Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Valeri,

 

¹ If you make me pick one honest thing about love, it’s that love isn’t a single shape. It’s really just a bunch of shapes wearing the same face—worship, habit, hunger, refuge, and violence all pretending to be each other. So naturally people want neater definitions—caretaker, romance, attachment—but what I keep coming back to is this, that love is the story we tell to explain why we keep returning to the thing that hurts us.

² There are moments when love is luminous, quiet mornings where someone puts your coat around your shoulders without thinking, the small steadiness of someone who remembers the exact way you take your coffee, that nervous feeling or the butterflies you get in your stomach when someone compliments you—and when you look down, smiling to yourself, cause even if they’re a stranger, even if you have no idea on who they are or just vice-versa, that is love. That, I also find, is the most attractive thing about love—simply being human. Those moments are tender, and ordinary, but, those moments do not exhaust it. Love also has a shadow side—obsession that calls itself devotion, rescue that calls itself salvation, grief that calls itself possession. Of course, both are real. Both will live in the same chest care-free. They can only co-exist. You cannot reign obsession without love, and you cannot reign love without obsession. Now I could quite literally go on about this for hours because you may be thinking “rae what the FUCK that’s the most toxic mindset ever” well, then I believe you’re just misinterpreting it.

³ So, I really like dividing love into a few overlapping categories since that helps me explain how it feels inside the body, so, if you want a less glorified explanation, here:

• limerence (no, not the damn tiktok definition) — the brain-on-fire, replay-every-text, worship-in-miniature. limerence is the biography of obsession, it cleans the world into one face and then rewrites every action as evidence. it is devotional and delusional. it feels holy because it consumes you with reverence. but it’s also far too fragile, if the beloved retreats, limerence can ossify into resentment, and the person left worshipping can find they have prayed for a God who is only human.

• soteria (salvation-love) — the kind of love that arrives as rescue. this one reads like myth—like, “I was drowning; you were the hand that pulled me out.” soteria gives narrative purpose. it can be beautiful, because literally who doesn’t want to be saved? but it can also create unhealthy economies—the saved owes, the savior expects. when salvation becomes identity rather than action, it becomes a debt—“you saved me, therefore you own me.” that’s when worship mutates into control.

• care & covenant — probably the less flashy part of love. care is the decision to show up; covenant is the promise that shapes the showup. these are workmanlike forms of love. they are architecture rather than fireworks. they don’t romanticize the other but they recognize them. these forms are quieter, and they are how good relationships endure. they are also the forms most easily discarded in neat tragedy because they lack the sonic boom of our beautiful glorious little first example—limerence.

• ruin-love — love that contains the seed of its own destruction. it can look like sacrificial romance in fiction—someone gives themselves entirely, and the outcome is ruin. though ruin-love is not always abusive; sometimes it is tragic and voluntary. but it’s dangerous when one person’s salvific action becomes the other’s reason for self-erasure. it’s quite literally the love that says if we must burn, burn together.

⁴ So why does my writing keep returning to the edges—worship, ruin, and the religious language of saving and falling? Probably because those edges are where identity and desire meet. When you call someone “Angel,” you have moved them from person to symbol; you have taken the scaffolding of their humanity and erected a cathedral around it. People become very small inside other people’s shrines. Devotion can be flattering, it can be warming, and it can also be a trap that keeps you from seeing the beloved as anything but the altar you built. I guess that’s why it’s so easy for me to write about Ellernate’s devotion, because it’s just simply human in the smallest way. iTrapped, however? Lord, don’t get me started. I didn’t think writing a story with iChance playing as glue would be so difficult—but I’ve been proven otherwise.

⁵ I also think love is a form of interpretation (quite obvious but, ya know…) You interpret someone’s glance as tenderness, or menace, or an invitation. You pick and choose what to remember yourself—the tender moments, the apologies, the small kindnesses—cause, everyone has a different perception of love, right? But in the end, it’s all but the same. Memory is how we sustain love, but memory is porous and biased. It edits out the inconvenient parts because to hold a myth is easier than to hold a messy human. That’s where limerence thrives, it feeds on selected memory until admiration hardens into faith. And faith—romantic faith—is deceptively close to dependence.

⁶ Practical and ethical parts of love matter too. Boundaries, consent, reciprocal care—those are not boring footnotes, they’re the scaffolding that keeps worship from becoming violence. You can’t love someone without feeling comfortable in both yourself and them, after all. If you never felt comfortable, then it was never love. When devotion demands that the beloved exist only to redeem the devotee, it violates those ethical lines. Loving someone shouldn’t exactly require their annihilation, but the test of a love worth keeping is whether both people can remain themselves inside it.

⁷ I refuse to romanticize sacrifice. Fiction will show the lover who gives everything and weep for them; I do not deny the beauty. But I’m also suspicious of narratives that equate worth with self-erasure. True sacrifice is chosen freely and accompanied by personal integrity; martyrdom as manipulation—either self-directed or externally enforced—is an abuse of the language of love.

⁸ Culturally, sure, love is soaked in metaphor and scripture. We borrow the language of divinity because it articulates the intensity we feel—“angel,” “godless,” “saved.” It’s pretty damn dramatic but you can’t deny it’s useful. Even so metaphors change the way we act. If you name your lover “Angel,” you begin to expect infallibility. If you name your love “Soteria,” you start measuring debt and grace in ways that can hurt. So part of loving responsibly is noticing how the words we use reshape the people we love.

⁹ What about forgiveness? Love and forgiveness are like, probably cousins. Forgiveness is not erasure of harm; it’s an active re-evaluation that can restore, sometimes, trust. It’s hard, and it’s not always necessary or healthy. Sometimes the right act of love is choosing separation—because love includes respect for the beloved’s right to safety and dignity. loving someone is not an unconditional license to be hurt.

¹⁰ Finally—love's beauty is that it can transform. A love that begins as limerence can mature into covenant, a soteria impulse can be grown into steady care rather than debt, and what looks like ruin can be excavated and reworked into empathy—if both people are willing and if the damage isn’t irreparable. That’s an optimistic fact anchored to reality, love is salvageable if people are honest and accountable.

¹¹ So then what is my bottom line? Love is complicated. It is worship and work, hunger and offering, myth and contract. The most honest love recognizes both the ache and the obligation—it lets you feel awe and also asks you to keep showing up with your hands unclenched. Worship without regard for the beloved’s life becomes idolatry. Rescue without reciprocity becomes bondage. The bravest love, to me, is the one that can bear the truth—that you are not a savior and they are not a shrine, and yet you choose each other anyway—with eyes open.

¹² In short, love is the decision to care for someone’s whole life, not just the parts that validate your worship. it can be bright and it can be ruinous; the difference is whether we stay to hold each other without burning the other to ashes.

¹³ But, most importantly, love is what makes us human.

¹⁴ It is also what reaches past that boundary.

¹⁵ Think of how philosophers and poets have tried to name it. I know how you have a thing for literature. Plato treated love as a ladder—an ascent from longing for a single body to the contemplation of beauty itself—which tells us love is both an appetite and a mode of knowledge. Augustine reminds us that love orders our loves, what we place at the center of our craving becomes the architecture of a life; love, he suggests, is the vector that points us toward what matters. Thinkers like Erich Fromm and writers such as Rilke and Dostoevsky probe the labor of love—not merely as feeling but as praxis—the discipline, the humility, the terrible generosity it demands. And I, argue that, love is a verb—an ethic of care and responsibility—and that insight helps translate romantic ache into political responsibility. Gosh, I love literature.

¹⁶ Love, then, is interpretive. We read meaning into the eyes that meet ours; we build myth around small acts. And, as I’ve mentioned before, that act of interpretation is what lets love bind communities—friends who become kin, neighborhoods stitched together by mutual obligation, movements that animate solidarity. To love someone is to enter a fragile contract of attention and accountability; it is a claim on memory and presence. In that sense love is ethical before it is erotic, it requires the work of keeping another’s life intact alongside your own.

¹⁷ But it is not limited to people, is it? I’ve talked all about how we, as humans, cannot live without our precious love. We love places, songs, the scent of a city at dawn; we fall for ideas and causes, for architectures of meaning that shape how we live. The concept of biophilia—the human tendency to affiliate with other life—shows that love, can be ecological, affection for a river or a grove becomes moral attention to the living world. People love animals with an intensity equal to human love; they love artifacts—a battered guitar, a piece of art (hopefully mine!)—because those objects hold continuity and memory. These attachments are not inferior to human love; they are examples of how love enlarges our moral imagination and teaches us to steward what matters.

¹⁸ Even our machines expose love’s elasticity. We anthropomorphize robots, we feel tenderness for animated characters, we form rituals around screens and accounts; the shape of affection adapts to new material forms. That doesn’t mean every attachment is the same morally, but it does mean love is fundamentally plastic. It conforms around objects, persons, and institutions that answer our need for meaning and reciprocity. The fact that we can love an idea, a program, a stranger online reveals that love is more an orientation—toward vulnerability, toward risk—than a checklist of acceptable recipients, right?

¹⁹ This is why love is politically consequential. When a society cultivates love as solidarity rather than as private possession, institutions change—justice becomes care, policy becomes stewardship. Conversely, when love is fetishized as ownership, when devotion is used to justify control, it becomes a tool of domination. The history of liberation movements is also, implicitly, a history of reshaping who counts as a beloved—expanding the circle of moral concern until the language of love includes the formerly excluded. So do not go and harass your neighbors, saying they are but injustice for simply loving. You, are guilty of loving too, which is why I will just never understand the discrimination for love. Though, that’s a whole different situation…maybe I’ll get into that another day.

²⁰ So love’s miracle is double, it renders us painfully exposed, and it gives us the vocabulary to craft worlds. It makes us human not because it is tidy or safe, but because it insists we feel for each other in ways that demand accountability. To love is to risk ruin and to rehearse repair; it is to accept that the only way to approach something like divinity is through the wound—through the recognition that Gods cannot bleed, and that our bleeding is what teaches us to keep each other whole.

²¹ When I wrote this, love in this story wasn’t exactly meant to be a tidy duet; it is an architecture of relations. Ellernate’s yearning centers the plot, but he is never solitary in that ache—others press against it, fit into its corners, prop it up or pry it open. iTrapped is the axis around which worship spins. Like, savior, sinner, wound-bearer. All of it. Chance is a ghost that scaffolds memory and motive—not merely a past to mourn, but a material force that shapes choices. I don’t think of iChance and the sidelines as background noise; they are the counterweights that make the central gravity possible—but, if you can’t look past sealants for making a story plausible, then this fic is probably not for you. Expect the story to read less like a romance and more like a map of how one person’s devotion becomes a social field where responsibilities, debts, and loyalties are negotiated.

²² I, personally, wanted the dynamic to feel lived-in, ethical, and messy rather than heroic or romanticized. Worship and caretaking look similar from the outside, but are morally different when laid bare—one demands the beloved’s erasure into a shrine, the other insists on sustaining the beloved’s life with boundaries intact. That distinction is what the narrative keeps testing—through arguments, through small mercies, through the inevitable mistakes that turn tenderness into harm. You’ll see characters trying to save one another and, in doing so, learning which salvations are gifts and which are transactions dressed as grace.

²³ The ensemble functions like a chorus in a tragedy, each voice amplifies the others’ culpabilities and mercies. Friends hold mirrors up to each other’s delusions; lovers’ devotion becomes the site of political and personal reckoning; those on the sidelines bear witness and sometimes intervene, sometimes fail. The point isn’t to punish desire but to interrogate the economies around it—who owes whom, what counts as consent when grief is currency, how memory can be curated into a weapon or a refuge. Get it now? Still no? Your funeral.

²⁴ So, what to expect? An intimacy that is reverent and dangerous, choices that feel inevitable until they are not, and a slow unspooling of what we mean by salvation. I like to think the tone is elegiac rather than celebratory; it allows tenderness and cruelty to co-exist because both are human. This fic wants its audience to leave unsettled, not because the characters are irredeemable, but because love—in all its forms here—asks for responsibility before it asks for forgiveness. And, no offense, but, I see a lot of people cannot come to acceptance of that.

²⁵ To love is to want—and to want is to admit need. It’s surrender, in the most tender but terrifying way (so crazy that those two can co-exist, right?) It’s saying—“you could fucking ruin me, and I’d still come back ‘cause I love you.” Which, is not exactly weakness, but, proof of life. The heart keeps pulsing even when it’s been torn open. So, probably, we love because it hurts.

²⁶ I think, maybe, that’s what all this is about—this entire story. We love not to be saved, but to feel real for a moment. We love because it’s the closest we ever get to divinity, even when it ends in ruin. Because, like I said, Gods can’t bleed, but we can—and somehow, that’s the miracle.

²⁷ For the love of Telamon, do not ask me more over this topic. It is absolutely nothing special, in fact, it is ridiculous, considering probably everyone has had these thoughts at least once in your lifetime (and if you haven’t then WHAT are you doing in life??) Or, do. Can’t really stop you since it’s a free cunt-try.

²⁸ Anyway,

²⁹ I hate love. While it’s the one thing that makes us us, it’s still our one weakness, because we’ll never stop loving. Still, it is a lovely thing. Even in death, you’ll never stop being mourned; you’ll never stop loving after death. So isn’t that the most beautiful thing? That, we, will never stop loving.

 

From, Azrael

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The Banlands were never meant to be escaped.

Every wall pulsed with code older than their memories, jagged with firewalls that rewrote themselves faster than most could blink. The place was built to cage anomalies, the kind of Robloxians who didn’t just bend the rules but shattered them into sharp edges. Ellernate had spent weeks memorizing those edges. Every crack, every flicker, every guard’s rhythm.

And now he was running.

Finally escaping.

Sure, he’d been here before. He’d seen it all. Even then, nobody could get used to the stillness of the Banlands. How different it is from different servers throughout Robloxia… only the fiercest really had a chance to maintain their sanity here.

Ellernate may have been amongst those, but really, he’s just as unstable as the rest of them.

Static lit the air, bright bursts of failed kill-scripts sparking against the corridors. The alarms howled like an endless loop of broken audio, so loud his teeth rattled with it. Boots struck the metallic floors, a stuttering cadence that barely kept up with his pounding pulse.

Behind him, Caleb shouted something. Maybe orders, encouragement, Ellernate couldn’t tell. The noise was too much. Way too overstimulating.

All he knew was iTrapped was ahead of him, cutting through the chaos like he was born to it.

His crown glowed pale in the dim light, catching on the shattered code like frost on glass. He didn’t stumble, didn’t even look back. Just moved, precise and deliberate, slipping past guards with a cold efficiency Nate hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t like this the last time they’ve done this.

Then again, that was years ago.

But still, could he have changed so much?

The iTrapped he remembered would’ve been grinning. He would’ve thrown some smug line over his shoulder, baiting guards into a chase just to prove he could outrun them. He would’ve laughed at the chaos.

This iTrapped didn’t laugh.

He ducked under a surge of broken code, jaw set, lashes lowered as his fingers tore into the lock of a firewall. Sparks scattered across his cheeks, burning bright for half a second before fading, but he didn’t even flinch. His mouth was a thin line, too still, too heavy for the moment.

Ellernate’s chest tightened.

“Clear,” iTrapped muttered without looking up, and the gate split open under his touch. Just like that. No pride, no cocky flourish, just… empty.

Ellernate followed him through, lungs heaving, every nerve alight. His hands shook from the sprint, from the risk—but iTrapped didn’t shake. His movements were steady, controlled, as though the chaos couldn’t touch him.

“Move!” Caleb barked from behind, shoving them forward. Another wave of mods spilled in. At this pace, the Admins would arrive anytime soon—they needed to move quick.

iTrapped barely spared them a glance. He threw a burst of corrupted code into their path, a wall of static tearing across the floor. The guards stumbled, tangled, caught in the noise. iTrapped didn’t wait to see if it held. He just kept running.

Ellernate forced his legs to keep up, forced his lungs to burn with each breath. The whole time, his eyes stayed on iTrapped’s back.

The boy who used to glow like wildfire now moved like a shadow.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate woke to glass.

The kind that stretched from floor to ceiling, blackened with night and punctured by the faint spill of city light far below. His first thought was that he’d been moved to another cell, some new tier of Banlands he hadn’t known existed—too clean, too wide, too bright in all the wrong ways.

Then the pain hit.

“Fuuckk,” he groaned—cursing hard as his hand shot up to his head in a matter of seconds.

His skull throbbed like someone had split it open and poured static inside. He pressed a palm to his temple, groaning low as he sat up. The sheets beneath him were crisp, soft, nothing like the rough data-woven bunks in prison. Felt pleasant, but his body screamed against the movement anyway.

“Oh, damn, you’re awake.” A familiar voice rang, some shuffling evident. “Already? Really?”

The voice pulled his attention to the corner. Jonathan sat perched on the arm of a couch, a Bloxy Cola can dangling between his fingers. Casual, like they weren’t fresh out of hell. His avatar still carried the remnants of battle: scuffed tie, gaze carrying that heavy weight of fatigue. His grin was intact, though, easygoing as always.

“Y’scared us for a second, y’know,” Jonathan went on, tilting the can before taking a swig. “You dropped right after we made it out. Guess your system just…gave up. Wasn’t even surprised, though—you push too hard.”

Ellernate squinted, trying to follow, but the words blurred. His head pounded in rhythm with Jonathan’s voice, every syllable a dull knock against his skull. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“…Where are we?” His voice came out hoarse.

Jonathan gestured vaguely around them, like the skyline was self-explanatory. “Penthouse. iTrapped’s…somehow. I have no idea how he got a place like this. I think he said it was a friend’s? Well, don’t ask me the details, it’s messy. Point is, we’re safe.”

Safe. The word rang hollow.

Unfamiliar.

Ellernate leaned back against the headboard, forcing his eyes open despite how heavy they felt. Everything was too much—or maybe it was the migraine making him think that.

Jonathan kept talking. Something about how they’d been outnumbered, how the odds stacked so badly even Caleb had cursed under his breath. How iTrapped, of all people, had managed to pull a plan from the wreckage—clean, efficient, and brutal. How he’d led them through the swarm without faltering once.

Ellernate tried to listen, he did. But Jonathan’s voice blurred to static, half swallowed by the pounding in his head. Bits caught: outnumbered … glitched the whole firewall … never even slowed down. 

Fuck, his head was pounding. That’s all he could think about.

The sheets felt like they were suffocating him, for Telamon’s sake. Too smooth, too clean, too much like a place he hadn’t earned. Nate pushed them off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing when the floor’s chill met his feet.

“You should stay down,” Jonathan murmured, voice evident with concern. He was still perched on the couch arm, twirling the soda can with restless fingers. He didn’t seem too at ease himself, now that Ellernate was paying attention.

“I’m fine,” Ellernate muttered, though he wasn’t. His knees wobbled the second he stood, and he had to steady himself against the nightstand before moving toward the door. His head still throbbed, the light still cut too sharp. None of it mattered. Safety was a lie. He knew that.

“I just need to recheck the perimeter,” he said, fingers brushing against the wall as he moved, anchoring himself in the unfamiliar space. “Make sure we’re not boxed in.”

Jonathan frowned, finally setting the can aside. “Nate, you’re…swaying. Sit back down.” He made his way to Ellernate, but the latter only pushed him away.

“I said I’m fine,” Ellernate repeated, a little sharper. The air felt too thin, too still. Banlands had been brutal, yes, but at least he understood it. This… penthouse, this sudden calm after chaos—he didn’t know where to put it.

Maybe he was just unfamiliar with change. But something about this felt off.

Jonathan stood this time, cutting him off with an arm braced across the hallway. “You’re not fine. You just came out of the Banlands, and you passed out cold—and now you’re pacing like some godforsaken hunted animal. We’re safe. For once. Stop overthinking it.”

Ellernate’s jaw clenched. “Safe?” He almost laughed. “Safe doesn’t exist for people like us. We’re not regular Robloxians, Jonathan. Of all people, I’d expect you to know that. You don’t get it—”

“ Ellernate, ” Jonathan finally snapped—Ellernate froze. “I get enough.” His voice cut, low but firm. His usual easygoing air was gone, replaced by something solid, unshakable. “Y’know, we wouldn’t be here if Isaac hadn’t gotten us out. You’re breathing, Nate. That’s fuckin’ safer than we’ve been in years, can you just…take it?”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The city lights stretched behind the glass, glittering like a taunt neither of them could answer. Nate’s chest rose and fell, harsh against the silence, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Then Jonathan exhaled, the edge softening. His shoulders sagged. “Look…I know it feels wrong. Too quiet. Too clean. But not everything has to be a trap.” He dropped his arm, stepping aside. “If you need to calm yourself, then…fine. Just…don’t break yourself doing it.”

Ellernate hesitated, the weight of the room pressing on him. His legs screamed to keep moving, to check the corners, to peel back the layers of this safety until he found the danger he knew had to be there.

But Jonathan’s words stuck. Not everything has to be a trap.

He winced.

Ellernate leaned against the wall instead of the door, head bowing into the crook of his arm. His breath came out unsteady, eyes shut against the swirl of light and ache.

Jonathan didn’t push further. Just grabbed his Bloxy Cola, and quietly padded his way out of the room.

The walls pressed too close in the bedroom. No matter how wide it was, no matter how pristine the linens smelled, in all honestly—Ellernate felt cornered.

Again, he blamed it on the unfamiliarity. He went from being behind bars to being behind floor-to-ceiling glass windows, who could blame him?

He slipped out before Jonathan could return, padding barefoot down the hallway. The penthouse just felt like a maze. It’s the hollowness that made him feel small, like a ghost rattling through someone else’s life. Something about what Jonathan said earlier felt like a lie—

“Penthouse. iTrapped’s…somehow. I have no idea how he got a place like this. I think he said it was a friend’s? Well, don’t ask me the details, it’s messy. Point is, we’re safe.”

I think he said it was a friend’s?

A friend? That was ironic, considering it felt like nobody even lived here at all.

He found the living room by accident. Drawn by the glow of the city bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, there, sat comfortably on the wide couch, Caleb. He looked perfectly at home, posture relaxed, fingers laced loosely in his lap as if he owned the place itself.

Not anything like how Ellernate felt currently.

He hesitated, the floor swallowing up the sound of his steps. Caleb tilted his head slightly, acknowledging him without looking away from the window.

“You’re restless,” Caleb said simply. Not a question. “Feeling better?”

“Can’t sleep,” Ellernate muttered. He crossed the room, ignoring the dozens of empty armchairs and instead slumping heavily onto the couch right beside him. The cushions dipped, his body all sharp edges compared to Caleb’s unnervingly composed stillness.

“You just got out of hell,” Caleb said. His tone was calm, not condescending like usual. “Sleep isn’t something you can snap back into.”

Ellernate huffed, rubbing at his temple. “Don’t need your analysis.”

Caleb allowed a small pause, then finally turned to look at him. His gaze was steady, deliberate. The kind of eyes that weighed people without ever seeming to. His gaze roamed over Ellernate’s face for a moment, before sighing. “Eh, maybe not. But you look like you’re going to tear your skin off if you don’t sit still for five minutes.”

That only earned him a sharp look. Ellernate bristled, but didn’t move away. The silence stretched, filled only by the city’s distant hum through the glass.

“You always this much of an ass when you’re half asleep?” Ellernate muttered, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Caleb smirked faintly. “Only when I’m right.”

Ellernate slouched deeper into the couch, arms crossing. He hated the way his body still trembled in small, traitorous bursts—weakness he couldn’t disguise. He was a hacker, for Telamon’s sakes, one of the most well-respected ones.

And even then, he couldn’t recognize himself as the most dangerous hacker of Robloxia right now.

Fortunately, Caleb didn’t comment. He didn’t fuss, didn’t hover. Just sat there, a calm anchor in a room too big for either of them.

Minutes passed before Ellernate spoke again, quieter this time. “Feels wrong.”

Caleb didn’t ask what he meant. “Of course it does. You’re not used to it. Safety doesn’t feel like safety when you’ve never had it.”

Ellernate’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to spit something back, but Caleb’s words lodged too close to truth.

“And you?” Ellernate asked finally, eyes narrowing. “You act like you’ve lived here your whole life.”

Caleb gave a small shrug. “I adapt fast.” A pause. “And iTrapped lets me.” Something bitter twisted in Ellernate’s chest at the mention of that name, though he shoved it down quickly. “You should check up on him. He was worried about you.”

Ellernate ignored the last part. “You’re too calm about all this.”

“And you’re too tense.” Caleb’s voice was even, but there was the faintest thread of something softer—concern, perhaps, buried under precision. He didn’t reach out, didn’t push further. That wasn’t his way. But the weight of his presence was grounding in its own strange way.

Eventually Caleb stood, stretching like a cat, unhurried. “You should try to rest. Tomorrow won’t be quieter than today. We’re still wanted. The Admins know we’re gone.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just padded toward one of the hallways, steps soft, and disappeared into the penthouse’s labyrinth.

Ellernate stayed behind, slumped into the couch cushions, his gaze wandering the room. It was cavernous, lined with bookshelves and gleaming surfaces that made him feel like a trespasser.

And then his eyes caught on something above the fireplace.

A frame, polished silver, the glass reflecting the city lights. Inside—two figures. iTrapped, unmistakable, a bit younger, with a smile that looked almost real. Beside him: a man Ellernate didn’t recognize. Taller, broader, sharp in the jaw, his hand resting on iTrapped’s shoulder with an intimacy that spoke volumes.

Ellernate’s stomach knotted.

There was weight in that gesture, in iTrapped’s rare ease. Though, something about Isaac’s expression seemed… uneasy.

As if it was fake.

Ellernate rose slowly, drawn toward the frame, his bare feet whispering against the floor. He studied the man’s face—gentle-eyed, self-assured, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud but deep. His avatar consisted of attire undeniably expensive, limiteds hanging everywhere over his body. Evidently, someone carved into iTrapped’s life long before they’d arrived here.

His gaze roamed over the frame, before settling on a small note tied to the stand.

In black ink, “You should relax more, iTrapped. We look great here. - C”

His brows drew together, because below it—unmistakably in blue ink, iTrapped’s handwriting.

“Indeed we do, Chance.”

Chance.

He swore he’d heard it in passing, in whispers laced with iTrapped’s silence. The name felt way too familiar, but he wasn’t exactly sure from where.

Ellernate didn’t hear the footsteps until a voice broke the silence.

“Yo, Ellernate! Jonathan said you woke up.”

He jolted, nearly stumbling back from the fireplace. His heart lurched as though he’d been caught red-handed, though all he’d been doing was staring. Vilicus stood in the doorway, one brow lifted in casual curiosity.

Ellernate straightened too fast, arms folding stiffly over his chest. “Yeah. I’m up.” His voice came out rough, unsteady.

Vilicus eyed him for a beat, then dug into the pack slung at his shoulder. A can clinked free, and he lobbed it across the space without warning. Ellernate barely caught it against his palm.

“Bloxy Cola,” said Vilicus  simply, leaning against the doorframe like he had nowhere better to be. (which, he didn’t.) “Should help y’stay awake.”

Ellernate turned the can over in his hand, cold condensation sliding between his fingers. “…You good, dude?” Vilicus added after a pause, head tilting slightly.

A long silence stretched before Ellernate forced out, “…Yeah.” Felt too clipped, too practiced. It was. Fuck, every second that passed of this night just increased his migraine.

Vilicus didn’t push. He just gave a shrug, a lazy wave, and padded back down the hall, disappearing as suddenly as he’d come.

The quiet returned.

Ellernate exhaled, slow and uneven. He set the cola on the mantle, but his eyes betrayed him—drawn again, inevitably, to the frame.

Chance . That stranger’s hand on iTrapped’s shoulder. The smile on iTrapped’s face that never once had been offered to Ellernate since they’d returned, what was it that was so unsettling about that photo?

No matter how hard he tried to tear his gaze away, something in that photo pinned him in place.

Something about them together was so profoundly uneasy it made his skin crawl.

Ellernate narrowed his eyes at the photo, unease prickling under his skin.

Who the hell was Chance—and why was his ghost still hanging over this place?

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The morning bled in through the tall windows, pale and heavy, fortunately softened by the veil of curtains. Ellernate woke groggy on the couch, the kind of half-sleep that clung to his bones like lead. His body still ached. He looked around, a bit incredulously. Had he seriously fallen asleep on the couch?

He blinked against the light until a voice pulled him back.

“Nate.”

His eyes snapped open, and iTrapped stood above him. The glow of his crown painted him gold in the weak daylight, a sharp silhouette against the gleam of the glass behind him. He looked impossibly awake, collected, as if he’d (somehow) been up for hours.

Ellernate sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “…Mm, what’dya want…?”

“There’s a run happening today. Small scale.” iTrapped’s tone was casual, but quick, like he was already halfway out the room. “Data heist, it’s nothing complicated. You coming?”

Ellernate hesitated, grogginess dragging at the edges of his thoughts. Something about the word “heist” still pressed uneasily against his chest, probably due to it still being so early after they’d escaped, but he schooled his expression smooth. “Yeah. Of course. Give me a bit.”

iTrapped gave a short nod, satisfied, and turned toward the hall. The ribbon that tied his hair neatly caught the light, sharp and crisp in a way Nate would never understand.

Nothing like the iTrapped he’d recognize.

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. iTrapped paused mid-step, glanced back over his shoulder.

“You doing alright?” Ellernate asked, quieter this time. His voice felt strange in the stillness of the room.

For a second, iTrapped didn’t answer. The silence pressed too tight, and Ellernate swore he could hear the hum of the city below them through the glass. Then iTrapped  smiled.

It was the kind of smile that was too perfect, too practiced—sweet but paper-thin. It sat neatly on his lips, but his eyes stayed cold.

…

Exactly like the smile in the photo.

“Of course I am.”

And without waiting for a response, iTrapped turned and walked out.

Ellernate sat there long after the sound of his footsteps faded, staring at the place he’d been, pulse tight with a feeling he couldn’t name.

Chapter Text

The sirens were already screaming when Ellernate’s boots hit the glossy server room floor. Red light pulsed against the walls in time with his heartbeat, the alarm drilling sharp into his ears. Rows of server towers hummed like an angry swarm, blinking, glitching under iTrapped’s touch. Finally, something felt familiar. Felt like he was where he belonged.

Ellernate kept pace at iTrapped’s side without faltering. The adrenaline was there, sure, but he wasn’t some rookie. He’d seen worse, fought through tighter scrapes. If anything, the chaos sharpened him. His breaths came steady, movements precise, body coiled like a spring.

He’d done this before—too many times.

But what caught him off guard wasn’t the mission. It was iTrapped .

iTrapped moved like the alarms didn’t exist. Not panicked, not reckless—just… focused. His hands were steady as he slipped a drive into the port, code spilling across his laptop in an endless cascade of green. Ellernate’s memory tugged back to years ago, iTrapped in some other data center, cursing under his breath, cutting corners, laughing while he nearly fried himself with bad wiring. It was reckless. Brilliant, but undeniably messy.

But now?

His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable, eyes flickering with cold calculation. Every motion had weight, no wasted breath. Sure, Ellernate should’ve been impressed—well, he was. But it was unnerving at the same time.

He sighed.

It’d been years, of course iTrapped has improved overtime. He’s changed a bit, that’s it. Matured, grown, that was all Ellernate ever expected of him. And finally—he presented with it.

That was it.

Surely.

“Thirty seconds,” iTrapped murmured, voice low, barely audible over the alarms.

Ellernate stayed close, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as he scanned the perimeter. A drone whirred in from the far end of the hall—sleek black casing, sensors glowing like an unblinking eye. He didn’t wait. His fist cracked against it in a single blow, sparks sputtering as it crashed to the floor.

iTrapped didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even bother to look up.

The iTrapped Ellernate remembered would’ve cracked a joke, maybe thrown out some cocky “nice save, big guy” just to make light of it. But all he got now was silence, iTrapped’s eyes glued to the screen as though Ellernate’s fight didn’t even register.

He was probably just tired.

The progress bar inched forward. 64%…72%…85%.

iTrapped’s lips moved in silence as he typed, running through lines of code like a prayer. His jaw set, body rigid.

“Done,” iTrapped snapped, yanking the drive free. No triumph in his tone, just finality. He slammed the laptop shut, the click punctuating the chaos. “Move.”

Ellernate didn’t question it. He didn’t exactly need to. They bolted, iTrapped already sprinting for the exit, weaving between server racks with uncanny precision. Ellernate followed, his longer strides catching up easily, but the image lingered in his mind—

The iTrapped he knew had burned bright, reckless, and loud. The iTrapped in front of him now moved like someone smothering their own fire.

For the first time in a long time, Ellernate found himself unsettled.

The second the drive clicked free, iTrapped was moving, laptop tucked under one arm like it was more valuable than his own life. His crown caught the red emergency lights in sharp flashes, cold metal against cold skin.

“Left exit’s blocked,” he said without looking at Ellernate. “We take the stairwell.”

“Stairwell?” Ellernate’s voice came out dry, sardonic even as he pivoted to swat a drone out of the air with a crowbar he’d found earlier. “…And you’re sure that doesn’t lead us right into their security hub?”

iTrapped vaulted a fallen server tower with more agility than Ellernate initially would’ve expected. “I mapped the blueprints before we came. Unless they’ve rebuilt the entire floor in the last six minutes, we’re fine.”

Fine. The word rolled too easily off his tongue, flat and detached. Ellernate caught up in three strides, heavy boots pounding against the tile. His chest burned with adrenaline, but his mind couldn’t shake how different iTrapped sounded now.

“Don’t remember y’always this confident in your plans,” Ellernate muttered as they burst into the stairwell, his voice echoing against concrete. “Always used to come running to me before doin something.”

iTrapped paused.

“Mm, confident enough,” he shot back, pushing the crown of his head against the steel door to shove it wider.

“Funny,” Ellernate huffed, swinging his crowbar into the face of a security bot crawling up from below. Sparks spit like fireworks. “I remember you being a hell of a lot louder about it.”

iTrapped didn’t answer. He only adjusted his grip on the laptop, blue eyes flashing with a focus that made Ellernate’s gut twist.

Another drone screeched overhead, spotlight cutting across their path. Ellernate grabbed iTrapped by the wrist and yanked him against the wall just before a spray of bullets shredded the stairwell railing. iTrapped didn’t flinch—didn’t even gasp. His lashes lowered, face eerily calm, like this wasn’t the closest he’d come to death all morning.

“Timing’s off,” Ellernate murmured once the drone spun past. “We need to go now.”

Finally, a flicker—iTrapped’s lips tugged into a faint, humorless smile. “So adamant about overthinking, aren’t you?”

Before Ellernate could bite back a reply, Isaac shoved forward, tearing down the steps two at a time. Ellernate growled low in his throat and followed. His chest was tight, not really from running, but from how unbothered iTrapped looked. The iTrapped he remembered would’ve been laughing, cracking a joke about cheating death, smirking like the whole world revolved around him.

This one just looked… cold.

By the time they crashed out the ground-level door, alarms were still blaring, but the air hit them sharp and damp, washing sweat from Ellernate’s brow. They sprinted into an alley slick with rain, neon signs buzzing faintly overhead.

iTrapped finally slowed, sucking in a breath as he ducked beneath a rusted awning. He pressed the laptop close, chest heaving, crown tilted forward.

Ellernate leaned against the opposite wall, crowbar dangling loosely at his side. His pulse was steady—trained, hardened—but his eyes stayed fixed on iTrapped, trying to read the unreadable.

“Let’s find the others,” he finally ordered, low and blunt. The words scraped out of him before he could think better of it.

iTrapped’s lashes fluttered once, then stilled. He nodded, handing the laptop to Nate.

Ellernate took it without question, watching silently as iTrapped walked off—not even bothering to wait. His grip tightened around the laptop until his knuckles creaked.

They sprinted through the underpass, shadows stretching sharp across the rain-slick ground. The stolen drive weighed heavy in iTrapped’s hands, glow of its code flickering faintly through the cracks of the case. He looked like he’d been born to run with it, crown tilting,  stride precise. Not an ounce of hesitation in him.

Ellernate, on the other hand, felt the edges of fatigue gnawing at his muscles. The Banlands hadn’t exactly given them rest, and every part of him was running on pure grit. He didn’t slow—couldn’t—but his mind slipped, just for a breath, as the quiet realization hit—

They shouldn’t be alive right now.

All of them should’ve been dead or locked in cells forever. Yet here they were, sprinting through midnight streets with iTrapped leading like he’d been doing this his whole life. Well, he kind of had, but Ellernate hadn’t exactly expected him to take on the role of leadership. Sure, it’d been years…but it just felt so out of character for someone like iTrapped.

That second of staring—of zoning out—was all it took for the street ahead to flash alive with danger.

The bot’s visor lit white-hot, cutting the dark like a spotlight. The hum of its weapon split the air. Ellernate’s chest lurched as the scene caught up with him in a gut punch. iTrapped, running headlong into his sights.

And the wildest part of it, iTrapped didn’t even hesitate.

He darted sideways, reckless, crown catching the light as he tried to cut around the bot’s flank. Too clean. Too confident.

Ellernate’s body screamed to move, but his head lagged behind—long enough to realize iTrapped had misjudged.

The bot’s aim adjusted with inhuman precision. A whine built in its core. Louder, faster. The shot was coming.

iTrapped’s shoes skidded on wet concrete. His lashes flickered, mouth parting when his calculation crumbled in real time. For just a second, his mask faltered—blue eyes wide, the crown tipped precariously like it might shatter with him.

Ellernate’s body moved before his brain caught up.

“iTrapped!” His voice cracked raw as his arm clamped around the blond’s waist, yanking him back with brute force. Heat burned past his cheek an instant later as the beam ripped through the space iTrapped had occupied. The shockwave scorched the wall, rattling their bones as Ellernate slammed them both against cold brick.

The laptop hit the pavement with a thud.

Crown askew, but Ellernate didn’t care—his forearm was still pinned across iTrapped’s ribs, his other hand iron-locked at his side, breath heaving like he’d just dragged him out of death’s jaws.

“You trying to die?!” Ellernate barked, too close, too raw. His heart still hadn’t slowed. He could feel iTrapped’s pulse hammering beneath his grip.

iTrapped coughed once, lips parted like he might choke on the silence. Then—mask back on—his tone dropped into something almost bored. “I…miscalculated.”

Ellernate’s jaw locked. His chest burned like fire as he pushed harder into him, glare burning hot through the shadow. “That wasn’t a miscalculation. That—that…”

“That was suicide.”

iTrapped’s mouth curved, but it was the wrong kind of smile. Crooked. Sharp. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Still breathing, aren’t I?”

The bot’s weapon hummed again, charging for another strike. Ellernate shoved iTrapped behind him with a force that left no room for argument, crowbar swinging up in his hand. His knuckles were white, grip steady even when his voice cracked low with fury,

“Not if you keep pulling stunts like that.”

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The helicopter rattled through the afternoon haze, its shadow dragging itself across the city below like a scar. Inside, the others’ voices tangled together—Jonathan’s laughter too loud, Twister throwing in some half-assed joke about their “ great escape, ” It should’ve been grounding. It should’ve been comforting, even.

To Ellernate, it was all white noise.

He sat toward the back, gaze fixed on the blur of sky through the window, but his eyes kept straying sideways—toward iTrapped.

iTrapped sat opposite of him, crown tilted just slightly askew, pale hair sticking damp to his forehead. He was fiddling with the drive like it was a deck of cards, turning it over and over in restless hands. His face was unreadable, lit only in fragments whenever the sun cut through the window and caught the sharp angles of his jaw.

Ellernate let the silence stretch too long before finally shifting seats, the leather groaning under his weight as he dropped down beside him. iTrapped didn’t look up, not right away.

“You nearly got yourself killed back there,” Ellernate said low, pitched under the hum of blades. “What the hell was that?”

iTrapped’s gaze flickered towards him once, but he didn’t stop rolling the drive between his palms. “I told you, calculated risk.”

“That wasn’t calculated. You walked straight into its aim like you didn’t care if it hit you.”

iTrapped’s smile was small, quick. It didn’t touch his eyes. “Well, I’m fine.” The scars adorning his arms betrayed that statement.

Ellernate’s teeth grounded together. “You can’t keep doing that.”

