Two months of streaming in and out of consciousness murdered Ian's biological clock.

  The sound of the slamming door woke Ian, who blearily blinked his eyes. But instead of waking, as a sane person should do, he burrowed himself deeper into the cozy blankets.

  In another life, he'd be a rich man.

  Or, he'd remain poor and steal the blankets of a rich man sooner.

  The said rich man stirred behind him, draping a heavy arm over Ian's waist. Disobedient hands lurked closer, dragging Ian against a warm chest, where the faint beating of a heat—which Ian secretly suspected didn't exist—drummed against his ears.

  "Ugh," groaned Ian irritably, shoving his hand backwards into the person's face. He kicked out a leg to transform into a starfish. "It's hot."

  What was this unwanted heater doing in his personal space?

  The body rumbled with soundless laughter, face pressing against Ian's fingers. He felt the shape of an angled nose with a high bridge, and the softness of the man's lips. The blankets shifted below Ian's waist, and pronounced fingers slid to the hem of his shirt.

  A chill sparked against his stomach, and Ian lost it.

  He violently slammed out his leg, driven by the pure instinct of a half-awake man, and sent the other shooting off the bed.

  A thud trembled the floors, and all the blankets swept along with it, tearing Ian from his dreams. He yawned, unwillingly propping onto his elbows as he glared venomously at the bedroom door, which slammed wide on cue.

  In a blink, all his sleepiness vanished.

  His pupils shook, widening—both terror and relief.

  Before he could speak, a pink-haired creature launched himself across the room, leaping directly into his embrace. Ian slammed back, catching the other with surprise as slender arms looped around his neck, dangling onto him like an overcaffeinated monkey.

  Ian shakily attempted to drag himself against the headboard, and the arms squeezed tighter.

  "Sylvan," gasped Ian dazedly, tapping the trembling back. "You're choking me."

  Another squeeze. Ian had survived an explosion, but would instead have his lungs fractured by a sobbing monkey. Thankfully, Sylvan retreated, straddling his waist with tears brimming at the edges of his eyes. His eyebrows were screwed tight.

  "Ian," he choked, burying his face in the crook of Ian's neck. "I thought you'd died too."

  Ian stilled. Then, he ruffled the bed of mused hair, speaking hoarsely. "If you don't loosen your grip, you'll be my killer."

  The pressure around his neck loosened completely as Sylvan frowned. "I don't want that!"

  Ian rubbed his throat and exhaled. Nothing could've prepared him for this meeting, although he'd known it would come. Running solved nothing, and Ian wasn't a runner.

  He faced things directly, because they always returned—and sometimes, the fermentation of time soured what could've been.

  Gently, he brushed away the strays of pink that pitifully clung to Sylvan's damp cheeks. His gaze dipped, and he gritted his teeth. "Sylvan. I—"

  Could mere words absolve his crimes—and did he deserve it?

  Why did people seek forgiveness as if sins could be swiftly erased? Apologies couldn't revive the dead, nor could they match the weight of a life lost.

  Sylvan slapped his palm over Ian's lip, smiling weakly. He fiddled with a red-woven bracelet looped around his wrist. Handmade. "I don't want your apology. Do you think I would've been thankful if you died instead? I'm just... grateful that at least one of you returned."

  "You've only known me for a few months," muttered Ian.

  The lingering sleep confused his head. Light streamed from expansive windows overlooking the city, beckoning morning through the blinding skies scattered with electric pulses, and Sylvan—why was he here?

  How did he enter without the code to Victor's door?

  Ian suddenly recalled ejecting a large, bothersome object off the bed—deservedly, he was sure—and glanced at the space beside him that lingered with warmth. Slowly, his gaze dragged further across the floor and met a pair of icy blue.

  Victor wore a thin smile and silently mouthed. "Remember me?"

  Ian wodlessly looked away. How did that saying go—hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

  Sylvan followed his gaze and hissed, prickling like a wet cat. He slapped his hands over Ian's cheeks with an aggressive squeeze, forcing his attention.

  "Don't look at that thing! Anyway, time isn't a precursor to affection. I'd known I wanted—" He choked, swallowing a name. But he forced it out. "I wanted Will when I'd only known him a few months, but I'd saved him at a glance."

  The name remained a rock lodged in Ian's throat, and his heart hammered violently.

  It ached with a pain no time could ease. The weight of tears unshed that stole his breath.

  He'd replayed it countless times, as many others reviewed their guilt and regrets in quietude. Guilt, which manifested into haunting ghosts, attached for a lifetime.

  He felt that blinding light a hundred times. William's murmured apology, and the warmth of his embrace. In darkness, memories gained clarity, shaped by the absence of reality.

