#shadowboxing and sarcasm

[pelawennight]

🖤 SHADOWBOXING AND SARCASM

A Gotham Phantom One-Shot (Part 4)

by PelawenNight

🗒️ Summary:

Danny Fenton is trying to keep up with Cassandra Cain’s hand-to-hand combat training — no ghost powers allowed. What starts as a serious sparring session quickly devolves into playful banter, accidental ghostly mishaps, and a rare tender moment between them. Just when things start to settle, Cassandra’s brothers crash the “date” with a classic Bat-family “shovel talk.”

.........

The old Gotham University gym smelled like sweat, leather, and a faint trace of something old and dusty—like forgotten ghosts of previous athletes. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of sunlight filtering through grimy windows, illuminating the worn mats and scuffed punching bags. Danny Fenton bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, gloves half-laced, trying to look like he belonged in a hand-to-hand sparring session. He felt profoundly out of his element. His usual fights involved phasing through walls and firing ecto-blasts, not dodging actual, solid fists. He’d agreed to this because Cass had asked, and frankly, anything she asked, he’d probably do. But he was starting to question his life choices. This wasn't exactly the "normal college experience" he'd envisioned when he moved to Gotham. Then again, nothing in his life was ever truly normal.

Cassandra Cain stood opposite him, serene and unshaken. Her stance was flawless, her eyes calm but alert, ready to spring at any moment. She wore simple black athletic wear, a stark contrast to Danny's slightly too-big gym shorts and faded t-shirt. Every line of her body spoke of coiled power and effortless control. Danny, despite his nervousness and the impending physical humiliation, found himself admiring her. She was graceful, precise, and utterly captivating. He still couldn’t believe she was his girlfriend.

Danny swallowed, adjusting his ill-fitting boxing gloves. The air felt thick with unspoken potential. “Are you sure this isn’t a trap, Cass? This is exactly how horror movies start. Attractive girl lures dumb boy to an abandoned gym. Next thing you know, I’m the monster of the week, or worse, the first victim.” He tried for a lighthearted tone, a nervous tic. His heart was already doing a frantic jig against his ribs.

Cass smirked, a tiny, almost imperceptible curve of her lips that only Danny, after months of careful observation, could discern. She didn’t break eye contact. Instead, she gestured with one hand, slicing the air with effortless grace, an invitation. Come at me.

Danny sighed dramatically, trying to project exasperation rather than genuine trepidation. “Alright, alright, don’t mind if I do. Just try not to permanently rearrange my internal organs. I need those for, you know, living.” He charged forward, throwing a sloppy jab, more a hopeful lunge than an actual punch, that Cass easily sidestepped. He felt the faint whoosh of air as she moved, a phantom sensation that was almost as frustrating as the miss itself.

“Nice try,” she said quietly, her voice a soft murmur that was barely audible above Danny’s own heavy breathing.

He tried again. Punch. Dodge. Block. Danny’s form was… enthusiastic, but not exactly graceful. He moved with the raw, untamed energy of a brawler, relying on instinct and speed rather than technique. He was fast, surprisingly fast for a human, but Cass was faster. Much faster. She was a whisper of motion, always a step ahead, her movements economical and precise. He swung, she ducked. He feinted, she countered. He stumbled backward, rubbing his ribs where her foot had lightly, yet firmly, connected. It wasn't a hard kick, but it was perfectly placed, designed to remind him of his own clumsiness.

“Wow. Okay, that’s my spleen. I think it just sent a strongly worded letter to my brain,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Could you maybe say hi to it next time? Give it a heads-up?”

Cass didn’t laugh out loud, but the ghost of a smile, a genuine flicker of amusement, curved her lips. She moved around him, her dark eyes assessing, always assessing. He could feel her gaze, dissecting his every move, anticipating his next clumsy lunge.

“Do you come with subtitles?” Danny continued, trying to distract himself from the dull ache in his side and the crushing reality of his inadequacy. “Because I swear you moved and I didn’t see it. It’s like you blink-teleported or something. Are you secretly a speedster? Because that would explain a lot. And frankly, make me feel a little better about getting my butt kicked.”

Cass’s eyes flickered with amusement, but there was something else—an almost imperceptible softness in her gaze, a rare warmth that was reserved just for him. She liked his banter, his clumsy attempts, his sheer, unyielding spirit. She saw past the flailing limbs to the determination in his eyes.

Danny tried to hide his growing frustration behind a grin. He was a ghost king , for crying out loud. He could fly, turn invisible, phase through walls, shoot ecto-blasts. He fought interdimensional threats on a daily basis. But in a straight-up, human fistfight, he was getting thoroughly schooled by his ballerina girlfriend. “I’m clearly not built for this ‘non-ghost’ combat thing,” he mumbled, trying to sound self-deprecating rather than genuinely annoyed. “Maybe I should just stick to floating through walls and possessing inanimate objects. Much less painful.”

Cass paused for a beat, watching him. Her voice dropped to a softer tone, a rare moment of direct encouragement. “You’re better than you think.” She stepped closer, her hand moving to his shoulder, then gently guiding his elbow. “Elbow in. Hip turn. Follow through.” She demonstrated a simple jab, her movement fluid and powerful, yet slow enough for him to follow. “Power from ground. Not just arm.”

Danny nodded, trying to absorb the instruction, focusing intently on her movements. “Elbow in, hip turn, power from the… ground. Got it. Like… channeling my inner tectonic plate? Or maybe a really angry badger?” He tried the jab, focusing on her guidance. His elbow tucked in, his hip rotated, and he felt a surprising surge of power, though his follow-through was still a bit wobbly. He nearly overbalanced, but caught himself. “Whoa! Okay, that actually felt like something! Like I might actually hit something other than air next time!”

Cass gave a small, approving nod, a tiny flicker of pride in her eyes. “Good. Again.”

He tried again, and again, each time feeling a little more control, a little more connection between his feet and his fist. He was still clumsy, but there was a nascent strength emerging, a flicker of potential that even he could feel. He was actually learning .

Danny squared up again, a spark of determination igniting in his chest. This time he was going to land a hit. He dodged left, then right—then panicked as his body suddenly phased, slipping partially through Cass’s outstretched hand as she moved to block. His arm went transparent for a split second, passing through her, a cold, tingling sensation.

His eyes went wide, a cold dread washing over him. Oh no. Oh no no no. Not now. Not here. Not with Cass. He quickly pulled his arm back, trying to make it look like a clumsy stumble, shaking his hand as if he’d merely misjudged the distance. He forced a laugh that sounded a little too high-pitched. “Whoa! Clumsy me! Slippery hands, I guess! My grip just… gave out!” He forced another laugh, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “Too much ramen, maybe? Or maybe I need to lay off the ecto-marshmallows. Uh, I mean, regular marshmallows. Yeah. Regular.” He winced internally. Smooth, Fenton. Real smooth.

Cass blinked slowly, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, however, lingered on his hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She noticed. Danny could feel it, even if she didn’t react. The faintest glint in her eyes said she’d definitely noticed the phase. And she wasn't going to let him off the hook for it. Not entirely.

Before he could panic further, she swiftly swept his leg and, in one fluid motion, had him on his back on the mat. Before he could even register the fall, she was straddling his hips, her knees lightly pinning his legs, her hands braced on either side of his head. Her body, warm and lithe, was pressed against his, the soft fabric of her athletic wear a thin barrier. Her dark eyes, usually so calm, held a spark of triumph, and a hint of something else entirely. The air between them crackled with a sudden, unexpected tension that had nothing to do with sparring.

Danny, gasping for breath, his mind reeling from the sudden intimacy and the surprise of the pin, groaned, “Okay, that was cheating. You blink-teleported. I swear you did. That’s the only explanation. You were there, then you were here . It’s a classic move, I’ve seen it in… uh… cartoons.” He tried to sound indignant, but mostly sounded winded and acutely aware of her weight on him.

Cass tilted her head, a familiar, knowing smirk playing on her lips. No words. But the faintest glint in her eyes said she’d definitely noticed the phase. And she wasn't going to let him off the hook for it. The unspoken challenge, and the undeniable romantic tension, hung in the air.

She leaned in slightly, her voice a low murmur, barely audible. "Again. Get up."

Danny groaned, the sound muffled by the mat. "Again? Cass, I think my soul just tried to leave my body. I'm pretty sure that counts as a win for you." He looked up at her, pleading. "Can't we just call it a draw? Or maybe I win for surviving?"

C ass's smirk widened. She didn't move. Her eyes held his, a silent, unwavering demand.

With a dramatic sigh that seemed to deflate his very being, Danny pushed against the mat. "Fine, fine! Tyrant. You're a tyrant, you know that? A beautiful, terrifying tyrant." He slowly, painfully, pushed himself up, still feeling the phantom pressure of her knees on his hips. He wobbled slightly as he regained his footing. "One more round. Then I'm officially declaring myself a pacifist."

Cass gave a small, satisfied nod. She dismounted him with effortless grace, stepping back into her ready stance. This final round was shorter, more brutal, a test of his endurance. Danny pushed himself, fueled by a mix of stubbornness and the desire to impress her, but his movements were sluggish, his defenses weak. Cass moved like a shadow, a blur of precision, landing a series of quick, light taps that left him breathless and thoroughly defeated.

Finally, she stopped, her chest barely heaving. Danny, on the other hand, was bent double, hands on his knees, gasping for air, sweat dripping onto the mat.

"Done," Cass stated, her voice calm, a hint of finality in it.

Danny straightened up slowly, rubbing his aching side. "Thank. Goodness. For. That." He managed to wheeze out.

Later, they sat on the bench, sweat-soaked and bruised. Danny, sweaty and flopped on the padded floor, groaned dramatically. “Okay. We get it. You’re perfect. You win. Again. My dignity has officially left the building.”

Cass, sitting cross-legged beside him with not a single strand of hair out of place, calmly handed him a water bottle. “You almost got me.”

Danny raised a brow, a skeptical look on his face. “Cass. You literally kicked the staff out of my hand, disarmed me, and then choked me with my own hoodie. I think ‘almost’ is a very generous interpretation of that sequence of events.”

“…Almost.”

He chuckled, letting his head thump back against the mat. “I think I sprained my dignity. And possibly a few other things. Maybe my will to live.” He took a long swig of water, then added with a dry chuckle, “Guess I should stop expecting to be good at everything the moment I try. My parents always said I was a natural at everything. Clearly, they were lying.”

“You are good enough for me,” Cass repeated, her voice softer this time, a quiet declaration that made Danny’s heart do a little flip-flop. She carefully dabbed at a scrape on Danny’s cheek with a cloth she’d pulled from her bag. Her touch was feather-light, almost imperceptible, but incredibly precise. A blush raised across Danny’s face at her casual words, a warmth that had nothing to do with exertion.

“How are you so good at this?” Danny asked quietly, genuinely curious. He looked at her, her calm demeanor, her effortless movements. “It’s like… you’re a professional. Like you do this for a living or something. Are you secretly a ninja? Because I’m starting to suspect you’re secretly a ninja.”

She shrugged, eyes distant for a moment. “Practice. Need it.”

Danny nodded. He knew she was a world-class ballet dancer, and that required immense discipline and physical prowess. But this felt different. More… dangerous. More intense. He let the thought go. He had his own secrets, after all, big glowing green ones. He couldn't exactly push for hers.

Before Cass could respond, the door creaked open, slowly, ominously.

Danny glanced over and froze. “Um. Cass. Why are there three dudes who look like they could be in a leather-jacketed boy band standing in the doorway? And why do they look like they’re about to drop a diss track on my life choices?”

Cass barely blinked, her gaze unwavering. “Brothers.”

“Oh cool,” Danny said, then did a double take, his eyes widening. “Wait, all three?! You have three brothers?!” He knew about Jason, of course, but three? He tried to remember if Cass had ever mentioned more. His mind was still a little fuzzy from the sparring.

Dick Grayson stepped forward first, the picture of charm in civilian wear. He had a sunny smile that absolutely didn’t reach his eyes, which were sharp and analytical, taking in every detail of Danny’s bruised, sweaty state. He crouched beside Danny, his gaze assessing.

“Hey there, Danny,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too friendly. “We heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with our baby sister. And apparently, she’s been trying to kill you.” He glanced at Cass, a playful accusation in his tone.

Danny sat up a little straighter, suddenly acutely aware of his sweat-soaked clothes, the faint bruise on his cheek, and the fact that he was currently sitting on a gym mat looking like he’d been run over by a truck. “Uh… yeah. She keeps trying to kill me. It’s going great. Five stars. Would recommend. Very… invigorating. Builds character, you know?”

Jason Todd leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression flat, but a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. He was observing Danny with an intensity that made the hairs on Danny’s neck prickle. “That a complaint, or a kink, Fenton?”

Danny blinked. “Too soon, man. Way too soon. We just met. And for the record, neither. It’s called ‘character building through extreme physical discomfort.’ Look it up.” He shot a glance at Cass, who remained impassive, though a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested amusement.

Tim Drake , the only one holding a tablet, didn’t even look up from whatever he was typing, his fingers flying across the screen. He spoke with the detached air of a clinical researcher. “Statistically, anyone who dates Cass either disappears, changes their name, or transfers schools. Just letting you know. The data is fairly conclusive.”

Danny blinked again, a genuine chill running down his spine. “Wait, what? Is that a threat? Because I’m pretty sure that’s a threat. And also, rude. I’m right here. And I’m not changing my name. Fenton is a brand. A chaotic, slightly dangerous brand, but a brand nonetheless.” He looked from Tim’s impassive face to Dick’s too-wide smile. “And ‘disappears’? What does that even mean? Like, witness protection? Or… disappears disappears?”

Jason pushed off the wall, stepping closer, towering a bit over Danny. His voice dropped, a low, gravelly rumble that was meant to intimidate. His eyes, dark and piercing, fixed on Danny’s. “We’re just here to make sure you know the rules. You break her heart, ghost powers or not, we will find you.” The last part was delivered with a slow, deliberate emphasis, a predatory glint in his eyes, a clear warning.

Danny’s brow furrowed, but a mischievous glint entered his own blue eyes. He met Jason’s gaze, a faint, respectful smirk playing on his lips. He understood the ritual. He’d seen enough movies. This was the “shovel talk.” And honestly, it was kind of hilarious, in a terrifying sort of way. “Ghost—what now? Is that like a new band? Because I’m pretty sure I’m more of a rock-and-roll kind of guy, not… whatever ‘ghost powers’ implies.” He paused, then added, with a perfectly straight face, a hint of his inner troll shining through, “But hey, I appreciate the concern. It’s sweet, really. Very… protective big brother energy. I get it. My sister Jazz is the same way, only with more psychology terms and less leather. Though she does have a proton pack, so, you know, equal opportunity intimidation.”

Jason’s dangerous grin faltered, replaced by a look of bewildered annoyance. He ran a hand through his hair. “Figure of speech, kid. Just… a figure of speech. Don’t overthink it.”

Danny nodded sagely. “Right. Well, if I do break her heart – and let’s be clear, I have no intention of doing that, she’s amazing, and also terrifyingly good at hand-to-hand combat, so I’m pretty sure she’d break me – you’ll have to get in line behind my parents, three actual ghosts, a cafeteria ghost I accidentally banished, and my AP Calc teacher. It’s a pretty long queue, actually. So, you know, maybe bring a book. Or snacks.” He looked deadpan at Jason. “Good luck with that queue, buddy. It’s a real commitment.”

Tim, finally looking up from his tablet, blinked. “…He’s weird. I kinda like him. He knows how to deflect. And his self-preservation instincts are… surprisingly robust for someone so sarcastic.”

Danny sighed again, more dramatically this time, pushing himself off the mat. “I’m in college now, man. Can I not be bullied by my girlfriend’s entire family? I just wanted to learn how to throw a punch without dislocating a shoulder. Is that too much to ask?”

Dick grinned, a flash of genuine amusement in his eyes. “No. Welcome to the family, Danny.”

Cass appeared beside Danny, silent as death. The boys immediately stepped back like they'd been caught lighting fireworks inside the Batcave, their intimidating postures dissolving into awkward shuffling.

Cass looked at Danny, then at her brothers. “Done?”

Jason nodded solemnly, still looking slightly flustered by Danny’s last comment. “We said the thing.”

Tim added, “He survived it.”

Dick shrugged. “And he didn’t cry.”

Cass turned to Danny, a faint, soft smile on her lips. “Want ice cream?”

Danny stood, ignoring the lingering aches, and pointed at her brothers without looking away from her. “Yes. Let’s get ice cream. Away from these psychos. And maybe somewhere close? My entire body hurts.”

Cass nodded. “Okay.”

As she walked past her brothers, they all subtly moved aside. Danny followed, shooting a nervous glance at Jason. Jason just winked, a mixture of exasperation and grudging respect in his eyes.

Danny muttered under his breath, “Gotham’s so freaking weird.”

📝 Author’s Note:

I don’t own these characters—just borrowing them to play! This crossover is a love letter to both the Danny Phantom and Batman fandoms. Thanks for reading and letting me throw Danny into chaos with the Batfam 💥 If you enjoyed it, drop a comment or send an ask!