Finally, iTrapped’s head tilted, blue eyes cutting over to meet his.  And for the first time since the Banlands, since everything—they weren’t ice, weren’t cold, and finally weren’t unreadable. They flickered with something else. Something sharp and raw, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“You don’t have to be so concerned for me,” snapped iTrapped. Then, after a pause, voice tightening just a fraction, “Besides… I thought you… you know, hated me. After what I did.”

He let the silence hang, before in a softer tone, “Why do you suddenly care now?”

The words hit harder than the near-miss back in the alley. Ellernate’s throat locked.

He did hate him—or thought he did. Every scar May Madness carved into his head still burned when he looked at iTrapped. Yeah, it hurt. The betrayal hurt. And yet… here he was, heart hammering over one reckless move like it meant the world.

“I—” Ellernate started, then cut himself off, chest heavy. The hum of the rotor blades filled the space where his answer should’ve been.

iTrapped’s gaze lingered, almost like he was waiting for him to crumble. Then, with a small shrug, he turned back to the window, mask snapping back into place. Crown glinting, shoulders set. Like nothing had slipped at all.

Ellernate still sat there, stunned, staring at him as if the question had burned into his skin.

He opened his mouth, but the words tangled. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, grit his teeth, and tried again, harsher “That’s not what this is.”

iTrapped arched a brow, his lashes lowering in that infuriatingly calm way that only made him look colder. “Isn’t it?”

Something in Ellernate snapped.

He leaned forward, catching iTrapped’s wrist in his grip—not gentle this time, but not quite violent either, just enough to pin his attention. “Stop twisting my words,” Ellernate hissed. “You think this is a joke—why are you acting so different lately?? You nearly got yourself killed back there, and you seriously don’t even care?” His throat locked up.

iTrapped’s eyes sharpened, his lips curling at the edge. “We’ve done stunts like this a hundred times, Nate. Be damned, I retrieved you guys from hell itself. What in Telamon’s name makes you think you’re so entitled to care now ?”

The silence settled uncomfortably. “Yeah, maybe I almost died back there, and if you hadn’t came running…” muttered iTrapped, and in a much more muted tone this time, “…then maybe it would’ve been easier. For everyone. You think that, don’t you?”

That stung—burned—and Ellernate’s grip tightened without meaning to, jaw locking hard enough to ache. His voice rose over the drone of the blades. “Don’t you dare say that.”

iTrapped leaned forward too, close enough Nate could see the tension in his mouth, the faint tremor of breath against his cheek. His tone sharpened to match. “Why not? You already resent me enough for May. So what difference would it make if—”

“Enough!”

The word came sharp and commanding from Caleb. He moved quickly, closing the space between them with a speed that made both of them jerk slightly. His hand clamped around Ellernate’s forearm, prying it off iTrapped’s wrist with steady, deliberate force.

“You’re both two seconds from tearing each other apart,” said Caleb, tone even but eyes hard behind the lenses of his glasses. “If you want to fight, you can do it after we’re not in a flying target.”

The rest of the cabin had gone silent—Jonathan’s laugh cut off, Vilicus’ story abandoned, hell, even Twister paused.

Ellernate sat rigid, chest heaving, the heat still burning behind his eyes as Caleb hand forced his grip loose. iTrapped immediately leaned back once freed, brushing down his sleeve like erasing the contact, his expression folding back into that same icy calm.

But his voice carried, quiet enough to sound like a private jab yet sharp enough to cut through the air “See? Proved my point. You don’t trust me. You never will.”

The words lodged like glass in Ellernate’s chest, but before he could answer, Caleb shot him a look—a silent warning that said don’t .

The helicopter kept its rhythm, the hum of the blades filling the void they’d cracked open. No one spoke. No one dared to.

Ellernate sat there, fists trembling against his knees, with iTrapped’s words still ringing in his ears.

Then maybe it would’ve been easier for everyone.

The implications ran cold, a gut punch of cold reality.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The helicopter touched down with a jolt that rattled the floor beneath their boots. No one said a word as the rotors slowed, as they filed out into the dim underground hangar beneath the penthouse. The silence was thick, brittle. Even Jonathan, usually the first to crack a joke, kept his mouth shut.

The walk through the lobby, into the elevator, up the endless stretch of floors—muted. Uncomfortably so. By the time the doors opened into the sprawling penthouse, Ellernate’s chest felt tight enough to split.

He didn’t wait. The second his boots hit polished marble, he cut across the living room, beelining for the hallway that led to the bedrooms. He needed space, needed to shut the door and breathe before his fists found the wrong target.

But Caleb’s voice stopped him cold.

“Ellernate.”

It wasn’t loud, but the weight in it was enough. Ellernate turned just enough to see Caleb leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on him with that same steady sharpness he always carried.

He raised a brow, enough to acknowledge the other’s presence.

Caleb didn’t blink. He just tilted his head toward the kitchen. “In here. Now.”

For a second, Ellernate thought about ignoring him. About slamming the door shut and letting the anger fester alone. But, Caleb’s gaze was iron. Reluctantly, Ellernate shoved his hands in his pockets and followed.

The kitchen lights hummed softly, a sterile brightness against the weight of the night. Caleb didn’t move from where he leaned against the counter, watching as Ellernate planted himself opposite, tense as a coiled spring.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” Caleb asked flatly.

Ellernate exhaled hard through his nose. “He nearly got us killed. I reacted. That’s it.”

Caleb’s brow twitched. “Reacted? You looked ready to snap his neck in front of everyone.”

“He deserved it,” Ellernate snapped back before he could stop himself. “Walking into danger like that, acting like it’s nothing. Acting like he’s nothing.” His hand raked through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what?” Caleb cut in smoothly. “Stand by and watch him? Or couldn’t stand the fact that you still give a damn?”

Ellernate froze. The words hit sharp and unflinching, leaving him bare.

Caleb pushed off the counter, his voice even but cutting with precision. “That’s the thing about you, Nate. Y’know, y’run hot, always have. You act like you’re in control, like you’ve got the cold, calculated thing down—but one push in the wrong spot and you’re fire. You burn yourself out before anyone else can.”

Ellernate’s fists clenched. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“I don’t have to act,” Caleb said simply. “I have known you long enough to know it’s true.”

The silence that followed pressed down heavy. The faint hum of the fridge filled the space, the tick of the clock on the wall. Ellernate’s jaw flexed, his chest tight with the words he wanted to hurl but couldn’t.

Caleb softened—slightly, not much. “Look. You don’t have to trust him yet, not after everything. But storming in like that? Grabbing him in front of everyone?” He shook his head. “That’s not strength, Nate. That’s desperation.”

The word hit harder than any blade. Desperation . It lodged itself deep, gnawing.

Ellernate swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor. For a moment, the fire in him flickered low.

Caleb let out a quiet sigh, pushing away from the counter. “Cool off. Get your head straight. We can’t afford cracks in the team right now.” He brushed past Ellernate toward the hall, leaving the words lingering like smoke.

Ellernate stayed where he was, knuckles pressed into the counter edge until they whitened. His chest heaved once, twice, before he forced a breath out and lifted his gaze to the sterile kitchen light.

Desperation .

The word wouldn’t leave.

The silence stretched, the hum of the fridge buzzing in Ellernate’s ears. He couldn’t take it anymore. His hand shot out, grabbing Caleb’s arm before the man could step past him.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

Caleb froze mid-step, eyes cutting down to the grip. No real anger in them, just… steel. A warning. One look, sharp as glass, was enough to make Ellernate’s fingers unclench like he’d touched fire. He muttered an apology under his breath and turned his hand into a fist at his side, but the damage was done.

Caleb didn’t move, though. Just waited.

Ellernate exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s not just about him being reckless.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “There’s… there’s something else.”

Caleb’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“That frame,” said Ellernate finally. “In the living room. The one on the fireplace.” He swallowed, forcing the words out as he gestured to the room’s direction. “Who the hell is that with him?”

For the first time, Caleb’s composure wavered—the tiniest flicker. He set his jaw, glanced away, then back at Ellernate. “…That’s not any of your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t,” He snapped. “He’s hiding something. Someone. And we’re just supposed to sit here like…like none of it matters? Seriously?”

Caleb’s expression darkened. Not angry, but worse. Disappointed. “You shouldn’t get into his business like that, Nate.” His tone was sharp. “If he wants to tell you, he will. If he doesn’t, that’s his choice.”

Ellernate bristled, his chest tight. “So we’re just supposed to trust him blindly? After everything?”

“You don’t have to trust him,” Caleb said, quieter now, but the edge was still there. “You just have to stop looking for excuses to tear him down.”

Ellernate flinched, shoulders tensing. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“You sure? Everyone’s noticed the photo, but nobody is overthinking it as much as you. It’s been years, he made a few friends, so what? What’s your problem?”

Caleb let the silence sit for a beat longer before stepping closer, his tone low and firm. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.“

Ellernate’s throat worked, but no words came. His pulse thundered in his ears. The kitchen suddenly felt too bright, too exposed, like the sterile lights were burning through him.

Caleb watched him for another long moment, then finally leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms again. He didn’t leave this time. He just stayed there, steady, waiting, like he wasn’t going to let Ellernate spiral off into the dark alone no matter how much Ellernate tried to push.

The weight of it sat between them. Heavy.

Ellernate’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything. His fingers tapped against the counter, restless, each uneven rhythm betraying how unsettled he was. The silence wasn’t quiet at all—it pressed down, thick, like static in his ears.

Caleb leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed. He studied Ellernate for a long moment before letting out a sharp sigh. “You always do this.”

Ellernate’s head snapped up. “Do what?”

“Fixate.” Caleb’s tone was calm, but it carried a bite. “Latch onto one thing, tear at it until you’ve driven yourself insane. Mm, it’s all you.”

Ellernate bristled, mouth parting for a retort, but Caleb cut him off with a raised hand. His voice dipped, quiet but firm. “…Drop it, Nate. Just—drop it.”

The words hit harder than he wanted to admit. His teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, fists curling tight against the countertop. It wasn’t just what Caleb said—it was the look in his eyes, disappointment sharp enough to sting.

“You don’t get it,” Ellernate muttered finally, his voice low, rough around the edges.

Caleb arched a brow. “Then explain it.”

Ellernate hesitated, chest tight. Against his better judgment, the words spilled out. “…That frame. On the fireplace. Him and iTrapped. I don’t know who the hell he is, but…” His jaw clenched. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Caleb’s expression barely flickered, but the silence that followed said enough. He inhaled slowly, shoulders shifting with the weight of it. “I still don’t think that’s something you should involve yourself into. It’s not any of your business.”

Ellernate’s stomach twisted. He wanted to snap back— what if his business gets us all killed —but the words stuck somewhere in his throat.

Maybe he was overthinking.

Caleb sighed heavier this time, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting his hand fall back down. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more deliberate. “…You know what I noticed during the heist?”

Ellernate blinked, caught off guard by the shift. He didn’t answer, but his curiosity was evident.

“iTrapped.” Caleb’s gaze wandered to the floor, thoughtful. “He was different. Calculated. Not the reckless idiot I remember.” His arms folded tighter, voice low. “Almost like he’d been preparing for it.”

Ellernate frowned. That image of iTrapped flickered through his mind—sharp, precise, every move executed without hesitation. Took awhile to leave his head, now it’s right back.

Caleb glanced back at him, sharp as ever. “You saw it too, right?”

“…Yeah,” Ellernate admitted after a pause, the word dragging out of him like gravel. “Yeah, I did.”

The quiet that followed stretched long and uneasy. Ellernate shifted on his feet, chewing on the words, but they didn’t sit right in his chest.

Caleb pushed off the counter slightly, still lingering, still watching him. “Point is… maybe focus on what’s right in front of you. Not the ghosts you can’t change.”

The phrase lodged in Ellernate’s chest, heavy.

Caleb let it sit there. He didn’t leave right away, just leaned back again, eyes on Ellernate like he was waiting for some kind of reaction. The air between them felt taut, pulled tight enough that one wrong word could snap it.

Finally, Caleb straightened, slow and deliberate. “Get some sleep,” he said, voice even, though the undertone carried something like warning. He turned toward the doorway but paused just briefly, glancing back once. “…And don’t make me repeat myself.”

The silence returned, louder than ever.

Ellernate stayed rooted in place, staring blankly at the counter. But no matter how hard he tried to shake it, his mind dragged itself back to that frame—iTrapped’s smile, the stranger beside him, and the cold unease it planted deep in his chest.

The kitchen felt emptier after Caleb left, but it wasn’t quiet. The scrape of his words still lingered, bouncing in Ellernate’s head, refusing to leave him. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing sharply, then pushed himself off the counter. His legs felt heavy, like each step toward the fridge had to be forced.

The cold air washed over him as he pulled the door open. Rows of cans sat waiting, perfectly aligned. Vilicus’ doing, probably. He reached for a Bloxy Cola , popped it, and listened to the hiss break through the stale silence. The sound was sharp, too sharp, and just made his head pound worse.

The fizz hissed into the silence.

Footsteps emerged behind him

He didn’t look. Not at first. He could feel someone standing there—quiet, unhurried. The footsteps padded soft against the tile before settling across the counter from him. Ellernate finally glanced up.

Twister.

He was leaning against the counter like it belonged to him, shoulders loose, hands shoved into his pockets. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring like he had all the time in the world.

Ellernate cleared his throat, turning back to his can. “…Want a Bloxiade or something?” His voice came out clipped, forced casual. He dug around in the fridge for emphasis, clinking a can against another.

Twister tilted his head, hat casting an awkward shadow over his face. “I’m good.”

The fridge shut with a hollow thunk. Ellernate cracked open his drink, fizz spilling down the side, sticky against his knuckles. He took a long sip anyway, letting the carbonation sting his throat. The sound filled the room for a few seconds, until it didn’t anymore.

Silence.

Then Twister spoke, voice even but heavy. “…I heard what you two were talking about.”

The words hit Ellernate like a slap. His hand faltered, setting the can down harder than he meant to, the fizz hissing over the rim. He turned sharply. “You were eavesdropping?” His tone carried an edge, sharper than intended, defensive by reflex.

Twister didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He blinked once, slow. “Wasn’t trying to. Walls aren’t exactly thick, y’know?”

Ellernate stared, jaw tightening. His hand tapped restlessly against the can, the metal rattling against the counter. “Mm…right.”

It should’ve ended there. Should’ve been nothing. But Twister didn’t leave.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows against the counter, eyes fixed on Ellernate—not piercing, not accusing, just steady. Like he was reading him.

“I’ve never really seen you this open before,” he admitted after a pause. His voice wasn’t sharp. Observant. Almost too honest. “I’ll be honest, Ellernate, always saw you as some tough broodin’ guy in our group. You know, the leader. But…eh…kind of forgot we all had our weaknesses.”

He paused.

“Ehm, I didn’t think you still cared about him.”

Ellernate froze. His lips parted, then shut again. He blinked, lashes fluttering once before he dropped his gaze to the can in his hands. No retort. No clever comeback. Just silence.

Twister studied him a beat longer, expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, shoulders rolling into their familiar slouch. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

The words stuck, not because of judgment, but because they were entirely too true. Ellernate’s grip on the can tightened, the aluminum crumpling faintly under his fingers. He exhaled through his nose, hard, but still said nothing.

The silence stretched on, long and brittle. Twister let it. He didn’t push. He didn’t pry. Just watched Ellernate like he was waiting for something.

Ellernate finally glanced up, searching for some shift, some break in that steady calm. But Twister just met his gaze evenly, no more, no less.

And then—he pushed off the counter. His footsteps were quiet, his movements loose and unhurried, as if the conversation hadn’t dug at anything at all. At the door, he paused, hand on the frame.

“Try not to think too hard about it,” said Twister simply, and then he was gone.

Ellernate stood there alone, the fizz in his can nearly gone flat. His reflection warped in the thin layer of bubbles, rippling and breaking until it didn’t look like him at all.

I didn’t think you still cared about him.

The silence weighed heavier than before.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The hall was quiet, and for a second Ellernate thought he might actually make it to his room without running into anyone else. His footsteps padded heavy against the floor, echoing faintly through the penthouse. He wanted to collapse, bury himself under the sheets, shut out the noise of everyone else’s voices and his own damn thoughts.

But movement caught his eye.

Through the glass doors that led to the balcony, iTrapped stood alone, city of Robloxia spilling light over him in streaks of neon and gold. His hair caught the glow like fire, his posture still, his hands braced against the railing as if holding himself there. He didn’t look back. Didn’t move.

Ellernate stopped in his tracks, chest tight. His first instinct was to keep walking, to shut his door and ignore it. But something—guilt, maybe—dug its claws in. Before he could talk himself out of it, he veered toward the glass and lifted a hand, rapping his knuckles gently against it.

iTrapped turned, slow. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, though Ellernate swore there was something tired in his eyes.

“…Can I come?” Ellernate asked, voice lower than intended.

iTrapped’s gaze lingered on him, silent long enough that Ellernate thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, flatly, almost muttered, “Depends if you’re gonna yell at me or not.”

It hit harder than it should’ve. Ellernate swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “‘Course not.”

That seemed enough. iTrapped turned back to the skyline without another word, and Ellernate slid the door open, stepping into the night air. The breeze whipped around them, carrying the faint hum of the city below. For a moment, they just stood there in silence—side by side, not touching, not looking at each other.

“I wanted to… apologize,” said Ellernate, voice undeniably uneven. The words felt clumsy. “For earlier…I really shouldn’t have—”

“You don’t need to,” iTrapped cut in, tone sharp but tired. His grip on the railing tightened. “It’s fine.”

Ellernate frowned. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that, shouldn’t have—”

iTrapped exhaled a short, bitter laugh. “Worse things have happened to us, Ellernate. Don’t get so soft.”

Ellernate.

He always used Nate.

The words cut the air. Ellernate flinched, staring at him, but iTrapped’s eyes stayed on the skyline, jaw set.

Of all people, why was iTrapped being so unfamiliar with him?

Sure, he was mad. Sure—they’d left on a bad note. Theoretically, that relationship between them should’ve been Ellernate’s fault. For when he lashed out at iTrapped back then, right before they’d been caught by the Admins.

Still, though, he found himself missing that connection with him.

It felt hypocritical.

The silence after stretched long. Ellernate’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, to close that impossible distance between them, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned against the railing too, staring out into the endless sprawl of lights.

They used to fill nights like these with banter. iTrapped cracking jokes, Ellernate pretending to be exasperated while secretly soaking it all in. They’d lean close, shoulder to shoulder, sometimes not even realizing how the hours bled away until dawn came.

Now?

Now the silence felt heavy. Suffocating. Every second stretched taut, iTrapped’s presence beside him not comforting, but unsettling. Just wrong.

Ellernate tried again, voice low. “…iTrapped. You can tell me if something’s—”

“I said I’m fine.”

This time, iTrapped’s words came out firmer, cutting the air clean. He finally turned his head, offering Ellernate a smile—but it was shallow, paper-thin, nowhere near his eyes. “Really. Don’t worry about me.”

It should’ve reassured him. It didn’t. It really didn’t.

Ellernate’s chest ached. He wanted to push, to break through whatever wall iTrapped had built since these years, but the look in his eyes—distant, unyielding—made it clear he’d only be wasting his breath.

The wind picked up, tousling iTrapped’s hair, carrying his faint cologne across the space between them. It should’ve reminded Ellernate of warmth, of nights they used to steal from the world. Instead, it only made him feel colder.

“…Alright, won’t press,” Ellernate muttered finally, straightening off the railing. He forced his hands into his pockets, the urge to stay clashing with the heaviness in his chest. “Goodnight, iTrapped.”

iTrapped hummed softly in response, eyes already turned back to the city. Ellernate lingered one second too long before sliding the door shut behind him. The glass muted the sound of the wind, cutting him off from the balcony, from iTrapped.

He didn’t look back.

But as he made his way to his room, his stomach twisted. Nights like that used to mean everything. Now, standing next to iTrapped felt like standing beside a stranger, and that realization just hurt more than any fight ever could.

His head was pounding again.

Ellernate shut the door to his room with more force than he meant to, the click echoing louder than it should’ve in the still penthouse. For a moment, he just stood there in the dark, forehead pressed to the wood, letting the silence wash over him. It didn’t soothe him. If anything, it only made the weight in his chest heavier.

Dragging himself toward the bed, he collapsed on top of the sheets without bothering to pull them back. The mattress dipped under his weight, too soft, too unfamiliar. His arm slung over his eyes as he let out a long, low breath. He’d thought exhaustion would knock him out instantly after the day they’d had, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, his mind replayed the balcony in sharp detail. The way iTrapped hadn’t even acknowledged him at first. The offhanded murmur—

Depends if you’re gonna yell at me or not. It stung worse than he’d admit.

And then that smile. That hollow, half-formed thing Isaac had passed off as reassurance.

It wasn’t the iTrapped he remembered.

Back before the Banlands, back even before May, iTrapped had been reckless to a fault—messy, infuriating, but alive. He’d light up a room with his grin, keep talking even when no one wanted him to, and Nate would secretly let him. Nights on rooftops, nights in hiding, nights filled with iTrapped’s laughter instead of that brittle silence.

Ellernate clenched his fists against the sheets. Now iTrapped felt like a ghost standing beside him. His presence was there, but not him. Not really.

Fuck, why was he so adamant about this? It felt so humiliating. The situation just wouldn’t escape his head, no matter how hard he tried.

Ellernate turned on his side, staring at the wall, jaw tight. He tried to tell himself to drop it, to stop poking at wounds that weren’t his to touch. Caleb was right. He shouldn’t dig into iTrapped’s business.

Shouldn’t want answers that iTrapped clearly wasn’t willing to give.

But the thought of that frame, of iTrapped smiling next to someone Ellernate didn’t even know—it twisted something in his gut. Not jealousy, no, far from it.

Ellernate rolled onto his back, groaning softly under his breath, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He hated this. Hated the way his brain wouldn’t shut off, hated how iTrapped’s distance left him restless, gnawing at the inside of his chest like a hunger he couldn’t feed.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled at him hard enough that his eyes slipped shut, but it wasn’t restful. His thoughts bled into dreams, indistinct shapes and voices that blurred until he couldn’t tell what was real.

But when he finally drifted off,

It was with iTrapped’s hollow smile carved into his mind.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate woke to sunlight creeping through the blinds, the kind that painted pale stripes across the ceiling. For the first time since the breakout, he hadn’t jolted awake from noise or adrenaline—he’d just… woken up. The stillness was strange, almost disorienting.

His body ached, but it was the dull, survivable kind. Nothing like the pounding headache of the night before. He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands, letting the quiet of the penthouse sink in. It felt almost normal—like any other morning, like he could almost believe this place belonged to them.

Almost.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet brushing against the cool floor, and exhaled. Something about the air here carried the faint scent of new furniture, too polished to feel lived in . It reminded him, again, that this wasn’t their place—it was iTrapped’s. Something iTrapped had “inherited.” Another reminder of how much had changed. For a few minutes, Ellernate just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the wall. The uneasiness hadn’t left him. If anything, it felt worse in the morning light. He’d expected it to burn off overnight, expected to wake with clarity. Instead, he felt that same tug in his chest, an itch he couldn’t scratch.

When Ellernate finally dragged himself outside of his room, the penthouse just smelled like food.

Pancakes, toast, something greasy Vilicus had probably thrown into a pan without much thought. The chatter hit Ellernate as soon as he opened his door, voices carrying down the hall and blending together into an easy morning rhythm.

He followed the sound, rolling his shoulders back, willing himself into composure. Whatever had twisted in him last night—he wasn’t going to let it show now.

The kitchen and living space were alive with movement. Jonathan stood behind the counter flipping something on a skillet, animatedly talking with Vilicus, who leaned against the counter sipping a Witches Brew. Twister lounged on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone with half a grin, occasionally chiming into the conversation without even looking up. And iTrapped—

iTrapped was perched on one of the stools, shoulders loose, blond hair catching the morning light. He was laughing at something Jonathan had said, drumming his fingers against the counter in rhythm with his words. His tone was bright, playful even, and nobody seemed to think twice about it.

Nobody but Ellernate.

Because while everyone else saw iTrapped being iTrapped, cracking jokes, easy and untouchable, Ellernate caught the slight falter in his smile, the way his laugh came a second too late, too sharp around the edges. A performance polished to perfection, one only visible as false if you’d been looking long enough.

And Ellernate had been looking.

He blinked, snapping back to reality. He ran a hand down his face, for fucks sake, why was he overthinking this so much?

“Ellernate,” Caleb’s voice cut through his focus. He turned to see him standing by the fridge, arms crossed, calm as ever. “You’re up. Feelin’ better?”

Ellernate nodded, clearing his throat. “Eh, yeah. Just needed sleep, I guess.”

Caleb’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, but he didn’t push. He just gave a slight hum of approval, like that was enough for now.

Still, Ellernate felt the pull of his gaze back to iTrapped. He couldn’t help it. The sight of him joking with Jonathan—acting as if nothing was wrong—sat wrong in his gut. Wrong in a way he couldn’t explain without sounding obsessed.

Then iTrapped looked up. Their eyes met for the briefest second. Something flickered across iTrapped’s face. Whatever that expression was, was clearly unpleasant for him, because he rose from his stool in a matter of seconds.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” murmered iTrapped lightly, already walking toward the hall. He brushed past Ellernate without a glance, his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of running water down the hall.

Ellernate exhaled through his nose, tension knotting between his brows.

Of course.

Caleb clicked his tongue behind him, but he didn’t push right away. Instead, he leaned back against the counter. “Ouch, that’s gotta hurt,” he set a steadying hand on the other’s shoulder, “—give him some space, you’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep hovering.”

“For Telamon’s sake,” Ellernate ran a hand down his face, frustrated. “How’d you come to the conclusion that I’m ‘hovering’?”

Caleb raised a brow. “You’ve been staring at him since you walked in.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Ellernate just let out a dry chuckle, “Guess I’m more obvious than I thought.”

Caleb tilted his head. “You always are.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by Jonathan clattering dishes into the sink and Vilicus cracking open another can.

Ellernate shifted, his voice quieter now. “Y’can stop analyzing me. I’ve just been uneasy these days—something doesn’t feel right, but I’m sure it’ll wear off.”

Caleb studied him, then gave the faintest sigh. “Nothing about this feels right, Nate. That’s the point. We make it work anyway.”

Ellernate wanted to argue—wanted to dig deeper, to ask why iTrapped was slipping away even while standing in the same room—but he bit it back. Caleb’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a second longer before pulling away, a silent warning to let it drop.

But even as Ellernate forced himself into the rhythm of the room, answering Vilicus’ offhand questions, pretending to listen to Jonathan’s chatter, his mind stayed fixed on the sound of the shower running down the hall.

And on the hollow look he’d caught in iTrapped’s eyes.

Ellernate hadn’t realized how quiet he’d gone until Vilicus clapped a hand against the counter and snapped him back into the room.

“Alright, so—” Vilicus dragged his voice out, his Bloxiade fizzing between his fingers. “Data’s secured, but we can’t keep this setup forever. Caleb’s right, we need another base sooner or later.”

Jonathan groaned from the stove, waving a spatula like it doubled as a pointer. “We literally just got here. Y’want me to pack up everything again?? Naah, man. Let’s at least enjoy the view for a week.”

Twister snorted from the couch, scrolling still, not even bothering to look up. “You enjoying the view means another week of your mess in my space. Pass.”

“Hey—!?” Jonathan half turned, spatula raised, but Vilicus cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“No, Twister’s got a point. We’re stacked up too high in one place. It’s just asking for someone to track us. Doesn’t matter how clean iTrapped covered it. The longer we stay, the riskier it gets.”

Ellernate leaned his elbows onto the counter, letting the words settle. They buzzed around him, drifting in and out of clarity, but he forced himself to keep listening, keep here .

Caleb finally spoke, his calm cutting through the noise. “If we move, it’s not gonna be another penthouse. That draws attention. We need something more low-profile.”

Jonathan muttered something under his breath about liking the view, which earned him another jab from Twister, but Ellernate stayed silent, eyes drifting briefly to the hall. He could still hear the shower faintly running behind all the conversation.

Vilicus noticed, following his line of sight before snapping his fingers in Ellernate’s direction. “You with us, man?”

Ellernate blinked, dragged back again. “…Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Well, give us some input. Normally you’re the one leading this kinda stuff.” Vilicus popped the tab of another drink, his tone too casual. “We need eyes on possible safehouses by tonight. Me and Caleb can scout, but the rest of you better not slack.”

Jonathan finally set the spatula down, flopping into a chair. “So what, we’re splitting up again?”

“That’s the idea.” Caleb’s voice was clipped, efficient. “Less heat if we divide the work.”

Twister finally pocketed his phone, raising a brow. “Fine. But let’s not screw up another job. Last one was messy enough.”

The words were too pointed, too casual. Ellernate stiffened before he even realized it, his jaw setting.

“You got something you want to say?” His voice was low, even, but the way it cut into the air made the room falter.

Twister didn’t flinch, just tilted his head. “Just saying. Some of us were sloppy yesterday. You wanna tell me that wasn’t the case?”

Jonathan immediately sat up straighter, spatula clattering on the table. “Oh, come on, Twister—”

“No, let him talk.” Ellernate’s voice sharpened, his shoulders squaring. He stepped closer to the counter, eyes locked on Twister. “Go ahead. You think I messed up? Say it.”

Twister’s smirk flattened into something steadier, cooler. “It’s not about you messing up, I just genuinely think you’re slipping. You’re always the reliable one, but yesterday…? Looked to me like you were too busy staring at certain people’s backs instead of watching your own.”

The silence after that landed heavy. Everyone knew what he meant.

Ellernate’s fists clenched against the counter, breath pulling sharp through his teeth. “Watch yourself.”

“Or what?” Twister leaned back, deliberately casual, his smirk returning like a challenge. “What about what you and Caleb were talki—“

Caleb’s voice sliced through the tension. “Stop talking,” His tone wasn’t raised, but the weight of it cut everything else flat. He looked between them, steady and unshaken. “Will everyone quit arguing for two seconds? For fucks sake…”

Twister let out a small breath, rolling his eyes as if to shake the weight off. “Fine. Whatever.” He leaned back against the couch, arms folded, but the smug curve of his mouth lingered.

Ellernate forced himself to step away from the counter, muscles still taut. He didn’t answer, didn’t trust himself to.

Caleb’s gaze lingered on him for a second longer than anyone else before he turned back to the table. “We’ve got work to do. Save the pissing contests for another time.”

Ellernate could feel all their eyes brushing past him, waiting for his input, but he just nodded once. “…I’ll do my part.”

It seemed to satisfy them. The chatter picked back up, plans forming in fragments—routes to scout, potential storage spots, who’d handle what. The kind of conversation that should’ve felt normal, like falling back into a rhythm they all knew by heart.

But to Ellernate, it all bled together. Words and static. Just white noise, yet again. He caught himself staring at the steam still fogging the glass of the balcony doors, the ghost of Isaac’s presence threaded through the room even when he wasn’t there.

No matter how loud the others were, Ellernate couldn’t shake the quiet wrongness at the center of it all.

The heat still burned under Ellernate’s skin.

Chapter Text

“We can’t stay there, Ellernate. It’s a target painted in neon.”

Caleb’s voice cut through the quiet clink of cutlery, the low hum of a radio drifting from the café counter. He didn’t lower it, didn’t bother with the pretense of secrecy. If anyone in this little place on the outskirts of Robloxia knew their faces, they hadn’t shown it.

Ellernate shifted against the uncomfortable metal chair, its crooked leg wobbling every time he leaned forward. The cobblestone beneath them was cracked, weeds sprouting in the lines, the kind of detail you noticed when you were trying not to meet the eyes of the person across from you.

He pushed his untouched mug of coffee a little farther away, fingers restless against the chipped table edge.

Despite his usual credence in himself, it was still unnerving to be out in public after escaping the Banlands. If anyone recognized them, they were done for. Fortunately—Caleb was able to provide getups in the sense of a disguise, so unless someone here had a keen eye for spotting hackers, they would (most likely) be fine.

Caleb, in contrast, looked infuriatingly composed. One hand curled around his own mug, steam curling faintly in the chill morning air, the other tapping a steady rhythm against the table. Measured as always.

“You think the admins are the only problem?” continued Caleb, tilting his head. “You’re smarter than that. Every clan we’ve crossed doesn’t just forget, Nate. They’re not forgiving. They’re waiting for us to stop moving.”

Ellernate’s gaze flicked upward at that, just for a second, catching Caleb’s. It was too steady, too certain. He looked away again, focusing instead on the skyline in the distance where the sharp edges of Robloxia’s towers cut into the horizon.

Caleb leaned forward, elbows on the table now, voice low but pointed. “The penthouse is just a cage with expensive windows. A cage he refuses to leave. If you don’t start pushing him out of it, he’s going to drag us all down with him.”

The words should’ve just sounded practical, a strategy note. But Ellernate felt them hit deeper, heavy in his chest, like Caleb had aimed them at something more personal.

His mind just traveled back to that of this morning—iTrapped’s voice raised sharp enough to split through the air, the venom behind his refusal. Ellernate had tried to reason with him, tried to pull at logic like he always did. But it hadn’t worked. It wasn’t the same anymore.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

“Fuckin’ finally, you’re back,” Twister groaned as he stretched in the motion of a cat, rising from the couch. “You guys can tell him what we thought about, I’m gunna take a shower.”

“…We have multiple bathrooms, y’know, why didn’t you just—“

The chatter went on.

The air in the penthouse still smelled faintly of steam when iTrapped came back down the hall. Ellernate’s gaze roamed over him, hair damp, hoodie tugged halfway over his shoulders like he hadn’t bothered finishing the motion. Fortunately, he was at least in something else other than his more-so “formal” attire. Something a bit more casual for once, like he was improving.

Maybe he was getting better.

Ellernate noticed him before anyone else did—noticed the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the way he held his jaw too tightly, eyes colder than they should’ve been for morning. At this point, he felt himself getting used to it, but it was still unsettling.

Jonathan spoke to him first. “Ay, ‘Trapped,” relief was evident in his tone. “We’re about to finalize the route. Planning to switch locations—y’good with the plan?”

iTrapped stopped dead in the entryway. His gaze scanned over the room, brows drawing together. Ellernate could feel it before he even said it, that split second of silence stretching far too long.

“No.” the word hit like a dropped stone.

Jonathan faltered, blinking. “…Eh? No?”

“I said no.” iTrapped’s voice was steady at first, but there was something simmering underneath. “We’re not leaving.“

Vilicus frowned, leaning forward in his chair. The tension was rising; unfortunately for Ellernate, his mind went to blank almost immediately. “It’s compromised. If the admins trace the breach—”

“They won’t,” iTrapped snapped back, sharp enough that Ellernate sat up straighter.

For a moment no one spoke, but Ellernate could feel every pair of eyes shift toward him, waiting on his answer. Of course. That was his role.

He pushed himself up from the chair slowly, hands still buried in his pockets, meeting iTrapped’s stare with an even one of his own. “And if they do?” he asked, voice level.

“Ellernate,” warned Caleb quietly from beside him, but he didn’t back down.

“Then I’ll handle it.”

The way he said it made something cold crawl down Ellernate’s spine. Too certain…too possessive. Everything about it was unnerving.

The others shifted restlessly, regardless Ellernate didn’t break the stare. If anything, he hardened it. “You don’t get to decide for all of us,” he said, deliberate. Clearly, though, with that harsh of a gaze—iTrapped wouldn’t budge. “If it’s flagged, it’s flagged. We move…that’s—that’s what all of us agreed on.”

Ellernate’s mind traveled back. The first argument the group had ever gotten into, maybe around 2011, and it was due to iTrapped being obdurate about a much simpler mission then, but it was never to a difficult degree. He lashed out, yes, but eventually they were able to get him to comply. It was easy, because he was. Reminiscing about that moment really just highlighted the contrast between… that iTrapped and this one.

…That thought just felt wrong.

He shouldn’t be thinking like that.

Even then, iTrapped has… always been a force to anticipate, sure, but his stubbornness was predictable. It always was a familiar obstacle that Ellernate. He could reason with him, appeal to his logical side, and guide him back to the mission's objective. Simple. Now, however, the resistance was different. It’s not just a simple refusal to cooperate; it feels like an impenetrable wall of silence, a complete shutdown. iTrapped felt so… absent. Regardless of all the vulnerability he’d just presented, every attempt to reach him was just met with stillness.

That much Ellernate was confident of.

He wasn’t the iTrapped they knew. The familiar flicker of mischief in his eyes was just been replaced by a cold, unsettling darkness. They’d faced difficult missions before, but this was different. A lot different.

That’s really all he’d been thinking these past few days—what can I do to help him?—why is he acting so different?—for once, Ellernate considers coming to terms with the fact that he’s just changed.

But as always, he feels that impeccable force to push that thought away.

iTrapped’s eyes flickered—dark—and Ellernate realized he didn’t recognize them. Something was off with the way he was acting, not just the way he was lashing out—but why. Sure, iTrapped had always been possessive, stubborn even. Even so, this behavior was…completely unrecognizable of him. This just felt like someone else, standing there like a locked door with no key.

“You don’t get it,” iTrapped said suddenly, voice rising. He took another step into the room, fists clenching at his sides. “This place—it’s secure. It’s mine. Why don’t you trust me?”

The last line lodged itself in Ellernate’s chest.

Mine. Not ours.

Trust?

After he’d broken every remnant of it?

Caleb half-stood like he wanted to calm him, but Ellernate barely noticed. His ears were ringing, pulse climbing. Evidently something was wrong here, and the worst part was he couldn’t name it.

He stepped forward, too fast, anger threading into his voice before he could catch it. “Then what? You’d rather keep us trapped here, waiting for the admins to tear the door down? This is exactly the stunt that got us caugh—“

He paused.

The room went dead still, everyone turning to him at the mention. The rest of the statement was… apparent.

iTrapped’s breathing was uneven now, damp hair plastered against his forehead. Ellernate swore he was going to lash out, silently preparing for it. Storm at him like a cornered animal. But instead, he just wrenched his gaze away, muttered something inaudible, and shoved the door open so hard it slammed into the wall.

“‘Trapped—!” Jonathan called after him, but the slam of the door drowned it out.

The echo rattled through the glass windows long after he was gone.

Ellernate didn’t move. Didn’t really dare to. His fists had curled tight in his pockets, nails biting into his palms so hard it was drawing blood. The others shifted around him—Caleb muttering under his breath, Vilicus sighing, Twister unreadable—but none of it mattered. The only thing Ellernate could focus on was the look in iTrapped’s eyes, the kind of sharp that cut without needing a blade.

Something had changed. He just didn’t know what. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, on the ghost of Isaac’s retreating figure.

Ellernate stood there long after the echo of the slammed door faded. The silence pressed in thick, the kind that always came after these kind of storms. His hands finally loosened from their fists, the sting in his palms grounding him in the present.

He hated that it felt familiar.

Once, iTrapped’s stubbornness had been almost reassuring. It had boundaries, edges Ellernate could predict. He’d argue, curse, maybe even shut down a mission—but it always ended in a compromise, a middle ground. It was a rhythm Ellernate had come to know well, one he could navigate with a few sharp words and a steady hand. Back then, iTrapped had still been reachable.

Now, though? He wasn’t so sure.

There was something different in the way iTrapped’s voice cracked, the way his eyes darted like he was cornered by ghosts Ellernate couldn’t see. It wasn’t just defiance anymore—it was desperation, the kind that burned so bright it made him lash out at everyone who dared get close. Even Ellernate. Especially Ellernate. The concept of that just… didn’t sit right with him.

He thought about their original escape from the Banlands, about the cool precision iTrapped had shown then. The plan had been reckless but brilliant, and he’d executed it like someone who knew exactly where every piece would fall. Ellernate had caught glimpses of that same confidence in him during the heist yesterday—the sharp edges of the old iTrapped, the one who fought with fire in his chest. Conversely, that same flame grew to be dangerous, as every wild fire does.

Ellernate wanted to believe it was just stress. Wanted to believe iTrapped would snap out of it once the dust settled, that the shadows under his eyes and the tremor in his voice were just temporary. Deep down though, he knew better. Something was hollowing him out from the inside, dragging him further away every time he tried to hold on. That thought felt unwelcome in his chest.

Maybe this was who iTrapped was now.

That possibility made Ellernate’s stomach twist, he wasn’t exactly ready to face what it meant.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Yeah, not a very pleasant memory.

Ellernate rubbed his temple.

“You really think he’ll listen to me now?” He muttered, slipping out quieter than he meant to.