  They haunted his waking and his sleep.

  And he hoped they never stopped.

  Sylvan's cough tore him from his stupor, a sternness to his face. Shadows weighed his dulling gaze, and a sickly complexion wore his once sunny disposition. Miseries sewn tightly beneath a bright smile.

  He squished Ian's cheeks and smiled. "Hey, we're all just sitting ducks waiting for death. We'd always expected it to happen eventually, I just—"

  His voice sputtered off, like a faucet run dry. One tear spilled, and with it came a flood. They coursed through his thin frame, bubbling endlessly. "I just didn't think it'd be so soon."

  Ian circled his arms, drawing the trembling body close. No words, he knew, could relieve Sylvan of his grief. Sorrows had a way of engraving into skin like a sin.

  Were they living, just waiting for death? And if so, what was the purpose of all their suffering?

  All their enduring?

  Time ticked, but it wasn't a thing he cared for at that moment. Eventually, Sylvan's sobs stilled into soft breaths against Ian's chest, with his knees tucked up, as if he could shrink into himself and vanish.

  Carefully, Ian slid him onto his back and drew the blankets over, watching the tightly squeezed eyes quiver. His nightmares. Now, they would continue for an eternity, no longer any comfort left to ease their terror.

  Victor, who'd been playing dead, rose and unbuttoned his shirt. "The party begins in six hours. He'll attend with you."

  Ian glanced over, frowning. "Why did you bring him here? I didn't ask you to involve him in this mess."

  "Have some faith in me, Guide." Victor's shirt slid off his shoulders, folding over thick forearms, and revealed an elegant back. As he moved, his muscles flexed, exposing sharp shoulder blades that extended like buried wings. "Your little friend isn't as uninvolved as you assume."

  The Esper tilted his head back, his gaze cold. "Are you finished stewing in your guilt? It'll do nothing for me."

  "It's not something you can control," said Ian wryly, though he doubted the other understood. "It's there, whether I want it or not. Undigested, swimming like a piece of—"

  "You certainly have a way with words," interrupted Victor, fastening his belt. He strolled over and plucked a glass of water from the table, placing it into Ian's palm. "Drink."

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  "When you get older, the eloquence of words stops mattering. Or, you can try living underground for the better half of your life." Ian tipped his chin back, swallowing, and a single trickle escaped his lips. "No need for fancy vocabulary to masquerade maturity, brat."

  Victor chuckled, taking the emptied glass as his thumb skated over Ian's chin.

  His laughter came frequently these days, strangely alive. The lightness melted a layer of frost from his face, veiling him in humanity.

  Ian watched as Victor left for the kitchen, hearing the faucet turn on, water rushing into the sink.

  He knew what this was, this aching ease of familiarity. The attachment of habit, a consequence of all those days in the illusion.

  Victor's cold touch that once disturbed him now cooled his taut back, and the man's heartbeats, slower than most, hummed in his ears like a familiar song, coaxing his nightmares to sleep.

  His caged arms were the second closest thing Ian had known to a home.

  The first was his sister.

  A murmur sounded beside him, and Ian glanced sideways. Sylvan had rolled to his side, and Ian softly pressed a finger to his furrowed brows, smoothening them out.

  He sighed, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, until he felt pain.

  Sylvan woke three hours later, clinging to Ian's waist. He blinked dazedly and squeezed Ian tightly as a delirious smile stretched across his young face.

  "Will—!"

  Then, the joy fled just as quickly, and the blankets slumped from his shoulders.

  He gulped, scrambling off as panic twisted his face. "Ian. Ian, sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I haven't been able to sleep—"

  His body staggered, foot slipping by the bed's edge. Ian caught him by the waist, tugging him back. He shook his head. "It's fine."

  Sylvan exhaled shakily and laughed. "I'm a mess, aren't I?"

  "It takes time," muttered Ian, and Sylvan swallowed, hugging him again. He was more affectionate than Ian recalled—but perhaps it was misplaced affection, no longer with a destination. "There's no linear path to grief."

  It could press against skin like a leech, sucking away all vitality and hope.

  Sometimes, that seeping sorrow melted into resentment, and any delusions of happiness melted away with it, streaming into the sewers that carried the Base's hope.

  The duration after his sister's death, after his anger receded, he'd stopped searching for slivers of words, stopped eating coloured foods, and avoided all traces of Eloise. He tried to smother her memory—he'd tried to forget her like a blight on his record.

  And then he loathed himself for trying.

  Sylvan clung to him like a koala, wrapping all limbs around. "How much time?

