Chapter Text
After parting with Milo, Caelan nearly ran home, his lungs feeling like they were caving in from the strain. The skull-splitting headache, the incessant ringing in his ears, the nausea — they were all symptoms he knew far too well. They came in periodic waves, sometimes faint enough to ignore, other times, like recently, relentless, lingering long after they should have passed. Even the medication barely kept them at bay anymore.
Well, it was to be expected. The pills he took were knock-off sedatives, meant to treat chronic migraines, bought from pharmacies that weren’t exactly legitimate. They worked just well enough to keep him functional. Just well enough to let him pretend this was sustainable.
As he finally breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching the familiar neighborhood, Caelan was struck senseless. Overlapping voices and wails, police sirens and ambulances… What happened? The entrance to his building was crowded with people. Caelan felt his scalp prickle, his breathing turning shallow, each exhale spilling out in white bursts against the freezing air. Voices blurred together, muffled and distant yet unbearably loud at the same time, as if they were shouting directly into his ears. He blinked hard, disoriented, pushing forward into the mass without thinking.
“W—what?” He asked, not really addressing anyone as he stared at the chaos unfolding in front of his home.
Someone grabbed his forearm, not roughly, and Caelan turned away from the chaos. It was the old woman from his floor, the one who sometimes brought him leftovers or small necessities, like the wool mittens she’d given him last winter.
“Leif! Thank God you weren’t home.” She said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t see you anywhere and thought you were still inside.”
Caelan stared at her, mouth slightly open, but no coherent words came out.
Noticing his shaken state, she hurried on. “There was a fire on our floor, and then it started spreading. I heard them talking about a gas leak. I’m sure it was that bastard who’s always causing a ruckus with his lovemaking. It had to be—”
She kept talking, but Caelan stopped hearing her. It felt like sinking into an abyss. He could see the firefighters a short distance away, moving in and out of the building, their faces laden with frustration and exhaustion. It was over. Everything. Everything he owned was in that cramped apartment.
“Y—you think they’ll let us go back soon?” His voice shook now, unmistakably.
The old woman’s expression faltered for a moment, her brow knitting together. “Leif…”
In the end, no one was allowed back into the building. The police had to investigate the source of the fire and rule out any possibility of arson before residents could return or retrieve whatever belongings hadn’t been destroyed. Because of the toxic fumes, they said, the investigation wouldn’t begin for at least two days.
Some residents collapsed where they stood, sobbing openly. Not many had insurance, Caelan included, and now there was a very real possibility they’d lost their homes.
Slowly, the crowd began dispersing. The old woman offered to take Caelan with her, to stay for a while with her grandchildren who lived far out on the outskirts. Caelan declined politely. With frostbitten fingers, he fumbled for his phone and called Milo.
Milo’s dirty blond, wavy hair was stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. He had evidently run nearly the entire way from his place to meet Caelan, a route that was normally a half-hour walk. He carried a padded jacket in his arms. He seemed even more panicked than Caelan, whose mind was beginning to feel increasingly muddled. Milo draped the jacket over him, bundling Caelan securely, and then they headed to his place.
After a considerable time spent warming up by the small heater, Caelan felt the chill that had seeped into his bones begin to ease. But along with it, the symptoms that had momentarily vanished returned, nearly tenfold.
Milo’s voice was steady as he reassured him he could stay as long as he needed, but Caelan couldn’t stop the tremor in his hands from growing. Even holding a composed expression drained every ounce of his energy.
“mm.” Caelan muttered, nodding slightly, his head hanging low as he practically sunk onto the couch.
A cool, steady hand pressed against his forehead. Milo’s thumb brushed lightly along his temple, and Caelan’s eyes flicked up for a moment, catching the concern in Milo’s expression.
“I think you have a fever.” Milo said softly. Then he touched his own forehead for comparison. “Wait a bit, I think I put some in here.” He rose to fetch fever reducers.
With a warm glass of water, Caelan swallowed the tiny white pill with effort, his throat already raw and rasping. He wanted to wash up, to pull off the throbbing contacts, but he couldn’t — everything was a mess.
Caelan rubbed his face with his fingers, a sense of desperation clawing at him as the fever pressed down, slowing his thoughts.
“What’s wrong? Do you feel nauseous?” Milo crouched down before him.
Without warning, their eyes locked.
“Your eye…" Milo mumbled, his eyes widening ever so slightly. "There's blood—”
Like a jolt of electricity, Caelan snapped upward, shielding his eyes. He scrambled to the bathroom, locked the door, and drew a shaky breath.