Caleb quirked a brow, taking a slow sip of coffee before setting it down with a faint clink. “He always has…even when he doesn’t want to. Don’t act like you don’t know that.”

Ellernate frowned, eyes dropping back to his mug. He didn’t touch it. The steam was already gone, leaving the surface flat and dark, like a mirror he didn’t want to look into.

Caleb continued, tone blunt but edged with something that almost sounded like impatience. “You keep pretending like you don’t have that influence. Like he’s just some problem you can’t get through. But you know better, dont’cha? You’re the only one he even bothers to hear, honestly.”

Ellernate swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He wanted to argue, to throw something back, but the words stuck. Caleb wasn’t wrong, and that was the problem.

The café around them felt too normal for the weight of the conversation—the couple across the way sharing toast, a kid kicking at a loose stone near the door, the barista wiping down the counter like nothing in the world was wrong. The simplicity of it made Ellernate restless. Made the unease from last night gnaw sharper.

Caleb watched him, patient in that sharp, dissecting way of his.

“So,” said Caleb finally, his tone flat, “are you going to keep avoiding it? Or are you going to do what needs to be done?”

Ellernate just huffed in return. “Why does it have to be me?”

“Because you’re the closest to him.”

“That’s not true.”

The silence hung.

“I thought you knew that,” Ellernate murmured, raising his head to meet Caleb’s gaze. “Don’t you?”

Caleb didn’t answer for a moment. He just stared, not as if he’s thinking of what to say, but in more of an observant manner. “Well, that’s funny,” said Caleb, breaking the quiet between them as the waitress set down their plates. He didn’t look at Ellernate at first, just at the steam rising from the stack of waffles, the sheen of syrup catching the pale morning light. His tone was steady, the kind of casualness that was never really casual with him without an undertone. “Eh, it’s just…you seem…”

He let the word hang there, deliberately unfinished, as he reached for his silverware and began unwrapping it with a kind of unhurried precision. The metal clinked softly against the ceramic, every sound filling the gap where Ellernate should’ve said something. He missed every chance.

Ellernate narrowed his eyes, jaw tense. “Seem what?”

Caleb finally looked up, mouth twitching with something along the lines of a smirk and a frown. “Obsessed.”

The word landed much heavier than it should’ve, slicing through the air like a blade. Ellernate blinked, caught off guard—not because it was true, but because it was Caleb saying it. The implication lodged itself in his chest before he could push it away.

“What—?” he started, though Caleb kept going, smooth as ever.

“I can’t tell if it’s out of hatred or… ehm,” he cleared his throat, “devotion.”

Caleb cut cleanly into his waffle, dragging the bite through a pool of syrup before lifting it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, watching Ellernate the entire time. Felt like he was doing it on purpose. “Not that I’m implying that you like him. But I dun’know, Nate. The way you look at him, the way you talk about him—it’s not simple. If I’m being honest, never been simple.”

“Are you talking about what I told you last night?”

Caleb shrugged.

Ellernate just blinked, torn between being offended or intimidated.

His fork clattered a little against the plate as he stabbed it down into his own waffle with more force than necessary, syrup splattering onto the rim. He kept his eyes on the plate, on the slow collapse of the fluffy layers under the edge of his fork, anything but Caleb’s gaze. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. Caleb didn’t know the full story—right? That was it.

Though, Caleb didn’t seem bothered by the silence. If anything, he leaned into it, taking another slow bite before continuing.

“I was talking about it with Vilicus earlier.” he admitted. The casual mention made Ellernate’s grip on the fork tighten. Caleb didn’t stop. He set down his knife, folded the napkin neatly in his lap, and spoke like he was reading observations off a page. “We both agree you don’t act the same anymore. Neither of you. On that note, I do remember what you said last night. I don’t disregard your words. Still, it’s not just him, Ellernate. It’s you too.”

The words sank deep.

Ellernate didn’t show it on his face, but the word dug in deep. It was sharp, too sharp, because he didn’t have an immediate argument against it. He wanted to deny it outright, laugh in Caleb’s face, but the syllables kept echoing. Obsession was too close to the truth.

He couldn’t help his mind traveling back. Did it at ease at this point. It wasn’t that long ago, he remembered, when he could dismiss iTrapped with ease. Years ago—back in their earliest schemes—he would groan at his recklessness, roll his eyes when Isaac pushed them too far, but beneath it all, there had been… predictability. He could anticipate him. Manage him. Even pull him back when he spiraled. Now? Now he found himself watching him too closely. Tracking every change in tone, every flicker of distance, every strange silence that stretched too long. He hated how alert he was to it—like a wire strung too tight, ready to snap. He couldn’t stop circling back to him, no matter how much he told himself it was just for the mission, just for the group.

Caleb wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.

Obsessed.

The word felt like chains rattling.

Ellernate dragged the edge of the fork through the waffle again, shredding it into uneven pieces instead of eating it. His chest felt tight, hot, like someone had just peeled back skin to expose something raw.

He wanted to argue and tell Caleb he was wrong, this was just stress, just the fallout of everything since 2012 , and none of it was what he thought.

But when he opened his mouth, nothing came. His throat closed, stubborn silence spilling out where words should’ve been.

Caleb sighed softly, like he’d expected it. He took another bite, eyes steady, voice deceptively quiet. “Y’think no one sees it. But’m do,” he raised a hand to cover his mouth full of waffles and syrup.

Ellernate pressed his fork harder into the plate, the tines bending just slightly under the pressure, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t really have anything to throw back. It all felt wrong, too normal against the weight of what Caleb had just said.

The silence stretched until Caleb finally leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale. He picked at the edge of his waffle, then glanced toward the café entrance as if measuring the rhythm of foot traffic, the scatter of voices around them. When his eyes came back, they were sharper, focused in that calculating way that never meant good news.

“Alright,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “enough stalling.”

He flicked his wrist under the table, subtle, and a faint shimmer of light bled into being across the surface between them. A floating GUI unfolded—lines of code and pulsing data nodes suspended like glass over their plates. The pale glow lit the edges of Caleb’s face, reflecting in his eyes like a second set of irises.

Ellernate stiffened, shoulders tightening, sure, he was used to this. Though, out in public? Right now? Fresh out of the Banlands? Surely he was asking for a death wish. But when he looked into his eyes—Caleb only tilted his head in the smallest nod: don’t panic. He’d already scanned the café, already confirmed no one was watching. That was… usually the kind of thing Caleb never messed up.

Ellernate forced himself to relax, though the tightness in his chest didn’t fade. The faint shimmer of the GUI lit the table between them, brief flashes of scrolling data and clan records painting across the silverware before vanishing again. Too much exposure. Too many ways for this to go wrong. And yet—Caleb was calm, steady, almost irritatingly so. It wasn’t the first time Ellernate had relied on his composure. Missions years back, the times when Caleb was nothing but an amateur—fumbling, overconfident, so easy to read. Ellernate had practically molded him into what he was now, taught him how to keep his nerves in check. And yet here they were, roles reversed: Caleb presenting raw evidence, and  Ellernate struggling to quiet the gnawing unease clawing at him.

That was the part that stung most. He wasn’t exactly used to being the one second-guessing. He wasn’t used to his own chest tightening at every flicker of movement, every subtle reminder that their luck wouldn’t last forever. That vulnerability—it wasn’t him. It wasn’t supposed to be.

Caleb tapped one translucent node with the pad of his finger. Numbers bloomed, jagged red lines running across a map of Robloxia.

“This,” he said, low and even, “is where we are. The penthouse. Trace data’s still faint, but not invisible.” His finger slid to another cluster, and the GUI zoomed out—markers lighting up like pinpricks across the outskirts. “And this…is how close some of the other clans are. Parhelion. Overture. A couple ghost ops. They’re moving faster than they should be, which means they’re probably already sharing intel. Scary, right?”

The red lines crawled closer across the map, overlapping, tightening like a noose.

“We’re running out of time,” said Caleb. His tone never wavered, not once. “Admins aren’t the only problem. If we stay put, it won’t just be a raid—it’ll be a war. We can’t afford that right now.”

The GUI pulsed once, a dim warning, then blinked out as Caleb tapped his finger again.

His eyes followed the last thread of text as the GUI blinked out of sight, disappearing as if it had never existed. The silence afterward pressed in heavier than before.

Just like that, it was gone. Only the two of them knew it had been there at all.

For a moment, there was only the sound of cutlery clinking faintly, of plates being gathered from a nearby table. Caleb neatly folded his napkin, set it beside his empty plate, and stood with a fluid motion.

He lingered just long enough to glance back at Ellernate, tone clipped but firm. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and ’Trapped,” he muttered. The way he said it was deliberate—light emphasis, careful enunciation, like he wanted the words to stick. “But don’t let it interfere with your work. Otherwise, we’ll all be killed.”

He turned to walk away, but Ellernate moved faster than he did.

“Wait,”

Caleb stilled, one foot angled toward the counter, the weight of his body halfway to walking away. Slowly, he looked back.

Ellernate leaned forward, resting his palm against the table, tone colder now. “We don’t need to force him.”

A crease drew across Caleb’s brow. “…I just showed you the possible dangers of staying,” he said, his voice quieter, defensive in the way only someone used to being right could sound. “That’s the whole reason I—”

“You think I don’t know that already?” Ellernate’s voice cut over him, sharp enough to make the air bristle. “You think I haven’t considered every angle, every risk?”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, clipped. “…Then why are y’ignoring it?” His words came out a bit too fast, evidently not fond of the sudden burst.

Ellernate stood, slow and deliberate, the chair legs dragging just slightly against the tile. He stepped around the table, his presence heavy, yet his words heavier. “Because I’m the only reason you’re here to talk about it in the first place.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” said Ellernate, voice smooth as ice, “that you would be nothing without my help. You’d still be fumbling around, scraping code off forums, begging other hackers for scraps. I’m the reason you know how to hack at all.”

Caleb’s mouth opened—then shut. His silence was almost louder than his voice would’ve been.

Ellernate didn’t stop there. “Don’t confuse survival instincts for leadership. You don’t get to tell me what this group needs.”

The plate in Caleb’s hand trembled just slightly before he set it back down on the table, slow, deliberate, like even gravity had gotten heavier. He exhaled, not sharply. As calm as possible. Even so, the breath still came out shaky. “…That’s the thing about you,” he said finally, voice low. “You think reminding people of what you gave them means you still own them. Have you changed at all, Nate?”

Ellernate’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer immediately. He simply stared, the silence stretched tight, suffocating.

“Why are you so adamant about ‘helping’ me?”

Caleb paused, scrutinizing before his lips parted to release a sigh. “…I’m not helping you, I’m keeping you in check before you do something you regret. Your mistakes shouldn’t affect us, Nate. We need to lea—“

“You want to leave?” said Ellernate at last, his tone almost quiet, but laced with finality. “Do so. You’re just overreacting.”

He stepped past Caleb, brushing shoulders in a way that wasn’t an accident, and walked straight for the door. His steps weren’t rushed. They were controlled, deliberate, the kind that made every second of his exit sting worse than shouting.

The café door swung shut behind him, and the room’s chatter swallowed up the echo of his words.

Caleb stayed where he was, staring at the table. His reflection wavered faintly in the polished surface, distorted by the syrup smudges and the fork still sticking out of Ellernate’s half-eaten waffle. His lips pressed together, but no sound came out.

For once, Caleb had no comeback.

And for another, Ellernate finally made a point.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The door slammed shut behind him.

“Fucking hell,” Ellernate muttered, dragging the blazer off his shoulders and tossing it onto the bed in one sharp motion. The disguise clung uncomfortably to his skin, suffocating in every fold of fabric. Wasn’t just the blazer, though, it was the memory of the interaction that came with it. Still burning at the edges of his thoughts, fresh.

He shouldn’t have lashed out at Caleb. That much was undeniable. As bitter as it tasted, Caleb had been right. Ellernate did need someone to rein him in now and then—because without that anchor, things like this happened. And while it wasn’t often, it was never pleasant. Losing control was never a thrill. It’s humiliation, especially for someone like him. A reminder of how thin the line was between composure and collapse.

And, on that note, Ellernate had always prided himself on control.

He tugged at his collar, impatient fingers working the buttons free, already pivoting toward the bathroom. A shower. Something to scorch the lingering weight off his chest, to cleanse the mess of memory. Too early for something like this.

His hand had just brushed the buckle of his belt when a knock cut through the room.

Ellernate stiffened. Reflexively, he yanked his blazer closed again, buttoning it haphazardly before barking a quick, “Come in!”

The door creaked open. He glanced up, and froze.

iTrapped stood there, framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Shadows clung to him like second skin easily. Ellernate didn’t know what to think of his presence.

“Caleb said you might be in here,” iTrapped said at last, voice a bit too calm. “He mentioned you two got into a fight.”

Ellernate narrowed his eyes. “Why are you pressing about it?”

“I’m not.” iTrapped tilted his head slightly, a faint crease at his brow that could have been considered concern—or perhaps just mimicry of it. “I simply came to check up on you. Is that so wrong?” He lingered by the doorframe for a beat, glancing out into the hall as though to ensure no one followed him, before slipping fully inside. The door shut behind him with a soft click. “Is this a bad time?”

Ellernate’s  throat tightened. “No, no—I—” His words stumbled over themselves. He fumbled with the bathroom light, turning it back off, as if that action alone could erase the interruption. “I was…about to take a shower.”

“Oh.”

The silence that followed was weighted. Heavy.

Then, suddenly—

“I’m sorry.”

Ellernate blinked, his lips pressing thin. What? His eyes narrowed, studying the figure across from him. iTrapped’s posture wasn’t apologetic, not really—it was too still, too precise. Yet the words carried a softness that didn’t match the man who had been shouting just hours earlier.

“For what?” Ellernate asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

iTrapped let the quiet stretch before finally answering. His lashes flickered as he looked up, gaze catching Ellernate’s like a hook. “For earlier. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Ellernate exhaled slowly through his nose. His suspicion only sharpened. This was strange. Too strange. Hours ago, iTrapped had been fire—uncontrollable, unyielding—and now he stood in Ellernate’s bedroom like some ghost of himself, childlike in his restraint, as though rehearsing vulnerability. Amusing, yes. But more than that—unsettling.

“It’s not just me you yelled at,” Ellernate reminded flatly.

“But you were the main one—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

iTrapped blinked up at him slowly, like waking from a dream, and drifted closer without Ellernate even registering the movement until their distance had thinned. “…You were still involved, though,” he said, his voice hushed but steady, carrying the cadence of something carefully chosen. “I wanted to make up for it.”

Ellernate stilled, jaw tightening. His gaze sharpened, but beneath it ran a thread of hesitation he hated to acknowledge. There wasn’t a hint of malice in iTrapped’s tone. No edge. No sarcasm. The words sat there between them with the fragile weight of sincerity, it should have been convincing. It really should’ve. Anyone else would have called it genuine.

But Ellernate’s gut twisted.

Something about it was wrong. Maybe it was the lingering echo of their earlier argument, still reverberating in the back of his skull. He blamed it on Caleb’s voice, sharp and accusing, telling him he was obsessed. Or maybe it was his own indignation at being misunderstood, made to feel like a fool for caring.

He shook his head, physically dislodging the thought. Not now. Not here.

When he refocused, iTrapped hadn’t moved away. His eyes—striking, expectant—were on him with unnerving steadiness. That faint, almost hopeful shine made Ellernate’s breath hitch. iTrapped inched closer, close enough that Ellernate could catch the shift of fabric at his sleeve, the faint scent of metal and ozone that seemed to cling to him after every mission.

“…You forgive me, right?”

The question was soft. Too soft.

And Ellernate broke.

“What is it with you?” His voice snapped out, low but cutting, as his hand shot forward, gripping iTrapped’s shoulder with a firmness that betrayed how rattled he was. “Why are you acting so… different? I—“ His eyes searched desperately for something familiar, something real. “You weren’t like this before—not at all. What exactly happened? While we were gone??”

His mind screamed at him to name it. To drag it into the open. The frame.

What was his name again?

Ah.

Chance .

Even thinking it made his chest tighten, anger brimming at the edges. He wanted to shout, to demand what it was about that man that had hollowed out iTrapped and left him like this, slippery and unreadable. But then iTrapped looked at him—looked up at him—and his expression was unbearably clear. Innocent. Unmarred. Like someone who had never once drawn blood.

It was dizzying.

But, the illusion shattered in the next breath.

“Unhand me.” iTrapped’s tone was colder now, glacial, the words precise and laced with disdain. A knife of contrast to the softness from moments earlier. Ellernate’s grip faltered, flinch small but undeniable.

“…I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?” iTrapped’s eyes narrowed, gaze almost pitying, almost superior. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Nate.” He tilted his head the slightest degree, watching Ellernate’s silence like one might watch a cornered animal. His final words were quieter,but not mimicked—they carried weight, expectation. “You know that, don’t you?”

At first glance, you’d think it was mimicry. After another, it’d become evident that it was a question.

A genuine one.

The question lingered between the both of them, echoing in the silence of the room.

And Ellernate hated that, for one fragile moment, he didn’t know how to answer.

His hand remained clamped on iTrapped’s shoulder, but weaker now—hesitant. In fact, his grip had started firm. Accusatory, but iTrapped’s sudden shift in tone cut through him like static in the air. He hated that it rattled him.

iTrapped leaned forward slightly, just enough to erase what little space existed between them. “You believe me, right?” said iTrapped. His voice was quieter now, softer, but the kind of softness that disguised its sharp edges. His eyes searched Ellernate’s face as though testing the waters. “That nothing’s wrong? The others…they’re just overreacting.” The words landed like hooks.

Ellernate’s breath stilled in his chest. He wanted to argue, to insist on what he’d seen, what he’d felt—how different everything was. But when he looked at iTrapped, the conviction he expected to meet withered under that gaze. This was deliberate in a new way: not forceful, but coaxing. He almost sounded hurt, almost sounded betrayed at the thought Ellernate could doubt him.

His mind screamed don’t fall for this .

But his body betrayed him—his shoulders tightened, his jaw worked soundlessly, his grip loosened a fraction.

iTrapped tilted his head again, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He moved another step closer, slow and unhurried, like Ellernate had already given permission. “You’ve known me longer than anyone, Nate.” His tone was disarmingly calm. “If something were wrong, you’d be the first to know, wouldn’t you?”

Ellernate’s stomach twisted. He wanted to snap back with certainty—with something sharp enough to pierce this haze—but no words came. Because wasn’t that true? If anyone would know, it should have been him. So why did it feel like he was staring into someone else entirely?

“I—” Ellernate’s throat constricted around the word, failing to carry the rest.

iTrapped smiled faintly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression before it vanished into neutrality again.

“Exactly. You know me. You always have.” His voice was almost soothing now, like a balm layered over a wound he himself had made. His hand lifted, brushing against Ellernate’s arm, feather-light—just enough to nudge, not enough to linger. “Don’t let their paranoia cloud your judgment.”

Every instinct in Ellernate screamed to shove him back, to call him out, to say something . But the words dissolved before they left his tongue. He hated the way the room suddenly felt smaller, like all the air had been claimed by the other. He disliked, no, hated the way his doubts tangled with the faint pull of reassurance in iTrapped’s tone.

He stepped back first, pulling his hand from iTrapped’s shoulder as if it had burned him.

“Right,” Ellernate muttered, voice a bit rougher than he intended. He didn’t confirm, didn’t deny, only let the silence fester between them as he turned slightly toward the bathroom. He needed distance, needed air, needed the scald of water on his skin to drown out the static crawling up his spine.

But even as he moved, iTrapped’s eyes followed him, sharp and intent despite the faint smile tugging at his lips.

Ellernate didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to bury it, the question clung to him like smoke.

What if he was right?

“Nate.”

Ellernate stilled, hand on the doorframe. Against his better judgment, he turned—and froze.

The change was startling. iTrapped’s gaze, which was sharp and unreadable, had softened into something almost… earnest. The faint curve of his mouth, the tilt of his head—it was disarming. If Ellernate hadn’t been paying attention, he might’ve mistaken it for genuine concern. At the same time, though, he doubted himself. Maybe he was simply seeing it wrong. He, of all people, knew not to jump to conclusions.

His lips pursed. For the past couple days, he’s been doing everything of that. Caleb was right. He really was changing.

“You’re really sure you’re okay?” iTrapped’s voice was a whisper now, stripped of its earlier poise. He stepped forward, but not too close, kind of giving Ellernate the illusion of space. “Caleb seemed shaken. I thought… maybe it got to you, too.”

Ellernate’s chest tightened, a storm building beneath his ribs. He hated that he wanted to believe him—that this softer version pulled at something raw inside him. But he couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at his gut, the nagging sense that even this tenderness was… wrong. Off. Like a mask slipping only far enough to keep him guessing.

“I don’t break that easily,” Ellernate muttered, tone clipped. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing defensively. “If Caleb’s shaken, that’s his problem, not mine.”

For a moment, silence lingered. iTrapped studied him with those deceptively gentle eyes, as if searching for a crack in his armor. “You’ve been… quieter lately.” he purred. “I worry, you know.”

Ellernate huffed, gaze dropping to the floor. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a kitten,” he murmured, quicker than he meant. He caught himself, shoulders tightening, and looked away toward the bathroom door.

iTrapped tilted his head, the softness never faltering—if anything, it deepened. “I thought it might calm you.”

Something in Ellernate twisted. He almost laughed— calm me ? The iTrapped he’d knew would spite him on purpose for the fun of it.

He shifted his weight against the doorframe, forcing his arms tighter across his chest. “You don’t have to do that,” he muttered, voice low. Despite his words, what he really wanted to do was just scream at iTrapped for acting this way. Get it into his head. Surely he’d understand then, right?

“Do what?” iTrapped’s head tilted further, his shadow falling long against the floor as he stepped impossibly closer. “Care?”

The word landed heavy, almost too deliberate. Ellernate’s gaze flicked up from the floor, searching for the smirk he expected—but there was none. Just that same unreadable gentleness, way too steady to feel genuine.

“Don’t play with me,” said Ellernate finally, each word clipped, but even as he spoke he could feel the tightness pulling across his ribs.

“I’m not playing.” iTrapped’s voice dropped, quiet enough to almost be a secret. He lingered only a pace away now, close enough that Ellernate could make out the faint creases beneath his eyes, the way his pupils didn’t quite match the softness of his expression. “…You believe me, don’t you? Nothing’s wrong. We’re safe here.”

It was said so lightly, so easily, as though the entire argument earlier—the shouting, the venom—had never happened. As if he could rewrite memory with a few gentle syllables.

Ellernate’s throat worked, but no words came. Something about the way iTrapped’s voice wrapped around him made every protest feel suddenly too heavy to lift. His grip on his own composure slipped, just slightly.

iTrapped took that silence for an answer. “Good,” he whispered, gaze dipping briefly before meeting Ellernate’s again, softer than before. “Then we’re fine.”

The quiet lingered, pressing down like a hand on the back of Ellernate’s neck. He should’ve shoved him away, should’ve demanded answers. Instead, he just stood there, letting the weight of those words burrow deep—unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.

“You always say you handle things yourself,” iTrapped continued. “You don’t have to.”

On that note, he laughed. Just a bit. When had that ever been true? His whole life had been shouldering weight no one else could carry. To hear it from iTrapped now— him , of all people—wasn’t comfort. It was mockery.

Conversely…that softness lingered. That look, fragile and intent, like he genuinely cared.

Ellernate pushed off the frame, shaking his head to dislodge the thought. “Get some rest, ‘Trapped. We’ll talk about the plan later.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, but even as steam began to fill the space, he swore he could still feel those eyes on him, watching.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

When Ellernate finally got out of the shower, he was finally met with silence.

Finally, he’d have some time to himself.

Steam still clung to his skin as he stepped back into the bedroom, towel draped around his waist, former clothes abandoned on the floor. He should’ve felt lighter after the shower, clear-headed. But, the silence pressed against him too hard. Every shadow of the room felt watchful, every tick of the clock like an accusation.

He paced around the room once, twice, fingers twitching, all in rhythm with the ticking.

What he should’ve done is gone downstairs, rejoined the others, pretended everything was fine. But his gaze kept dragging back to the desk.

That desk. That drawer.

With a muttered curse, Ellernate yanked it open. Files spilled against his hands—loose screenshots, fragments of code scribbled on old stationery, and burned-out printouts that smelled faintly of ozone. He shuffled through them feverishly, like a man possessed. It was pathetic. He knew it. But he continued to look regardless. Caleb’s words gnawed at him still.

Obsessed.

He despised how true it sounded.

But he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He needed to know. Needed something that would explain why this invisible figure had carved such a jagged crack between him and iTrapped.

His hand stilled when he brushed over folded parchment—thicker, heavier than the others. Tucked carefully, almost reverently, between files that had no reason to hide it.

A letter.

The handwriting on the cover wasn’t iTrapped’s. His gaze adjusted to it immediately, recognizing it from before. From that note attached to the frame. Caleb said the others had seen it, right? How come nobody was questioning it like he did?

Ellernate knew iTrapped’s strokes well enough—sharp, impatient, almost scrawled like his code. But this, this was deliberate, slow. Every line lingered. Curved with care, as if whoever wrote it wanted each word to be savored.

He unfolded it with fingers he didn’t realize were shaking.

To Trapsy ,

I don’t know how long it’ll be until we meet again, but I hope you’ll think of me when you see the sky at night.

I’ll be doing the same. The stars look duller without you beside me, and this city feels emptier when your laugh isn’t echoing down its halls. I miss you already.

You have a way of lighting up every room you step into. Well, you must know that by now. I’ve told you that over a hundred times, haven’t I?

When whatever you mentioned you were going through is all over, I want to be there when you finally rest. You deserve that, Trapsy, much more than anyone I’ve ever known.

You’re the best gamble I’ve ever made. (I know I’m corny, so don’t laugh at me when you bring this up later!!!)

Forever yours,

— C.

(P.S, I have a surprise. ;) You’re gonna love it!!! Can’t wait to see the look on your face. Maybe tears, or a smile? Dunno. I’ll bet on it LOL.)

Ellernate’s chest constricted. He read it once. Twice. A third time, each word pressing heavier, each stroke of ink burning hotter in his skull.

Trapsy.

The nickname written like it belonged to him.

The tone—affectionate, tender. The kind of thing you’d never fake. Something you wouldn’t even consider doing.

His gaze lingered over once more, until finally stopping at the corner of the neatly folded paper.

12/03/22 ~ <3

December 3rd, 2022.

Surprisingly, not that long ago. So this man must still be iTrapped’s friend, right? But then why wouldn’t he bother introducing him?

His knuckles went white as he crumpled the letter slightly in his fist. He wanted to laugh, wanted to scoff at the melodrama of it all, but the sound caught in his throat and came out as a choked exhale. He knew what this was. What it implied. And yet his mind rebelled against it, clawing for excuses—maybe it was manipulation, meaningless flattery even—but deep down, he knew better than that.

This wasn’t empty, didn’t seem like it at all. This was personal.

Something metallic clinked as the drawer shifted further open. Ellernate froze, then carefully reached in.

A ring.

Small. Plain silver. Flourished, a diamond adorning it—bold, unassuming weight against his palm. The complexity made it worse. Despite its… conspicuous exterior, it wasn’t about flash. It was about permanence. About promise.

The implications were clear, as much as Ellernate tried to doubt the thought.

Why did iTrapped never tell them?

Ellernate stared at it so long his reflection warped in its surface. His pulse thundered in his ears. A ring meant intent. A bond.

His hand trembled as he curled his fingers tight around it, squeezing until the edges bit against his skin. He wanted to hurl it across the room, to crush it under his heel, to burn it until nothing was left. But he couldn’t.

Instead, he slipped it into his pocket, like some vile secret he couldn’t bear to look at yet couldn’t destroy.

The letter slid from his grip, landing back onto the desk with a whisper. Its words branded themselves behind his eyes, Forever yours.

Ellernate pressed his palms against the desk, head hanging. His breath came uneven, shallow. He hated this. Hated how his chest knotted, how his thoughts refused to quiet, how even now—after everything—he still wanted to demand answers from iTrapped.

The letter sat where he’d dropped it, centered on the desk like an open wound. The paper wasn’t even anything ornate. Cheap parchment, edges a little worn, ink slightly faded with age. But it might as well have been carved into stone, because Ellernate couldn’t rip his eyes away.

Every word was drenched in tenderness, spilling across the page in handwriting that wasn’t iTrapped’s, but yet, was so recognizable at the same time. It wasn’t sterile, it wasn’t the cold precision of a hacker’s hand—it was warm. Human. A man signing off with promises, small affections, almost domestic.

He read it again. And again. Until the words blurred, meaning fracturing into noise. His throat burned.

He reached into his pocket, dragging out the ring again with shaky hands, placing it next to the paper. So beside it, the ring glimmered like an accusation. Small, silver, unassuming—but heavy with implication. It wasn’t costume jewelry, not something stolen or worn for show. It carried weight. Intention.

Ellernate’s hand hovered above it, fingers trembling, before pulling back. Touching it felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he’d come back from.

His chest heaved.

This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. They were hackers—they didn’t care about things like vows, about attachments that deep. Devotion in their world was measured in loyalty to the mission, to each other when everything else fell apart. That was the kind of love Ellernate understood: sharp, enduring, the kind that withstood fire because it had to. Not some… sentimental drivel scratched into paper, not some ring hidden away like a secret altar.

And yet.

His mind wouldn’t stop spinning. What did this mean? That Isaac had belonged to someone else before? That all the erratic shifts, the apologies, the strange softness Ellernate had been drowning in these past days weren’t for him at all, but echoes of someone else’s shadow?

The thought ripped at him, jagged.

He braced his palms against the desk, head bowing low. The wood creaked under his weight.

What was love, really? He’d never asked himself that before, not seriously. Was it control? No—he knew control. Knew how to bend others, how to terrify, how to command. Love wasn’t that. Was it loyalty? Devotion? But devotion could be split. Could be stolen. iTrapped had proven that much.

Maybe it was absence. Maybe that’s what he was feeling now—the hollow, the ache of something he couldn’t grasp, couldn’t pin down. Love, then, was what he didn’t have. What someone else had stolen.

His breath came uneven, hands curling into fists against the desk until his knuckles ached. His reflection wavered faintly in the glass pane beside him—sharp eyes dulled, hair falling wild, a man who looked less like the legend of Ellernate and more like someone haunted.

He hated it. Hated himself for spiraling this far, for letting Caleb’s words and Isaac’s unpredictability and this damn ring unravel him. He should’ve been stronger than this. Unshakable.

Instead, he felt hollow.

“I don’t—I…” his voice cracked in the empty room, “I don’t even know what this means anymore.”

The silence answered. The letter stared back.

The letter blurred again. He’d read it so many times that the words had stopped being words—Promises. Tenderness. Love .

Ellernate’s throat seized, fingers curving around the letter delicately, bringing it up as if it was fragile.

He slammed the paper back down, hard enough to make the desk rattle.

His hand curled into a fist before slamming again. And again. Nails dug into the wood, scratching shallow lines into the surface until his fingers ached. The ring sat beside it, gleaming under the dim lamplight, taunting him. A mockery.

“Fuck—!” His voice cracked, ripped out of him raw. He gritted his teeth, chest rising in jagged, frantic bursts.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Every inhale just stung like glass. His chest burned as if something heavy was lodged inside, pressing harder, harder—he tugged at his collar like he could claw it out.

Why him? Why Chance? Who the hell was he to be worth this kind of devotion, worth iTrapped’s devotion, when Ellernate—Ellernate, who had been there through fire, through bans, through every mission—had never been enough to claim it? It’s not that he was jealous—no, he couldn’t be, right?

It was about trust. Even after escaping from hell itself, iTrapped still couldn’t bother to lead him into the paradise he deserved. Contentment.

His nails scraped deeper, splintering the desk. He wanted to tear it apart, destroy it all—the letter, the ring, the proof—hell, even that frame. Unfortunately, his body wouldn’t move past hovering. Because destroying it would mean admitting it existed. Admitting it was real.

His breath hitched, tears spilling hot and soaking his cheeks. So unwanted. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the words wouldn’t leave him, echoing in his skull like static. Promises of forever, written in someone else’s hand. Not his. Never his.

“This isn’t—” His voice broke into a sob, muffled by his hand as he pressed it to his mouth. His body shook, doubled over in the chair, shoulders heaving. “…This isn’t love .”

The room felt too small. Walls closing in, shadows pressing closer. The letter radiated like a curse, and the ring—Telamon, that damn ring—it glinted with every tremor of lamplight, like it was laughing at him.

He wanted to scream until his throat bled. Wanted to demand answers from iTrapped, “Trapsy,” shake him until the truth spilled out—but deep down, he already knew. The devotion wasn’t his. It never had been.

And maybe never would be.

Ellernate’s chest caved, his sobs tearing free, uncontrolled. Ugly. Unrestrained. His nails dragged across the desk again, leaving shallow red streaks across his skin this time. He didn’t even notice.

All he could do was sit there, unraveling—rage, grief, panic twisting into one violent spiral—as the remnants of someone else’s love letter clawed him apart from the inside.

In the quiet, Ellernate sank into the chair, one hand dragging through his hair as the weight pressed down, harder and harder, until all he could do was sit there—staring at evidence of a devotion he’d never been offered, never even been considered for.

A devotion that terrified him more than death itself.

Pathetic.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The hour was late enough that the world outside the penthouse felt dead.

The city lights still glimmered faintly in the distance, neon bleeding into the skyline, but in here…silence pressed in heavy, every tick of that damn clock dragging at Ellernate’s nerves. His head never stopped pounding from earlier, and his eyes were still puffy. Fortunately, though, he was able to wipe most of the evidence of his… breakdown.

He couldn’t stop pacing,. His shirt had been tossed across the back of a chair hours ago, clinging slightly with sweat. He was contemplating taking another shower at this point. The desk was worse, however—a battlefield of fragmented codes, old GUI tabs left open, scraps of printouts piled unevenly.

The letter sat dead center, as if daring him to look at it again.

The ring lay beside it, as Ellernate eventually decided on leaving there instead of his pocket. It felt wrong in a way, to carry what was most likely a memory that isn’t his.

Every time Ellernate’s gaze drifted to it, something in his chest twisted hard. He couldn’t get the words out of his head, that unshakable tone of familiarity threaded into them. It wasn’t just anyone writing to iTrapped. It was Chance. Whoever the hell he was, his presence lingered like a stain iTrapped hadn’t bothered to scrub out.

Letters didn’t survive this long unless someone wanted them to. Rings didn’t sit in drawers unless they meant something.

Ellernate dragged a hand down his face, stopping by the window, staring into the blurred glow of Robloxia’s outskirts. He knew it was stupid. Compulsive, even, which is quite out of character for him. But every attempt to convince himself otherwise fell flat. iTrapped’s behavior, the apologies, the strange softness—it all reeked of something Ellernate couldn’t quite put his finger on.

And now this?

The more he tried to reason through it, the deeper he spiraled.

His thoughts circled back to Caleb. To his words earlier at the café, the sting of being called obsessed . The irritation of being told he’d changed. He hadn’t . He couldn’t have.

And yet here he was, chest burning at midnight, walking out of his room before he could talk himself down.

The hallway stretched long and dark, faint golden strips of light leaking from under doors, soft muffled sounds of the others sleeping or working late. Ellernate’s strides were sharp, relentless. Probably loud. He didn’t care if he woke anyone. The closer he got to Caleb’s room, the hotter his pulse ran.

He didn’t knock gently either. Three sharp raps, loud enough to jolt anyone out of sleep.

A pause, a shuffle of sheets, and finally, the door cracked open.

Caleb stood there. His hair was messy, eyes half-lidded, squinting against the hall light like it personally was out to get him. His voice was gravel, thick with evident exhaustion. “The fuck do you want…?”

Ellernate didn’t answer immediately. His hand just shot out, gripping Caleb’s elbow, yanking him into the hall before the other could process.

“We’re searching the house.”

Caleb blinked hard, scrubbing a hand across his face, trying to make sense of what he just heard. “…What?”

“Now.” The word left Ellernate’s mouth like a command. Well, it was one. His grip tightened.

Caleb’s brow furrowed, irritation bleeding through the sleepiness. “Are you fucking insane? It’s—” He leaned back into his doorway, glancing at the clock inside. “—midnight. What the hell are you even looking for?”

Ellernate’s jaw clenched, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Answers.”

Caleb huffed, half a laugh, half disbelief. “Answers? You drag me out of bed for that ?”He tried to shrug Ellernate’s hand off, but the other didn’t budge. “Nate, whatever’s rotting in your head right now—leave it. Deal with it in the morning.”

“No.” Ellernate’s voice cracked like glass, “it can’t wait.”

For the first time, Caleb really looked at him— really looked at him, looked past the sharp tone and saw the undercurrent, the panic etched into his features. And though his instinct screamed to argue, something in Ellernate’s expression warned him it would be pointless.

“…You’re out of your damn mind,” Caleb muttered. But he didn’t shut the door.

“Come with me.”

Caleb blinked hard, stumbling to keep pace as Ellernate hauled him down the hall. The air was heavy with silence, the only sound their footsteps echoing against the floorboards.

Caleb frowned, groggy but slowly sobering. “Are you…okay? You look—”

“Don’t.” Ellernate’s voice cut sharp, even though his grip trembled. “Just move.”

Caleb bit back the rest, but he saw it anyway—the stiffness in Ellernate’s posture, the redness around his eyes, the slight gloss of tears not fully wiped away. He didn’t really call him out for it, but was definitely contemplating it.

When they finally reached his room, Ellernate all but shoved him inside, shutting the door quickly, like he was locking out the world. He crossed the space in a few hurried steps and slapped something down onto the desk.

Caleb blinked. A crumpled piece of paper. No—uncrumpled, but frayed around the edges, as if it had been handled too many times in too short a span.

“…What’s this?”

Ellernate’s jaw tightened. He shoved the letter closer, forcing Caleb to look. “Read it.”

The command was too brittle to argue with. Caleb hesitated, eyes darting from the paper to Ellernate’s face—red-rimmed, damp, furious in a way that wasn’t aimed at him but still burned. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and reached for the letter.

One glance at the opening lines and his brows furrowed. The language was soft, intimate. Unmistakable. Caleb’s throat went dry as his eyes flicked further down the page, words painting a picture he wasn’t sure he wanted to see.

He swallowed, setting the letter back down carefully, as though it might shatter. “…This isn’t any of our business, Ellernate. I told you that.”

Ellernate didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the desk, on the ink pressed into the page. His nails dug into the wood again.

Caleb’s instinct was to step closer, maybe even put a hand on his shoulder—because holy Telamon, Ellernate looked wrecked, like someone had ripped the ground out from under him. But he stopped himself. He knew better. Instead, he crossed his arms, voice low. “Nate…you sure this is the road you wanna go down? Digging through his things like this—it’s not…” he trailed off, searching. “…It’s not healthy. You know, I didn’t think what I said about ‘obsession’ would be—“

That made Ellernate’s head snap up, eyes narrowing. His gaze burned, still wet at the corners, still raw with the remnants of his earlier spiral. “Don’t bring that up again.”

“I wasn’t, I just—“

“Whatever you’re trying to say, keep it to yourself. You can’t deny any of this is weird, though, can you?” said Ellernate.

Caleb stayed silent.

Ellernate’s lips trembled. Almost like he was on the verge of crying again, but he didn’t let himself show that much vulnerability infront of Caleb. “Please, Caleb—I…I just need some validation on this, please. I’m sorry for earlier, for what I said to you. I didn’t mean it. You just—ugh, I don’t know, triggered something. And—and I—“

He continued to ramble on. Caleb was sure it was his exhaustion and emotions talking.

Caleb exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He definitely wanted to push back, to insist this was reckless, dangerous, beneath them—but one look into Ellernate’s eyes shut him up fast. Hurt carved too deep there, like an open wound. For once, Caleb couldn’t find his usual sarcasm.

“…Alright,” he murmured, softer now, raising a hand to signal Ellernate to stop talking. He picked up the letter again, careful, glancing over the hardened ink with fresh eyes. His jaw tightened. “Still, though, I think you should head back to sleep. You don’t seem the…brightest.”

Ellernate scoffed, turning his back, pacing once as if to burn off the tension. “I don’t need your concern.”

