- Mira Sloane
The city went quiet in the wrong way.
Not the kind of quiet that came after sirens faded or crowds dispersed. That was deeper than that—an imposed stillness, like a hand pressed gently but firmly over Frankfurt’s mouth.
Rommulas felt it first as absence.
The weight beneath the street was still there—dense, anchored, attentive—but the turbulence layered over it had thinned. No rhythmic snap of refusal. No competing from certainty. Even Gordon’s (who they have not had the pleasure of meeting yet), distant structural dishonesty felt
(muted)
restrained.
Katie slowed mid-step, brow furrowing. “Okay,” she said softly, “that’s not normal.”
Mira stopped completely.
Her breath caught—not from panic, but from recognition.
“Don’t move,” she said.
Katie blinked. “What?”
Mira raised a hand, palm outward, eyes unfocused as she listened to something no one else could hear. The hum of the city had flattened into a single, smooth tone—comforting, almost pleasant.
Too pleasant.
Rommulas felt it then, a gentle pressure settling across the district—not anchoring like his weight, not disruptive like Katie’s refusal. This was something else entirely.
Sedation.
“Something is dampening activity,” Rommulas said quietly.
Katie frowned. “You mean like… calming it down?”
Mira shook her head. “No. It’s not calming. It’s suppressing.”
The street around them looked unchanged. People (the civilians that stuck around) walked, talked, laughed even—but the edges of their movements were softened, reactions delayed. A man dropped his phone and stared at it for a full second before bending to pick it up, expression blank.
Mira’s skin prickled.
“Quiet it like this,” she said, voice low, “is how you hide knives.”
They felt him before they saw him.
Julius Jacquetta stood at the far end of the street beneath a flickering streetlamp that refused to go fully dark. He wore a long coat buttoned neatly, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely behind his back.
He looked… kind.
That was the problem.
The air around him was smooth, pressure equalized perfectly, as if the city had been tucked in and told to sleep. The farther his influence reached, the less the Fractures around them responded.
Katie snapped her fingers experimentally.
Nothing.
Her rhythm didn’t answer.
“Hey,” she said, unease creeping in. “That’s rude.”
Rommulas shifted his weight, grounding himself deliberately.
The ground responded—but sluggishly. The weight pressed down, then faded, as though absorbed by something soft and unresistant.
Mira’s heart began to race.
She was the only one who felt it.
Fear didn’t spike here.
It drained.
Julius smiled as he approached, steps measured, unhurried. His presence carried no threat signal, no aggression, no instability. He radiated reassurance the way hospitals did at night.
“Good evening,” he said gently. “You don’t need to tense up.”
Katie bristled instantly. “I didn’t.”
Julius tilted his head slightly, sympathetic. “Of course you didn’t.”
Mira took a step forward before she could stop herself. “What are you doing?”
Julius looked at her with genuine curiosity. “Helping.”
The word settled heavily.
“My Fracture,” he continued calmly, “reacts poorly to distress. Panic amplifies Fractures. Escalation feeds instability.” He gestured vaguely. “I removed the stimulus.”
Katie scoffed. “Your Fracture just drugs the city?”
Julius smiled faintly. “I let it rest.”
The pressure deepened subtly as he spoke, not pushing, not pulling—blanketing. The city’s reaction dulled further. A nearby argument dissolved into quiet agreement. A siren in the distance cut off abruptly.
Mira felt sick. This wasn’t the first time she dealt with this.
“You’re forcing silence,” she said.
“I’m enforcing peace,” Julius corrected.
Rommulas studied him carefully. “At cost.”
Julius met his gaze—and for the first time, his smile shifted.
Recognition.
“...You’re different,” Julius said softly. “You carry weight without agitation.”
Rommulas didn’t answer.
Julius’s attention lingered, fascinated. “You don't need me.”
That scared Mira more than anything else he’d said.
Julius turned back to her. “But you do.”
Mira shook her head. “No.”
“You think so,” Julius replied kindly. “Because you still remember fear.”
The blanket tightened.
Mira’s chest constricted—not from panic, but from its absence. Her thoughts slowed, edges smoothing, instincts dulled. She forced herself to breathe deliberately, clinging to the discomfort like a lifeline.
“This is wrong,” she said, fighting the calm. “You’re erasing signals.”
Julius’s voice softened. “Signals hurt.”
“They warn,” Mira snapped.
Katie stepped forward abruptly. “Okay, I’m bored of this bedtime story.”
She tried to push—snapping her fingers, shifting rhythm, refusing.
Nothing happened.
Her expression faltered. “What the hell?”
Julius didn’t move. “Lullaby doesn’t stop you from acting,” he explained gently. “It just removes the urgency.”
Katie’s anger dulled mid-breath.
“That’s—” She paused, frowning. “That’s not—”
She blinked, confusion overtaking frustration.
Mira grabbed her arm. “Katie. Stay angry.”
Katie looked at her blankly. “Why?”
Mira’s stomach dropped.
