Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wakes on stone.

Cold, slick stone, hard enough to bruise bone. It presses into his back like knives. His lungs fight to drag in air, but the air itself feels wrong, too heavy, too thick, like breathing smoke. He coughs and coughs until his chest burns and spits black grit onto the ground.

The sound is swallowed instantly.

No echo, no life, just silence.

His ears ring, high-pitched, drilling into his skull. Every heartbeat makes it stutter louder, louder, until he claws at his head like he can dig the noise out with his nails.

Nothing works.

He opens his eyes, slow, because even the light hurts. The world swims: gray sky, smoke curling in lazy ribbons, jagged outlines of collapsed towers stabbing upward like broken teeth. The ground is covered in ash so thick it looks like snow, except it’s bitter in his mouth and coats his tongue metallic.

The smell makes him gag. Fire, metal, rot. Charcoal that’s seeped into everything. It clings to his skin, his hair, his clothes like it’s in him, like he’s made of smoke.

He sits up on shaking arms. The stone tears his palms raw, dust filling the cuts until they sting like fire. His body feels heavy, wrong, stitched together badly. His head spins and spins until he curls forward, forehead pressed to his knees, trying not to throw up.

He doesn’t know his name.

He tries to remember but all he sees is an empty void.

He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t know anything, actually, not a single fact about himself, and that’s impossible, isn’t it? Everyone knows their name. Everyone knows something.

He pulls at the blank space in his mind anyway, frantic. He needs to know.

And something answers.

Flashes, too bright and too fast: fire roaring higher than towers, wings outlined in flame, a voice-his voice? Screaming until it broke. Heat blistering his skin. A thousand people screaming back.

And then silence.

He gasps and jerks back like the memories themselves are flames licking at him. His vision blurs. His stomach twists.

“No,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “no, no, no, stop, I don’t—”

The ruins don’t answer.

He shoves himself up, stumbling like a newborn, knees buckling with every step. His legs shake too badly to hold him but he forces them to. The city stretches endless: skyscrapers half-collapsed, skeletons of steel beams jutting like ribs. Neon signs hang dead, their broken bulbs still humming faintly like ghosts. Entire streets gape open where the ground’s split, jagged craters filled with stagnant water that stinks of metal.

The silence is unbearable. Every crunch of gravel underfoot echoes like an explosion. Every shaky breath sounds like he’s screaming. His own heartbeat feels too loud in the hollow city.

He keeps moving, because standing still feels worse. He doesn’t know why. Maybe something’s chasing him. Maybe something’s always chasing him.

Ash clings to him, coats his hair, slips into the scrapes on his hands until it looks like smoke is bleeding out of his veins. He wipes at his face and only smears the gray deeper into his skin.

A sound cuts through the silence.

Not the ringing, not his own steps. Something else.

Shuffle of feet. Whisper of fabric. A laugh that’s wrong.

He freezes. Turns slowly.

Shapes peel out of the shadows. Too many. Their eyes glint sickly yellow in the half-light, their skin stretched tight over bones. Bandits—maybe once human, not anymore. The Lower City warps people. Starves them, poisons them. Makes them predators in a place with nothing left to eat.

They smell like rot and rust and hunger.

Tommy stumbles back, every nerve screaming. His chest heaves, throat closing.

“No—stay back, stay—”

His voice cracks, too thin to carry. They grin, jagged teeth flashing. One drags a knife along the wall, sparks spitting into the dark. The screech rattles in his skull.

He grabs the nearest thing—rebar jutting out of rubble, jagged with rust. It’s heavy, wrong in his hands, but he clutches it like it matters. His arms shake so badly it rattles against the stone.

They don’t stop.

One lunges. He swings wild, eyes squeezed shut, and the rebar smacks against a skull with a dull crack. The bandit reels back hissing. Tommy nearly drops the weapon, stomach twisting at the sound.

Another grabs his arm. Fingers like iron dig into his skin, purple blooming instantly. He yanks free only because the grip slips, sweaty and weak. Luck. Only luck.

They laugh louder. Closing in.

“I don’t even know who I am!” he shouts, voice shredded raw, and it feels like a confession, an apology, not a threat.

They circle tighter. He backs up until his shoulders slam into broken brick. No way out. The rebar slips in his sweaty grip. His vision blurs. His heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

This is it. I’m nothing. Nobody. I’m going to die nameless in the ruins.

The leader steps forward, blade raised.

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut.

And the world breaks.

A weight slams down from above. The leader doesn’t even scream before he crumples—pink hair flashing, steel gleaming wet. The ground shudders with the impact.

“Step away from the kid.” The voice is low, guttural, dangerous in a way that makes the bandits freeze.

Arrows slice the air. One buries itself in the wall an inch from Tommy’s ear. Another pins a bandit’s arm to the ground before he can blink. Perched high on broken stone: a man with feathers silhouetted behind him, bow steady, eyes sharp enough to cut.

“Don’t let any of them touch him!” His words ring like commandment, a law the city itself should obey.

And then the last—tall, coat flaring as he strides into the chaos like he owns it. His grin is wicked, his voice sharp enough to slice the silence in half.

“You lot really picked the wrong day.”

The bandits falter. Some scatter instantly, rat-like. The stubborn ones stay only long enough to die for it—blade flashing, arrows whistling, voice corralling them into nothing.

It’s over in seconds. Too fast. Too clean.

Silence again.

Tommy still stands frozen against the wall, rebar trembling in his hands. His whole body shakes so hard his teeth clatter. His ears still ring. His chest heaves like he can’t get enough air.

They turn to him. Legends, monsters, gods in human skin.

The tall one kneels, coat settling around him. He holds his hands out like approaching something fragile, voice soft in a way that doesn’t match the carnage around them.

“Hey. Easy. We’re not here to hurt you.”

Tommy flinches anyway, pressing himself harder against the wall. His throat works before his voice crawls out, hoarse and broken.

“…Who am I?”

The three glance at each other. Something unreadable passes between them—grim, heavy.

The man with the bow sighs, quiet, aching, like a prayer he’s said too many times.

“…Poor lad.”

And Tommy feels the words settle in his chest like another stone he’ll never be able to lift.

Ash drifts down heavier, cloaking the four of them in gray.

The walk is too long. Or maybe too short. Tommy can’t tell.

The strangers lead him through the ruins like they’ve done it a thousand times, boots crunching sure and steady where his stumble feels pathetic. He trails a few paces behind because being too close feels like begging and too far feels like running. His hands shake so badly he keeps clenching them into fists, nails biting deep into raw palms.

Everywhere he looks the city is worse. Collapsed highways dangling like snapped spines. Streetlights bent double, glass shattered into glitter that crunches sharp underfoot. The sky is a flat gray bruise pressing low, always threatening rain but never delivering. The silence is broken only by crows perched on wire, black against black, watching. Always watching.

He tries to count steps to ground himself one, two, three, breathe but the ringing in his ears eats the rhythm.

The pink-haired man moves like a knife, cutting through rubble with no hesitation. The archer (Phil, he thinks, maybe he heard one of them say that name) scans every corner with eyes that glint like steel. And the loud one, the one with the grin too sharp to be safe he talks sometimes, mutters little comments at the others, and it always makes the air feel thinner. Like his voice can reshape the ruins just by being loud enough.

Tommy keeps his mouth shut. His throat feels scraped raw anyway.

After what feels like hours maybe days? They reach a door. Not a normal door. Heavy steel, welded into the side of a half-collapsed building, covered in scorch marks but standing proud. The kind of door that doesn’t ask you to knock. The kind of door that dares you.

The pink-haired one raps a coded rhythm on the metal. The sound echoes down inside the hollow building. Locks clang, gears shift. The door opens.

And warmth hits him in the face like a fist.

Light spills out-real light, not firelight, not neon buzz, but golden and steady. Warm air heavy with the smell of bread and oil and smoke that means hearth, not ruin. Voices, muffled but alive. Too alive.

Tommy reels back a step. It feels wrong, obscene, after the silence outside.

The loud one (Wilbur, that’s his name, he thinks) notices. He pauses in the doorway, tilts his head, studies Tommy like he’s a puzzle with missing pieces. His grin softens—not by much, just enough to show something less sharp under it.

“You coming in, kid?”

The word kid rattles in Tommy’s chest. Like he’s small, like he belongs somewhere, like he isn’t just smoke and ash. His feet move before his brain agrees, carrying him inside.

The door slams shut behind them, bolts sliding home. The sound makes Tommy flinch.

Inside is impossible.

The walls are patched steel and stone, lit by strings of salvaged bulbs humming warm yellow. Tables cluttered with maps, half-dismantled weapons, mugs of tea gone cold. A fireplace built out of scrap glows steady, flames licking safe and orange instead of wild and hungry. Shelves sag with supplies: tins, jars, bandages, stacks of books with cracked spines.

It smells like life.

And it’s loud. Voices echo from deeper in the safehouse, laughter sharp and sudden, footsteps pounding across upper floors. The air vibrates with it, and Tommy’s skin prickles like he’s standing too close to lightning.

His chest tightens. His hands won’t stop trembling. He wants to crawl back into the silence outside where nothing touched him, where nothing wanted him.

“Easy,” Phil murmurs, noticing. His voice is softer than it has any right to be. “It’s safe here.”

Safe. The word feels poisonous. Safe means letting your guard down, and letting your guard down means getting crushed.

He presses back against the nearest wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting across every corner of the room. Too many shadows. Too many people. Too many places someone could grab him.

Wilbur crouches in front of him, same as before, hands out like he’s coaxing a wild dog. His coat pools on the floor, ridiculous and regal all at once. His grin is gone now, replaced by something quieter.

“No one here’s gonna hurt you,” he says. “Not us. Not anyone.”

Tommy’s throat burns. He wants to believe it so badly it hurts worse than the bruises. But the words come out cracked and broken:

“…I don’t even know who I am.”

The room hushes. Even the muffled laughter from upstairs dims, like the safehouse itself is listening.

Techno (because that’s the pink-haired one, he remembers now, Techno) crosses his arms, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Then we’ll figure it out. You don’t need all the answers yet.”

Phil nods, feathers shifting faintly with the motion. “You’re alive. That’s what matters first.”

Alive. The word sits heavy in his chest. Heavy and unfamiliar.

Wilbur offers a hand. Palm open, steady. “Come on. Sit by the fire. You look like you’re freezing.”

Tommy stares at the hand like it’s a weapon. His own fingers twitch but don’t move. His heartbeat slams against his ribs.

The fire crackles. Ash drifts off his clothes in little clouds, settling on the floor of a place too clean for him.

He whispers, almost to himself, “…I don’t belong here.”

And the three of them exchange a look over his head complicated, weighted, like they know something he doesn’t.

Phil answers first, voice quiet but certain.

“You do now.”

The fire crackles too loud.

It shouldn’t. It’s only wood, fire contained in a scrap-metal hearth someone had clearly welded together with care. Flames licking orange, a steady rhythm, the kind people gather around. The kind that’s supposed to mean comfort. But to Tommy, each pop sounds like a bullet. Each shift in the wood is a scream too close to his ear. His skin prickles, hairs rising on his arms, and even as the heat wraps around him, he can’t stop shivering.

