---Jason---

  I'm scrolling through my phone, finger moving across the screen when Grace's voice cuts through the quiet afternoon hum of our house. "Jason, may I speak with you for a moment?"

  The formal phrasing makes me pause mid-swipe. My lips twitch upward as the obvious response forms in my head—*technically, you already are*—but I swallow the smartass comment before it can escape. That's exactly the kind of thing that would earn me one of Grace's calculating stares, the kind that makes me feel like she's deciding whether I'm worth the effort of not stabbing. Also, well. She wouldn't know that I'm joking from context, and that's then just being an asshole.

  "Yeah, sure," I say instead, putting my phone in my pocket and following the sound of her voice toward my bedroom.

  I can see her sitting on my bed now, cross-legged on my unmade comforter, my laptop balanced perfectly on her knees. The screen casts a blue-white glow across her pale features, highlighting the intense concentration in her green eyes as they track across whatever text she's absorbing. Her dark hair frames her sharp cheekbones, which makes it harder than usual to read her expression other than fassennated consontration.

  "You've got my laptop," I observe, not really a question since I can see it on her lap, Grace sitting with perfect posture where anyone else would have slumped by now.

  "I do," Grace confirms, her voice carrying an undertone I can't quite place. Focused, maybe. Intense in a way that's different from her usual hypervigilant state. "I am... consuming Author Bloodthorne's work."

  *Consuming.* The word choice is so perfectly Grace that I can't help but grin. Most people would say reading or even devouring, but Grace makes it sound like she's literally ingesting the stories, processing them through some internal mechanism that transforms words into tactical data. Hell, considering Grace is Grace, maybee she actually is.

  The soft tap-tap-tap of her typing continues, fast enough to suggest she's not just reading but actively doing something—taking notes, maybe, or cross-referencing information in that methodical way she approaches everything else. I can see her fingers moving across the keyboard with the same precision she brings to everything, each keystroke deliberate and exact. Which, consideing she I think didn't know what a computer was a week ago, well. I'm pretty sure I couldn't learn, computer skills in a week. Still need Grace to find me the stress points in wood to batton it without haveing to force it.

  I settle into my desk chair, the familiar squeak of the old springs announcing my position. "How many books are you into now?"

  "Three," she replies without pause, her attention clearly divided between our conversation and whatever's happening on the screen. "I have begun cataloguing the various instances where Author Bloodthorne employs the phrase 'the enemy exists only to be destroyed.' I wish to ensure I am utilizing the term correctly, as I have never been completely certain of its proper application and now have an opertunity to change this."

  The typing stops abruptly, and I can practically feel the weight of her focus shifting entirely to me. It's like being caught in the crosshairs of a very polite, very deadly weapon. Her eyes meet mine directly, and there's genuine curiosity in them now, tinged with something that might be confusion in anyone else.

  "Your scent," she says, and I watch her nostrils flare slightly as she processes whatever information she's gathering from my emotional state. "It was initially amused, then..." She pauses, and I can almost see her mental gears turning as she searches for the right words. "Pleasure. And the desire to embrace. Specifically me. explain these emotions."

  Heat creeps up my neck, and I'm suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful that Grace doesn't seem inclined to comment on every embarrassing reaction I have around her. This conversation would be approximately ten times more mortifying if she felt compelled to catalog exactly how much I enjoy the way she says "specifically me" in that matter-of-fact tone. Also. Why do I? Grace is Grace. Yes, she's liveing in my house, and yes, she seems partial towards me over say, the rest of my family, but that mean anything. Even if she did come to a game of what's basickly pratend with me and seemed to enjoy it.

  "Yeah, well," I start, then clear my throat and try again. "When you asked if I wanted to speak for a moment, I was considering making a quip."

  "What is a quip?" Grace interrupts, the question delivered with the same focused intensity she'd use to ask about weapons specifications or tactical advantages. Her head tilts slightly, and I can see her filing this away as important information.

  I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "It's kind of like a joke, but specifically stated." I pause, trying to find a way to explain humor to someone who approaches the world like a precision instrument. "I'll give you an example in a few seconds, and that'll hopefully help clarify things."

  Grace nods—and I continue. "I was going to quip that technically, you already were speaking with me. It's a type of humor, I guess? I'm not entirely sure how to categorize it, but it's sometimes funny to point out literal truths in situations like this. Since you asked to speak with me, I would have quipped that technically you already were, because, well, technically you were already speaking with me by asking if you could speak with me."

  The silence stretches for several heartbeats, and I can practically see Grace processing this information, filing it away in whatever mental database she maintains for human social interactions. Her expression remains thoughtful, analytical, like she's running the concept through various mental frameworks to understand its place in the complex ecosystem of human communication.

  "Explained thus, I understand why it would be amusing to you," she finally says, and there's something almost pleased in her tone. I can see the corner of her mouth twitch upward, just barely. "I will now not consider stabbing you if you make such a statement, as I understand that it is not, in fact, a joke at my expense."

  I blink, momentarily caught off guard by the casual way she mentions potential stabbing. "You said you were thinking of stabbing me, not actually stabbing me," I point out, then shake my head with a rueful smile. "Though for you, that's the actual difference, isn't it?"

  "It is," Grace confirms with a sharp nod.

  I run a hand through my hair, marveling at how Grace can make threats of hypothetical violence sound perfectly reasonable. "Okay, so the hug scent—or emotion, or whatever—that was because I find the fact that you're reading, well, *devouring* Bloodthorne like it's the only food you can find absolutely adorable. In a good way."

  "I understand," Grace says, and there's genuine warmth in her voice now. I can see it reflected in her eyes, a minute softening in her features. "Thank you for explaining this to me, Jason."

  The soft sounds resume—Grace turning back to the laptop, the quiet hum of electronics, the barely audible whisper of her breathing as she focuses on the screen. Her posture shifts slightly as she settles back into reading position, and I can see the concentration return to her features. Then she speaks again, and there's a note of frustration threading through her usual composed tone.

  "I have encountered a problem. I clicked something that brought me to a new webpage, and I am unaware of how to return along the link to my previous hunting spot."

  "Hunting spot," I repeat, grinning at her unique way of describing a reading location. I can see her eyebrows draw together slightly at my amusement, though not in annoyance. "What book are you on now?"

  "Three," she says again, then continues without missing a beat. "I have started cataloguing the various ways that Author Bloodthorne—" She stops abruptly, and I catch a shift in her posture that suggests she's picked up on my confusion. "All among the clan and in my homeland were given titles. Each title represented how they affected the world, or that is how the Druid explained it. I would be Ranger Grace, as I affected the world by being a Ranger. Ralts Bloodthorne's primary contribution to the world, to my knowledge, is through his authorship, and as such, Author Bloodthorne."

  I feel my smile widen. There's something incredibly endearing about Grace's formal approach to giving people appropriate titles, like she's organizing the entire world into a hierarchical structure that makes sense to her. Granted, I'm somewhat biast here, but still. It's... Well, it's Grace.