[mayearies]

✩ ARCADE

arcade date hc/blurb with miles g morales. genre: fluff n crack bonus . another bonus

warnings: n word usage (?) a/n: i saw someone say miles would dominate in shadow boxing they right for that ‼️

e42 miles’ whole reason for dragging you out here is ‘cause he loves you—and video games. so, why not combine his two favorite things into one singular date? pretty genius of him (not sarcasm).

he rides a motorcycle, so its obvious he’s into those racing games. like fast and furious: super bikes—which he would dominate against every single time. he’s got a smart mouth too.

“ha! gon’ keep tellin’ me i cant win against you?” “look back at the screen, ma.” “…nigga-“

e42 miles would basically win every game yall played. he would let you win some to not bum you out.

say you play air hockey or somethin’—he would absolutely destroy you (not intentionally) or let you win (intentionally if he feels pity, unintentionally if he’s just out of it for that single game).

someone comes inturrupting your date you say? well, uh oh for them.

if someone walked up to you and started hitting on you, good god you will not see them for the rest of your life. and if you do, it would be the image of him provoking the dude before he is dragged away towards the bathrooms. don’t get the wrong idea, though. 9 times outta 10 there will be blood in that stall unless they feel sincere about their mistake.

“miles? what happened to that guy who came hittin’ on me?” “oh y’know, the usual.”

he’s not fond of talking to strangers, and vise versa. but if someone were to walk up to him and start talking he wouldn’t mind (if its not to get towards his girl) that’s actually how he makes friends. it could also be how you make friends.

✩—SCENARIO!

“watch me cook this guy, ma.”

MILES and you had ran into another guy and his girl, also on an arcade date. coincidence? probably. the dude challenged him to a round of shadowboxing as you and his girl stood off to the sides watching them, bein’ their lil’ hype girls.

“that way. that way, that way-“

you never understood some of the things he engaged in. nonetheless, was supportive. you were dating after all. his girl, however, looked uninterested and impatient at her boyfriend.

MILES rubbed his hands together as he bit his lip.“that way. that way, that way. that way, that way, smile for the camera, nigga.”

covering his face is absolute shame, MILES snapped a photo of his face which was actually fuckin’ hilarious.

“this is why i can’t go nowhere wit him.” “girl, i hear you.”

you two would share some food at the bar and play back the photo he took. sent this to your homegirl n she bust out laughin’ too. then he took you to the back of the arcade to make out real fast, maybe. possibly.

© mayeluvsu

[xxfaithlynxx]

Inheritance of the Broken (P1)

Word Count:

Hearts in The Static

Evol Sparring... and other stuff

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Isekai, OC insert, Polyamory / Polyamorous Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Chronic Illness, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Found Family, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, body image issues, Unreliable Narration, Protective Male Characters, rivals to lovers (sort of), past trauma, Everyone Loves Her But She Doesn’t Know Why, Heavy Angst, Fix-It Fic (but of the soul) Mental Health Themes (Depression, ADHD, pcos, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), Suicidal ideation (past), Self-Harm Mention (Non-Graphic Flashback), Emotional Abuse (Referenced past) - Freeform, Body Dysmorphia, Trauma Recovery, Discussion of Medical Symptoms, feelings of worthlessness, Slow Healing & Difficult Conversations, themes of death, Survival, and identity, reverse harem

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

Chapter 19: Part One

The metal groaned as the door opened.

Not loudly. Just enough.

Enough to feel like breath drawn from a grave.

Inside, the air was still. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature—just abandonment. There was no dust. No rot. The building hadn’t been left long enough for nature to reclaim it, but it felt forgotten all the same. Like memory had turned its face.

We stepped inside as a group.

Six shapes crossing the threshold, each footfall echoing across the hollow interior with the soft slap of boot on smooth concrete.

Caleb and Sylus moved first, silent and automatic, like the layout was still stitched into their bones. Zayne came next, sweeping the space with a predator’s eye. Xavier followed with Rafayel at his side, the latter already looking around like he’d been dropped into a cursed museum.

“Chic,” Raf murmured, his voice bouncing gently off the walls. “Nothing says ‘bonding experience’ like government-grade trauma. I half expect to see blood samples and repressed memories in tasteful shadowboxes.”

“Raf,” Zayne warned, voice low but not sharp.

“I’m just saying,” he said, hands up, “if we’re going to cleanse the emotional palate, I am available to decorate.”

His voice was light—but not mocking. If anything, I could hear the thread of discomfort beneath the sarcasm. This place made even Rafayel uneasy.

And it wasn’t hard to see why.

The entry hall was plain. Too plain. No furniture. No visible wiring. Just sterile walls, two doors long-since welded shut, and a heavy steel elevator at the far end that seemed to drink light instead of reflecting it.

My boots hit the floor with too much sound.

Every step deeper into the space felt like it should’ve echoed with the screams of what had been done here. But there was nothing. No ghost stories. Just the hollow of what had been scrubbed clean.

I stayed close to Caleb and Sylus, positioned between them like instinct. I didn’t want to ask how many times they’d been dragged through this space, bleeding or worse. I didn’t want to know how many times this silence had swallowed them whole.

But I felt it.

Felt it in the way Sylus’ jaw stayed locked, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for a shot. In the way Caleb's eyes moved constantly—not frantic, but hyperaware. Every shadow cataloged. Every vent remembered.

The others gave them room.

Even Rafayel, as mouthy as he was, stayed close but not too close. He kept glancing at me, his usual glittering eyes dimmed just a fraction.

Then we reached the elevator.

It loomed ahead, set into the back wall like an apology that came too late. The button panel was old, the light above it blinking with slow, deliberate red pulses.

My foot caught on a hairline crack in the floor, and I faltered. Just a step.

But it was enough.

Zayne was beside me in an instant.

He didn’t grab me. Didn’t say my name like a warning. He just moved in close, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine and his hand came to rest—gently, deliberately—on my lower back.

His voice was barely a breath. “You don’t have to go first.”

My heart jumped in my chest.

I turned to him, and he wasn’t looking at the elevator. He was looking at me—that calm, storm-lit gaze of his softened just slightly around the edges.

“I’m not scared,” I said quietly. “Just… it feels wrong. Going down.”

Zayne gave the faintest nod. “Because it is.”

Then he leaned in, and I felt the whisper of his breath against my temple as he said, “But you’re not going down alone.”

The elevator dinged—sharp in the stillness.

A silver flash across the old concrete.

Sylus stepped forward and pressed his hand to the panel.

The doors slid open with a sound like the beginning of a nightmare.

And we all stepped in.

Together.

The elevator doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, sealing us inside a metal box that hummed faintly beneath our feet.

The moment they did, the air changed.

Not in temperature—though it felt colder—but in pressure. As if the weight of the place pressed in from all sides. Like the walls themselves remembered.

No one spoke.

We were six people crammed into a space designed for half that. Shoulders brushed. Breath mingled. The only sound was the low mechanical growl of the ancient lift descending floor by floor, each flickering light above the door ticking down like a heartbeat.

F6.

F5.

F4.

I shifted slightly, the tension in my limbs betraying my stillness. My fingers twitched at my sides.

That was when Rafayel moved.

He stepped in beside me, close enough that I felt the heat of his body before his arm snaked gently around my waist. His other hand rose to brush my hair behind my ear, and then, without asking, without fanfare, he pulled me against his chest.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

I let him.

Let the warmth of him fold around me like a shield, his hand resting at the base of my spine, the steady thud of his heartbeat a quiet reminder that someone—someones—were still here. Still real.

Sylus stood across from us, his frame coiled and bracing. His eyes were fixed on the panel above the door, but I wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t watching numbers.

He was watching ghosts.

The tension between him and Caleb stretched tight in the confined space, the weight of shared memory pressing sharp into every breath. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but it felt like they could crack steel between them.

And then—without looking at anyone—Sylus spoke.

Voice low.

Clipped.

“You should know,” he said, each word measured and exact, “we’re going to F2.”

The light above flickered.

F3.

None of us breathed.

“That was the training floor,” Sylus continued. “Where they built the sims. The sparring chambers. The feedback tunnels. And where they watched—every single movement I made.”

My stomach dropped.

“I had my first controlled kill down there,” he added, so calm it made my blood ice over. “Didn’t know it at the time. They told me it was a sim. It wasn’t.”

Caleb jolted.

The shock in his face was pure and unguarded. “They never told me that.”

Sylus looked at him now. Just once.

“They didn’t tell me either.”

The silence after that wasn’t silence—it was suffocation.

Even Xavier, still as ever, shifted slightly. His jaw was tight. His hands, loose at his sides, had curled into quiet fists. Zayne’s eyes flicked between Sylus and Caleb, his body language unreadable but ready. Coiled and waiting.

I felt a tremble I hadn’t noticed start to take over my limbs.

Raf felt it too.

He drew me in tighter, one arm wrapping fully around my back now, the other resting lightly on my head as he pressed his lips to my temple. He didn’t try to stop the shake.

He just held it with me.

The elevator dinged softly.

F2.

A green light blinked on the panel.

The doors part to reveal a corridor bathed in pale, flickering LEDs. It’s colder than above, sterile and suffocatingly clean. The sharp scent of antiseptic still lingers—not in stale decay, but in synthetic sterility.

The floor glistens, polished to a false shine. Panels of black glass line the walls, so dark they reflect the six of us like statues carved from obsidian light, each framed in fear and resolve.

Overhead, the ceiling is a labyrinth of exposed conduits, each marked with pale arrows and PVC piping— a blueprint of long-forgotten machinery repurposed after reclamation. Here and there, the flush of greenery peeked through in cracked planters: ferns—placed during refit for psychological benefits, I assume.

At the corridor's end, an automated door hissed open, revealing a wider chamber—still rectangular, but deeper. The room smelled of concrete and fresh-turning earth, as if someone had hauled in memory and scrubbed it clean.

White floor tiles stretched out in a perfect grid, interrupted only by a black rectangle at the center—an access hatch. Surrounding it were faded yellow warning stripes. And beyond those, lab benches and offices, all refurbished: fresh paint, intact glass, sanitized surfaces.

But I can still feel the ghosts.

Raf stepped aside and gestured with theatrical finesse: “Behold: your customized torture spa, now with pastel healthcare vibes and 20% fewer tears.”

He stopped when Sylus’s gaze locked on the hatch. That small square of floor felt bigger than the entire room, and pointed.

Sylus took a breath, stepping forward. “This is the old training floor. The feedback chamber.” His voice was clipped, hard. “The one where they watched me train. Where they tested me.”

Raf’s humor died on his lips.

Caleb froze—face paling. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around his duffel strap.

I watched Sylus’s chest rise with slow control, the muscles at his jaw tightening like steel coils.

Zayne and Xavier moved to flank him, silent and respectful.

I let go, letting Raf’s arm fall away. Instead, I crossed the floor and stood at Sylus’s side. I placed a trembling hand on his arm. Not for comfort—I didn’t want to fix it. Just to anchor him here, in this place, with me beside him.

Raf and Caleb closed in behind us, forming a triangle around the hatch, their presence raw and protective.

All at once, I understood.

What had been cleansed outside had never left inside.

And here, on F2—the old heart of the Ever Group’s cruelty—we stood on reclaimed ground, but still haunted by the layers beneath.

Zayne stepped away from the group, boots clicking against the grid-tiled floor as he moved toward the row of offices at the edge of the training level. The glass doors hissed open at his approach, motion sensors still functional after all this time. Dust rose faintly around his silhouette in the doorway.

“I’ll set up a med bay,” he said over his shoulder. “Even light training runs can push limits, and I don’t want to be scrambling if someone gets wrecked.”

He meant it pragmatically. Efficient. Thoughtful, even.

But something in me twisted.

Med bay. Injuries. Wrecked.

The words hit like cold water down my spine—memories of blood, of glass, of Sylus’s voice strained with effort as he held me against the storm of the mirror fracture. Of pain that didn’t belong. Of skin split for reasons I couldn’t see.

My chest tightened. Breath shortened.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once.

And then something deeper than sound rippled across the room.

Like the air bent around itself.

Like reality shifted, strained, fractured—a groaning, glass-like creak that didn’t echo off walls but through bones.

The pulse of it came from me.

Everyone stopped.

Caleb’s hand went to his sidearm instinctively. Xavier rose slowly from where he’d crouched by the central hatch. Zayne froze in the doorway, looking back sharply.

Sylus didn’t turn.

But I saw his shoulders tense.

I swallowed hard and forced my breathing to slow.

The sound stopped.

The air settled.

But the tension didn’t.

All eyes turned toward me.

Rafayel was the first to move. Smooth as breath, he crossed the space and reached me—this time without asking, his hand slipping around the back of my neck, thumb brushing softly behind my ear.

He leaned in, his lips barely brushing the edge of my hairline as he murmured, “If you wanted my attention, Button, you only had to ask.”

Despite myself, a shaky breath escaped—half laugh, half something tighter.

“I didn’t—”

“You felt something,” Caleb interrupted, scanning the ceiling, the walls. “The integrity of the structure held. That’s good. Means the lower support’s reinforced enough to handle amped Evol activity.” His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of alertness now. He was watching everything. Cataloging it.

A flash of movement caught the edge of my vision.

Sylus.

He turned and walked away. Not sharply. Not angrily. But with that lethal kind of silence only Sylus could wield—controlled and absolutely unreadable.

He headed for the far end of the room where the reinforced windows looked out into the corridor beyond, the light casting his shadow like a brand across the floor.

He didn’t say a word.

I felt the shift in the air behind me as Xavier moved—quiet, always—but purposeful. He knelt again at the hatch, running gloved fingers around its seal, brushing faint particles of dust from the edges.

“What triggered it?” he asked softly. Not accusing. Just… searching.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, leaning into Raf’s touch more than I meant to. “Zayne said med bay. I just… thought of the fracture. The pain. How fast it happened. What it could’ve done if no one had been there.”

My voice dropped to a whisper. “What if next time I don’t catch it fast enough?”

Raf didn’t answer right away.

But his hand didn’t leave me.

And behind us, the silence stretched—until the room felt like it was listening.

Sylus didn’t come back right away.

He remained at the far edge of the room, framed by the reinforced glass. His back to us. His profile sharp in the cold light as he stood utterly still—one hand braced on the windowpane, the other curled loosely at his side.

He wasn’t gone.

He was just… apart.

And none of us questioned it.

Instead, Caleb shifted into motion. Smooth. Methodical. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.

He pulled open one of the long, black equipment crates they'd brought from the Bronco, removing an array of compact sensor pods, palm-sized monitors, and small tripods with magnetic bases. The cases clicked open one after another, no wasted motion.

“Zayne,” he called. “Run diagnostic syncs with the scanners once I plant them. Make sure there's no lag between surge and readout.”

Zayne nodded and moved without hesitation, already flipping open the second monitor tablet.

I watched as Caleb walked the perimeter of the room—planting sensors with fluid, soldier-like precision. One by the hatch. Two near the old feedback mirror, now just a sleek, black slab of glass embedded in the wall. He positioned another near where the synthetic matting was rolled out for my use.

“Each one of these will track energy levels, spatial distortion, pressure flux, and core temperature,” Caleb explained. “We’re not pushing your limits today—we’re mapping them.”

The words should have helped.

They didn’t.

My heart was still thrumming too loud in my ears, my palms damp.

Then I felt a hand slide into mine.

Rafayel.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just tugged gently, guiding me to the far corner of the room, away from the activity, away from the tech. Away from Sylus’ silence and Caleb’s data.

He turned me to face him, our backs to the others.

“Eyes on me, Button,” he said, voice soft but anchoring. “Not the sensors. Not the ghost floor. Just me.”

I met his gaze.

Blue-pink irises, impossibly warm. Just like his hands, which now cradled mine between them.

“I know it feels like the air wants to crack again. Like every breath might shatter glass. But you’re not a fault line, love. You’re a tuning fork. And I’m right here—listening.”

My throat tightened. “What if I slip again?”

“Then we catch you.”

“And if I fracture?”

“Then we hold the pieces until you’re ready to come back.”

He smiled then. Crooked and sincere. “You don’t scare me. Not even a little.”

I let out a shaky breath and leaned forward until my forehead touched his collarbone. Just for a second. Just enough.

He pressed his palm to the center of my back.

“Three deep breaths,” he murmured. “No performance. Just presence.”

I inhaled once.

Again.

A third time.

And the buzzing in my ears quieted—just a little.

Behind me, Caleb’s voice rose again, briefing the others on the system readouts. Zayne responded with a clipped update. Xavier double-checked the hatch’s structural integrity.

But here, in this corner, Raf’s hands stayed steady around mine.

The calm before the storm.

The air shifted before we even saw him.

A low hum rippled through the room—not from the tech Caleb was calibrating, but from something deeper. Denser. Like the pressure before a storm.

Then Sylus stepped back into my peripherals.

And he was the storm.

Gone was the man who had turned away moments ago, carved from silence and restraint. What returned was power incarnate—shoulders squared, jaw set, every step a deliberate challenge to the very ground he walked on. The glint in his dark eyes was sharp enough to cut steel.

No more ghosts. No more hesitation.

Just control.

“I’ve decided how we’re going to do this,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber, cool and precise.

