The scent of toasted bread and caralized onions led into the kitchen.
Sienna stood over the stove, sleeves rolled, hair up in a bun, wearing one of Camille’s oversized hoodies. Alexis sat at the island counter, notebook open, murmuring observations about nutrient density and sleep deprivation. Evelyn leaned silently against the wall, a mug of sothing warm pressed to her lips. She was still blindfolded.
"Morning," I said.
Four voices echoed back, one louder than the rest.
Camille.
She danced barefoot into the room, hair wet, shirt half-tucked like it had tried to escape and failed. She twirled once in front of the mirror by the fridge.
"Tell this hoodie doesn’t scream ’functionally mysterious.’"
"It screams sothing," Alexis muttered.
I sat down. Sienna handed a plate. Two eggs, toast, avocado. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating. No one pushed conversation. No one needed to.
We ate like we hadn’t for weeks.
When it was over, and the dishes had been cleared, Camille leaned against the counter and tapped her chin theatrically.
"I need thread. And so soft laminate. And possibly sequins."
Alexis looked up, alard. "Shouldn’t you be tired and all?"
"And waste this opportunity to relax?"
"You do you."
Camille turned to . "Wanna walk with ? I need supplies. Also I want to see if the outside world rembers you have legs."
I raised an eyebrow. "You just want a bodyguard and soone to talk to."
"Don’t flatter yourself. You’re backup flair."
I grabbed my coat.
The city was different.
Cleaner, maybe. Or maybe I was just seeing it from a cleaner place. The capital hadn’t changed much in infrastructure—tall buildings, wide avenues, screens that looped feeds of economic updates, job-market fluctuations, and fitness segnts. But the people?
That was new.
They stared at . Not with suspicion. Not with disdain. But with sothing close to awe. Recognition.
"That’s him," soone whispered as we passed.
"The Jobmaster, Reynard Vale."
"Isn’t he the one who ca back from Mars after it the space ship crash landed?"
Camille glowed under the usual attention. A few paparazzi angled phones in our direction, clearly intending to capture her. But their lenses hovered near longer than expected.
It was... strange.
I wasn’t used to admiration. Not like this. Most of the ti I would just get stares of disappointnt and despair for even being near Camille.
Our first stop was a boutique tucked just off the main shopping corridor—a quiet, glass-fronted store known for its high-flex threading and smart-fabric blends. Inside, everything glead: rolls of shimring textiles stacked like scrolls, precision-calibrated cutting tables, digital looms humming softly in the background.
Camille moved through the aisles like she belonged there. No hesitation. She ran her fingers over bolts of woven material with the sa care soone else might use to test the ripeness of fruit. Her touch was precise. Intentional. Reverent.
She paused at a roll of deep charcoal-gray sh, thumb brushing over the weave. A small, approving hum slipped from her lips.
"This is new," she murmured. "Elastic-stitched mory sh. Changes shape with an electrical pulse. Great for coat linings."
I raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were making dresses."
"I am," she said with a smirk, already lifting the roll. "But maybe they’ll be coats disguised as dresses. Or dresses pretending to be coats. Fashion espionage, Rey."
She turned to the shopkeeper behind the counter, a woman in her early fifties with copper-tinted glasses and a respectful smile.
"Two ters," Camille said. "Gloss finish. And a bag of those resin fasteners. The ones that react to light. You know the kind."
"Of course, Miss Voss," the woman replied imdiately, already moving to fulfill the order.
Then her eyes drifted to . She hesitated for a mont—not out of fear, but uncertainty. Recognition clicked into place behind her pupils, and her posture softened. The smile she gave was genuine, almost grateful.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For what you did."
I gave a small nod, unsure how to respond. Anything I said would feel hollow.
Outside, we continued down the central avenue. The district was calm today. The kind of morning hush that only a few places in the capital still kept—coffee carts on corners, slow-moving trams, the occasional drone humming overhead. Camille tugged along gently by the wrist, steering us toward the next shop.
This one was smaller, older. A place known for hand-dyed silks, heirloom thread cartridges, and specialty tools no larger than a thimble. The scent inside was oddly grounding—so mix of incense, ink, and cedar-lined drawers. Camille was in her elent.
She moved straight to the swatch boards, trailing her fingers along neatly arranged color samples like she was choosing paint for the future. A young woman behind the counter saw her and nearly tripped over herself trying to bow and greet her. They fell into animated chatter about so past fashion show that I vaguely rembered had involved a light-reactive runway and levitating heels.
I stood back, offering a polite nod when addressed, but mostly kept near the storefront window. Sothing in was... twitching. Not visibly. Just beneath the skin. A flicker at the edge of perception.
That feeling.
It wasn’t danger, exactly. Not sothing sharpened or loud. More like a delay in the air. Like reality hiccuped. Like soone had just stepped behind a lamppost a second too late.
I turned my head.
Nothing.
No eyes lingering. No suspicious figures. Just a cluster of pedestrians and a fruit vendor whistling to himself.
Still, the sensation pressed harder the longer I stood still.
Inside, Camille had moved to the register. I could hear her voice, bright and half-mocking, as she teased the clerk about outdated pricing. I stepped outside, pretending to stretch—but my gaze was sweeping.
The sidewalk ahead was busy. Normal. No one stood out.
Then I saw it—a blur, maybe. A flash of motion near a planter box. A figure half-there, then gone.
I walked.
Not fast. Not slow either. Just steady. Intent. I rounded the block, peeled off from the avenue and turned down a side street lined with delivery garages and closed storefronts. Each step pulled deeper into the quiet.
And still, I felt it.
That presence.
I ducked into a narrow alley, circled a parked scooter, and crouched behind a support column bolted to the wall. My breath was steady. Muscles coiled. Eyes locked on the corner I’d just turned.
Ten seconds passed.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
Still no one.
I exhaled slowly. Closed my eyes. My thoughts scattered. Maybe I was just paranoid. Of the Cain Protocol. Of 3830’s last breath. Of that pale face and her blood on my hands. Maybe my System hadn’t caught up with my nerves yet.
Then—
A sound.
Barely audible.
A sniffle.
Soft. Wet. Fragile.
I looked down.
Near the base of the column, half-concealed by the shadow of a trash bin, was a small child. Couldn’t have been older than four. They were wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves dragging along the ground like limp wings. Their cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, nose red from crying.
Big, watery eyes stared up at .
"M-my mom was here..." the child said, voice trembling. "She told to stay still... but then she never ca back."
Everything in shifted.
The weight of the stalker. The wrongness. The sensation of being followed.
It was this.
Them.
A child.
Lost and scared.
I lowered myself slowly, arms resting on my knees, careful not to startle them.
"Hey," I said, voice low and warm. "It’s okay. You’re alright now. We’ll find her. I promise."
They hiccupped once, then nodded slowly.
Their tiny hand reached out.
I offered mine.
Fingers slipped into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The stalker wasn’t an enemy.
Not this ti.
It was soone just as lost as I’d felt.
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