  Grace's mouth quirks up—just barely, but enough that I can see the tiny shift in her expression. "I wished to catalog every instance where Author Bloodthorne uses the term 'the enemy exists only to be destroyed,' as I wished to ensure I was using the term correctly. I was never completely certain of its proper application." Her tone shifts slightly, carrying a note of immediate concern. "However, right now, I wish to show you something so that you may fix what I do not have the skills required to. Could you please restore the voice-over program?"

  "Turn it on?" I ask, already reaching for the keyboard.

  Grace nods, and I activate NVDA, letting the synthetic voice fill the room as it begins reading whatever's currently displayed on my laptop screen.

  "War of Great Houses," the voice announces in its mechanical tone. "Rise or fall from your own wit and skill."

  I pause, my hands hovering over the keyboard as the voice continues describing what sounds like the opening screen of some kind of strategy game. The description mentions factions, resource management, tactical decisions—all the hallmarks of the type of complex simulation game I've always been drawn to but never been able to actually play.

  My pulse quickens despite myself. I'll bookmark this and help Grace get back to her book, but damn if I'm not immediately curious about what this game might offer. I can see the interface on my screen now, complex menus and colorful faction banners, resource indicators and strategic overview maps that would have been meaningless to me just days ago.

  "You are interested," Grace observes, and her tone suggests she's reading far more than just casual curiosity in my reaction. I can see her watching me intently, cataloguing my responses the same way she analyzes everything else.

  I shrug, not bothering to hide my enthusiasm. "Yeah, I like this kind of thing. If this is what I think it is—a faction simulator game where you pick a faction and then do whatever the game mechanics allow. Not just combat, but politics, economics, resource management." I pause, trying to remember the correct terminology. "I think these are called RTS games? Real-time strategy, though I don't know the proper plural form. I can just bookmark this and come back to it later, though."

  The truth is, I've spent years reading about games like this, absorbing lore and faction descriptions from forums and wikis, building elaborate mental pictures of worlds I'd never been able to experience the way sighted players could. It's become a hobby of sorts—learning about fictional universes through secondhand descriptions, letting my imagination fill in all the visual details I'd never seen directly. But now, looking at the actual interface, seeing the intricate artwork and detailed faction designs, I'm overwhelmed by how much richer the experience could be. I shouldn't be able to see any of this because, you know, screens, but I'll figure out why I can see this later. I have a game to look through now.

  "You sound interested," Grace says, and there's something calculating in her voice now, like she's working through a complex equation. I can see her eyes moving between my face and the screen, processing information with that analytical intensity she brings to everything. "I have just finished reading the description of Hell as Daxen returned to it, and I find myself interested in this strategy game. It may prove tactically relevant."

  The urge to hug her hits me like a physical force—this strange, wonderful woman who just connected a fantasy novel about hell dimensions to potential tactical applications in a strategy game. It's so perfectly Grace that I can barely contain my desire to pull Grace into a hug. But, she made her thoughts on hugs clear, and as I told her before, I don't have to understand. I just have to follow Grace's wishes on this.

  "Thank you for not attempting to embrace me," Grace says calmly, and I huff out a laugh. I can see her nostrils flare as she picks up on my emotional state, her expression shifting to something that might be amusement. Maybee. I'm not exactly an expert in anything visual.

  "Yeah, well, it's not like I can hide how I'm feeling from you," I shrug: "can't hide how I'm fealing from anyone. Least you tell me streight, you know?" Before leaning forward eagerly as NVDA continues reading through the game's interface.

  The voice describes faction selection screens, resource allocation systems, diplomatic options—all the complex mechanics that make these games fascinating to people who enjoy thinking several moves ahead. I find myself getting genuinely excited despite knowing I'll probably still struggle with the visual interface complexity once I actually get into the game, but now that I can actually see what's happening on screen, somehow, maybe I can finally experience these games the way they were meant to be played?

  Grace shifts on the bed, the laptop's position changing slightly as she adjusts her posture. I can see her studying the interface with the same intensity I would think she'd bring to analyzing a battlefield. "The interface appears complex," she observes. "Multiple resource tracking systems, diplomatic status indicators, military unit management protocols."

  "That's what makes it interesting," I explain, my enthusiasm bubbling over despite my attempts to stay calm. "The complexity means there are multiple paths to victory, multiple ways to approach problems. You can't just build the biggest army and steamroll everything—though that's one approach you can probably do and one faction's made for that. You might focus on economic development, or diplomatic manipulation, or technological advancement."

  "Strategic depth," Grace says with approval, and I can see genuine interest in her eyes. "Multiple viable approaches suggest a well-designed tacticle simulation."

  I nod eagerly. "Exactly. The best games in this genre reward different play styles, different approaches to problem-solving. Some people excel at rapid expansion, others at careful consolidation. Some prefer aggressive tactics, others focus on defensive positioning and patient development. All can technically work, but you have to know what you're doing or be good to make them work."

  The NVDA voice continues describing the game's opening screens, and I find myself mentally cataloguing every detail, already beginning to construct a picture of how the game mechanics might work together. But now I can also see the visual elements—faction banners with intricate heraldry, resource icons that make immediate sense, tactical maps that show geographical advantages and vulnerabilities. I really shouldn't, but fuck it, I have a game I might, for once, be able to play with everyone else. At least Grace seems to be doing the same thing, her breathing pattern indicating focused concentration as she processes the information.

  "The faction selection offers interesting choices," she comments after a moment. I can see her eyes tracking across the screen, analyzing each option with tactical precision. "Each appears to have distinct advantages and corresponding vulnerabilities. Balanced design principles."

  "That's good game design," I agree. "If one faction is clearly superior, then why would anyone pick the others? The best strategy games give each faction tools that can be powerful in the right hands but require different approaches to use effectively."

  I can see Grace's attention shifting between the laptop screen and my explanation, like she's cross-referencing my enthusiasm with whatever she's seeing on the interface. There's something incredibly gratifying about sharing this passion with someone who seems to understand the appeal of complex systems and strategic thinking. Her analytical approach to everything means she grasps the underlying principles almost immediately.

  "Your excitement has intensified significantly," Grace observes, her tone carrying a note of what might be amusement. I can see her watching me carefully, cataloguing my reactions. "This type of simulation clearly appeals to your cognitive preferences."

  "Yeah," I admit, not bothering to hide how much I'm enjoying this. "I love the theoretical aspects—analyzing faction strengths, thinking through strategic implications, understanding how different systems interact. And now that I can actually see the interface, I might be able to play effectively for the first time." I don't mention that I have no idea how I can see the interface, Grace has enough to worry about without that thankyou very much.

  Grace is quiet for a long moment, and I can almost see her mental gears turning as she processes something. Her expression grows thoughtful, analytical. When she speaks again, her voice carries a different quality—more contemplative, like she's working through something and wants to know what I think.