“I’m fine… j—just—I think I’m gonna throw up, sorry.” He muttered incoherently. “You can go to sleep, I’m sure you’re tired… I’ll take the couch.”
“Leif, I’m worried. I think we should go to a clinic. It doesn't seem like the normal cold.” Milo called from the other side of the door.
“No! I said I’m fine!” Caelan’s voice cracked as he yelled. He ripped off his contacts, wincing at the sudden blur of the bathroom.
A dry heave wracked his body. He gripped the sink tightly before vomiting, knees trembling. The harsh retching left him panting and coughing.
“Leif!” Milo’s voice rose, panic threading through it as his hand gripped the door handle, turning almost frantically.
“I… I’ll be fine… Just… give me a second.” Caelan rasped.
Is this it?
Is this how it ends?
The last ten years hadn’t been easy — but they were nothing compared to the two before them.
“Please,” Milo said softly through the door. “Just open the door. Let me see you.”
Caelan bent over the sink and splashed cold water over his face, rubbing at his mouth and jaw until his skin tingled. The worst of the nausea eased, leaving behind only a dull ache. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
A pair of deep, dark red eyes stared back at him from the mirror. They were the only outward trait that set him apart from most of the population, though some might see more — a strange, almost ethereal allure, as if his features were deliberately crafted to draw attention. To Caelan, it was nothing but a crazed fanatic’s rambling.
But everyone knew what the eyes meant. Even Milo would recognize it, no matter how detached he was from government affairs or the remnants of the old church.
Caelan dragged his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp strands back from his face.
“I’ll… I’ll open the door.” He said hoarsely. “But you have to promise—promise you’ll listen. To everything I tell you.”
The banquet hall buzzed with people dressed in extravagant gowns and meticulously tailored suits. Laughter and flattery flowed easily, champagne glasses clinking beneath the glow of chandeliers that cast a warm light, mimicking hospitality.
The air was heavy with perfume and polished metal, every surface gleaming just a little too perfectly. Most guests appeared in high spirits, though some hushed conversations hinted at unease — pointed questions and subtle sneers about whether this was truly the right moment to celebrate. And yet, the star of the night was nowhere to be seen.
The door to the private room opened without a sound. Thin smoke lingered inside, suspended in the air, carrying a faint scent of burned cedarwood.
“Oh. Here you are, Director.” The voice was smooth, polite to the point of mockery.
Noam stepped inside and was met by a pair of dark, sharp eyes, fixed on the flickering lights of the city below.
Adriel took another slow drag from his cigarette, offering no acknowledgment, as if Noam’s remark hadn’t earned one. He lounged on the ivory couch, one leg crossed over the other. The black suit and charcoal shirt only emphasized the paleness of his skin, his jet-black hair perfectly in place, impeccable as ever.
“Or do you still prefer Lieutenant?” Noam added softly.
Adriel’s gaze turned to him, the silence stretching for a moment before he responded.
“Suit yourself.”
Noam dropped onto the opposite couch, pulled a cigarette from the pack tucked inside his suit jacket, and lit it with practiced ease. He studied Adriel openly, a pleasant smile fixed on his face — too empty to be genuine. “Not feeling nervous? Your hard-earned title might not exist by the end of the year.”
The citrus smell of Noam's cigarette clashed with the cedarwood in the room, twisting together until the air turned heavy, nearly nauseating. Somewhere above them, the ventilation system reacted, its low hum rising as it noticed the steadily degrading air quality.
Adriel exhaled, barely audible. “You and I both know that isn’t going to happen.” He leaned forward just long enough to crush the cigarette into the marble ashtray on the low glass table between them. “Besides, it’s a title in name only. The old man is too cautious. You know that.”
Noam’s smile didn’t waver. “So you’re ready to take the fall?”
Adriel’s gaze hardened. “Scram,” he said, his voice dropping a degree colder. “Unless you’re here for something else.”
Noam laughed softly, lifting his hands in a mock surrender, though the gesture faded almost instantly, his eyes narrowing as his smile eased just a fraction.
“You remember that sting the Central Police ran a few years back?” Noam began. “The one where they busted that old chemical factory, which eventually blew up. The place used to warehouse and test on those kids.”
Adriel didn’t react. “Keep going.”
“Well, today one of the missing ones got flagged and picked up in Halcyon Ward.” The corners of his mouth curled upward. “And guess what? Completely ordinary, nothing special about him. I suppose he’s an adult now—twenty-one, to be exact. Looking at two years for indecent exposure and public unrest.”
Adriel’s eyes narrowed, studying him carefully.
“But,” Noam added, savoring the pause. “He did confess he didn’t escape alone.” His smirk deepened, “Said the other one had red eyes.”