around the creased paper. The transit arcade continues its rehearsal of ordinary life, timetables scrolling false routes, vendors selling props, children learning how to wait for arrivals that never come.

Yet D’ivoire walks out carrying something new and unstable in his chest.

A name that was chosen aloud.

A line that can be held.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Intensive Care ward keeps its lights low, as if brightness would bruise the work. Steam ghosts from the elbow faucets; the metal basins exhale antiseptic and citrus. 

Vasche is at the sink with his sleeves rolled to the middle of his forearms, washing like he’s reading a prayer from his palms. Fingers, knuckles, wrists, the webbing between—he attends to each small geography twice. A folded cloth rests beside the basin; on it, his brass-knuckle trench knives lie like sleeping tools, blued steel catching a sober gleam. He does not look at them while he washes. He finishes, closes the water with the back of one wrist, and only then dries his hands as though accepting a charge.

“Overseer,” he says, voice even, not deferential.

“Vasche,” I answer. “Walk.”

We take the corridor that overlooks gardens Rayne insists on maintaining—soft light across frost-resistant leaves, the soil laid out in quiet order. He matches my pace without needing to look at me. He was made for heat and gravity, but moves as if trained to reduce his temperature upon arrival.

“The brief,” he prompts.

“We will pull four people through a seam that eats memory,” I say. “One of them is my Advisor; three of them are children with work unfinished. Kyoto is noisy in the wrong ways. Innovation has found us a fourteen-minute window in the rail yard’s cameras; Doctrine has mapped the miscounts. We’ll cross on the blind.”

He listens as a ledger does, columns forming behind his eyes. “What breaks?”

“Almost everything,” I say. “You will make it whole enough to walk.”

We stop at a viewing panel where the glass has been polished thin by nerves. He does not ask about Death. The better medics never do; they understand that the name will arrive as an instruction when needed. Instead, he tips his chin toward his tools.

“Boundaries,” he says.

“Keep transmutation local and literal,” I tell him. “Doors, rails, ballast, breath. You can write atmosphere cheats if we lose pressure; you can convert shrapnel to anything that will stop being a knife. No large-scale matter games near the seam. Noon learns you if you teach it too rapidly.”

“Mass parity?” he asks.

“Observed,” I say. “If you steal from one pile to pay another, I want to see the receipt in the scene.”

That earns the smallest smile. “I’ve never liked sloppy books.”

Rayne appears in the reflection more than in the door, coat white, eyes calm, hands full of vials that hold their own light.

“You’ll take two,” she tells Vasche, offering them. “Metabolic buffer and nerve-quiet. You won’t get high. You’ll get steady.”

He accepts the vials without comment, slips them into a flat pouch at his back. “Any contraindications with grief?” he asks her, and it is not a joke.

“It sharpens grief,” Rayne says gently. “You’ll keep moving.” She looks to me. “You chose him because he doesn’t fall in love with his solutions.”

“He has to,” I say. “After the fact.”

Vasche slips the brass onto his right hand and tightens the strap across his palm. Up close, the metal is etched with tiny, right-angled channels—sluices for instructions, not blood. When he flexes, the pattern brightens a fraction, following tendon and intention. 

“Field doors,” he recites. “Patchwork bodies. Air that behaves when it needs to. No demonstrations for the sake of it.” He glances at me. “You don’t plan to win loud.”

“I plan to leave with him,” I reply.

He nods once. Agreement, not faith. The distinction will keep him alive until it doesn’t.

We pass the ward’s chapel, the closet with a chair where Spectra pretends not to pray. He stops at the threshold and looks in, not to worship but to measure the room the way craftsmen do: corners, joints, tolerance. 

“I’ll need three small anchors,” he says. “Things that don’t mind becoming other things for a minute. Nails, gravel, a hinge.”

“You’ll have them,” I say. “Doctrine will stage the pocket—clean exits, true corners, doors that mind their manners.”

We cross into the armoury annex so I can sign him out of its quiet. The provisioner produces a case of dull tools—cutters, clamps, a length of chain. Vasche selects three links and hands the rest back. 

“Enough,” he says. “Too many options make cowards.” He pockets a chalk stub and a length of rubber tubing. Practical thefts. The kind that sit invisible in a scene until the moment they must become a different truth.

“You will not touch the sword,” I tell him, almost as an afterthought and not at all as one. “You will not stand in its wake. The odachi will write its own grammar; you will make the sentence survivable.”

“I don’t tell thunder how to articulate,” he says. “I tell the roof to hold.”

“Tasi will run the bells,” I add. “You’ll read her cadence. If you need the crowd to turn left, she’ll write it into laughter. You’ll account for bodies as numbers that want to keep being numbers.”

“Morale as anaesthesia,” he says. “I’ve worked with worse medicines.” His knuckles rest a moment against the case, as if listening to the silence to see whether it agrees with us leaving.

Rayne’s vials click softly in their pouch when he breathes. 

“And if the seam writes us as part of its noon?” he asks, finally saying the thing medics are paid to say.

“You will not negotiate with it,” I answer. “You will not teach it your name. If it asks for yours, you will give it mine.”

“Understood.” He turns his hands palm-up, checks them as if checking a watch that lives under the skin. “And if Death attends?”

“We move faster than reverence,” I say. “Until we can’t. If she audits, you will not argue. You will do smaller work, perfectly. You will do it again.”