  "The combat descriptions remind me of Author Bloodthorne's tactical scenarios," she says slowly. "Similar principles of resource allocation and strategic positioning, but applied to different contexts. Fiction and simulation following parallel logical progression."

  I lean forward, caught up in her line of thinking. "That makes sense. Good military fiction often draws from real tactical principles, and good strategy games try to simulate those same principles through their mechanics. They're different expressions of similar underlying concepts."

  "Precisely," Grace agrees, and there's definite satisfaction in her tone now. I can see her eyes brighten with the clarity of pattern recognition. "Tactical concepts remain consistent whether presented as narrative or interactive simulation."

  The conversation has taken on an almost academic quality, both of us diving deep into analysis of systems and patterns. It's the kind of discussion I've always enjoyed but rarely get to have with someone who follows my reasoning so readily. Grace's background I assume is the reason for her framework for understanding these concepts that most people lack.

  "I'm starting to think," I say carefully, "that you might actually be really good at these kinds of games. You already think in terms of resource allocation, tactical positioning, long-term strategic planning."

  "An interesting hypothesis," Grace replies, and I can see genuine consideration in her expression. Her eyes track across whatever's displayed on the screen, processing information with that analytical intensity she brings to everything. "The tactical concepts do appear to translate across different applications."

  I lean forward in my chair, the old springs announcing my movement with their familiar creak. The excitement building in my chest is hard to contain—finally, someone who might actually understand why these games fascinate me so much. Grace approaches everything with the kind of strategic thinking that makes complex simulations genuinely engaging rather than just elaborate time-wasters.

  "So you're interested in trying it?" I ask, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice and probably failing, even takeing into account that Grace can't just smell my emotions.

  Grace looks up from the laptop screen, meeting my eyes directly. There's something different in her expression now—not just her usual analytical focus, but genuine curiosity tinged with what might be anticipation. "I find myself... intrigued by the possibility. The simulation appears to offer significant tactical depth."

  The warmth that spreads through my chest at her response is almost embarrassing in its intensity. Here's someone who could probably teach military academies about strategic thinking, and she's interested in exploring a game that I've only ever experienced secondhand through forum discussions and wiki articles. Well, not this one spasifically, but you get what I mean.

  "The interface does look complex," Grace continues, her attention returning to the screen. I can see her eyes tracking across various elements, cataloguing information with the same systematic approach she uses for everything else. "Multiple resource indicators, unit management systems, diplomatic interface components."

  "That's what makes it interesting," I explain, my enthusiasm bubbling over despite my attempts to stay calm. "The complexity means there are multiple viable approaches to any given situation. You can't just memorize one strategy and apply it universally—you have to adapt based on circumstances, opponents, resource availability, technological development."

  Grace nods slowly, and I can see genuine interest in her expression. "Adaptive strategic requirements. Multiple solution pathways for identical tactical challenges."

  "Exactly," I confirm, leaning forward eagerly. "And that's where faction selection becomes crucial. Each faction will have different strengths, weaknesses, special abilities, unique units. The choice determines not just what tools you have available, but what kind of strategic approaches will be most effective."

  "Faction selection as foundational strategic parameter," Grace observes, her voice carrying that note of focused analysis. "Initial choice constraining subsequent tactical options while opening alternative pathways."

  I nod enthusiastically, though I probably shouldn't be that impressed by how quickly she grasps the underlying principles. After all she has to deal. Had to deal, with bio machanicle horrors that would tunnle up from under ground and eat you, so figureing out a stratagy game would kind of be in the relm of that not dying thing. "The best strategy games give each faction tools that can be powerful in the right hands but require different approaches to use effectively. It's not about one faction being objectively better—it's about matching faction capabilities to player preferences and strategic thinking."

  Grace's fingers hover over the trackpad, and I can see her processing this information with the thoroughness she brings to everything. "Understanding available options becomes essential before making selection decisions."

  "Want me to walk you through the faction descriptions?" I offer, trying not to sound too eager. "NVDA gives you basic information, but there are usually detailed explanations that provide much more tactical context. I can read through them with you, explain the strategic implications, help you understand how each faction's abilities translate into actual gameplay advantages." Before: "Well, I can do my best since I don't actually know this game, anyway."

  Grace's eyes brighten with interest, and she shifts the laptop's position slightly to give me better access to the screen. "Yes. Complete intelligence regarding available factions is essential for optimal strategic selection."

  The way she phrases it—complete intelligence—makes me grin. Most people would say they want to learn about their options, but Grace approaches this like she's preparing for actual military operations. It's exactly the kind of analytical thoroughness that makes these games fascinating to me.

  "Perfect," I say, settling into my chair and feeling that familiar excitement that comes with sharing something I'm passionate about before starting to read off the screen, NVDA now playing through my headphones I got just to do this years ago. "There are several major factions, each with completely different approaches to resource management, military doctrine, technological development, and victory conditions. Understanding their tactical philosophies is crucial for effective gameplay."

  Grace nods, her posture straightening with the kind of focused attention she gives to important briefings. "Proceed with faction analysis."

  I can see the faction selection screen clearly now, with its detailed banners and statistical breakdowns, ability descriptions and strategic summaries. After years of reading about these games without being able to experience them directly, having this visual context feels almost overwhelming. But now I can finally share this passion with someone who might actually appreciate the complexity and depth these simulations offer.

  "Alright," I begin, my excitement building as I prepare to dive into the kind of detailed analysis I've always loved but rarely been able to share. "Let me start with the faction descriptions, and we can work through the strategic implications together."

  Grace settles back slightly, the laptop balanced perfectly on her knees, her attention focused entirely on me with that intensity she brings to everything important. I can see genuine anticipation in her expression now, the kind of focused interest that suggests she's approaching this as a legitimate learning opportunity rather than simple entertainment. Which, I guess, makes sence given her background and all. Still nice, though.

  The screen glows between us, filled with faction banners and statistical data, unit descriptions and strategic summaries—all the complex information that makes these games endlessly fascinating to people who enjoy thinking through tactical challenges. And for the first time, I'm about to experience it with someone who might understand exactly why these simulations can be so compelling. Still don't know how I can see all this since it's still two D, but not going to nitpick, I'm able to experience a game I never though I would ever really get too, with a woman who seems to care. That's enough.

  ---Grace---

  Jason settles back in his chair, the sound of old springs complaining filling the brief silence. There's something in his scent that's changed—excitement building, yes, but layered with the particular satisfaction that comes when someone finally gets to share something they've been passionate about for a long time. His fingers move to the keyboard with that careful precision he's developed since his sight returned, and when he speaks, I can hear genuine enthusiasm threading through his voice.

  "Alright, let me start with the faction descriptions, and we can work through the strategic implications together."

  The mechanical voice fills the room: "House Ulfr - The Ororin Void Clans. United House of the Endless Hunt."

