"You're early," Jason said, stepping out of the manor with that usual grin that made people want to punch him or follow him—sometimes both.
Lysander stood straight, arms behind his back. "You're late."
Jason ignored that and adjusted his collar. "Tell me we're not taking the old route today. It smells like boiled oil and dead pigeons."
"We are," Lysander said, already turning. "Security sweep came in clean."
Jason groaned but followed. He always did, even when he acted like he didn't.
They crossed the front steps where guards saluted half-heartedly. Jason didn't even look at them. He just tossed a wrapped mint into his mouth and kept walking like the ground owed him stability.
A junior staff member glanced at Lysander on the way out. Whispered, "Why's he always bringing the stray?"
Jason didn't stop walking, didn't look back. Just raised a hand without turning and said, "That stray knows how to kill better than you know how to read."
The staffer shut up. Lysander didn't react. He was used to it.
They stepped into the city transport—a black, armored vehicle with half its paint faded from heat and dust. Lysander opened the door. Jason didn't say thanks. He never did. It wasn't disrespect. Just the way they were.
Once inside, Jason kicked his feet up on the opposite seat and handed Lysander something.
A wrist comm-link. New, sleek, military-grade.
"You need to stop looking like you crawled out of a scrapyard," Jason said. "I can't have my bodyguard looking like a thrift store donation."
"I'm not your bodyguard."
Jason grinned. "Knight, personal assistant, private conscience—call it what you want. Just wear the thing."
Lysander didn't reply. He took the comm-link and strapped it on without a word.
The vehicle rolled through the heart of the city. Wide streets. Loud billboards. Heat rising off metal railings. The usual hum of civilization trying too hard to seem in control.
They passed a child selling cold bottles of water on the divider. Jason didn't notice. Lysander did.
A man tried to cut through a restricted alley. Lysander tapped the screen twice and spoke once into the internal mic. The man was stopped by a drone ten seconds later. No scene. No noise.
Jason handed him a wrapped piece of chocolate. "You ever relax?"
Lysander didn't take it at first. Jason waved it under his nose like he was feeding a feral cat.
"You're nineteen," Jason said. "You should at least pretend to like things."
Lysander took the chocolate.
"You're rich enough not to notice what hunger looks like," he said.
Jason didn't take offense. He shrugged. "Fair."
The vehicle pulled to a stop outside one of the minor towers in the industrial zone. Jason had a meeting with a logistics partner. Something about shipment routes for things he wasn't supposed to be moving yet.
Lysander stayed outside.
While he waited, he stared at the billboard above the tower. It flashed local news, investment tips, weather warnings.
Then, for less than a second, it glitched.
Just once.
One frame.
The screen showed a symbol he couldn't name—almost like an eye, but wrong. Then it was back to normal.
He blinked. No one else noticed.
He looked away, jaw tight.
---
That night, Jason hosted one of those high-tier dinners where everyone wore suits that cost more than Lysander made in three months. Lysander stood outside the hall, dressed like security. No one looked at him, but he saw everything.
An old politician tried to corner Jason with talk of legacy.
Jason laughed in his face.
Later, when it was all over, and the servers were packing up, Lysander walked through the back halls alone. He passed the servant quarters. His room was at the end—just a bed, a cracked window, and a chair with one leg shorter than the others.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off the comm-link. The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that made thoughts louder.
He looked under the pillow without thinking.
The chocolate was there.
The same kind Jason had offered earlier. Half melted. Wrapped in a napkin like someone had tried to be discreet and failed.
Lysander stared at it for a moment.
No one had given him anything in years.
Not really.
His first real memory was of cold nights and empty kitchens. His father dying in a hit-and-run. His mother's note still burned into his skull. The railing. The wind.
> "That's a terrible way to end the story, you know."
He hadn't heard that voice in years. But it was always there, buried somewhere under the rest of the noise.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling. The fan spun in slow, uneven turns.
---
Then—just before sleep—
The light outside his window flickered.
He thought it was nothing.
But then it happened again. Not a flicker. A shift.
For a split second, the room around him looked different.
The walls stretched a little farther.
The ceiling pulled higher.
His shadow doubled.
He sat up.
No sound. No alarm. Just… a hum. A pressure behind the eyes. Like the world had hiccupped.
He stood and moved to the window.
Outside, the streetlight buzzed and returned to normal.
But it had changed. He knew it. The pattern of its flicker. The color. Something.
He pressed a finger to the glass. The surface felt thinner than it should.
Like it wasn't meant to be touched.
And then it was just glass again.
He stepped back.
The room felt the same.
But something in him didn't.
He sat back on the bed. Looked at the chocolate again.
Didn't eat it.
Didn't throw it away.
"Something in him—not quite memory—stirred. But there were no words. Not yet.