He studies me with a technician’s patience, as if confirming that the instructions are not bravado. Finding no wobble, he nods. “Show me the seam map,” he says. “I’ll plan to be uninteresting.”

We step into the briefing chamber. Innovation’s projection throws a pale model of the rail yard into the air—tracks braided like stern hair, gantries listing, a calendar of camera cycles pulsing in faint green. A bony corridor marked BLIND in thirteen places, never contiguous. The fourteen-minute ribbon glows and then dims as if wary of being noticed.

“No ceremony,” I tell the room. “No song past what we bring. We will ride the blind like it is exactly the boat we asked for.”

Vasche leans in, reading how the yard prefers to fail. He marks three points with the chalk on the table’s rim—anchors no one else sees until the line touches them. 

“Here, here, here,” he says. “Door hinges I can talk into becoming honeycomb for a breath. Gravel I can convince to be glass, then ask politely to be gravel again. And ballast I’ll rearrange into a lattice if we need a shell.”

“Shell?” Tasi says from the doorway, bells muttering around her ankles like obedient weather.

“In case someone goes bright,” he answers, without drama. He doesn’t look away from the map when he says it. He doesn’t make the word a wound. It is a line-item: explosion, contained.

The projection stutters; Doctrine’s lattice pings and stamps a quiet glyph: RETURN. The blind window tightens a fraction, as if the yard resents being borrowed for anything but trains.

Vasche notices the way the Veil answers my voice—the micro-fall of dust, the projectors correcting by a hair. 

“You’ve been under,” he says, not asking.

“Enough,” I say.

“Then you know not to trust applause.”

He rewraps the cloth around his trench brass, slips them off and on again until the seam between skin and tool has the right friction. When he finishes, he returns to the sink, opens the water, and washes a second time. 

“Anything else you want to tell me before I agree fully?” he asks the basin.

“Yes,” I say. “There will be a moment where every solution you are proud of becomes a liability. Choose usefulness over elegance. Choose small survival over spectacle. If there is a bill, I will pay it.”

He shuts the water, dries his hands, and fits the brass for the last time, the strap kissing his palm like a signature. “Overseer,” he says, “I have no interest in being beautiful.”

“Good,” I say. “Be correct.”

He meets my eyes. “When we come back,” he says, and there is no question in it, “you will owe me a garden minute. Sun, dirt, nothing clever.”

“I will owe you twelve,” I say. “But I’ll pay one at a time.”

He smiles with only the right corner of his mouth. “Receipts,” he murmurs.

“Receipts,” I agree.

Behind us, the ward exhales. Rayne’s plants rock minutely on their stems. Somewhere deep in the Coil, a bell finds its pitch and holds it. I think about the holoband call I’ve only permitted myself once, the very first night: his voice steady, his breath measured, the quiet act of choosing to live in a place designed to make him vanish. He told me where to stand. I am going to stand there until standing becomes a weapon.

“Load at second bell,” I say. “We step at the third. Fourteen minutes. Nothing left behind that doesn’t choose to stay.”

Vasche nods, gathers what little he needs, and falls into place at my left. A medic, not a martyr. A hand trained to take a room apart and put it back together as if the difference were paperwork.

It will not save him. It will save us.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Command Coil’s war room prefers fewer witnesses than victories. Lamps burn low; the Axiomatic Veil settles into the grout like a verdict. 

I arrive to find Uodalrich already at the head of the table, pen uncapped, posture even. The paper in front of him is not a request; it is a decision learning its own signature. He writes Blaire Morishige’s name with the calm of gravity and presses the seal. The wax takes it as if it has always been waiting to be told who it is.

“Rosaflux will attach,” he says, voice level, the kind that makes other voices consult themselves before speaking.

“Not a combat echelon,” someone near Doctrine begins.

Uodalrich doesn’t look up. “Precisely.”

The order moves through channels that pretend to be brass when they are mostly temperament and fear. Minutes later, the war room receives its own weather: the door is held by a hand that never touches it, the temperature tips toward perfume that argues with steel, and Blaire walks in where lesser courtiers would ask to be admitted. Rosaflux follows on her heels without needing feet—licenses, permits, secrecy incorporated into silk that has never admitted to being cloth.

“Overseer,” she says to me, and to Uodalrich, simply: “Sir.”

He nods once. “You will attach to Espionage for the duration of the Kyoto window.”

Blaire does not glance at the map. She glances at me. 

“I am not dying in a rail yard,” she says, with the candour of someone who has already declined a thousand lesser deaths and dressed for the ones that mattered.

“Translation,” I offer, because Rosaflux prefers wit to minutes, “you will go, and you will not be sloppy.”

Her mouth curves. “Correct.”

Doctrine begins its litany—the reasons for and against—because Doctrine fears novelty when it is not written by Doctrine. I let the litany run a few sentences to hear where their worry puts its furniture. Blaire listens the way tailors listen to bodies. Uodalrich ends it with a single line: “We will not win loudly.” The room edits its posture.

I lay the lines for Blaire because lines are a courtesy: insertion under civilian cover, camera blind at the rail hub fourteen minutes long, Innovation’s tap already whispering into Kyoto’s grid, noon instability like a seam under varnish. 