He sits hunched on the ragged couch they gave him, the one nearest the fire. The springs squeal if he moves too suddenly, so he doesn’t. His knees are pulled up tight, arms circling them like ropes binding him in place. His muscles ache with the tension. Every bandage wrapped around him feels like a lie—neat white fabric layered on a body that feels filthy, ruined, ash-stained. His fingers twitch against the gauze, trembling like they’ve been wired wrong.

The others move around him in fragments. Philbusies himself at the long counter on the far side of the room, the clink of mugs and faint scrape of spoons against ceramic grounding but sharp, like each sound digs into Tommy’s skull. Techno is in the corner sharpening a blade, every scrape of metal against stone dragging across his nerves. Wilbur paces sometimes, coat swishing, long legs restless, words spilling from him like a leaking tap. None of it makes sense—questions Tommy doesn’t know how to answer, jokes that hang in the air waiting for a reaction he doesn’t give.

Tommy shakes his head, again and again, until his neck is stiff. He has nothing to give. His mind is an empty room with the lights switched off.

And the silence behind the noise the laughter upstairs, the footsteps across boards, the low hum of lightbulbs strung above makes it worse. This house isn’t dead like the city. It’s alive, humming, buzzing. He feels wrong inside it, a black smear on the warm glow.

When Phil sets a steaming mug of tea beside him, Tommy doesn’t touch it. The smell is too much: sharp herbs, smoke, something grounding. He wants to want it. He doesn’t.

“Drink if you can,” Phil says gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t even linger. Just sets it down and moves on, feathers shifting faintly at his shoulders as he climbs the stairs.

Techno goes next, silent as stone. His gaze cuts across Tommy one last time before he disappears into the shadows. Stay alive, his eyes seem to say. Not unkind. Not warm. Just steady.

Wilbur lingers longer. He crouches near the fire, fiddling with something on the floor, humming low. When his eyes flick up, they burn too bright. “You look like you’re freezing,” he says. “But don’t worry. It’s warmer here than it looks.”

Tommy wants to believe him. Wants so badly it aches like a bruise. But the words catch on the barbed wire in his throat.

The safehouse quiets when Wilbur finally retreats upstairs. Doors creak, then shut. Silence swells.

It takes forever for Tommy’s body to relax enough to even think of sleep. He shifts, couch springs creaking, pulling the blanket tight against his chin. It smells of soap and woodsmoke, warm in a way that tugs at something in his chest some memory that refuses to surface. His eyes sting. He blinks until the sting dulls, until exhaustion drags him under.

And sleep is not kind.

The fire follows him.

It eats the city whole, climbing steel and stone like ivy. Screams swell around him, the ground vibrating with terror. Ash falls thick, coating his tongue bitter and dry. His own hands glow white-hot, light splitting through the cracks of his skin, and when he screams it isn’t words but flame, pouring out of him in a roar.

The name cuts through it all: Blazeborn.

It echoes against skyscrapers, whispered, shouted, screamed. His name, the world insists. His curse. His destiny.

And there wings. Great burning wings, feathers curling into smoke, rising from his back. He sees the glow reflect off glass, sees people scatter, sees the fire reaching for them, hungry. He can’t tell if he’s burning them or trying to save them.

The dream claws into him until he can’t breathe.

He wakes choking.

Sweat slicks his skin, hair plastered to his forehead. His hands shake so hard the blanket tangles around his legs. His throat burns raw, as if he’s been screaming. The safehouse is too dark, too quiet. The embers in the hearth spit low, the only light a faint orange glow that makes the shadows stretch.

Tommy presses his fists to his eyes. He doesn’t dare breathe too loud. His chest heaves anyway.

And then—footsteps.

Slow, steady, descending the stairs. Too loud in the silence. Tommy freezes, breath stuttering. His fists clench so hard nails bite through bandages. If they heard him—if they saw—if they knew—

The shadow that rounds the corner is tall, shoulders draped in a coat. For a second Tommy sees wings again, vast and burning, and his whole body jerks.

But it’s just Wilbur.

His hair is mussed from sleep, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the ridiculous long coat hanging loose over his shoulders. He squints at Tommy, bleary but sharp, and when his eyes catch on Tommy’s trembling form, he softens. A tired smile curls across his face. Not the knife-edge grin, not the showman mask. Just warmth.

“Bad dreams?” His voice is rough with sleep.

Tommy can’t answer. His voice is locked behind his teeth. He hates himself for it.

Wilbur doesn’t push. He just drags a chair across the floor, spins it backwards, and straddles it. His chin rests on the top rail, arms draped loose. The firelight paints him in gold and shadow, flickering across tired eyes.

“You’re not the only one,” he says after a while. “This place… it keeps its ghosts. You’ll see.”

Tommy stares at his trembling hands. Bandages white in the firelight, smudged with ash where he’s clawed them. His throat works, but the words scrape raw when they finally spill out.

“…I saw fire.”

Wilbur’s face twitches, just for a heartbeat, before he schools it into something gentler. “Fire doesn’t always mean destruction,” he says softly. “Sometimes it just means you’re still burning. Still alive.”

Alive. The word sticks like a thorn in Tommy’s chest. He doesn’t feel alive. He feels like ash pretending to be a person.

Wilbur hums, low and tuneless. Something that might once have been a song, though Tommy doesn’t recognize it. The sound isn’t sharp or demanding it’s steady, soft, filling the silence with something that doesn’t choke.

Tommy’s breaths hitch, but slowly, painfully, they start to match the rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

His eyelids drag heavy again. He resists, fighting sleep like it’s another enemy, but the weight wins. His body sinks into the couch, the blanket pulling him down.

The last thing he sees before darkness takes him is Wilbur still there. Still humming. Still watching the fire like he can keep it alive with will alone, like he’s daring the nightmares to come back.

When Tommy wakes, it’s to the smell of tea again. The mug from last night sits on the floor, steam curling faintly, replaced fresh. The fire is low but alive. A blanket he doesn’t remember pulling tighter is tucked firm around his shoulders.

And he isn’t sure whether to feel safer or more trapped than ever.

Chapter Text

The safehouse wakes slow.

Floorboards creak before footsteps. A kettle rattles faintly on the old iron stove, steam drifting into air that still tastes faintly of last night’s smoke. The walls are too thin to hold in warmth, but the sound of Phil moving softens the cold. He moves like the house itself is his quiet, practical, steady.

Tommy drags himself out of bed because Wilbur wouldn’t let him stay in it even if he tried. The blanket is heavy with dust, the mattress thin, the morning light already burning pale through the window. His body aches from yesterday’s fight if it could be called that his bruises tight and swollen, his arms stiff as wood.

The kitchen feels older than the house, every surface scratched and worn, cupboards mismatched, one chair propped up by a brick. But it’s lived-in, too, in a way Tommy doesn’t know how to name. A knife left out on the counter. Phil’s scarf slung over the back of the chair. Techno’s boots by the door, mud caked on the soles. Wilbur humming off-key as he paces.

Phil slides a bowl in front of Tommy the moment he sits down, no words, just warm porridge with too much cinnamon. It tastes burnt at the edges, but it’s food, and it’s something, and Tommy swallows it down even as his throat scratches.

Wilbur, leaning against the counter, grins like a man with a plan. “Eat quick. We’re going out after.”

Tommy stares down into the bowl. His stomach twists. He doesn’t ask where “out” is, because he already knows: the yard. Training. He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

But Wilbur doesn’t leave room for choice.

The yard stretches behind the safehouse like a scar.

Dirt, mostly. A flat patch with a fence leaning at odd angles, half-choked by weeds, one lonely tree twisted and bent at the corner. Dust hangs in the air even without wind, coating the back of his throat. The ground is hard, cracked, as if it resents being walked on.

Wilbur plants himself at the center of it all, coat flaring, staff balanced easy in one hand. He gestures at Tommy like he’s welcoming him home.

“Right, lad. First lesson: staff work.”

Tommy blinks at him, the words rolling off his skin like they don’t belong. “Staff what?”

Wilbur steps closer, presses the rough wood into Tommy’s hands. It’s heavier than it looks, the weight uneven, the grain biting into his palms. Tommy’s fingers tighten, instinctively, like he’s done this before. His arms remember the balance. His feet shift to brace themselves without his mind catching up.

“See?” Wilbur says brightly, as though this proves something. “You’re a natural.”

Tommy frowns. His body feels wrong. Not weak, not clumsy though he is both but familiar. As though he’s walked this ground before, held this wood, fought these drills. His shoulders roll, his knees bend, and the staff sits in his grip like it belongs.

Wilbur notices, of course he does. His grin sharpens.

They start simple. Swing. Step. Block. Wilbur demonstrates, loose and practiced, the rhythm smooth as breathing. Tommy tries to mimic. The first attempt stumbles, wood too heavy, footing off. But the second time his arms snap into place without thinking. His weight shifts perfectly. He blocks at just the right angle.

It frightens him more than failing.

Wilbur claps like he expected it. “Yes, exactly that!”

Techno, sitting cross-legged near the porch sharpening his sword, glances up. His eyes narrow. He doesn’t say anything, but the tilt of his head makes Tommy want to crawl out of his skin.

They keep going.

Swing. Step. Block. Over and over. Tommy’s breath grows ragged, arms aching, shoulders burning. The staff rubs splinters into his palms. He should be tripping, fumbling, collapsing under the weight. But every now and then, his body takes over, moving fluid, too fast, too sure. He blocks one of Wilbur’s strikes without even looking. He spins the staff between his palms like it’s second nature, like he’s done it a thousand times.

Wilbur beams at him. Techno mutters something under his breath. Phil watches from the fence, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

Tommy feels sick.

Because it doesn’t feel like learning. It feels like remembering.

And remembering something when you don’t know who you are when you don’t even have a name for yourself feels like stealing. Like trespassing inside your own body.

The staff slips from his grip once, hitting dirt. He curses under his breath, clutching his palms. Splinters sting. A faint heat pulses in the cuts sharp, brief, gone before he can name it. He hides his hands in his shirt, heart pounding, throat tight.

Wilbur only says, cheerful as ever, “You’re better than you think, Tommy. We’ll keep at it tomorrow.”

Tommy nods. Pretends to believe him. Pretends the fire in his palms isn’t real.

The safehouse looms quiet when they step back inside. Dinner smells faintly of herbs and smoke. Phil hums as he stirs the pot. Techno vanishes upstairs. Wilbur talks too loud, filling every silence.

Tommy sits in the corner, staff still in his hands, and stares at the wood grain. His palms ache. His chest aches worse.

Because somewhere inside him, something knows how to fight.

And that terrifies him more than anything.

The safehouse breathes differently in the mornings.

Phil is always up first. You can tell by the smell: tea steeping, herbs burning faintly in the stove, bread already browning. His footsteps are soft, deliberate, like he knows the boards well enough to avoid the loud ones. Sometimes he hums, low and steady, the sound settling into the walls.

Tommy drags himself out of bed slower today. His body feels half-splintered, half-stitched together wrong. Arms sore, shoulders tight, palms bandaged clumsily from yesterday. He flexes his fingers under the wrappings and feels the dull throb of bruises in his knuckles.