  "...I don't know."

  Ian waited patiently for Sylvan's sobs to subside, and Victor reappeared in the doorway, leaning against its frame. He tapped his watch. "If you're done wasting time, I advise you to get dressed."

  He'd deposited a beige suit onto the bed and held a second.

  "You're the same bastard you always are," muttered Sylvan, but still reluctantly crawled over. He snatched the clothes, promising a quick return, and rushed to the bathroom.

  Ian swung his legs over, striding to where Victor stood with clothes folded over his arm. He cocked his head. "Are you wasting time, or going to give those to me?"

  Victor smiled. Then, he raised his dexterous fingers and popped off the first button of Ian's shirt. His hands continued down, and Ian only lowered his eyes, saying nothing.

  Silence settled between them, and all Ian felt was the imprint of cold fingertips.

  A breeze circulated the room, rustling through his clothes. Ian lifted his eyes past Victor, where towering buildings stacked closely. Windows after windows, disguised by a sleekness that facaded wealth.

  Zone 0—the Base's chosen ones.

  Even if in the end, they were all corpses imprisoned within its walls.

  His sleeve slipped between the crevice of his arms, and cold hands glided across his skin. The chill demanded attention, but soothed the boiling heat that simmered in his veins. A raging, stewing burning he couldn't name.

  Something had happened in that Rift. Something that couldn't be explained. He was no fool, and although his memories were scattered, he'd known that agonizing heat had come from him.

  "What're you thinking?" murmured Victor, for not the first nor the last time. "Should I guess?"

  Ian raised his brows. "Is murdering you too obvious?"

  Victor hummed and slipped the other sleeve off, exposing Ian's bare skin. He hung it on a golden coat rack and fastened a new shirt. "You're a word lover, Guide. I would think you to be more creative."

  "I can find creative ways of violence," offered Ian, as a tie looped around his neck and pulled taut. "Maiming, feeding you to the beasts, would you like me to think of more?"

  A smile, cold as always. "Be my guest."

  Ian frowned. "Your reactions piss me off. You piss me off, do you know that?"

  "Do I?" Victor adjusted the tie, knuckles tapping Ian's chin to lift it. He played every bit of a dedicated lover, a loyal man. "You certainly don't make that clear, with your loving words and honey gazes."

  Ian clicked his tongue, and when Victor's hand strayed to his pants, he grabbed it. He arched an eyebrow and scoffed. "Nice try."

  He snatched the black trousers and tugged down the cotton pyjama pants Victor gave him, infuriatingly covered in red tomatoes.

  The Esper had sworn to the skies that there were no other options, but Ian doubted he was one to honor his vows. Nevertheless, the quality tripled the straitjacket, so he chose silence.

  Beggars couldn't be choosers.

  Tomatoes weren't bad either. The underground facility occasionally received overripe tomatoes, bringing baskets of bruised vegetables. Scraps for the Guides, like feeding pigs their leftovers.

  When he returned to the present and glanced up, a pair of eyes stared intently at his boxers.

  Ian fell silent. "I get that you're a shameless bastard, but you could pretend to look away."

  "I'm an honest man," said Victor calmly. "So I should honestly look."

  Ian yanked up the pants, scowling. "Has anybody told you that something's wrong with your brain?"

  "You. Every day."

  Ian abandoned the conversation as he finished dressing and allowed Victor to brush back his hair neatly. A few strands of black fell over his forehead.

  When he left for the bathroom, he saw a bitter man who wore a scowl, pretending to be refined.

  The tan he'd gained from staying in the outer zones returned to an almost sickly complexion from the days underground, and his hair had been trimmed just over his ears, adding a flare of wilderness. But the suit and hairstyle marked him in the Center's performance.

  Wasn't wealth and luxury all an elaborate act?

  "Like a wolf playing human," mused Victor, plucking Ian's wrist. He fastened a black band—a watch lined with silver constellations. The hour hand pointed with a delicate star that marked the time, mimicking one of the old designs, before watches began to serve another purpose.

  But Victor tapped the silver rim, and Ian's information floated in glowing white.

  [Ian. Age: 24. Rank: F.

  Partner: Temporarily bound to Esper Victor, SSS-Rank.

  Alert! Match rates between Esper and Guide are extremely low! Warning! Warning! Insufficient rates. Please return to the center for adjustments—]

  Victor placed his palm over it, and the hologram blinked out. Ian had never worn such a watch before, only a pathetic metal strap that doubled as a handcuff.

  Although, really, was this any different?

  "Isn't that an exaggeration? Your stupidly high rank."

  Victor smiled and readjusted Ian's hair. "You should be aware of that."