Rommulas stepped forward.
The weight surged reflexively, pressing down hard enough to crack stone. The ground absorbed it.
The pressure vanished into the blanket like a scream into snow.
Julius exhaled contentedly. “See? No spikes. No harm.”
Rommulas stared at him. “You’re not stabilizing. You’re burying.”
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Julius nodded once. “Yes.”
The honesty chilled Mira.
“People don’t need to feel everything,” Julius said. “Especially now. Fear creates monsters. Rage fractures cities. Silence gives us time.”
Mira shook her head violently, forcing her thoughts to sharpen. “Silence lets things rot.”
Julius regarded her with something like sadness. “You’d rather bleed than rest.”
“I’d rather bleed than sleep through disaster,” Mira shot back.
For the first time, Julius’s calm wavered.
Just slightly.
“You’re dangerous,” he said softly.
Mira felt it then—the reason. Lullaby wasn’t just dampening Fractures.
It was dampening warning.
Gordon’s structural failures would go unnoticed until collapse. Roan’s certainty would stall without resistance. Roan’s internal Fracture would go numb instead of negotiating.
The city would stop screaming.
And then it would fall asleep standing.
“You can’t be allowed to do this,” Mira said.
Julius smiled gently. “I already am.”
The blanket expanded another degree, reaching deeper into the district. People slowed. Voices dropped. Movement softened.
Rommulas planted his feet.
The weight didn’t answer fully—but it remembered.
The ground beneath him held firmer than anywhere else, a stubborn knot of resistance beneath enforced calm.
Julius noticed immediately.
Interest bloomed.
“You’re anchoring through it,” Julius murmured. “Fascinating.”
Mira grabbed onto that moment. “You feel it too,” she said. “You can’t put him to sleep.”
Julius studied Rommulas, curiosity sharpening into something more intent.
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t need to.”
His gaze slid back to Mira.
“I just need the rest of you quiet.”
The city exhaled as one.
Mira clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, pain slicing through the calm like a flare.
“This is how it starts,” she whispered. “This is how you lose everything.”
Julius’s smile returned, serene and unyielding.
“Sleep,” he said softly to the city.
And Frankfurt listened.
The quiet spread faster once it was invited.
It didn’t rush. It didn’t surge. It settled—slipping into spaces between people, thoughts smoothing, edges dulled. Frankfurt didn’t stop moving. It simply stopped reacting.
Mira felt it crawl along her spine like cold fingers.
Her heartbeat slowed against her will, breath evening out as if her body had decided pain was inefficient. The instinct terrified her more than fear ever had.
This is wrong, she told herself.
This is wrong, this is wrong—
The words felt distant. Muted.
Julius stood at the center of it all, hands folded neatly, posture relaxed, as though he were listening to a lullaby only he could hear. Around him, the city obeyed—not with submission, but with acceptance.
Katie swayed slightly on her feet.
“Hey,” Mira said sharply, grabbing her arm again.
Evelyn Kade, oh how I miss you.
Katie blinked slowly. “I am.”
Fuck. Not again.
“No,” Mira snapped. “You’re drifting.”
Katie frowned, confusion sliding into irritation that failed to ignite. “Why are you yelling?”
Mira’s chest tightened.
She turned to Rommulas. “It’s flattening us. Emotional baselines. Fracture feedback. It’s not shutting us down—it’s turning us into some furniture!”
Rommulas nodded once, jaw tight. The weight beneath him strained, pressing upward in uneven pulses that never fully surfaced. His presence held the ground steady in a small radius, but beyond it, the blanket thickened.
“It’s adaptive,” he said quietly. “The more we resist, the more it absorbs.”
Julius tilted his head, listening.
“You don’t need to fight it,” he said gently. “Your systems are exhausted. This city is exhausted.”
A woman nearby sat down on the curb, sighing contentedly. A man leaned against a wall and closed his eyes. No one screamed. No one ran.
Mira’s stomach twisted.
“Exhaustion isn’t consent,” she said.
Julius regarded her calmly. “It is when the alternative is pain.
He gestured, and the silence deepened another degree.
Mira staggered.
The world softened—edges blurring, sounds flattening into a uniform hush. Her thoughts slowed, memories drifting like loose paper in still air. She felt the urge to sit. To stop holding herself upright.
This is how people die quietly, she realized.
Not screaming. Not fighting.
Just… sitting down.
“No,” she whispered.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek.
Pain flared—sharp, immediate, grounding.
The calm recoiled.
Just a little.
Mira gasped, breath hitching as sensation rushed back unevenly. Her heart raced in sudden rebellion, the spike jarring and disorienting.
Julius noticed instantly.
His eyes sharpened.
“You’re hurting yourself,” he said, almost reproachful.
Mira laughed breathlessly. “Yuh—Yuh—You don’t get to tell me wuh-hut hurts.”
She dug her nails into her palm, drawing blood.
The city fluttered faintly.
Katie blinked, clarity returning in fragments. “Ow—what the hell?”