The kitchen is warm but crowded. Wilbur leans against the counter, coat half-buttoned, gesturing wildly at some story. Techno sits silent at the table, sharpening a dagger, metal scraping in a steady rhythm. Phil moves between them, setting down plates of toast and fruit without missing a beat.

Tommy hovers in the doorway, awkward, wishing he could disappear.

Wilbur notices first, of course. He always does. “Ah! Sleeping beauty’s up. Eat quick, we’ve got work.”

Tommy slips into the chair across from Techno, who doesn’t look up from his blade. The toast crunches too loud in his mouth, crumbs sticking to his tongue. He swallows anyway, throat raw. His stomach knots at the word “work.”

The yard is waiting, same as yesterday.

Dust clings in the air, the cracked ground drinking in sunlight, the twisted tree leaning like a witness at the edge. The fence rattles faintly in the breeze.

Wilbur tosses him the staff before he’s even ready. The wood bites into his palms through the wrappings, heavier today, or maybe it’s just him. His shoulders ache at the weight.

“Repetition drills,” Wilbur says. “No flair. Just rhythm. Swing, step, block. Again and again until it’s in your bones.”

Tommy wants to argue. He doesn’t. He nods, throat too tight for words.

They start.

Swing. Step. Block.

The staff shudders through his arms with each impact. His palms sting where the bandages rub. His breath grows sharp, sweat sticking hair to his forehead. Dust rises at his feet. The sun beats down, cruel and unblinking.

Wilbur circles him, correcting angles, calling instructions too bright, too quick. Techno sits at the porch again, sharpening, but his eyes flick up every few minutes, cool and calculating. Phil leans against the fence, arms crossed, gaze softer but no less sharp.

At first Tommy stumbles. The rhythm feels jagged. But then his body remembers. His weight shifts smoother. His hands adjust before his mind catches up. The staff arcs clean through the air, block precise, step steady.

It unsettles him. Again.

Because it doesn’t feel like learning. It feels like slipping back into something left behind.

Wilbur’s grin widens every time it happens. “Good! You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Tommy freezes. His grip tightens on the staff. His throat locks. “N-no. I haven’t. I don’t ”

Wilbur tilts his head, studying, but doesn’t press. Techno mutters something that sounds like “too clean,” voice low but sharp enough to cut.

The drills grind on. Hours blur. His shoulders scream, his arms shake, his palms split through the wrappings until blood stains the wood. Splinters dig deeper. He keeps going anyway, teeth gritted, breath ragged.

“Again,” Wilbur calls.

Tommy swings. The staff jars. His vision blurs. Frustration boils sharp in his chest.

Why do I know this? Why do I move like this? Who was I before?

The questions claw through him, jagged, louder than Wilbur’s instructions, louder than the scrape of Techno’s blade, louder than Phil’s quiet hum.

His body stumbles under the weight of them. His palms burn. And then 

The head of the staff glows.

Just for a moment. Orange veins crackle faint under the wood grain. Smoke curls sharp and thin.

Tommy’s breath stutters. He jerks back, drops the staff. It hits dirt with a heavy thud, smoke still hissing faint.

Wilbur stills. Techno’s knife pauses mid-sharpen. Phil’s arms tighten across his chest.

Tommy collapses to his knees, clutching his hands to his stomach, hiding the faint scorch marks on the bandages. His chest heaves. He shakes his head, frantic. “I I can’t sorry, I can’t ”

He pretends it’s exhaustion. Pretends it’s weakness. Anything but what it is.

Phil steps forward, slow, sets a cup of water by his side. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t ask. Just says, steady, “Breathe.”

Wilbur’s eyes glint, sharp and knowing, but he doesn’t speak. Techno mutters something Tommy can’t catch, turns his gaze back to the knife.

The moment passes, buried in silence.

But the smell of smoke lingers in the dirt, curling up into the air.

Dinner that night feels heavier.

Wilbur hums as if nothing happened. Techno sharpens steel longer than usual, blade scraping in the quiet. Phil tends the stew until it’s thick, setting bowls down with the same careful steadiness as always.

Tommy eats in silence, bandaged hands tucked tight under the table. His chest still aches, and the ghost of heat hasn’t left his skin.

He doesn’t look at any of them. Because he’s afraid of what he’ll see there.

The safehouse always feels louder at night.

Not because the others talk more, but because every sound carries differently in the dark. The walls creak louder. The stove ticks sharp as it cools. Footsteps echo down the hall even when they’re soft. Tommy lies awake on the thin mattress, every noise cutting too deep into the silence.

He’s not supposed to hear them. He knows that.

But their voices bleed through the floorboards anyway.

Wilbur’s first, low but insistent. “I’m telling you, there’s something there. He moves like someone trained. He holds the staff like it’s familiar. That’s not nothing.”

Techno’s reply is colder, sharper, cutting through the air like the scrape of his blade. “Or he’s faking. Or worse, he’s dangerous. You don’t just pick up form like that by accident.”

Phil hums, steady, thoughtful. “He’s… not ordinary. That much is clear. But we don’t know what he is. We should be careful.”

Tommy curls tighter under the blanket, heart pounding so loud he’s sure they’ll hear it. His hands clutch the fabric until his palms ache.

Wilbur again, sharper now. “Careful’s fine, but hopeless? No. I’ve seen people train for months and never block the way he blocked me today. He’s got something in him.”

Hopeless. Dangerous. Not ordinary.

Tommy buries his face into the pillow, teeth sinking into the fabric to choke down the sound clawing up his throat. He doesn’t want to hear more, but he can’t stop listening.

Techno’s voice lowers, almost a growl. “Something in him isn’t always a good thing.”

The floorboards creak. Chairs scrape. Then silence, heavy and suffocating.

Tommy presses his palms against his chest. They still hum faintly, like embers hiding under ash.

Morning comes too bright, too fast.

The kitchen smells of toast and herbs again, but the warmth feels thinner today. Wilbur hums off-key as if to fill space. Techno sharpens steel with slower, heavier strokes. Phil moves quieter than usual.

Tommy eats quick, choking down bread, eyes on the table. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t want to.

Wilbur claps his hands after, too cheerful, too rehearsed. “Right! New drills today. Reaction work. You’ll like this, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t argue. His stomach knots anyway.

The yard waits, sun sharp overhead. Dust hangs in the air, clinging to his throat.

Wilbur stands across from him, a handful of pebbles in his coat pocket. “All you’ve got to do is dodge or block. Quick reactions. Trust your body.”

Tommy swallows hard. His body he doesn’t trust. His body knows too much already.

Wilbur flicks the first pebble without warning. Tommy flinches late, the stone smacking his shoulder.

“Too slow,” Techno mutters from the porch.

Again. Another pebble. It bounces off his knee.

Again. He jerks left too far, stumbles.

Again.

His breath grows ragged. His palms sting from the staff he grips too tight. His vision blurs in the heat. He hears yesterday’s words echoing in his skull: hopeless, dangerous, not ordinary.

Wilbur tosses another, sharper, faster.

This time, Tommy’s body moves before his head can. His staff whips up, clean block, pebble smacking wood with a crack. Smooth. Perfect.

Wilbur grins. “See? You’ve got it.”

Tommy shakes his head, panicked. “I I didn’t I don’t ”

Another pebble flies. Tommy dodges without looking. His weight shifts too neatly, too instinctive. He hates it. He hates the way his body knows things his mind doesn’t.

Wilbur’s grin sharpens. Techno’s eyes narrow. Phil’s jaw tightens.

The next pebble arcs high, sunlight glinting off its edge. Tommy’s breath catches. His palms burn.

And before the stone reaches him it bursts.

A crack of heat, a flare of orange, smoke curling sharp in the air. Ash falls where the pebble should have landed.

Tommy stumbles back, staff dropping, chest heaving. “No no, I didn’t I didn’t ” His hands shake, heat still licking under his skin. He presses them into the dirt, trying to smother it, trying to hide it.

Wilbur’s grin falters into something thinner, sharper. Techno sits forward, eyes flashing. Phil steps once toward him, steady, grounding.

But no one says it. No one calls it what it is.

And Tommy, gasping in the dirt, pretends it didn’t happen. Pretends it was the sun, or a trick, or nothing at all.

He knows they don’t believe it. He knows they saw.

The smell of smoke lingers long after.

That night, Tommy can’t eat. The stew sits untouched, steam curling. Wilbur hums louder than usual. Techno sharpens longer. Phil clears the table quietly when Tommy doesn’t move.

The safehouse feels heavier. Like the walls know more than he does. Like the air itself waits for him to crack open.

Tommy lies awake again, palms pressed hard against his chest, terrified of the fire still crawling just under his skin.

The mornings never change, but Tommy does.

He notices it in small ways: the way the stairs groan under his weight differently each day, because his legs ache in new places. The way the kettle’s whistle grates sharper, because his head pounds harder. The way Phil’s tea smells stronger, earthier, because he breathes shallower to hide the stutter of his chest.

Routine piles up like dust in the corners of the safehouse. Phil sweeps every morning, but dust always wins.

Tommy drags himself to breakfast late. Wilbur already talks with his hands full of crumbs, Techno sits sharpening as always, Phil hums while stacking plates. It looks the same as every day, but Tommy feels the difference: his skin too tight, his palms still tingling, his chest humming with a faint, awful heat.

No one mentions yesterday. The air pretends, heavy and deliberate.

Wilbur breaks the silence with his usual too-bright clap. “Right, enough of the basics. Sparring today.”

Tommy chokes on his toast. “What?”

Wilbur grins like it’s a gift. “Practice means nothing if you can’t use it live. Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy.”

Techno snorts. “You won’t.”

Wilbur shrugs, not denying it.

Phil doesn’t look up from pouring tea. “Keep it controlled.”

Tommy doesn’t breathe until they leave the table.

–

The yard feels smaller today.

Wilbur stands across from him, staff spinning lazy in his hands like it belongs there. Tommy’s own staff feels heavier, unbalanced, the wood splintering under his bandaged grip.

“Don’t overthink,” Wilbur says. “React. Trust the rhythm.”

Tommy swallows hard. He doesn’t trust his rhythm.

They start.

Wilbur strikes fast, staff whistling through air. Tommy blocks on instinct, arms jarring with the impact. His shoulders scream. His feet stumble back into dirt.

Wilbur doesn’t pause. He presses again, again, again swing, step, jab each movement fluid, merciless. Tommy’s staff shakes with every block, his breath tearing sharp in his throat.

Techno calls from the porch, voice flat but cutting. “Your grip’s wrong. You’ll drop it like that.”

Wilbur jabs low. Tommy stumbles, barely catching it. His palms split open again, blood spotting the wrappings.

“Too slow,” Techno adds.

“Come on, you’ve got this,” Wilbur calls, too cheerful, too sharp. He swings high, staff cracking against Tommy’s block, the wood jarring through his bones.

Phil leans against the fence, arms crossed, watching steady. His eyes soften when Tommy falters, but he doesn’t step in. Not yet.

The spar drags on. Tommy’s arms quake. His legs feel hollow. His lungs burn. But every so often his body remembers.

A clean pivot, weight shifting smooth. A strike parried without thought. A counter jab that nearly lands.

Wilbur’s grin widens every time it happens. Techno’s eyes narrow further. Phil’s jaw tightens.

Tommy hates it. Hates how familiar it feels. Hates the way his body knows more than he does.