  Jason immediately pauses the program. The screen itself remains opaque to his sight—still just a gray blur—so he leans closer to read the text, which is projected out from the screen, I noteing that I will have to ask him if this technoligy is something he knows about, directly.

  "House Ulfr represents a confederation of twelve ancient Ororin clans united under the banner of survival and conquest in the endless void. Forged in the crucible of the void wastes, where resources are scarce and predators are many, the Ulfr have learned that only the strong survive. They are raiders, yes, but also builders—constructing massive generational ships that serve as both home and fortress, tradeing who will trade with them, and killing who they must to obtain resources for their people.

  Something cold settles in my chest as he continues, his voice gaining momentum as he processes the text.

  "Their fleets move through space like wolf packs, following ancient migration routes through the void, hunting for salvage, resources, and worthy prey. But they are not mindless savages—they are keepers of old wisdom, preserving the sagas and battle-songs of their ancestors in the halls of their greatest ships."

  Jason pauses, struggling with what must be Old Norse terminology of some sort unfamiliar to him. "Veth... Veith-ran... Veithranthrak? Something like that. The halls of honor where they keep their stories." He mutters with a grin, "Well, we got our obligate space vikings out of the way, and they don't look half bad. Still have no idea how I can actually see them, but fuck it, I'm haveing fun, and I hope Grace is too so I'll deal with that later."

  His enthusiasm is building—I can taste it sharpening in the air—but underneath there's something else. Recognition, maybe, though he hasn't made the connection yet that I have.

  The description continues as Jason reads, describing combat doctrine, pack networks, generational ships that serve as mobile fortresses. Everything about it creates memories of the Slayer Lords who would sometimes cross the narrow sea to test themselves against our rangers.

  "This house resembles the Slayer Lords of my homeland," I say, watching Jason's entire body shift to that focused attention I'm learning to recognize.

  He stops reading entirely, blinking as his gaze moves between my face and the three dimentional text projected outwards from the computer. I can see the moment something clicks, his scent shifting from simple excitement to something more complex.

  "The Slayer Lords?" The genuine interest in his voice surprises me. "Tell me about them." Before I can respond, fear spikes through his scent as he continues quickly: "I mean, please."

  "Warriors from the northern wastes, across the narrow sea from my homeland." The words come easier than I expect. "They live where winter never fully releases its grip, and they've learned to make the cold their ally rather than their enemy. They raid, yes, but..." I pause, accessing memories of encounters that always ended in either blood or grudging respect. "They're more than raiders. They build things that last. Preserve knowledge. The raids are tests—of strength, of cunning, of whether you're worth their attention."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Jason nods slowly, and I can smell his satisfaction at the pattern he's recognizing. "Yeah, they're vikings. Men from the north where it's cold and brutal—Norway, Sweden, Denmark here on Earth. The word 'viking' literally means raiding? Raider? One of the two."

  "Both this house and the Slayer Lords seem to do more than simply raid," I point out.

  Something shifts in Jason's expression—not quite a smile, but close. "Most things do more than they appear on the surface." His fingers move back to the keyboard. "Let me keep going, though since you don't seem to want to play the Angry Space Orc Vikings."

  The voice program resumes: "House Ossien - The House of Bone. From Death, Eternal Service."

  Jason's posture straightens as he begins reading directly from the screen now, his voice taking on a different quality—still engaged, but with professional assessment creeping in.

  "The obsidian throne sits carved from a single massive block of volcanic glass, its surface so dark it seems to drink light from the bone-lit chamber around it. Ancient runes spiral up its arms and backrest, their meaning lost to everyone except perhaps the thirteen who remember. The seat remains empty—has been empty for longer than most houses have existed—but the power that once filled it still permeates every inch of Dreadrock Mountain's hollow heart."

  He pauses, then continues reading. "House Ocien operates on a tactical framework that represents both their greatest strength and most critical vulnerability: Hammer Stream—Skeletal Vessels with fast, devastating strikes designed to shatter enemy formations. Emphasis on speed, precision, and overwhelming firepower. Crews of enhanced skeletal warriors with supernatural coordination."

  As he describes their dual-stream philosophy and bone memory networks, I find myself cataloguing the tactical information automatically. The methodical nature of their approach, the resource efficiency of troops that require no food or rest, the psychological warfare inherent in facing enemies who feel no fear or pain.

  "Anvil Stream—Zombie Vessels with immovable defensive formations that hold enemies in position. Focus on toughness, resilience, and sustained combat capability. Crews of zombie legionnaires with enhanced durability. Creates killing zones where Hammer forces can operate effectively."

  When he describes what must be the command structure, his voice carries a particular note I recognize.

  "The thirteen Deathlords who run this ancient house still talk to an empty throne, as if their missing leader is still giving orders. Not quite liches, but something more organized. More... systematic."

  "There's your necromancer," he says with a grin that immediately shifts to something more apologetic. His scent changes too, worry threading through the earlier enthusiasm as he remembers our conversation about such practitioners.

  The memory surfaces sharp and clear—the necromancer with his sickles, the arrow, the Druid's eyes just, turning off. Jason's concern is obvious now, written in the tension of his shoulders and the uncertainty in his scent.

  "It's fine," I tell him, keeping my voice level.

  Jason looks unconvinced. His scent carries doubt despite my reassurance, and he nods but the worry doesn't entirely leave his posture though I am unsure how to deal with this issue.

  "You probably wouldn't want to play this one, then?" he asks carefully.

  "No." The answer comes without hesitation. The idea of commanding undead constructs, of building strategies around something that took the Druid, that might use his corpse as another machine, creates a visceral rejection that needs no consideration. "How would you play this faction?" After all, Jason has no such compunction, and I am curious what he would do, tactically.

  Jason scans through what must be unit descriptions, his eyes tracking information with methodical attention. When he speaks, there's confidence in his voice—someone working within familiar parameters.

  "I'd use their scout constructs for intelligence gathering—skeletal rogues or assassons, things that can infiltrate without being detected. Then deploy the expendable troops in waves while keeping the valuable necromancers back where they can coordinate and respond to threats while utalizeing the information my scouts got to hammer at soft spots."

  His analysis flows with casual precision. "The beautiful thing about undead is they don't panic, don't retreat, don't need supply lines. You can afford to take casualties that would break living armies. Turn all the dead into new necromantic units, harvest the wrecks, then return to patrol patterns around the fleet carrier."

  He continues describing tier three and tier four units, deployment strategies, resource management with the kind of detail that suggests extensive tactical consideration.

  "If they hit something they can't handle, deploy the elite units—Black Knights with their void armor, maybe a Deathstalker Sergeant with a squad to handle the specific threat. The dead don't question orders, don't have morale problems, don't look at you or judge you."

  He pauses, something almost vulnerable in his voice. "Which is nice since I'm shit at explaining things very well anyway."

  There's weight in that casual admission, layers I'm still learning to interpret. I file it away for later consideration as Jason moves to the next entry.

  "House of Damnation," the voice program announces.