“Your role is soft-war,” I say. “Credentials that do not ask permission to be believed. Couture permits that become the air in the room. Forged cultural paperwork that reads as memory, not lies. On-the-spot disguises that pass a checkpoint’s mood, not only its eye.”

She studies the rail map. Her attention is not a stare; it is a fitting. “You want an elegance engine inside a freight schedule.”

“Yes.”

“What’s my perimeter?”

“Fixed by the blind and whatever crowd Tasi builds.” I don’t add that Tasi is already tuning laughter like an air-raid siren set to hymn. Blaire does not require spoilers to do math.

She taps a nail against the glass over Kyoto—three light touches, one for each point of failure that interests her: border psyche, camera, crowd. 

“I will get you to the door and through three doors after that,” she says. “Customs will want to believe me. They always do. But if somebody’s grief shows up with a badge, I cannot talk the holy out of their eyes.”

“Then you’ll distract the holy,” I say, even. “Turn it into pride. Turn it into etiquette. Walk it where we need it to stand.”

Blaire looks more amused than impressed. “You want checkpoints turned into runways.” She is not wrong. “You want a story that leaves cupboards clean.”

“Yes,” Uodalrich says, and the word makes a line of ink on the map that no one else can see.

We move to the table’s edge where Rosaflux spreads its quiet arsenals: a portfolio that is not paper but admission, a hanger of garments that behave like aliases, a small lacquered case filled with pins whose colours are not colours common to honest flags. Blaire opens the case, and the room takes one breath deeper because even the Coil respects a kit that can rewrite a face without touching it.

She briefs us without asking whether we require it. 

“Credential tree,” she says, laying cards like tarot. “Tourism board liaison. Festival compliance auditor. Transport ministry consultant. My face will carry all three because none of them want to be separate. This file—” she taps a folder the exact thickness of patience on a long day “—contains permits that make other permits remember their manners. Doctrine, I will need access to your sealwork for four minutes. Not the embossers. The shadow that lives behind them.”

Doctrine bristles cosmetically; Uodalrich says, “Granted.”

“Cover stories?” I ask.

“Versions that walk on their own,” Blaire answers. “A couture inspection route that coincidentally touches the yard. A pop-up rehearsal Tasi can ‘accidentally’ overflow. A municipal courtesy call that arrives with small gifts for the station master—my gifts do not smell like bribes; they smell like tradition. People move for tradition even when they think they’re modern.” She looks to me. “Do you require that the crowd not remember me?”

“I require that the crowd remember something else more.”

“Excellent,” she says. “I can manufacture a ‘something else’ in any flavour from civic pride to petty scandal. I’ll bring both, in case Kyoto wakes on the wrong foot.”

We set the rule because rules prevent affection from playing hero later.

“If glitter touches the seam,” I tell her, “it’s yours to swallow back.”

She doesn’t blink. 

“I do not shed,” she says, and means it. Rosaflux does not leave evidence. Rosaflux leaves appetite.

We review contingencies the way tailors review hems, not because we expect the garment to fail, but because failure prefers neglected edges. If a border psyche decides to interrogate, Blaire can make a uniform remember it is a costume and therefore perform. If a camera lingers, she can turn the lens into a critic and bore it with the wrong subject. If a child cries, she can hand the child a ribbon that believes it is a badge and let dignity outrun fear.

“Spectacle creep,” I say. “You will veto it.”

“No fireworks unless your medic asks for a weather change,” she answers.

“Vasche will not ask for weather.”

“Then we stay matte,” she says, satisfied.

The Veil shifts; it’s the Coil acknowledging that we have put a musician on a battlefield. Blaire draws a small circle on the rail schematic with the tip of her pen, a radius that includes three side streets, a noodle shop, and a police kiosk that speaks too much with its windows. 

“Here,” she says. “I will stand here. Tasi will stand loud enough for me to be quiet. Your door will open where you tell it. I will keep the lights convinced they’re supposed to flatter us. You will do the rest.”

Uodalrich signs the attachments; two more strokes in the margin, each a hinge. He adds nothing else; command has already spoken with the economy that lets others be ornate. 

Blaire takes the paper, glances at the signature without appearing to read it, and tucks it into a folder that smells faintly of rose and cold metal.

“Blaire,” I say, and give her the only warning she needs: “This enemy unthreads names.”

Her chin lifts a degree. “Then we will wear ours tighter.”

“Border psyches,” I continue. “They may not read. They may feel.”

“They will feel admired,” she says, and Rosaflux flares in the room like a dress turning under a stage light without moving at all. “Admired men do not invent new rules on the spot. They sign what is put before them and remember being brilliant.”

We set the last timings. Fourteen minutes is not a window; it is a blade. She nods when I say it aloud. 

“You will have your noise at minus three,” she says. “You will have your silence at plus two. At plus fourteen, I will be a rumour in a car that a camera thinks it already recorded yesterday.”

“And if the rumour misbehaves?” I ask, because it is my work to turn even allies into variables until they prove themselves constants.

She meets my eyes, unbothered. “You will not need to correct me, Overseer.”

“I know.”

That earns me the only softness she has shown today, a fractional rain of relief across her face that other rooms would call warmth. To me, it is simply competence unclenching. She turns to Uodalrich and inclines her head, respect measured out as carefully as perfume. He receives it with the stillness of a man who only collects gestures he intends to spend.