The rhythm breaks. His palms flare. The staff grows hot.

Too hot.

The wood smokes where his grip tightens. Black lines crawl along the grain. Splinters char under his skin.

Tommy panics, drops it. The staff hits dirt with a hiss, smoke curling from the impact.

Silence slams down.

Wilbur’s grin falters, then twists into something sharper. Techno rises from the porch, slow and deliberate. Phil steps forward quick, picking the staff up before it burns deeper, smothering the smoke with his sleeve.

Tommy stands frozen, chest heaving, palms raw and blackened. He wants to deny it, wants to hide, but the evidence is there in the dirt: the faint scorch marks, the smell of ash.

Wilbur breaks the silence first, voice low, almost reverent. “Told you. There’s something there.”

Techno’s reply is cold as steel. “Something dangerous.”

Phil doesn’t speak. He just sets the staff down on the fence rail, pats the dirt off his sleeve, and looks at Tommy with eyes too steady, too knowing.

Tommy wants the ground to swallow him whole.

That night, the safehouse feels hostile.

Every room too small. Every wall too close. Every creak too loud.

He eats nothing. He sits through dinner with hands hidden under the table, knuckles raw, palms still aching. Wilbur talks too much, Techno says nothing, Phil clears the bowls in silence.

Tommy escapes early to his room, curls under the blanket, presses his palms against his chest to hide the hum.

He doesn’t sleep.

Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees it again the staff smoking, the wood burning, the fire curling out of his hands like it belongs there.

And he’s terrified it does.

The safehouse doesn’t sleep evenly.

Phil is the first to fade. His footsteps quiet earliest, his door closing with a soft click. Wilbur lingers longer, humming scraps of half-finished songs as if the silence bites him. Techno is last   steel scraping long after midnight, sharpening until the blade sings.

Tommy listens to all of it from under his blanket, eyes wide in the dark. He doesn’t want to hear, but the house breathes too loud.

It should feel safe here. That’s what safehouses are meant for. But every board groans like it knows a secret. Every wall leans in like it wants to listen.

And every time Tommy closes his eyes, the dark burns orange behind them.

He tries to help in the morning. He really does.

Phil chops herbs for stew stock; Tommy offers to stir. The spoon slips from his hand, clatters too loud against the pot. He jumps like it’s an explosion.

Wilbur shrugs it off with a smile, but his eyes flicker sharp. Techno doesn’t even bother to hide his sigh.

Breakfast tastes of smoke even before it burns.

Training doesn’t wait. It never does.

Wilbur calls him to the yard with false cheer. “We’ll take it lighter today reaction and rhythm. Nothing too brutal.”

Tommy wants to say no. Wants to curl back under the blanket and hide from the light. But he can’t. Because if he refuses, they’ll call him useless. If he fails, they’ll throw him away. And if he tells the truth about the smoke, the heat, the fire still humming in his skin they’ll know.

So he grips the staff again, palms raw under the fresh bandages, and nods.

Wilbur circles him, quick strikes, feints, testing. Tommy stumbles, blocks, reacts clumsily. But every so often his body betrays him parrying smooth, pivoting sharp, too much competence for someone who “knows nothing.”

Techno watches from the porch, eyes narrowing more each time.

Phil stands nearby, water jug in hand, gaze heavy but unreadable.

The hours blur. The drills grind. Tommy’s arms shake, his chest burns. He stumbles into dirt again and again, staff slipping from blistered palms.

And still Wilbur presses. “Again. You can do this. Again.”

Until Tommy breaks.

Not in shouts, but in silence. His knees buckle. His palms slam into the dirt. His chest heaves with ragged, panicked breaths.

And the staff in his hands glows.

Not just smoke this time. Not just heat.

A faint orange pulse crawls through the grain, fire licking along the cracks like veins.

Tommy jerks back, drops it, scrambles away on his hands. The wood smolders in the dirt, smoking faint. His palms still glow with it, ember-hot, alive.

Phil steps forward fast, smothering the staff again, steady hands moving calm. Wilbur’s grin is too wide, too sharp. Techno’s voice cuts cold.

“He’s hiding something.”

Tommy stammers, “I’m not I didn’t ” His throat closes around the lie. His hands shake too hard to hide.

Wilbur crouches near, voice low, coaxing. “It’s alright, Tommy. It’s something. We can work with this.”

But Tommy doesn’t believe it. Can’t. Because he saw the look in Techno’s eyes, the wariness in Phil’s. Because he knows something’s wrong with him, even if he doesn’t remember what.

Because if fire like that lives under his skin what else does?

The night after is worse.

The house breathes heavy again, voices carrying sharper through the boards.

Techno, clipped: “You saw it. We can’t ignore it.”
Wilbur, quick: “I told you there’s something there. Something worth keeping.”
Phil, steady, quiet: “Or something dangerous.”

Tommy curls tighter on his mattress, palms pressed hard against his chest, terrified they’ll hear the hum of fire under his skin.

He bites his tongue until it bleeds, just to stay silent.

But silence doesn’t help when the fire finds him anyway.

He sneaks outside, long after their doors close. The yard glows pale under moonlight, dirt cold under his bare feet. He sits in the dust with the staff across his knees, breath sharp, heart hammering.

His hands ache. They always ache now.

When he opens them, the fire crawls free.

Not wild, not roaring. Just a flicker at first, faint orange licking at his skin. It curls along his fingers, soft, almost gentle, not burning him at all.

It should hurt. It doesn’t.

It feels like it belongs.

Tommy stares, shaking, torn between awe and horror. His breath fogs cold in the night air, but his palms glow hot, steady, alive.

“Why me?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Why the fuck me?”

The fire flickers, answering nothing.

He clenches his fists. The glow snuffs out.

And when he finally drags himself back inside, his chest feels heavier, not lighter. Because he knows now.

The fire isn’t just there.

It’s his.

The first dream comes like a knife.

Not soft, not slow. A strike to the skull, sudden and merciless.

Tommy jerks awake gasping, lungs clawing for air. His palms glow faint in the dark, heat crawling like insects under skin. Sweat slicks his back. The blanket sticks to his legs.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember the dream, not all of it. Just 

Fire.
Screams.
Stone cracking.
A name on someone’s lips, warped by the heat.

Not his name. Not Tommy.

Something else.

He presses his hands into his face, willing the images away. His chest heaves, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The safehouse groans around him, every board whispering like it knows.

He doesn’t sleep again.

Morning light feels cruel.

Phil cooks as always, herbs crackling in oil. Wilbur hums, too cheerful, while fiddling with papers. Techno sharpens slow, steady, steel rasping against stone.

It should be normal. It should feel safe. But Tommy’s skin won’t stop crawling. Every creak of the house sounds like the dream echoing back. Every scrape of Techno’s blade sounds like stone breaking. Every flick of fire under the pan makes his stomach twist.

He barely eats.

Phil notices. He always notices. He doesn’t push, doesn’t say a word, just passes Tommy a smaller portion and lets him sit quiet. That mercy feels heavier than any scolding would.

Training waits. Training always waits.

Wilbur meets him in the yard, staff spinning easy in his hands. “We’ll slow it down today,” he says, though his grin sharpens the words. “More sparring. Reaction. Let the body do the work.”

Tommy’s body always does the work. That’s the problem.

They start.

The staff feels heavier every day. The wood digs into blistered palms, bandages soaked with sweat and blood. Wilbur presses him hard swing, block, counter, dodge. Each motion grinds, every strike jars through his bones.

Techno’s voice cuts from the porch. “You’re leading with the wrong foot again. Amateur mistake.”

Tommy grits his teeth, fixes it, hates how natural the correction feels.

Because it is natural. Too natural.

His body doesn’t hesitate anymore. It slides into stances smooth, pivots sharp, parries clean. Every block lands just right. Every dodge too instinctive.

Wilbur’s grin widens. Techno’s scowl deepens. Phil watches, silent.

Tommy feels sick with every strike that lands. Because this isn’t learning. This is remembering.

And if he’s remembering, then the dream isn’t just a dream.

The fire follows him.

It flickers at the edge of his vision, curls along his palms when frustration bites. He smothers it each time, hissing into dirt or pressing hands against stone until the glow dies. But it always comes back.

In the kitchen, the kettle whistles too loud, and he flinches, heat sparking in his fist.
In the hall, Wilbur claps him on the back, and his palm warms too fast, too sharp.
At night, the dreams claw again, fire curling through ruins, screams echoing, that name ringing in his ears 

Blazeborn.

It doesn’t sound human in the dream. It sounds like a curse.

One night, he can’t hold it.

He stumbles outside, barefoot, breath sharp in the cold air. The yard glows faint under moonlight, dirt pale and soft. He kneels there, trembling, pressing fists into the ground.

“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop. Stop.”

The fire doesn’t stop.

It bursts.

Flares through his fingers, curls up his wrists. Bright, alive, orange searing the night. It dances like it knows him, like it loves him. Like it’s been waiting all along.

And it doesn’t hurt.

That’s what terrifies him most.

He stares, chest heaving, tears stinging his eyes. “What what the fuck am I?”

No answer. Only flame, steady and faithful.

He slams his fists into dirt, smothering it. Ash stains his bandages black. His breath shudders out in broken gasps.

Behind him, the safehouse creaks.

He spins, panicked, but no one’s there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe the walls just wanted to listen again.

He crawls back inside, shaking, guilt gnawing holes in his chest.

Because he knows now. The dream wasn’t just memory. It was a warning.

And whatever he used to be the fire hasn’t forgotten.

Chapter Text

The morning begins with rain.

Not the harsh kind, not the battering storms that gnash at the windows and shake the safehouse walls. Just a steady, soft drizzle, tapping against the roof like fingers on a drum. It paints the world outside grey, cool, damp, and the smell of wet earth curls through the cracked windows.

For once, there’s no barked call to the yard, no staff waiting, no drills lined up like soldiers in Wilbur’s head. The rain keeps them inside.

Tommy almost doesn’t know what to do with that.

He lingers in the kitchen doorway, blinking against the cozy glow of lamplight. Phil hums quiet as he sets bread to rise, flour dusting his hands. Wilbur sprawls on the rug in the sitting room, papers strewn everywhere, doodling between half-finished notes. Techno sits sharp-backed in a chair, book open, expression unreadable, but his shoulders are looser than usual.

It feels… normal. Too normal.

Tommy’s chest twists with the unfamiliar weight of it.

Phil makes porridge. Sweetens it with honey, sprinkles cinnamon over the top. He hands Tommy a bowl without a word, and Tommy nearly drops it because it’s warm, really warm, and not burning, not scorching. Just the right kind of heat.

“Eat up,” Phil says. His tone is casual, but his eyes flicker   watchful, soft, worried in the way they always are.

Tommy eats.

It tastes like safety, and he hates how badly he wants to cry into it.

The rain makes everything slower.

Wilbur drags Tommy onto the rug, scattering papers, pulling him into some nonsense game. Rolling dice, drawing on scraps, making up rules as they go. Wilbur cheats every time, grins sharp, insists he’s “just innovating.” Tommy shouts back, calls him names, kicks at his shin. They both laugh too loud, filling the house with sound.

Phil tells them to keep it down, but he’s smiling behind his mug.