  Jason's face immediately shifts to disgust, his scent souring with genuine revulsion. When he speaks, rejection colors every word.

  "Yeah, I'm not for this house. I was never a manipulator, and, well. Demons. I've never liked demons much." His voice grows more emphatic, genuine distress creeping in. "Also, I'm not a fucking masochist. I actually really, really do not like pain at all."

  He reads more from the screen. "They use Eldritch Blast Carbines as their primary weapon." His voice shifts to something approaching instructional. "That's actually interesting from a mechanical standpoint. Eldritch blast is a warlock cantrip in D&D—unlimited use magical attack that scales with level."

  "Warlocks make pacts with powerful entities for magical power. They're different from wizards who study magic, or sorcerers who are born with it. Warlocks trade something—usually their soul or service—for specific abilities. Eldritch blast is their signature spell because it can be modified with what they call 'invocations'—additional effects like pushing targets back or pulling them closer, though I've never really played one."

  Something in this concept creates unexpected interest. "This warlock class," I say slowly, "trades service for specific combat abilities?"

  "Exactly. And the patron grants power, but usually wants something in return. Could be missions, could be spreading their influence, could be eventual soul ownership." Jason's enthusiasm for the topic is obvious despite his distaste for this particular faction. "It's actually a really flexible class for roleplaying because the relationship with your patron can drive a lot of story."

  I consider this, thinking of clan obligations, of the bonds between hunters and the spirits they called upon for aid. "When we return to the next game session," I tell him, "I may consider this warlock option. The patron relationship seems... familiar."

  Jason's grin returns, genuine pleasure at my interest overriding his discomfort with demons. "Yeah, you'd probably do something really interesting with that concept, and Dave would role with it, he's good like that."

  "House of Flesh," Jason continues.

  Jason sees something on the screen that immediately sets him snickering. The sound builds into genuine laughter, and he mutters something about "nurdy jokes" while actually snorting with amusement.

  I consider asking what amuses him, but caution overrides curiosity. The brief pause gives Jason time to read more carefully, and when he speaks again, it's with direct quotes from what he's seeing.

  "Every member is driven by an uncontrollable urge to experiment—it's literally encoded in their DNA. Advancement through their ranks depends entirely on the groundbreaking nature of your experiments, your medical knowledge, and the audacity of your 'improvements' to the human form."

  His voice shifts to something more clinical as he continues reading. "Due to their fundamental driver for experimentation, House of Flesh doesn't really engage in true mass production. The closest they come is 'mostly standard, but not exactly standard'—every piece of equipment, every construct, every vessel gets little tweaks. Some improvements work brilliantly, others... don't. But they cannot stop themselves from trying variations."

  The description continues with details Jason reads aloud: "House of Flesh practitioners are simultaneously deeply caring AND painfully self-aware of their horrific compulsions. They love their patients genuinely while being unable to stop themselves from 'improving' them, creating tragic figures who apologize with one breath while performing body horror with the next."

  Jason pauses, glancing toward me though he can't see my expression clearly due to my head tilt. "This one's probably not for you either, given your feelings about necromancy."

  I read what I can from the tone of his description, noting the emphasis on body modification, surgical alteration, the fundamental changing of what someone is rather than healing what they were.

  "No," I state firmly. "No, I am not for this house."

  The idea of willingly allowing someone to restructure my fundamental nature, to replace pieces of myself with 'improvements,' creates the same gut-level rejection as commanding the undead. Both represent violations of natural order, corruption of what should remain whole.

  Jason nods before moveing on without argument.

  "House of Blades," the voice announces.

  The description that follows makes my tactical mind race with analysus. Jason reads about assassins and killers, about a faction built around the elimination of specific targets through precise application of violence. But when he reaches what must be the image, his voice changes.

  "Cold eyes," he reads slowly. "Absolutely empty expression. Someone who kills without feeling, who's learned to turn off everything that might hesitate or question."

  I know those eyes. I know that expression. I know the voice that spoke from winter water, the helplessness that followed. The—

  "Grace?" Jason asks, scent and voice concerned. I'm breathing too fast, caught in memory. "Hey, you're okay. We're here, you're safe."

  I blink, forcing myself back to the present. Jason's expression carries genuine worry, his scent sharp with protective concern as his hand hovers uncertainly over my shoulder.

  "Not this house," I manage.

  "Got it," Jason says immediately. No questions, no arguing. Just simple acceptance and the immediate click of him moving to the next option.

  "House of the Machine," the voice continues.

  Jason starts muttering about "stupid Cogboys and beep boop R2D2" while chuckling. His commentary suggests familiarity with references I don't understand, but his tactical assessment comes through clearly.

  "Techno monks, kind of?" Jason hums: "not really my best faction, but. If I can mechanize... Borg." Jason starts muttering to himself.

  My confusion must show, because Jason tilts his head, stops muttering about cogboys, and explains. "Borg are villains from Star Trek, which is a TV series like that video thing you saw with the Carrin, but these are for entertainment. R2D2 is from another series called Star Wars, and Cogboys, well, they're fucking Cogboys, and I know that doesn't explain anything but it's still funny."

  The explanations clarify nothing, but Jason's amusement suggests shared cultural knowledge I'm not part of. He moves on quickly.

  "House of Boom Boom," Jason reads as the next option appears.

  "House of Boom Boom," I ask, reading from what I can see of the screen.

  Jason starts muttering about "boom boom and pooping," and my confusion must be obvious because he notices immediately.

  "Why would you equate a faction of what appear to be wizards with..." I gesture vaguely, studying what he describes as a man holding a fireball and grinning madly.

  Jason shrugs with obvious confusion. "I have no idea why this is a thing. 'Going boom boom' means pooping to most people here, so... poop jokes?" He examines the description while continuing to mutter. "This would require balancing between all four elements—fire, water, earth, air. Powerful, but if anti-magic gets involved, then they're fucked. Could work, but vulnerabilities are serious."

  I consider the tactical implications. "I would play this faction, although I would require time to acclimate myself to elemental magic theory." The concept appeals to something in my understanding of natural forces, even if the magical methodology remains foreign.

  Jason nods, and I can see him mentally ranking houses in order of preference. His scent shifts minutely as he processes options.

  "House Veth," the voice announces, but Jason immediately grumbles as additional text appears.

  "NPC only," he reads with obvious frustration. "Can't just grind the galaxy to dust with overwhelming military force." He continues grumbling. "Whatever house I pick, I'm going to be contracting these guys and House of Blades personnel as soon as I figure out mercenary costs, even if there technically related to house of damnation due to piller three demonic magic."

  Then the final option appears, and Jason stops entirely.

  "House Astrid," he reads slowly, then scrolls back through what must be the description. I watch his fingers pause, then move more carefully across the keyboard.

  The unit designation reads: "Commander Jason Stone."

  The picture projected from the screen is unmistakably him, though perhaps slightly older and wearing unfamiliar military dress. Same pale blue eyes like winter dawn. Same sandy blond hair. Same long slender agile fingers. Statistics and abilities that mirror his actual capabilities with unsettling accuracy.