“Dress for weather,” he says, which in his mouth is a blessing. “Go.”

Blaire leaves the way she entered. The door behaves as if it were built for her stride, the Veil files her as an exception it enjoyed making, and the war room exhales a fraction when the Rosaflux pressure lifts. The map keeps its lines. The plan holds its breath the way thread holds a seam.

“Not foolish,” Doctrine says at last, to the room more than to me.

“No,” I agree. “Just exact.”

Uodalrich caps his pen. 

“Bring them home,” he says.

“I will.”

Outside, the Coil resets its heartbeat, indifferent to the styles we choose for our wars. I file Blaire’s stance beside Tasi’s bells and Vasche’s quiet hands. Noise where we choose it. Silence where we must have it. A door that opens on time. And a rule, mine alone, that I do not write down because paper likes to tell secrets: if glitter touches the seam, she will swallow back, and if Death itself touches the yard, I will stand where I was told and pay the price with my face uninteresting.

We begin the work of rehearsing not to be surprised.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Glassboard in VANTA is a sheet of air convinced it is a wall. It prefers dry-erase to blood, but it will take either and keep the lines. I stand with a pen and write the clock first: 14:00 in the corner, then a descending stair of marks to 00:00. No arrows. Everyone here understands that time moves whether you draw it or not.

“Objective.” I print the word, then the line beneath: Kyoto rail yard | 14-minute CCTV blackout | extract Advisor; if possible, three additional assets. I do not write their names. We are not bringing names to a seam that eats them.

“Constraints,” I add, because the Glassboard bargains better when you acknowledge the other side. Earth surveillance scrubs. Noon-seam instability. Civilian density. Atropa’s attention. The board does not flinch at the last one. It has been told worse and survived being cleaned.

We stand in a quarter circle: Tasi with bells muted against her wrist; Blaire in travel-black that reads as expensive restraint; Vasche stripped to the kind of simplicity that makes surgeons and saints comfortable; Doctrine’s liaison silent and useful with a recording pen that records nothing unless I allow it. Uodalrich has signed and left. His absence is an instrument we intend to play quietly.

I box the window—Innovation’s gift bought with three favours and an apology that will cost a decade. “Fourteen minutes of camera blindness. Not darkness. Blindness. Sensors will think they are satisfied. The lenses will blink and believe they saw.” I tap −02:00. “We arrive early enough to test the air, late enough to not tempt noon to widen.”

Roles go up in clean columns:

D’ivoire — pathfinding, decoy identity, final pull.
Tasi — crowd vectoring (buskers’ corridor), attention siphon, laughter-shock if hostile massing occurs.
Vasche — wound triage, breathable pockets, micro-transmute ‘door minds’ so locks forget to be locked; atmosphere cheats as needed.
Blaire — paper, posture, presence; turn a war into an errand long enough to cross it.

“Hard rules.” I underline them once. “No names aloud. No mirrors. If noon tilts, we freeze. I call verbs, not votes. Abort at thirteen-thirty if contact fails.” I draw a line between 13:30 and 13:59 and shade it in. “There is no heroism in the shaded interval. We leave it to other gods.”

Tasi’s bells make a small sound, just enough to remind the room that breath can be coaxed into order. “Buskers’ corridor?” she prompts, eyes bright with mischief that knows when to end.

“Here.” I sketch the yard, the long shed roofs, the grid of cameras, the overhead footbridge that collects onlookers like a comb. I draw a dotted lane from the plaza to the service gate. “You will tune the approach to carry itself. Laughter that turns with a wrist, not a spasm. If mass begins to lean wrong, you will correct it. If grief presents with a badge, you will give it a stage and exit under the applause you brought with you.”

Tasi nods. “No rib-snapping unless asked,” she says, and the corner of her mouth confesses that she is teasing Death on purpose. She will not do it in the yard.

“Blaire.” I sweep the pen to the gate cluster and outline them as if they were cheekbones. “Customs, transport ministry, station master. You will be all three lights the yard thinks it answers to. Your documents will not flash; they will be the lamp that reveals everyone else’s mistakes.”

She leans in, reading the flow. “I will bring a festival inspection route that naturally wants to cross the sheds. Paper will precede us by four minutes and arrive at the gate before my shadow does. The uniform at the kiosk will admire me and sign something that looks like their idea.” She taps +02:00 with a red-tipped nail. “We leave our gracious hosts believing they were brilliant.”

“Vasche.” I draw a small square off the main shed. “Service tunnel. Two doors that appraise themselves too highly. Make them modest.”

“I will adjust their self-regard,” he says without flourish. His hands are steady, towel-damp, clean. “Air?”

“Sixty seconds,” I answer. “Cargo lift shaft. We need it to think it is a corridor long enough to pass.”

“It will breathe,” he says. He isn’t smiling; men who know the temperament of matter rarely do. “No large-scale games near the seam,” he adds to himself, then to me: “I heard your rule.”

I mark −03:00 with a strike and write Noise. “Entry cover. Tasi’s corridor opens the plaza; Blaire’s courtesy constricts the gate. During the conflation, we become background. If noon tries to name us, we refuse.”

“How do we know noon is trying to name us?” Tasi asks, practical through the bells. “Beyond the sensation of being sent to buy a watermelon we don’t want.”