Even Techno’s mouth twitches   just once, barely there, but Tommy sees it.

And it makes something bloom in his chest, fragile and stupid and warm.

Later, Wilbur pulls out his guitar. Strings hum under his fingers, warm and slow, the sound of rain given shape. Tommy hums along, voice cracking but earnest, filling the spaces between chords. Phil listens with closed eyes. Techno pretends to read, but the corner of his book doesn’t move for ten minutes straight.

For a while, Tommy forgets.

He forgets the staff, the drills, the way his palms ache with phantom fire.
He forgets the dream.
He forgets the word Blazeborn.

There’s only the music, and the rain, and the safehouse creaking like an old friend.

After lunch, Phil sets him to chores. Simple ones   drying dishes, folding cloth, patching a tear in a sleeve. Tommy groans, complains, whines loud enough to make Wilbur snicker, but he does them anyway.

It’s stupid, it’s boring, it’s nothing. And yet it feels like proof he exists here, really exists, not as a weapon or a mistake or a curse, but as someone who can help.

Every plate stacked, every shirt folded feels like a tether.

He clings to it harder than he’ll ever admit.

Evening stretches slow. The rain lightens to mist.

Phil cooks stew, rich and heavy, herbs filling the air. Wilbur sets the table messily, Techno fixes it with a roll of his eyes, Tommy sneaks bites when Phil’s back is turned. They bicker, laugh, move around each other like they’ve always done this.

Dinner feels too big, too warm, too alive.

Tommy doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Phil ruffles his hair, gentle and proud.

After dark, they sit by the fire.

The hearth crackles, soft and safe. Not like the fire in Tommy’s hands. This one is tame, old, trusted. He stares at it too long, chest aching, but he doesn’t look away.

Wilbur tells stories, exaggerated and stupid, about battles he’s never fought and kingdoms that never were. Tommy laughs until his ribs hurt. Phil chuckles, correcting the worst of his lies. Techno scoffs, mutters “idiot” without heat.

It’s stupid. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

For the first time in weeks, Tommy almost believes he belongs.

And then 

When everyone’s asleep, the house breathing soft around him, Tommy wakes.

The dream claws back, sharper this time. Screams, fire, stone shattering. The name again, louder now:

Blazeborn.

He jolts upright, fists clenched. His palms glow faint in the dark, heat curling gentle but insistent.

He stares at them, breath shaking.

Ninety-nine percent of the day was safe, soft, warm.

But the one percent always finds him.

The rain doesn’t stop.

Morning bleeds into morning, and the world outside stays grey, dripping steady, the earth soaked and softened. The safehouse walls hum with it, wood swollen faint with damp.

No one seems to mind.

Phil hums while he kneads bread, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flour smudged white against his forearms. He’s slower today, steady, like the weather has given him permission to breathe easier.

Wilbur scribbles in notebooks at the table, tongue poked out in concentration, occasionally breaking into humming   tuneless, loud, more noise than music.

Techno sits by the window with his book, hood down, hair loose. He doesn’t turn pages often, but no one comments.

And Tommy 

Tommy sits cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil scratching.

Not fire. Not battles. Not nightmares. Just the curve of Phil’s hands in the dough, the bend of Wilbur’s grin when he catches himself, the slant of Techno’s shoulders softened by lamplight. He draws because it feels safe to, because no one here rips pages from his hands.

And for the first time in weeks, his chest doesn’t ache while he does it.

The bread comes out golden. Phil cuts it warm, steam curling, butter melting instantly. He slides a piece onto Tommy’s plate first. Doesn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkle when Tommy devours it in three bites.

“Slow down,” Techno mutters, not looking up.

Tommy glares at him through a mouthful of crumbs. “Jealous.”

“Of your table manners? Never.”

Wilbur snorts so hard he chokes on his slice. Phil just sighs, like he’s dealing with children instead of soldiers, and for once Tommy doesn’t mind being the brat.

Afternoon turns into chores again.

Wilbur tries to balance spoons on his nose while they dry dishes. Tommy joins in, competitive, and ends up with three clattering to the floor. Phil groans, picks them up, and mutters about “raising fools.”

Tommy feels warm all the way down to his ribs.

Later, they drag blankets into the sitting room, pile them high into a crooked nest. Tommy insists it’s “engineering,” not a blanket fort. Wilbur crowns it with a hat he swears is royal, and Techno refuses to sit inside it until Tommy declares it’s a “war tent,” at which point Techno ducks in without a word.

Phil watches from the doorway, shaking his head, but he’s smiling again.

Evening drips in soft.

Wilbur pulls his guitar close, strings bright against the hush. This time, the song is gentler   lullabies half-remembered, stitched together with humming. Tommy sprawls across the rug, eyes half-shut, sketchbook forgotten at his side.

Phil sits in his chair, knitting quiet. Techno stays near the window, but his book rests closed on his knee.

It feels like home. Like a family. Like something whole.

Tommy doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want the fire in his chest to ruin this.

So he doesn’t think about it. He just listens, eyes slipping closed to the sound of strings and rain.

That night, the dream waits for him again. Fire, stone, screams, the name curling like smoke.

But when he wakes, breath catching, the safehouse is quiet, steady, alive around him.

And for a moment   just one   the warmth doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like belonging.

The morning is clear after days of rain.
The yard gleams damp, mud clinging heavy, air sharp with the scent of wet stone.

Wilbur decides it’s “a perfect day for drills.” His grin is too wide, like he’s already scripting Tommy’s triumph. Tommy groans, dragging his heels, staff already too heavy in his blistered hands.

Phil watches steady, arms crossed. Techno sharpens his blade at the bench, unimpressed.

“Swing, step, block,” Wilbur orders.

Tommy obeys.

But today, something’s wrong.

Or right.

Or both.

His body moves smoother than it should. Not polished, not graceful   but efficient, practiced. His feet land where they’re supposed to without him thinking. His arms bring the staff up in time to block a strike Wilbur never warned him of. His knees bend before his brain registers the motion.

He stumbles, breathless, staring at his hands.

That wasn’t me. That wasn’t mine.

Wilbur blinks, then laughs too bright. “See? You’re learning.”

Phil narrows his eyes. Techno says nothing, but his gaze sharpens.

The drills grow harder. Wilbur presses, striking faster. Tommy’s arms should fail him, but they don’t. He parries, counters, spins the staff in an arc that feels carved into his bones. He doesn’t remember learning it   but his body knows.

Each strike lands too clean.

Each dodge comes too early, too precise.

Each movement feels like a memory dragging his muscles behind it.

And with every one, his chest tightens.

Why do I know this?

Techno steps in at last, staff in his hands, eyes cold. “Fight me.”

Tommy shakes his head fast. “No. I can’t  I’ll lose ”

“Then you’ll learn.”

The match begins before he can breathe.

Techno swings hard, brutal, and Tommy blocks. Staff to staff, sparks in his arms, his wrists burning with impact   but he doesn’t fall. His feet carry him sideways, body ducking, countering, striking back with angles he shouldn’t know.

Wilbur whoops in delight. “See! I told you!”

Phil doesn’t smile.

The fight sharpens. Techno presses harder, faster. Tommy’s body keeps pace, each block instinctive, each dodge too sharp. He whirls the staff in a circle so quick the wood whistles, striking back at Techno’s exposed side 

And stops inches from his ribs.

He freezes, trembling. He hadn’t meant to. His body had moved without him.

Techno’s eyes narrow.

“You’ve done this before.”

Tommy drops the staff like it’s burning. “No I haven’t I don’t I swear ” His chest heaves. His palms ache. His throat closes.

Phil’s hand rests gentle on his shoulder, but the weight of three stares makes him want to vanish.

That night, Tommy curls in bed, staff marks still etched red on his skin. His arms ache, but not from clumsiness   from precision. From a fight he shouldn’t have been able to hold.

The fire whispers in his veins. His body hums with strength that doesn’t feel like his.

He doesn’t sleep.

When his eyes close, he sees flashes: smoke, screams, his own hands blazing gold, enemies falling like ash.

And the name again, echoing like it belongs to him.

Blazeborn.

In the kitchen the next morning, Wilbur grins like nothing’s wrong. “See? You’re a natural.”

Phil watches silent, careful.

Techno says, flat, “No one’s a natural like that.”

Tommy grips his spoon until his knuckles go white.

The morning feels sharp, air biting cold despite the sun. The yard smells of wet grass, drying earth. Wilbur is already bouncing, staff in hand, grinning like a man who’s convinced today will be glorious.

Tommy drags his heels, exhaustion sunk deep in his bones from another night of broken sleep. Fire kept humming beneath his ribs, whispering too loud, keeping his body restless. He’d curled into the blankets, biting down sobs until dawn.

And now Wilbur’s got that manic sparkle.
“Come on, Tommy! Today’s the day.”

“The day for what?” Tommy mutters.

Wilbur grins wider. “To see what you’re really made of.”

Techno stands across the yard, arms folded, axe strapped to his back. His eyes track Tommy with that sharp stillness that makes Tommy want to shrink smaller. Phil leans against the porch, quiet, unreadable, but he’s watching too.

Tommy already knows he’s not getting out of this.

The warmup is drills again: swing, step, block. Wilbur corrects his footing, nudges his shoulders, praises when he gets it right. Tommy’s body falls into the rhythm too quick. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t trip. Every strike lands too clean.

It should feel good. It doesn’t.

Wilbur beams. Techno frowns. Phil keeps silent.

Then Wilbur claps his hands, stepping back. “Alright. Real spar. Tommy versus Techno.”

Tommy’s stomach lurches. “No. No, I can’t I’ll die ”

“You won’t,” Wilbur says brightly. “You’re better than you think.”

Techno doesn’t wait for permission. He steps forward, staff in hand, stance low and sharp. “Fight.”

The first strike comes fast, brutal, enough to crack bone if Tommy misses. His arms fly up before he thinks. The block reverberates through his bones, but it holds.

Instinct drags him sideways, feet finding grip in the mud, staff swinging back in an arc that whistles through the air. Techno ducks, counters, presses harder.

Tommy’s mind screams I can’t, I can’t, but his body doesn’t listen. His body knows.

Each move flows into the next, sharp and practiced. He blocks before Techno strikes, parries blows with angles that shouldn’t be in his memory.

The clash builds faster, sharper.

And then 

Something bursts.

Heat rips through his palms. The staff smokes where he grips it, wood blackening, sparks spitting. Tommy gasps, tries to drop it, but his hands won’t let go. His arms swing fast, too fast, flames licking up the wood as if it were kindling.

Wilbur stares, frozen.
Phil’s eyes widen, jaw tight.
Techno’s expression sharpens, unreadable.

Tommy’s chest heaves. “I don’t I didn’t mean ”

But his body keeps fighting.

Staff collides with Techno’s, sparks exploding. Fire sprays out, hissing in the damp air, searing lines across the mud. The world narrows to flame and instinct. Every strike is guided, not chosen. Every dodge is perfect, merciless.

It feels like someone else is moving him.

It feels like remembering.

Phil shouts something distant, muffled. Wilbur calls his name, panicked. Techno presses harder, faster, trying to pin him down.

Tommy’s body won’t stop.

The fire grows hotter, brighter, staff blazing like a torch. Each strike burns the air. Smoke curls from his skin. He screams, voice cracking, but the fire doesn’t care.