  Jason continues examining this for several seconds in growing silence, then abruptly exits the page and slams the laptop shut. He stands quickly, steps back while picking up the computer, and places it on his desk with movements that suggest barely controlled agitation even without the mixture of fear, anger and something else threaded through his scent.

  "I'm not falling into that trap, and I know damn well where this shit leads," he mutters, his scent now sharp with nervousness and rejection. "I'm not going to be the one who clicks select on that and then gets sucked into the game. Especially since I was going to pick Astrid—the adaptive house, humanity's faction—and then the moment I did, I'd get sucked into the computer and become Commander Jason Stone. No, fuck that, please and thank you."

  His agitation builds as he continues, scent growing more nervous. "Could we go running again? I need to get that out of my head, and running with you helps clear things up."

  I consider this, then stand and move to gather his running shoes. But as soon as I pick them up, the problem becomes obvious. The bottoms are completely shredded—if he tried to run in these, the soles would disintegrate entirely and then his feat, unused to running, would become dammiged.

  "Your shoes are destroyed," I inform him, holding up the evidence.

  Jason takes them, runs his hands over the damage with careful assessment, then laughs with genuine amusement. "I can actually look at them now and see how fucked they are," he notes. "Also yeah, they're completely done."

  "I will acquire replacement shoes," I state, then pause. "What currency system operates here?"

  Jason considers for a moment, then mutters something about letting me use his computer without supervision before pulling what I now recognize as a credit card from his wallet and hands it to me. "Please don't go crazy with spending, OK?"

  I consider asking what constitutes excessive spending, then decide against it. Context suggests avoiding unnecessary expenses, and Jason smells, not fearful, but concerned enough that I suspect that asking him would simply cause him more.

  "I will not spend excessively," I assure him, then pat his shoulder once. "Where should I look for appropriate running shoes?"

  "Sarah—that jogger you saw when you walked Dawson yesterday—runs a running store," Jason explains, giving me an address I commit to memory.

  "I will return soon," I tell him, then leave and begin what feels like an impossibly slow lope toward the running store.

  Thirty five kilometers per hour instead of my usual pursuit speeds. It serves the purpose while giving me time to process what we've discovered as well as, as Jason noted, not standing out in this society. The factions present interesting tactical challenges, but that image of Jason as Commander Jason Stone creates implications I'm still analyzing.

  The game's knowledge of his specific capabilities suggests something more concerning than simple coincidence. The fact that this concerns me is... I am unsure how, or why, I am as concerned as I am.

  These thoughts occupy my mind as I settle into the steady rhythm that will carry me through Toronto's streets to Sarah's running store, leaving Jason time to process his own reactions to what we've discovered. I will not abuse the credit card that he gave me. I will insure that he can run with me, as he appears to enjoy it. I wonder what, if anything, Kitten is doing currently.

  ---Durge---

  The house settles around me like a familiar shroud as I listen to Jason's increasingly creative profanity echoing down the hallway. "Fuck I'm not getting tronned" mingles with other technological paranoia that would be amusing if it weren't so precisely calibrated to maximum psychological damage. The man has a gift for finding exactly the right words to express his mounting terror at digital entrapment, I will give him that. Now I just need to insure that Mia does not burry her axe into his spine, without directly involveing myself in either of their lives.

  I flow through his abandoned doorway like shadow given purpose, noting the lingering scent of nervous sweat and that peculiar cleanness that follows all versions of him. Not quite identical to myself, but close enough to trigger recognition patterns I don't examine too closely. His laptop sits open on the desk, screen still glowing with whatever sent him fleeing. The pale blue light reflects off surfaces with mathematical precision, creating angles of illumination that can be used for shadow walking if desired.

  My fingers find the touchpad with surgical accuracy. Each click carries deliberate intent as I navigate through the browser history like dissecting an enemy's tactical plans. This Jason's reading patterns unfold—fantasy novels interspersed with tactical manuals, something called "First Contact, Book Three" that makes me pause. Bloodthorn's work. I catalog this information for later analysis.

  The game's main page assaults my visual cortex with colors designed to trigger immediate engagement responses. Bright reds and electric blues, warriors frozen in eternal moments of manufactured drama. I navigate to House of Blades with the same methodical precision I use when preparing for a kill. One click. Two. The description materializes.

  **House of Blades**

  *Elite Shadow Warriors of Perfect Death*

  The image that appears makes something in my chest contract with recognition. A figure stands wreathed in darkness, wearing form-fitting tactical gear that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. But it's the eyes that confirm my suspissions—lifeless pale blue orbs that resemble frozen ice, completely devoid of warmth or emotion. Those eyes stare from the screen with the absolute emptiness of someone who has learned to kill without feeling, who evaluates and dismisses survival probabilities in the same mathematical instant.

  I know those eyes. I see them in mirrors.

  The face is unmistakably mine—perhaps slightly younger, harder eyes, sharper jaw, but undeniably me. Every line, every angle, every subtle asymmetry matches the features I've carried through lifetimes of violence. The tactical gear fits my precise measurements, the stance mirrors my own unconscious positioning when preparing for combat.

  Below the image, detailed statistics scroll with uncomfortable accuracy:

  **Unit Designation: Durge**

  **Classification: House of Blades founder, unique**

  **Specialization: Perfect Death**

  *Combat Statistics:*

  - Stealth Capability: Maximum

  - Kill Efficiency: 99.7%

  - Psychological Warfare: Expert Level

  - Shadow Manipulation: Supernatural

  - Blade Mastery: Legendary

  *Special Abilities:*

  - Death Whisper Techniques

  - Shadow Walking

  - Perfect Strike

  - Blood Magic Integration

  - Surgical Precision Strikes

  *Weapons:*

  Twin shadow-forged shortswords with blood-drinking capability. Each blade remembers every life taken, growing stronger with accumulated death. Capable of cutting through both physical matter and metaphysical barriers.

  *Background:*

  Master Durge represents the apex of House of Blades training—a being who has transcended mere assassination to become death itself given form and purpose. His methods combine supernatural shadow manipulation with surgical precision, creating killing techniques that exist at the intersection of martial arts and applied physics. He serves as both instructor and ultimate practitioner of the Shadow Court's philosophy: that death, properly applied, is the most elegant solution to injustice.

  *Tactical Notes:*

  Master Durge operates with mathematical precision, treating each kill as a religious ceremony. His psychological profile indicates complete emotional detachment from violence while maintaining infinite tenderness toward innocents. This dual nature makes him simultaneously the most dangerous and most humane operative in the Shadow Court's arsenal.

  *Unit Cost: Unique - Only one Durge exists, and he is mine. If you try to take him, I will come out of the screen and then I will flay you alive. Note from Marry*

  "Are you going to tell Marry about them?"