“When you find change in your pocket you didn’t have,” I say. “When you take three steps and arrive back where you started. When a child’s cry is edited into a to-do list. If any of those occur, freeze. You will hear me, and I will say a verb. You will obey the verb as if the floor were listening.” I write a short list in the margin—Return. Recount. Behave. Mute. Forget—and the board accepts the typography of command.

Blaire watches the verbs with something like respect. “And if the seam wants spectacle?” she asks lightly.

“It gets etiquette,” I say. “Bow, and make it bow back.”

“Very well,” she murmurs. “I will bring manners.”

We move to the rendezvous. “Signal,” I write, then leave the line blank, because the person who will author it is not in the room. “Hiroyuki will choose something you would notice even if you were ill. It will not be a sound that can be swallowed by loudness. It will not be a light that can be staged. Expect three repetitions, not two.”

“Bells?” Tasi offers, half in jest.

“Perhaps a bell string,” I concede, thinking of the bakery’s door and the way noon learned to pace itself to a mortal hand. “If it is a bell, it will be a bell that remembers us. You will not mistake it.”

“Order of extraction?” Doctrine ventures, finally earning its syllables.

“Advisor first,” I say. “If he refuses, mute and move him anyway.” The pen writes A-1, K-2, I-3, M-4 as if the letters were innocent, and the Glassboard lets them sit without sharpening them into names. “If three is possible without the yard learning us, take three. If four is possible without bargaining with noon, take four. We do not haggle. We do not explain. We do not teach the day any new tricks.”

“Abort,” I mutter, marking at 13:30 again, for the room that will not forgive me if I fail to repeat myself. “Say it with me.”

“Abort at thirteen-thirty,” Tasi says, and the bells are quiet.

“Abort at thirteen-thirty,” Blaire repeats like the end of a toast.

Vasche nods once. “If the clock disobeys, I will obey the rule instead.”

I draw the exfil path in one continuous line because I want the board to believe it was always this simple: rail yard → service tunnel (Blaire’s inspection couture) → cargo lift (Vasche repatterns to air, 60 seconds) → shuttle alcove → Spectra line. At the alcove, I draw a small square: the window where Innovation will fold the floor by fourteen minutes into a corridor that doesn’t exist. If it fails, we return under our own noise and depart as tourists who chose a bad day. If it succeeds, we will be ghosts that paid for passage.

“Cover identities.” Blaire fans four dossiers onto the sill. She speaks them like fragrances. “Transport ministry consultant—my face. Safety auditor—yours.” She hands Tasi a laminate that smells faintly of rain on cement and applause. “Festival liaison.” A last folder for Vasche: “Sanitation oversight. Everyone lets sanitation through. No one wants to admire it.”

“Decoy identity,” I add, circling myself on the board with a dark ring. “If anything must be detained, they will detain me, not you. My papers will be slightly wrong in a way that flatters the detainer. If we must lose a minute to their vanity, we lose mine.”

Blaire’s eyes flick to me and back to the clock. She approves without saying it.

“Weapons,” Doctrine dares.

“None that remember themselves,” I say. “No mirrors. No reflective faces. Nothing noon can use to count us twice. Tasi has her bells. Blaire has paper sharper than knives. Vasche has his hands.” I do not mention the small geometry I carry under my coat that exists to become nothing the instant it would be noticed. “If we need loud, we have already failed.”

I write Receipts and put a box around it because Wren will appear regardless of invitation. “If she approaches,” I tell the room, “do not bargain. Do not agree to be in her story. Take what she offers if it looks like a Polaroid and give her nothing but a small nod. She will call it accounting. Let her.”

Tasi tilts her head. “If Death comes?”

“We do not rehearse for Death,” I say, and the line is not bravado. “We recognise it. We do not address it. We take the next step we can take without feeding it and leave the rest for a day when we have more than fourteen minutes and fewer civilians.”

Vasche studies the shaded band again—13:30–13:59—as though memorising a face he intends to meet. 

“If someone is bleeding,” he says softly, “I will choose the living. Even if that means we leave with fewer than three.”

“That is the rule,” I answer, and it is also the mercy. He nods, once, the agreement of a man who will hold it even if it kills him. The Glassboard does not record that thought, but I feel it write itself in the war room’s temperature.

“Signals inside the noise,” I continue. “We do not speak names. If I say ‘Return,’ we re-align to the last uncontested corner. If I say ‘Behave,’ you let the room remember itself and go with it. If I say ‘Forget,’ you stop defending your face from cameras and become background. If I say ‘Mute,’ you treat your heartbeat as classified and let your body use the corridor the floor is hiding. If I say nothing, do not create meaning. Hold.”

“Understood,” Tasi says.

“Understood,” Blaire echoes.

Vasche’s “Understood” is the kind that will not need to be said twice.

I step back, cap the pen, and study the board the way a thief studies a locked cabinet he built himself. The lines are clean. The plan is a modest god. It will protect us until we ask it to do more than it can.

“Again,” I say, and we walk through it a second time, then a third. Entries, covers, the crossing, the swallow of the lift shaft’s air, the step into the alcove that isn’t an alcove until we insist. Timings. Cues. How to stand when we must stand still. How to bow when bowing is the only way to move. Every beat is spoken until it is in our calves and wrists.