It feels good.
It feels right.
It terrifies him.

At the peak, Techno swings hard for his shoulder. Tommy’s body doesn’t dodge. It steps into it, fire erupting in a shield that devours the blow whole.

The yard shakes with the force.

Silence follows.

Techno stands back, staff lowered, eyes burning. Wilbur stares in awe, terrified and thrilled. Phil is already moving forward, voice sharp.

“Tommy. Drop it. Now.”

Tommy gasps, clutching the staff. Flames roar up his arms, skin unburned but glowing. He tries to let go, fingers locked tight. Tears stream down his face.

“I can’t ”

“Look at me.” Phil’s voice cuts through, steady, fierce. He grips Tommy’s wrist, grounding. “You’re not fire. You’re not ash. You’re my boy. Let go.”

Something cracks. The staff clatters to the mud, half-charred, smoking. Flames sputter, dying into steam.

Tommy collapses with it.

The silence after is suffocating.

Wilbur kneels fast, hands fluttering, words tumbling. “That was amazing you’re incredible we’ll figure it out ”

“Wilbur.” Phil’s voice cuts sharp. “Not now.”

Techno doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave Tommy. Calculating.

Tommy curls small, shaking, sobs tearing out raw. “I didn’t mean to I didn’t want to I can’t ”

Phil gathers him close, firm, holding on like he won’t let fire take him away. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

But the word Blazeborn rings in Tommy’s skull, loud as thunder, louder than Phil’s comfort, louder than anything.

He clutches Phil’s shirt, choking on ash that isn’t there.

That night, the house is quiet. No one speaks of it. The charred staff lies abandoned outside, blackened ruin against the mud.

Tommy lies awake in bed, hands still trembling, heat pulsing under his skin. He presses his palms to his chest, praying it will stop.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

And somewhere in the dark, he whispers, “What if I’m not yours to save?”

No answer comes.

Only the hum of fire in his blood.

The charred staff still lies in the mud when morning breaks.

Tommy stares at it from the porch steps, knees hugged tight to his chest, jaw clenched. It looks like a corpse   blackened, brittle, smoke still faint on the air. He half expects it to twitch back to life.

Behind him, the house is noisy. Wilbur’s singing (loudly, badly), Phil’s sighing at every verse, Techno’s boots thudding across the floorboards. For once, Tommy lingers outside instead of rushing in.

When the door creaks open, Wilbur’s head pops out, curls messy, smile too wide.

“Tommy-boy! Breakfast. Eggs, burnt to perfection. And Phil swears he didn’t catch them from the neighbor’s chickens this time.”

Tommy snorts despite himself. “…This time?”

Wilbur winks. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The kitchen feels almost normal. Wilbur’s already halfway through his plate, humming between mouthfuls. Phil sits at the head of the table, calm, knife and fork moving with measured precision. Techno leans against the counter instead of sitting, tearing bread with his hands like some barbarian.

Tommy slips into his seat. His hands still feel too warm.

Wilbur leans over instantly, grinning. “So, our little firecracker. Planning to toast the toast for us this time?”

“Shut up,” Tommy mutters, ears pink.

Techno deadpans, “Not sure we should let him near dry wood again.”

“Oh, come on!” Wilbur protests. “Did you see him yesterday? He was glorious! Fire everywhere, staff blazing ”

Phil cuts in flat, “Wil. He nearly burned his own hands off.”

Wilbur waves him off. “Details.”

Tommy sinks lower in his chair, groaning. “Can you all not ”

But Wilbur’s already miming, grabbing a spoon like a staff, spinning it with exaggerated twirls. “Whoosh, fwoosh! I am Tommy, destroyer of staves, terror of kindling, scourge of firewood!”

Tommy throws a crust at him. “You’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who wins battles,” Wilbur retorts, crust bouncing off his curls.

Techno mutters, “An idiot who’d be dead if Tommy actually hit him.”

“Thank you, Techno,” Tommy says sweetly.

Wilbur gasps, clutching his chest. “Et tu, Brute?”

Phil finally sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

After breakfast, Wilbur launches into planning. “Right! Training today. Tommy, you and me first. Then Techno can try not to kill you again.”

“Try?” Tommy echoes, horrified.

Techno shrugs. “No promises.”

Phil’s glare sharpens. “You will promise.”

Wilbur leans across the table, stage-whispering to Tommy, “See? Dad’s got your back.”

Phil smacks him lightly with the end of a fork. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, mum.”

The fork gets thrown.

Tommy laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his juice.

Out in the yard, the mud’s drying into firm ground. Wilbur stretches dramatically, groaning like he’s ancient. “Ohh, my back, my knees, I’m far too old to be sparring.”

“You’re literally only a few years older than me!” Tommy snaps.

Wilbur gasps, hand to his heart. “How dare you. I am a seasoned warrior, scarred veteran of battles untold”

“You tripped over a pig yesterday,” Techno interrupts.

Wilbur scowls. “It was a very large pig.”

Tommy wheezes with laughter, nearly dropping his staff.

Phil chuckles under his breath. “Focus.”

The spar begins light   Wilbur circling, teasing, throwing half-hearted jabs. Tommy blocks, awkward at first, then smoother. The fire hums low in his veins, restless.

Wilbur sings as he fights. “Tommy’s got the flames, but noooo aim ”

“Shut UP!” Tommy yells, swinging harder.

Techno calls out dryly, “Rhyming doesn’t make you a bard, Wil.”

“Jealous,” Wilbur retorts, narrowly dodging Tommy’s strike.

Phil rubs his temples like he regrets all his life choices.

It happens when Wilbur presses too hard. Tommy’s body stutters, instincts lurch forward. His staff swings sharp   and fire bursts again, just a flicker, just enough to scorch the air.

Everyone freezes.

Tommy drops the staff instantly, hands shaking. “I didn’t mean ”

Phil’s voice is calm, firm. “Breathe. It’s alright.”

Wilbur swallows, wide-eyed. “…That was so cool.”

“Wilbur.” Phil’s tone is warning.

“I’m just saying!”

Tommy glares through tears. “It’s not cool! It’s scary! What if I hurt you?”

Wilbur’s grin softens, turning gentle. “Then we roast marshmallows, obviously.”

Tommy gapes at him. “…You’re the worst.”

“Worst, but funniest,” Wilbur chirps.

Techno finally speaks, serious. “You need control. Right now you’re a hazard.”

“Thanks,” Tommy mutters bitterly.

Phil lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a hazard. You’re just… still learning. That’s all.”

Tommy swallows hard, nodding, clinging to the weight of Phil’s hand like it’s the only steady thing left.

By night, the house devolves into chaos again.

Wilbur insists on playing cards. Techno keeps winning, unamused. Wilbur accuses him of cheating. Tommy cheers every time Wilbur loses. Phil quietly steals the last cookie from the plate while they argue.

“Phil!” Wilbur yells.

Phil shrugs. “What?”

“That was mine!”

“You snooze, you lose,” Tommy says smugly, biting into it when Phil hands it to him.

Wilbur collapses face-first onto the table. “My whole family betrays me.”

Techno mutters, “You betrayed yourself.”

Tommy snorts so hard milk comes out his nose.

Banter fills the evening, warmth wrapping the house tight. For a little while, Tommy almost forgets the fire. Almost forgets the charred staff outside. Almost forgets the word Blazeborn whispering at the edges of his dreams.

But when the laughter fades, when he curls in bed listening to Wilbur humming off-key down the hall, when Phil dims the lanterns and Techno’s boots stop pacing 

Tommy’s hands still hum warm.

And in the dark, the fire whispers again.

You can’t hide forever.

Chapter Text

The safehouse wakes to the smell of bread and rain. Again.
Tommy sits at the table, eyes fixed on the cracked mug between his hands. Steam curls, disappears. His palms sting where his nails dug in last night   little crescent moons hidden by sleeves.

He smiles anyway.

Wilbur breezes in first, humming tunelessly, curls damp from a too-fast wash. He’s got a paper in one hand, butter knife in the other, and drops both when he sees Tommy already sitting. “You’re up early,” he says, voice bright. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Tommy shrugs. Makes himself shrug like it’s nothing. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wilbur grins like that’s normal, like Tommy’s a kid who stayed up playing games instead of a boy who spent the night on the floor, shaking, whispering old names to himself.

Phil appears next, sleeves rolled, towel over one shoulder. “You’re both up before me? That’s new.” His eyes flicker once   quick, sharp   to Tommy’s wrists where the fabric rides up. Nothing’s showing. Tommy tucks his hands deeper under the table anyway.

Techno comes last, silent as a blade. He gives no greeting, just nods once, takes a seat. His presence fills the room like a held breath.

Tommy raises the mug, forces a sip. Burns his tongue, swallows the pain. Smiles at them.

He’s good at this part.

Wilbur sprawls across the bench like a cat, buttering bread with dramatic flourishes. “Alright, sunshine. What’s the plan today? More stick-waving? More tripping over Techno’s boots?”

Tommy laughs, because it’s expected. Because he’s supposed to be harmless. “I’ll try not to embarrass you this time.”

Phil sets plates down, eyes soft but wary. “You’re improving.”

Techno snorts. “He’s surviving.”

Tommy forces his grin wider. “Surviving’s improvement, isn’t it?”

Wilbur raises a brow. “See? Always looking on the bright side. I like that about you.”

Tommy swallows down the twist in his gut. If Wilbur knew what he was smiling at, if any of them knew  

But they don’t. Not yet.

Breakfast is noisy. Wilbur tells some story about a chicken coop gone wrong, Phil mutters about fixing the roof, Techno critiques the bread crust. Tommy listens, nods, memorizes. He files away every weakness he can see: Phil’s knee bothering him when he leans. Wilbur’s habit of losing focus mid-sentence. Techno’s quiet protectiveness when he moves between Phil and the door.

Information, patterns, habits. All for later.

All for the plan.

His fingers twitch against the mug. He digs nails into his palm again until it hurts enough to focus.

He still smiles.

“Training after breakfast,” Wilbur announces, licking butter off his thumb. “Repetition drills. You need them.”

Tommy makes himself look exasperated. “More drills? I’m still sore from yesterday.”

“That’s the point,” Techno says.

Phil gives him a look. “Don’t push him too far.”

Techno doesn’t answer.

Tommy looks between them, feigning confusion, but inside the thought hums: keep playing small, keep playing weak, they won’t see you coming.

Except he can’t quite look at Phil when he thinks it.

They finish eating. Plates clatter, chairs scrape. Tommy offers to wash dishes   more practice, more time to watch. Phil thanks him softly. Wilbur tosses him a towel like it’s a game. Techno disappears outside.

Tommy stands at the sink, sleeves rolled high, wrists hidden in suds. The window over the basin shows the yard: damp training ground, patchy grass, splintered poles. He can already picture how Wilbur will move, how Techno will circle, how Phil will stand at the edge with arms crossed. He’s watched them enough to draw them blindfolded.

He’s watched them enough to kill them, if it came to that.

His stomach turns. He scrubs the plate harder until his knuckles ache.

Wilbur leans against the counter, watching. “You’re quieter today.”

Tommy flashes him a grin over his shoulder. “Saving my voice for all the yelling I’ll do when you make me run laps.”