“Yeah, well,” Caleb said, letting the words hang as he folded the letter neatly, pressing it flat against the desk, “you’ve got it anyway.”

For a second, Ellernate froze. Then he shook it off, grabbing Caleb by the arm again with a sudden burst of energy. “Come on. We’re searching the rest of the house. Now.”

Caleb let out a long, tired sigh but didn’t resist this time. He cast one more glance at the desk—at the faint tear stains marking the paper—and then followed, quiet. Because no matter how stubborn he was being, Ellernate wasn’t just chasing ghosts. He was breaking apart, that much was evident. And Caleb, against his better judgment, couldn’t walk away from that.

Ellernate didn’t stop moving. The moment Caleb relented, the dam broke. Drawers yanked open, cabinet doors slammed shut, papers shuffled through with sharp, jerking motions—it was as if stillness itself would kill him.

Which, probably, it would at how fast he was moving.

Caleb leaned against the far wall, rubbing his temples, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “You’re not going to find anything else like that letter,” he muttered. But the words had no bite, really just resignation.

Ellernate ignored him. He kind of had to.

His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d first read the ink on that page, since the concept (and implications) of the ring had burned itself into his mind. That wasn’t just a scrap of the past—it was evidence. Proof. Even so, with every drawer he emptied and every pocket of shadow he scoured, nothing surfaced. Just dust, static, fragments of code scribbled on loose scraps of paper. Nothing that answered the questions clawing at him.

Who are you really, Chance?

The thought repeated like a broken record, pounding with each slam of wood against wood. He hated it—hated how it consumed him, how the hunger for answers twisted into something closer to desperation. He’s Ellernate. Greatest hacker of Robloxia. He doesn’t spiral. He doesn’t break.

Yet here he was, nails scraping into the desk again as he rifled through another drawer, breath heaving shallow and uneven. His reflection caught faintly in the dark window, and it startled him for a second—the tightness of his jaw, the rawness in his eyes. He looked… wrong.

So wrong.

Behind him, Caleb groaned under his breath, shifting against the wall. “Nate, for Telamon’s sake… it’s the middle of the night. Y’know you’re gunna wake the others if y’keep tearing the place apart.”

Ellernate froze, shoulders tensing. His hand lingered on a scrap of paper that turned out to be nothing, just a halfwritten line of code. The emptiness of it made his chest ache

He spun back toward Caleb, gaze sharp. “Then let them wake up. Let them see what’s hiding under their noses.”

Caleb rubbed harder at his forehead, exhaling through his teeth. “You’re not making sense. We shouldn’t even be in his things. If he catches you—”

“He won’t,” Ellernate snapped. A bit too defensive for his own good, that Caleb immediately quirked a brow. The words tasted bitter the second they left his mouth, but he pushed forward anyway. “And if he does, I’ll handle it. You don’t understand—”his voice cracked, the edge fraying just enough that he had to turn back toward the desk, clenching his fists to keep steady. “—you really don’t.”

Caleb didn’t answer this time. He just watched, quiet, heavy-lidded with both fatigue and… something else. Pity, maybe. Concern. Ellernate didn’t want to name it.

The silence pressed down harder than Caleb’s words ever could. Ellernate’s breathing picked up, uneven, frantic. Every fiber of him screamed to keep searching, to find something, to prove he wasn’t chasing shadows. But the longer the desk stayed empty, the more it felt like the shadows were swallowing him instead.

Love. Devotion. Betrayal.

Words he couldn’t get out of his head. A letter not meant for him, yet carved into his chest like it was. A ring hidden away, mocking him.

His fingers shook as he gripped the desk edge, knuckles whitening. He wanted to scream. To demand answers from someone who wasn’t here. To break something, anything, just to feel in control again.

Instead, he forced himself to inhale, sharp and shallow. His gaze flicked back toward Caleb in the corner—slouched, tired, silent, eyes on him with that unreadable weight.

Ellernate tore his eyes away. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that Caleb could see him unraveling, even if he wasn’t saying a word.

So he kept moving. Searching. Pretending it was the mission, not the mess inside his chest, that kept him going.

Chapter Text

The foyer was too big. Too quiet. A bit too quiet.

The marble floors gleamed with moonlight spilling in from the tall windows, but the silence pressed down much harder than the dark. The chandelier overhead glimmered faintly, casting fractured light across the floor where papers, empty folders, and old cables had been scattered, all from Ellernate’s doing.

For some reason, that made the place look less like a hospital now and much more like the privilege of home.

Ellernate’s hands moved with a restless rhythm, switching between yanking drawers open, and slamming them shut. Each sound reverberated across the cavernous space, sharp in the otherwise suffocating quiet.

His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, but definitely not…focused. It wasn’t clear what he was even looking for. Just…anything. Something that could explain.

Behind him, Caleb leaned against the banister, watching with his arms crossed. His patience had stretched thin hours ago, but he couldn’t walk away. Not when Ellernate looked like this. Not when he’d come dragging him out of bed at midnight, eyes bloodshot and voice raw. He’d just feel like more of a horrible person than he already is.

“Who’s ‘C’?” Caleb finally asked.

The question hung. Heavy.

Ellernate didn’t turn. His hand sifted through a stack of papers on the side table, skimming so fast it was obvious he wasn’t reading them. “That’s not important,” he muttered.

Caleb frowned. “Not important? You dragged me out here over a name written in a love letter, Nate.” He pushed off the banister, stepping closer. “Tell me who they are.”

Ellernate shoved the papers back down harder than necessary and moved to the cabinet beside him, tugging it open. “He’s not the point.” His voice was clipped, distracted. He reached deep inside, pulling out a binder, flipping through the brittle pages. “The point is, he exists.”

“That’s the same thing,” Caleb shot back. “Don’t dance around it.”

But Ellernate wasn’t listening—or at least, he didn’t look like it. His hands lingered against the edge of the binder before tossing it aside, then reaching for another crate, digging through old spare tech parts like answers might be hiding beneath them. His breaths were sharp, uneven, and the circles under his eyes looked darker under the cold light.

A wave of silence passed.

“Is he the man in the frame?”

“I told you, it’s not important.”

“You’re not making sense.” Caleb’s voice was firmer now, more insistent, though not cruel. “If he’s not the point, then why are you tearing the house apart? What are you looking for, Nate?”

Ellernate froze for the briefest moment—fingers still curled around a coil of wire in the crate. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he muttered, “Anything. Something that proves…” his words faltered, drifting into silence before he forced the rest out. “…that proves I’m not imagining it.”

The admission was barely above a whisper, but Caleb heard it.

He stepped closer, cautious, as though Ellernate might bolt. “Imagining what?”

Ellernate didn’t answer. He shoved the crate closed, the bang echoing through the foyer, and crossed to another cabinet instead. His movements were sharper now, more frantic, like his own silence was chasing him.

“Ellernate.” Caleb’s voice broke into the sound of drawers opening and closing, slightly sharper this time. “Who is he?”

Ellernate’s hand hovered over the drawer he’d just pulled open. For a second, Caleb thought he might finally give in—finally say it. But when Ellernate’s head tilted just enough for the moonlight to catch his face, expression as cold as he’d recognized from the café interaction.

“He’s no one,” said Ellernate flatly, though his tone cracked at the edges. He grabbed another folder, leafed through it without looking at the words, then tossed it down on the pile forming at his feet. “Forget it.”

Caleb exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Ellernate ignored him. He crouched down, tugging at another drawer at the bottom of the cabinet, knuckles pale from how tight he gripped the handle.

Caleb stood there, watching. He wanted to shake the truth out of him, though when he caught sight of Ellernate’s face—eyes narrowed, lips pressed thin, a flicker of something raw trembling beneath all that control—he stopped.

“Y’gunna drive yourself insane,” Caleb slurred, sinking onto the staircase with a tired sigh. His elbows rested on his knees as he rubbed his forehead. “And for what? Some ghost of a name?”

Ellernate didn’t flinch, didn’t look back. He just kept digging, restless as if the floor itself would give up its secrets if he clawed hard enough.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The only sounds left were the scrape of papers, the dull thuds of drawers, and Ellernate’s uneven breaths.

Ellernate’s hands tore through another stack of boxes shoved beneath the grand staircase, his movements growing more unsteady by the second. His breathing was too loud in the cavernous foyer, shaky and erratic, and Caleb had fallen into a restless silence on the stairs—just watching him burn himself alive.

Then Ellernate’s hand closed around something different. Hard plastic. He paused.

The box was shoved deep in the corner, dust clinging to the edges, but when he tugged it free and set it gently infront of him, his stomach dropped. A camera. Small, scuffed, but familiar. A Polaroid strapped with an old memory card taped to the side. For the first time since he started tearing the place apart, Ellernate went still.

His fingers hovered over the camera, trembling slightly, as though touching it would singe him. His throat worked in a dry swallow as he powered it on. The screen flickered, the whirr of old mechanics filling the quiet. It must’ve still been fairly recent, as it didn’t take much time to reboot.

His chest heaved once, shallow and uneven, before his thumb slid across the gallery.

One image. Two. Static snapshots of nothing important—shots of the mansion foyer, blurry pictures of stray code pinned up on a corkboard. Then his thumb flicked again—

And the breath punched out of him.

The screen froze on a recording. Not a photo. A thumbnail of two figures in the study, the angle grainy and low, but he’d know them anywhere. iTrapped, sitting cross-legged on the rug, and beside him—that name. That ghost that had been haunting Ellernate since the frame, the letter, the ring.

Chance.

Ellernate’s fingers clenched so tightly around the camera his knuckles whitened. His vision blurred, not just from the grain of the recording but from the pressure behind his eyes, tears he couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to.

Caleb was still sat on the staircase, head down, so Ellernate didn’t worry about his presence. He hesitated for only a second, then pressed the button.

The foyer filled with muffled voices, the warped hum of audio from the small speaker. iTrapped’s laugh, tired but warm, spilling through the crackle. Chance’s voice answering, softer, lower, something private in the cadence. They leaned toward each other on the rug, shoulders almost brushing, speaking like no one else in the world existed.

He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe.

It—no, he wasn’t just a name anymore. Not just some imagined rival conjured in sleepless nights. He was real. He was here, captured in shaky pixels, in iTrapped’s voice when it softened in a way Ellernate had never heard directed at him.

Ellernate’s brows drew together, eyes locked on the screen like it was killing him and keeping him alive all at once. His throat ached, chest heaving, but he pressed the camera closer as though watching harder might somehow change the truth staring back at him.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

“It’s on.”

Chance’s face filled the frame first—flushed red, streaked with tears, grinning like he’d never smiled so hard in his life. His chest heaved with laughter, disbelief written all over him.

“I can’t—” his voice cracked, trembling as he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, the ring on his finger catching the light. He laughed again, almost a sob. “—I can’t believe it. You actually said yes.”

The camera dipped, catching him fumbling with it before he set it on something solid, propping it up to capture more.

Now both of them filled the screen.

iTrapped sat cross-legged on the floor, posture a little too stiff, as if unsure how to hold himself. His face was wet with tears, but the smile there was strange—stretched wide, eyes too bright, lips trembling in a way that didn’t quite match the joy Chance radiated. He gave a laugh, high and thin. “Of course I did,” he whispered, words soft, affectionate on the surface. He dragged a hand across his cheek, leaving a smear of dampness. “Why wouldn’t I? I love you, my Chancellor.”

Chance didn’t notice the cracks. He surged forward, dropping to his knees in front of iTrapped, seizing his hands with both of his own. His joy was so raw it was almost painful to look at. “We’re really doing this. We’re actually gonna get married. We’re—oh Telamon, Trapsy, we’re forever.” His voice broke again, another tear sliding down. He kissed iTrapped’s knuckles with reverence, as if he was worshipping him. Which, to be fair, he practically was.

iTrapped’s shoulders jerked with a laugh, but it sounded so thin, like glass ready to splinter. He squeezed Chance’s hands back, too tight, and lowered his gaze for a second, letting his smile falter. Just for a heartbeat. His eyes flicked toward the camera lens, catching it directly, and for a flicker his expression went flat—blank, hollow, like staring down a reflection he despised.

Then he blinked, smile snapping back into place as if he’d remembered his cue. He lifted his chin, eyes glistening. “Yeah, forever.”

Chance exhaled, a shaky, overwhelmed sound, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “You’re mine forever,” he whispered. “Nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

iTrapped closed his eyes. A tear slipped down, sliding slowly down the sharp line of his cheek. It wasn’t joy—if anything, it carried the weight of grief. His lips moved, barely audible. “Nothing’s gonna change it,” he echoed, the words heavy as lead.

Chance let out another sob, this one bright with laughter, hugging him tight. The camera tilted slightly with the movement, catching the way their hands clutched each other—the rings glinting side by side.

iTrapped buried his face against Chance’s shoulder, silent. His mouth curved faintly upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze, just barely visible past Chance’s collar, stayed fixed on nothing. Vacant.

The battery light blinked red. The video cut mid-breath, Chance’s laughter dissolving into static.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate froze. His gaze, already sharp, narrowed further at the timestamp seared into the corner of the frozen screen.

12/04/22

December 4th, 2022.

His mind snagged on the numbers, replaying them again and again like the click of a broken lock. The significance struck him almost instantly—it wasn’t just a date. It was the date.

The day after the letter.

Ellernate’s breath caught. His whole chest seized like he’d been plunged into ice water.

He sat there, motionless, staring at the timestamp until the numbers blurred and doubled, his pulse hammering too loud in his ears to think. Slowly, his lips parted, but no sound came out. It was too big, too cruel a realization to put words to. Chance had written with his heart laid bare, begging to be heard, spilling devotion with every frantic stroke of ink. And then—one day later—he was here, on this tape. Slipping a ring onto iTrapped’s hand.

Ellernate’s lungs stuttered, like breathing itself had betrayed him.

The timing wasn’t coincidence. It was deliberate. A sequence, cause and effect, a revelation that carved down to the bone.

“...Fuck,” Ellernate hissed under his breath, the word breaking halfway out.

His hands came up to his hair, clawing into the strands, pulling until the ache spread across his scalp. He bent forward over the desk, elbows digging into the wood, trying to hold himself together while the floor beneath him seemed to give way.

A laugh ripped out of him, bitter and breathless, catching halfway to a sob. “Of course. Of course it was then.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “Why wouldn’t it be?” His nails scraped the desk, catching against the grain until they threatened to splinter. He wanted to tear through the wood, tear through everything—just something to match the ripping inside him.

Every part of him felt too much at once—breath too short, heart too fast, chest too tight. The room swam at the edges, shadows pressing close, the silence roaring in his skull. His throat convulsed with the force of holding back sounds he didn’t want to make, the kinds of sounds that would prove how badly this had undone him.

What was love, if this was what it left behind?

His mind wouldn’t stop circling it, spiraling. Was it this? Was it tearing yourself in two just to prove it was real? Was it devotion sharpened into ruin, loyalty that burned until nothing was left? Or was he just wrong—was he stupid, naïve, to think he’d ever grasped what love was at all?

He pressed his forehead hard to the desk, wood cold against his burning skin. His chest heaved, breath scraping raw as if every inhale was another cut. A muffled cry escaped before he bit down on it, his teeth clamping until his jaw ached.

And then—nothing. Just silence, save for the uneven drag of his lungs.

He stayed like that, hunched over, fingers digging crescents into his arms, until the trembling in his hands began to ache. He couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed.

When he finally forced himself upright, his vision was streaked, eyes raw, cheeks damp despite how desperately he’d tried to swallow it down. He swiped at his face roughly, dragging his sleeve across his skin, smearing the tears more than clearing them. His breath still came sharp, his body still jittered like it couldn’t settle.

But he knew one thing, just one thing. He couldn’t stop here.

Not knowing was worse. Not having the whole picture—it gnawed at him worse than the pain of seeing it would.

His hand, shaking, hovered over the button. He hated the way his fingers trembled, hated the wet heat still clinging to his lashes, hated that his chest still hitched as if he were a child again, powerless.

But still, he pressed it.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The tape whirred, shaky at first, then steadied into focus. The frame caught the corner of a lavish dressing room—mirrors lined with bulbs, fabric draped across chairs, the muted gold gleam of jewelry on a side table.

LonelyTree, a much more familiar figure, sat on the vanity stool, leaning back casually but still politely, one ankle crossed over the other. His expression was soft, patient, the kind of calm only he could carry. In the reflection of the mirror, iTrapped stood behind him, tugging absently at the stiff collar of his dress shirt.

“You’re going to wrinkle it before the ceremony even starts,” said Tree. His voice was light, almost teasing.

iTrapped rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly. “It’s choking me.” His tone was flat, but not cruel—just more like acknowledgment. He yanked at the fabric again, then let out a short laugh that didn’t quite fit his words. “Maybe that’s fitting.”

Tree turned his head, brows knitting. “Don’t say that.”

The camera caught the moment where iTrapped froze, as if calculating how far he could push. Then, just as quickly, he relaxed—letting his hands fall from the collar and lifting both palms in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. You always take things so seriously.”

Tree’s lips twitched, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he reached out and adjusted the tie for him, fingers deft and steady. “You could at least try to look the part. People are gonna be staring at you all day.”

“People always stare at me,” iTrapped muttered, voice lower now. His eyes met the mirror, locking onto his own reflection. For a second, the smile slipped. He looked at himself like he didn’t recognize the man staring back.

Tree caught it. His hand stilled at iTrapped’s tie. “…’Trapped.” His voice softened, more gentle than scolding now.

That broke whatever spell lingered. iTrapped blinked, then turned toward him with that practiced smile—the one that almost passed for genuine if you weren’t looking too hard. “Don’t worry about me, Tree. You know me better than anyone. I’ll be fine.”

Tree just studied him for a long moment, then sighed and gave the tie a final tug, smoothing it against his chest. “You say that like I don’t know when you’re lying.”

For once, iTrapped laughed—not the brittle, hollow laugh from before, but something warmer. Still, the warmth felt… rehearsed. Like he was trying on a version of himself he knew Tree liked. “Then maybe don’t look too hard today. Let me have this one.”

Tree shifted on the stool, his knee brushing lightly against iTrapped’s leg as he finished the tie. “There,” he murmured, satisfied, “now you almost look respectable.”

“Almost?” iTrapped echoed, arching a brow.

Tree smirked. “You’re the one getting married, not me. I’d think you’d want to make a decent impression.”

Something flickered across iTrapped’s face at that, too quick to pin down. His eyes cut toward the camera before flicking back to the mirror, and then he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice though there was no need. “…Impressions are temporary. That’s the thing about people—they see what they want. Only lasts until they look too closely.”

Tree tilted his head, studying him like he was trying to decide if this was one of those lines he was supposed to take seriously or let pass. Finally, he leaned his elbow on the vanity, chin propped on his hand. “I’m looking closely right now. Should I be worried?”

For just a moment—just a moment—the mask faltered. The smile drained, and the reflection in the mirror showed iTrapped’s face unguarded. The faint tremor in his jaw, the hollowness tucked beneath his eyes. A man stretched too thin.

Then it was gone. A blink, and the smile was back. He even chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You? Worried? You’re the calm one. The one who doesn’t get rattled.”

Tree didn’t return the smile. His gaze lingered on him, searching. “Well, I guess, but…you don’t have to be fine, y’know. Not with me. You’ve always been—” he hesitated, then rephrased, “—different with me. You don’t need to perform.”

iTrapped’s mouth curved again, but this time there was a sharpness at the edges, like glass catching light. “Maybe performing is all I know how to do.”

The words hung between them.

Tree reached for his cuff, adjusting it in silence, like the task itself was an excuse to stay close. “Then at least promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That if it ever gets too much, you’ll tell me.” His tone was careful, like speaking to someone already on a ledge. “I don’t care what anyone else sees—you don’t have to keep it all locked away.“

For the first time, iTrapped’s smile almost looked real. Almost. He let out a slow exhale, lowering his gaze to his friend’s hands fixing the cufflink. “You sound like you expect me to fall apart.”

Tree’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You already did once. And I was there then, too.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the rest. iTrapped froze, just for a beat, before his practiced composure swept back over him like a tide erasing footprints in the sand. He clapped Tree’s shoulder lightly, deflecting with the same familiar charm. “Well, today’s not the day for that. Today’s a performance. And you’ll clap for me, won’t you?”

Tree’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away. But eventually, he nodded once. “I’ll clap.”

The camera lingered on iTrapped’s reflection again—his smile fixed, eyes gleaming too bright, the faintest sheen of sweat at his temple betraying how fragile the act was.

A huff passed through the air, “Say, ‘Trapped, why are you two engaged only now? You guys have known each other for a while, right?”

iTrapped didn’t respond, not immediately.

“He asked me what my favorite number was,” he murmured, “I told him. Twelve, and four. He found it endearing, said I had two lucky numbers. Guess he was right, since that was the date he proposed to me.“

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—Tree leaned back again, shaking his head with a faint smile, as if indulging him. The camera stayed trained on iTrapped’s reflection in the mirror, the smile lingering on his lips while his eyes flickered with something sharper, unreadable.

“…Do you ever wish they’d be here for it?”

“Who?”

“You know,” Tree cleared his throat, “…them.”

iTrapped blinked, as evident realization slowly settled into his face. Then, his lips curved, into something unreadable—but still, undeniably a smile. “I wouldn’t want my best to see me at my worst.”

At that, Tree just smiled again, satisfied. Unaware of the true weight his words held.

Then, Tree turned, a bit out of view this time, but his lips parted into a gasp—“Oh! The camera’s on—“

The tape ended there, cutting to black.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate dragged his hands down his face, nails scraping harsh lines into his skin as though he could claw the image out of his head. He’d always prided himself on knowing people—on reading them, breaking them down to their cores. But here? Here was proof of something that existed without him. A closeness. A history. Something sealed shut, and no matter how he pried, he couldn’t get inside.

The worst part was the expression.

That look iTrapped had given Tree, just for a moment, stripped of its polish. Raw. Unmasked.

It was the same look Ellernate had chased for weeks now—the one he only caught glimpses of, fleeting, gone before he could convince himself it was real. And seeing it offered so freely to someone else—someone who wasn’t even here anymore—gnawed at him until his chest felt hollow.

His breath caught, sharp and shallow. He pressed a palm hard against his sternum, as if holding himself together would quiet the frantic beating beneath. He hated it. Hated the feeling of need, of jealousy, of aching for something so intangible it might as well have been smoke.

Was that what love was supposed to look like? That strange devotion written in gestures so small only the camera caught them? That adoring tone in Chance’s voice, the softness iTrapped mirrored back in his smile—even if it was rehearsed, it was something. Something Ellernate had never been given.

He tried to swallow the thought, but it turned bitter in his throat.

His eyes darted to the tape still sitting in the player. Just a hunk of plastic. Harmless. But his hands curled into fists against his knees until his nails dug half-moons into his skin, body trembling with the restraint of not smashing it against the wall. Because if he destroyed it, it would be gone. And then maybe he’d never see that look again.

He sat there, trapped in the contradiction. Wanting to tear it all apart, or wanting to keep it forever.

The frame. The letter. The ring. Now this. Every scrap was another nail in a coffin he hadn’t realized he was building for himself.

Nothing settled the shaking in his hands.

Ellernate sat frozen, the recorder heavy in his hand like it had fused to his skin. The tape had gone quiet, that soft whir dying into silence, but in his head it still played—iTrapped’s voice, Chance’s name like a curse stitched into every syllable, and then… Tree. LonelyTree.

The thought slotted into place so suddenly it nearly made him sick.

Oh.

Oh.

Tree wasn’t in the Banlands. He never was.

He’d been there before—sure, always there. By iTrapped’s side when no one else could manage it. Calming him, steadying him, filling in the gaps that the rest of them had learned not to touch. iTrapped had trusted him, leaned on him in ways Ellernate had only caught glimpses of, ways he used to chalk up to harmless camaraderie. But Tree’s presence had disappeared when the rest of them were dragged down to hell.

Not a trace of him.

Because he wasn’t with them.

Ellernate’s chest burned as the thought spun, twisting tighter. That wasn’t chance, it couldn’t be. No one evaded the Banlands unless they had a hand guiding them out, unless they were chosen to stay untouched. Which meant Tree knew something—must have known something.

He leaned forward over the desk, hands gripping the edge until his knuckles blanched. The wood bit under his nails as though grounding him, though the tremor in his fingers betrayed the panic rising underneath. His breaths came uneven, shallow, but he couldn’t stop replaying it all—the soft look in Tree’s eyes, the way he’d listen, the way iTrapped had once called him his “anchor.”

Anchor.

His stomach turned.

If Tree was an anchor, then what did that make Ellernate? A burden chained to his feet? A weapon to be pointed, sharp and ruthless, but never cared for the same way? His throat tightened, a sharp pressure climbing. He hated how unsteady he felt, how much the thought made his vision blur at the edges. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eye until stars bloomed, trying to suffocate the heat building there.

But still, beneath the ache, beneath the rage, something more insidious slithered in—hope. Fragile, toxic hope.

Because if Tree had been spared, if Tree had been there in all the moments Ellernate had never seen—then maybe he had answers. Maybe he could explain who Chance really was. Maybe he knew why iTrapped wore that hollow smile, why his voice broke on a man’s name that Ellernate could barely stomach.

Maybe Tree could tell him why it felt like iTrapped was slipping further and further away, no matter how tightly Ellernate tried to hold onto what they used to be. His grip slipped, nails scraping across the desk until a thin line of blood welled beneath one. He hissed, but didn’t let go, didn’t move. He just stared down at the faint red smear like it was proof of something—proof that he was still here, still holding on, even as everything else threatened to come undone.

The foyer around him was a wreck—drawers pulled half-open, papers spilling, the dim chandelier light cutting long shadows across marble. It looked as frayed and restless as he felt, as if the room itself mirrored the storm in his chest.

Ellernate’s gaze caught on the crumpled letter again, the neat handwriting spelling out Chance’s name with such devotion it made him nauseous. Next to it, the ring sat like a taunt, cold and gleaming under the weak light.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight enough to ache.

He couldn’t keep looking.

Tree.

That was the only path left. If Ellernate let this fester, let himself keep spiraling through letters and tapes and half-truths, he’d tear himself apart before he ever reached the truth. But Tree—Tree was real, alive, within reach. And if he had answers, Ellernate would drag them out of him.

No matter what it cost.

The thought steadied him in a way nothing else had. His chest still heaved, his hands still shook, but the resolve was there, cold and unyielding.

Ellernate whispered, voice hoarse and low, “He must know.”

The words lingered in the air, brittle as glass. But saying them made it real, and real was the only thing keeping him from collapsing under the weight of iTrapped’s false smiles and Chance’s name echoing endlessly in his head.

He sat there, breath uneven, the words pressing against his ribs until he thought he’d burst.

Tree.

The thought pulsed in time with his heart, insistent, undeniable.

He forced himself up, legs unsteady, the weight of exhaustion dragging him down but never heavy enough to smother the urgency crawling through his chest. He stumbled down the last few steps, the recorder swinging useless in his grip, and made his way down the hall.

Caleb was where he was when he dozed off earlier, head down to his knees on the staircase, one arm around himself almost protectively, and his mouth parted in soft, steady breaths. The glow from the dying fireplace painted him in copper and ash. Peaceful. Still. Untouched by the madness clawing at Ellernate’s skull.

For a long moment Ellernate just stood there, staring. Part of him hated to break it, hated to shatter this fragile slice of calm. But the thought of waiting—of letting the night stretch on without saying it aloud—was unbearable.

He moved closer, kneeling by the stairs, and shook Caleb’s shoulder with a trembling hand.

Caleb stirred with a low groan, head tipping to the side. His lashes fluttered, and then his eyes cracked open, heavy with sleep as he registered the scene again.

“We need to find Tree.” murmured Ellernate, not withdrawing his hand from the other’s shoulder.

That got Caleb’s attention. His eyes focused, narrowing as he pushed himself up with one hand braced beside him. He studied Ellernate’s face—the glassy sheen in his eyes, the way his lips trembled around the words—and the sigh that left him was soft but heavy, steeped in concern.

“Nate,” Caleb rubbed his hand over his face, sitting up fully. “I thought you would’ve calmed down by now, what’s the time?”

“3:42 AM.”

“…You can’t be serious—“

“I don’t care.” Ellernate’s voice cracked, too sharp, too desperate. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, as though that could keep his head from splitting open. “Don’t you understand? He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there with us, Caleb. And, and—that means—he knows. He has to know something. He was…Telamon, he was with ‘Trapped—so, I—he—“

Caleb reached for him, steady fingers closing around Ellernate’s wrist before he could claw too hard at himself. He tugged gently, guiding his hand down, grounding him. “Hey. Slow down.”

“I can’t slow down.” Ellernate’s breath hitched. His throat felt raw, his body trembling with too much energy, too much fear and hope woven together until he couldn’t tell one from the other. “Everywhere I look—” His gaze darted to the fireplace, the shadows, the recorder still clutched in his other hand. His voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s still here, Caleb. In the tapes… in—in everything. And Tree…Tree might have the rest of him. Don’t you get it? We can’t just sit here.”

Caleb exhaled, long and even. He slid to the side, leaning against the railing and patted the wood beside him. “Come here.”

Ellernate resisted at first, frozen in his restless stance, but when Caleb’s hand reached for his sleeve, warm and insistent, he let himself be pulled down. His body folded easily, too easily, until he was slumped against Caleb’s chest, the recorder digging awkwardly into his palm.

Caleb’s arms wrapped around him, patient, holding him steady as though he were something fragile and breakable. Which, at this point, one wrong word would be enough to consider that. “Listen t’me,” Caleb murmured against his hair. “We’ll find him, tomorrow. First thing. I promise.”

The words cut deep—promise. Like an anchor. Ellernate wanted to believe them, wanted to breathe and let them settle, but his chest still heaved, each inhale scraping. “Tomorrow’s too far.”

“I know,” Caleb said softly. He rested his chin on Ellernate’s head, speaking slow, deliberate. “But you’re no good t’anyone like this. You’re tearing yourself apart. If you burn out now, y’won’t make it to tomorrow.”

Ellernate’s fingers twitched, nails catching against the fabric of Caleb’s shirt. He hated how much sense it made, hated how the logic pressed against his panic until it cracked. His throat tightened, hot and aching, and he let his forehead press harder into Caleb’s shoulder to hide it.

For a while there was only the sound of the fire crackling low, and Caleb’s steady breathing against the storm of his own. Slowly, painfully, the rhythm began to catch.

Caleb’s hand traced slow lines up and down his back, grounding him with each pass. “Sleep, Nate. Just for, mm, a bit. I’ll b’here. And in the morning…we’ll look for Tree, kay…?”

Ellernate didn’t answer, but his grip finally loosened on the recorder, the plastic slipping from his fingers to the carpet below.

Caleb’s arms tightened just slightly, sealing the unspoken vow between them.

But even as Ellernate drifted off, all he could think was that everyone else had been trusted with something he never would be.

That fact alone hurt more than anything.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Flowers.

An endless sea of them, swaying in a wind that didn’t touch him. Their colors blurred, bleeding into one another like paint left too long in water—lavenders, golds, whites that burned the eye with how bright they were. The sky was a dim gray canvas, stretched so wide it made him dizzy to look at.

And there, at the center of it all, was iTrapped.

His iTrapped.

He looked the same and not the same—dressed in pale clothes that caught the light like glass, features soft but uncanny, almost too perfect. The kind of beauty that hurt to look at, like staring into the sun. He stood just a little too far away, hands at his sides, expression unreadable.

“…’Trapped?”

Ellernate’s breath caught in his throat. For a second, he thought he might collapse. His body moved before his mind could stop it—feet crushing flowers, carrying him across the field, running toward him like a man starved.

When he reached him, he grabbed hold. Fists twisted into fabric, clutching so hard his knuckles burned white. He pressed his face against iTrapped’s shoulder, chest heaving, and whispered words that didn’t exist. Nothing coherent came out—just broken fragments of pleading, the sound of need scraped raw.

iTrapped didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil. He only lifted a hand—slow—and set it against the back of Ellernate’s head. Fingers threaded through his hair like he was smoothing down something wild.

It should’ve been gentle, and it definitely should’ve soothed him. But there was nothing behind the touch. No heat, no pulse. Just the echo of what Ellernate wanted, hollow and endless. The flowers bent beneath them, bowing low, as if the earth itself was caving under the weight of the moment. The sky just dimmed further, gray deepening into something close to black.

Ellernate tightened his hold, desperate. His nails dug through fabric, through skin. He thought if he just clung hard enough, if he made himself unmovable, then maybe—maybe he’d feel something real in return.

But when he finally pulled back, lifting his head to see him, iTrapped’s eyes were wrong. Far too wrong, reflecting nothing but the field itself, as if Ellernate wasn’t even there.

The sight hollowed him out. He wanted to scream, to tear at the world around him, but all that came was silence. A silence that pressed down on his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

Still, he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. His body refused.

The flowers kept swaying, swaying, swaying. The petals bled red now, the colors warping like a bruise spreading across the world. The hand in his hair tightened—not tender anymore, but firm, possessive, unyielding.

“You’re still chasing me,” iTrapped said. His voice wasn’t mocking—it was quiet, almost regretful, like he already knew the answer.

Ellernate’s chest heaved. He answered almost immediately—or at least he tried to. “Of course I am. I’d follow you anywhere.” His words were rushed, stumbling over themselves, as if saying them fast enough might keep the dream from ending. “I can’t—I can’t let you slip away, not again.”

iTrapped’s hand lingered at the back of his neck, but there was no warmth in it. “You talk like I’m something you can keep.”

Ellernate pulled back just enough to see his face. His vision blurred with tears he hadn’t realized were there. “Why not? Why can’t I? You’re right here.” His voice cracked, ragged at the edges. “If this is all I get, then I’ll take it—I’ll take every second, I’ll—”

“You’ll wake up.”

Ellernate shook his head violently, clutching him tighter, knuckles white. “No, no—don’t say that. Stay with me. Please. Please, just—pretend, if you have to. Pretend I never lost you. Pretend you’re still mine.”

The other’s eyes flickered, unreadable. “Pretending doesn’t change the truth.”

“Then lie to me,” Ellernate begged. His throat felt raw, like every word scraped him hollow. “Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me you love me. I don’t care if it’s real—I just need to hear it. I need something to hold onto.”

The flowers bowed lower, petals scattering in the wind like confetti from a funeral.

For a moment, iTrapped only studied him. His thumb brushed along Ellernate’s temple in a motion so tender it almost killed him. Then, softly, he said, “If I told you I loved you… would that make waking up any easier?”

Ellernate’s breath stuttered. He didn’t even answer with words—just shook his head and pressed his forehead against iTrapped’s chest, eyes squeezing shut. A broken sound left him, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No, but I don’t care. I just want to hear it anyway.”

The silence stretched again. The flowers bent further, their colors bleeding into crimson, the edges of the dream already unraveling.

At last, iTrapped bent closer, lips brushing his hair as he whispered, “Then I love you.”

The words hit Ellernate like fire—consuming, searing, more than he could bear. He clung to him as if the force of his hold alone might stop the dream from collapsing. “Don’t let me wake up,” he choked. “Don’t let me lose this. Please—please, please—”

He was met with silence.

“Why do you always run from me?” Ellernate’s voice cracked, uneven. “Why do you keep slipping through my hands when all I’ve ever wanted was to keep you close?”

iTrapped tilted his head, gaze soft but unbearably distant. “Because you don’t want me. Not really, do you?” His voice was quiet, feather-light, but every word struck Ellernate’s chest like a hammer. “You want the memory of me…shadows aren’t meant to stay, Ellernate.”

“No—don’t do that. Don’t make yourself smaller than you are.” Ellernate’s tears slid hot down his face, dampening iTrapped’s collar. His voice came out hoarse, frantic. “I don’t care if you’re shadow or dream or lie or I don’t know—I just need you here. With me. For once in my life, I don’t care what’s real.”

iTrapped’s smile was faint, worn around the edges. “You speak like love is a cage. Like if you chain me tightly enough, I’ll stop disappearing.” He leaned in, forehead brushing Ellernate’s. His breath stirred the air between them, achingly warm.

Ellernate shuddered, clutching him harder, as though sheer force might make him solid. “Then be more than a ghost. Be mine. Please, I’ll—” His voice broke apart, unraveling. “I’ll break myself into pieces if that’s what it takes to keep you.”

For a moment, iTrapped only looked at him—really looked. The kind of gaze that cut past bone, that stripped Ellernate down to his most fragile pieces. Then, in a voice low and trembling with something Ellernate couldn’t name, he whispered, “If I could give you forever, I would put it in your hands. But all I have is a handful of moments—and I’m afraid you’ll bleed trying to hold them.”

The words rooted themselves in Ellernate’s chest, thorns piercing deeper than air. His breath hitched, a sob wrung raw from his lungs. “For Telamon’s sake, let me bleed. Let me carry it, I don’t care. Just don’t take this away from me.”

The flowers bent lower, petals spiraling upward like ashes instead of blossoms. The horizon flickered, the colors draining.

iTrapped brushed a thumb along Ellernate’s cheek, so gently it hurt. His eyes glimmered with something that could have been love, or sorrow, or both at once. “You’re trying to hold a ghost, Ellernate. Ghosts aren’t meant to be kissed, or touched, or kept. They’re only meant to be remembered. Let me go.”

Let me go.

Ellernate surged upward anyway, mouth crashing against his, desperate and broken. The kiss was salt and fire, as though every unsaid word condensed into that single, shattering moment. He held him with everything he had, clung until his lungs ached, until the dream itself buckled under the weight of it.

When he pulled back, breathless, iTrapped was already fading. His lips moved one last time, voice no louder than the sigh of the wind,

“Remember me kindly.”

The world answered with silence. Only the flowers kept swaying, their stems snapping under the invisible weight. And when Ellernate finally dared to look up, iTrapped’s eyes were already fading into the same gray as the sky.

Still, Ellernate’s arms refused to let go. He held on until the dream itself cracked apart around him, until all that remained was the echo of those three words—and the unbearable knowledge that they’d never been real.

Ellernate’s last thought, before the dream cracked and shattered into waking, was that this was it. This was the closest he’d ever come to holding him. And it still wasn’t enough.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate woke with a jolt, a sharp inhale tearing through his chest as if the flowers had been yanked out from under him. The dream clung like cobwebs—his lips still stung with the memory of a kiss that had never happened, his hands aching as if they had truly been clutching someone who wasn’t there. His heart thundered, ragged and uneven, while the silence of the real world pressed down on him.

For a moment he didn’t move. Couldn’t, not really. The ceiling above him blurred in the faint gray light of dawn, and his throat felt tight, raw from the phantom sobs he hadn’t even realized he’d carried into waking.

Then—warmth.

He turned his head, and his stomach dropped. Caleb was still there, sprawled half beside him on the mattress, hair a mess, lips parted in easy sleep. One arm had somehow wound around Ellernate’s shoulder in the night, loose but present, like it had always belonged there.

Caleb probably brought them back to his room.

Great.

Ellernate froze, every muscle stiffening. His first thought was irrational, panicked. Did he hear me? Did I say something out loud? The idea of Caleb witnessing even a fragment of what his subconscious had conjured made his skin crawl with absolute shame.

Carefully, carefully, he shifted, trying to pry himself free of that arm without waking him. But Caleb stirred anyway, brow furrowing faintly before his grip slackened. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, rolling onto his back.

Ellernate sat up too fast, heart hammering against his ribs. The sheets tangled around his legs, heat rising furiously to his face. It felt humiliating, somehow, to have been dreaming of iTrapped with that kind of desperate devotion only to wake up here, caught in the softness of someone else’s presence. It felt awkward as hell.

Though, at least the other had even offered comfort to begin with. Purely platonic, and at least it meant something. Even at his worst—Caleb still cared.

For once, Ellernate felt a bit seen.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair. His skin still burned with phantom touch, his mouth still remembered words that weren’t real. He hated how badly he wanted to close his eyes again and fall straight back into it, to hold onto the illusion.

His legs swung over the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing to the cold floor. He sat there, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, trying to breathe past the tangle in his chest. The room was hushed, the world outside still half-asleep, and it made the sound of Caleb’s steady breathing behind him unbearable.

He glanced back once, just once, unable to help himself. Caleb’s face was softened by sleep, lashes brushing his cheeks, mouth slack with the kind of peace Ellernate couldn’t remember the last time he felt. It was grounding, maddeningly so. Like proof that not everything in his life had to be unraveling.