Everyone looked up—Xavier from the hatch, Caleb from his monitor, Zayne from the office threshold. Rafayel’s hand tightened subtly around mine, but he didn’t speak.

Sylus came to a stop at the center of the room.

“My Evol can dissect molecular structure,” he continued, his tone measured but relentless. “I can absorb and neutralize energy—rebuild it if needed. When you lose control, I won’t collapse. I’ll adapt. None of the others can match that. Not Caleb’s gravity, not Zayne’s ice, not Xavier’s light, and not even Raf’s fire.”

His gaze locked with mine then, steady and unblinking.

“I’ll face you,” he said. “Here. Now. No simulations. No filters. Just your Evol… and mine.”

His words echoed in the open space, ringing with absolute certainty.

Caleb straightened, arms crossed, a hint of reluctant agreement in the dip of his head. “He’s right. No one else can dampen and reshape her surges in real-time. We don’t know what happens when she peaks.”

Rafayel leaned close to me again, voice warm and teasing, even if I felt the tension in his body. “Tell me you’re not turned on just a little right now.”

I elbowed him, but my face burned.

Because Sylus was terrifying.

And beautiful.

And ready.

My feet felt frozen to the floor.

Not from cold—no, that would’ve been manageable. Predictable.

This was something else.

Something far more familiar.

Panic.

The kind that rose like static in my chest, warping thought, stalling breath. I hadn’t fought Sylus before. I hadn’t even sparred with him. He’d taught me in the studio at Onychinus—spoken to me. Corrected my footwork. Adjusted my breathing with a touch to the shoulder, the hip. Showed me how to stand. How to fall.

But we’d never crossed that threshold.

Not like this.

Not with him standing in the center of the room, equal parts calm and lethal, his body singing with readiness, his Evol already coiled beneath his skin like lightning waiting for the sky to split.

I couldn’t move.

Until Rafayel stepped in.

As usual.

He drifted to my side like a breeze with teeth, fingers finding mine and lacing them easily as he leaned in with a smirk that didn’t quite hide the concern behind his eyes.

Raf’s fingers tightened slightly around mine as we lingered at the edge of the training floor.

He leaned in again, lower this time, breath warm against the shell of my ear.

“Darling,” he whispered, velvet-wicked and entirely too perceptive, “do you know why he looked like that when he left your bathroom this morning?”

I blinked, heat crawling up my spine. “Like what?”

“That flushed jaw. The messed-up hair. That half-second delay before he opened the door like he’d just been—” Raf made a vague gesture with his free hand, “—handling something delicate.”

I stared at him.

He grinned.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred. “He touched himself. Because of you. Probably right after you left the room.”

My brain stalled.

A full, static-laced silence screamed between my ears as memory assaulted me in crystalline flashes:

—Sylus turning from me in the bathroom, flushed and wide-eyed after I’d kissed his cheek. —The way he hadn't followed immediately. —The way he hadn’t followed.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

Rafayel chuckled darkly, tugging gently at my hand. “And now you're glowing. Fascinating.”

Because I was.

My Evol had surged before I even noticed. The lights in the chamber buzzed once—overhead bulbs trembling as the air took on a subtle shimmer, a thin distortion in the space around me.

Goddamn it.

I tried to rein it in. To bury the heat and pulse and shame and curiosity and want back under my ribs where it belonged.

Too late.

Across the room, Sylus—poised and focused—snapped his head up.

His eyes locked with mine.

And his expression changed.

Just slightly.

A barely-there narrowing of the gaze.

A half-breath catch in his throat.

He felt it.

He knew.

But he didn’t know why.

And that made it worse.

Raf cleared his throat with faux innocence. “Might want to bottle that reaction for later. Could bring a man to his knees.”

“Raf—”

“Come on,” he said, guiding me forward again. “Time to put that tension to use.”

I stumbled a little as I walked, legs still loose and awkward. My Evol hadn’t surged this way before. That I knew of, only from anger or fear.

This was different.

And Sylus was watching every step like he was trying to read me frame by frame.

I came to a stop across from him. The circle of the training mat warm beneath my feet, despite the cold steel and concrete surrounding us.

He tilted his head, expression unreadable now.

“Are you ready?” he asked, voice low.

No teasing. No mockery. Just the quiet pulse of control, of energy waiting to meet mine.

I swallowed.

I didn’t know if I was.

But my Evol had already answered for me.

Rafayel drifted behind me, far enough that only I could hear him murmur to Caleb in that lyrical, infuriating voice:

“Tell me this doesn’t feel like foreplay with higher stakes.”

Caleb didn’t respond aloud.

But I heard the sigh.

And that was enough.

My pulse slammed through my veins like a freight train as my traitorous body lit up—heat blooming low in my abdomen, my legs tightening without warning, fingers twitching with residual charge.

Goddamn you, Raf.

My Evol flared again—not violent, not dangerous.

Sensual.

The air shimmered faintly around my shoulders as if the atmosphere itself were leaning closer. Wanting to listen. Wanting to touch.

Across the training mat, Sylus tilted his head slightly.

He’d felt it again.

And this time?

He didn’t question it.

He used it.

His stance shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, boots silent on the floor as he started toward me, slow and deliberate. Not charging. Not attacking.

Stalking.

“I want you to lean into it,” he said, voice steady but low, that dangerous calm threaded through every word. “Don’t fight the spike. Let it rise.”

He took another step.

“Let your Evol respond to mine.”

My breathing hitched.

Another step.

“Let it crave.”

Jesus.

My skin flushed hot and cold all at once.

I could feel him—not physically, not yet—but in the pull. The magnetism of his particles against mine, his field brushing up against my fraying edges, coaxing. Calling.

“You’ve never used it this way before,” Sylus murmured, another step closer. “You’ve let it react to fear. Pain. Panic.”

His gaze sharpened.

“But desire?” A faint smile touched the edge of his mouth. “That’s where your control fractures. Isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

My Evol pulsed outward again, the lights overhead flickering with the sudden pressure drop. The glass console to the left let out a high, warping whine as if it too were struggling to hold shape under the weight of what I was becoming.

Sylus stopped just a few feet from me now.

“Breathe,” he said, softer now, voice coaxing.

But not safe.

“Let it surge.”

My fingers curled at my sides as the air thickened, pressing against my skin like a second layer.

My thoughts stuttered.

Because this wasn’t a spar anymore.

This was combustion.

And Sylus knew exactly what he was doing.

The room bent around us.

Not visibly—not yet—but I felt it. The air had weight now, density. A molecular shift like pressure building before a storm. It soaked into my skin, crackled against my teeth. My Evol surged again, not in a wave but a thrum—tight and low, like a wire pulled too taut.

Sylus took another step toward me.

And the room shuddered.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes said everything—dark, focused, just a hint of something dangerous behind the calm. And he knew what he was doing. Every movement, every pause, calculated. Precision incarnate. He could disarm a bomb or start one—and I was both.

I took a step back without meaning to.

He mirrored it.

A slow, deliberate step forward.

Stalking again. Closer now. Too close.

The heat rose—not metaphorical. Actual. My skin flushed and the overhead fluorescents buzzed once, faltered, and then flared brighter than before. Somewhere behind us, Caleb muttered under his breath. Rafayel laughed, low and breathless.

Then Sylus lifted his hand.

And used his Evol.

Not to shove. Not to shield.

But to touch.

The air around me changed. Particles vibrated—no, responded—to him, to the way he reached through the air like he was painting invisible sigils around me.

And then it hit.

A pulse—not physical, but felt. A tether drawn straight from the center of his palm to the base of my spine, as if he’d dragged his fingers across my skin without ever laying a hand on me.

My back arched instinctively, a gasp slipping through my lips.

“Good,” Sylus said, voice just above a whisper. “Stay in it.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The room pulsed again.

Cracks—thin, hairline fractures—spread along the reflective paneling near the back wall. Like glass splintering from within, but not shattering. Not yet.

He stepped closer. So close now.

The warmth from his body teased mine. His Evol buzzed through the air between us, an extension of his will, brushing along my jaw like a question.

“Your control slips when you feel too much,” he murmured.

Another flick—his fingers twitched just slightly, and the tether pulsed against the front of my thighs, my ribs, my collarbone. Not touching. Just pressing. Testing.

My Evol howled in response—rising like a storm surge, like static on the edge of lightning.

“You think we’re all afraid of that,” he said, low and even, his mouth dangerously close to mine now. “We’re not.”

His eyes locked on mine.

“I’m the one who can meet it.”

The next pulse came without warning—stronger, sharper, as his Evol skimmed along my skin again, stealing breath and thought. Light fractured behind my eyes as the crackling panel behind us groaned from the pressure.

I staggered.

He caught me.

Not in some noble arms-wide gesture.

One hand.

On my waist.

Hot. Firm. Grounding.

It didn’t help.

It made it worse.

Because his hand wasn’t trembling.

Mine was.

My voice broke before I even meant to speak. “Sylus—”

“Breathe,” he whispered, close enough now that his breath warmed the curve of my mouth. “And fight me.”

I couldn’t tell if he meant with my Evol.

Or with what was left of my restraint.

But one of them had to give.

And it wasn’t going to be him.

It didn’t burst from me.

It unfolded.

My Evol bloomed like a flower of light and fracture, a slow, sensual unraveling that trembled against the skin before sinking through it—warm and raw and endless. It pressed outward in concentric waves, spreading from the space between Sylus and me in soft spirals that rippled through the atmosphere, kissing the edges of the room but never breaching its center.

Only we were touched by it.

Only we were inside the pulse.

It wasn’t the chaos I’d feared. It wasn’t teeth and glass and screaming fissures like before.

This was different.

This was mine.

It shimmered between us in breathless tension, like light bending on the cusp of breaking. A high, crystalline note vibrated through the floor tiles. The reflective surfaces behind Sylus fractured along invisible veins, like frost blooming across glass in winter—but slower. Deeper. More intentional.

My hands had lifted without thought, fingers splayed in the air between us, and Sylus—

God.

He didn’t move a muscle.

He let the pressure wrap around him, let my power trace the line of his cheek, skate across his collarbone, curl around his ribs like a second skin. His Evol didn’t resist it. Didn’t try to contain it.

He welcomed it.

And when his voice broke through the tension, low and slow and so damn close, it was pure fire across my skin.

“That’s it.”

Two words.

Praise.

And I shuddered.

He noticed.

The corner of his mouth twitched—just the barest hint of a smile, intimate and knowing.

“You feel that?” he asked, tone quieter now, velvet over steel. “That’s control.”

I could only nod, breathing shallow, as the power inside me rippled again, this time curling tighter to my spine, controlled and clean and entirely focused on him.

He leaned in—not to press closer, not to kiss, not to overwhelm—but to observe. To learn the shape of me in this new state. I could feel his Evol skimming beneath mine like a riptide under still water, steadying my surge with the gentlest countercurrent.

“You’ve been hiding this,” he murmured, gaze locked to mine, every syllable coiling like smoke. “Burying it under panic. Under pain. But this?”

His hand found my jaw, fingers skimming the edge of it, and my Evol surged toward the contact—curling against his palm like it wanted to be held.

“This is something else.”

I blinked, breath caught between lips that couldn’t form words. Couldn’t speak through the ache or the heat or the slow crack of something ancient inside me splitting open to reveal a core I hadn’t known was still alive.

Because it was alive.

That part of me—the one that craved being seen, wanted to be known, that hadn’t been touched in years by anything but loneliness and shame—it opened.

And his praise?

It fed it.

“You’re doing so good, Aven,” he said, and it was the way he said my name—like a sacred thing, like something he’d waited years to hold. “You’re not breaking the world.”

His hand shifted slightly, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

“You’re shaping it.”

The room trembled in agreement.

But nothing shattered.

Not this time.

I exhaled slowly, and my Evol curled back against my skin like silk gathering at my throat, not withdrawing, but settling.

Still mine.

Still present.

But obedient.

Controlled.

Loved.

I hadn’t felt this powerful in years, if not ever.

And Sylus?

He smiled—not wide. Not smug.

But proud.

Like he knew.

Like he’d seen that part of me I was just starting to remember existed.

Their voices reached me like distant thunder, layered behind the hum of my Evol still draped across the room.

Zayne’s was the first I could make out—low, warm, and undeniably smug.

“Well, damn,” he drawled, from where he leaned against one of the structural supports, arms folded tight across his chest. “That was one hell of a show.”

My face burned instantly, Evol flickering with heat, and I didn’t dare look over my shoulder to see the exact brand of satisfaction written across his stupidly handsome face. I could hear the smirk.

“You gonna start charging admission for that?” Caleb chimed in next, casual and too charming, like this was just another morning briefing and not a total psychic stripping of my soul. “Because I’d pay. Front row, premium tier, no notes.”

Rafayel, of course, whistled.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know what you just did, but I need it bottled,” he purred. “And maybe poured over ice. With me beneath it.”

“Raf—” I groaned.

“Hey, I’m just appreciating the art. Which, by the way, includes you. Fully.”

Behind them all, I could feel the quietest of them stirring.

Xavier.

Silent, steady Xavier, still crouched near one of the support terminals, fingers gone still over the touchscreen. But his head was turned toward me now. Eyes hooded, unreadable.

But not unmoved.

Because I felt it.

The echo of my Evol still laced faintly around the chamber had touched him too—skimmed along the edge of his being, and something in him had responded with a depth I couldn’t quite reach.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. But heavy.

“It’s never felt like that before.”

No judgment.

No threat.

Just truth.

And weight.

Then Sylus moved.

I turned back toward him—and he was already in motion.

Circling me.

Slow, predatory steps, but not to intimidate. Not to unnerve.

To test.

To see if I could hold it.

“I’m going to try something,” he said from behind me, voice silk over voltage.

I didn’t even nod. Couldn’t.

My mouth was dry.

My Evol thrummed again, curling instinctively around me like a defense, even as it simultaneously reached for him.

Sylus stopped behind me. So close. I could feel the heat of him again, the charge of his Evol brushing the outermost layer of mine.

“Keep it contained,” he said, lower now. Right next to my ear. “Breathe. Feel. But hold.”

And then—

A touch of breath against the shell of my ear.

A pause.

And a nip.

His teeth grazed the edge of my earlobe in a single, shocking motion.

I gasped—

—and the room shattered.

Not literally. But it felt like it.

Fractures bloomed in the air around us—soft, iridescent lines crackling in slow motion across space like spiderwebs catching moonlight. Four. Five. Seven distinct mirror fractures spun out around us like petals unfurling.

Each one showed a different version of the room.

Slightly off.

Slightly wrong.

In one, Raf stood with his hair loose instead of tied back.

In another, Xavier wasn’t at the console, but standing behind Zayne with a blade in hand.

And in the closest one—

Sylus was still nipping my ear.

Except he wasn’t stopping.

My breath caught. My knees nearly buckled.

And still—

I held it.

The fractures shimmered, hovered, and pulsed outward like living things.

But they didn’t collapse.

Sylus pressed his palm to the center of my spine.

His Evol surged like a heartbeat.

And the mirrors stabilized.

“I knew you could do it,” he murmured against my neck.

And gods help me—

I wanted him to do it again.

The fractures shimmered like suspended breath.

Each one a jagged halo of glass-thin reflections, impossibly precise, impossibly delicate. They rotated around me, orbiting slow and dangerous, like planets held in place by the tension between want and restraint. I could see through them—see the others watching from the edge of the room, wary and curious and cautious—but they were on the other side of the line now. The air around Sylus and me had become something else. A barrier. A boundary. A space only we could occupy.

And he hadn’t even touched me.

Not really.

Not with his hands.

That was the worst—best—part.

His Evol was like silk on fire, wrapping around me in filaments that trailed across my skin, mapping the curves of my back, the slope of my ribs, the shallow divot just beneath my throat. My body responded like it had been waiting for this, aching for this—years of repression, of trauma, of self-loathing pulled tight like a coil, and now, unraveling one fiber at a time under his precision.

I couldn’t breathe.

But I didn’t need to.

I was becoming something else.

And Sylus was the only one who saw it happening in real time.

“Now,” he said, voice thick with heat but sharp with purpose, “pull it back.”

I shivered.

“I—” My voice broke, breathless. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.” His Evol whispered against my scalp, down the line of my spine, tracing me with the intimacy of breath on bare skin. “You already do. I can feel it.”

One of the mirror dimensions crackled behind him, a flicker of light and wrongness warping the angle of his jaw in its reflection. I could see my own face in another, flushed, wide-eyed, almost fevered. My fingers twitched at my sides.

“I’m going to help you,” he said, stepping closer again. Not closing the distance, not yet—but enough that his presence was everywhere. “But you have to let me in.”

“How?” I whispered.

“Feel me.”

And then he did touch me—but not skin to skin.

His Evol moved like breath and static, like pressure and pleasure, sliding beneath my Evol with sinuous intent. It coiled around my ribs, lifted my hands by the wrists without actually grasping them, until my arms hovered outward, open. Vulnerable.

Exposed.

I gasped again, but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t shame.

It was the realization that I was still in control.

That even with my arms spread, my pulse racing, the heat in my chest and between my thighs singing with too much—I was the one deciding.

Not my trauma.

Not my panic.

Me.

His voice came again, low and dangerous.

“Close them, Aven.”