Wilbur laughs, bumping his shoulder as he passes. “That’s the spirit.”

The touch is light, friendly. It burns worse than his palms.

The yard smells of wet earth and iron. Rain from last night clings to the training posts in beads, glinting faintly when the sun slips through the clouds. Wilbur stands at the edge with a staff under his arm like a conductor about to lead an orchestra. Techno looms a few feet away, arms folded. Phil leans against the porch rail, quiet sentinel.

Tommy stands barefoot in the mud, the staff in his hands heavier than it should be. He lets his knees knock a little. Lets his grip look sloppy. Lets his breathing sound uneven. He’s learned exactly how much weakness to show without making it obvious he’s faking.

“Alright, sunshine,” Wilbur calls. “Swing-step-block. Over and over. We’ll start slow.”

Tommy nods. Keeps his head down. The part he’s playing is shy, unsure, eager to please. The part of him underneath   Blazeborn, strategist   calculates angles, weight, foot placement. He knows how to fight. He’s done this a thousand times with real blades, not wooden sticks.

But now he does it wrong on purpose. Lets his elbow flare too wide. Misses a block he could make blindfolded.

Wilbur corrects him gently. Techno corrects him coldly. Phil doesn’t correct at all, just watches.

Tommy grits his teeth.

Hours blur. The drills grind down to a rhythm: swing, step, block, Wilbur’s voice, Techno’s mutters, Phil’s silence. The mud cakes under Tommy’s toes. His palms split where old blisters tear open. Blood beads bright against the wood.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wince. He can’t.

He has to look like he’s trying. Like he’s desperate. Like he’s weak.

Inside his chest the fire hums, restless, angry. His body remembers power. Muscle memory flickers like phantom limbs   parries he isn’t supposed to know, counters he isn’t supposed to make. He stumbles on purpose, hits the ground harder than necessary.

Wilbur frowns. “You alright?”

Tommy forces a laugh. “Yeah. Graceful as ever.”

Techno rolls his eyes. “More like hopeless as ever.”

Tommy flinches at that   not from hurt feelings, but because part of him wants to snarl, you’d be dead if I wanted you to be.

Instead he grips the staff tighter, nails biting into the wood until his knuckles ache.

Phil steps forward, a water flask in hand. “Take a break.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says, too quick.

Phil’s brows draw together. “You’re bleeding.”

Tommy looks down at his palms like he’s only just noticed. Shrugs. “Guess I’m soft.”

Wilbur makes a low noise, like he wants to argue, but Techno’s already moving to reset the targets. The moment passes.

More drills. Reaction training now: Wilbur tossing small weighted bags at Tommy, Techno shouting cues. Tommy’s supposed to dodge or block. He misses half on purpose, lets them hit his shoulder, his ribs. Each thud leaves a dark mark.

“Focus,” Techno snaps. “You’re slow.”

Tommy bares his teeth in a grin that’s all act. “Maybe you’re just fast.”

“Fast enough to hit you every time.”

“Fast enough to miss if I wanted you to,” Tommy thinks, but he only pants and swipes at his forehead with a sleeve.

Another bag flies. He ducks too late. It smacks his cheek. He tastes blood at the corner of his mouth. He swallows it, straightens, nods for the next one.

Phil’s voice cuts in, sharp. “That’s enough.”

Wilbur hesitates, glancing at Techno. “Maybe one more ”

“Enough,” Phil repeats.

Tommy laughs weakly. “I can keep going.”

“No,” Phil says. “You can’t.”

Tommy’s grin falters for a second. It feels too good, someone telling him to stop. Too dangerous. He looks down, hides it, forces a nod. “Okay.”

When Phil turns away to fetch bandages, Tommy’s hands tremble. He presses his palms together, feeling the sting where skin’s split. Feels the ache in his ribs, the ringing in his skull.

This is good, he tells himself. This is necessary. They believe him more when he’s hurting. They’ll trust him if he bleeds.

It’s part of the plan.

So why does it feel like punishment?

He digs his nails into his palms until the pain spikes bright. It keeps him steady. It keeps him small.

He smiles when Wilbur claps him on the back. “You’ll get there, sunshine.”

“I know,” Tommy says, and hopes his voice doesn’t crack.

Phil’s kitchen smells like chamomile and honey. Warm light filters through the windows, soft against the storm-gray clouds still hanging overhead. Tommy sits at the table with his hands stretched out on a towel. His knuckles are raw and his palms are a mess of shallow cuts and half-healed blisters.

Phil crouches beside him with a small tin of salve, his brows knit together. “You’ve got to tell me when it gets this bad, mate.”

Tommy shrugs, trying to sound sheepish. “Didn’t hurt that much.”

Phil huffs through his nose. “That’s what everyone says before they pass out on me.”

Wilbur leans against the counter, sipping tea like he owns the place. “To be fair, Dad, Tommy’s got a high pain tolerance. I saw him trip over his own staff and faceplant into the mud without even swearing. That’s commitment.”

Tommy laughs, light and airy. “Didn’t wanna embarrass myself in front of my cool teachers.”

Wilbur grins, overly dramatic. “Ah yes, the noble art of face-first combat. Techno, you seeing this?”

Techno stands near the doorway, arms crossed. His expression doesn’t change. “I’m seeing it,” he says flatly. “And it’s pathetic.”

Wilbur gasps in mock offense. “Don’t bully my student!”

Tommy presses his lips together to hide a smile. The banter bounces around the room like sunlight on water, warm and harmless   and it’s so easy to get lost in it, to forget this isn’t real.

Phil taps his arm gently. “Hey. You spacing out on me?”

Tommy blinks. “Sorry. Just tired.”

Phil softens. “Then you rest after this, yeah? No more drills today.”

He wants to argue   because spies don’t nap at the enemy’s table   but Phil’s tone leaves no room for disobedience. So Tommy nods, obedient, small.

Phil works in silence for a while. The salve stings when it hits the cuts, but Tommy doesn’t flinch. Instead, he watches Phil’s hands. Steady, practiced, gentle. There’s something unsettling about that kind of care. It’s too quiet. Too real.

He can’t remember the last time someone cleaned his wounds without an ulterior motive.

“You should keep these wrapped,” Phil murmurs. “Don’t want them getting infected.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says softly. “Thanks, Phil.”

The older man glances up, surprised at the sincerity in his tone. Tommy looks away before it can linger.

Wilbur plops down in the chair across from him, chin in hand. “You know,” he says conversationally, “most people take months to get as far as you’ve gotten in just a few weeks. You’re a fast learner.”

Tommy gives a weak laugh. “Guess I just really wanna not suck.”

Wilbur’s smile softens. “You don’t suck. You’re just… still finding your rhythm. Everyone’s clumsy at first.”

Tommy hums, noncommittal. He wants to believe that   wants to take the comfort and hold it like a real thing   but it sits heavy in his chest.

You’re not clumsy, his mind whispers. You’re pretending to be.

The thought sours everything.

Techno breaks the silence with a quiet scoff. “You’re praising him too early. He barely lasted half the drills before he started shaking.”

Wilbur gives him a pointed look. “He’s still new, Tech.”

“New doesn’t mean fragile.”

Tommy can feel Techno’s gaze on him, sharp and dissecting. Like he’s peeling back layers and trying to see what’s underneath. For a heartbeat, he wonders if Techno already knows.

He swallows and drops his eyes to the table. “I’ll do better next time.”

“You will,” Techno says   and somehow it sounds more like a threat than reassurance.

Phil sighs. “Enough. You’re not scaring the kid off.”

Tommy forces a grin. “Nah, I’m fine. If I can survive Wilbur’s sense of humor, I can survive Techno.”

Wilbur gasps dramatically again. “The audacity!”

Phil chuckles under his breath. Techno just rolls his eyes, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like idiots.

Tommy laughs too, this time genuinely   because it’s impossible not to. The warmth in the room is dizzying. The easy rhythm of family, of people who care.

And he hates that it makes his chest ache.

Later, after the others scatter   Techno to his forge, Wilbur to scribble songs in his messy notebook   Phil ushers Tommy to the couch.

“Lie down before you fall down,” Phil says firmly.

Tommy hesitates. “I can go back to my room ”

“Nope,” Phil interrupts. “You’re staying where I can see you in case you faint again.”

“I didn’t faint,” Tommy protests weakly.

“Nearly did,” Phil says. “And that’s close enough.”

Tommy groans but obeys. The couch is soft and smells faintly like cedar and rain. He sinks into it, pulling the blanket Phil tosses him over his shoulders.

“Get some sleep, mate,” Phil murmurs, patting his shoulder before heading for the kitchen.

Tommy closes his eyes, feigning exhaustion. But sleep doesn’t come.

[Tommy POV]

Morning comes slow.
Light seeps through the curtains in strips, dust floating in the air like falling stars. Everything aches   his hands, his chest, his head. The blanket around him still smells faintly of smoke from the hearth and damp from the rain. Someone must’ve carried him inside after he fell asleep on the porch.

He blinks, groggy. The safehouse hums quietly with life   the clink of dishes, the low murmur of voices, the sound of Wilbur’s guitar somewhere in the background. Warm. Ordinary. It shouldn’t feel like safety, but it does.

Tommy sits up, joints popping, and pulls the blanket tighter. His hands are wrapped again, fresh bandages. He doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t remember much after the rain   only Techno’s voice steady against the storm, his own shaking, the soft weight of a hand on his shoulder.

He shouldn’t have cracked. Shouldn’t have shown that much.

He’d spent years training to keep control   to lie, to smile, to make them trust him while he learned where to strike. That was supposed to be the plan.

But something in this place scrapes the edges of his armor, makes him forget which mask he’s wearing.
Maybe that’s part of their trick. Maybe they’re soft so you’ll melt first.

He shakes the thought off, dragging himself up. The mirror over the sink catches his reflection   pale skin, dark circles, eyes too old for his face. His hair sticks up in every direction. He looks like someone who’s been lost and found too many times.

And maybe that’s true.

[Techno POV]

Techno’s never been good at letting things go.

He’s got a mind built for strategy   counting, cataloging, predicting   and when something doesn’t fit the pattern, it scratches like sandpaper against his thoughts. Tommy scratches. Everything about him does.

He moves like a fighter, but flinches like a civilian. Lies like a pro, but stumbles over simple kindness. He bleeds easily and then apologizes for existing.
Techno knows that kind of damage. He sees it in the way Tommy curls inward when someone raises their voice, in the way his gaze darts to exits instinctively.

But last night   that was something else.

He saw the heat. The air shimmered around the kid’s skin, steam rising where rain hit. It wasn’t human reflex or trauma response. That was power. Controlled, barely.
And he didn’t imagine the fear in Tommy’s eyes when it happened   not fear of the power, but of them seeing it.

So now, as Phil sets plates on the table and Wilbur hums to himself by the window, Techno keeps his mouth shut but his eyes open. The kid sits at the far end, nursing tea with trembling hands, pretending to be fine.

Techno doesn’t buy it.
But he also remembers the way Tommy collapsed against him, shaking like the world might fall apart if someone didn’t hold it steady.

So he waits. Watches. Calculates.

Sometimes strategy isn’t about attack. It’s about knowing when not to strike.