Ellernate tore his gaze away. Standing felt like pulling himself out of quicksand—every joint sluggish, every muscle weighted. He staggered once, catching himself on the desk, palms pressing down hard against the wood. His breath hitched again, memory clawing back at him, the flowers, the voice, the words that still burned like scripture.

Remember me kindly.

Let me go.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, forcing the thought away, forcing himself into the shallow relief of motion. The window was pale with early light, the world outside still draped in quiet, and Ellernate hated how much it felt like a mockery.

Behind him, Caleb shifted again, but didn’t wake. His arm flopped over the space Ellernate had vacated, fingers brushing the empty sheets as if searching. Ellernate’s chest twisted sharply at the sight—another reminder he hadn’t asked for, didn’t know what to do with.

He looked away, shoulders curling inward, and dragged himself toward the door with the heavy, groggy ache of someone who knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again, not after that.

The kitchen was still dim, the only light a faint gray leaking in through the blinds.

Ellernate moved stiffly, as if each step was weighted. Well, it kind of was. He set a pan onto the stovetop, cracked two eggs into it with mechanical precision, and reached for a loaf of bread. His hands shook faintly, though he masked it by gripping too hard—knuckles white around the knife as he sliced.

He needed to get to Tree’s as soon as possible.

The dream clung to him like dew that wouldn’t dry. The flowers, the warmth, the way iTrapped’s voice had curled around his ribs and refused to let go. Every blink, every drag of the knife against bread, it was there. He wanted to scrub it out of his head, drown it with silence—but it sat stubbornly in the corners of his vision, bleeding through reality. It hurt.

He set the bread in the toaster, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Today was supposed to be for answers. If Tree really did know more—if he had even the slightest clue—it would be worth it. But Ellernate wasn’t sure if he could handle another truth.

The kitchen door creaked.

“You’re up early,” came a voice, and then Vilicus strode in like he owned the place, tossing a crumpled hoodie over the back of a chair. His hair was mussed, his grin crooked, the kind of expression that said he hadn’t slept but didn’t particularly care. “Couldn’t sleep either? Found y’in kind of a compromising position last night.”

Ellernate only hummed, turning the eggs with a spatula. “Like?”

“You were like…I dunno, eh, clinging onto Caleb? Like you never wanted to let go. Tried pulling you off, but you’re a lot stronger, so I guess you can imagine how that turned out.”

Ellernate didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Vilicus dropped into a seat at the counter casually, stretching his arms over his head. “Twister and I ran a little heist last night. God, you should’ve seen it—admin vault, tighter security than a chokehold. Almost fried my deck twice.”he leaned forward on his elbows, “Worth it though. We pulled data on two Admins, one of them’s got dirt that’ll keep us safe for months.”

Ellernate half-listened, the words flowing past him like static. He placed the eggs onto a plate, added the toast, and tried to anchor himself in the mundane motion of breakfast. But even then, as he sat, his gaze kept unfocusing—blue petals, iTrapped’s voice, his smile that wasn’t really a smile—

“You’re not wearing your Dominus today,” said Vilicus, head resting in his hands.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

The silence hung.

“You’re quiet.” Vilicus’s voice cut through, sharper this time.

Ellernate blinked, realizing he’d been staring at nothing. “…Just tired,” he muttered, reaching for the toast.

Vilicus tilted his head, unconvinced. “Don’t give me that. You’re brooding harder than usual,” he smirked, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s eating at you?”

Ellernate set the knife down too hard, the clatter echoing. He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “I said I’m fine.”

Silence hung for a beat. The toaster ticked behind them, metal cooling.

Vilicus leaned back, but he didn’t press. “If you say so. Just don’t go burning yourself out. We need your head in one piece, not scattered.” He dragged a finger along the counter, tracing idle lines. “Especially if you’re planning whatever the hell it is you’ve been pacing about all week.”

Ellernate froze at that. He hadn’t realized anyone had noticed. He swallowed hard, cutting into the egg, the yolk bleeding across the plate. His fork scraped against porcelain.

“…I’ll manage,” said Ellernate finally, voice low.

Vilicus watched him for a moment longer, sharp eyes narrowing, but then only shrugged. “You always say that.”

Ellernate didn’t answer. His mind was already elsewhere—on everything he’d uncovered so far. On Tree, and whether the man might hold the key to unraveling iTrapped’s secrets.

He stabbed another bite of egg, chewing mechanically. The dream pressed in again, unrelenting. iTrapped’s voice echoed, shadows aren’t meant to stay, and Ellernate nearly choked before forcing it down with water.

Vilicus’s voice was softer this time. “Seriously though. You sure you’re alright?”

Ellernate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t break easily. You of all Robloxians know this.”

But even as he said it, he felt the cracks deepening.

Ellernate let the silence stretch as he ate, each bite edged with exhaustion. The kitchen smelled faintly of toast and burnt edges, but he hardly tasted any of it. He just felt Vilicus’s gaze on him. Finally, Ellernate set the fork down, leaning his elbows onto the counter. His voice was flat, but carried something heavier beneath it. “I’m going to Tree’s later.”

Vilicus’s brows shot up. “LonelyTree?” His grin faltered, replaced with a flicker of something close to disbelief. “You? Voluntarily?”

Ellernate kept his gaze fixed on the countertop, tracing the faint scratches in the laminate with his thumb. “He…might know something,” he gestured vaguely, as if Vilicus had a clue on what he was talking about. “About all of this.”

The word all hung between them, heavy, unspecific. Both of them, well, mostly Ellernate knew what it meant without naming it—iTrapped, the banlands, the ghosts that Ellernate couldn’t leave behind.

Vilicus leaned back in his chair, whistling low. “Huh. Never pegged you for the type to go knocking on Tree’s door. He’s…soft. Talks in circles. Not your usual scene.”

“I’m not looking for a scene. I’m looking for answers.”

Vilicus studied him for a long moment, drumming his fingers against the wood. “So it’s bad enough you’re chasing scraps from Tree, huh?”

Ellernate finally looked up, his eyes sharp, dark. “It’s not scraps if it’s the truth.” The room went still. Vilicus didn’t exactly have an immediate comeback. His smirk softened into something more tentative, as if he were treading unfamiliar ground. To be fair, he kind of is.

“…You’re serious,” said Vilicus at last, leaning forward again. “You actually think Tree has what you need?”

Ellernate didn’t answer directly. He took a sip of water, setting the glass down too carefully, like precision was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. A gentle clink settled the room into silence.

Vilicus tilted his head, curiosity sharp in his gaze. “And if he doesn’t? What then?”

Ellernate’s throat worked around words that didn’t want to come. He stared past him, out the window where the blinds split the gray light into bars. “Then I’ll keep looking, don’t really have the luxury of stopping anyways.”

For once, Vilicus didn’t quip, didn’t jab. He just sat there, studying Ellernate like a puzzle he’d never seen all the pieces to.

“…Alright,” he said eventually, pushing himself up from the chair. “Guess I’ll keep my mouth shut. Don’t wanna spook you before your big spiritual consultation.”

Ellernate shot him a look, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

Vilicus shrugged, slinging his hoodie back over his shoulder. “Just… don’t go alone in that head of yours too long, yeah? Even Tree can’t pull you out if you sink too deep.”

And then he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall, leaving Ellernate alone with the cooling eggs, the half-burnt toast, and the weight of his own resolve.

Ellernate stepped out of the bathroom, skin still warm and flushed from the shower. The steam clung to him like a veil, damp hair dripping onto the collar of his hoodie. He tugged it on half-heartedly, the motion sluggish, as though every piece of him resisted the idea of moving forward. His body was awake now, but his mind still replayed fragments of the dream—petals falling, hands clinging, words lingering in a place he couldn’t crawl back into.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee from earlier. His sneakers squeaked faintly against the tile as he moved through the quiet, bag slung over one shoulder. He’d made up his mind—Tree’s place. He needed answers, needed something solid to hold onto before he came apart completely.

His hand closed around the doorknob, the cool metal grounding him for a moment. He took a breath. In. Out. One more step.

“Vilicus said you were going to see Tree.”

The voice slid into the room from behind him, and every muscle in his body went rigid. He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t need to. That tone—light, smooth, but hollow, like glass rattling in its frame. He recognized it instantly.

iTrapped.

Ellernate let his eyes shut for half a second before he forced himself to pivot. iTrapped was leaning in the archway of the hall, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed in the way only someone who controlled the air around them could be. His hair was neatly in place, his shirt uncreased, his smile stretched just a little too far across his face.

He looked perfect. Polished. Unshakable.

And utterly wrong.

“Why?” iTrapped asked, tilting his head, the word hanging in the silence like bait.

Ellernate blinked at him. The quiet pressed down harder. “Didn’t realize I had to run errands past you,” he muttered. His voice came out rougher than he meant, scraped raw by nerves.

But iTrapped didn’t bite. Didn’t flinch. His smile stayed, gentle and unyielding. “I think you do. At least a little. You’ve been… busy, haven’t you? Digging in places most people wouldn’t bother. I’m just a bit curious.”

The words slithered, all sweetness on the surface, but the implication landed heavy, coiling around Ellernate’s ribs. His throat tightened.

Did he know?

“I’m not looking for trouble,” he said, adjusting his tie a little harsher, forcing the words out.

“Then what?” iTrapped’s voice softened, dipped into something quieter—like an intimate question, a hand on the wrist. The nickname followed, slow and willful. “What are you really looking for, Nate?”

Ellernate’s stomach twisted. He hated the sound of it, hated how it landed, hated that he couldn’t untangle if it was affection or possession or mockery. Maybe all three. He forced himself to look at him, to hold the stare. “Just wanted to meet more people. You know. To freshen up. Getting out of the Banlands hasn’t been…easygoing. For most of us.”

For the first time, iTrapped’s smile faltered—just a flicker, a hairline crack in porcelain.

Then the laugh came. Too loud for the quiet morning, echoing against the walls. It was airy, rehearsed, like the kind of sound you’d play on loop until it lost all meaning. “I don’t think y’should do that, he has his own issues.”

Ellernate’s heart pounded harder. He could feel the throb of his pulse in his throat, in his ears. His grip on the strap of his bag was white-knuckled.

“Then why,” he asked, each word pushed through clenched teeth, “does it bother you so much that I’m going?”

That landed.

The smile dropped again—barely, but enough. Just long enough for Ellernate to glimpse what lived beneath it. Something fragile, desperate, ugly. Something almost human.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. The mask reset. Perfect again.

“I just don’t want to see you disappointed,” iTrapped said smoothly, stepping forward. His shoes tapped softly against the floor, the distance closing. “I know you’re going to him for something, you’re just wasting your time. And you’ll regret it.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t advice. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a statement, spoken as though it had already been carved into stone.

Ellernate’s breath hitched. The dream flickered behind his eyes again, unbidden. That field. Those flowers. That same painted smile.

And he knew—whether he was awake or asleep, he could never escape it. “I don’t need your permission,” Ellernate bit out, his jaw aching from the force it took to keep steady.

iTrapped’s gaze softened, like he pitied him, like he owned him. His voice dropped to a whisper, just for the two of them. “Maybe not. But you’ll come to wish you did.”

Ellernate shoved past him, hand trembling as he yanked the door open. The morning light rushed in—cold, blinding, cruel in its honesty.

For a moment, he thought he felt iTrapped’s eyes follow him out, like a hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Whatever you’re seeking from him, I’m sure you can seek from me.”

Ellernate froze.

The way he said it—plastic on the surface, yes, but with that undertow of something darker, heavier. Possession. Promise. Plea. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to tell. The dream from last night still burned hot in his chest, like a coal he couldn’t spit out. He saw the field, saw the flowers, saw iTrapped’s face lit up with impossible softness—and now, here he was, standing in the kitchen, weaving the same spell. Ellernate’s pulse spiked. His chest tightened, and before he could choke it back, the words tore out—

“Stay the hell out of my business.”

The sharpness in his tone startled even him. It was clipped, violent, like glass shattering across tile. His voice ricocheted in the silence of the room, too loud, too final.

iTrapped didn’t move. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t spit venom or twist the knife like Ellernate half-expected, half-needed him to. He only blinked once, slow, as if processing the blow. Then he stepped back—not much, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to unravel the tension between them.

The smile faltered.

Ellernate caught it—the way it trembled at the corners, as if it had been held too tightly for too long. His expression softened, his shoulders drew in the smallest bit. Not anger. Not malice. Just…hurt.

And Ellernate hated how his stomach flipped at the sight of it.

The man who could bite and bruise with a single look now looked… wounded.

His gaze lowered, lashes veiling his eyes, hiding their sharpness. His voice when it came wasn’t coated in sugar or venom, wasn’t polished into charm—it was quiet, bare.

“If that’s what you want.”

The words were so soft, so conceding, they cracked something open in Ellernate. Guilt surged, bitter and choking.

He wanted to believe it was an act. He needed it to be an act. Because if it wasn’t, then he’d just—

No. He clenched his jaw, chest heaving with uneven breaths. He should’ve felt victorious. He’d snapped back, drawn a boundary, refused to play the puppet. And yet—why did it feel like he’d kicked something fragile? Why did it feel like he was the one in the wrong?

“I don’t need your—” His voice faltered mid-sentence, the words drying up in his mouth. He swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at him. The tiled floor blurred beneath his stare, his nails biting into the strap of his bag. “Just… leave it alone.”

Another silence swelled between them. Heavy. Pressed against his ribs until his lungs ached.

iTrapped nodded slowly, deliberately, like he was the one granting Ellernate some kind of mercy. “Of course,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

It was too soft. Too understanding. The kind of softness that made it impossible to breathe, because it twisted everything Ellernate had said into cruelty.

And worse—it sounded genuine.

The guilt clawed higher in his chest, scraping like broken glass. He adjusted his bag strap, swallowing back the burn in his throat. His body screamed at him to move, to leave, to run. But his feet stayed rooted to the floor.

Because iTrapped didn’t glare, didn’t snarl, didn’t fight. He just stood there, shoulders faintly slumped, gaze dropped like Ellernate had gutted him.

And somehow—that was worse.

Ellernate’s fingers twitched at his side, nails digging crescents into his palm. He hated the way his resolve wavered. Hated the flicker of shame that burned hotter with every passing second of silence.

Why did he feel like the villain here?

He inhaled sharply, tried to force his voice steady. “I said leave it alone.”

The repetition didn’t sound convincing anymore. Not to him.

Not when guilt hung in the air, thick enough to choke him.

Ellernate’s hand was still curled around the knob, clammy against the cool brass. All he had to do was turn it, swing the door open, step into the hall, and be gone. Simple. Easy.

But his body wouldn’t move. His arm felt locked, frozen as though invisible threads had strung themselves between him and the room behind him. He could feel iTrapped’s gaze on his back, lingering like heat, and the longer he ignored it the heavier it pressed. Like a weight gathering on his shoulders.

He wanted to walk. He should walk. And yet—

“...I didn’t mean to snap.”

The words slipped out before he could bite them back. They tasted sour in his mouth, brittle with shame. The kind of apology he never wanted to give to him, not when every instinct screamed that this was exactly what iTrapped wanted.

He turned before he lost his nerve.

And there it was—that look. Not the mask, not the glossy, rehearsed smirk. Softer. Vulnerable, maybe. Or the flawless mimicry of it. iTrapped’s eyes caught him and held him, patient, deep, no pressure in them at all, but something steady enough to anchor him in place.

His chest ached.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” iTrapped said quietly. Smooth. Even. That voice—it didn’t curl sharp like knives, didn’t slide like honey. It was a middle ground. Velvet stretched thin. The kind of tone that felt safe, even though Ellernate knew it shouldn’t.

It would’ve been easier if it had been sharper, easier if it had been smug. He could’ve snapped again, pushed harder, walked away clean. But this—this gentleness—this was harder to fight.

It drew him in.

Because it was exactly what he was searching for.

Every second he stood there, the tug grew stronger. He remembered the way iTrapped’s words could lace into the cracks of his doubts and pry them open like fault lines. He remembered how easily he could lose himself, how his sense of direction slipped the moment he lingered too long in his orbit.

And yet he still wanted to stay. To let himself sink into that impossible softness. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget how heavy he felt.

He shook his head sharply, cutting the thought off. “I said what I said. You should stay out of it.”

The words came out sharp, but thinner than before. They didn’t land the way he wanted. Not a warning, not a blade. More like a plea.

“Right,” iTrapped tilted his head. Not closer, not predatory—just enough to make the air between them feel alive. His tone was maddeningly gentle, as if he hadn’t heard the bite in Ellernate’s words at all. “But, then let me ask one thing.”

Ellernate’s pulse throbbed at his throat. “…What?”

“Can I come with you?”

So simple. So soft. But Ellernate’s chest went tight the second he heard it. He recognized the hook beneath the silk—the way it forced him to answer, to choose.

He forced steel into his voice, brittle as it was. “I—“

Silence stretched, thick as fog.

“No.”

Then, slowly, iTrapped nodded. He stepped back, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable. His smile flickered faint but not bright—something muted, tinged with sorrow. Or maybe satisfaction. Or both.

“Of course,” he murmured. “I’ll respect that.”

It should’ve ended there. Clean.

But Ellernate’s chest twisted, hard, as though the air had turned against him. He hated how the refusal stuck in his throat, how his body wanted to apologize again, how guilt bloomed hot and acidic in his gut. It wasn’t logical—it wasn’t fair—but guilt didn’t care. It pressed heavy, made his steps drag.

He turned back to the door, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He wanted the hall, the air, the space away from him. He wanted to leave this pull behind.

But even with his hand back on the knob, his mind spun. The look on iTrapped’s face seared itself into his thoughts. The quiet resignation. The way his voice had folded itself around those words like it meant them.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

And yet Ellernate’s pulse stuttered. His throat ached. His grip on the doorknob trembled.

For one terrifying moment, he thought he might turn back. That he might give in, close the space between them, let himself drown in that softness just to make the guilt stop gnawing.

But he didn’t.

He wrenched the door open, forced his legs forward, and stepped into the hallway. The air hit him cold, sharp, almost painful. Relief should’ve come with it. Instead, the weight followed. It pressed against the back of his ribs, heavier with every step.

When the door clicked shut behind him, he swore he could still feel iTrapped’s eyes on him, patient and knowing, like the pull would never really leave.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

“Ellernate?” LonelyTree’s voice was rough with morning, as though it hadn’t spoken in hours. He rubbed his eyes, then blinked again, more awake this time. “...You’re back?”

Ellernate’s throat tightened. The surprise in his tone stung sharper than he expected, though he couldn’t blame him. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

The walk had been long enough to chill the sweat clinging to Ellernate’s back, but not long enough to ease the tension coiled in his chest. By the time he reached Tree’s door, he’d already rehearsed half a dozen versions of what he might say. All of them collapsed into nothing the second his knuckles rapped against the wood.

Tree’s expression shifted—shock bleeding out into something gentler. He stepped aside, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s cold out.”

Ellernate hesitated a beat, then stepped inside. The warmth of the apartment hit him immediately, heavy with the smell of dried herbs and tea leaves. It was smaller than he remembered, cluttered in that lived-in way that felt more like a sanctuary than a space.

“Sit down,” Tree said, already moving toward the little kitchen. “I’ll make tea. You still like chamomile?”

Ellernate nodded before he realized Tree couldn’t see him. His throat felt too thick to answer, so he sat stiffly on the edge of the couch instead, hands clasped tight between his knees.

Chamomile. Tree always made chamomile. That thought snagged at him, too sharp in its normalcy. iTrapped used to drink it, didn’t he? Or maybe he only said he liked it because Tree had offered it once. Details blurred, but they all pointed back to him anyway.

The clock on the wall ticked. Each second was a nail driven into his ribs. He bounced his knee, foot tapping too quickly against the rug. He stopped, only to start again when the silence pressed too heavy.

He thought about leaving—about standing up, muttering some excuse, sparing himself the way his lungs clenched—but his body wouldn’t move. He was anchored there, trapped by a kind of inertia that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the weight of what he’d come for.

He could hear Tree moving around—water running, the soft clink of mugs, the muted shuffle of cabinets. Ordinary sounds. Comforting ones. They grated at Ellernate all the same. His mind spun in the quiet, circling back to the dream, to iTrapped’s voice, to the ache that hadn’t left his chest since waking.

The minutes stretched. Every tick of the clock on the wall thudded like a reminder.

What if Tree didn’t know anything? What if this visit was pointless? What if he was wasting time while answers rotted somewhere else, slipping further from reach?

His knee continued to bounce, foot tapping quick against the rug, mainly out of anxiety. Out of his control. He tried to focus on the warmth of the room, on the smell of the tea steeping, but his thoughts refused to still. They surged forward, crashing against each other like waves—images of  iTrapped’s face, the recording, the letter, the field of flowers.

When Tree returned, he carried two steaming mugs carefully, the heat rising in gentle spirals between them. He set one in front of Ellernate, the other cradled in his own hands, and lowered himself into the armchair across the room with a soft sigh.

His eyes softened again when they met Ellernate’s. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Ellernate let out something halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Didn’t.”

Tree hummed low, wrapping his hands around his own mug. He didn’t press. Just leaned back, letting the warmth seep into his palms, gaze steady but unintrusive.

Ellernate hated how much that silence pressed in. How easily it gave his thoughts space to spiral further. He sipped the tea just to give his hands something to do, burning his tongue in the process.

The chamomile was familiar. It should’ve grounded him. Instead it twisted the knife deeper—another reminder of the normalcy he’d lost.

Tree watched him, patient as ever. He didn’t demand. Didn’t question. Just waited for Ellernate to settle.

And Ellernate—Ellernate couldn’t.

The silence stretched until it was unbearable. Ellernate’s pulse drummed in his ears, drowning out the quiet hiss of the radiator, the clink of Tree setting his mug back on the table.

Tree leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was calm, steady—like a hand placed gently on a wound. “Why are you here, Ellernate?”

The question landed too softly, but it still felt like it cracked something in him. Ellernate blinked at him, jaw tight. His fingers dug into the ceramic of the mug until the heat stung. “I needed—” His throat closed off before he could finish. He tried again, voice lower now. “I needed answers.”

Tree tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Not judgment, not suspicion—just quiet observation, the way someone might watch a storm forming on the horizon. “About?”

Ellernate swallowed hard. The words swarmed like bees in his mouth, stinging on the way out. “iTrapped.”

The name cracked the air open. Tree didn’t flinch, but something in his gaze flickered—pain, recognition, restraint. He leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose, as if steadying himself before the tide could pull him under.

Ellernate felt the rush of it, the need to fill the silence before it closed in on him. “I’ve been finding things. Things I probably shouldn’t be digging into.” His voice wavered on the last word, nearly broke. “And I—I don’t know what any of it means, or what he wanted, or why it feels like—” He cut himself off, biting down so hard he tasted blood.

Tree didn’t interrupt. He let the words hang there, unfinished, heavy.

Ellernate’s knee was bouncing uncontrollably now, his whole body thrumming with the desperate urge to tear something open, to make the world explain itself. “You knew him better than anyone. You were there. You saw.” His chest heaved as he forced the words out. “Tell me you saw. Tell me you know something I don’t.”

For the first time, Tree’s expression shifted into something sharper, though still quiet. He studied Ellernate like he was trying to decide whether speaking would heal him or shatter him.

Finally, Tree said, “What are you hoping I’ll give you? The truth? Or comfort?”

The words pierced him. He froze, caught between anger and desperation. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Tree’s gaze softened again. He lifted his mug, swirling the liquid inside.

Ellernate let out a harsh laugh, bitter and breathless. “I need them.” His voice cracked, raw now. “I need something.”

Tree set his mug down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “And what happens if what you find isn’t what you want?”

The question lingered in the air like smoke.

Ellernate shook his head, digging his nails into the fabric of his jeans. “Doesn’t matter. It has to be better than not knowing.” His eyes burned, throat raw. “Anything’s better than silence.”

Tree’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable, but not unkind. “‘Trapped…” He hesitated, the name tasting heavy in his mouth. “‘Trapped was complicated. You know that.”

Ellernate’s breath hitched. “Then tell me how.”

Tree’s lips pressed together, as though weighing a thousand words before choosing even one. “He wore his masks well. To Chance—wait, you know who he is, right? His spouse. And—uh, to me, to everyone. Maybe even to himself.” He sighed softly, almost wistfully. “But you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Ellernate’s hands shook around his mug. He stared into the steam rising from it, watching it curl and fade, just like every piece of iTrapped he tried to hold onto. “Then what was real?” he whispered. “What part of him was real?”

Tree didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes for a moment, as if searching through his memory like leafing through fragile pages of a book. When he spoke, it was slow, deliberate.

“Maybe all of it was. Maybe none of it.” His eyes opened again, meeting Ellernate’s with quiet intensity. “But the part you’re looking for—the part you want—it might not be the one he gave you.”

Ellernate’s chest tightened painfully. The words lodged like glass under his skin. He looked away, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.

The silence stretched again, thicker this time. Tree didn’t push, didn’t prod. He just let it sit between them, giving Ellernate space to crumble without witnesses.

And Ellernate—he spiraled. Every word Tree had spoken spun in his head, colliding with iTrapped’s laugh, iTrapped’s smile, iTrapped’s hands, iTrapped’s voice in the field of flowers. The tea cooled in his grip, untouched.

Tree sighed again, softer this time, like a man who’d been holding something inside for far too long. His gaze lingered on the cooling steam of his tea before shifting back to Ellernate.

“You want me to tell you what was real,” he murmured. “But with ‘Trapped, real isn’t simple.”

Ellernate’s jaw clenched. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. He swallowed hard. “I just need the truth, that’s all I ask of you.”

Tree watched him carefully, as though weighing whether he could survive it. Finally, he set his cup down and folded his hands in his lap. “He loved. He really did. But his love was like fire—beautiful, bright, and dangerous if you stood too close. He could make you believe you were the only one who mattered. Well, that’s just what I believe.”

The words hung in the air like a forbidden prayer.

Tree’s face flickered, the calm faltering for the first time. His eyes dropped to the floor. “So, I assume you found it.”

Ellernate’s pulse spiked. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white. “Found what?”

Tree’s silence was an answer in itself.

Ellernate surged to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. His whole body trembled, chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Stop talking around it,” he snapped, voice breaking. “Stop treating me like I can’t handle it. Just—” His hands shook as he gestured, desperate. “Who the hell was he? Who was Chance to him?”

Tree didn’t flinch, though his expression hardened. “His spouse.”

The words detonated.

Ellernate froze. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the room tilting violently around him. Husband. The word didn’t just sting—it tore him apart, jagged and merciless. He stumbled back a step, shaking his head in disbelief. “I know that, but—” His breath hitched, sharp and shallow. “Where is he…now? Why didn’t ‘Trapped ever tell us about him?”

Tree’s lips pressed into a grim line. “I—I couldn’t really tell you,” he exhaled slowly, voice weighted with memory, “but that’s probably for the best. He didn’t seem too…great. After the incident.”

The sentence sliced through Ellernate like a blade. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if trying to physically hold himself together. His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

“What incident?”

The silence stretched, heavier than all the others combined.

Tree hesitated, gaze flickering away. He almost didn’t say it—but Ellernate’s eyes burned into him, demanding, begging.

Finally, Tree whispered, “He’s gone.”

The floor dropped out from under him.

Ellernate staggered, hand gripping the back of his chair for balance. His throat burned, lungs squeezing as though the air had been punched out of him. “Gone? I—what?” The word was hollow, broken. “What do you mean gone?”

Tree’s eyes softened with pity, but his voice stayed firm, steady. “Dead, Ellernate. Chance is dead.”

What?

The world went silent.

Ellernate’s vision blurred, spots dancing at the edges. His breath came in ragged gasps, too shallow, too fast. He pressed his palms to his temples, shaking his head furiously, as if denial alone could erase the words. “…How did he die?”

Tree didn’t move closer, but his voice followed Ellernate into the spiral. “I—uhm…well…” Though, as much as he tried, he couldn’t say much. “I’m not really sure. The circumstances are unknown.”

Ellernate just stared.

Baffled.

He just sat rigid in his chair, eyes unfocused, barely hearing Tree’s steady voice anymore. The word kept echoing, bouncing off the walls of his skull until it lost all meaning—dead.

Chance was dead.

What was he supposed to do with that?

He had spent days—dragging iTrapped’s ghost closer through scraps of paper and whispers, tracing the shape of a love he’d never fully held. And now, suddenly, that shadow had another shadow behind it, a figure who had been chosen before him. A husband. A life. Something complete and irreversible. And yet… gone.

So what did that mean for him?

If Chance was dead, then iTrapped’s choice was buried with him. Did that make Ellernate second best—or the only one left standing? Was he a placeholder, a poor substitute for someone who no longer existed? Or had iTrapped lied to both of them, burning just as bright and just as false in every direction?

The questions tangled and twisted, each one sharper than the last. If iTrapped loved Chance enough to marry him, to promise him forever—then what had his moments with iTrapped been? Were they accidents? Flukes? Or worse, deliberate games iTrapped played to pass the time?

But if iTrapped’s forever ended in a grave, then where did that leave Ellernate? Alone, clutching at ashes? Or was he supposed to feel grateful—grateful that Chance was gone, grateful that iTrapped’s love might have nowhere else to go but into his waiting hands? The thought made his stomach churn with guilt and a sick, greedy longing he couldn’t deny.

Dead. The word pulsed like a heartbeat.

If Chance was gone, then so was the possibility of ever measuring himself against him. There would be no answers, no confrontation, no clarity. Just silence, endless silence.

Ellernate dug his nails into his thighs beneath the table, forcing himself to breathe. But every inhale felt shallow, every exhale a reminder that he was still here—still alive, still waiting.

And waiting for what? For iTrapped to rise from the dead and tell him which pieces of his heart had been true? For a ghost to choose him over another ghost?

The silence between him and Tree stretched, heavy and suffocating. And all Ellernate could think, over and over, was that iTrapped had loved someone enough to marry him, and that someone was gone.

And Ellernate was still here.

Alone with the question of whether that meant anything at all.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, forcing himself to stand without hurling.

His legs carried him down the narrow hallway as if on instinct, to the bathroom tucked at the end. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, chest heaving. The silence in here was worse—too clean, too small, too still. His reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger, his eyes fever-bright, mouth pale.

He turned the faucet on just to hear something, but the water only made the ringing in his ears louder. His hands gripped the sink until his knuckles burned.

Dead.

Chance was dead.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

The word swallowed the room whole. And when he blinked—suddenly it wasn’t tile beneath his feet anymore. Not porcelain against his palms.

It was grass.

The sink became a field. Forget-me-nots climbed up his arms in dizzying spirals, wrapping his wrists like chains. The mirror was gone, replaced by endless horizon. And there, standing in the trembling distance, was iTrapped.

iTrapped—soft and radiant, not cruel, not evasive. His eyes caught Ellernate’s like gravity itself. The expression on his face was unbearable, devotion so naked, so absolute, it broke something inside him.

“You think I didn’t love you?” iTrapped whispered, though his lips barely moved. The words seeped into Ellernate’s skin instead of his ears. “You think I didn’t want you?”

Ellernate stumbled forward, knees weak, as though his body had been waiting for this all along. The flowers tore at his ankles but he didn’t care. He reached for iTrapped, desperate, terrified he’d dissolve if he didn’t hold him now.

iTrapped met him halfway, palms warm and steady against his cheeks. His thumbs stroked Ellernate’s skin like he’d done it a thousand times, like it was muscle memory. “I was yours,” he said, voice trembling. “I am yours. You have to believe that.”

Ellernate’s heart felt like it was splitting, spilling over. “Then why—why him? Why Chance? Why not me?” His voice cracked in the middle, half-plea, half-accusation.

iTrapped smiled, faint and heartbreaking, like someone offering mercy. “I can’t explain everything. But I never left you. Not ever. But you know who did?”

And Ellernate broke, clinging to him, sobbing into his shoulder as if iTrapped were solid, real, alive. The field blurred at the edges, flowers swaying too violently for a wind he couldn’t feel.

“You.”

Ellernate froze.

iTrapped’s hands held him tighter, tighter—

—and then, sharp as a blade, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

The whole vision cracked like glass. The flowers shriveled to linoleum. iTrapped’s warmth became cold air. The mirror slammed back into place, throwing his hollow-eyed reflection at him.

He fumbled for his phone with shaking hands. A text from Caleb lit the screen.

𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞?
𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢

Just six words, but they anchored him like a stone dropped into the ocean. Ellernate’s breath shuddered out of him, half a sob, half relief. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind blank.

The field was gone. iTrapped was gone.

Only reality remained.

And fuck, did it hurt, when the realization seeped into him that he really was going fucking insane.

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY EIGTH, 2023

7:39 PM

Hey Dearest,

I don’t even know why I’m writing this down. Feels stupid, like some diary shit I would’ve made fun of people for years ago. But you’re asleep right now, and I don’t think I’d get the words right if I tried to say them to your face. You’d just laugh, or brush it off, or worse—you’d look at me like I was making a big deal out of nothing. And, sure, maybe I am. Maybe I’m just overthinking again.

But things feel…different. You feel different. Like, not the same.

It’s not like you don’t love me—well, at least, I think you do. You smile when I put my arm around you, you let me kiss you in front of everyone, you hold my hand like you always have. But there’s something behind it now, like you’re somewhere else when I’m touching you. Sometimes when I talk, I see your eyes glaze over, like your mind’s a million miles away. And it just kills me, because I don’t know if I did something wrong. I can’t think of what, but maybe I just missed it. Maybe I said something careless, or maybe I’m not giving you enough, or too much. I don’t know. You’d tell me if it mattered, right?

It’s just. Ever since we became official, you’ve been acting so much more distant than usual. You weren’t like this when we were just dating. Did I do something wrong, my love? I just hope I didn’t hurt you.

To cope with it, I just tell myself you’re tired. That all this—the house, the vows, the rings—it’s a lot. Hell, I’m still getting used to it too. But then there are nights where you sit so still beside me I swear you’re made of glass, like if I breathe too hard you’ll shatter. And I don’t know how to hold you without cutting myself open.

I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this instead of saying it—I’m scared you’ll tell me what I already suspect. That I’m not enough to keep you here. That your silence isn’t just silence, it’s a wall, and I’ve been too blind to see it going up brick by brick. I’ve been told that a lot, so, I wouldn’t be surprised. Sorry, I don’t mean to push this onto you or anything.

Still, I’m holding onto hope. Because when you laugh, when you forget yourself for a second and lean into me without thinking—I swear it feels real. And that’s enough for me, ████████. Even if it’s just scraps, I’ll take them.

You’re mine. I meant that when I said it at the altar, and I’ll keep meaning it no matter what. Please don’t make me doubt that it meant anything to you too.

Forever yours, ██████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

FEBRUARY TWENTY-FIRST, 2023

3:14 PM

Dear ██████,

You’re ridiculous.

I hope you’re aware of that. Well, this must be serious—calling me by my username instead of that stupid nickname for once. That’s not the point, though. Here you are, writing me letters like I’m going anywhere, like I could ever want anything else. Do you hear yourself? Acting like you’re not enough—oh Telamon, if only you could see yourself the way I do.

You’re strong, you’re mine, you’re everything. My everything. That’s the truth. That’s all that matters, don’t you think? I don’t care what your head tells you when it gets too loud—I chose you. Out of everyone, you. Do you really think I’d waste my time on someone I didn’t love? Do you think I’d put on this ring, move into this house, let you hold me the way you do, if it didn’t mean something? Come on. Don’t insult me like that. Don’t insult us like that.

I get quiet sometimes. And what? That’s just me. You know I’ve always been like that—thinking, drifting, getting stuck in my head. It’s not about you. You don’t need to twist it into something it’s not. If I wanted distance, I’d take it. If I wanted out, I’d be gone. But I’m still here. I always will be. That should be enough for you, or do you want something else like always?

That’s the problem. You don’t trust what’s right in front of you. You keep looking for cracks, for something broken that isn’t there. But if you keep doing that, if you keep doubting me, then maybe you’ll end up breaking it yourself.

So stop. Just stop. Stop worrying, stop digging, stop writing me letters like you’re begging me to prove something I’ve already proved a hundred times over. Let yourself believe it. Let yourself breathe.

I love you, ██████. More than anyone else ever could. More than anyone else ever will. I don’t need to say it in ink to make it true.

Seriously. Making me write all this, and for what…

Don’t cry reading this,

████████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

JULY FOURTEENTH, 2023

7:48 AM

Hi Lovely,

You’re right. I am ridiculous.

You didn’t even have to say it, I know it already. Always poking holes where there aren’t any, always second-guessing the one thing I should never second-guess, you. I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. You deserve better than me treating your silence like it’s some kind of threat. It isn’t fair to you.

I read your words, and I keep going back to them, over and over. It’s just. They sound so certain. So final. Like if you wrote them in stone they’d last forever, and maybe that should be enough for me. And don’t get me wrong, most of the time, it is. But sometimes my head gets loud, like you said. I look at you, and you’re far away in some place I can’t reach, and I wonder what’s in there. I wonder if I’m supposed to ask.

You tell me not to dig, but I don’t think I can help it. Not when I love you like this. Not when I want to know every corner of you, even the dark ones you think don’t matter. I don’t care if they’re ugly. I’d take them all if you let me.

But I won’t push. You don’t have to explain yourself. If being here is enough for you, then I’ll believe it, like you asked me to. I’ll hold onto that until it feels real in my bones again. Because you’re right—I should trust what’s in front of me. And that’s you, always you.

Still, I hope someday you’ll let me in a little further. Not because I doubt you, or because I don’t trust you. Just because I love you. And because I want to be someone you don’t have to drift away from.

Actually, I think about that sometimes, you know. About loyalty. What it means, how rare it is.

People talk about it like it’s simple, like it’s just about sticking around when things are hard, but I don’t think that’s all of it. Loyalty is about faith. It’s about knowing that even when I can’t see the whole of you, even when you go quiet, I can still trust the silence to be yours. That’s what I feel with you.

It doesn’t matter if you keep secrets, love. I’m not asking you to spill them into my hands. We both carry things no one else could understand—things that’re heavier than they look. But, look, I know, deep down, whatever you hold back isn’t meant to hurt me. That’s enough. That’s everything to me.

I still remember, back then—maybe around ‘16–you mentioned you were going through something. It may be wrong for me to push, but even now, you never told me what it was. Is it still ongoing? Are you still hurt? Are you alright?

I think about that night sometimes, when I found you in the dark. You didn’t see me at first—I hadn’t meant to walk in. But there you were, sitting on the edge of the bed, head in your hands, and your shoulders shaking like the weight of the whole world was resting there. And then, just as quickly, you straightened, wiped your face, and pulled me close like nothing had happened. I didn’t say a word. I should have, maybe, but I couldn’t. You looked so fragile then, like if I touched that moment the wrong way, it would splinter into something I couldn’t put back together.

There were little things after that too. Quiet absences, your voice trailing off when I asked where you’d been, the way your smile sometimes faltered like it wasn’t made to last. I guess that’s what I was just originally trying to ask you. What happened?

Well, all those moments—I caught them all. You might think I didn’t, but I did. And yet, I never pressed you. Because if you wanted me to know, you would have told me.

Maybe that’s selfish, to want to be the one you turn to. But isn’t that what marriage is? Choosing someone to hand the worst parts of yourself to, and trusting them not to run? I can take it, ████████. Whatever it is, I can take it.

But if you never tell me, I’ll still stay. I’ll still love you, even in the shadows I’ll never understand. Because I don’t need to know everything to believe in you.

Sorry I got carried away. As I was saying, it’s foolish to put this much faith in someone. Maybe people would call me blind for it. But if that’s blindness, then I’ll take it. I’ll choose it again and again, because it’s you. If there’s anyone in this world I’d let myself fall into with my eyes closed, it’s you.

I know you’d never turn against me. I know you’d never take the ground from under my feet. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention—the softness in your eyes, the small smile you try to swallow before it shows. Don’t deny it. Those moments are the truest thing I’ve ever known. They’re proof enough for me.

Even if sometimes you seem far away, even if I can’t follow you wherever your mind drifts, I don’t need to. I’ll be here, waiting for when you come back down. And when you do, I’ll hold you steady. That’s what love is, isn’t it? Meeting each other where we are, even when it’s messy, even when it’s unfair.