  A perfectionist, Ian discovered, although he wasn't surprised. Victor was the sort who liked everything to his preferred angles, from events to people.

  They moved to the living room. Sylvan had tied back his overgrown hair. He laughed sheepishly, saying he needed a haircut. Before, William always helped trim his hair.

  The first time, Sylvan announced with quiet fondness, William had chopped off too much at once. By the time they'd evened it out, Sylvan had a few sprouts remaining on his head.

  "I was practically bald!" Sylvan wailed. "He laughed like crazy, and after I chased him with my spoon, we compromised by shaving off his hair too. Bald buddies."

  Ian chuckled at that, a faint sound that lingered with sorrow.

  The event was located in a popular restaurant in the Center, lined with twinkling chandeliers and lace-trimmed chairs. Ian's stomach, surviving on nutritional liquids for over two months, rumbled at the large buffet laid out on each circular table.

  Enough to feed a family in the outer zones for a few months.

  A large roasted pig was claimed in the center, an apple shoved into its mouth. Next to his napkin, there was a large fork, a small one, and the same with the spoons.

  Ridiculous.

  Victor tilted toward him, placing lean chicken and suspiciously bright vegetables onto his plate. "Are you worried about table manners, Guide?"

  "Isn't it time for you to remember my name?" scowled Ian, spearing the food. Sylvan added more, choosing light foods that wouldn't upset Ian's stomach, and grinned up at him. But whenever he looked at Victor, his smile flipped, and daggers marked his gaze.

  "Are you not satisfied? Then tell me, what would you prefer to be called?"

  Ian stared in disbelief. "There's this thing called a name."

  "I'm reviewing options." Victor's attention returned to his own plate, elegantly picking up the right utensils—or maybe they were all wrong, and Ian didn't know. But with his poised back and relaxed smile, he seemed every bit suited for these glittering, overpriced banquets.

  "I only have one name."

  "Haven't we deepened our relationship?"

  Ian gnawed on the chicken, stiff in his seat. The lull of music drifted from the next room, meant for socializing.

  He squirmed, and the tie suffocated his throat, a noose he couldn't remove. "We haven't, and that's also irrelevant. I still only have one name."

  "Then I'll decide." A servant appeared behind them, and Victor plucked two glasses of amber liquid, fizzing in their narrow glass. He placed one before Ian, who scrunched his nose. He tapped the watch on Ian's wrist and smiled. "Does this remind you of a collar?"

  "What the hell is wrong with you—"

  "Ugh, stop!" Sylvan hissed—a terrible noise that was a poor mimicry of a snake, although Ian had never heard one to say its exact accuracy. A few gazes swept their direction, and he lowered his voice. "I'm trying to be quiet, but stop being disgusting, you nasty old man!"

  Ian rubbed his temples. "Sylvan, I'm the oldest here."

  Sylvan pressed his lips together, blinking. He coughed. "You have a young spirit! Even if there were times you rolled out of bed and complained of back pain... anyway!"

  "My dear puppy," interrupted Victor, raising his glass.

  Ian snarled. "What?"

  "Don't bite," smiled Victor pleasantly, as if satisfied by himself—and of course he was. He thrived on others' miseries. There were vampires, bloodsuckers as Ian read of in his books, and then there was Victor. "You'll need that drink. To your left, passing the doors, is a beautiful lady."

  Ian's mouth, rounded around an insult, froze.

  He turned to a beautiful, voluminous woman with a deep velvet dress and cascading brown hair. Her eyes creased with a few wrinkles, but her back remained straight and arrogant, a smile curled at her red lips.

  She glanced around, where few remained seated, and others had left to drink and converse in the next room. Then, her sharp grey eyes met his. And his heart plummeted.

  Was this rage, or was it fear?

  Her smile widened, and she tipped a glass of wine down, licking her lips. A few adoring gazes surrounded her, but she ignored them. She tucked in her hair behind an ear and spun, heels clicking away.

  Victor's finger tapped against the table, slow and measured. "It's no good, dear puppy."

  But Ian's attention had been stolen by the open door that beckoned him. A buzzing hummed in his ears, and he tilted back the bitter liquid. It tickled his throat, scorching before settling like acid in his stomach.

  His chair scraped the ground, but he paused, glancing at a place of food. He deposited it onto Sylvan's plate after shoving a few bites of chicken into his mouth and turned.

  Sylvan jumped to his feet, following hurriedly. "Wait! Ian, I'm going with you—hold on!"

  Only Victor remained at the empty table, staring after them silently. His cold eyes chased after that fleeing back—a back that always seemed to be turned toward him.