His Evol trailed over my stomach, a whisper of pressure that sent a shock through my legs. My knees nearly gave out. I whimpered and felt it—the shift.

One of the mirror fractures shivered.

Then flickered.

Then winked out of existence.

“That’s it,” Sylus breathed, praise crackling in his tone like lightning waiting to strike. “That’s how.”

Another brush of his Evol over my pulse point, just beneath my jaw, like a kiss without contact. My eyes fluttered shut. Heat bloomed through me like a sunrise from the inside out, and another mirror closed.

Two more.

Three.

My breathing staggered, body trembling as the overload danced along every nerve ending.

“You’re doing so good,” he said again, softer now, reverent. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Another mirror fracture vanished.

Only two remained.

But these last ones trembled harder, resistant. Not with danger, but desire. They wanted to stay. To linger. They were forged not of panic—but of longing.

“I can’t,” I whispered, the heat in my chest threatening to choke me. “Not these…”

Sylus moved.

Suddenly closer.

And this time, his Evol dragged low along the back of my thigh, up the edge of my hip, pressing against the center of me through nothing but air and energy and intention.

I cried out.

And the last two mirrors shattered in reverse—folding in on themselves like dying stars and disappearing into the room's stillness.

Then there was silence.

No more fractures.

No more distortion.

Just me.

Breathless. Aching. Whole.

Sylus stepped forward—finally closing the distance. His Evol receded just enough for the space between us to normalize. For the first time in what felt like hours, I could feel the room again.

But I didn’t care about the room.

I cared about him.

He looked at me like I’d become something rare and terrible and precious all at once.

And I—

I didn’t look away.

I stood there, frozen in the echo of what we’d just done.

Not a real fight.

Not even close.

Not fists or fire or the kind of sharp-edged pain I’d braced for.

No—this had been something else entirely.

A slow, intimate unraveling.

And I hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t wanted that, not here, not now, not in front of them.

And yet—my body hummed like a tuning fork struck by God himself. Every nerve ending vibrating with memory. Every breath tasting like the heat of his praise. Like friction and restraint and skin I hadn’t touched but felt in every part of me.

My Evol stirred again, lazy and pleased and traitorous.

Sylus finally stepped back.

Not far. Just enough.

But it was enough to snap the cord I’d been balancing on, the tension that had stretched me taut and kept me upright.

I exhaled sharply. One second. Two.

Then turned—

And ran.

Not with grace. Not with poise.

I darted out of that room like I’d been caught naked in front of a firing squad—heart pounding, heat flushing hot down my spine as the automatic door swished closed behind me. I didn’t care where I was going. I just needed out.

Away from Sylus.

Away from all of them.

Especially—

God.

Especially Caleb. Zayne. Rafayel. Xavier.

Men I had fantasized about.

Men I had touched myself to.

Men whose images had lived rent-free in my browser history and now stood in flesh and blood and smirking commentary watching me get emotionally manhandled by my own unhinged libido and some metaphysical spark show.

And Sylus? Sylus had used his Evol to—

I slapped both hands over my face as I turned down a hallway that seemed less lab-like and more residential. Doorways. Blank walls. One closed door at the far end. Perfect.

My mind was screaming what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck as I stumbled toward it, yanked the panel open, and slipped inside. It was dark. Cool. Empty.

A former dorm room maybe. Spartan and plain, but not threatening.

I leaned against the wall and let my head fall back with a dull thud.

“I thought this was supposed to be training,” I muttered to the ceiling.

Instead, it’d been… foreplay.

With praise.

And restraint.

And him.

And I—

I liked it too much.

My face flamed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groaned, dragging my fingers through my hair, pacing like a caged animal. “I need a cold shower and a time machine. Preferably in that order.”

Because the worst part wasn’t that I’d gotten off on it.

It was that I wanted more.

And I didn’t know what the hell that said about me anymore.

I pressed my palms to my cheeks, but the heat wasn’t going anywhere.

No amount of cool air or concrete solitude could pull it from my skin. It had rooted itself deeper—down into the marrow, through my chest, blooming low in my belly like fire kissed by oxygen. Lingering.

God.

How had it even started?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t known what I was walking into. Sylus said “training,” and I’d nodded like an idiot. I thought I’d be dodging kicks or practicing breathing patterns, maybe grounding exercises again like we’d done in the sparring ring at Onychinus.

But this—

This had started with a comment.

Rafayel, velvet-voiced chaos incarnate, had whispered about foreplay in that ridiculous lilting tone, knowing exactly what he was doing.

And Sylus—Sylus had picked it up.

He’d felt it.

Maybe he hadn’t heard the words, but his Evol… it caught my reaction like a hand around my pulse.

He tuned to it.

Pushed it.

Pressed into that space with scientific precision and emotional lethality and pulled me apart with praise and frictionless touch until I didn’t know where his energy ended and mine began.

Until I was fracturing in ways that didn’t hurt—but ached.

I groaned again and turned in a slow circle before my knees buckled, and I let myself slide to the floor, back braced against the smooth wall, arms looped around bent knees as if I could squeeze the heat out of my bloodstream and back into something less… volatile.

But it didn’t go.

The echo of it curled in my gut. Need, not panic. Not pain.

I hadn’t felt this in years.

Not since before—

Before the therapist with the fake sympathy.

Before the ex with the knife.

Before the boy in high school who stole my breath and crushed it between a wall and his palm.

I hadn’t felt desire without fear.

But now?

Now I was sitting in an abandoned facility after manifesting dimensional shrapnel and nearly combusting on the mat while five of the most emotionally repressed men in this fucked-up world looked on with varying degrees of approval.

And I still wanted more.

What is wrong with me.

I dropped my forehead to my knees, exhaling shakily.

That’s when I heard the door.

Soft. Deliberate. And slow.

I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Xavier didn’t need sound to make an entrance.

It was the way the air shifted that gave him away. Gentle pressure, like the gravity of a moon pulling at the tides of my thoughts. Constant. Quiet.

Comforting.

He didn’t speak right away. I felt him stand there, just past the threshold, as if asking permission with his silence. My fingers flexed against the floor, and I lifted my head slowly, meeting his gaze in the low light.

He was crouching now.

Not close.

Not looming.

Just there. Like an anchor waiting to be held.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft enough to be mistaken for thought.

I didn’t answer right away.

My throat tightened.

So I just nodded.

Barely.

And he didn’t press.

Didn’t say I was brave.

Didn’t joke or offer platitudes.

He just sat with me.

Letting the silence speak.

Letting me breathe.

He didn’t look away from me. Just sat there—knees drawn up, forearms resting loose across them, as if crouching down beside a girl trying to piece herself back together was as natural as breathing.

I could still feel the echo of my Evol humming beneath my skin. Not violent. Not disruptive. But coiled. Potent. Like a match still warm from the strike.

Xavier finally spoke, voice low and smooth, like the surface of dark water before a storm.

“The others needed a minute.”

I blinked. “A… minute?”

He nodded slowly. His gaze flicked away for the first time, toward the closed door behind him, his expression unreadable—but not indifferent.

“You shook something loose in them.”

I stared at him, unsure what to do with the way my stomach immediately twisted at the thought. “Like—what. Emotionally?”

He exhaled through his nose. A huff of dry amusement.

“Physically.”

My head dropped back against the wall with a groan of mortification. “Oh my God.”

Xavier didn’t move. Didn’t mock. Just let the silence stretch, weighted with everything unspoken.

I dragged my hands down my face until I could peek at him through my fingers. “So, wait. They’re just… what? Out there? Dealing with a group boner?”

Xavier’s mouth twitched—just slightly. The barest hint of a smirk that ghosted through his stoicism like a ripple on still glass.

“You’re not the only one whose Evol is synced to emotion, Aven.”

I buried my face in my arms, groaning again. “I didn’t mean to… sexually awaken the entire group. I thought I was here to throw a punch, not—fractal seduce the team.”

He let the silence hang again.

But it was warm now.

Comforting.

Present.

Then finally, with a steadiness that struck me harder than if he’d shouted, he said, “They wanted to see you.” 

He looked at me again, gaze steady.

“And they did.”

I blinked again. Slowly. My heart kicking against my ribs.

“But you...” I started, cautiously. “You weren’t affected?”

Xavier’s head tilted slightly, that smirk ghosting back again.

“I didn’t say that.”

He shifted then—closer. Not enough to startle. Not enough to unnerve.

But enough for me to feel the subtle heat coming off of him. The tension carefully wound beneath his usually unreadable exterior. Enough to feel the truth in what he wasn’t saying out loud.

I swallowed hard. “Then why aren’t you out there with them?”

His eyes pinned me.

Not cold.

Not heated.

Just true.

“Because you matter more than a hard-on.”

The words knocked the breath clean out of me.

Not because they were crude.

But because they were so simple.

So brutally sincere.

No pretense. No swagger. No flirty grin.

Just a truth offered in a quiet room by a man who always knew when to speak—and more importantly, when not to.

My throat tightened, and I couldn’t look at him for a long moment.

Because that was the first time in a very long time someone had said I mattered—without needing anything in return.

The silence after his words wasn’t empty.

It ached.

It curled into my chest and pressed up behind my ribs like a weight made of molten glass—beautiful and heavy and sharp.

Because it wasn’t just the words that hit me.

It was the way he said them.

Matter-of-fact.

Grounded.

Like there wasn’t a single goddamn question in his mind that I mattered. Not to him. Not to them. Not because I could unravel space or fracture mirrors with a thought, but because I existed.

I inhaled shakily, staring at the floor like it might help me pull the heat out of my face.

But I could feel him beside me. Still crouched. Still watching. That strange, slow-burning warmth rolling off of him in waves. And underneath it—

Restraint.

The kind that felt a little too taut.

A little too precise.

I shifted slightly, hugging my knees tighter to my chest, trying to make myself smaller. Trying to tuck the flushed heat of my thoughts back into whatever corner of my mind wasn’t already saturated with Evol-induced arousal and lingering embarrassment.

But Xavier moved.

Not much. Just a slight lean toward me.

Deliberate.

Anchored.

It made my breath catch.

“You remember what I said to you?” he asked, voice softer now. Almost private.

“Which part?” I managed, wary.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t look away.

“In your apartment,” he said, and I felt the memory like a whisper on the back of my neck. “Yesterday morning, after I left the first time, when Zayne came over. You were curled up with him on the couch.”

I blinked hard.

That had happened. Yesterday, my period started. Zayne brought me painkillers and supplies and draped the blanket over me like it was nothing after I’d fallen asleep with him on the couch. Xavier had walked in and caught us together, and instead of storming off or making some snarky comment, he just looked at me with those unreadable eyes and said—

“We’ll continue this conversation later.”

My eyes flicked up to his.

His expression hadn’t changed.

But his body was more still now. Poised.

“I remember,” I said quietly.

“I’d like to continue it now.”

My breath caught again.

I wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation.

Or both.

I glanced at him. “You’re sure now’s the best time? With my Evol probably dragging you toward the edge of sanity and my legs still jelly from... whatever that was?”

He let out a low exhale, not quite a laugh. But there was a curve to his mouth now.

“It’s not ideal,” he admitted. “But it’s honest.”

He leaned in again—closer now. Still not touching. But I could feel him. The way his presence filled space even without making a sound.

His next words were barely above a whisper.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you in that hospital bed.”

Oh.

My heart stuttered. I swallowed hard.

He didn’t stop.

“I’ve watched you make room for everyone’s pain but your own. You act like you don’t know what you’re doing to us. To me. But I see you. I feel you. You crack reality without meaning to and still look surprised when we fall for you.”

I felt like I’d been pinned in place without a single finger laid on me.

“Xavier…” My voice broke around his name.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he said. “I don’t even need you to choose. But I needed you to know. I needed to say it—before it gets any harder to pretend I can keep this locked down.”

I made the mistake of looking at him again.

And I saw it.

The hunger.

The need.

But more than that—the restraint.

He was holding himself back like he was afraid touching me would break something. Like I was too sacred to ruin with want.

And somehow, that wrecked me more than any flirtation ever could.

I groaned softly and dropped my head back against the wall.

“This week is trying to kill me,” I muttered.

Xavier’s smile was ghost-soft. “You’re surviving it.”

“Barely.”

“That’s still surviving.”

I looked at him again.

Still crouched.

Still watching me like I mattered more than the ache in his body.

Still willing to let me breathe.

Even though his own was unsteady.

Even though his hands were trembling just slightly where they rested on his knees.

The quiet between us softened, but it didn’t lose its weight.

If anything, it shifted—the tension folding inward instead of crackling across my skin. Like gravity changing direction, drawing me toward something not dangerous, but inevitable.

Xavier hadn’t moved much. Not yet. But I felt the current curling tighter between us. It wasn’t electric like it had been with Sylus—there was no sharp jolt or reckless energy. This was slower. More like the hush before dusk settles, or the way warm water crests over skin just before it’s deep enough to pull you under.

And still, he waited.

Waited like he had all the time in the world.

Like I was something sacred.

My fingers curled slightly against the concrete floor. My pulse thudded in my ears, in my chest, low in my belly. I could feel the slow burn of my Evol simmering again, called not by force or challenge, but something far more disarming.

Want.

Not demand. Not desperation. But that steadfast want I’d forgotten could exist.

Xavier’s eyes didn’t leave mine as he moved—just slightly, just enough to let his knee brush against mine, like he was asking without words if I’d flinch, if I’d break, if he should stop.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Instead, I breathed out shakily and tilted my head toward him, lips parting around the edges of something that wasn’t quite speech.

“I’m not used to this,” I whispered.

He didn’t look surprised.

“I know,” he said softly.

There was no pity in it. No rush to fix. Just knowing.

Knowing the kind of history that lives in muscle memory.

Knowing what it means to be touched without tenderness, and to flinch even when there’s no reason to.

He moved again, slower than before. His palm rose, paused mid-air like he was debating whether I was ready for the rest of this, then finally—finally—his fingers brushed my jaw.

Warm. Steady. Reverent.

The contact didn’t ignite fire.

It melted ice.

My eyes fluttered half shut.

“You want the rest of what I didn’t say that day?” Xavier asked, voice closer now—low enough I could feel the breath of it against my cheek.

I nodded, throat too tight for words.

“I walked in,” he murmured, “and saw you curled against Zayne, soft and half-asleep, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if it were me.”

His hand slid down, fingertips just barely grazing the curve of my throat. Not pressing. Not demanding. Just there.

“And not just to hold you,” he went on. “But to make you feel safe enough to fall asleep like that. Like you weren’t afraid to need someone.”

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

Because no one had said that to me.

Ever.

“I wanted to pull you against me,” he continued, each word exhaling against my skin now. “Wrap you in my arms. Feel your heartbeat under my hand. And not because I thought you’d give me anything. Just because… gods, Aven, you looked so tired. And I wanted to be the place you could rest.”

I felt my Evol shift inside me again. Not surging this time—unfurling. Like it was stretching toward him, answering his honesty with resonance of its own. Want and trust and that aching ache for relief.

“Xavier,” I breathed.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t move further.

But he didn’t back away either.

“I need you to know,” he said, softer still, “that this isn’t just Evol attraction. It’s not just the heat or the power. I see you. Through the bruises. Through the cracks. Through all of it.”

I blinked, and felt tears prick the corners of my eyes.

Not because I was sad.

But because it had been so long since someone looked at me and didn’t flinch.

Didn’t try to fix.

Didn’t try to own.

He just was.

Still and grounded and present.

My hand rose—uncertain, trembling—and found the edge of his hoodie sleeve. I curled my fingers in the fabric, tugging him just a little closer.

Just enough for our foreheads to touch.

The sigh that left his chest was nothing short of reverent.

“I’m not asking you to choose,” he whispered again. “But let me stay close. Let me be here—when you fall, when you rise. When it hurts. When it heals. All of it.”

I nodded, slowly, eyes shut, breathing him in like the only oxygen that didn’t sting.

“Okay,” I whispered.

And in that moment, I didn’t need to run.

I didn’t need to hide.

Because Xavier wasn’t trying to take from me.

He was offering something I didn’t even realize I’d needed.

Sanctuary.

We stayed like that for a while.

Foreheads touching. Breathing synced. The silence between us transformed into something softer, warmer, more true than anything that had come before. It wasn’t laced with tension now, not weighted with the unspoken.

It just was.

And it felt like the first real stillness I’d had since arriving in this world.

Xavier’s hand cupped the side of my face, thumb gently grazing just beneath my cheekbone. His other hand shifted between us and came to rest lightly over my wrist, where my pulse betrayed the fragile rhythm of my heart—fluttering like something delicate caught in the cusp of wind and wire.

“I could stay here,” he said after a long beat, his voice low and curved around the edges of wonder. “Right here. With you.”

The words weren’t a demand.

They weren’t even a request.

They were an offering.

Something laid down at my feet without expectation or strings.

I swallowed. The feeling inside my chest coiled tighter, not painful—just full.

Full of him.

Full of the slow, molten awareness that I’d let him in further than anyone in years. And not because he pushed. But because he waited.

“You have no idea,” I whispered, voice trembling, “what that means.”

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to see my face. His eyes searched mine—unhurried, steady. And then, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it:

“Can I kiss you?”

The world stilled.

And something in me ached to say yes.