So if you ever feel the urge to run, I hope you’ll remember that. Remember me, here, choosing you every time. I won’t waver. I won’t break. And I’ll keep believing in you, even in the spaces where you can’t believe in yourself.

That’s why I don’t worry, not really. Not in the deepest part of me. Because the ████████ I love—the one who says nothing and still says everything—he could never betray me.

See? Ridiculous. I’ll leave it there. You’ve probably rolled your eyes at me twice already. But I love you, ████████. Enough to write it down, even if you think I don’t need to.

Forever yours, ██████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

DECEMBER FIFTH, 2023

12:31 AM

Dear ██████,

I’m sorry.

I don’t know when the thought first crawled into my head. Maybe it was there from the beginning, like a seed that knew it would one day break open. You laughed like the world wasn’t ending, like we weren’t already doomed. I envied you for that. Hated you for it, even. How dare you carry sunlight when all I had was smoke.

It should have been simple. Just another task. I’m used to this sort of thing. You know that. I told myself I’d done worse, and I told myself it wouldn’t matter. But you were never just another. You were the one who reached for me, even when I kept my hands hidden. You said my name like it wasn’t a weapon. You made me think, for a moment, that I was more than what I’d built myself to be.

Do you know how dangerous that is? To make someone like me believe in softness? It’s crueler than any knife. The moment I felt it, I knew I’d have to destroy it.

I rehearsed it, over and over. Not the act—unfortunately, that came easy. But, the silence after. I imagined the air without your voice in it, the rooms without your chaos filling them. I tried to picture the emptiness, tried to swallow it whole before it could swallow me. But the truth is, I never could.

And yet, I still did it. My hands didn’t shake. My voice didn’t crack. If you’d seen me then, you would’ve thought I was stone. But inside, I was nothing but glass, splintering in a thousand directions at once.

I want to believe it meant something. That you meant something. That I wasn’t just another butcher writing poems over the grave I dug. Because if I let myself believe it was all hollow, then what am I but the hollow itself?

I think of your smile more than I should. The way it wasn’t clean or sharp like mine, but crooked, full of flaws, and so full of life. I hated that about you. I loved that about you. I don’t know where the line ends. Maybe it never did.

They’ll say it was betrayal. They’ll say I turned on someone who trusted—no— loved me. Maybe they’re right. But I’ve always thought betrayal is just another name for love that went too far. I’ve never truly believed in love, actually.

Ah, well, I’ll put it simply. Not the kind people talk about in books, or in films, where it’s gentle, unshakable, and most significantly—eternal. That kind of love is a lie people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. The only kind of love I’ve ever known is the kind that rots from the inside. The kind that claws at you until you can’t breathe without it, until you’d rather ruin everything just to keep it close.

Do you remember what I’d said to you in our final moments together? About devotion, and how it felt so similar to delusion? I do have more to add, if you’d care to listen.

What is love, if not obsession dressed up to look beautiful? What is loyalty, if not a knife waiting to be turned? I think maybe I loved you in the only way I could. By destroying you, by taking you with me when I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving first. If I couldn’t keep you, then at least I could ensure no one else would. That sounds monstrous, doesn’t it? But isn’t that all love really is? Wanting, hoarding, bleeding for someone until it’s impossible to draw the line between devotion and cruelty?

I’ve never believed in a love that makes you whole. Love doesn’t heal, instead, I believe it it festers. It infects. It makes you claw at your own skin, digging for answers you’ll never find. And yet, even knowing that, I let it consume me. I let it convince me you were mine, that I had the right to hold you, to hurt you, to hollow you out until the only thing left in you was my reflection.

Maybe that’s the only way I’ll ever love anyone. With teeth bared. With blood on my hands. With the knowledge that I’ll destroy them and myself in the process. And maybe that’s why you’ll never forgive me—because you deserved more than a love built out of ruin.

But it’s all I had to give.

Sometimes I hear you in my sleep, echoes of a laugh that doesn’t exist anymore. I wake up reaching for a body that isn’t there. My fingers close on air, and I remember what I’ve done all over again.

I tell myself I did it for mercy. That’s the story I cling to when the silence is too much. Mercy. As if there’s any mercy in tearing something beautiful apart because you’re afraid it might leave you first.

I ask myself, are you proud of me? I know you. That you’d still love me even after everything, because this is the one thing I’ve accomplished. You’d still find a way to celebrate your own death, wouldn’t you?

██████, this is my idea of an apology. I regret everything. At the same time, though—I don’t. I knew it had to happen. You caught on eventually, I noticed. You thought I didn’t. I carry that grief with me. You see the real me, beyond any pretense. I assume that’s what eventually made me fall for you. Though, my feelings caught on too late, didn’t they?

I wish I hadn’t done it. But, well, I’m known for messing up everything. Is it really that surprising? I wouldn’t believe so.

I can still picture your face when you looked at me, that mix of suspicion and love. How cruel it is, that you managed both so effortlessly. That was your strength, wasn’t it? To give yourself away even when you doubted me. To trust me with a heart I had no right to hold.

I replay it in my head—your laughter in the quiet, your hand resting against mine as though you believed I’d never drop it. Maybe, in some parallel place, I never did. Maybe you’re still there, somewhere, wearing the ring I slipped onto your finger with shaking hands, not knowing it would weigh heavier on me than it ever could on you. Wherever that place is, I wish the other me would’ve treated you better. In another life, we wouldn’t have ended like this. In another life, I’ll love you the same way you loved me.

I think of the way your voice cracked when you said my name. How you always said it like it mattered. No one ever has, not really. And, I guess that’s why it killed me—for once, I believed it. For once, I was more than the mask.

So why did I still do it? Why couldn’t I stop myself, even when every part of me screamed not to? Can you answer that for me?

No?

That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I wanted you to save me. And when you couldn’t, I made sure neither of us would walk away whole.

██████, I honestly don’t think I deserve forgiveness. Not yours, or anyone’s for that matter. I’ve messed up far too many times in life. But if there’s anything left of you listening, and, if ghosts can cling to paper and ink—then know this. I loved you. Belated, broken, poisoned as it was, I loved you.

And if you hate me, I’ll carry that too.

I’ll keep telling myself, once I’m done with this, once I’ve freed them, you’ll come back to me. You have to. It’s the only promise I can still believe in, even if it’s one I invented. Maybe that’s insane, even so what else do I have? I see your face in every pause between my thoughts, hear your voice in the silence after the swing. You’ve stitched yourself into me, and whether you’re gone or not doesn’t matter. You’ll answer me eventually, won’t you?

You always did.

I’ve built this idea in my head—that if I make things right, if I tear open the Banlands and rip them out of the jaws that tried to swallow them whole, then it’ll balance something. That you’ll meet me at the end of it, standing in the ruins with that tired, patient smile, and you’ll say, ‘You did it, ████████. You came through after all.’ And I’ll believe it, even if it’s just the echo of my own guilt wearing your voice.

I want to think you’re waiting, not gone. That maybe you’ve only stepped into another room, and once I’ve paid the price, I’ll be allowed in too. That the punishment ends, and I’ll find you on the other side with arms open, no matter what I’ve done.

It’s delusion, isn’t it? But it’s the only way I can keep going. If I let myself believe you’re really dead, then I’d have to admit I’m just a murderer writing love letters to a grave. I don’t think I’d survive that. I don’t have enough faith in me to believe that.

So I’ll tell myself you’ll come back when this is over. I’ll tear down the walls of the Banlands, and then I’ll wait. And I’ll keep waiting. Because you’re the only thing in this world I’ve ever wanted to wait for.

No one will ever read this. No one will ever know how heavy it feels, how light it was in the moment, how it both ruined and relieved me in the same breath. But I have to write it, because if I don’t, then it’s only in my head, and I don’t trust my head anymore.

Maybe this is my punishment—to keep talking to you in words you’ll never hear. To keep loving you in a way that only feels like grief.

Maybe this is all I was ever good at.

Sincerely, and—forever yours,

████████.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The Darkheart slipped heavy from iTrapped’s fingers.

It cluttered uselessly onto the snow. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They wouldn’t stop. He pressed them down, hard, against the wound blooming across Chance’s chest, but the blood kept spilling between his fingers, soaking into the frost until the white was gone.

The snow had swallowed everything. His footsteps, his breath, the last scraps of warmth that clung to the air. The silence of it was suffocating. It pressed against iTrapped’s chest harder than the cold ever could. He could barely feel the sting of winter anymore; the only thing he felt was the handle of the Darkheart slick against his palm, trembling, slicked with blood that wasn’t his. He felt sick. His chest rose and fell in fragile jerks, his lips already paling, for a moment iTrapped almost let himself believe it wasn’t yet happening—that maybe this was another fever dream, another night where he could wake up and laugh at how absurd it was.

But then Chance coughed, the sound wet and thin, and the snow kissed the red from his mouth. It sent him straight back to reality. iTrapped’s grip tightened on the sword until his knuckles ached.

Chance’s breath came shallow, but steady. His lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “…Trapsy,” he rasped, low but uneven, “you’re trembling.”

iTrapped didn’t respond.

“Sit with me,” said Chance.

His knees hit the ground before he even realized he’d fallen. The weight of Chance’s body against the white earth left a cruel stain, crimson unfurling across the snow like spilled ink. He sank down beside him, knees digging into ice. His hands hovered, useless now, soaked red. He didn’t know where to put them—on the wound, on the snow, on him—so he just clutched at Chance’s arm, as though his grip could anchor him to the world.

“I didn’t think I’d do it.” iTrapped admitted, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “I never thought I genuinely had it in me.”

Chance’s laugh was barely there, a whisper through cracked lips. “Always planning… always calculatin’…” his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes catching snowflakes that melted into tears iTrapped hadn’t noticed were falling. “But, mm, not this, right?”

iTrapped turned his head to meet that golden gaze. But instead of shining, it looked dull. Dead. For a long moment, there was only the sound of snow falling, muffled and soft. Then Chance shifted, just barely, until his hand brushed iTrapped’s. His fingers were cold, weaker than iTrapped had ever known them, but steady enough to curl around his trembling knuckles.

“…I jus’want t’know one thing, before y’kill me,” Chance murmured. The silence lingered. The question hung in the icy air, and for a moment, iTrapped didn’t answer. He tilted his head, letting the snow fall on his lashes, watching how it melted into the faint crimson stains. Then he spoke, calm, eerily so, each word deliberate, measured. “Is it true—that—“ he coughed blood, “—it was all fake? Did y’truly not…love’m all this time?”

“I did.”

Chance’s eyes flickered, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite everything. “Y’did?”

iTrapped watched his blade for a moment, not because he needed to, but because looking at it let him keep from looking at Chance. Looking at Chance felt like standing too close to a cliff and pretending the drop didn’t exist.

Chance’s breath came slow enough to be counted. It left traces of mist over the pale planes of his face. The snow stuck to his lashes and didn’t melt. He looked absurdly peaceful, as if the weather itself had decided to grant him a small, ridiculous mercy. It was stupid—iTrapped thought. For the person Chance was, he’d never assumed he, of all people—would cherish someone else’s life over his own.

His fingers found Chance’s—cold, clutching—and he let them rest there while his other hand curled into the snow until the crystals bit his palm.

Chance’s eyes met his. Patient, but not perfectly; they still had limited time.

He could answer with a lie that would be clean and easy. He could answer with silence that would be cowardly and therefore functional. Instead he chose to be true in the only way he knew how, with a truth that hurt.

“Yes,” he finally said, and his voice was not the voice of the man who had plotted and bargained and used another’s life as a means to an end. It was quieter.

Natural, and not so plastic anymore.

“I loved you the way an ache loves the night—intimate, and hungry. I loved you as one loves an obsession. By disguising it as nobility.”

He watched Chance with the odd detachment of one watching film. Every flinch, every tilt of the mouth catalogued, preserved. Up close, the breath at Chance’s throat was a faint little thing. The blood that had warmed his hand minutes ago cooled quickly in the air, and it painted small, honest blooms across the snow. iTrapped’s mind kept returning to details—Chance’s half-smile when he thought iTrapped wasn’t watching, the small scar at his temple, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. Love, iTrapped thought, was a ledger that would not balance.

“What is love,” he went on, and the words sounded to him like an accusation more than an explanation, “if not desire braided into duty? What is loyalty, if not a blade kept sharp until it is aimed?” He let the questions hang, as if they might be answered by the wind. “I think I loved you in the only register I knew. I loved you by possession—by wanting you so completely that reason rearranged itself to suit that wanting.”

Chance’s hand tightened at that. “That sounds—mh—monstrous,” he muttered, and there was no anger in it—only the straightforward observation of a Robloxian coming to acceptance of his own end.

iTrapped’s laugh was nothing but a dry thing that cracked at the edges. “It is monstrous. My dear, monstrous is just another name for honest.” He kissed Chance’s knuckles carefully, as if physical gentleness could atone for everything. “I told myself I was saving you. I told myself I was preventing worse. The truth, however, is uglier. I could not have you whole and alive, I believed—so foolishly, pathetically—that I could at least keep you from being taken by someone else who did not deserve you. That I could carve you into a thing of me.”

There was a pause long enough for both of them to feel the length of it.

“It is easier,” said iTrapped in a tone that was almost casual, “to romance destruction than to admit the smallness of need. It’s easier to claim fate than to own hunger,” he watched a flake land on Chance’s temple and dissolve. “love, in my experience, does not heal. It corrodes. It convinces you to pry open places you shouldn’t and then lies about why you did it. You asked if I loved you. I loved you with teeth, with theft, with the certainty that I could not, in truth, be loved back in any decent way. I loved you by making the hunger more important than your life.”

Chance’s reply was a whisper, a small, human thing, followed by the softest of smiles. “Then y’loved badly.”

“Yes.” iTrapped didn’t blink. His face was composed. Inside, a current pulled at him. “Badly. With hoarding and fever. I loved you until I could not see anything else. I loved you until I turned the instrument of your taking into the instrument of your end.”

He felt the tremor then—not in his hands, which he managed to keep steady, but in his ribs, where something was unfastening. He acknowledged that too. The way his pulse thrummed against his neck; the way the Darkheart’s shadow lay angled across the snow like a question. This was the lifecycle of his love. Beautiful thought, obsessive practice, and, eventual ruin.

“Trapsy, promiss—eugh—promise’m one thing,” Chance mumbled, tightening his grip on the other’s hand.

iTrapped’s shoulders twitched. He didn’t have the strength to respond.

The faintest of smiles touched Chance’s face—the kind of smile someone gives when they finally understand a terrible thing fully. “Will I be your forever, always?”

For a moment, it was like the world paused around them. The only sound was the shallow, rattling breath between Chance’s words. iTrapped blinked, staring down at him—like if he looked away, Chance would disappear entirely. And, to be fair, soon enough, he would.

His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out, quiet but steady. “Of course. You already are.”

Chance’s chest rose shakily, then stuttered, a laugh breaking through, weak and broken. “Luh—Liar…”

iTrapped’s eyes burned. He shook his head, strands of blond falling into his face as he leaned closer. “I’m not a liar, Chance.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t pull away. “I—I…you’ll always be mine. And, I’ll always be yours. I’m forever yours, my Chancellor. Always.”

Chance’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something back—but the breath caught, shaky and uneven. His grip trembled in iTrapped’s hand, then loosened just slightly.

“Always,” iTrapped repeated, firmer this time, as if trying to tether him there with the word alone.

Honesty felt like an instrument pressed too close to the bone. iTrapped let his head bow, so near to Chance that he could feel the last shallow lift of his chest. He had rehearsed confessions in his mind like prayers—tidy, barbed sentences that would absolve and damn in equal measure. Now, stripped of performance, his confession was messier.

“I loved you,” he said again, not because he had to convince Chance but because he had to convince himself that the shape of that love was not a lie. “I loved you. I wouldn’t ask for your pardon. I do not deserve that mercy. I only…I—I only want you to understand.”

Chance closed his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw relaxed as if in relief. The answer lay somewhere between pain and comprehension. He knew the contours of things ruined by affection. He had loved, perhaps, in the ways iTrapped had not recognized. They had been two people using the same word for different violences.

The breath that left Chance then was longer than the rest, a small exhale like a last concession. “Then sit with me,” he murmured. “Sit, and be still. Let the cold be honest.”

So iTrapped sat. He let the world reduce to the weight of a body beside him, the dull companion of the Darkheart at his hip, the soft, relentless fall of snow. He held Chance close enough to remember the cadence of his heartbeat until that cadence stuttered and went still.

Chance’s fingers uncurled, slack with the surrender of veins emptied of warmth.

iTrapped stayed there for a long time after the last breath, while the Darkheart gathered a collar of frost and the snow blurred his footprints. He watched the moon etch pale lines across Chance’s face and tried to memorize the way his mouth had said simple things. He let the confession pulse through him until it thickened into something like a vow.

His throat closed up, words suffocating in the wreckage of his grief.

Tears blurred his vision until all he could see of Chance was a smear of color. He pressed his forehead against Chance’s, desperate, rocking ever so slightly as if movement could summon him back. The tears came in torrents, dripping into Chance’s still hair, his still cheeks, like maybe the salt of him could spark a miracle.

He had told himself for years he wasn’t capable of love, not really. That obsession was as close as he’d ever come. That ruin was his language of intimacy. But right here—holding the corpse of the only man who had ever dared to look at him like he was worth saving—he finally understood what love was. It was this pain. This unbearable, splitting ache. This sick, hollow pit opening inside him where Chance had lived.

Every memory stabbed. Every memory rewrote itself in blood.

“You said forever,” he sobbed, clutching Chance’s limp hand to his chest, pressing it against the frantic pounding of his heart. “You fucking said forever—didn’t you? You promised. You promised.” His voice broke so hard it was nearly a scream, but the cold didn’t echo back. The silence was merciless.

He kissed Chance’s knuckles, trembling lips dragging across skin that was already cooling. He didn’t even realize his tears were wetting them until he tasted the salt. His whole body shook, shoulders caving in on themselves, as if grief alone could collapse him into nothing.

“You idiot,” he whispered, brokenly, words splintering. “You stupid, fucking idiot. Why’d y’leave me? Why’d you—” His voice cracked again, dissolving into jagged sobs. He couldn’t finish.

He wanted to scream, to tear the walls down, to rip the world apart for daring to take his Chance away. But all he could do was clutch tighter, like a child clutching a toy they’d broken, unable to comprehend why it wouldn’t go back together.

For the first time in years, iTrapped wept without restraint. Not the silent kind, but, guttural, shaking sobs that scraped his throat raw. The kind of crying that ripped pieces of himself out with every breath. He buried his face into Chance’s chest, inhaling the fading scent of him like he could trap it inside his lungs forever.

He thought of every word he had ever said to Chance—every cruel, sharp one, every tender, fleeting one—and wanted to claw himself open. To give them back. To rewrite it all. To keep him.

But all that was left was silence.

Outside, the world continued with its indifferent rhythms. Inside him, the ruins were loud.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The bathroom mirror reflected a man Ellernate could hardly claim as himself.

He gripped the porcelain sink with both hands, knuckles white against it, as if letting go would send him plummeting through the tiled floor. His reflection looked wrong—eyes too wide, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t look like someone who could hold his own in a mission. He didn’t look like someone who could hold anything at all.

Chance’s name still echoed inside him, syllables carved into bone. Dead. That word had no edges, no blood, no scene to place it in. Just a hollow, irreversible fact. The absence of him loomed larger than any memory.

And iTrapped—oh Telamon, iTrapped—he still lingered like smoke. Ellernate couldn’t scrub the field from behind his eyes, the phantom of blossoms brushing his legs, the desperate clutch of fingers he had sworn never to let go of. iTrapped’s voice had wrapped around him like silk, tender and devastating.

But you know who did?

You.

He wasn’t sure if it was comfort or curse. Maybe both. Maybe that was the point.

The vibration of his phone shattered the fragile quiet. He jolted, breath hitching.

Ellernate stared at the message until the words blurred, until his reflection behind them doubled and warped. In all honesty, he’d lost track of time entirely. His chest caved with guilt so immediate it almost burned. Caleb was out there waiting, already calibrating contingencies in his head, already silently furious.

And Ellernate—he was here, sweating over ghosts in a stranger’s bathroom.

He felt like a jerk.

But, regardless, his thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

im sorry

Delete.

got delayed

Erased that too.

Everything felt flimsy, pathetic. Caleb would see straight through him, would taste the lie before it finished leaving his mouth.

Finally, he settled on the simplest string of words.

𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞

𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜

𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

Send.

The screen dimmed for half a breath before the reply came.

𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎???

𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎

𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍

𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚘

His stomach hollowed. He leaned back against the sink, palms braced against cold porcelain, eyes slipping shut. Caleb’s words weren’t angry—well, not in the obvious way. They didn’t need to be. That clipped brevity carried enough weight to crush.

He forced his eyes open again, met his own gaze in the mirror. The reflection that looked back wasn’t steady, wasn’t the Ellernate everyone counted on. He splashed cold water across his face, droplets streaking down his cheeks like a poor imitation of tears.

His phone buzzed again.

𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢

𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔

𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐

𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜

Ellernate’s throat closed. He raked his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots, trying to ground himself. It didn’t work. All he saw was iTrapped’s silhouette folding into the field. All he heard was Tree’s voice. He’s gone, Nate. Chance is gone.

What did it mean? What was the point of dragging himself through these revelations if they only left him emptier? If Chance was dead, then what thread was left to follow? Who was he fighting for now—himself, or a ghost he couldn’t even properly mourn?

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye until color bloomed red and purple behind his lids. His chest felt too small for all of it.

Finally, he gained the courage to type back.

𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎

𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎

The second the message sent, he knew he didn’t really have a minute. Caleb didn’t wait—he endured, silently, begrudgingly, but always with the weight of expectation pressing down. And Ellernate was about to walk back into that weight half-broken.

He pocketed his phone, straightened, and forced himself to breathe. He didn’t look back at the mirror. He didn’t need to. He already knew the reflection wasn’t one he could carry with him.

The silence pressed in too tightly, every drop of water from the faucet echoing like a clock ticking down. Ellernate leaned against the wall, fingertips digging into the tile. He should move—should already be gone—but his thoughts tangled, refusing to loosen their grip.

How long until iTrapped found out? Until he twisted it into something sharp and unrecognizable, made it another one of his games? He could already hear it—soft laughter that didn’t belong in the moment, words wrapped in silk but barbed underneath.

It was always like that. Even in the past, back when things were clearer—or at least when he thought they were—iTrapped had this way of filling in Ellernate’s silence with his own narratives. He’d smile and speak as if he already knew the truth, as if Ellernate was nothing but a shadow caught between his hands. And the worst part wasn’t that he was wrong. It was that sometimes, he wasn’t. What would he do if he realized Ellernate had gone to Tree? What would that expression look like—hurt, fake-hurt, or worse, genuine? Ellernate couldn’t decide which he dreaded more. He’d seen the first crack before, that night in the Banlands when his temper had finally snapped. The memory of iTrapped’s silence then—cutting, heavy, something close to human—still burned him raw. If it happened again… he wasn’t sure he could stomach it.

The thought unsettled him more than the idea of blades drawn or blood spilled. Weapons he could handle. But iTrapped’s eyes, shifting from amusement to something else—something unreadable—that was a battlefield he never won on.

And, well, it hurt. Knowing he couldn’t do anything about the situation. Well, he could. But he’d gone out of his way to do all this, to trespass those boundaries, and Ellernate is aware enough to acknowledge that soon enough he’ll be begging for forgiveness.

He pressed his palms hard against the sink, forcing his thoughts to scatter.

The bathroom door creaked when he finally pushed it open, with the familiar warm scent of tea drifting faintly from the kitchen. For a moment, Ellernate lingered in the hallway, guilt and dread locked in his ribs.

The floorboards were uneven under his feet, groaning faintly with each step as though the house itself could sense his intrusion. He let his fingers trail along the wall, grounding himself in the texture of faded paint and the faint warmth of morning sun filtering through half-drawn blinds. The air carried that fragile quiet of a home not yet fully awake—spoons clinking gently against porcelain, the soft hiss of boiling water.

He swallowed hard. This was what normalcy sounded like, what it smelled like. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked into someone’s kitchen without bracing for something worse. And yet, the mundanity of it felt heavier than gunfire. Every second stretched, every step forward pulling at the question that had been rotting in his chest since the Banlands. What was he really chasing here?

He paused at the doorway, his reflection caught faintly in the glass of a framed picture hung on the wall—a blur of himself, crooked, almost unrecognizable. He turned away before the sight could root him in place.

LonelyTree’s voice drifted faintly from the kitchen, humming something tuneless, low and absentminded. That sound alone nearly unraveled him. It was so unlike iTrapped’s laughter, so unlike Caleb’s sharp instructions, so unlike the silence of the Banlands. It was… safe.

And that, more than anything, made Ellernate’s stomach twist.

Tree approached his way earnestly, moving with his usual ease despite the early hour—setting cups on the counter, steam curling up from a kettle. His hair was a little mussed, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his entire manner radiated that patient calm Ellernate always remembered from before. It was grounding in a way that almost made him ache.

“You’re okay?” Tree asked without looking up, as though he could sense the storm Ellernate had carried with him.

Ellernate hesitated, then forced a nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His voice cracked on fine.

Tree turned then, studying him with quiet eyes. Not interrogating or demanding—just watching. That was somehow worse. Ellernate’s throat tightened. He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I should…get going. Can’t keep them waiting.”

For a second, Tree looked like he might press, ask the obvious are you sure? that hovered unspoken between them. But instead, he just nodded once and reached for one of the mugs. “At least take something with you.”

Before Ellernate could argue, Tree pressed the warm porcelain into his hands. Chamomile again, by the smell of it. Too gentle for the knot in his stomach, but he accepted it anyway. The heat burned his palms, a reminder that he was still here, still solid.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Tree only offered a small smile, one that didn’t reach his tired eyes. “You don’t have to thank me.” Then, quieter, “Be careful, Nate.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Ellernate tightened his grip around the mug, as though bracing himself. He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he just dipped his head in a stiff nod.

When he turned toward the door, Tree followed him, not hovering, just keeping pace. At the threshold, Ellernate paused—half out, half in. The air outside was cool and damp, brushing against his face like a dare.

Tree leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms loosely. “You know where I am,” he said simply. “If you need more answers. But I hope you got what you were looking for.”

Ellernate almost laughed at that—sharp, bitter. Answers felt like a cruel word. But he bit it back, swallowing the edge and forcing something gentler.

“Yeah. I know.”

Their eyes met for one last moment—Tree steady, and Ellernate fractured. Then Ellernate stepped out fully, letting the door close softly behind him.

The morning air was damp and sharp against his face. He let it fill his lungs, heavier than it should have been. The sky was still as gray as before, with the world too quiet for what churned inside him.

His phone buzzed once more in his pocket as he stepped off the porch.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The penthouse lights were dim, most of the overheads switched off, leaving the place washed in the glow of the city skyline pressing in through the windows. It gave everything a hollow kind of feel, like walking into a stage after the performance was over.

Ellernate stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The silence pressed in heavy. He almost thought the place was empty until a voice broke through the stillness.

“Look who finally decided to show up.”

Jonathan was stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other lazily holding a glass. The smell of whiskey clung to the air around him, though the way he lounged there felt more like a man killing time than drowning sorrows. He tipped his glass toward Ellernate in a mock salute.

“Long mornin’?” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Ellernate’s throat tightened. Long night didn’t begin to cover it. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, forcing himself to cross the room instead of just standing there. “Something like that.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed just slightly, scanning him like he was cataloguing every detail. He didn’t push though—he never did, not unless he needed to. Instead, he gestured toward the chair opposite him with his glass. “Well, take a seat. You look like you’ve been walking through ghosts.”

Ellernate sank down, the leather chair stiff beneath him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the glint of whiskey in Jonathan’s glass instead of his face. His chest felt too tight, every breath dragging.

Jonathan raised a brow, sipping his drink. “You’re wound up. Caleb texted you?”

“Yeah.” Ellernate’s tone was low, flat.

“And?”

“And,” muttered Ellernate, dragging a hand through his hair, “we’re still on for later.”

Jonathan smirked faintly, setting his glass on the table with a soft clink. “Of course we are. Man could be dead in the street and Caleb would still be telling us to gear up. Well, he seemed annoyed though. Y’better get ready soon, or he’ll be yellin’ at all of us.”

The words cut sharper than Jonathan intended. Ellernate flinched, fingers curling into fists before he could stop himself. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, just leaned back again, looking maddeningly casual.

“You prepped yet?” he asked.

Ellernate shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Well, get to it then.”

Ellernate shot him a look. For a brief second, the exchange almost felt normal. Almost. He pushed himself up to his feet, his movements stiff, mechanical. He gave Jonathan the barest nod, then turned toward the hallway.

He closes the door like a confession.

The room swallows sound—the hush of the penthouse bones, the distant thrum of traffic, the quiet that comes after somebody has cut the music out of the world.

Ellernate sits on the edge of his bed for a breath, palms flat against the duvet as if he can steady himself by touching something real. His throat is raw from the words he didn’t speak in the living room. Dead. Chance is dead. The syllables keep folding into themselves, impossible to smooth out. He’s probably thought about this a hundred times already.

He moves almost automatically, unzips his duffel, fingers working a bit too fast. He packs deliberately, not with the jitter of a man fleeing but with the brittle efficiency of someone making plans he wishes were unnecessary. Boots first. Ammo. A knife—and finally, his Illumina. Caleb’s checklist runs through his head like a metronome and drills him into something resembling purpose. Preparation tends to calm him in the way grief cannot.

He pulls on a shirt and it adheres to his skin with the small, obscene intimacy of mundane tasks. He shrugs into his vest, the fabric creaking familiar, then pauses. For a second he stares at his reflection in the dark window—a face him and the city both know too well at this point.

The thought that Chance is gone is absurdly clinical in contrast to the memories. He assumes that’s just why he cannot get it out of his head, no matter what he does.

Nothing in the flatness of the information had prepared him for the particular ache of later. The way things keep meaning what they once did even when the person who gave them meaning is gone. His fingers find the letter from that rainy night—Chance’s handwriting inside, a mess of crooked letters. He traces the scrawl with his thumb until it smudges.

He doesn’t really know how Chance died. There are no images for him to fix onto, no narrative knots he can pull to make sense of this loss. The circumstances Tree gave were…well. Vague.

The circumstances are unknown.

Really?

That blankness felt worse than gore.

iTrapped comes to his attention. He is a widower now, Ellernate thinks, and the word feels raw and foreign on his tongue as if it were someone else’s wound. Married—really—and of all people, it’s iTrapped.

What do you do with a man who is a widow but not here when his husband dies? The question is a splinter beneath Ellernate’s skin. He’s known iTrapped long enough to understand theatrical grief when he sees it, the way some people perform devastation because it’s a currency, or it buys you pity or absolution. But he has also seen quieter things.  The way iTrapped can fold small moments into himself and never let them unfold for anyone else. Ellernate can’t tell which wreath iTrapped is wearing.

There are moments—irrational—when he wonders whether, if he had been with Chance that night, things would have been different. Survivor’s bargaining blooms vulgarly, vivid and useless. He shoves it down. The past is a country you cannot return to, anyway.

He pauses in front of his dresser. On the top lies a single photograph, face down. He flips it over with a reverent sort of impatience. Chance’s grin is captured mid-ideal. A flash of irreverence, eyes crinkled, hair bothering him. Ellernate holds the corner between thumb and forefinger like a relic.

But, he nearly slams it down when he hears a voice beside him.

“You were with LonelyTree earlier,” said Caleb, casual, but with the weight of someone laying a card on the table. “What’d he tell you that was so important over the mission?”

Ellernate glanced up, caught mid-motion, his pulse jumping in his throat. “What’s it to you?”

Caleb gave a low, humorless chuckle. “Everything, depending on the answer.” He tucked his phone into his pocket, stepping further inside. “Jonathan said you looked like you’d swallowed a funeral notice when you walked in. Tree said something, didn’t he?”

Ellernate’s jaw tensed. He forced his eyes away, fumbling again with the photo like it was suddenly crucial it lined up perfectly. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Cut the shit,” Caleb crossed the room slowly, not menacing, but careful , the way he always was when he smelled something buried. “You and Tree don’t exactly do small talk. If he told you something about…” he hesitated, just a bit, “…about Chance, then you should tell me.”

The name hit like a gunshot, sharper than Ellernate expected, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Everyone seemed to know, one way or another, but how much they knew—that was the dangerous question.

Ellernate finally looked up, searching Caleb’s face. The man looked calm enough, but there was a restless edge in his eyes, like he was trying not to pace.

“Why do you think it’s about Chance?”

“Because he’s the person you’ve been spiraling over for the past week.”

Ellernate doesn’t respond. His jaw brushed the night. He could have said nothing. He could have lied smoothly, said Tree was drunk or some bullshit—said he’d read too much into things. Instead, he let himself do something worse. Play clean with the surface and rot underneath.

“People get strange when they hear bad news,” said Ellernate. “Leaves them…distracted.” He fastened the last belt loop. “If you’re asking if I know…how—how he went, I don’t. That’s all Tree said. Dead. That’s it.”

It took a bit for Caleb to process the information. He seemed equally as shocked as Ellernate was—but, unlike Ellernate, he brushed it aside.

Caleb stared, then nodded once, not the nod of acceptance but the nod of someone filing a loose end away. “You sure there’s nothing else? Tree can paint a pretty picture if he wants to.”

Ellernate forced a laugh. “I’m sure. Tree’s dramatic. He likes drama.” He put on the mask of irritation, casual annoyance. “If you’re asking because you want to throw yourself into the plan, do it. Get the map, check the perimeter. I’ll be ready.”

Caleb’s mouth flattened. He did not look convinced. He pushed off the dresser and came closer, quiet and careful. “Well—I—alright. But, you sure y’okay, Ellernate? You seem… off. Like, uh, I dunno, you’re carrying something with your pockets turned inside out.”

That, of all things, made something inside Ellernate lurch. He heard Chance in the half-memory of a laugh; he felt the awful, private weight of a hand turned cold. He could say nothing, let the image burn, or he could pour a little colored water over the fire and pretend everything matched the floor.

“I’m fine,” he said, and, well, the words were precise enough. True at the surface.

Caleb’s eyes softened for a second, then hardened as if something inside him closed. “You sure?” he pressed, not pushing publicly, only here. “Because if you want to talk—if Tree said anything that’s bothering you—”

Ellernate cut him off with a small, sharp smile. “Caleb, I don’t need someone to psychoanalyze me. I can handle a simple conversation.” He was brittle enough that his sarcasm scraped. “Don’t build a ritual over this. We have a mission.”

Caleb’s jaw ticked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and instead just sighed.

“Fine then, but—“ he turned, though not fully before he shot Ellernate a warning glance, “—if you let this get in the way of the mission again, I’ll kick your ass.”

Ellernate, for once, let a real laugh slip—short, raking. “Noted,” he said. It was the banter they knew, the banter that held off the soft places. Caleb left with a steady step, and the door clicked.

When the sound cut off, Ellernate’s composure unpeeled like old paint.

He folded against the mirror and let the mirror hold his face—eyes glossing, breath shallow. He didn’t tell Caleb the details because what could he say? That Tree had given him the bluntness of a stranger stumbling over someone else’s grave? That the word dead had arrived like bad weather? That he’d turned away because he couldn’t—because the idea of seeing further would rewrite him? He knew there was more to the picture. But, he’s too cowardly to uncover it.

He thought about iTrapped, too. His husband was dead. Widower. How that title sounded like a label in his mouth—neat, manageable, sellable. How absence often tells you more than presence does. There was a small, pulsing anger in him for that absence, stupid and immediate. But anger didn’t help the shape of his grief; it only made the edges sharper.

Is that why he’d been acting so different? Perhaps it was because he was dealing with the loss of his husband, right? But—still—something screamed inside him that…that wasn’t quite it.

Ellernate sighed, breathing in, slow, and steady. When he finally left the room, he kept his face neutral for once.

He could have told Caleb everything on his mind. He offered, after all. He could have let the words fracture him in front of someone. But the truth was messy; it would ask for explanations he didn’t have, for names and scenes and motives.

Either way, he thinks, the world will not stop for his grief. So he moves.

Chapter Text

“Hey,”—“thanks for picking up.”

On the other end there was a hesitant inhale, a rustle indicating the person on the other line shifted. The voice that answered was gentler than iTrapped initially remembered—gentleness wrapped in guilt.

“‘Course,” the voice said. “I know things have been rough for you lately.” A bit more shuffling. “About your question earlier—‘Trapped…I really don’t know if I should answer that,”

iTrapped’s hands hovered on the wheel. He smiled when he knew he sounded reasonable. “That’s fine,” he hesitated, “but I just want to make sure he didn’t ask anything odd.” He didn’t lean toward anger. That wasn’t the play, he just wanted the exchange to land…politely. Like nothing was wrong.

A breath on the line, then a small, reluctant laugh. “Well, he—“ a pause, “—asked if you’d—if you, uh. Well—um, about ██████. You know.”

The words should have been small. They weren’t. They landed heavy.

Why would he be digging at that?

And, more importantly, he knows who ██████ is?

iTrapped’s mind attempted to supply a dozen polite reasons—curiosity, grief making people clumsy—but really, none fit cleanly.

Ellernate had no business wading into that particular river, even if it was the only one which’d known ██████.

On the steering wheel, his fingers tightened by instinct and then softened. He kept the gentleness in his voice because it was easier to wear than truth. “He asked that?” he muttered, and the cadence was "oh," not "how dare you."

“Yeah,” the voice answered, quieter now. “He—he sounded like he needed to know. I didn’t know how much you want me to say. So I didn’t say much, save for the truth.” There was the faint echo of someone holding a truth hostage because it felt too sharp to hand over.

“Mm,” iTrapped let out a tiny, controlled sigh that was mostly for show.

“Well. I want you to be careful,” he said finally, voice warm. “If Nate’s asking that—if he’s poking—don’t feed the thing more than it needs. If he wants me to talk, I’ll come find him. Don’t…” He stopped himself from saying the more immediate thing. Don’t make him picture it. Don’t give him a map to the place that still hurt.

LonelyTree’s reply was the gentlest kind of stubborn. “It’s not my place to hide things from him.” The words carried a small, private sorrow. “He just wanted to understand, ‘Trapped.”

Understand. Such a clean word for something that shredded.

iTrapped mouth softened into something that could pass for contrition. “Still, though, it doesn’t concern him, does it?” He let a little smile out, the kind that made strangers trust him without much effort.

There was a pause long enough for traffic and breathing to chew through. “Okay.” Then followed by, “I get that. He just seemed steadier after I told him what happened.”

He wanted to ask what steadier meant, to demand specifics, but the calm in his chest frayed just enough to make the question dangerous. Instead, he kept his tone even, the facade of charming composure sliding back into place. “Right,” he said. “Thanks.”

The silence hung.

“iTrapped,” soft now, tentative—“I know you’re angry with him. But you can’t—“

“Tree.”

He stopped.

The wheel hummed under iTrapped’s hands. He let a tiny, private laugh go, the sort that tastes like apology and armor. “Maybe,” he said. “But anger doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to grieve. It’s not his place, I mean.”

“Right.” Quiet, then a softer, almost sympathetic hesitation. “Watch yourself. Don’t run too many red lights.”

iTrapped allowed himself a half-smile that was all polish and no wear. He muttered a goodbye—not bothering to wait for Tree to answer—and then shut the call off with a quick thumb and the car was only engine and rain again.

He sat in the small wet-lit silence for a beat and the questions unspooled in him.

Why would Ellernate want to know?

What images had Tree given him?

He let the silence sit a beat longer, like he could bargain with it. He couldn’t. Ellernate, he thought, and the name settled oddly on his tongue.

People with edges you could observe, faces that read easily, grief that came in predictable lines. And, from what iTrapped had observed; Ellernate’s grief wasn’t that. It’s messy in a way that felt real, like a bruise you could press and feel the color shift. For someone so practiced at looking…composed, it was an absurd contradiction. A man who wore control like armor, and underneath it a skin that flushed and bled.

iTrapped found himself pondering those small things. Why did that feel so natural?

At the same time, it felt dissonant, and that dissonance just made him uneasy. He, of all people, learned to excel in facades. Pleasant charm that slipped between knives, a patient politeness that disguised a hundred cold calculations. Plastic, people called it once in a joke that had stuck—all shine and no depth. But, Ellernate’s presence just…effortlessly scraped at that label.

