It ca without warning, the way the worst ones always do.
A chair. A round wooden table. Soone’s voice, not loud, not angry just disappointed.
Lucen, smaller, maybe nine or ten, fingers stained from ink and chalk. Trying to sketch his own glyphs in secret before he even had a system.
It had been dumb. He knew that now. The circuits were wrong, the anchor marks too shaky. He’d tried to hide the paper behind his back, but the sigil was still glowing faintly.
His father had seen.
Had looked at the drawing. Then at him.
And said, simply, "This isn’t what we do."
Not "it’s dangerous." Not "you’re not ready."
Just that.
Not what we do.
The word we had weighed more than anything else in that mont.
Lucen didn’t rember arguing. Just the feel of the paper as it burned in the sink. Just the way his mother didn’t look up from her cup.
Later that night, he’d drawn the glyph again in secret. On the underside of the dresser. Just once.
It hadn’t done anything. No spark. No mana signature. Nothing.
But he’d kept it there.
For years.
Lucen blinked slowly.
The ceiling ca back into focus. Present day. No dresser. No parents. Just him. And the silence. And the stale scent of chalk dust that hadn’t left the apartnt in days.
He shifted once, arm folding under his head.
Didn’t sigh. That would’ve made it sound dramatic.
Still.
Sothing low and bitter settled behind his ribs.
’We,’ he thought.
Then closed his eyes.
And let the crack in the ceiling fade from view.
—
Knock.
Not loud.
But firm. Three short raps. Then silence.
Lucen’s eyes opened. Instantly. No grogginess. No stretch. Just awareness. And a deep, sudden irritation.
He stared at the ceiling again. The sa crack. Slightly more obvious in daylight. If you could call gray light leaking through a narrow apartnt window "day."
Knock.
Again.
He rolled onto one elbow and checked the wall clock.
Dead. Still stuck at 3:11. Of course.
Lucen muttered, "If that’s a landlord, I’m casting through the peephole."
He didn’t stand yet.
Instead, he listened.
No creaking floorboards. No neighbor complaints. No mana trace either. Whoever it was had either scrubbed their presence—or didn’t have enough for his system to flag.
Lucen sat up. Bare feet hit cold tile. A small hiss escaped between his teeth. The floor always felt like it had just rembered winter.
Knock.
Third ti. This one longer. Not impatient. Just... steady.
Lucen pulled on a shirt, didn’t bother fixing his hair, and stepped to the door.
He didn’t open it.
"Who is it?"
A pause.
Then Gen’s voice, bright, almost cheerful. "Your favorite irresponsible scout with questionable timing."
Lucen closed his eyes for a long second. Then unlocked the door.
The glyph popped with a soft click. The handle stuck. He shoved once. The door groaned open.
Gen stood there. Sa coat. Sa posture. Like he hadn’t moved in days. Or like he hadn’t needed to.
He blinked at Lucen. "You look like you lost a fight with gravity."
Lucen leaned against the doorfra. "I just woke up."
Gen’s eyes flicked past him into the room. A slow scan. No comnt.
Yet.
Lucen didn’t invite him in. Didn’t move either.
Gen smiled. "I brought breakfast."
Lucen arched a brow. "You?"
"Okay. Technically I stole it from a food cart that owes a favor."
Lucen rubbed a hand over his face. "Gen."
"Two mana buns. One spicy. One not. You pick."
Lucen sighed. Then stepped aside.
"Don’t touch anything. Most of it is unstable."
Gen stepped in like he owned the place.
Imdiately wrinkled his nose.
"Wow," he said. "You live like a cursed spell diagram."
Lucen shut the door. "No complaints if you’re breathing my air."
Gen held up a plain wax-paper bag like a peace offering. Lucen grabbed it.
Spicy bun. Still warm.
He bit in. Imdiate regret. He chewed anyway.
Gen glanced around again.
"Floor’s uneven. Window’s cracked. That wall has burn marks."
Lucen pointed with the bun. "Don’t touch the outlet. It sparks when judged."
Gen tilted his head. "What about the desk?"
"Traps."
Gen froze mid-step. "Real?"
Lucen didn’t answer.
Gen stepped around it anyway, very carefully.
He stopped at the edge of the room and leaned against the wall like he was planning a mission. His eyes narrowed.
"You’re seriously living here?"
Lucen chewed.
Swallowed.
Then said, "It’s cheap."
"It’s condemned."
"Semantics."
Gen didn’t laugh. He just watched him.
Lucen ate the rest of the bun in silence.
The morning light crept across the floor slowly. Revealed every crack, every scuffed tile, every notebook page Lucen had forgotten to clean.
"Doesn’t bother you?" Gen asked quietly.
Lucen leaned back against the wall near the window. "What?"
Gen gestured around. "All this. No team. No backup. No upgrades. You’re fighting like soone who has options. But you live like soone who burned all of them."
Lucen didn’t respond at first.
He licked a bit of sauce from his thumb.
Then said, "I like quiet."
Gen looked at him for a long ti.
Then nodded once.
"Alright. I’ll stop asking."
Lucen dropped the wax paper into a bin that might’ve once been a mana cooler. Maybe.
Then crossed the room and flopped back down onto the mattress.
Gen tilted his head. "You’re going back to sleep?"
"No," Lucen said, eyes already half-closed. "I’m just lying here aggressively."
Another pause.
Then Gen said, "You’re impossible."
Lucen muttered, "Thank you."
The apartnt went quiet again.
Light, dust, the faint sll of spice and ink and chalk powder.
Gen didn’t leave.
He just sat down, cross-legged on the floor, and pulled sothing from his coat. A small slate panel. One of the old models. He started flicking through local drift maps.
Lucen lay still.
Half-awake.
Half-listening.
And sohow, maybe just for now it didn’t feel so empty.
—
Gen tapped the edge of the slate panel once, then looked up.
"You know," he said, "you could live sowhere that doesn’t sll like burnt glyph ink and expired potion tags."
Lucen didn’t open his eyes. "I could also eat als that don’t explode in your mouth. Life’s full of missed opportunities."
"I’m serious."
Lucen rolled his head to the side, squinting at him. "That’s the problem."
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