Everything in me that had gone cold, gone quiet, gone guarded—it all leaned toward him. Toward that voice, that presence, that gaze that held me like I was more than just a vessel for grief.

I wanted to close that last inch.

I wanted to fall forward and let the moment catch me.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

Because even as my body sang for him, even as my soul curled closer like petals to warmth, there was a whisper inside me. A soft, instinctive voice that said not here.

Not in this room, tucked in the ghost ribs of a bunker that once broke boys and shattered gods.

Not surrounded by concrete walls and haunted echoes.

Not where pain still clung to the air like dust.

I exhaled and pressed my hand gently to his chest, fingers spread over his heart—feeling its steady rhythm against my palm.

“I want to,” I said softly, honestly. “God, I want to. But not here. Not yet.”

His breath hitched.

And for a heartbeat, I was afraid I’d ruined it.

But then he smiled.

Not with disappointment. Not with frustration.

Just that same quiet knowing.

“That’s okay,” he murmured, covering my hand with his. “When you’re ready.”

I nodded.

My thumb traced a slow circle over his heartbeat.

“I’ll let you know,” I whispered. “And when it’s right… you won’t have to ask.”

His eyes flickered with something warm and rich, something reverent.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “For as long as it takes.”

And there it was again.

That sanctuary.

Not a place. Not a building.

Him.

We lingered for another beat, the quiet of the room wrapping around us like gauze. My hand was still in his, fingers threaded with a kind of intimacy that didn’t shout or burn—it simply existed, real and solid and chosen.

When Xavier rose to his feet, he didn’t tug me along.

He just waited, his hand still there, still warm, a silent anchor.

I stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from my pants, even though I hadn’t moved from the floor in ten minutes. My legs felt steadier now. My head a little clearer. The ache in my chest still pulsed, but it wasn’t unbearable.

Not when he looked at me like that.

Not when he’d said he’d wait.

We stepped into the hallway together, our pace slow but unhurried. His hand remained in mine. Not possessive. Not performative. Just present. Like a promise resting between our palms.

About halfway down the corridor, his thumb brushed over my knuckles.

“You know,” he said casually, tone a little too dry, “the second we walk in there, someone’s going to ask what took us so long.”

I sighed, head tilting back just enough to stare at the low concrete ceiling. “You mean Raf is going to ask what took us so long.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t need to.

I could already hear the flirty lilt of Rafayel’s voice in my head, dripping with mischief and more than a little suggestive sarcasm.

Xavier glanced down at me with the faintest twitch of a smile. “He’s going to say something inappropriate.”

“I’m shocked,” I deadpanned, “truly.”

“You know he won’t let it go.”

“I’m already cringing.”

“Zayne, or Caleb might try to rescue you.”

“Only to tease me later.”

“And Sylus...?”

I groaned again, this time with genuine, preemptive embarrassment.

Xavier chuckled low in his throat.

I didn’t even try to pull my hand away. I just shifted closer, almost burrowing against his side as we reached the doorway to the training chamber. My shoulder brushed his ribs. His arm curled protectively behind me.

“If anyone says anything,” I murmured, “I’m throwing you under the bus.”

“I can take it,” he replied, tone light, but I could hear the steel beneath it. “But you might not want to look directly at Raf if he’s grinning. It’s how he traps people.”

“Like a fashion-forward Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Exactly.”

I huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, but not a groan either. Just somewhere in between—as if I couldn’t quite decide if I was mortified or... giddy.

And then, still curled slightly into his side, I stepped with him through the door.

The training room hadn’t shifted much. Still humming with quiet static from the earlier session. Still carrying the weight of our Evols in the air. But the moment we crossed the threshold, all four heads turned.

Zayne—arms crossed and back to leaning against the wall—arched a slow, knowing brow.

Caleb, seated on the edge of a cleared table, smirked like he’d been waiting.

Sylus didn’t react at all—on the outside. But his eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked between our linked hands for a fraction of a second too long.

And Raf?

Rafayel tilted his head and grinned, blue-pink eyes gleaming with the exact level of chaos I’d been bracing for.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” he said, in a sing-song tone that was somehow both charming and mildly feral.

I curled further into Xavier’s side, practically hiding behind his shoulder now.

“Ten credits says there was tongue,” Raf added, to no one in particular.

“There was not,” I barked, voice muffled against Xavier’s arm.

“Oh, sweetheart, denial looks so good on you,” he teased, fanning himself like the drama queen he was.

“Raf,” Zayne warned, though there was amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth.

“Just saying! We’ve all had our little spiritual moments today, I think it’s lovely that Aven and our resident cryptid shared theirs behind the drama curtain.”

I reached out blindly and swatted in Raf’s general direction, missing.

“I will use my Evol,” I warned.Raf only grinned wider. “Oh, I hope so.”

[comickhan]

The Spark Pt.2 (Days before the Dance)

“Clash for the Castle Series”

Book: Beginning of the Beginning 

Chapter 1: The Spark Part 2 (Days before the Dance)

Written by Farrakhan Khaliq

A faint knock reverberates outside the tall double doors, where a chorus of voices collides in an incomprehensible symphony. The voices eclipse even the determined knock. Gradually, the knock transforms into a gentle push against the door, as the figure outside leans forward, eyes peering through the narrow gap. With persistence, the door inches ajar, and Jimmy Thompson comes into view.

Inside, a board meeting is in full swing, voices intertwining until Victor Reigns, recognizing Jim's presence, pauses and gestures for him to join. "Jimmy boy! Just the man I want to see," he exclaims, dismissing the board members to leave him and Jim alone.

Victor's sinister grin surfaces, "One Jab Jim Johnson," Victor expels with excitement. Jim's face bears an uncertain smile, torn between interpreting it as a new nickname or an error in addressing him. Regardless, Jim's instinct is to remain composed and simply acknowledge the newfound title.

As Victor approaches, a transition into playful shadowboxing unfolds. He extends a hand, offering a drink and a cigar. Jim, visibly nervous, accepts both, settling at the edge of a sprawling table.

"What can I do for you, Jimmy John?" Victor asks, a hint of confusion in his voice. Jim points to himself, stammering, "But sir, you said I was just a man you wanted to see."

Victor furrows his brows briefly before responding, "I know what I said. But you walked into my office and interrupted my meeting, so I assume there's something I can do for you."

Jim nervously chuckles, taking an ill-guided gulp of his drink. The sensation burns as it goes down his throat, yet he plays it off like he doesn’t feel it. The nervous puff of his cigar triggers a coughing fit, leaving him breathless. Victor jests, "Jesus Christ, don’t die on me before Clash for the Castle," as he leans back, offering no assistance to the choking Jim.

Amid Jim's coughing, intrigue sparks in his eyes. Why the mention of "Clash for the Castle"? Did Victor have plans for him on the grand stage? He asks himself as he regains composure.

Seduced by the sense of safety, that Victor Reigns is providing, Jim begins recounting the locker room attack by Alex Storm with sensationally colorful exaggeration. He amplifies the lack of support from others and points out that even "The Legacy" Marcus M. Knight witnessed the incident without intervening.

Victor takes a puff of his cigar, musing, “Is that so?” Jim quickly retorts, implying that he's breaking the news before Marcus M. Knight could. Victor chuckles, responding in a way that suggests Jim's attempt to get ahead of the story's curve. Unable to read Victor's sarcasm, Jim stammers, "Buh... Buh..."

Victor finishes Jim’s thought with a revision, hinting that the manager's silence could create a more compelling narrative. Jim smirks, sensing a new understanding between them.

Victor stands up from the table, drink still in hand. He gazes into his glass, swirling it, the ice hitting the inner rim. He questions seriously, "How do I know you're not just making this up as a way to try and sway an already complicated situation in your favor or provoke a reaction from me?"

With renewed confidence, Jim sips his drink and chuckles, asking if it even matters. Victor chuckles, his cigar clenched between his teeth, and affirms, "Good answer."

Jim finishes his drink, ashes his cigar, and rises from the table. "Well, sir, it was a pleasure," Jim replies, extending his hand. Victor looks at Jim's empty hand, hesitating for a moment before grabbing it and pulling him into a hug. "No Jimbo, it's truly my honor," Victor responds.

As Jim heads toward the doors, he pauses and turns back to Victor. "Oh, and what is it that you wanted to see me for?" Victor, now facing the Skyview window, turns his head slightly and makes eye contact with Jim. He chuckles, responding, "Does it even matter?" With a final puff of his cigar and a sinister look of elation, Victor turns his head back to the window as Jim confidently walks out of his office.

Victor's confident smirk slowly transforms into a scowl of disdain. Now left alone with his thoughts, hewrestles with the influx of new information, delivered by none other than Jim Thompson. Fueled by this revelation, Victor's mind churns, concocting a scheme to intensify the disruption within Alex Storm's world.

He reaches for the intercom, establishing a connection with his secretary on the outside. "Samantha, send a Limo to Jim Thompson's place of residence tomorrow morning. I'm treating him to breakfast. Something befitting a champion." The words drip from Victor's lips, his tone a mixture of calculated malice and vindictive pleasure.

*****

A few days have passed since the unexpected twist during Monday Night Mayhem, when Alex Storm was surprisingly pinned by Jim Thompson. Despite his lingering frustration, Alex decides to relax by going out for drinks with a few of his colleagues - that included fellow wrestlers Ethan Stone & Dylan Blaze (the tag team champions of the (ROF) Ring of Fire promotion), and the acclaimed "The Legend" Marcus M. Knight.

The group heads to The Rock Bottom, a local bar situated near Johnson's Gym where they honed their skills. Upon entering, they are greeted with admiration from the patrons. Knight, reveling in the attention, casually wraps his arm around Alex's shoulders. Alex, acknowledging the crowd's applause, raises his hand in response. Leaning into Knight, he playfully quips, "You do realize these cheers are meant for me, right, old-timer?" Knight, wearing a smile, retorts, "Not after that loss on Monday, my boy," followed by a hearty chuckle. Alex appears slightly irked but tries to brush it off. Meanwhile, Ethan and Dylan stand behind them. Ethan leans into Dylan, humorously suggesting, "I guess drinks are on them, huh?"

Inside the bar, the air is vibrant with the sound of clinking glasses and animated conversations. Dylan positions himself at the dartboard, glancing towards his companion, Ethan, who’s at his side. With a smirk, Dylan remarks, "Watch this, Ethan. Get ready for a bullseye."

Ethan chuckles before responding, "Sure thing, Dylan. But don't forget, I'm the reigning champ when it comes to darts." He takes a sip of his drink, but his eyes remain fixed on the board.

Over at the pool table, Alex lines up a tricky shot, frustration etched on his face. "Man, I can't believe I lost to that nobody, Jim Thompson. It's like the universe played a cruel joke on me," he grumbles, sinking the ball into the pocket.

Knight, leaning against the pool table, raises an eyebrow. "Alex, you know how this business works. Upsets happen. We'll bounce back."

Alex sighs and takes a sip of his drink. "I get it, but I'm a main event wrestler! Losing to a jobber like that is a blow to my reputation."

Dylan finishes his throw and turns to Alex. "Hey, don't sweat it too much. We've all had our off days. Remember that time I slipped on the ropes during that ladder match?"

Ethan laughs. "Oh yeah, you became a human slingshot! We still won that match though."

Knight nods in agreement. "Exactly. Your career isn't defined by a single match. And speaking of matches, how are you guys feeling about the upcoming tag team title defense?"

Dylan's eyes light up. "Excited as ever. Ethan and I are ready to keep those belts around our waists. The Ring of Fire Wrestling promotion has some tough competition, but we'll come out on top."

Ethan adds, "Yeah, and the fans love seeing us in action. It's all about giving them a show they won't forget."

Alex takes a deep breath, frustration still evident on his face. “I get it, Marcus. But losing to a guy like Jim Thompson, it’s embarrassing. People are talking about it, and not in a good way.”

Knight leans in and pats Alex on the back. “Look, I understand your frustration, but remember, this is just a bump in the road. You’ve got a lot of matches ahead to prove yourself.”

Alex swirls his drink around the cup absentmindedly. “Yeah, I know. But what really gets to me is that this wasn’t even the match I was supposed to have. Did you know in advance what Victor had planned?”

Knight lets out a sigh and takes a sip of his own drink. “Look, I’m the GM, but I don’t have full control over Victor’s decisions. I was as surprised as you were when I saw the match change at the last minute.”

Alex clenches his fist. “It’s just frustrating. I’ve put in so much work, and then to lose like that, out of nowhere… it’s like I’m not being taken seriously.”

Knight nods sympathetically. “I hear you. But sometimes, these unexpected twists can lead to new opportunities. You’ve got the skills and the determination to bounce back from this setback. Let’s focus on what’s next.”

Alex takes a deep breath, his frustration slowly giving way to determination. “You’re right, Marcus. I can’t let this loss define me. I’ll come back stronger and show everyone that I’m a main event wrestler for a reason.”

Knight smiles and raises his glass. “That’s the spirit. And you’ve got the support of the whole promotion behind you, including Victor. He may have his quirks, but he knows talent when he sees it.”

Alex leans back in his chair, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. “Oh, fuck Victor,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Ethan and Dylan exchange amused glances before Ethan raises an eyebrow dramatically. “Man, are your arms long enough to box with God?”

Dylan chuckles, joining in on the fun. “Yeah, you’re reaching new heights of frustration there.”

Alex can’t help but crack a small smile at their antics. “Alright, alright, you guys got your laughs. But seriously, this whole situation is messing with my head.”

Knight interjects, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Well, how about this? I could set up a match for you this Saturday on Slamfest. It’ll be a way to build a narrative off of what happened on Monday.”

Alex lifts an eyebrow, showing interest. “Go on...”

Knight leans in, his voice lowered as he reveals his plan. “The opponent will be a mystery, but I’ll make sure they’re someone within your class status. We’ll give the audience something to talk about.”

Alex considers it for a moment before nodding slowly. “I’m intrigued. But it better not be a shit show. I need to show everyone that I’m back on track.”

Knight nods in agreement. “I hear you. And after Monday’s event, I had a chat with Victor myself. I let him know my displeasure with how things unfolded. But he assured me that there’s a bigger picture to this whole thing.”

Alex raises an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his expression. “Bigger picture, huh?”

Knight leans back, a reassuring smile on his face. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Just trust that I’ve got your back, Alex. We’ll work through this together.”

As the conversation progresses, Alex’s frustration begins to transform into a mixture of curiosity and determination, while Marcus’s assurances and plans for the future start to instill a sense of hope in him.

*****

Following an intense round of pool, darts, and a healthy dose of drinks accompanied by light-hearted banter, the group, now a little tipsy yet mindful, migrates towards an unoccupied table. Knight leans in towards Alex and asks whether he meant what he said in the locker room. Alex, with a hand placed on Marcus's adjacent shoulder, focuses his drunken gaze on Marcus and jestingly replies, "Stop being a pussy." The table erupts into a roar of laughter.

Out of the blue, one of the bartenders approaches the table, gathering glasses—some still full, others half-empty. The wrestlers put up playful protests. Dylan chimes in, "Hey, who said we're finished?" Ethan joins in, "Yeah, we've paid good money to be here. Don't snatch our glasses unless we give you the green light!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Alex intervenes in an effort to regain control of his friends. He gazes at the bartender with a touch of confidence and apologizes on behalf of his companions. Curious, he inquires about her name. She replies, "Ava." Alex takes Ava's hand gently, locking eyes, and remarks, "Well, it's a pleasure to formally meet you, Ava. Would you mind leaving the glasses on the table? I'll personally bring them all back to you once we're finished. Does that work for you?"

Enchanted by Alex's charisma, Ava responds wordlessly, nodding, and slightly nibbles on her lip as she makes her way back to the bar area to continue attending to other patrons.

"What the hell was that about?" Dylan inquires. "I don't know," responds Alex. "All I know is that I think I just saw the future."

As the night winds down, the group of wrestlers begins to sober up, and they gradually go their separate ways. 

*****

Alex takes a moment to reassure Knight that he's not upset with him. He offers words of encouragement, saying, "Bro, the story never dies. Save face at all times." With a wink, Alex playfully slaps Marcus's face and pulls him into a brotherly hug. As he releases his grip, Alex whispers a reminder to Marcus, who holds a position of power as the GM, ensuring that everything goes smoothly. Marcus responds silently, walking out of the bar.

Alex turns his attention to Ava, "Bringing all of the glasses to you personally as I promised," Alex gestures toward her. Amused by his continued charm, Ava chuckles and acknowledges that he did indeed fulfill his promise. Alex leans in a little closer, their hands meeting on the bar top. Curious, he asks if she has a last name. Ava responds with a teasing tone, saying she does have one but he'll have to work to find it out.

Confidently, Alex inquires if Ava knows who he is, gesturing toward himself. She playfully responds, "Of course I know who you are, “Rabble Rouser” Alex Storm." Their eyes lock, and a gentle stare lingers between them. Alex finally breaks the trance and asks Ava if she's free this weekend. She responds enthusiastically, saying she'd love to attend his match. Plans in motion, they agree that he'll pick her up before the event.

Amid the playful banter, Alex's charm and bashful confidence shine through. He even secures front row tickets for Ava. She expresses interest in being picked up, wanting to experience firsthand what he does for a living. They exchange light-hearted comments, sharing a connection that leaves both intrigued.