He had moments that weren’t performative. He had a way of being incandescently ordinary in the small things, and those small things were poisonous in how they made iTrapped want to protect the memory—not because it was noble, but because he was possessive enough to want to police who touched it.

Why would Ellernate be digging? The question tilted in him like a shard. Curiosity could be honest; grief could be clumsy, but the idea of another person riffling through the margins of what iTrapped had kept private felt…invasive. Why? He was close enough with him, right? It can’t matter to him. Shouldn’t matter at all.

But it’s not like it’s any of his business, right?

Maybe he just didn’t like being surprised by other people’s tenderness. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else shaping ██████ into a narrative that might not fit the version iTrapped preferred to control. Protective, jealous, a strange kind of furious gratitude—it all braided together so effortlessly until he couldn’t easily tell which feeling had which name.

Though, a smaller thought threaded through the rest, that Ellernate asking questions might also mean answers. Answers were dangerous. That’s the only outcome he knew.

They threatened to peel apart the neat, curated story iTrapped used to survive. He’d worked hard to smooth the edges of what people knew about him, about ██████, about the marriage that had been—

iTrapped exhaled.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass for a second and let the rain blur the city into watercolor. There was, embarrassingly, a little relief in knowing someone else remembered. It made the picture less lonely. But it also lit a small, fierce panic. If they started pulling at threads, what would unspool? Would it be his fault all over again?

And underneath the prickling, the odd, guilty gladness that someone else knew of ██████—the fiercer, sharper thing did not want those memories chased down by other hands. Protectedness and suspicion braided together until he couldn’t tell which was which.

He pulled into the dead lot where the helicopter waited—black against the sodium lamps—slid the wheel into the notch with practiced ease, and killed the engine. Robloxia’s city hum pressed against the glass like a crowd. He folded back into the calm he kept for others, smoothing the crease at his sleeve. His thoughts, though, refused to be quiet.

Really, why would Ellernate be asking about him?

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The hallways smelled like dust and recycled air. Concrete walls, blank and endless, stretched around them, every corner a pocket where something could be waiting. Their footsteps made too much noise in Ellernate’s ears, even though both he and Vilicus had trained to walk light.

Vilicus padded beside him with that restless, predatory gait he always had, knees a little too bent, eyes flicking to corners as if expecting something to lunge out. Ellernate kept his shoulders down, steps measured, every muscle tuned to the quiet click of his boots on tile. Not really a pleasant environment—but, well, he’d have to deal with it.

“Nice place for a nap, huh?” Vilicus muttered, not really looking at him. The kind of comment he made to fill silence. Filler. “They pick the oddest venues for admin storage. Y’ever see a place with more locks and…uh. Less charm?”

Ellernate answered with the minimal prudence he preferred, “We’re not here for charm.”

Vilicus shrugged.

His eyes traced the lines of the walls, the heavy shadows spilling where the overhead lights had gone dead. Sure, his mind was here—alert, cautious—but it was also elsewhere, circling back to what he couldn’t stop replaying. The way Chance had looked the last time he saw him. The way Tree’s voice had broken when he told him.

Vilicus clicked his tongue. “Straight to business, eh? You ever considered smiling? Loosens up the muscles. Y’know, it miiiight make you a little less predictable…” he nudged Ellernate’s arm with his elbow. Annoying. Ellernate didn’t pull away.

“That’d ruin my brand,” said Ellernate dryly.

Vilicus snorted. “Your brand’s paperwork. It’s not a personality, Nate.” He slowed, then glanced at him with a softer tilt. “You okay, though? Earlier you seemed kinda…man, I dunno. Weird.”

Weird.

He didn’t respond.

Vilicus didn’t push further, not really, but Ellernate could feel the weight of the comment hovering between them. Weird wasn’t the right word, was it?

Some things were private. Kind of like a private war you kept waged in the dark corners of your skull. And Ellernate could only keep his eyes forward because looking at Vilicus—watching the way his mouth eased into words—made the image of Chance sharper, more intrusive. Said dude wouldn’t exactly leave his head either, infact—he’d been infiltrating it since the day they got back. Wasn’t that great?

They threaded between doors stamped with service numbers and hazard symbols, approaching the part of the building where the air felt colder, like the building had been built around a vault and was still cooling from the day it was sealed. Voices muffled behind closed doors. A sudden clanking somewhere made both of them freeze reflexively. Vilicus’s hand went to his belt like muscle memory.

“Controls ahead,” Vilicus whispered. “We slip left, use the maintenance crawl. There’ll be a camera blind spot by the ducts,” he didn’t exactly stop talking completely; part map, part nervous tic. “Y’good with the entry code? I snagged one from a guard earlier—sloppy kid, didn’t check twice—“

“Give it,” Ellernate interrupted—eyes set strictly on the door.

Vilicus handed it over with the theatrical secrecy of someone performing competence. “What scenario are we doing here?”

Ellernate’s thumb brushed the small card as if it were something sacred. The touch anchored him—task, checklist, manual motion. He recited the steps in his head in a litany. Approach, disable, bypass, retrieve. The plan folded him into itself and for a few measured breaths he could feel the grip of the present. “I ask the questions, you handle the…uh. Charming. Or the other way round. Whichever keeps you occupied.”

They ducked under a low metal grate and moved through the crawl space, breathing shallow, bodies pressed close to metal. The smell here was different—oil, cold metal, maybe a hint of a faint ozone?—it carved him inward.

Eventually, they popped out into a narrow service corridor on the other side of the wing. The lighting here was far worse, pools of shadow and pools of light that made edges unreliable. A guard paced at the far end, maybe an Admin—maybe not, cigarette smoke folding around him. Ellernate lowered his eyes, adjusted the collar of his jacket like a uniform, and walked with the lazy posture of someone who belonged.

Vilicus drifted wide, taking the long route, his silhouette a distraction. He caught the guard’s attention with a muttered, well-timed comment about shift changes; the man blinked, distracted, and Ellernate moved. Close enough that he could see the small fleck of something white on the guard’s collar, a piece of lint or ash—he thought of snow for the length of a heartbeat for whatever reason. He didn’t have time to question his own thoughts any further.

The guard’s attention returned in a lazy sweep. Ellernate’s hand moved, clipping the guard’s wrist with a cuff that didn’t scream, a quiet knock to the jaw that sent him sliding, unconscious, into a roll that looked like a stumble. They pulled him into the maintenance alcove, securing him without flourish. Definitely not an Admin.

“Handled that neatly for being zoned out for the past five minutes,” said Vilicus, voice low praise. No bite behind it, though.

“Quiet,” Ellernate muttered. He checked the guard’s pockets for keys, found the passcard, and slid it into the reader. The door sighed and opened like something conceding. They stumbled through.

Inside, the corridor opened into a sterile room lined with racks of equipment and glass cabinets. The target was ahead, which is a room that housed a containment console—what they were here for.

Vilicus moved like someone intent on conversation, fingers already skimming the console’s edge. “Y’know, they put the good stuff where the lights are worst. I like the drama. Makes the prize look more cinematic.”

“Mm,” Ellernate hummed—resisting a smile. “We still on schedule?”

“‘Course,” said Vilicus, not looking up. “Caleb’s on overwatch. Jonathan’s at exfil. Twister’s looped the comms—or, he’s probably with Jonathan. I dunno. ‘Trapped’s… circling a different perimeter. Said he’d handle any loose ends on the far side.” His tone pinched at the last word like a man offering speculation for inspection. Odd.

The mention of iTrapped made something behind Ellernate’s ribs tighten. He felt the old reflex—to ask, to demand the little truths that kept the world arranged. Instead, he let it sit in his chest and turned his attention to the panel, thumb finding the seam.

“Good,” he murmured. “Keep ‘em tight.” That was both instruction and a shield for the questions he didn’t want to say out loud.

Vilicus made an idle noise that could be amusement or dismissal. “You’ve gone statuesque again. Y’sure you’re not auditioning for a wax museum?” he paused, gaze flicking briefly to the other, “It doesn’t suit you—too much dignity for the job.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does.”

The console hissed when Vilicus unlaced a brute-plate and slid back the housing. Inside, the object nested in foam like something of value and threat both. It was smaller than Ellernate expected—compact, humming with a blue vein of light—and when he reached for it, it felt almost alive.

“Tell me where the others are moving,” murmured Ellernate. His gaze set steady on the console. He checked the casing for tamper marks. None. Clean. Recent.

Vilicus shrugged, the motion lazy but useful. “Man, I dun’know,” he glanced up, eyes off-task. “You wan’m to ping someone, or something? I have no idea on where they’re headed.”

Ellernate exhaled, peering reluctantly at him. “I thought you had access to their locations…?”

Vilicus made a small scoff. “You always sound like you’re handling the whole play from a distance. Lighten up, dude,” he gestured vaguely, “you do the serious face too well.”

Ellernate’s inner voice flared—he thought of a man who was marked a widower and the oddities that shivered around that label. He lowered his head, letting the line of his jaw go rigid for a moment and then eased it. You can prod later, he told himself. Focus now.

They slipped the artifact into a padded sleeve. It fit with an obscene neatness, like a secret that had been designed to be carried out. Vilicus clicked the lid into place and slapped the console back into a locked position. The sound was small and final, kind of like a gavel.

“Right,” Vilicus said, hoisting the package into a secure case. “We move in three. You and me cover the corridor; keep it clean. Twister’s got eyes on the comms. If anything breathes wrong, we smoke it.”

Ellernate nodded.

The door sealed behind them with a hydraulic hiss, the corridor swallowing them back into dim. Ellernate adjusted his grip on the case, the weight of the console awkward against his side. Vilicus shoved his hands into his pockets, walking like the whole job had been an errand instead of a break-in.

“So quiet,” Vilicus whistled after a beat. “That’s so not normal for you. Usually you’re giving speeches by now, like ‘okay so now go to the back exit and fight all of those 50 guards with just your fists and maybe a few kicks if im feeling generous—‘ y’know, allat good stuff.”

Ellernate’s mouth flicked at the corner—sort of a smile. “You’d prefer a speech?”

“I’d prefer you tell me what’s rattling around up there before it blows a hole through your skull.”

They rounded a corner, footsteps echoing faintly. Ellernate tilted his head toward him, eyes sharp. “Where were the others?”

Vilicus arched a brow. “Others?”

“I know you didn’t walk in here alone. Cleaned, cleared. That doesn’t…eh. Just happen.”

“I already told you.”

“No—not where they are, where they were.”

Vilicus let out a short, dry laugh. “You want a roll call, or you just fishing?”

“Just asking.”

“Uh huh.” Vilicus leaned against the wall at the next junction, like he had time to spare. “Most of ’em don’t matter. Hands you wouldn’t recognize. You’re not missing much.”

Ellernate just hummed, unreadable. He shifted the console from one arm to the other. “I’ll decide what matters.”

That earned him another grin from Vilicus, all teeth and faint mockery. “Touchy, touchy. Thought you liked playing the stone wall.”

At that, Ellernate glanced away, the lighting cutting harsh across his profile. “Stone walls don’t crack. People do.”

For a moment, Vilicus just looked at him —like he’d said something truer than intended. Then, that grin softened into something sly. “That sounds dangerously close to philosophy. Wouldn’t have thought y’had the taste.”

“Not philosophy,” Ellernate’s murmured, tone smooth, “just observation.”

Vilicus chuckled under his breath, pushing off the wall to fall back into step beside him. “Yeah. You’ve been doing a lot of observing lately.”

Ellernate didn’t answer.

Then,

A metal scream—not an explosion but something close—rattled through the corridor. Red strobes bled into the fluorescents. Speakers popped to life with a clipped, official voice—“—unauthorized presence detected. Security protocols engaged. Remain where you are.”

Vilicus snapped left, automatic, disappearing toward the noise like a dog after a thrown stick. Ellernate moved with him, case half-slung, every sense cloned into the rhythm of his boots. They spread, mainly out of trained instinct, if one person had to draw the fire, it wouldn’t be him.

And then the Illumina slid.

One second it was in his grip, humming a low, ridiculous reassurance. The next it slipped off the steel cradle in his hands and clattered across the tile. The sound punched the corridor in half—a bright, metallic ring that was loud enough for both of them to cover their ears. It skittered, spun, and finally came to rest in a dark little dent in the floorboards.

Ellernate’s chest did something like stop and then try to restart on a different tempo.

The device flashed once as its sensor nudged awake—a tiny pinprick of blue—and for the love of Telamon, a pair of black boots stepped into his view.

The Moderator filled the doorway like a stain. Ellernate could see the emblem over the breastplate, the kind of authority that didn’t negotiate. The man’s hand hovered at his side, fingers resting on a baton or a weapon—the kind of casual threat that was designed to be seen and felt. Of all Robloxians…

Ellernate couldn’t move.

Not because he was scared of the booted silhouette. Not because he lacked training. Because anything he did now could—would—read as aggression. Illumina alone in the open could be used as evidence. A twitch of a hand toward it, a grab, anything, and the moderator’s visor would light up red, scanners would ping, more boots would arrive, alarms would multiply, and their clean escape would balkanize into blood and radio static.

He froze with the polite politeness of someone who knew the rules. Hands flat, open, held where the Moderator could see them. Breath slow enough to count. The world narrowed to the small ring of blue light on the floor and the cold, clinical face above it.

“Hands where I can see them,” said the Mod. No anger, no hurry—the calm that ate you by degrees. “Identify yourself.”

Ellernate’s tongue felt like lead. “M—Maintenance,” he stuttered, the word a brittle thing that suited a passable lie. “Schedule six. We—technical retrieval.” The sentence needed polish and it lacked it, but, fortunately, it worked just enough.

The moderator’s head tilted just slightly, like he was pondering a catalog entry. Up close Ellernate could see the micro-print on the visor, streams of schematic readouts and threat indicators. The man’s gaze snagged, not on him, but on the Illumina, and Ellernate felt his own lungs want to purge adrenaline in a hot rush.

“Do not move,” the Mod said again. Then, quieter, “Step away from the device.”

That tiny request was the noose. Ellernate couldn’t exactly afford to move like a man reaching for a weapon, not with the cameras pinging and the sensors hungry. Even so, he also couldn’t let the device be analyzed on the spot. If the Moderator picked it up and logged it, if he scanned it, if he called it in, the Banlands’ trail would begin right there. Chain of custody, timestamps, fingerprints on evidence. Everything they’d risked would distill into one neat report.

What could he do?

Panic thrummed at the base of his skull, hot and stupid. Images—too many images—banged in his head. Rings, a hand gone cold, a photograph folded into a wallet. He had no right to let those images steer him, this mission was a thing that required discipline. But discipline wasn’t supposed to feel like this, right? Discipline felt like a blade. This felt like being wrapped in cotton and set on fire.

His fingers twitched. He really wanted to yank, to snatch the Illumina and go. He wanted to shove past the moderator and run until his lungs emptied. But the rulebook voice in his head—the one that had kept him breathing through worse odds than this, ordered restraint.

There’s another option, the line said. Use the moment. Don’t escalate, and, deceive.

So he did what he does best, find the smallest lie that could carry truth.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Finally—after a bit of coaxing, and some indefinite combat, Ellernate found himself hid in the darkest of rooms. Maybe a blind spot, maybe not, but either way—

He was safe.

Maybe.

Vilicus’s voice, sharp and too-close, came from somewhere:, “Ellernate!” A hiss, a thread of profanity. Well, he wouldn’t be able to get to him in this position. The man was already in motion. A shadow smashing into another farther down the corridor told him the fight had started. But, Vilicus wasn’t next to him. Vilicus was across the angle, drawing attention the way an arsonist flings a match.

Fuck.

How could they have messed up this badly?

The ductwork spit them out into a shadow that tasted like old breath. It was one of those maintenance closets the building had forgotten to clean—no overheads, only the thin, sickly glow of an emergency strip far down the hall. Ellernate eased himself into that blackout like a man folding into a coffin. Fortunately, the case was strapped to his chest, body pressed hard to concrete so it read as part of the wall.

For one delicious second the plan worked, the corridor emptied but for Ellernate’s outline, and the hum of alarms muffled by the duct and his own pulse.

He let himself breathe small, tasting the metal tang of adrenaline. Keep still. Let the sensors reset. The world narrowed to the hiss of the building and the faint blue blink from the case nestled against him.

Something moved in the dark—quick, like…a shadow folding wrong—and Ellernate’s muscles tightened. He didn’t turn. He knew better than to give motion to the dark. Though, when he felt the air shift, a presence closing, the feeling in his gut flipped from cold to ice.

Then a shove, hard and precise, shoved him forward into the alcove wall.

And well, the surprise folded him, breath stolen. A body’s weight slammed into his back and before he could articulate the wrongness, a hard edge kissed the tender spot beneath his jaw in a way that made his world narrow to a single strip of hot, impossibly loud sensation.

Steel dark and terrible settled against his throat.

For a second, there was only the world as defined by cold metal and the proximity of someone else’s breath. He tasted copper, or maybe it was the backwash of his own panic. The blade’s flat lay there, an inch from cutting but all the intent of it implicit, one twitch and just as he thought he was done for—

“Ellernate??” The voice was a paperthin thing. Far too familiar to be a stranger, far too thin with something that sounded like panic folded into it. “Nate, what the fuck—” The whisper came choked, almost a sob.

Ellernate’s head had to tilt, because the dark was so thick he recognized the silhouette before his mind sorted the person. That bright shine of a crown despite the shadows swallowing them, the well-known angle of a jaw, the dreadful, reflexual gleam of a blade he’d seen too much in the wrong hands.

The hilt was familiar in a way that made the bile rise. Broad, black, a shadow within a shadow.

The Darkheart.

Time skittered. His brain attempted to pick a useful fact—iTrapped’s hands? the way he breathed?—and all it could harvest was the absurdly intimate feeling of the weapon’s flat cold pressing a promise to the hollow of his throat.

“‘Trapped?” His voice was low, meant to be private but the word burned hot in his mouth. He had to force his cheek a half-millimeter so his eyes could see, and the world recalibrated to the small cut of a face lit by that emergency strip.

And, well, the sight of iTrapped’s eyes wide and watery, not the composed mask he wore for a world that watched, but the raw, panicked man that showed behind closed doors.

“I—” iTrapped’s whisper fractured. Wasn’t really a threat. It was disbelief and a kind of pleaded apology bunched into breath. “What are you—? Oh, fuck, Nate—you really had me…oh—” his words came as if they might summon more alarms just for being spoken aloud.

Well, might as well.

Ellernate’s throat pressed to steel. The only thing he could taste was adrenaline and something else—old iron, memory. Panic thinned into a skeletal focus. He couldn’t make noise. Not with a Moderator likely sweeping and sensors blaring. The corridor beyond might still be full of boots.

“What are you doing here?” His voice came out a fraction of a whisper, but it was edged bright with accusation and…disbelief. The question was smaller than he wanted, calibrated; his hands were pinned by the weight of the case, unable to shove the blade away without making a sound like a confession.

iTrapped’s breath hitched. The Darkheart’s edge vibrated slight against Ellernate’s throat when the man shifted the blade, a movement of desperation not cruelty. It left the smallest of cuts, blood trickling down his neck neatly. “I—” iTrapped’s hands trembled where he held the hilt. “I thought you weren’t on this sweep. I thought you were—” he swallowed, “Nate, Nate—what happened? Y’okay? Spuh—speak to me!”

Ellernate’s heart kicked like a trapped animal. He could see the panic threaded through iTrapped’s face—the same panic that had ached in the voice when they’d argued a couple days back. About leaving the penthouse, maybe? Ellernate couldn’t exactly remember. The injury was threatening his consciousness far too much.

It unsettled him in a way that had nothing to do with the steel at his neck. The man’s eyes were huge and wet, the veneer smudged into something dangerously raw.

“You…pushed me,” Ellernate murmured, because he had to say something to make sense of the blade, to give consequence to the contact. “Who shoved me? Why did you—why is the…Darkheart—the…” the words thudded against his teeth; they were questions wearing the measured weight of accusation.

iTrapped’s whole body stilled as if the name had been a brand. “I…didn’t—” he breathed. “Fuck, I—I didn’t mean to shove you. I just…I moved in. And, and—heard activity, and I thought—” he exhaled so small it barely moved the air. “Oh, in the name of 2x2–you’re bleeding—are you bleeding? Don’t move. Don’t…don’t be stupid.”

Ellernate’s mind spun fast, observing every micro-expression—the minute that iTrapped’s fingers tightened on the hilt, the pitch of his whisper, and the way his jaw worked like someone trying to force a shape into neatness. He felt something like a memory. A photograph folded, a name, the warm smear of someone else’s blood that wasn’t here, and that missing image made the presence of the Darkheart feel like a provocation.

“You— fuck,” he choked on blood, “you were supposed to…b—be on…the left wuh-wing.” he stumbled, too quietly for comfort. The phrase was small and meant as an observation, not really an accusation, but the weight of it struck like a bell. “You weren’t supposed to be here tonight. You—” He stopped himself; the rest of the sentence would have been a charge.

iTrapped’s lips trembled. He looked so vulnerable. “I told you I’d be around,” he whispered, the words scraping across each other. “And, I heard the alarms, I heard walking—and—shuffling.” He breathed, the whisper a raw thread. “I thought—Nate, fuck, b—believe me, I thought someone else had the device. I thought I could stop it getting scanned. I thought—” his voice dropped to a ragged edge. “Shit, do you know how stupid that sounds?”

Silence pooled between them, heavy. Every second the blade stayed there was a second where quiet was law and breath was contraband. Somewhere down the hall a booted voice barked something distant and metallic, someone was sweeping, or backup was moving. The corridor’s map was all teeth and edges. If either of them made a loud move, they would set the dominoes tipping.

“I’m so stupid,” iTrapped murmured—tears finally staining his cheeks, lashes fluttering up as if that could hold them back. It couldn’t.

“What the fuck were you doing with—fuck, ah—a sword?” Ellernate whispered—less accusation now and more incredulous. “This isn’t a fucking reenactment. You could have—someone could have seen you. And, and, that would’ve—shit, ‘Trapped, you’re stupid…”

iTrapped’s hands shook so hard the hilt whined in his grip. He, of all Robloxians, is the perfect actor—pleasant, composed—most of the time. But here, in the half-dark with steel between them, the facade had collapsed into animal panic. “I had to be ready,” he said. “If they scanned it here, if they—Ellernate, I can’t let them take it.” His words tumbled. “I thought I was stopping someone from taking it. I didn’t expect—you to be here. I didn’t—”

Ellernate swallowed the immediate flood of questions—the why of iTrapped’s presence, the impossible intimacy of the Darkheart against his skin, the betrayal and the explanation braided together. He tasted the small, bitter knowledge. Their stories were colliding in ways that could not be smoothed without cutting.

He tried to read the man in front of him, to decide whether iTrapped had been protector or threat. The blade’s warmth at his throat was a poor scale for such verdicts.

Behind the whisper-thin conversation, other noises threaded. Distant running, a garbled comm burst, a metallic thump that could have been a scuffle.

Everything was going wrong.

Time was a thing being eaten. Ellernate’s breath came shallow; it sounded too loud in his own ears. He needed to move; he needed to know. But every muscle that would make noise was iced by common sense.

His Dominus clattered onto the floor. Fuck. That’d attract attention.

The world had gone the color of old pennies and his knees felt like twine. Blood slicked warm and sticky along his collar where the Darkheart’s edge had nicked him—more shallow than lethal, but close enough to make his vision tunnel. Every breath tasted like iron. The corridor lights smeared into haloed orbs and the case in his hands felt suddenly impossibly heavy, as if gravity had taken a personal interest in making him fall. And suddenly, he felt very warm.

iTrapped’s face hovered over him like a guilty moon. The man’s composure had split open and whatever polite mask he kept for rooms full of witnesses had slipped away, leaving raw panic that looked impossibly small on such a practiced body. He crouched, fingers trembling, and had already scrubbed the cuff of his jacket over the cut, pressing hard as if pressure alone could reverse the night.

“Stay with me,” iTrapped mouthed, breath hot and ragged against Ellernate’s ear. His voice had gone thin—no actor’s polish left—only frantic, urgent grief. “Don’t you—dun’chu pass out. Oh, Telamon—don’t y’do that.”

Ellernate blinked up at him. Slow.

And then laughed.

A sound that tasted weird and wet at the edges. It came out small and astonished and a little bitter. “Y’always used to panic like…mm…this—back then,” he managed, words slurred but bright with memory. The laugh bent, turned into breath. “You would—ov’a the stupidest things—make a face and—” he blinked, the corridor wobbling—then forced his hand up like someone steering a faltering ship. His fingers found iTrapped’s wrist and anchored to it, warm and quivering.

iTrapped’s eyes went enormous, like someone spotting a miracle. “I—do you remember?” he whispered, a sound split between accusation and awe. “I didn’t—shit, I didn’t mean—” His voice snagged, and the pressure of his palm grew, desperate and clumsy. “I thought—when you were shoved—I thought someone else—Ellernate, I thought a Moderator—”

“You thought right,” said Ellernate, each syllable a slow prod. He tried to focus on the cadence of iTrapped’s voice because it kept meaning in the room. “You thought fast.” He laughed again, softer, and it was a little raw. “Y’always did. Panicked like a kid, then fixed things like a man. Oh, I…” I loved that about you. That’s what he wanted to say.

But he didn’t.

iTrapped’s hand brushed against Ellernate’s hair like a benediction and then—because he was so damn human no matter how much he tried to hide it and because panic makes fingers slippery—his thumb smeared the wetness at the cut. He swore in a small sound that was both apology and prayer. “I am such an idiot,” he breathed. “Telamon, I am—” He scrubbed harder, his chest rising and falling with the scrape. “I should have called. I should have—”

Ellernate curled his palm over iTrapped’s, making him still. The motion was ridiculous in its intimacy, but everything small was suddenly monumental. “Shut up,” he muttered, and the word landed like a feather and then a stone. He wasn’t really angry—anger felt too loud. He was tired, and the tiredness made tenderness easy.  He swallowed a laugh, and squeezed iTrapped’s hand tighter the tiny bit he could. “Oh, ‘Trapped, you’re so pretty when’m you cry…”

iTrapped’s shoulders shook. And then, impossibly, he laughed—a thin, hiccuping sound of relief and terror and something like gratitude. “You say that now,” he rasped, voice breaking, “but I—shit, you could have died.” The words were little knives with edges dipped in mercy.

Ellernate’s vision dimmed at the corners again. The tile felt slick under his palms. He found the reflex to tease—teasing was a compass he always carried. Mainly with his iTrapped, that is. “You always said I was dramatic,” he whispered. “At least now you know how I get theatrical.” He squeezed iTrapped’s hand, nails pressing into the soft join, not hard enough to hurt. “Stop acting like the world is gunna end. Breathe.”

“Can’t—can’t—” iTrapped’s breath hitched. He swallowed. The practiced ease he wore like clothing was shredded and in its place something very pure had bared itself, worry, stupid and bright. “Please don’t leave ‘m,” he slurred, low enough that maybe only Ellernate could hear. The words weren’t a command. They were a confession.

And for once, Ellernate, in years—felt that small kiss of satisfaction.

His chest cracked open at that small thing—the want in iTrapped’s voice. He’d been keeping so many things neat and stacked. Grievances, suspicions, a private ledger of quiet accusations. Hearing it laid bare in the hush of the corridor felt like being struck by light. He could feel his pulse thud, slow and stubborn.

They were tethered there—two Robloxians holding on to a small island of humanity in a sea that threatened to drown them with alarm bells. Ellernate felt himself teeter, the world going puddle soft, the edges of his vision darkening. He tried to hold onto iTrapped’s face as if memorizing it would stitch him back together—counting the lines near the eyes, the way his jaw clenched when he wanted to spit words instead of say them.

“Lean on me,” iTrapped whispered, suddenly brittle with care. He slid his other hand under Ellernate’s shoulders, cradling him carefully. “Lean—don’t fight it.”

Ellernate let himself, the small succumbing that felt like surrender and salvation combined. He let his head tilt and rest against iTrapped’s shoulder, the sound of the man’s breath a ragged metronome. He felt the damp of blond locks against his cheek, the steady heat of someone who would not let go.

“You always smelled like rain,” he murmured, voice half-list, half-laugh. Memory rose like a tide—iTrapped’s grin, a stupid umbrella, a rain-soaked night that had felt like a small rebellion. “You remember that? You dragged me out into the storm and made me feel guilty for being dry.”

iTrapped made a small protesting sound that was almost tenderness and almost pain. “I remember you complaining, yeah,” he murmured. “You, wrapped up like the world owed y’shelter.” He cradled Ellernate’s temple with a gentleness that marred the panic—soft as contrition. “I’ll stop panicking if y’stop being impossible.”

“Mm,” Ellernate hummed, a smile in the slump of his words. The world narrowed until it was just breath and the muted din of alarms far away. He felt both comfort and grief in the same inhale. It was strange. The awful fact that the man who’d been at the center of so many small cruelties was also the hand that held him now.

“‘Trapped,” he finally murmured, gently prying iTrapped’s hand off of his head. His head hit the floor with a soft thud. “Promise we’ll talk,” he said, the sentence fragile with everything unsaid. “After this. No lies.”

iTrapped’s fingers tightened around his once, a small vice of solemnity. “After,” he promised, voice raw. “I—I’ll tell y’everything. I swear.”

Ellernate let his eyes drift closed then, for a beat that wanted to be forever and was only a sliver. The world blurred, and his grip slackened, but not entirely. He was sinking but he held on—clinging to this ridiculous, human, panicked warmth at his side.

“Good,” he sighed, letting the dark come in soft, like a blanket. “I’ll hold you to that.”

iTrapped’s laugh came out as a sob and a hiccup and a sound full of relief. He pressed his forehead to Ellernate’s temple, utterly unperformed, utterly flayed. “Don’t y’die on me,” he whispered, ridiculous and fierce. “Don’t you even—”

“Hm.” Ellernate mouthed the words that mattered without force—“I won’t.”—and the promise felt like a match struck in a vast, cold room. Then there was only breath, and the slow, steady forgetting of panic for the space of a heartbeat, both of them clinging to each other in the dark while the world beyond them tried to decide how loud to be.

And just when he leaned up, lips praying that the one thing he’d hoped would be reciprocated—would be received back with just as much devotion,

He blacked out.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Light bled through the curtains in a stubborn, dirty line.

Ellernate’s head felt like a drum being tapped by someone who didn’t care about rhythm. When he opened his eyes the room tilted—furniture in soft blur, the ceiling a pale, cracked memory. His throat tasted like pennies and sleep. For a beat he lay there, still, listening to the slow machinery of the penthouse. AC hum, distant traffic, a clock somewhere making ordinary noise like it had the right to keep going.

He reached for the warm weight beside him, a muscle memory move—

But, his fingers found air.

Panic unspooled, quick and hot. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat up too fast. The bandage at his throat prickled when he swallowed and he realized he remembered enough to feel vertigo but not enough to keep the edge from cracking. The shove, the blade, the dark press of steel to skin, then his iTrapped’s frantic voice and a softness that came later. A flash—black boots, a visor, the tiny flicker of blue light on the floor. Then nothing, because memory had the decency to be theatrical and messy all at once.

“‘Trapped?” he croaked before thinking, the name slipping out like a demand.

Silence answered him for a long, thin moment. The door creaked. Ellernate’s head snapped up.

Not iTrapped.

“You’re awake,” Caleb said. It was a statement, not relief. “Good. Sit still.” He moved with efficient calm like he’d expected this choreography and wouldn’t be surprised by any next step. To be fair, he kind of did.

Ellernate tried to sound like he’d slept through a normal night. “Where is he?” The question came hollow. “iTrapped?”

Caleb’s eyes flicked past him toward the doorway, cleaned briefly by habit. “Not here.” His voice was flat. “I saw you rolled in. I thought—” he cut himself off, not feeling the need to finish. He had seen enough in the hallways, in the way Ellernate was bandaged, in the way the case lay like a secret elsewhere. “What happened?”

That panic thinned into narrative. The corridor came back in knife-edged fragments. Alarms, a clatter, Vilicus’ shout, the Illumina sliding and skittering, boots in the door, the Moderator’s visor. He tasted the metal of fear again and the weird shape of being pushed into a wall. He swallowed. Even remembering the littlest, unimportant details stung.

“There was an alarm,” he murmured. “And, we split. My sword fell. A Moderator—he came. I—” Ellernate’s fingers curled into the couch fabric. “I didn’t move, ‘cause he told me not to…I thought—” The words jammed. He pictured the blade hovering, the Darkheart’s black shadow against his throat. He could feel the ghost of it like a bruise. It really hurt. Both the memory and the feeling in his neck.

Caleb’s face registered everything as though it were a ledger being tallied. Input, weight, consequence. He didn’t exactly flinch when Ellernate said Darkheart—maybe an idea of what happened—but he’d already seen it laid out like evidence when they’d returned. But there was a new hardness to him now, a cold that slid down his spine.

“And then?” Caleb prompted. His tone was soft but there was an edge like steel hidden beneath the velvet.

“I don’t remember,” Ellernate’s voice broke a little on the word. “But he had the blade. He—he…said he thought…someone else had the device. And, he—” he stopped, because this part was impossible to put down in neat sentences. “He didn’t shove me to hurt me. He had it to my throat and then—then he eased it. He kept the sword there for a second. He was terrified, I could tell. He—” The recounting chewed at him; each memory felt like walking back over something that might still be hot.

Caleb’s eyes narrowed, a thin, taut wire. He stepped closer and sat on the chaise, the same measured closeness he used in situations that required a calm face to hide a reaction. He watched Ellernate like someone reading a hazardous ledger. “Who?”

Ellernate absently chewed on his lip; looking elsewhere. Fuck. His head was pounding. “…’Trapped…”

The silence hung.

“…Did—did he do it?” Caleb asked finally, slow. The simplicity of the question made it worse. It wasn’t just curiosity.

Ellernate blinked. He wanted the honest answer to be accidental—an unfortunate, panicked reaction. The truth tasted both ugly and small in his mouth. “He didn’t attack me,” he said, and the words were immediate, reflexive—he had to say that. “He panicked. He thought he was stopping someone else. He—”

Caleb’s jaw flexed. He looked less like a friend and more like a judge at that moment, the small mercies wiped clean from the slate. “He had the Darkheart,” Caleb said, voice dry as linen. “He was carrying it in there, wasn’t he?”

Ellernate’s head spun with the remembered weight of the sword. “But he… he thought he needed to be ready.” It was a poor defense. “He panicked. He wasn’t—he didn’t mean—stop—“

Caleb’s knuckles whitened around nothing. He exhaled with a deliberate calm that had all the menace of patience. “Ellernate,” he muttered, “This isn’t a joke. He came into that corridor with that sword out. Y’know, someone could have seen him—or worse, he could’ve used it in a way that makes him look like the aggressor.”

The room seemed to tilt again. Ellernate’s pulse thudded hard, like someone else's drum. He felt dizzy at the idea that the story of the night would be written by whoever put more words to it first. iTrapped’s absence gnawed at him—why hadn’t he stayed, why had he fled? But the memory of that panicked, crying voice at the throat complicated it. Ellernate had felt an instinctive, stupid warmth when iTrapped had fussed over the cut, and that warmth now made him feel like a traitor and a fool.

Caleb’s voice went quieter, but there was a steel underneath it. “Did he shove you?” The question was blunt; the implication gnawed. “Did he pin you? Was it deliberate?”

Ellernate closed his eyes and saw the edge of the blade at his skin, remembered the gesture of being pushed, remembered the alarmed, pleading look iTrapped had given him. He had felt both danger and protection. How did you fit those into neat shapes?

“He pushed me,” he said finally. The admission came out raw and small. “But—he didn’t mean to kill me. He panicked. He—he thought he was stopping them from taking the artifact. He was trying to protect us, stop acting like…”

Acting like he meant to do it.

And, Caleb’s expression only hardened more. For a second he looked like a man considering a betrayal and how to clean it. “That’s not the same as not being accountable,” he said. “That’s not the same as this being an accident.”

Ellernate’s hands twisted together. The bandage at his throat was warm from his own blood. He felt suddenly conspicuous—like evidence in a case someone else could shape. “What do you want me to say?” His voice was quieter. “That he’s a villain? That he set out to hurt me? I don’t know. I don’t know how to say it in a way that won’t tear everything down.”

Caleb stood then, slow, measured. “I want the truth,” he said. “When you can give it. But I also want you not to let him disappear into politeness and public spectacle while the rest of us pick up the pieces. If he—if he did something reckless, we can’t pretend it was a misunderstanding. Not while people died—“

Ellernate’s chest tightened like a fist. The word died—Chance—hung at the edges of the room like an accusation he hadn’t yet chosen how to answer. That’s what he was implying, wasn’t it? He wanted to protect iTrapped, to forgive the man for the terrifying, human panic he'd seen, but he also wanted the truth like a tonic. Clear, bright, unadorned. The two wants were different roads that forked like knives.

“Shut up.”

The words cut the room clean.

It wasn’t as loud anymore as sudden—like a bullet piercing through the air—and everything in Caleb’s face shifted like someone had rearranged the light on him. Ellernate’s voice was low and dangerous, the kind that didn’t invite conversation so much as demand obedience.

“Y’want the truth?” murmured Ellernate, and there was much bite behind his words. “Then—here’s the truth. We’re not fucking angels. None of us gets to stand up here and pretend we’re righteous.”

He let the words hang, then filled the silence with a slow, cold catalog. “We hack—we steal. We break into admin storage and we take things that aren’t meant to be moved. We make choices that cost people—maybe not people like…him, maybe not in the neat way a stupid lecture imagines—but choices that leave stains. You think you’re the only one who knows what it is to cross lines? To decide a life is worth a risk? Don’t make me laugh.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth—closed it again. Ellernate didn’t pause,

“You want to pin blame like it’s a badge of honor,” he went on, every syllable sharpened. “You want somebody to be the villain so the rest of us can sleep. But you don’t get to choose who wears that title—not in your neat ‘moral’ world. Not when y’know what we’ve done in the dark together. Don’t stand here and tell me to let him disappear into ‘politeness’—that’s a fucking farce. If anyone’s going to be swept into the daylight, it’s going to be because we drag the whole messy truth out, not because you prefer it prettied up for the morning paper.”

He leaned in until the air between them tasted metallic. The bandage at his throat brushed Caleb as he planted a foot forward like an anchor. The room felt small, like a throat narrowing. There was an edge to Ellernate no one had seen much—the kind of controlled fury that doesn’t explode so much as strip paint.

And, that side, nobody has ever seen besides his iTrapped.

Caleb’s eyes flashed. For a heartbeat he looked like he might argue—could argue—but the movement died in his throat. Ellernate’s stare held a promise in it. That he wouldn’t be lectured into submission. He would not sanitize what had happened just because it was more convenient.

“You think I don’t know what he’s done?” Ellernate’s voice dropped, softer but with lethal intent. “Do you know the things he’s covered, the doors he kept shut so we could sleep? Do you know how many times he stepped into the fire for us, and how many times he came back with pieces of himself missi—“

“Do you?”

Ellernate’s breath hitched. “Don’t pretend you’re some clean-handed judge. Your hands are no cleaner than his.“

Caleb flinched as if the words had landed on him like heat. He looked away for the first time, a tiny fissure in his composure, and when he looked back it was the look of a man re-calculating. He had authority; he had reason. But he also had memory of things he’d done and choices he’d made that didn’t look good under a bright light. Ellernate’s fury had stripped that comfort bare.

“Why? Why do you keep blaming him?”

“Why do you keep defending him?” Caleb finally snapped. For once, the question wasn’t even measured—there was a raw, ragged edge to it that scraped the room. Ellernate flinched, the movement small and animal, as if the syllables had hit under his ribs. They did.

Caleb stood—taking a step forward, palms open like he was trying to show he hadn’t come to fight—only the motion made it worse. “You think I like this?” he demanded, voice low and sudden. “Do you genuinely think I enjoy walking into rooms knowing there’s a gun in someone’s hands and not knowing whether it’s meant to protect or to kill? You think I don’t remember bodies? You think I don’t know what reckless looks like up close. That’s what this is.”

Ellernate’s mouth went dry. The questions landed like weight. In the hush that followed, his mind scrabbled for the tidy answers that didn’t exist. Loyalty, debt. All of them felt embarrassing and useless under Caleb’s gaze. Suddenly, he felt very aware of the bandage at his throat.