  The voice emerges from my own shadow—an impressive feat considering I am shadow in many fundamental ways. Deathblade Mia steps out like she's been residing there for hours, which she probably has if not for the fact I set a shadow tracker to moniter her when I found her remaining inside Jason's own shadow last night. Her small hands carrie that axe that defies basic physics, but children who've learned to make the world fear them often do things that they should not. I did. Marry did. Mira, well. The weapon spins between her hands with the casual grace most girls her age reserve for skipping ropes. That this one, I hope, will learn to use to skip ropes when this is done.

  I don't respond immediately. This question requires careful consideration, as Mia would know. Marry is my other half—literally, in ways that transcend words. Her soul fits into mine like mathematics resolving into a perfect equation, as mine locks into hers like, as she puts it, 'a light the dark could not kill'. But this... this represents something entirely different.

  "No," I say finally, my voice carrying the absolute certainty I've built my existence around. The guilty die. The innocent live. This simple truth guides every decision, but explaining my reasoning to Marry would require conversations I'm not prepared to have. Also, given Marry is Marry, there is a non-zero chance that she would decide to slaughter them. Which, she could do if motivated to do so.

  Mia nods as if my answer was mathematically inevitable. "You're worried you had kids and Marry wasn't involved."

  Her words slice through whatever pretense I might have maintained with the precision of a properly wielded blade. The deadpan delivery would make professional comedians weep with envy, I suspect, at least if not comeing from a seven-year-old child, even one wielding an axe that I know for a fact has killed before.

  "Regardless of anything else," I tell her, allowing steel to enter my voice, "you are still a child and should not speak of such things, Mia."

  She stops spinning the axe, fixing me with eyes that have processed more death than most adults ever witness. "Dad wouldn't have done that."

  The accusation sits between us like an unsheathed weapon. She's asking without asking why Marry and I didn't take her, didn't gather her into our protection the way decent people should when they find children drowning in darkness. The way Etienne did with his strays. The way Etienne did with Mia herself. They we did with Mira, though noet for years yet in this Mia's timeline.

  I take the time she deserves, the time the question demands. As such when I speak, my words carry the weight of absolute mathematical truth.

  "I make killers." The admission tastes like copper and regret. "Marry was a child once. Through my attempts to fix what I had done to her, through my attempts to fix my flaying her father in front of her, regardless of the fact I did not know she witnessed it, she became a killer. By choice in the end, yes, but a killer nonetheless." I gesture toward the sounds drifting from elsewhere in the house—Jason's continued technological paranoia. "I am a killer, and killers only make more killers. I do not wish you to become more of a killer, Mia."

  My hands clench involuntarily as I continue. "Etienne, despite being a deathblade and therefore definitionally a killer, makes pizzas. He helps children find purpose beyond violence. He creates things, builds things, betters things." The words carry the weight of personal failure. "I do not. Marry does not, except where I am directly concerned. You can still be something more than a killer. You are a killer, yes, but not just that. Not yet. Not ever, if I have anything to do with it."

  Mia considers this while her axe hangs motionless. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken implications.

  "I still want to kill him," she says eventually, nodding toward where Jason's voice continues its litany of digital distrust. Her tone shifts, becoming clinical in a way that makes my own analytical nature seem warm by comparison. "If I told you I was going to kill Jason now—disable him first, make him see me properly, make him see the girl he didn't save, the girl he could have saved but chose to turn away from to save another, then finish him off—would you stop me?"

  I process the question with mathematical precision, running probability calculations and moral equations. The time she expects me to consider this. The time she deserves.

  "Show me," I say instead.

  Her eyes brighten with predatory interest. "First, I'd wait until he's distracted, like now, for example." She demonstrates by moving with liquid grace, her form seeming to bend shadow around itself. "He's good, but he's not expecting a child. No one ever does."

  She flows through a series of movements that speak to training far beyond her apparent years, though with Etienne as her training master as well as her father, I would expect nothing less. "I'd approach from his blind spot—everyone has them, even enhanced variants. For Jason Stone types, it's usually emotional rather than physical. They focus so intently on protecting others that they forget to protect themselves."

  The axe begins to move in her hands, describing precise arcs that would intersect with human anatomy at exactly the right angles to disable without killing. "First strike—hamstring the left leg. Quick, precise, just enough to drop him without permanent damage. He goes down, confused, reaching for whatever weapon he thinks might help."

  She shifts position, demonstrating the follow-up. "Second strike—wrist tendons. Can't fight what you can't grip. He's now immobilized but conscious, which is the important part, and since no-one else is in the house. screaming does nothing.

  Her voice remains clinical, almost educational. "Then I make him see me. Really see me. Not the child everyone dismisses, but the girl who needed help that never came. The girl who screamed in darkness while he looked the other way, chose other priorities, decided someone else's pain mattered more."

  The axe stops moving, held in perfect stillness. "I'd show him what happens when children learn that adults can't be trusted. When they learn that if they want safety, they have to create it themselves. Through violence, if necessary."

  She meets my eyes directly. "Then, when he understands—when he really, truly comprehends what his choices created—one strike. Right here." She taps the base of her skull with surgical precision. "Instant. Painless. He'd die knowing exactly why, yes, but it wouldn't be drawn out. I'm not an animal. I'm not a sadist. I'm a killer, yes, but I kill for a reason."

  I analyze her methodology with professional appreciation. The tactical approach is sound, the psychological component well-considered, the execution efficient. She's not describing mindless revenge but calculated justice according to her own moral frameworks.

  "No," I conclude. "Brother he may be, yes, but this is different. His conflict is yours, and I will not, cannot, and would stop those in the brotherhood and their kin from the sisterhood from directly interfering in that. If you wish to kill this Jason, none but him and his have the right to stop that. As such, I will let none do so, Mia."

  She nods once, sharp and decisive. Then, with the conversational whiplash only children can manage: "Why are you a character in a game?"

  I pause, recalibrating, though I had calculated this moment's eventual arrival. The girl's abrupt transitions are violent enough to give even me pause, but she is, if nothing else, still a child. Not hollow. Not yet. Still able to become something other than just a killer.

  I read the House of Blades description again, my voice carrying each word with deliberate precision. When I finish, I explain.

  "I wanted peace. After ruling the human empire that spanned systems and held trillions throughout the Lemming Wars, I desired peace. So I fled, as Jasons so often do when encountering problems, to a small pocket reality."

  My finger taps against the laptop's edge, creating small percussion of memory. "I trained twelve disciples. After I decided they would not die or do something that would make me return and kill them—which took almost fifty years to complete—I had my vacation. Then I returned to my duties, as my justice demanded. As my Marry requested. As My brothers deserved."

  I point at the screen, my voice carrying absolute certainty. "But that house, those disciples—they are mine. I did not know they existed. I did not want them created. I did not tell my twelve disciples to create that house, but they are mine regardless. I directly contributed to their creation. They are my responsibility now. They are children I created, and they want their father back."