On the last pass, I draw a small dot beside +00:30 and do not label it. They do not ask. There is a moment in every operation where you pay for the line you drew earlier. If I do not pay, one of them will. I am careful where I put the dot.

“Questions,” I say.

Blaire shakes her head. Tasi spins one bell and stops it with the base of her thumb: no. 

Vasche wipes his hands once more, unnecessary and reverent. 

“I will need one thing,” he says.

“What?”

“A promise that if I say ‘out,’ you do not look back to ask who I mean.”

“You have it,” I tell him.

The Glassboard reflects us at an angle that does not show our eyes. It is kinder than a mirror. Four figures. Four roles. A clock that will not slow because we complemented it. I rest my palm against the cool surface for a breath and imagine, very briefly, that Hiroyuki is standing at the other side of the glass with his hand aligned to mine, the way he used to steady a field map with two fingers while deciding which way to forgive the wind.

He told me where to stand. I will stand there.

“Gear in one hour,” I say. “Dress for weather. Leave beauty at the door unless you intend to weaponise it. We meet at the Coil’s lower east gate and let the planet think we are errands.”

“Errands are my speciality,” Blaire says, amused.

“Mine too,” Tasi grins.

Vasche only nods, as if errands were another way to say salvation.

We step away from the Glassboard in turns, careful not to smudge the lines. The plan watches us go with the patience of a teacher who knows the exam starts at the door.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Coil is quiet enough to count the lights. I leave them uncounted. Numbers are a kind of prayer; I save prayer for when it buys something.

I lay the case on the table and do not open it. This is not that blade. This is not his. This is the glove—the duplicate—folded on black cloth that remembers being ironed. It is identical to the one he wears, down to the faint seam at the wrist that is not a flaw but a history. I lift it once, feel the weight of the fine wiring stitched into the lining, the obedient darkness where constellations will sit when asked. The duplicate smells like clean thread and nothing else. 

I slide it into the inner pocket of the coat that reads, to cameras, as municipal. The pocket closes with a shy click. In the mirror, I would check the lapel’s fall. There is no mirror. I have already banned mirrors from this evening. Noon likes them; Death likes them more.

The second item is a tin of white figs. I bought it two assignments ago because he had been awake for seventy hours and ate the one I held out to him without noticing the kindness he was being asked to survive. The tin survived the operation; the figs did not. This tin is new. I roll it in my palm and hear the soft thud of fruit on fruit, that small conspiracy of sweetness pretending to be an answer.

I put it beside the glove. I consider the rules we just wrote on the Glassboard. No spectacle. No gifts to the day. No temptations to sentiment that can be bargained against. I put the tin back on the table and step away. I step back. I put it in the bag anyway. I am not bringing it for him. I am bringing it for the version of myself who comes back without him and needs to confess that I believed he might. The mind is cheaper when you prepay its grief.

The third is a letter. Paper that remembers hands better than it remembers printers. I sit, uncap a pen, and write one word in my cleanest Doctrine block:

Return.

No greeting. No name. Names are tinder. The pen leaves the faintest ridge in the page, a topography you can read with your fingertip in the dark. I do not sign it. He knows my work, he knows my handwriting, he knows the angle I take when I am trying not to shake. I fold the page once. I do not seal it. Sealing is ceremony, and ceremony is daylight. This is a night task.

I put the letter in the inside pocket opposite the glove. Left for the duplicate, right for the command I will not have to speak aloud.

There are other things I could carry. Papers that smell like offices. Keys that persuade doors they have histories with me. A shard of a burned hatch that, in the right hands, becomes a token the rail yard will recognise as its own mistake. I do not pack them. We are four. We are already carrying too much: a plan, a window, a name I am not saying.

I stand and empty my hands. The room waits. There is a ritual to this part, and it is not for anyone else to see.

I close my eyes and rehearse breath.

Not his face. Faces are traps. The mind takes them hostage and asks for concessions you cannot afford to pay. 

I do not call the exact line of his mouth when he concentrates, the curve that pretends to be austerity and betrays devotion; I do not call the light that lives in the irises when the constellations lean to listen; I do not call the hair, the gloves, the posture that taught a dozen rooms how to stand.

I call the pattern.

Inhale: a patient measure that counts the room before it dares speak. Hold: the silence a scholar gives a page for the page to change its mind. Exhale: not relief, never that—release, controlled, so the space will agree to take back what was borrowed. Again. Again. I set my breath to his the way soldiers set a march to a drum they can only hear through the floor. When the cadence finds my ribs, I stop listening for it. The body keeps what it is given when it is given without speech.

“Tell me where to stand,” he said. He always says it as if the world can be forgiven. I do not say the reply. I tighten my belt and check the seam under the collar where a thread will part if someone grips from behind. We are not inviting hands.

I inventory the coat. Inner left: duplicate glove. Inner right: letter. Outer right: a small spool of wire thin enough to not exist, strong enough to pretend to be a necessity for sixty seconds. Outer left: three coins from three different districts, not for vending machines but for decisions. Lower pocket: the tin of figs I will not give. Lower pocket opposite: a handkerchief that is not white, because white lies to cameras.

I inventory the body. Shoulder tightness from sleep I didn’t take. Knee that will protest if the weather changes in a country not my own. A faint ache in the palm where a blade used to live millennia ago and doesn’t now. The ache is honest. I let it stay.