“You make it sound simple,” he finally murmured, voice tighter than he wanted. “Like caring for someone is a preference you can shelve. I—I know the stakes. You think I don’t know what we’ve done?” His fingers clenched the couch edge until his knuckles whitened. “We aren’t saints, Caleb. We’re not choirs. We break things. We break people. And yet—when one of us stumbles, you want to burn him at the stake instead of seeing the whole bloody record.”

Caleb’s jaw clicked. Normally, he had the calm of a man who measured risk in margins and deadlines, but now that calm quivered. “This isn’t about saints,” he shot back. “This is about accountability. You’re protecting someone who could’ve gotten us all thrown right back into the Banlands with a simple mistake. You’re protecting someone who could be spun into a villain on a dime. Do you understand the cascade that starts when that happens?” Then lower, softer, “we can’t afford the chaos, Nate. At the end of the day, we’re also just Robloxians trying to survive.”

Ellernate’s breath hitched. The rawness of it—his own guilt knifed against the practical, almost surgical worry in Caleb’s tone—made his throat ache. For a sliver of a second he wanted to fold, to admit he’d been too soft, too trusting. But the image of iTrapped’s panicked face in the corridor—terrified, clumsy, human—flooded him with a loyalty that felt less like reason and more like hunger.

He hated it.

“You think I’m naive,” he said, low, and the words had teeth. “You think I’m choosing him over the mission because I can’t hold a line. Fine. Call me naive. But don’t pretend your hands are clean enough to lecture about recklessness. You’re sitting here with lists and plans and the same blood on your records as anyone. We all made choices. We all crossed lines. If you want an executioner, pick someone else. I won’t be the one to hand him over because it suits your neat little moral comfort.”

For a beat Caleb simply just stared at him, the room narrowing to the two of them and the ugly truth between. Then, slowly, a muscle in Caleb’s cheek worked; the fury that had cut through him thinned into something like exhaustion. He looked away, to the window, to the indifferent smear of city lights, as if that view could save him from making the wrong move.

“Don’t mistake my caution for moral theater,” said Caleb finally, the edge out of his voice but not the steel. “I’m trying to keep us from collapsing. Tell me the truth—start at the beginning—and we’ll handle it. But I will not let charm or history be an alibi for danger. Not to my people.”

Ellernate let the words sink in. The flare of anger dimmed into something more complicated—defiance braided with a numbness that tasted like grief. He met Caleb’s eyes, and for the first time since he’d woken he felt the story they had to tell could be told without being prettied.

“You’re scaring me,” Caleb murmured, the flatness of the statement trying to steady something. There was not really any bravado now. The thermal mask it took to command cooled.

“Why?” Ellernate’s fingers drummed on his side like a promise to crush. “If you want to sit in judgment, you should also be ready for the verdict. We’re a band of sinners with a ledger. You can open it, or you can shut your mouth and listen while we tell the truth.”

The room stayed taut for a second longer. Caleb’s shoulders dropped an inch. He ran a hand over his face slowly, the motion of a man conceding a battlefield. “It’s not that, Nate.”

“Then what is it?”

Caleb exhaled. “You don’t get to protect someone by pretending the world will accommodate them,” he mumbled, and there was a warmth under the bluntness—not pity, but a real, hard kind of care. He reached out and took Ellernate’s hand, palms steady. The touch wasn’t invasive. More of an anchor. “You can’t let him decide what stays secret over the idea that he’s the one who’s wounded. You know how stories get written. Whoever has the neatest narrative gets to be right. If we let him tuck this away with a smile and a polished grief, others will write the wrong story for him. For us.”

Ellernate felt something in his chest unclench and then curl up again. It hurt.

“So what, y’want me to throw him to the wolves?” Ellernate’s voice was rougher than he meant. Not out of pettiness—though, out of the gnawing fabric over his throat. “Tell me to hand him over like he’s evidence? You want him to be ledgered, interrogated, perhaps disappear in the same tidy way the world disposes of people it doesn’t understand?”

Caleb’s hand didn’t move from his. “No,” his voice was immediate and earnest, “I don’t want that either. But, I also don’t want the rest of us to get crushed because one man decides to play judge and jury in a corridor. This place isn’t safe. The penthouse is a beacon the second anyone connects the dots to the Banlands or to a widower with a past—someone will come asking questions. Do you think we have the luxury of performing grief and secrecy forever? Believe me—that’s hilarious, Nate, but not with what’s at stake.”

He lowered his head for a second, admitting the thing no one wanted to say aloud. “We’ve all made terrible choices. That’s not the point. The point is containment and carefulness. Keep your head down, move the artifact, and leave the trail cold. You keep protecting the performance, you’re protecting the most dangerous thing. Appearances.”

Ellernate’s fingers tightened reflexively around Caleb’s. The motion was more confession than refusal —an automatic claim. It was all the proof of what he was about to say next. “I don’t want to hand him over,” he said, voice small and raw and entirely sincere. “I don’t want to make him a story you can summarize over coffee. He’s…he’s not an idiot t’me. He’s—”

“—someone who messed up?” Caleb finished for him, gently but without softness. “Mm. So did we,” he let Ellernate’s words hang between them, then pressed on. “But there’s a difference between punishing and protecting everyone else from the fallout. We need to be strategic. Emotion makes us reckless. Recklessness gets people killed or taken. You know that, right?”

Normally, it would’ve been “don’t you?”

“Do you trust me anymore?”

“No.”

Ellernate flinched as if struck. The truth in Caleb’s mouth was…well. Nothing but the truth. It opened a clean, painful space inside him. He thought of the way iTrapped had looked at him when he’d tended the cut—panic, apology, such small human failure that it made Ellernate want to forgive before he could rationalize. He thought about the way the Darkheart had felt cold in iTrapped’s hands and how close the blade had been to his throat. The two images tangled into something that made Ellernate dizzy, just as he was before. And, he could’ve sworn—he could’ve sworn, iTrapped reciprocated it. Right? When Ellernate leaned up, when he’d closed his eyes and gently grabbed his chin and—

Did he?

He pursed his lips.

“Why don’t I get it like you do?” he asked finally, and the sentence came out smaller than he’d intended. It wasn’t a rhetorical jab, or, well, wasn’t intended to be. A raw, aching question. That’s what it was. “Why don’t I see the world in margins and contingencies the way you do? Why can’t I be pragmatic? Why do I become selfish when someone I—” he swallowed, “when someone I care for is involved?”

“Because you love him.”

Ellernate blinked up at him.

Caleb let out a soft breath, a sound that was part patience and part grief. His lips curved, still holding his hand as if the gesture could keep him from falling. “Because some of us learned to watch consequences sooner,” he said quietly, “because we all had to. Maybe my mistakes taught me faster. Maybe I learned the dullness of watching people die and the way it hardens you. It’s not better. It’s not nobler. It just keeps you alive in this line of work.”

There was a pause in which both men listened to the room and to the smallness of their own breath.

Outside, the city blurred on.

“You love him,” said Caleb then, without judgment. “Love doesn’t make you blind to danger. It makes you dangerous in a different way. That’s why we need rules—not to take love away from you, but to stop love from taking everything else. Isn’t that right?”

Ellernate’s throat tightened. The words landed exactly where they were meant to. He could feel the ache in his chest—the fierce, idiot loyalty that made him want to gather iTrapped close and stitch the world around him. He also felt the lopsidedness of being someone who could love fiercely but not always see the map of consequence.

“I don’t want those rules,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I want to love him.” The admission was shameful and honest. “I want to protect him and not have to be the one to acknowledge risk. I don’t want to be the one who hides behind a rulebook to limit my love. My love isn’t limited. He’s—he’s mine, right? I…I—“

“He’s not yours.”Caleb’s face softened, the architecture of his control bending into something tender. “I know,” he whispers, “I know that hurts. But you can’t try to patch up something broken beyond repair, Nate. He…” he couldn’t continue. Not with that look in Ellernate’s eyes.

Ellernate stared at him, really stared, the honest fatigue in Caleb’s voice like a mirror. He wanted to argue, to slam the world with his loyalty and have it answer by bending to the edges of his grief. That’s his iTrapped.

Instead, he felt the slow, reluctant uncoiling of something like acceptance. He thought of all the lines they’d crossed, the people they’d been, and the fragile scaffolding that kept them functioning.

Ellernate let out a breath that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. It didn’t fix anything. It made a small truce. He squeezed Caleb’s hand once, an ugly, honest knot of gratitude and continued fury. “But…I want him…”

Caleb nodded, sliding off the arm of the couch and settling as if he were about to take notes with his whole body. “I know you do, but you can’t have him.”

You can’t have him.

That really stung. Because maybe he was right. Maybe he can’t have him, and never will.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

The bathroom was a different kind of small.

Tiles and chrome and the electric hum of a world that did not care. Light from the vanity sliced the darkness into a hard rectangle; it made Ellernate look like someone examined under a microscope. He moved to the sink like a man walking into a trap he’d chosen, slow, trying to make a ritual out of panic.

The bandage at his throat itched the second the heat from the room hit it. He kept his fingers loose at his sides as if merely touching it would dissolve the careful story he’d told Caleb. The truth lived under that cloth. The truth itched like a small animal trying to get out. And, well, it’s not like iTrapped had meant to do it. He’d seen it. That pure terror in his eyes that nobody but him could understand. He’d seen that expression before—right before they’d all gotten captured, when he was yelling at him, that it was all his fault.

That was years ago, over a decade easily—and, still, he remembered it so vividly.

In retrospect, maybe he should have been gentler. Maybe he should have educated him—not shape him into the plastic he is now. Playing part of that concept gnawed deep at Ellernate in ways even he couldn’t understand. Why?

Ellernate cupped his hands under the faucet and let the water come hot enough to hurt. Steam drew faint halos up the mirror and blurred the city’s reflection behind him. He stared at himself while his hands shook under the stream—at the hollow of his cheekbones, at the dark crescents under his eyes, at the fine line where his jaw clenched a little too often these nights. Whoever looked back was familiar and foreign both.

He pressed his fingers to the bandage and found warmth. When he peeled it away, he did it with the sterile impatience of a man removing a bandage from a wound he’d earned. The tape stuck and released like a ceremonial tearing. For a breath, he expected the whole thing to be heroic—blood dramatic, tidy, a scar to show humility—but the sight was smaller than theater and truer than shame.

A thin pink line, rimmed raw. Not deep. Not fatal. Enough.

He watched the water cloud red, then clear, then red again in the sink basin like a small, ridiculous theater of his own making. Up close the wound was ordinary. Skin split, edges a little too ragged. Probably enough to get checked out. He felt an urge to explain it away, to give it a story that made him look brave or wounded in a way someone would script for him. None of the lines fit. The truth was knobbly and blunt and stubborn.

Ellernate cupped the cold cloth and pressed it to the cut. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and his own sweat, the domestic smell of someone trying to hold a disaster together. He looked at his face in the mirror—this man who had been carved out on the job, who moved in straight lines and tidy plans—and for a moment his composure slipped. He saw the curl of corners at his mouth when someone made an ugly joke, the way his left eyebrow betrayed impatience, the ridiculous way he softened when a hand found his in the dark.

Why had he defended iTrapped so deadly? The question was a small dagger he kept turning in his palm, with Caleb’s eyes and the weight of consequence, the answer had been long and messy. History, debt, and if generous enough—a stubbornness that felt like loyalty. But now, alone with a mirror and a wet cloth, the answer showed itself uglier. It wasn’t just loyalty, was it? More of hunger, an old, stupid hunger to keep what he loved from being explained away by other people’s tidy morality.

He scrubbed the cold cloth against his jaw like he could wash the memory off. The image came anyway—steel at his throat, iTrapped’s voice thin and panicked, the wrongness of feeling safety and danger in the same heartbeat. The memory tasted like pennies and rain. He hated that he was grateful iTrapped had panicked in a way that had kept the blade from slicing further; he hated even more that his gratitude made him want to protect the man who’d put steel at his skin.

You can’t have him.

But he loved him.

Ellernate’s the type of man to get everything he wanted. So why not this?

He sighed and let the mirror take his breath. He spoke into the glass as if to a witness. “You couldn’t handle the clean answer, could you?” Soft. “You wanted something that looked like a story you could live in—easy to defend, easy to love,” he made a half-smile, empty as void. “You are gross.”

The mirror didn’t answer. It only reflected a man both tired and stubborn, and Ellernate liked that it offered no comfort. He didn’t deserve that, did he? He wiped his hands and flexed his fingers until the blood under his nails felt like a small proof of existence.

There were things he couldn’t scrub out. Chance’s laugh folded into the dark, the photograph in his wallet that had become a lead weight under his ribs, the penthouse’s hush that smelled faintly of smoke and betrayal. They weren’t neat lessons, or, just didn’t feel like them. They were small knives he kept in his pockets and took out at inconvenient moments.

His mind traveled back to of Caleb’s hand on his—steady, practical. Of Caleb’s warning about the penthouse becoming a beacon, about the necessity of containment and erasing trails. The logic of it made a cold cathedral in his head. There was sanctity in the practical, a kind of shelter he admired and did not belong to.

He envied that steadiness like a man envies someone’s clean shoes. He wanted to be authoritative. He wanted it to anchor him. But when the person to be protected was a man with iTrapped’s faults and warmth, his rationality unstitched like wet thread.

“Do you think I don’t see it?” He asked the mirror, louder, a crack showing. “Do you think I don’t know what could happen if I let him be sanitized? If I let the world re-tell him in neat sentences?” The mirror kept its silence as always, true and unhelpful. Just him.

He scrubbed again, hard, and the sting brought him back into the room. There was a kind of courage in cleaning a wound alone—kind of like an acknowledgment that healing sometimes began as a solitary thing. He pressed the cloth to his neck until the ringing in his ears eased and his breathing matched the slow drip of the faucet.

Ellernate caught his reflection studying the faintness of the scar and, unexpectedly, he felt something like tenderness—not for the wound, but for iTrapped, who had been so panicked and then so beautifully contrite in the dark. It was an ugly tenderness, the sort that made people do lunatic things to keep another person whole.

Really, he was beautiful.

He scrubbed the glass with the back of his hand like he could clear the inside of himself too. The mirror cleared in splotches and left fingerprints that caught the light. For a long second he rehearsed words—how he would say them to everyone, to iTrapped, to himself. Start at the beginning. Be precise. No sugarcoating. That sounded pleasant.

A laugh, half a sob and half a joke, built in his chest. He let it go. It was useless to be theatrical here. There was one thing he could do that would be honest, make a decision he could live with for the next hour. Tell the truth. Keep him safe. Let others do what they were better at—containment, erasing traces—while he did the thing love made him do, however messy that was.

He pressed his palm once more to the spot under his jaw—an echo of the weight the blade had carried—and then wiped his hands clean. The water in the sink was pink-tinged and still. He dried his face with a towel, folding the cloth like a promise instead of a bandage.

He looked one last time into the mirror. The man staring back had new lines in his face—faint, honest.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Ellernate and iTrapped were not supposed to be here.

Not in this exact place, ever. It was one of those ridiculous, luxurious old hotels with a stairwell that looked like a cathedral for good decisions. Marble steps that whispered when you moved, a chandelier that threw tiny suns across polished banisters, and a hush that made every footfall feel dramatized. They’d sneaked in because someone had said there was an afterparty and because they were sixteen and the world still felt like something you could grin at and take apart.

iTrapped was wearing a hoodie—the kind he’d stolen from a thrift shop and was so unflattering it looked so damn flattering on him. Too big, sleeves a mess, hair always doing that annoying thing where it refused to look deliberate. He looked adorable.

Ellernate had been trying to look casual and failing spectacularly; he’d worn a shirt with a collar, the sort of thing that made him feel like an accidental adult. They were both absurdly out of place and that made it perfect.

There’d been a pianist in the lobby, a bored sort of man playing standards for tips, and the sound of the music had dissolved whatever noise they’d come with. iTrapped had grabbed Ellernate’s hand like a dare.

“Dance with me,” he’d said, half-grin, the hoodie hanging off his shoulder like a banner of defiance.

Ellernate wants to be sensible here—tactical, even—but the lobby piano is playing a tender old standard and the place smells like perfume and warm varnish and the absurdity of being young and invulnerable swells in his chest. He holds out his hand because someone has to be the grown-up and someone has to be the idiot, and tonight they get to swap roles.

iTrapped grabs his hand and pulls him up the first step. The marble is cold underfoot, the kind of cold that sharpens nerves; the chandelier scatters light into a million tiny, forgiving suns. They move together in a way that looks practiced only because they decide it should look practiced. iTrapped’s laugh keeps spilling out—bright, a little embarrassed, wholly himself—and it infects the moment until Ellernate is laughing back, the sound loose and hot.

For a moment, they were the only two people in the whole ornate building. The steps caught them and made each step feel like choreography. iTrapped’s laugh—loud, a little embarrassed, entirely himself—kept spilling into the space between them.

“You look ridiculous,” Ellernate had teased, because that was the script civilization approved of. There was no bite behind it, though, because he spun iTrapped under a low chandelier like they belonged in a movie. His hoodie flapped. His grin was ridiculous. Ellernate dipped him like he knew exactly how to be clumsy and charming at once.

“You love that ‘bout me,” iTrapped shot back, breathless. Oh, how he’d kill to see that smile again. “Promise me one thing,” he whispers then, half-lost in the music, his voice small and very serious all at once. “Promise we’ll always be ridiculous together. Even when—especially when it’s stupid.”

Ellernate catches his smile, the earnestness of it, and for once he answers honestly. “I promise,” he says, and it’s not a performance. It’s a small covenant they make in the echo of the chandelier.

The song winds down. The pianist hits the last note and the lobby breathes with them. The glow around iTrapped’s face is ridiculous and soft and it imprints itself behind Ellernate’s ribs. He doesn’t move his hands from iTrapped’s waist.

There were no cameras, no witnesses that mattered. Their confinement to that absurdly dramatic staircase made everything about them oversized and honest. Ellernate remembered the way iTrapped’s hand fit against the back of his neck, the way the hoodie smelled faintly of laundry and cheap cologne, the ridiculous certainty in his eyes that they could steal a scene out of a film and make it real.

A stranger clapped once—because the whole tableau was theatrical—and iTrapped bowed with mock solemnity. “Thank you—thank you,” he announced, voice theatrical. “We will accept our imaginary Oscar now.” Ellernate had laughed then, the sound bright and hot, and for the exact width of the song, they were stupid and invincible and exactly what each other needed.

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

Then the marble dissolves and the bathroom tiles snap back into place. The steam from the sink clears the chandeliers into nothing, and Ellernate is only standing there with cold water running off his fingers and his heart still beating like a drummer who doesn’t know the show’s over. He presses the heel of his hand to his chest and he can still feel the phantom warmth of iTrapped’s palms around his neck.

His neck hurts even more now.

For a dizzy second he is both there on the staircase and here in the fluorescent light, and the two truths sit together—absurd, indelible. He lets out a breath that is part laugh and part crack, a private noise that tastes like being young and reckless and overwhelmingly loved.

He could feel how those small, unsettled moments turned into the reasons he’d defend iTrapped until he bled for it.

Ellernate dries his hands with a towel, folds it slow, and for once when he steps out into the penthouse the room feels larger in the seam where that memory had been stitched. The promise from the top of the stairs hums in him like a small electric law. Promise made, promise kept—no matter how much the world demands otherwise.

They’ll always be ridiculous together, even when it’s forbidden—right?

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

“I don’t want to go back.”

iTrapped’s sobs filled the room. It was quite the messy, but bittersweet scene—he was curled up in LonelyTree’s arms, crying into his shoulder like there was no place else to go.

“Not tonight. Not—oh, fuck…I—I can’t.” The sentence unravelled and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes again because speaking felt like slamming a door on his own throat. “I can’t deal with the penthouse. I can’t—gosh, it’s my fault. Why do I always mess up everything?—“

Tree didn’t flinch. He patted iTrapped’s back once, the polite reassurance of someone who’d done this before. “Stay here,” he said. “It’ll be alright, ‘Trapped. Let it out.”

iTrapped slid down until his head hit Tree’s chest and the world narrowed to the contour of a man who’d given him shelter so many times it had become habit. For all of iTrapped’s curated manners and polished smiles, he was suddenly very small—like a guilty child in a hoodie. How familiar.

He let the tears come then, not the keening sobs of a theater, but the small, insistent wetness that gathers under the eyes and makes you taste salt.

Tree’s hands were gentle. One curved around the back of iTrapped’s head; the other threaded fingers into his hair, steadying. “You don’t have to talk,” Tree murmured. “If you want to, tell me. If you don’t, that’s fine too. I’m here.”

He told a little. “I—oh Telamon, I thought he was gonna die. I thought—“ I thought I was going to be the reason for another death.

He couldn’t say that.

The kind of confession that’s rough around the edges. Alarms, the Illumina falling, the moderator at his throat, the Darkheart in his hands, the shove. He didn’t go into the calculus and he didn’t narrate the justification. The words were small and ragged, the distance between fact and meaning enormous. “Shit, it’s my fault it’s my fucking fault I can’t—does he hate me? Oh, Tree—now he hates me. Everyone probably does. Why wouldn’t they?—I’m the reason they even got into the Banlands in the first place, and I—fuck I—“

“iTrapped.”

iTrapped sniffled, finally raising his head to meet Tree’s gaze. Soft and panicked to gentle and steady.

“I understand, but please don’t blame yourself. I’m sure they don’t hate you.” Tree murmured, like a man making room for every jagged piece. The simplest of words did genuinely help. Or maybe it was the satisfaction of comfort iTrapped hadn’t received in a long time.

“Here,” Tree said. “You want to try breathing with me?”

iTrapped blinked around the fog in his skull. It felt absurd—childish, even—but the urge to do anything that didn’t involve thinking was ferocious. “Okay,” he managed.

“We’ll do four to six, alright?”

iTrapped nodded, wiping away his tears with the heel of his palm, sniffling.

Tree’s voice softened into a rhythm. “In—two—three—four. Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four —five—six,” he inhaled with him, slow and deliberate. “Again. In—two—three—four….”

They breathed together in the small furnished room, and for the length of the second round iTrapped could feel the concrete of his panic loosen just a little. The counting filled the spaces that wanted to spiral. Tree’s heartbeat was a slow metronome under his temple; the simple pattern steadied the edges.

“It’s okay if it’s tiny,” said Tree quietly, not scolding. “You don’t have to fix it tonight.”

iTrapped laughed wetly. “I don’t fix anything without a spreadsheet,” he muttered, voice cracking on the joke. “This is…new.”

“You don’t have to be spreadsheets tonight,” Tree chuckled, smiling faintly. “You can be a Robloxian who’s allowed to be messy. That’s always what you’ve been.”

Messy felt dangerous but honest. iTrapped let Tree’s hand slide from his hair to his shoulder, fingers firm and comforting. They breathed again, each cycle unclenching something small—a tendon, a memory, the muscle that tightened in his jaw and wouldn’t relax.

When the pressure in his chest eased a fraction, iTrapped pursed his lips. It really was his fault—and fuck, did it hurt coming to terms with that.

Tree’s thumb rubbed his collarbone the way a parent would calm a scraped knee. “I know,” he said simply, as if he could read his thoughts. “‘Trapped, believe me, he wouldn’t blame you. It was a simple misunderstanding. He’s fine, isn’t he? Breathe.”

iTrapped let the words land like a soft weight. He had rehearsed confessions in the polished privacy of his own head; he’d never practiced them with someone who would not flinch at the uglier syllables. Tree didn’t flinch. That steadied him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“I don’t know how to be honest and keep people safe,” iTrapped admitted, voice small. “I don’t know how to not ruin things.”

“You won’t ruin everything,” Tree said, sensible and gentle. “But if you do, we’ll clean it. We always do. That doesn’t absolve you, does it? It just means you won’t be alone in the mess.”

There was mercy in Tree’s ordinary certainty—the kind that wasn’t performance but history. iTrapped let himself lean in, the motion of a person choosing to be upheld. He buried his face at the crook of Tree’s neck and, for a breath, let himself accept the fact that he didn’t want to go back to the penthouse tonight.

“Stay?” he asked, voice muffled.

And Tree’s laugh was soft. “I told you already. Stay. My couch is bad, my tea is worse, and my neighbors judge loudly at two in the morning. You’re the perfect guest.”

iTrapped snorted, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll be your terrible guest.”

They practiced breathing a few more times until the count trickled down to a comfortable silence. Tree hummed under his breath—something old and laconic that fit the room and the rain and the way iTrapped was slowly untangling. It felt like a lullaby for people who had been forced to grow up too fast.

When the tightness in his chest finally loosened enough for him to think straight, iTrapped pushed back from Tree’s shoulder and wiped his face. “Should I call—“

Even before he finished, Tree shook his head gently. “No, well—not yet. Let it be quiet. Call when you can be useful. For now, sleep. We’ll make a plan in the morning. We’ll figure out what to tell people and when, and we’ll make sure the penthouse stops being a problem.”

iTrapped watched Tree’s face, trying to memorize the angles and the rough kindness. He felt the facade that made him polished and present slip a little, and the relief was nearly physical. “You always make plans,” he said, a small, rueful smile.

Tree shrugged. “Someone’s got to be dull and practical.”

iTrapped let out a laugh that was almost a sob and sank back into the couch. The room was small and warm and unthreatening. Outside the house the rain made its steady sound. A slow cover that would keep the night from listening. He curled up in Tree’s offered blanket like it was a lifeline.

Tree laughed then—a small, incredulous sound that was all the relief in the world folded into one noise. It was the kind of laugh that comes out when someone finally lets go of holding their breath. “Lord,” he murmured, half-grinning, half-crying, “I am so glad you’re okay.” He shook his head, as if he could sweep the night away with the motion.

iTrapped felt the laugh land in his chest like a mirror. It wasn’t the public “good grief” people offered at funerals. More raw and private, the sort of sound made by someone who’s been watching you wear a costume and was finally allowed to see the actor unbutton the collar. Tree’s eyes were wet at the edges, but they glinted.

“You’d been…different, ‘Trapped. Ever since—” He gestured vaguely in the direction of a small frame with a face all too familiar with three Robloxians in it and the word dead without saying it. “You were doing that perfect, polite thing. You looked like you were at the premiere of your own grief. It was getting…hm, what’s the word? Histrionic. In a way.”

The observation was gentle but honest, and it snagged something inside iTrapped.

He’d practiced that face so long it had a memory of its own. The smile so warm yet so cold that made people trust him, the soft condolences, the right pauses. He’d used performance as shield and then started to confuse the mask with the man.

Hearing it named out loud—by Tree, who didn’t flatter—felt like snow melting on his skin.

And, well, he felt naked in a way that wasn’t about exposure to danger but exposure to someone who knew him without the script. A strange panic buzzed under his ribs. He’d thought he’d kept the seams closed. He’d thought the show was seamless. He hadn’t planned on the seams billowing like curtains in a storm.

“Is that your judgment?” he managed, trying for a joke that landed flat. “You seeing the unseen theater of my life?”

Tree’s smile softened. “I’m not judging. I’m noting.” He bumped iTrapped’s knee with a casual fondness. “And relieved. Actual relief, not the performative kind you were selling. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to call a priest. Well, I was really just under the impression that his death was getting to you—and, I wanted to comfort you, to let you know that I was here for you, but—“

He went on.

iTrapped let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and then the sound frayed into something real. Performative? Really?

Tree tilted his head, kind and sharp at once. “You okay?”

“Not really.” The answer came out too honest. He forced a smile into place immediately after, like straightening a collar. Fuck, he was doing it again. “Does it really seem like that?”

And Tree’s laugh this time was softer, affectionate. He reached for iTrapped’s hand and squeezed once, simple and sure. “You can stop dressing your grief,” he said. “It’s not a bad thing. I think maybe it’s obvious that you’ve just been affected too much by it. I mean, if my partner died out of nowhere like that—I definitely wouldn’t be the same as well.”

iTrapped’s chest clenched.

Out of nowhere.

“Mm,” he hummed, looking away now. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Tree’s gaze. There was no way to hand over the vulnerability cleanly without the truth slipping.

“I do hope you’re alright though,” Tree eventually murmured, breaking the silence. He chuckled low and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head—an unshowy benediction. “You’re allowed to handle grief in whatever way makes you comfortable,” a pause, “but you don’t have to stay that way if it scares you. Don’t lose yourself in the process, hm?”

iTrapped squeezed his eyes shut and let the truth be small and crammed into the moment. He had feared being seen. He still feared it. But facing Tree’s calm felt like an experiment he might survive. He didn’t say that out loud. He didn’t need to. Instead he inhaled the steady warmth of Tree’s jacket, let his shoulders drop a degree, and for once, let someone else carry a fragment of the weight.

And, most significant of all; he feared the truth.

That everybody would figure it out, and it would be his fault all over again.

“You’re shaking, ‘Trapped.”

“Am I?”

Tree looked down at him with the gentlest of pouts and patted his head. “You sure you’re okay? Maybe I shouldn’t have brung it up.”

“No, I—“ the words caught, and iTrapped could only purse his lips, clearing his throat. “I just need a moment,” his words came out hushed. The only expression that crossed Tree’s face was concern as he grabbed the blond’s wrist before he could fully stand.

“We can head to the balcony,” he offers—and, iTrapped blinks, considering the offer, before giving a clipped, simplistic nod.

They moved toward the door together—one man steadying the other, both of them carrying too many words.

“What are we going to talk about?” iTrapped murmured, sliding the glass doors open. He turned, squinting at the window as if the city might cough up an answer.

Tree smiled, pushing past him gently. “It’s up to you to tell me.”

Chapter Text

“You never wanted saving; you wanted a witness, so I became one.
Saving was a lie I told myself to justify staying.
So if devotion is heresy, let me wear the sin like a halo.
In the end, I am nothing but the man who kept coming back to witness my own undoing.
Meo profano, Angelus animae meae impiae.”

⋆˙⟡˙⋆

iTrapped let the rain wash the world away in little vertical lines. He stood at the balcony rail with his hoodie up, palms pressed to the wet metal, as if touching something cold enough would steady whatever had gone molten inside him. The hoodie, however, did nothing to keep out the night, only made his silhouette less claimable by the garden below.

Tree’s comfort was, well—embarrassingly, helpful. It just made iTrapped feel small. He didn’t deserve any of that consolation, or, well, didn’t really feel like he did.

He kept telling himself it had been an accident, as if repeating it would stitch meaning back into the wrongness of the angle and the knife. But, well, the word “accident” slunk through his mouth and turned bitter; it didn’t really match the taste of Ellernate’s blood on his hands in his memory. He could still hear the faint clink—and that stupid stupid sound of the blood pooling down his neck—and then the guilty little realization of what he’d done. It did not feel good at all.

Naturally, he wanted to fix it with the same childish logic that had once gotten him through a broken router—like, pull harder, pry the pieces back, hope the right sequence would reboot the world. It didn’t work that way, nothing did. Promises felt useless considering he’d already broken every single one of them. He promised himself he would do better, he promised he would be careful—promises, all, unless someone could walk back through the flash and choose differently.

He scanned the dark for a reason to breathe, found none, and thought of Tree’s stupid kettle whistle—someone else’s small mercy—and hated himself for needing it. It made him feel small, and, if anything, small was honest; it was the only honest thing left. If apologizing could have opened a wound and then sown it closed, he would have spent the night on his knees doing nothing else. But apologies don’t stitch flesh.

I am so stupid.

“I brought that mug you ha—“

“Do I smell like rain?”

When iTrapped turned, Tree gave him the gentlest of baffled expressions. He blinked, and, tilted his head as if to prompt him further. Tree, in response, just sighed and set the mugs down on the railing before leaning in.

“…Kinda.”

“Oh.”

The steam fogged the small space between them and for a second the two men were a private island, rain, heat; the thin architecture of a moment no one else had scheduled.

iTrapped glanced down. The same mug Tree, ██████ and him had made together. It would’ve shattered into pieces if Tree’s voice didn’t cut through the silence quick enough.

“You left a mess on his neck,” murmured Tree gently, not a question but the kind of observation that could be a beginning or an end. He didn’t really sound shocked. Just…tired. Which was evident enough considering the time.

iTrapped closed his fingers around the mug, like it might make him less sharp. He listened to Tree’s voice and let the shapes of words come to him slowly, as if he’d been wading back into language after drowning.

“I know,” he eventually muttered, voice small and flat and so damn vulnerable for someone like him. “I cut him.” It was the plainest of confessions and he had rehearsed a thousand defenses for it mentally—necessity, panic, miscalculation—but none of them really seemed to fit the way the cut at Ellernate’s throat had fit the night. Small, intimate, too close to being a sentence.

He thought about that slice like an index of shame now.

The image wouldn’t leave him.

The damn steel kissing the firm curve of skin, the abruptness of realization with the way Ellernate’s whole face had gone small in that public, private way. And he’d told himself later that it had been a mistake, that adrenaline and terror had mixed into a poor calculation. But none of those explanations warmed him. The truth was simpler and much more humiliating—that he was simply clumsy with the violence he performed in private; that he had not reconciled the man who wielded a sword with the man who loved badly and loudly.

Tree’s hand rested on the rail, the light catching the gnarl of his knuckles. He didn’t press iTrapped for the story, but he made the space for it, which, was pretty much the same thing. “Do y’regret it?”

The question opened and iTrapped wanted—really wanted—to give the right answer, the patriotic regret, the contrite line everyone respected. Instead a string of smaller, uglier things rose first—the relief that Ellernate hadn’t bled out, the flicker of selfish gratitude that the man lived and was, for reasons both tender and terrible, still…

His.

But that thought felt wrong. He was someone else’s already, right?

“…I regret that it happened like that,” said iTrapped finally. “I—I regret that it was me who put the edge to him, and I regret that my hands did what my brain tried to justify. I…I regret the fear I gave him.”

Tree listened without inhaling too loudly. He offered the steady, unflashy thing people sometimes confuse with indifference and then later grieve for not having noticed. Presence. “You did hurt him,” he stated simply, “that’s not nothing.”

iTrapped let out a laugh that was half-exhale, half-broken thing. “I know, I know. And, and well that’s—it’s just unbelievable, right? Like—I…” he stopped because the sentence could escalate into defensiveness if he kept going. He was used to building reasoning like sandcastles around ugly facts, it was better for the public, better for them, better for the narrative. But, with Tree, the sand didn’t bother to hold. “I don’t know what else to do but…admit it,”

Tree’s face softened in a way that made iTrapped feel both seen and sore. “Admit it to me,” he whispered, voice small. “Not like a press release. Not like a justification. Just—tell me, ‘Trapped. I’m not here to judge.”

Isn’t that what everyone does?

iTrapped drew a breath that trembled at the edges. He wanted to tell the whole monstrous thing. He wanted to explain ██████ as an equation. Threat, outcome—and he wanted a logic that absolved. But the rain, the anonymity of the dark, and Tree’s patient eyes stripped him raw. What spilled out instead was a different kind of truth. Something he wasn’t quite familiar with himself. “It—It…It wasn’t supposed—oh, Tree—I don’t k—know, It just…It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he stumbled. “Fuck, it shouldn’t have ended with him—” he stopped as if the rest of the sentence itself might splinter into a dozen accusatory shards. Might as well.

Tree’s hand moved, surprising him by the softness it carried. It came to rest near iTrapped’s on the rail but didn’t touch him. An offering of company, not rescue. He didn’t really like that. “‘Trapped,” he coaxed, and the name came freighted. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

The admission lodged like a lump of coal. His eyes burned with things he’d trained himself not to display.

The words lodged, carbonhot. iTrapped felt them sink straight through whatever armor he’d dressed in that afternoon. His throat closed up as if someone had wound a cord around it; everything that had been folded tight inside him—rationalizations, rehearsed answers, the neat public grief—unraveled in the instant the confession left his mouth.

You killed him.

You killed ██████.

He tasted the truth like rust. It was idiotic and final and too loud in the small space of the balcony. He tried to telescope the moment into a sentence that could be understood, a calculus nobody could argue with—necessary, controlled, an unfortunate side effect of doing the right thing. But the words wouldn’t sit in a row. They tumbled out like a loose sachet of coins.

“I killed ██████,” he said in the thinest of voices, the words tumbling from a well he hadn’t meant to reach. “I—” he let the silence hang like a verdict. “It, no—believe me, Tree, it was supposed to be controlled. And, t’was supposed t’be necessary—it—” he couldn’t finish without the sentence curdling into blame that would be more about himself than about what had happened.

Panic pushed at his ribs again, thinner and more insistent.

He paced words with his breath—fast in, slow out—until his lungs felt like rubber bands. “I thought—” he started, clutching at the edge of an explanation. “I—I thought if I made the fix…like, i—if I made t’fix myself, and if I kept the hands clean, if—oh, fuck—I kept the story—” He swore under his breath; the analogy was obscene. Stories did not clean blood. They only shaped it for other people to swallow.

Heat pricked behind his eyes. He felt suddenly ridiculous for having imagined that controlling the narrative could make pain less real. The shame of it was animal. He’d performed sorrow like a costume and in the dark, he’d bled through it.

“‘M so tired of bein’ th’one who has t—to perform,” he rasped, “we…we staged our grief and it—it kept everything neat, but, but until it didn’t. Until it—” he choked on the rest.

Fuck.

“…What?”

“I—I killed him, and, oh gosh—I—“

“iTrapped.”

iTrapped stopped.

Tree inhaled once, long and careful. The rain masked the small sound. He set the mug down on the railing between them with a deliberation that made it into a small-ish ritual.

He stepped a hair closer, the gap collapsing under the weight of both of them. His voice softened even more, carefully slow so it would not startle. “Breathe with me, okay?“ He offered, the gentlest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Just for a moment. Same as last time. In—two—three—four. Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four—five—six.” He breathed, even and steady, like a metronome that could teach a flailing heart how to find its beat again.

iTrapped was too raw for pride. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who refused help for the sake of stubbornness. He matched Tree’s count in a fumbling, mechanical way at first, then more carefully. Each round made the edge of the panic dull, turning the hot rush into something he could look at without dissolving. The city’s smear of light kept its indifferent slow crawl beneath them while their chests synchronized to a different rhythm.

The silence was painful. He was going to hate him like everyone else. It’s his fault all over again, and—

“You’re shaking again,” Tree murmured after the third breath, with the frankness of someone who’d seen the way iTrapped tried to anesthetize himself in public. He reached again and this time his fingers brushed iTrapped’s wrist—barely a touch, mostly a message.

Stay.

It wasn’t the theatrical rescue iTrapped feared. It was a handhold for someone who had almost slipped away.

“What if they hate me? And, and—fuck, what—“ he heaved, voice a thread. “What if he’s erased as an accident someone else could have prevented—? What if they turn him into a story I—I can’t touch? And, then, it’ll be all my fault—“

“Then we’ll be the people who tell the other story.”

“…W—We…we will?”

“Of course. But, ‘Trapped, you also can’t be the only one running with a secret that could burn the rest of us. There are consequences that go beyond words.”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he sighed. “I’m disappointed.” The word wasn’t a roar; it was a flat, honest thing like a measuring stick. “But ‘m not finished with you. Not as long as you’re still standing.”

The implication landed like a stone. iTrapped’s eyes narrowed because he could already imagine the outcome. People crossreferencing time stamps, the Moderator’s report, the neat signatures in blue ink that would tidy away nuance. If the truth of what happened was known, it would ripple. People would choose sides, papers would choose slant, alliances would calcify. He hated that and, selfishly, he wanted to be the author of the version he preferred.

“That’s cowardice,” said Tree bluntly, softer than a scald but with a firmness that made iTrapped flinch, “and, not for the kind you think…but for refusing to let everyone else learn the shape of it. You think you protect people by carrying the whole thing alone. You don’t, you isolate. You make it worse.”

iTrapped felt the words like a shove. His posture folded on itself. “But…I don’t want to be a buh—burden,” he mumbled, the old line, the easy excuse. “I don’t want t’be the thing everyone circles because they need an enemy. I—” He stopped again. The rain punctuated the silence with small, sharp sounds.

“You are already a burden, whether you choose to be or not.“ said Tree eventually. And God, did that hurt.

Guilt shifted into something hotter and meaner then—self-loathing made articulate. iTrapped repeated the confession as if saying—thinking it again might change its shape. You killed him.