Elliot’s POV
“I shall not see a future where others, who have dragged into misfortune, can live a life full of happiness.”
—Elliot Starfall
It happens quickly—smoothly—like disconnecting my Bluetooth from my ear pods back in my old world. Only, instead of a soft chi confirming disconnection, hands drag back into the void. They tear from that other body with the sa unnatural pull as before. And, as always, there is no feeling in this void, just weightless nothing. Still, it passes as swiftly as the last ti I severed my link to the Hanged Man.
When I open my eyes, I’m back. I sit in a dark room where the only light slips in through narrow gaps in the curtains. The rest is heavy shadow. I am alone—if I ignore the boy, little Paul—his na oddly reminiscent of Paula, the one Frank had ntioned. The connection strikes as strange, but I push it aside.
I feel better than I did monts ago. Now that I’m in my own body again, the cold sweat clinging to my skin is beginning to fade. But the mont my consciousness reclaims this flesh; I double over and vomit. There’s little left in to give, just the sa filth as always: a few writhing maggots, and those dark, bluish-black particles that shouldn’t exist in any healthy body.
“I am Elliot,” I murmur, my voice rasping through the stillness. I repeat it, firr this ti. “I am Elliot.” The third ti, I add, “And nobody else.” My na becos a tether, sothing to keep grounded.
I wipe the bitter taste from the corners of my mouth and reach for the curtains with my left hand. The fabric feels worn beneath my fingers. I pull it aside, and my eyes catch the color; dark yellow, with a sickly hue that leans into green. Outside, the streets of this city carry on as if my life hadn’t been cracked in two.
n in suits walk with their canes loosely tucked into their palms. So sportsn wear gleaming monocles that catch the sunlight. Their steps are out of rhythm, though the occasional clop of a horse’s hooves tries to impose order, only to be broken again by the groan of the carriage they pull.
Paul sits in his corner, small and silent, just as he always does when Gene isn’t here. He doesn’t look at , doesn’t speak. My attention drifts from him back to the world beyond the glass. My gaze moves from building to building, shop to shop, blue to blue, the colors of this world are well-fed. My foot taps softly against the floor as I lean against the ledge window, drinking in the details of a life I’m no longer part of.
I cough twice, the sound harsh in the quiet. A few monts later, three more coughs tear through , these into my palm. The fabric of the curtain slips from my grasp—my reminder that I have only one functioning arm—and as it falls back into place, I see the sar of red in my hand. My blood.
It’s not a good sign. It never is. I should feel frustrated, maybe even fear. Instead, there’s dull acceptance, as though I’ve already resigned myself to the path I’m walking. I pull the curtain open again and, for a mont, sothing inside lifts.
Two n, no older than I am, cross the shimring, water-washed street with their heads bowed. Above them, the sun burns bright, the doves scatter from the sharp-angled rooftops, and the turquoise sky stretches endlessly. It’s beautiful in a way that feels cruel.
I let the curtain fall shut again, leaving the light outside where it belongs. My steps take back into the room, away from the window and the world I no longer fit into. This ti, I don’t sink to the floor—don’t settle beside the cold, silent family whose presence still clings to this space. Instead, I sit at the table on a chair, the sa one where the Blues must have eaten their breakfast not long ago.
Click.
It’s the oh-so-familiar sound—one I used to hear when Ren would co visit back then. The mory stirs sothing inside . I miss it deeply, but I allow myself the faintest smile. A cough rises in my throat, and I force it down, trying not to show it too obviously. My hands brush along the sides of my trousers, saring away the faint stains. They’re not mine. The fabric is tainted with blue blood.
Gene and Cham stand before , and neither of them looks pleased. More than that, they can’t et my eyes. There’s sothing in their posture—a stiffness, a quiet guilt.
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