I inventory the mind. The plan is a rectangle with corners. Corner one: Tasi’s bells and their authority over panic. Corner two: Blaire’s posture, which makes rooms behave. Corner three: Vasche’s hands, which make matter remember it is meant for breathing. Corner four: mine. The part that is waiting for the floor to lie and intends to step only when lying can be used.

I take the holoband from the tray. The band remembers his voice; it remembers the grain of the first call after the wreck, the way gravel and leadership sound when they agree to share a throat. I do not replay it. I slip the band on and cover it with the cuff. The cuff lays smoothly.

The Coil’s glass looks like dawn without a sun. I leave the lights uncounted. I listen for the building’s inhale and set my steps between the beats. In the corridor, a junior officer passes, eyes red from someone else’s night. He salutes. I nod. He does not see the letter; he does not smell the figs. He sees the coat and the posture and reads, correctly, that I am taking errands to a planet that does not want to meet me.

At the lift, I pause. I speak the verbs under my breath the way a man checks his pockets. 

“Return. Behave. Mute.” My voice comes out steady. Words must be sharper than fear, or they cut the wrong throat.

At the lower east gate the air is cooler, the kind of cool that teaches heat how to act ambitious. Tasi will be bells and kindness that can turn; Blaire will be faultless and real enough to frighten uniforms into good decisions; Vasche will carry a quiet that cities respect. I will carry the rest. The things that cannot be put down, the things you do not point at in briefings because pointing makes them heavier.

I press two fingers to the inner right pocket where paper sits against cloth. When the window opens and the yard is honest for fourteen minutes, I will not need to find words. I will have them.

Return.

The word weighs nothing on the tongue and everything in the chest. I keep it where it belongs. 

I step out into the hour that is ours.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Academy keeps a narrow annex inside the Third Circle—an “outreach” wing built to pretend its light can enter the Enclaves without being dirtied—and the corridor outside it is lined with glass that reflects children back at themselves. 

D’ivoire walks it with his satchel slung low and his grin already fitted, because grins function here the way badges function elsewhere; people read them, decide what trouble costs, decide whether to pay.

Hiroyuki stands near a wall panel, alone in the way only certain children can be alone, surrounded by space that doesn’t belong to them. His uniform is immaculate, of course, overcloak hanging clean, gloves pristine, hair gathered back with a tie that looks ceremonial rather than practical, and he holds a thin booklet open with one hand while his other hand taps the panel to summon route information the Enclaves refuses to honour. The corridor light turns his profile into a portrait—cheekbone bright, mouth composed, eyes lifted for a second toward the scrolling lines with a faint frown that never quite forms.

D’ivoire intends to pass him.

His feet ignore the plan.

He slows, and the slowing feels like betrayal, and he hates his own body for giving away interest before he gives permission.

A pair of older trainees drift by—Enclaves boys in borrowed uniforms, trying on belonging—and one of them lets his gaze linger on Hiroyuki in a way that’s too bold and too hungry, the sort of look that says I know what you are and I want to see what happens if I touch the edge of it. The boy murmurs something D’ivoire doesn’t catch. The other laughs.

Hiroyuki doesn’t react the way the Enclaves expect. He doesn’t shrink. He doesn’t flare. He lifts his eyes and offers them that warm, controlled attention that makes adults behave, and he speaks softly enough that D’ivoire only gets the shape of it: a sentence delivered with such polished ease that it turns the boys’ laughter into an awkward cough. The trainees move on, their shoulders tighter, their mouths suddenly careful.

D’ivoire’s stomach twists, a hot, ugly irritation that crawls up his ribs and makes his fingers flex inside his sleeves, and the irritation has a target that annoys him even more than the trainees: Hiroyuki’s mouth, the exact way it forms words that make a room obey while pretending it chose to.

D’ivoire steps closer before he can stop himself, and the sound of his satchel strap shifting against fabric feels embarrassingly loud in the corridor’s clean quiet.

“You let them off easy,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere nearer to accusing.

Hiroyuki turns his head. His gaze finds D’ivoire and holds, steady and bright, and there’s no surprise on his face, which means he tracked D’ivoire’s approach long before D’ivoire decided it was happening.

“They’re children,” Hiroyuki replies.

D’ivoire snorts. “So are we.”

Hiroyuki’s eyes flick over D’ivoire—satchel, scuffed shoe, the faint tear at a cuff mended too neatly for a child to have done it for himself—and then return to D’ivoire’s face with that same unhurried calm that makes D’ivoire want to throw something simply to prove the world can be rattled.

“You’re right,” Hiroyuki says. “They’re also frightened.”

D’ivoire opens his mouth with a retort ready, something clever and barbed and safe, and the words evaporate because Hiroyuki shifts the booklet in his hand, thumb pressing the paper’s edge, and D’ivoire’s eyes betray him, tracking the movement, tracking the glove, tracking the long fingers that treat even cheap pamphlet-stock with the care of a relic. The motion is simple, ordinary, yet D’ivoire’s throat tightens like his body has decided the gesture matters.

His ears heat.

He hates that, too.

“Why are you staring?” Hiroyuki asks, voice even, not mocking, the question placed carefully where it can’t be used against him.

D’ivoire’s grin snaps back into place on instinct, bright and fox-glorious, designed to hide every weak seam. “I’m not.”

Hiroyuki’s gaze stays on him, patient in a way that feels like an insult. “You are.”