Mira seized the moment. “Pain cuts through it,” she said quickly. “Not panic. Pain.”
Rommulas understood immediately.
He stepped forward and let the weight fall.
Not as dominance.
Not as force.
As consequence.
Wing Ridden Angel.
No longer Oblivion—no. Both.
Sharp, white wings—the kind that would blind you in the light—unfurled from his back, cutting through the enforced calm like a verdict.
The ground beneath him compressed sharply, cracking with a stone with a low, resonant groan. The weight surged upward, undeniable, unavoidable. The blanket of calm thinned around him, unable to absorb the cost without acknowledging it.
Julius took a step back.
Just one.
“You’re destabilizing the equilibrium,” he said, voice tight.
“No,” Rommulas replied. “I’m reminding it what it costs.”
The city responded unevenly—quiet rupturing into pockets of sensation. A man cried out as his numbness broke suddenly. Someone screamed. Someone else laughed hysterically.
Mira felt the silence tear, seams ripping open where pain and weight overlapped.
Julius raised a hand, reasserting Lullaby with more intent this time.
“Enough,” he said softly.
The calm slammed back down like a weighted blanket soaked in lead.
Mira dropped to one knee.
Her vision tunneled, thoughts slipping, muscles heavy. She could feel herself sliding—not unconsciousness, but surrender.
No, she thought desperately. Not like this.
Somewhere deep in the city, something groaned.
Not a building.
A system.
Gordon’s faults—unnoticed under the calm—began to slip.
A distant structure sagged.
A bridge support shifted under distributed load.
No one screamed.
The quiet swallowed warning after warning.
Rommulas felt it all at once—weight surging voice strained. “You’re numbing it while it bleeds.”
“This is killing the city,” he said, voice strained. “You’re… fuh—fuh–f—fucking numbing it while it bleeds.”
He really is human…, Katie thought.
Julius’s composure finally cracked.
“Better asleep than screaming,” he snapped.
Mira forced herself upright, shaking.
“No,” she said hoarsely. “Better screaming than dead.”
She locked eyes with him.
“You think fear is the problem,” she continued. “But fear moves people. Fear evacuates buildings. Fear makes cracks visible. Fear makes
(Noah Vale)
people save others!”
Julius hesitated.
Just long enough.
“Silence… lets rot spread,” Mira finished. “You’re not saving anyone. You are just making sure no one notices when it’s too late.”
The city lurched.
Not violently.
Subtly.
A tower several blocks away listed another fraction of degree. Glass cracked without sound. People inside didn’t run. They smiled. They sat.
Mira felt bile rise in her throat.
“This ends now,” she said.
Julius shook his head slowly. “You don’t understand. I can’t turn it off all at once.”
“Then turn it back,” Mira snapped. “In waves. Give the city time to feel again.”
Julis faltered.
“I—” He swallowed. “If I release it too fast, panic will surge.”
Rommulas met his gaze. “Better panic than collapse.”
The weight surged again, heavier this time, forcing acknowledgment through the calm. The ground groaned, but held.
Julius clenched his fists.
“You’re asking me to hurt people,” he said.
Mira softened her voice, despite everything. “We’re asking you to let them know they’re hurting.”
The silence wavered.
Just then, far across a city, a new pressure stirred—hot, volatile, familiar.
Roan.
The Hole in the Earth responded unevenly, heat and pressure pulsing through the blanket like a heartbeat trying to wake a sedated body.
Julius felt it and went pale.
“That thing,” he whispered. “It’s getting louder.”
Mira’s breath caught.
“If you keep them quiet,” she said urgently, “you’re going to wake it wrong.”
The calm fractured.
Cracks spread through the silence, jagged and uneven. Sound rushed back in stuttering bursts—sirens blaring, glass shattering, people shouting in confusion as sensation returned too quickly in some places and not at all in others.
Julius staggered, struggling to modulate the release.
“I’m trying,” he gasped.
Rommulas stepped closer, anchoring hard, weight pressing down to prevent catastrophic surge.
“Slow,” he said. “Layer it. Let the city breathe.”
Mira grabbed Julius’s arm, grounding him physically. “Stay with us,” he said. “Don’t disappear into it.”
Julius nodded shakily.
The city groaned—but did not collapse.
Silence receded like a tide pulling back, leaving behind exposed wounds, screaming nerves, and structures that had come terrifyingly close to failing unnoticed.
Mira sagged with relief, exhaustion crashing into her all at once.
Katie laughed weakly. “Okay,” she said. “Never letting it get that quiet again.”
Rommulas exhaled slowly, feeling the weight settle into something like equilibrium—temporary, fragile, but real.
Julius sank to the ground, hands trembling.
“I thought I was helping,” he whispered.
Mira crouched beside him. “You were,” she said honestly. “Just not the way you thought.”
Above them, Frankfurt screamed back to life—sirens, voices, panic, pain.
But it was alive.
And that would have to be enough.
For now.