  I pause, meeting her eyes. "Who am I to deny them that? Even if I were of a mind to?" I continue. "I did not know my Magnen. Bearee. Tyran. Worthy. I will not. I can not, deny these theirs."

  Mia spins her axe between her hands again, the motion hypnotic in its precision. Then her face splits into a sharp-toothed smile that belongs more on a predator than a child. Also, Mia does not have filed teeth or green eyes.

  "Marry would never kill those under your protection, Jason." She says with mathematical certainty. "They are mine too, after all, and I don't kill what's mine."

  She nods toward something existing in dimensions beyond the purely physical. "Those are mine," she declairs. The house. And if anyone tries to take them away from you, I will hunt them down, flay them alive, and then give you a new coat for Valentines day.

  The transformation starts with shadow—not the simple darkness I manipulate, but something deeper, hungrier. It pools at Mia's feet like spilled ink, then begins to climb her small frame with deliberate intent. Where shadow touches flesh, change follows. Her bones elongate with wet, organic sounds that should be disturbing but carry the mathematical precision of fundimental law. Each joint extends, each limb stretches, her torso growing to accommodate the new proportions.

  Her face is the most unsettling part—features flowing like warm wax, reshaping themselves with liquid grace. The sharp angles of childhood soften into the elegant lines I know better than my own reflection. Pale skin darkens to the warm olive tone that speaks of Mediterranean ancestry, while her eyes shift from dark brown to the deep green that can hold galaxies of meaning in a single glance.

  Her hair lengthens and darkens, falling in waves that frame features now fully adult, fully familiar. The axe in her hands transforms as well, metal flowing like mercury until it becomes Souldrinker—Marry's blade, forged from need and tempered in violence, a weapon that drinks more than blood.

  The entire process takes perhaps three seconds, but each microsecond carries weight, carries meaning. This isn't illusion or shapeshifting—this is reality rewritten at the fundamental level, two souls sharing one form through techniques that exist at the intersection of blood magic and metaphysical impossibility.

  When the transformation completes, Marry stands where Mia was. My perfect other half, my mathematical complement, my soul's missing equation. The woman who chose me despite what I had done. The woman who gives me things on valentines day because she knows I find it amusing that she broke my heart the first time. The woman, despite everything, who has chozen to be mine.

  "I let Mia sleep and dream of puppies and kittens and warm summer mornings," Marry says, her voice carrying the gentle steel I know better than my own heartbeat. "The girl deserved something good, and she's had few enough of those."

  "They really were cute puppies," comes Mia's voice from Marry's shadow, followed by the girl stepping out of darkness, still twirling her axe with casual grace.

  Marry nods, then grows serious in the way that makes the air itself thicken with attention.

  "Killing him won't make the hole go away," she tells Mia directly. Her voice carries the authority of someone who knows exactly what she's discussing, something I can personally attest to.

  Mia snaps like a sliced bowstring, her composure fracturing. "Why? How? Explain!"

  Marry glances to me, and I nod, tilting my head in the way she knows means the choice is hers. The gesture carries the familiarity of breathing—a conversation in body language perfected over centuries of understanding.

  "Durge," Marry says, pointing at me with the casual precision most people reserve for identifying furniture, "flayed my father in front of me. He didn't know I was there, or he wouldn't have. I wanted to kill him for that. When he flayed another man—this one who was trying to capture or kill me—in front of me, I started actively training to eventually kill the Mask, who I knew Durge as, at that point."

  She pauses, allowing the weight of confession to settle. "He rescued me. Trained me. Tested me to make sure I could kill him." Her lips quirk in something that might be humor. "Then I broke his heart by ramming Souldrinker through it laterally."

  "It was on Valentine's Day, too," I add, because the detail seems relevant and the irony never loses its edge.

  Mia snorts a laugh despite herself, a sound carrying more humanity than anything else she's produced in this conversation.

  "Even after he was dead," Marry continues, "nothing really changed. Just my reasons. Well, Durge was dead." She fixes Mia with a look that could stop bullets. "I won't stop you—it's not my choice to make—but remember what I said. Killing him won't help. If you kill him, do it because you believe he must die. Take it from someone who has been through what, well. I haven't been through what you have, but I've been on the path you're walking now. Don't kill him because you want the cold in you're chest to go away. Take my advice or don't. That's you're choice in this."

  I reach toward my face, then catch myself and simply scratch my cheek instead. The movement reminds me of vane worms that nearly killed me once. Some habits die hard, particularly those involving supernatural parasites.

  "I suggest you follow Grace around," I tell Mia, returning to practical considerations. "After all, where Grace goes, Jason eventually follows. There's little enough reason to fear he'll escape you then."

  Mia considers this while Marry pulls me into the girl's shadow—a place where darkness meets darkness, where we can speak without the wider audience that follows our existence like persistent gravity watching Mia's decision.

  "Why did you do that?" Mia asks from the shadow-space where all three of us now stand, though how the girl can enter her own shadow is something I suspect only the Author can explain.

  "The wider audience," I explain, because honesty seems appropriate here. "They will not watch you decide. Not here. Not with this."

  She nods, understanding immediately. "Will I start believing in them too if I stay around you and Marry long enough?"

  I consider this with mathematical precision, running probability calculations and behavioral assessments through my analytical framework.

  "No," I conclude. You will not."

  Another nod, the girl satisfied with the certainty.

  "Follow Grace around," Marry suggests, returning to tactical considerations. "Grace won't go anywhere without Jason, and Jason sure as hell won't go anywhere without Grace."

  Mia nods slowly, her axe still spinning in lazy circles. "I'll... consider that. I'm still going to kill Jason." The certainty in her voice carries mathematical weight. "I can't not. But maybe Grace will help me figure things out."

  She steps backward into shadow and vanishes, leaving Marry and me alone in the darkness between spaces.

  I observe Jason's bed, noting its military precision. Hospital corners, sheets pulled tight enough to bounce coins. The kind of attention to detail that speaks of institutional training, of a boy taught to make order from chaos. A bed that was, in another time, in another place, mine. Before.

  "It is not mine," I note quietly. "Not where I was raised."

  Marry's understanding gleams in her eyes, though others wouldn't be able to read the microscopic shifts in expression.

  "You are not the boy who makes his bed with hospital corners anymore," she says, taking my hand and gently tugging me toward the shadows by the far wall. Her touch is warm, grounding, mathematically perfect. "You are mine."

  With those words, we step through shadow together, and I feel the link to this scene snap cleanly. Good. Marry is mine, and what we do together is no one's but ours to share. This is not our story, and the audience shall get nothing of us together. Marry might believe the audience can do whatever it wants because she is mine and I am hers, but I care now about such boundaries.

  I form a slender blade of shadow between my fingers, precise as a surgeon's scalpel, and slice the link with mathematical finality. The scene ends where it should end—with us together, in darkness, beyond the reach of prying eyes.

  The cut is clean. Final. Perfect.

  **Scene ends.**