The enchanting conversation leaves Alex blushing both inside and out. He stumbles over his words as he makes his way toward the exit, managing to invite Ava to the event and arrange the details, albeit a bit awkwardly. "I'll pick you up around 12!" he calls out as he leaves the bar, feeling both excited and embarrassed.

*****

The upcoming pay-per-view holds immense excitement for Alex, even in the face of uncertainty about his opponent. The prospect of securing a shot at a championship belt if he wins the Rumble Revolutionized is driving Alex's determination to succeed, adding an extra layer of motivation to his preparation.

Fueled by a blend of pride, liquid courage, and a chance encounter with a captivating woman, Alex seizes his phone and turns to social media. In anticipation of an impending match at Slamfest, Alex delivers an impromptu promo for his fans to instantly witness:

“Ladies and gentlemen, gather 'round because I've got something to say that's been burning in my gut. This is the ‘Rebel Rouser’ Alex Storm, and yeah, you remember that Monday Night Mayhem, don't you? The night I looked across the ring and locked eyes with defeat, courtesy of Jim Thompson. You bet I remember. But guess what? I didn't come here to dwell on losses; I came here to talk about the fire that's been ignited within me.

Yeah, I've heard the whispers. I've heard the murmurs in the locker room, the talk that it's open season on me. Well, let me tell you something: I'm not about to be anyone's easy target. Those who think they can just walk all over me are in for a rude awakening.

Now, here's the deal. You know what's happening this Sunday at the Rumble Revolution PPV? That's right, the Rumble Revolution match. And you know what I'm gonna do there? I'm gonna show the world that I haven't lost a step. I'm stepping in that ring with one goal: winning. I'm gonna earn back the respect that might have wavered after that loss.

But before the Rumble Revolution even hits, I've got something else in mind. Consider it a warm-up, consider it a statement, whatever you want. I'm throwing down an open challenge to anyone in the Slamfest locker room who dares to step up. I'm talking about facing off, toe to toe, in a match that's gonna leave jaws dropping and history being made.

It's not just about revenge, it's about reclaiming my place at the top. I'm here to show that losses don't define me; they fuel me. I'm here to prove that it's not open season on me, it's a chance for anyone who thinks they can hang with the best. So mark my words, Slamfest universe, before the Rumble Revolution rolls around, I'll be reminding you exactly who I am.”

*****

On the night of the much-anticipated fight, Alex positions himself at the heart of the ring, his body swaying side to side with a mix of excitement and focus. His unwavering gaze remains fixed on the entrance ramp, every muscle primed for action as he awaits his opponent's arrival. Amidst the sea of faces in the front row, his eyes lock onto Ava—the woman he'd extended an invitation to from the bar. A glimmer of recognition passes between them before the arena plunges into sudden darkness.

A wave of puzzled murmurs courses through the crowd, a mix of curiosity and unease hanging in the air. Then, in a dramatic flourish, the lights snap back on, revealing an unexpected sight: three enigmatic figures now stand within the ring, forming an ominous triangle around Alex. The gasp of shock from the spectators mirrors Alex's own astonishment as he instinctively shifts his stance, his confusion tinged with an edge of caution.

The three hooded figures exude an aura of mystery, their identities shrouded in darkness. With a surge of determination, Alex reaches out to unveil the countenance of one of the figures, driven by a need to uncover the truth. But his action triggers an immediate response—the other two figures pounce on him, their movements swift and coordinated.

A flurry of blows rain down upon Alex, the sharp impact of fists against flesh reverberating through the arena. The crowd's collective gasps and exclamations mingle with the sounds of struggle as Alex fights to defend himself. Undeterred, the assailants press their advantage, their calculated strikes testing Alex's resolve. The ring becomes a battleground, the clash of wills palpable as Alex's determination fuels his resistance.

Despite his valiant efforts, the odds are against Alex as the trio of attackers overwhelm him. The ring becomes a whirlwind of motion and tension, a dance of aggression and defense. The crowd's emotions run high, their shock evolving into a mixture of concern and disbelief. 

As Alex struggles to regain his footing within the ring, one of the hooded assailants abruptly darts outside the confines of the ropes, disappearing from view momentarily. A shiver of anticipation passes through the crowd as they watch, their gazes fixed on the edge of the arena floor. With a grim determination, the figure reappears, brandishing an array of weapons retrieved from beneath the apron. The audience's collective breath seems to hold as the assortment of instruments of pain and destruction are hurled with purpose into the center of the ring.

In this grim tableau, each of the three enigmatic figures claims a different weapon, a choice made with chilling intent. One man's fingers wrap around the textured grip of a kendo stick, the weapon's slender yet formidable presence promising a world of hurt. Another tightens his grip on a metal trash can, the clang of its surface reverberating through the arena like a dire omen. The third secures a chair, its utilitarian design now transformed into a tool of brutal aggression.

With an almost choreographed precision, the trio of assailants launches a relentless assault on Alex. Their movements are deliberate, the rhythm of their strikes forming a grim symphony of pain. The kendo stick slices through the air, leaving a trail of tension in its wake, each impact met with a muted thud against Alex's body. The metallic clang of the trash can joins the macabre melody, its contact accompanied by a disconcerting resonance. The chair's descent is a crescendo of power, the blows landing with an unmistakable force that draws gasps from the crowd.

Alex stands his ground with a fierce determination, each action a testament to his resolve even as the onslaught wears him down. But the attackers are unyielding, their collective rage propelling them forward. Amidst the chaos, one of the assailants seizes a table, its legs scraping against the canvas as it's set up, a grim harbinger of what's to come. The arena's atmosphere is electric, an eerie tension hanging in the air.

With a synchronized effort, the three men converge on Alex, a collective force determined to break him. They lift him into the air as if he's a mere pawn in a malevolent game, his body poised above the table. In a heart-stopping finale, they unleash a final surge of power, driving Alex through the table in a collision of splintered wood and raw impact. The crowd's reaction is a mixture of shock and horror, their collective gasp punctuating the moment of brutal impact.

As the dust clears, the assailants stand victorious, their expressions obscured by the shadows of their hoods. Over the inert form of Alex, their breathing is heavy, a visible manifestation of the intensity of the encounter. With a chilling air of dominance, they linger over Alex's unconscious body, their malevolent triumph casting a haunting spell over the arena.

[audikatia]

15 Questions | 15 People

Rules: Answer these 15 Questions, then Tag 15 People 

Thanks for tagging me @your-void-senpai ❤️

Are you named after anyone? My middle name was picked for my grandfather.

When was the last time you cried? Watching that damn TLOU episode, fuck. It got me.

Do you have kids? Absolutely not.

Do you use sarcasm a lot? What else is going to get me through the day?

What’s the first thing you notice about people? Whatever their standout feature is, I guess. Like, if they're in shorts and its freezing outside, I notice the shorts first. If they have funky hair, I notice the funky hair. Etc.

What’s your eye color? Blue

Scary movies or happy ending? Depends on my mood, really. Usually scary movies though.

Any special talents? You should see me run the laser machines. It's like a dance.

Where were you born? Dirty Jersey

What are your hobbies? Reading. Writing, illustrations, painting. Exercising, running, yoga. I also do a lot of little things around my apartment, like recaning an old rocking chair, doing shadowboxes of animal bones I've collected and cleaned, fixing up old vintage frames for art prints I've purchased for my gallery wall, making very specific shelves for random stuff, etc.

Do you have any pets? Yes, my kitty Zelda lives with me and I still think of the cats at my parents' house as my cats, too. Pandora and Belle.

What sports do you play/have you played? Soccer (I think if you don't play soccer as a child in the US, there's a warrant out for you or something), basketball, softball.

How tall are you? 5’8"

Favorite subject at school? English, history, and biology.

Dream job? Exhibition designer at a medical museum. Which is a dream further and further away since there are like 6.5 medical museums and the museum field (which was already a nightmare) is a fucking joke right now post-Covid-lockdown.

lol I am not tagging 15 people. Fuck the system. @the-prince-of-tides @freshwaterseas @zaatanna @kelliealtogether @annesurelyblythe and anyone else who wants to

[illjuststayhere]

05/18/2018

For the Anger of Him

By Patrick Biesemans

     “If you don’t love me now, you’ll never love me again.” Classic rock, country and talk radio blares out of each cabin. The intense fumes of diesel fuel are inescapable, it sticks to clothing and nostril hairs. These people are fermented in a concoction of wet pavement, gasoline and energy drinks, ossified to their very existence. Even the coffee tastes like it has petrol in it.

I’m not as impatient as I was when I was younger but I’m waiting for him which puts me at a base level of dull agitation. There’s not a goddamn thing I wanna eat here, everything looks like a straight shot to artery replacements or diabetes. I order the fries. They’re probably lowered into a vat of motor oil. My petrol coffee with a side order of Valvoline french fries. This place is the embodiment of a Bob Seger song. The looks I’m getting aren’t even subtle but the waitress at the counter still calls me “Honey.” Her smile brings me little comfort.

He is already a half-hour late and there’s no wifi or reception in this black hole of communication somewhere between Cantua Creek and Kettleman City. If I look at the timeline of my life, I’m sure I’d be surprised to know I’ve been waiting for him for a little over ten hours of accumulated time. That’s really not that much in the scope of thirty-five years. Problem is that it’s not just the waiting, it’s the effort for an inevitable waste of time; I’ll sit across from him, and he won’t make eye-contact and I won’t break mine. I never break eye-contact with him, I know how it makes him uncomfortable. He’ll ask me about things that I don’t feel like telling him. Not because I’m lazy but because I don’t think he deserves to know anything about me. I wish he’d just stop blubbering and tell me he has cancer or something terminal… anything that would force me to be obligatorily nice to him. Faked pleasantries in the face of looming death are better than listening to him blunder his way through a string of false apologies.

I’m already ahead of myself, battling it out with an apparition of him before he even walks through the door. Emotional shadowboxing. I wonder if the opposite side of this story is happening across the counter from me with someone else. I’m probably the only fool in this joint that went out of his way to be here. This shack, this waterhole, this isn’t somewhere you plan to be. It’s somewhere you most definitely end up.

Tired of waiting, I go outside. I wouldn’t be mad if they threw out my barely touched basket of translucent fries. There’s not much to look at out here. There’s a sparse beauty to it; the landscape canvas soaked in royal blues and purples. Hues of pink hug the darkness of the hills being penetrated by motorist’s headlights; families on vacation heading to Disneyland; teenagers on their first road trip without parents heading to somewhere “cool,” secretly wishing they were heading to Disneyland. Certainly, either one of these truckers or motorists is getting road head. It’s just something you do on this stretch of road. There isn’t shit else to pass the time. You can only sing your favorite songs, at the top of your lungs, so many times.

I wander around the wet fluorescent-lit structure for a while, looking for a signal. I don’t know why, there’s no one I would call right now, it’s just something to do. I’m wandering around long enough to make a decision: go back inside and wait or jump back into my econo-rental and drive back to the civilized world, out of the barren wasteland. I think of few reasons to get gone but the dread of sitting in a car for the next few hours outweighs any reason to leave, and I go back inside, back to my basket of fries soaking through the parchment paper they were haphazardly delivered on.

I take the basket from the counter and sit at a booth with my eyes on the front door. I think five or ten minutes have passed, and my head finds its way into my hands. I think it’s time to go. The Christmas bells jingle above the door and someone calls out his name, and then another person grunts a low registered welcome. He is clearly a regular. I don’t look up right away because, honestly, I’m used to him forgetting about me, forgetting what I look like. He’ll probably walk right by me and not even...

A worn-out voice mutters “Hey.”

I look up and see him standing there, you can tell he wants a hug but I’ll be damned if I give him one. Instead, I offer him a Valvoline french fry. “Sorry I’m late, I just…” I cut him off with a head shake before he can squeak out another lame-ass excuse. As he sits, sarcasm oozes from my mouth as I ask him, “Do you come to this charming place often?” He scoffs. He doesn’t know how to handle me, never has. The waitress from the counter saunters over to the booth and asks him what he’d like. “The usual, Maryanne” he replies. He knows her name and orders the “usual,” he does come here often, and we can’t be any more different. I would have to be from another fucking planet.

“How’s your mom?” he asks, to which I swiftly reply, “That’s none of your damn business.” The “usual” finds its way onto the table… I think it’s Salisbury steak. I think. There’s just too much gravy involved to be entirely sure. In the back of my mind, there are a million other places I’d like to be right now but not a single one of them comes to the forefront, so I make up a general lie. “Look, I’ve got somewhere I need to be, so we should probably say what we gotta say.” He pushes the “usual” away while still gnawing on a bite of it. “Okay, well, I’ve got cancer.”

I’ve never been able to contort my expressions to say what I’m not really thinking. So right now, he is reading “It’s deserved” written across my unsympathetic face. It’s deserved, it’s your sentence for the years of absentee parenting, it’s deserved for making my mother cry, for hurting her, for hurting us. It’s the penance you pay for being a knuckle-dragging-ignoramus. Your cancer is the cure for full-blown asshole. I’m not sad, I’m angry he won’t be around for more years for me to ignore his fucking phone calls. I won’t even question what kind of cancer he might have or where it might have come from. I know his pack-a-day habits, his six-pack after six-pack midnight routines. He’s eating that damn plate of Salisbury mush while looking for sympathy. He has cancer, I don’t question it.

Somewhere in the midst of it, while wading my way through emotions hidden by a contorted expression, I looked down at the table. I broke eye-contact and the table opened into a swirling portal of memories that won’t go away; Christmases, Easters, birthdays all swirl with a form of happiness projecting from my mother center stage, a radiant aura of love and warmth. But frayed at the edges of these memories is a spot painted in angry colors, smouldering reds and earthy yellows. A picture developed wrong. It’s him. It’s all my anger. It’s all my resentment, frustration, and callousness presented in technicolor.

“What are you telling me for?” I ask because I can’t think of anything else to say. His response is muffled, it’s far away. His sob story is the same one I’ve been listening to for years but now it has cancer as the punchline. Like it was the behind-the-scenes culprit that was fucking up his otherwise promising life the whole time. At some point during his lengthy session of the blame game, I stand up.

“I’m having a smoke. You can keep talking outside.”

I’ve been here for five hours, that’s half the accumulated time I’ve had to wait for this asshole in my life. I’ve been here for five hours and I realize, outside of my childhood, this is the most time I’ve ever spent with him. I’m about halfway down my cigarette when he asks if he can have one, my reply full of sarcasm. “I don’t know, can you?” I light his cigarette, and the most subtle of details reveals the most devastating revelation; he takes a long drag and the cigarette finds its way low between the index and middle finger, close to the top knuckles. No one holds their cigarettes like that, no one but me.

This little detail, this insignificant speck of information; I look at his hands, calloused, saturated with twenty years of physical labor. Although shorter than I, his posture is mine. The wrinkles and creases of his brow leading to a sharpened point of discontent, also mine. His anger, mine. My anger, his. I’ve waited for him for ten hours accumulated time but I have lived with his anger, within me, for my entirety. Not because of him but because of me. I’ve nurtured it, I’ve cultivated it. I’ve honed it into an unbridled weapon for me to wield against those that have wronged me and even those that have loved me.

We haven’t said much in the last few moments. All I need is for him to say two words and we can release the burden between us. He’s said these words many times over but I wasn’t receptive, I was oblivious to the little details. His cigarette is nearing its end. I just need him to say two words. The cigarette butt sails across the backdrop of fluorescent haze and wet asphalt. In my peripheral, I can see he’s looking at me. He wants to say so much more but all he can muster is “It was good seeing you.” It’s more than I can say, I’m just waiting for him to say those two words. All I can squeak out is “Yeah.” With a slight nod of acknowledgement, he begins to walk away. Please just say those two words and we can make up for all of that lost time. He’s far enough to know it’s not going to happen…

“Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Photo by Taylor Durrer on Unsplash

[onceabluemoonwrites]

Ficwritersweek Day 5: Verbatim

Readers: Share your favorite quotes - You read a fic, and a sentence sticks to your mind for days. A passage has such beautiful imagery that you can almost see it, conveys so many feelings that it makes you cry. Let us know what some of your favorite fic quotes are!

Writers: Share your favorite quotes from your fics - There’s always those passages that you’re the most proud of writing. This prompt is so you can proudly showcase them to your readers!

@ficwritersweek

Today I’m participating as writer and reader both! First, two quotes from some of my favourites authors I haven’t mentioned yet!

(In the background, Bakugo let out a rather embarrassing squeak of fear. “Omnivore? He’s calling him Omnivore? He never calls anyone Omnivore!”)

- When the Clouds Roll In (And He Carries The God Of War On His Back) by @metronomeihear

Mei’s work is glorious, but this KHR/BNHA crossover is even MORE glorious. Just. Look at it. I promise you won’t regret it. It is amazing.

Years later, a story would be told of the last Vongola heir who so suddenly disappeared, only a broken music box left in its wake. The eerie tune of Once Upon a December, that should have been beautiful, a terrifying sound.