D’ivoire could recover. D’ivoire could turn it into a game. D’ivoire could say something about hair, about wealth, about how the D’Accardi heir looks ridiculous standing here among glass and simulated grime like a saint.

“Your tie is crooked,” he says.

It isn’t. It’s perfect. D’ivoire knows it the instant the sentence leaves his mouth, and the knowledge makes his stomach drop a second time.

Hiroyuki lifts one gloved hand to the tie anyway, fingers touching the knot with a care so gentle it borders on worshipful. The motion brings his wrist closer, and the cuff catches the corridor light, and D’ivoire’s attention sticks there again, caught on the clean line of fabric against skin, caught on the neatness that refuses to belong to the Enclaves.

“It’s straight,” Hiroyuki says, and a small change passes through his expression, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, amusement held under control.

D’ivoire’s face burns hotter.

He wants to bite that mouth. He wants to smear that calm. He wants to push Hiroyuki hard enough that something human spills out—anger, embarrassment, anything that proves he isn’t made of gold and training and immaculate restraint.

He also wants—worse, much worse—Hiroyuki’s attention to stay on him exactly like this, unbroken, unhurried, full.

The realisation hits D’ivoire with the force of being seen: the irritation, the heat, the way his eyes keep returning to Hiroyuki’s hands, the way the corridor narrows into a single point where Hiroyuki stands, the way those two trainees laughing a minute ago made something possessive rear up inside D’ivoire like an animal that doesn’t understand its own name.

A crush.

A stupid crush.

A crush on Hiroyuki D’Accardi, of all people, the gilded problem with the cathedral gaze and the mouth that can make boys cough their laughter back into their throats.

D’ivoire’s first instinct is to destroy the evidence.

He shifts his weight, lets his smile widen into something reckless, and reaches toward Hiroyuki’s booklet with the casual entitlement of a thief.

“What are you reading?” D’ivoire asks, and he aims for teasing. His fingers brush paper. His fingers brush glove. The contact is brief, clean, nothing that should matter.

D’ivoire’s entire body reacts as if it does.

His breath catches, then returns with a rough edge.

He pulls his hand back fast enough to be rude and pretends it was part of the act, pretends he meant to be dramatic.

Hiroyuki watches him with those gold eyes that never rush, and the corridor glass returns D’ivoire’s reflection at an angle that makes his grin look too wide, his posture too eager.

“It’s a schedule,” Hiroyuki says.

D’ivoire scoffs. “You read schedules for fun.”

“I read them to understand what people pretend is inevitable,” Hiroyuki replies, and the word lands in the corridor with weight and elegance.

D’ivoire hates how much he likes hearing it from Hiroyuki’s mouth.

He turns his head a fraction, as if the corridor itself has become too bright, and he forces his voice back into its usual lacquered ease. “Well,” he says, “don’t let the Enclaves catch you enjoying anything. It’ll charge you for it.”

Hiroyuki’s gaze softens slightly, mirroring the recognition that once prompted him to tell D’ivoire that neither of them belongs here.

“I can pay,” Hiroyuki replies softly.

D’ivoire laughs, sharp and too loud, because laughter is a smoke bomb. “Of course you can.”

He backs away a step, then another, rebuilding distance like a wall, and his satchel bumps his hip with a familiar weight that helps him remember who he is, the boy who survives by appetite and agility, the boy who doesn’t get caught on pretty mouths and polished hands.

His cheeks stay warm anyway.

He hates it.

He hates it with the clean, righteous fury of someone who has survived by refusing softness, because softness here is a handle for other people to grab.

He takes another corner too sharply and his shoulder clips a wall, a sting of pain blooming bright and immediate, and for a breath his mind latches onto the pain with gratitude. Pain is simple; pain makes sense. He uses it like a tether, letting the sting yank him back into his body, back into the street, back into the reality where wanting anyone is a liability.

It doesn’t erase anything. It only proves he is real enough to bruise.

He slows under a flickering sign and presses his palm to the cold metal support, keeping his head down until the heat in his face fades to something he can carry without giving himself away. The Enclaves keep moving around him—kids threading through gaps, adults pretending not to watch, cameras blinking with their lazy devotion—and he forces his breathing into a steadier pattern, counting in his head because counting is what you do when you can’t afford to fall apart.

A laugh threatens, sudden and ugly, because the situation is absurd.

D’ivoire Nnamani—who steals for sport, who smiles like a lockpick, who can talk his way through a locked gate with nothing but teeth and nerve—has been undone by a tie that wasn’t crooked and a hand that touched paper too gently.

He drags the back of his wrist across his mouth, hard, like he can wipe the feeling off.

It stays.

He finally lifts his head and gazes down the street as if sheer glare can make the district reshape itself into something safer. Somewhere back there, in that clean corridor, Hiroyuki stands with his book, his calm, and his impossible light, and D’ivoire’s instincts—those loyal, cruel instincts that kept him alive—do not want distance.

He swallows, jaw working once, the taste in his mouth turning metallic with annoyance.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, because if he calls it pathetic first, he can pretend he still owns it.

Then he pushes off the metal support and starts walking again—slower now, because speed was never going to solve this—and the Enclaves swallow him back into its neon throat while his stupid crush keeps pace inside his chest like a second set of footsteps he cannot shake.