- Once Upon A December by @curiousbecuriousblueram

This story is a HP/KHR crossover, and features Harry and Giotto. It’s haunting and beautiful and still gives me chills every time I reread it!

then as he gets older, people see that he isn't as quick on the uptake as others

and single him out for it

he finds the best way to send them running is to be loud, lots of extremes

and shadowboxing maybe a bit closer to the face than most people are comfortable with

- Sonder, chapter 3: Sun, by @operaeagleicelynlacelett

It’s written in a poetry like style, and this chapter features Ryohei! It’s depiction of him wasn’t something I had seen before and it’s brilliant!

Now some of my own favourite quotes, sorted by fandom!

KHR

Forget party like it’s 1999, party like it’s the Middle Ages-  The noise pollution was so bad, that the neighboring countries grew tired of complaining and declared war on Britain.

-Sangreal

Sangreal is a King Arthur AU and man, writing this is fun!

Naruto

The drums echo in her ears, in unison with her heartbeat. The entire village flurries around her like a snow storm, the air crackling, the tension high. Children are wailing, the adults belt the song of life and death until their throats are sore, stomping their feet in time with the beat. Sakura’s peers whirl around the fire at her back, the heat slamming into her each time the wind changes direction.

It moves past her like the clouds pass the sun.

-Persephone Speaks

A deity AU featuring Sakura as the vessel of the Spring Maiden. I really liked writing this part, it felt so alive!

His fists tighten at the sight of the back of Naruto’s head. He’s blond, like the sun, and has eyes like the sky, but all Sasuke can think when he looks at him is:

Why can’t you be enough?

-Hyetal 

Hyetal is, to this date, one of my best uses of symbolism. I enjoyed writing it so much! Especially when following stuff like this up with ‘’ Naruto saves Sakura, and Sasuke realizes he doesn’t know what the sky looks like anymore.’’ later in the fic. 

Free!

‘’He stormed off to Nanase river!’’

Haru doesn’t need to see the blood draining Makoto’s face, because he can feel the same happening to his own. The river doesn’t hurt those who bear the name of the seven rapids, those who bear the curse, but it certainly will take the life of little Ren Tachibana if he gets too close to the riverbank.

- Sirensong

Sirensong is one of those fics that’s never going to leave me. This was definitely one of my favourite moments to write- especially while listening to ‘’What the Water Gave Me,’’ by Florence and the Machine!

SNK

Nile is so human, brimming with insecurities, so open where Erwin is closed. He wears his sins on his sleeve like a man confessing, as if forgiveness will make him happy when he knows it won’t. He’s all dark hair, pale skin, eyes glinting in the firelight, biting sarcasm and so, so soft. So sweet.

And Marie falls again, like a feather floating down to the ground.

- Withering, chapter 3

Withering was a real experience to write! Nile, Erwin and Marie spoke to me, and god, it was interesting! Especially when, half-way through the story, it turned out Nile was bi as hell and into Erwin and Marie BOTH. I had no idea. It just happened. 

[blackwoolncrown]

shit u rite

they’re so busy hunting down gotchas and morality points. fucking shadowboxing with sarcasm and shit lol

[toddlazarski]

“Tangents Are The Point”

Q&A With Milwaukee Author Todd Lazarski - by Justin Kern

Great Lakes Review 

Q&A with Milwaukee author Todd Lazarski as he romanticizes and sometimes denigrates: Chris Paul; sarcasm’s hidden kindness; self-destruction as research; necessary meanness in food writing; and thoughts of his father, dead at 39

Todd Lazarski, 33, quietly compartmentalizes his obsessions, sort of shadowboxes that he knows have to see sun, even if it’s when they’re getting tossed. Inside-turned-out, Todd found relief in the release of his first novel, “Make the Road by Walking” (June 2016, on Cleveland’s Red Giant Books), a familiar-feeling journal across the Midwest, New Orleans and California. He has realized personal space as a “fat guy” – pretend or otherwise – devouring the world 10 dinners at a time, in Rio de Janeiro, Buffalo and Milwaukee, in pieces for Paste, TimeOut, Shepherd Express and Milwaukee Record. His next exposition will be a second novel, “Spend It All”, a reckoning of idiotic youth with whatever the hell it is that compels us to trudge ahead and try into near adulthood, chicken finger sub in hand (you can read an excerpt here; he’s currently playing matchmaker with a publisher).

I met Todd a few years ago due to the Buffalo Bills, the team of our respective home fields in western New York though we had both been transplanted to Milwaukee. Along with the yeoman’s bliss from running back Fred Jackson, we shared Jim Harrison and Stanley Elkin books, and realized it’d be easier to be friends than to tough it out as isolated fans. This past December, we went on a road trip for readings at the marvelous Mac’s Books in Cleveland and a book release in Buffalo. These acts pulled Todd further from internalized roiling over writing and out into its small but not-always-wretched public aspects. The following unabashedly long-form Q&A is an extrapolation on that tangent – a dialogue of poignancy and personal jabs, edited (honestly!) for flow, from two nights in early March in Milwaukee.

Part One:

Bradley Center, L.A. Clippers vs. Milwaukee Bucks. Todd had free tickets to the game from a friend in his basketball rec league, the one who put the scar over Todd’s right eye with a scrappy elbow a few months back. Todd promised not to milk that friend’s guilt over the scar that occurred in a middle-aged, nearly talented rec league game, though he gladly accepted the tickets to see star Clippers guard Chris Paul. We join Todd’s oeuvres to the very game of basketball, already in progress …

Todd: No other sport has that. Nothing else in my life has that. Basketball is the most beautiful of all physical endeavors. And it’s the most American. But more … it’s the most stylish, the most graceful.

Justin: It’s definitely the most American. Even though, I think a Canadian made it. Doctor Naismith, a basketball doctor, I guess.

Todd: You’ve said the Canadian thing before. … It’s kind of a stupid idea. Here, throw this ball into this basket. A laundry hamper, something people do every day in their house. Here [are] my dirty chonis.

Justin: Chonis? How’s that spelled? What’s AP Style?

Todd: C-H-O-N-I-S, your boxers. AP Style has a capital “C” and capital “H”.

[Unintentional pause where ‘Charge!’ plays exactly once on the stadium P.A.]

Justin: So, I mean …

Todd: You are able to express your individual style in a team context. It makes it the American ideal. It makes it like jazz – I realize that’s a cliché but it’s completely true – in that you’re doing a thing that is a team thing, but even the way you dribble the ball down the court when no one is on you is an expression of yourself. Football players don’t do shit like that.

Justin: Right. And you don’t see their face …

Todd: You don’t see their face. They execute. It’s utilitarian. I’m going to run you over or I’m not going to. In basketball, you can just dribble between your legs. There’s a usefulness to dribbling between your legs, sometimes, but not usually. Sometimes you just want to dribble between your legs. Or put [the ball] in your left hand. You try to establish a rhythm. Which is cool, the ultimate symbol of cool. Individualism, coming out of the inner city, turning into the American dream.

Justin: That you could be yourself and be famous.

Todd: Not even be famous. Be cool because you’re playing basketball. You’re a baller. Also, it’s the only sport you can play by yourself. Completely by yourself. You can’t do that with football –

Justin: What if you’re a kicker? What about [just-about-to-be-released Buffalo Bills kicker] Dan Carpenter? He’s going to be playing by himself, kicking in the backyard a lot soon.

Todd: You do have that argument. [Pauses] Shooting hoops by myself is my favorite thing that I’ve ever done in my life. If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be that. When I’m doing that, I’m actually playing basketball. I’m doing the thing that [points to the Clippers/Bucks game on the court] they’re doing now. It’s an actual representation of the sport and of myself. You could do that with soccer, I guess. But with basketball, you’re not playing against anyone else. Like with horseshoes, what you talk about with horseshoes. It’s an embodiment of the sport and yourself.

Justin: I remember being in Rollerblades, in a parking lot with a … cheap stick and an orange ball, shooting against the fence of a parking lot … I’m telling myself I’m playing hockey but there’s not a single part of that [which] is like real hockey. … When it comes down to it, LeBron in Game 7 of the Finals last year made the game happen. He was himself and made them win, after he broke his wrist or whatever, and that block … with his own will and personality.

Todd: It couldn’t happen in any other sport. You talk about [Patrick] Kane and the way he moves, you talk about grace or his step ahead of other players. Like he knows where to go and how to create space in a limited –

Justin: Yes, yes. I guess Gretzky did that in a way, in a specific way in the frame of the game, behind the net. But Kane makes the place to go, the space, which seems bizarre, like it shouldn’t be able to happen. They’re all on the same ice, the players. But [with Kane] it happens every night, a few times every night.

Todd: That’s how I feel about Chris Paul. When he was young, he was explosive athletically. Then he had knee shit … he lost lateral quickness. But he’s extremely impressive and cerebral, even more so now, at least to me and people who are basketball nerds. His ability – when Derrick Rose’s knees went, he was shot. It’ll be interesting to see LeBron because when his athleticism goes … Paul still has the ability to go from here to there on the court, without the athleticism of his youth. He’s so smooth and graceful, it’s the height of sports. Grace in physical –

Justin: It sounds like you’re explaining gymnastics.

Todd: It is, in a way. But there’s a cool – to watch him direct, be a quarterback, put the ball through his legs and look cool but also lead a team. Do that and you’re the fucking man. For three-and-a-half quarters, all [Paul] is worried about is making the pass, setting up everyone else. What John Stockton did. Almost to a fault. To get the team in rhythm where the team can fire on all cylinders even if it doesn’t seem like it could.

Justin: Well, you talk about Paul, you talk about Stockton. The ultimate benchmark of sports is – as much as people want to make everything in life a black and white decision – winning or losing. That’s what it comes down to. For real, not like how people make imaginary scenarios where you have to rank bands or artists. In sports you’re supposed to win. You can enjoy it no matter what, but, when I’m kicking your ass in NBA Jam [for Sega Genesis], and you pick Stockton, and you’re losing, it doesn’t matter much if it’s pretty. [Pauses, back to the present momentarily] The Bucks are turning this into a beatdown. Your boy Paul has one foul and five points …

Todd: Yeah, yeah … he needs them to chill out. When he was on New Orleans, he was maybe the greatest guard. But that’s bullshit. The ultimate benchmark isn’t winning. It shouldn’t be.

Justin: As Bills fans, I know we try to rationalize everything like that.

[We’re at the stadium for overly expensive Miller High Lifes – High Lives? – until the Bucks win by double-digits and Chris Paul maybe reinjures his thumb. We leave for a few bars, one where Katy Perry played just louder than the Spurs/Pelicans game, then another …]

Part Two:

Urban is a new-ish bar that replaced an old drywaller’s hangout in Milwaukee’s Bay View neighborhood, where both live, separately, with our wives and cats, like some sophisticated dandies. At the bar, we laughed off the guilt of cheering on the Bills highlight portions of the stupendous “O.J.: Made in America” documentary on a corner TV. As we talked shit to each other, needlessly, we rejoin the conversation already overwhelmingly in progress …

Justin: You said a great thing on our trip [in December] about the value of western New York sarcasm. Where people just bust your balls and that’s how you know they give a shit. It’s one of the few things that really ties Buffalo to the East Coast, to places like Boston and especially, definitely Philadelphia. Here in Milwaukee, people just don’t come at you like that. The first thing you hear from people you’re close to in western New York –

Todd: The people are mean.

Justin: It’s a daisycutter. You’re being warned to not waste your fucking time with people. Which isn’t mean, in a way. Explain that to me, what does that mean to you.

Todd: I don’t know anything other than the way that my uncle talks to me.

Justin: Which is …

Todd: I wouldn’t know how else to talk to people if it wasn’t a ‘Fuck You’ attitude. And if I wouldn’t feel like saying ‘Fuck You’, then I wouldn’t want to talk to them to begin with.

Justin: But you’re not a mean person.

Todd: I hate being mean. I don’t want to be mean to anyone. I try to take people as they come. It doesn’t matter how or who you are.

Justin: But there’s something appreciated …

Todd: My first inkling from my uncle when I step off the plane in Buffalo is sarcasm. “Why are you wearing that?” A constant need to explain yourself. No idea where it’s going to come from. “Why do you have that same face?”

Justin: To me, and I agree … but it taps into a constant sense of self doubt that we both share. Like I’ve already got this internal doubt, nonstop. So the sarcasm works [in the opposite way]. It helps me understand how the outside world functions. I can verbalize my doubt and get somewhere with it outside of my own head.

Todd: Yes, you can get through the day. You’re saying ‘Fuck You’ to yourself more than anyone else. Your little existence is complete bullshit. You couldn’t matter less. There’s no doubt to that. So why would you take yourself so seriously, take the things around you so seriously? This is all for nothing. We don’t amount to anything. And politeness won’t get you anywhere else. [Pauses] You’re going to pretend to be nice, for what?

Justin: You are a nice person.

Todd: Don’t be phony. People I’m not nice to are generally the people I love. I’m never nice to my mother. I’m rarely nice to my mom.

Justin: My closest friends are terrible.

Todd: I don’t even like them. They fucking piss me off! And fuck you, don’t buy me another beer. Just saying ‘Fuck You’, all the time.

Justin: In defiance of the world.

Todd: Why would the world be like this? Why am I like this? This is all useless and so is everything we do. So be nice. [Pauses] Fuck you.

[At some point, we outlined a contract for a bet: will the United States experience a terrorist attack worse (in terms of body count, at least) than 9/11 within our lifetimes? Borne of anxious talk on the state of the world, we backed away from the maladaptive request of a stranger at the bar to sign this contract as our formal witness. We, in turn, backed away from signing it. (He was more assured the attack wouldn’t happen, for what it’s worth.) To my house around the corner for cool-down beers that lasted six hours. During, he explained George Saunders’s views of empathy and Greg Popovich’s importance as a vocal American. Separately, I argued that America had substantial contributions to global cuisine, then came up with only regional barbecues and variations on Mexican food. I beat him at NHL ’94 for Sega Genesis in a rousing nine-game series, highlighted by the speed of Nelson Emerson and the glove of Grant Fuhr. As he left at dawn, he became mildly convinced this had turned into a takedown Q&A. I assured him no one cared that much.]

Part Three

At Vanguard restaurant and bar. After a day to nurse hangovers – his much worse than mine, no doubt connected to the NHL ’94 loses – we reconvened for dinner, drinks and eventually/finally discussions on writing.

Justin: I wanted to start by saying ‘Fuck you.’

Todd: That’s good. Is that an actual quote?

Justin: Yeah, dude! That’s how good I am.

Todd: [Groans, understandably]

Justin: I also wanted to wish you happy Lobsterfest.

Todd: What the fuck are we doing here? That’s Red Lobster? Today only? Let’s go.

Justin: I know. Now … you write with a deepness and a passion for food. You can write about tamales for 8,000 words, or beef on weck, or everything you ate in Brazil. What’s exciting to you right now in food? What are you absorbed with, reading about or writing [about], even if you’ve eaten it 1,000 times?

Todd: I’m excited to try the new menu here. Bigger picture-wise … given everything that’s going on, especially … we should always feel like this – it’s very important to spend your going-out-to-eat money on ethnic restaurants. It seems like a little thing but it is huge. There’s nothing that makes me happier than going to a new, random taqueria, off the beaten path, eating chips and salsa, drinking Jarritos and ordering either an entrée and two tacos or at least four tacos. … The more salsas the better. Having the whole basket [of chips] to myself is exciting, especially if the chips are warm and I haven’t eaten all day, maybe it’s a Saturday. Maybe I went to the grocery store and I’m rewarding myself.

Justin: Constantly rewarding ourselves. I read that in your book [“Make the Road by Walking”] … and we’ve talked about this before, where every single day, I’m finding some excuse to treat myself for even marginal endeavors.

Todd: I use food as a reward, which is super healthy, according to my doctor.

Justin: You’re not a fat guy. You’re a pretend fat guy. Todd: I have okay metabolism and I … try to play basketball. But food is the ultimate reward. I eat lunch late and I eat dinner super-late. [Pauses] Looking forward to something is a key to happiness in life, one of them at least. The work day goes that much better … if I’m going to eat lunch at 3 o’clock, I’ll be super-fucking hungry, then I’ll only have that little of a work day left. Then I come home, and I’m able to do a work-out thing, play guitar, write, something meaningful. With food to look forward to at the end of the night, I can watch TV and turn my brain off for a little while. It feels like I’ve earned it.

Justin: You’ve always been like that? As a kid?

Todd: No, as an adult … I’ve always been into routines.

Justin: Back to the writing side of food, just a bit. It’s not a style I’m drawn to. I like TV personalities who show and share with food. It feels like a more visceral experience on TV. I get that more and can maybe learn. But you are someone who writes about food all the time, and you write well. It’s in this unlucky space – there’s some of this in music writing – where I could see someone writing about food is up against Yelp reviews, hundreds of them, or that little old lady who writes the Olive Garden reviews at the paper in North Dakota. What makes food writing … artistic? Stand out in the damn din?

Todd: Most of it is not artistic whatsoever. It’s what I’d like to try to do. Absolutely I don’t consider myself a food critic. Those are people who know more about food, know how to cook and study history shit more than I ever will. On the flip side of that is Yelp, which is the problem with everything on the Internet. Everyone throws their opinion out there. Yelp is awful because it tells you nothing. It gives you – you look for reviews of a restaurant and there are hundreds of Yelp reviews where the more you read, the less you know.

Justin: The opinion without the, I don’t know, veracity or validation.

Todd: You don’t have any authority and we don’t know who they are, the attitude they brought to the restaurant, if they were hungry or just got into a fight with their wife …

Justin: Do you sometimes do that, do you go to the restaurant and start a fight with someone? Spice up the experience?

Todd: [Sarcastically] Absolutely. Really, going out to eat is the whole experience, an experience in and of itself. I will do my research and I like to learn, but I consider myself a writer, first and foremost, and I consider myself a fat guy at heart who has always appreciated food on a poetic level. I’ve told Paloma [Chavez, a stellar graphic designer and his wife] that I’m someone who appreciates chicken wings on a deeper level than most, what I would consider a poetic level. That’s the opposite of Yelp and it’s counter to a lot of know-it-all foodies. In our small-ass city, how is it that every single restaurant review now is good? It invalidates everything. What’s the point of … just being positive?

Justin: This reminds me of … bigger problems I had with the loss of small and mid-sized newspapers and the First Amendment over the last 10 years. The inability to have critical thinking everywhere … I mean, I lost my job [at a newspaper], so I’m biased … but I guess this would trickle out, without the system for independent writing –

Todd: If you go to a big city like Chicago, and the Chicago Reader, one of if not the best independent weekly newspapers around, the guy, Mike Sula, is so fucking critical and then he gets ecstatic about other places. I plan where I go in Chicago because when he gets excited, I know it’s going to be fucking good. It’s going to be worthwhile.

Justin: It matters.

Todd: I believe him because he doesn’t like shit. Like every human being.

[We go on a vastly unentertaining tangent on his non-existent beer gut and to reference moments from TV shows. Then … sausage and chili fries for me, sausage and a patty melt for him. After food …]

Justin: I want some amygdala, lizard brain responses –

Todd: Amygdala? Is that … in the front? Justin: – in the middle, the part connected to storytelling, and tied to emotional reactions, decision-making. It’s why we’re at where we’re at because people make gut reactions and don’t think rationally about anything. I don’t. Um …

Todd: Okay. I don’t operate that well under quick-fire –

Justin: You can answer slowly but I’ll ask them quickly. If you answer at high speed it’ll sound strange. Use a normal cadence …

Todd: [Laughs] Okay, okay …

Justin: Worst job you’ve ever worked?

Todd: Data entry at a hospital.

Justin: What is the shortest friendship you’ve ever maintained?

Todd: Shortest ever maintained … hmmm … this guy I met at a Tom Petty show. His name was John. He was about my mom’s age and he sat next to me and he disappeared in the middle of the show. Maybe 45 minutes to an hour … we had multiple moments.

Justin: Longest meal?

Todd: Longest? …

Justin: Based on what you can recall. This isn’t Watergate [or] Iran-Contra. You consider a meal more than eating. So …

Todd: [Half-heartedly] Some Thanksgiving around my parent’s table … Fuck, I don’t know.

[Two mutual friends interrupted to berate us. Everyone goes on a tangent about dolphins, wherein the dolphins attempt to give helicopter tours of that volcano lava spout in Hawaii to bypass viewing restrictions. After they leave …]

Justin: I’ll ask again.

Todd: Start at the very beginning. The whole thing. We have to start over. Justin: Let’s see if there are different answers!

Todd: Nah …

Justin: Start and end locales of worst road trip?

Todd: I didn’t answer the meal one. I want to change it.

Justin: You can’t want to change it. I’m asking for a real response. Is there a longer one?

Todd: Yes. Pretty much every time we go to Chicago, me and my buddy Wes do a Louis C.K. “bang-bang”. Eat at a restaurant and go to another restaurant.

Justin: How can you physically do that? Todd: I’m a fat guy.

Justin: It’s off-putting. It’s a Roman gorging.

Todd: What do you mean? Justin: You should go to a vomitorium afterward.

Todd: That’s exactly what it is. You get to have multiple restaurants. You’ll kind of pace yourself … you’ll split a pizza at one restaurant and then split a pizza at another. You’ll have a sandwich and won’t order fries, then you’ll go have tacos.

[Indecipherable disagreement]

Justin: So it takes hours?

Todd: Chicago lunches, where you want –

Justin: Can we call it the ‘Chicago Lunch’?

Todd: Yeah … It sounds gangster-ish, or a guy with a typewriter –

Justin: Chicago has [pause] … a bigness. Big shoulders. Big hot dogs. Okay – start and end locales of the worst trip you’ve ever been on? The start and end, even if it’s within the same city.

Todd: Chicago to Omaha.

Justin: Favorite bus rider archetype?

Todd: My most liked? Favorite? Or the most character? Justin: Your favorite. The one – let me say this – the one when they come on the bus and in your head you’re like, ‘Alright.’ You know they’re going to –

Todd: Bring something to the environment. [Pauses] I don’t like any of those people. I sit there. I say ‘Hi’ to the bus driver.

Justin: You are a type of person on the bus. Don’t deny that. Distinctly. You might be the majority of the type of people on the bus, the person who just sits there and tries to mind their own damned business and looks at their phone too much.

Todd: I try not to look at my phone. Look out the window, look at the world going by. That’s what people used to do.

Justin: Bring a book? Todd: I like people who bring a book because it’s old school and it takes a certain amount of discipline, to hold [onto] and it’s not that comfortable.

Justin: I’m less nervous about dropping the book than I am the phone.

Todd: No one seems worried about dropping their phone. Nobody cares about that, they’ve got it out all the time.

Justin: Favorite bus rider archetype?

Todd: I don’t have a favorite bus rider archetype.

[Dual muttering]

Todd: There’s this guy who’s been on my 15 morning bus in a wheelchair and he thinks he’s being a smart ass, but he’s not funny at all. He’s got comments for everyone getting on or off. Comments to the rider about traffic. It’s just bullshit. It’s not entertaining, it’s not funny and he does it in an unapologetic way.

Justin: This is the vapid version of the ‘Fuck You’. There’s importance … in sarcasm, like we had talked [about] before, to be self-effacing and to laugh. It’s not to be mean.

Todd: You’re laughing at the absurdity of the world. It’s someone you bring into a circle. You don’t really make fun of someone you don’t care about. This person on the bus – he’s so not-funny and un-clever. People roll their eyes.

[We continued on a string about the vileness of Jimmy Fallon – “look at me, aren’t I being cute” – that unfurls near the reason Alejandro Jodorowsky put the second-to-last scene in “The Holy Mountain” in a Mexican restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, we are off for final beers amid the careless music of a public Sunday night.]

Part Four

Burnheart’s bar in Milwaukee, for the finish. Central topics included the status of his forthcoming second novel, “Spend It All”, as well as compulsion; a character named Smoke; and Todd’s father, gone during his youth from a drowned liver.

Justin: Okay, the book. The book?

Todd: The book is done.

Justin: Book is done.

Todd: The book is done. Polished. I finished it in August of ’15 and this second-slash-third draft was done about six months later. So, almost a year.

Justin: In thinking about how you put together the first novel, what were a substantive difference or two in the collection and finishing of this [second] one.

Todd: I didn’t have any idea what I was doing with the first one. I had slightly more idea with the second one.

Justin: I mean … I think I’d be right in saying there was a relief in finishing the first one? That you had this hanging out there and you had to finish it, not just that it was a first novel?

Todd: Totally. The first one was definitely a feeling that I had to absolutely do this for the sake of my own being, my own mental state, my own spiritual fulfilment. There was a feeling as I was getting close to the end where, no matter what, [I] have to stay alive until it’s done. It becomes such an obsession – they both had this, but the first one especially – where I’d think ‘I don’t know if I can take this trip and then the plane goes down but the book’s not done yet’ –

Justin: It was an act of consideration throughout your [daily] life?

Todd: ‘What if this plane goes down?’

Justin: You’d get in a car. That’s kind of short-sighted.

Todd: It’s not logical whatsoever.

Justin: You’d eat so much in Chicago that you choke on your own tongue, but –

Todd: I’ve had a lot of practice. I’m not going to choke on my tongue. … The second book felt more like I had gotten the first one out of the way and now I can make one that’s actually kind of good. [Pauses] You hope you’re moving forward as an artist. You never want to get comfortable or get in a place where your best work is behind you. It’s got to feel better or else you’re not doing it right. Moving forward, it was the thought, I can take what I built in the first one and I can make this one … more outlined and more of an actual novel. Thought through, not as – the first one was completely on the fucking fly. … I didn’t even know how it started and then I didn’t know where it’d go next. It just kept happening. This second one, I had an idea, a beginning and an end, some type of arc. That’s the type of thing novelists think, right?

Justin: [Pauses] There was some part of the first book where I thought it was strong … innocent, almost journal quality, where the main character [points at Todd] didn’t know where they fuck he was going. Todd: I appreciate that.

Justin: I’m not trying to forsake you with the new book. But you have more of an arc – what’s your brand at this point? [laughs at self, ugh] – no, uh … what would you say to introduce someone to what happens in this [second] book?

Todd: Originally, I had the notion of writing a novel that was “Leaving Las Vegas” based on the food of Buffalo. I wanted to write a Buffalo book and a book about the Bills. And every time I go back to Buffalo, eating … the food of your hometown … the home cooking nostalgia people have but now you only have one, maybe two weekends a year to eat like that. And death, being my other major obsession, it just seemed like it fit. In Buffalo, every time, I just eat like a total asshole. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m never hungry when I’m in Buffalo but I’ll definitely have more food. Regardless of appetite, it’s illogical.

Justin: I was astounded when you went to Jim’s SteakOut after dinner [during a December trip]. During a snowstorm.

Todd: Ah, the snowstorm. It was magical.

Justin: The snow warning sign that’s covered in snow so you don’t know where to park.

[Nostalgic pause]

Justin: You sent the chapter link … for “Spend It All”. There’s the swearing at your grandma, there are the tangents, lots of tangents, which I always appreciate. Because directness is bullshit.

Todd: Tangents are the point. Why would you stop explaining shit? Always go on tangents … it seems out of style. Everything is texting, tweets, very direct. ‘Isn’t there an acronym for that?’ … ‘I don’t have time to hit the shift button and capitalize the start of this sentence.’

Justin: Well, you’re not moving to the fucking woods. There’s more communication, those are just shitty forms for some things.

[We go on a lame tangent that misses the even more lame point of email. More than three minutes later …]

Justin: The term ‘Smoke’ in that excerpt, I liked. It’s capitalized and mysterious. Smoke, of course, you smoke, so it could mean endless Marlboros, but few things exemplify ambiguity better. Smoke comes from somewhere but you don’t know where or [from] what, immediately. It obscures. It’s natural. It has a morning equivalent in fog, when the morning doesn’t want you to see reality, which we already have a tenuous grasp on. … Could you talk about that term and more on the importance of ambiguity – writing to write and figuring out the rest later?

Todd: Ummm … Smoke is a character. He smokes a lot.

Justin: Makes sense.

Todd: I had not thought a lot about –

Justin: You use it in that excerpt where it seems like it could be part of other things, a character or something you put in your pocket.

Todd: Quite vague. Smoke and smoking is so tied up, to me, in being stupid, my early-to-mid 20s. Still is, a problem that has to be gotten over. Much like the character named Smoke, it’s got an inability to live on [its] own. You romanticize smoke [Smoke?] because you’re not mature or successful enough to live on your own. So there has to be this other person in your life. … Smoking is contemplative, meditative, and it seems to indicate a time in your life. For me, it was when I was in my early 20s – I knew I was going to quit [at some point] – when there was a time to about the end of my life or serious matters …

Justin: It would seem, if I can interrupt again, counter to the obsession with death.

Todd: It’s a reconciliation between those two things. Death being there, but needing to live for today that much more. Completely clichéd, but that’s what we’re dealing with, if you’re cognizant at all. From the time you’re an adult through your 20s. [Pauses] I don’t know if I’m answering your question.

Justin: You are. I’m asking you to clarify ambiguity, which is a bullshit question to begin with. To me it was important to acknowledge that [ambiguity] exists. That writing exists as a way to flesh out your idea of the world, to … find yourself and if you’re writing, someone else finds out about you.

Todd: The duality of finding yourself and also losing yourself. Self destruction being a huge part of self-actualization, whatever term you want to use when you become yourself in the best possible sense. So much of the late teens/early 20s, is research. Destroying yourself, in a way, and maybe not going all the way, maybe wanting to.

[Onto a dueling rant on the lesser recognized heroism of busting your ass in a kitchen so that you can be a musician. Then, a tangent on whether or not animals other than humans understand their own mortality. Another lap around the reasons Styx and Journey blow. Eventually, back to something resembling an interview …]

Justin: On the compulsion thing … James Baldwin – “Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent – which attitude certainly has a great deal to support it. On the other hand, it is only because the world looks on his talent with such a frightening indifference that the artist is compelled to make his talent important.” I brought this up … what is it that compels you to continue to write and document?

Todd: Jeez … What am I doing with my life?

Justin: And why aren’t you as good as James Baldwin?

Todd: ‘Shouldn’t you be better by now?’

Justin: Okay, to clarify, there is a compulsion … to do something that will be seen and judged by other people, but that is one of the things that you can’t stand or understand. What is it to you, then, that you make something that other people, hopefully, will see and judge and doubt? If you’re a person who appreciates someone who comes back to you and says ‘Fuck You’ and laughs with you, what is it to have a compulsion where you want other people to stare at your craziness?

Todd: There’s a dichotomy of writers wanting to be the person left alone in a library, in a quiet corner, to write down their thoughts, combined with wanting to be the center of attention and recognized for their smartness and greatness.

Justin: You took the steps to want to be published.

Todd: Well, yeah, my buddy Ron, after the [first] book came out, he said ‘You’ve got a lotta balls to hang yourself out there like that.’ It’s not anything I even think about because it’s so hard, but that’s the entire point. You have to take that route. Much of my being reserved and being a quiet observer – definitely not the center of attention – means you can’t think about [the attention] or getting wrapped up in that part. You have to fucking try and try to be honest, honestly try. No matter what and get over it. When my shit gets published, I never look at it again because I can’t bear the sight of it. I hate it. Riddled with insecurity. … It’s a Sisyphus thing because I am compelled to know that I tried. I’m driven by the sense of my mortality and wanting to rebel against it in every way possible. It comes from having an obsession with death, ingrained throughout my entire life. That my father died when I was 6-years old. It’s always been a huge part of me and a greater part of me than I can understand. But it’s in the back, I’ve always known and … accepted it in a way? Or always thought about it.

Justin: I don’t want to stab into an open, removed tooth, but there’s some sins of the father thing here. You’re a bit of a glutton, you’re a bit of a drinker and your dad, it’s understood, was a historic drinker.

Todd: He died when he was 39-years old from complications from alcoholism, more or less. To die that young from drinking you’d have to have a serious drinking problem. There’s also a thing from dying of alcoholism at a super-young age, it’s romanticized, something rock star about it. Which is bullshit, but there’s something cool about it.

Justin: He looked cool in the pictures you had at your wedding.

Todd: So does Jimi Hendrix. When you’re the son of someone like that and you’ve romanticized your father, as most young men or boys do – as much as you hate your dad – he’s what you want to become or not want to become. He’s heroic … I assume. Right?

Justin: I don’t know.

Todd: There have to be ways you’re proud of your dad that you can’t even begin to put into words.

Justin: No, without question … yes. I was someone that was – my parents were crazy young when they had me. I never had a Superman thing with my father and I never had a nonstop obsession with personal death. I have had a thought of the end of the world, everyone dying. I think about that all the time, even before the recent [presidential] election. Destroyed in a bomb, natural disaster, everybody dies. … Back to the dad thing, my parents were young, I was around, watching my sisters when I was 12. [My parents] were around me and drinking, younger than my age now. They’re my parents but they were kids. I’ve been terribly fascinated to ask you more about [your dad].

Todd: I like talking about it … People find out about my dad and they assume out of respect or to protect themselves that I don’t want to talk about it. Nobody brings it up. The last thing they want to do is be the guy who brings up [my] dead father. Even more present in the front of my mind is my best friend died when we were both 25. That was the thing that really drove it home. ‘You have to fucking do this and you have to do it now.’ It’s something that pushes me every day. It snowballed – ‘You’re going to be hit by a bus tomorrow and be dead, motherfucker, what is your last thought going to be?’ At least I had my dream, had that dream fulfilled. Even if it wasn’t good. Those lines [in the books], that’s everything. It’s done. Sisyphus, in the most romantic way possible and it’s all I know how to do.

[Pretty soon, the night concluded with one more beer but not one more after that. Todd described Tom Waits describing a Charles Bukowski poem. It’s Sunday night and it’s time to separate and walk home by yourself even if this time you’re not so alone.]

Justin Kern is a nonprofit marketing manager and freelance writer. He’s had recent words published in Utne Reader, Milwaukee Record, Longshot Island and Belt Publishing’s, “Right Here, Right Now: The Buffalo Anthology”. His favorite bus rider archetype is the knock-off Curtis Sliwa type who is repeatedly apoplectic when he can’t get the bus pass reader to work in the first 65 swipes.