[Wilbur POV]

There’s something wrong in the rhythm of the morning.

Normally, breakfast in the safehouse hums with lazy, comforting chaos   Phil flipping pancakes, Techno muttering about ration control, Tommy laughing too loud at his own jokes. But today, the silence tastes heavier. Wilbur plays his guitar in the corner to fill it, the strings soft and slow.

He glances at Tommy. The kid’s been quiet since dawn, movements careful, eyes avoiding everyone’s. Even his jokes died before they reached his lips.
Wilbur’s been watching people long enough to recognize the shape of guilt. It sits heavy across Tommy’s shoulders, an invisible weight.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he can guess.

Wilbur’s made mistakes   bloody ones, bright ones, ones that keep him up at night. He knows what it’s like to wear remorse like armor. But Tommy’s guilt is different. Older, somehow. Like he’s been carrying it since before he learned to smile.

When Tommy excuses himself to the back porch, Wilbur hesitates, fingers stilling on the strings. Phil glances over his shoulder, eyes saying what words don’t   go after him.

Wilbur nods and follows.

[Tommy POV]

The morning air bites colder than before, damp from last night’s rain. The forest hums faintly in the distance   dripping leaves, birds waking. Tommy sits on the railing, legs swinging, trying to find silence in the noise.

His bandages itch. His thoughts are worse.
He can feel the weight of the staff still, the memory of it in his grip. The echo of power under his skin like a ghost muscle twitching.

“Mind if I join you?”
Wilbur’s voice breaks through the fog.

Tommy startles slightly. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.” Wilbur steps onto the porch, settling beside him with practiced ease. He smells like smoke and coffee. “Didn’t see you eat.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Tommy lies.

Wilbur hums. “You’ve got a terrible poker face.”

Tommy glares halfheartedly. “And you’ve got a terrible sense of boundaries.”

“That’s what brothers are for,” Wilbur says lightly, and it lands too easily, too familiarly. The word brothers lodges somewhere behind Tommy’s ribs.

He looks away quickly. “I’m not ”

“I know,” Wilbur interrupts softly. “You don’t have to be.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, filled only by the forest breathing around them.
Then Wilbur asks, “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t fighting anymore?”

Tommy freezes. “Why?”

“Because I do,” Wilbur says simply. “Every time I pick up a weapon. I think about what happens when I finally get to put it down.”

Tommy swallows. “I don’t think I’d know how.”

“Maybe that’s why you should try.”

Something inside Tommy twists painfully. He wants to scoff, make some cutting remark   what do you know about trying, about surviving?   but the words die on his tongue.
Wilbur just looks at him with that same steady warmth, the kind that burns slower than fire.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet: “You’re a strange guy, Wilbur.”

Wilbur laughs, the sound bright. “You’re just figuring that out?”

[Phil POV]

Phil’s not stupid.
He’s been raising soldiers longer than some of them have been alive. He’s seen every kind of broken   the ones that cry, the ones that fight, the ones that pretend they’re fine until they shatter.

Tommy’s all three.

He doesn’t know what the kid’s hiding, but he knows something’s wrong. The new bandages, the way Techno’s been extra quiet, the haunted look in Wilbur’s eyes when he came back in from the porch   all signs of a story not being told.

Phil doesn’t press. Not yet.
He just watches, makes tea, sets food out where Tommy can see it. Small gestures that say you’re safe here even if he doesn’t believe it fully himself.

But later, when Techno catches his eye over the table, there’s understanding in the silence between them.

We saw it too.

Phil nods slightly. We’ll deal with it.

Not yet. Not until Tommy’s ready to trust that they won’t hurt him for what he is.

Because Phil’s seen too many kids punished for the things they were made into.\

[Tommy POV]

By afternoon, the air grows heavy with the promise of another storm. Training resumes   Wilbur insists he needs to rebuild stamina, Techno oversees the drills with a clipboard, Phil watches quietly from the edge.

It’s almost normal. Almost.

“Focus,” Techno calls. “Don’t just swing. Watch my shoulders. Read movement.”

Tommy grits his teeth and tries. The staff feels foreign and familiar all at once, like his body remembers things his brain doesn’t. Every move pulls from something deeper   a memory of a time he can’t place, a rhythm burned into his muscles long before he ever stepped into this safehouse.

He steps, pivots, blocks.
The motion flows   too smooth, too precise.

Techno’s brows furrow. “Who taught you that form?”

Tommy freezes. His pulse spikes. “What form?”

“That counter. It’s advanced military-grade. You shouldn’t even know it.”

Tommy forces a grin. “Guess I’m just a natural.”

Wilbur laughs from the sidelines, but Techno doesn’t. His eyes stay sharp, calculating. The silence stretches too long, and Tommy’s skin crawls.

He swings again, deliberately sloppy. “See? Total amateur.”

Phil steps in before Techno can press. “Alright, break for lunch.”

Tommy nods too fast and bolts before anyone can stop him.

[Techno POV]

Something’s wrong.
It’s not paranoia   it’s pattern recognition. Tommy moves like someone who’s been trained to kill, but he flinches like someone who’s been punished for surviving. He shouldn’t know the form. He shouldn’t know that footwork. He shouldn’t burn like that.

And yet he does.

Techno finds himself staring at the training staff after Tommy leaves. The wood still hums faintly with heat. It shouldn’t do that.

“Phil,” he murmurs.

Phil joins him quietly, eyes narrowing at the scorch marks along the grip. “I thought you said he was just tired.”

“He’s not tired,” Techno says. “He’s terrified.”

Phil exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then we need to figure out why before it kills him.”

Techno nods. “Or before it kills us.”

But his tone isn’t cruel   it’s worried. The kind of worry he hasn’t let himself feel in years.

[Tommy POV]

He hides in the woods behind the safehouse, breath shaking. The trees close in around him, dripping with mist. He leans against a trunk, trying to quiet the storm inside.

He didn’t mean to slip. The form came out of nowhere   muscle memory, instinct. Phoenix’s drills, old commands whispered in firelight. Strike fast. Strike clean. Leave nothing standing.

His hands tremble.

He should run. He should vanish before they piece it together. But when he imagines leaving, all he sees is the empty dark   no warmth, no voices, no place that smells like rain and bread and guitar strings.

The forest is too quiet.
He sinks to his knees and presses his palms into the dirt, trying to ground himself. The heat stirs anyway, curling under his skin like it’s alive.

“Stop,” he whispers to it. “Please.”

For a moment, the warmth flickers   then dies down to a faint hum.

He laughs weakly. “Good boy,” he mutters to himself.

From the edge of the clearing, a voice says, “You talk to yourself often?”

He startles   Wilbur again, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too casual for someone who probably just tracked a runaway through the woods.

Tommy tries for a grin. “You stalking me?”

“Only when you run off mid-training,” Wilbur says. He sits beside him, uninvited, like always. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” Tommy lies again.

Wilbur studies him. “You know, you don’t have to lie every time we ask that.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says quietly. “I do.”

There’s no humor in it.
Wilbur doesn’t push   just leans back, eyes on the canopy above. “You ever notice how the forest sounds different after rain? Quieter. Like the world’s catching its breath.”

Tommy blinks. “That’s… kinda poetic.”

Wilbur grins. “Don’t tell Techno.”

For a while, they just sit there   two soldiers pretending they’re not broken. The silence settles softer this time, not empty but full of everything neither of them can say.

When they head back, Tommy’s pulse is still too fast, but the noise in his head is quieter. For now.

[Phil POV]

That night, after Tommy’s gone to bed, Phil finds Techno out back, staring into the woods.

“Still thinking about the kid?” Phil asks, lighting a lantern.

Techno grunts. “You saw it too. The heat. The form.”

“Yeah.” Phil sighs. “He’s not telling us everything.”

“He’s hiding something big,” Techno says. “But I don’t think it’s malicious. He looked more like he was running from himself than from us.”

Phil nods. “Then we help him stop running.”

“Even if he’s dangerous?”

“Especially then,” Phil says firmly. “Because if we don’t, someone else will find him   and use him.”

Techno’s jaw tightens. “Like Phoenix did.”

The name lingers in the air like a curse. Phil doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Somewhere inside the house, a floorboard creaks the faint sound of movement from Tommy’s room.

Neither of them mention it, but both of them know he heard.

[Tommy POV]

In bed, Tommy lies awake, staring at the ceiling.
Their voices echo faintly through the walls the words Phoenix and dangerous sharp enough to sting.

He presses a hand to his chest, feeling the faint hum of heat still trapped there.
They’re too close. Too smart.
If they find out who he really is what he’s done it’ll all burn down.

And yet… a part of him wants to believe Phil meant it. Then we help him stop running.

The thought shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

He turns onto his side, clutching the blanket tighter, eyes burning.
Tomorrow, he’ll lie better. Smile sharper. Be what they expect again.

But for tonight, he lets himself breathe in the warmth of the safehouse   and pretends, just for a heartbeat, that he belongs.

Chapter Text

Morning in the safehouse broke soft and golden, light slanting through cracked blinds. Dust hung in the air like the remnants of a storm, glittering against the faint hum of the old generator. The place smelled faintly of oil and tea Wilbur’s doing, probably and Tommy played the part: sleepy, yawning, rubbing at his eyes as though he hadn’t been awake since dawn.

Because he had.

He always was.

While the others slept, Tommy studied. The way Wilbur’s footsteps echoed through the hall when he woke early to pace; how Techno’s training boots always clicked twice before he fully entered a room; how Phil’s kettle whistled for exactly thirty-seven seconds before he took it off the heat. Every detail mattered. Every habit was a thread he could pull.

He’d been trained for this once. Dream’s voice still echoed in the back of his head like a curse and a comfort both everyone has a weakness, you just need to find where they flinch.

Now, Tommy smiled. Because here, with these heroes, he was already halfway there.

Phil was the first to greet him that morning, soft-spoken as always.
“Morning, lad. You sleep any?”

Tommy forced a sheepish grin. “Not really. Kinda hard when Techno’s snoring could wake the dead.”

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s always been like that. Used to drive me mad on patrol nights.”

“Didn’t know you could get mad,” Tommy said lightly, and Phil snorted just enough for Tommy to note how easily humor worked on him. Good. Kindness disarmed him fastest.

He catalogued it silently: Phil anchor, patient, nostalgic. Responds to gentleness and warmth.

Wilbur, on the other hand, was all restless energy. When he entered, coat half-buttoned, hair sticking up in a hundred directions, he looked like a man powered by tension alone.
“Tommy, outside. Ten minutes. I want to see how your reaction drills are coming along.”

Tommy blinked up at him, wide-eyed and just the right amount of confused. “Already? It’s not even breakfast ”

“Discipline doesn’t wait for meals,” Wilbur interrupted, voice sharp, though not unkind.

Tommy bit back his smirk. Wilbur ego-driven, thrives on control, motivated by belief he’s helping. Play submissive.

“Right, sir,” he said, mocking just enough respect to make it sound genuine. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the great Wilbur.”

Wilbur froze a fraction of a second caught between pride and suspicion then nodded briskly. “Good. Don’t be late.”

Outside, the morning was crisp and bright, the kind that hurt Tommy’s eyes. The safehouse’s clearing stretched wide, bordered by forest. Birds darted through the branches, and the training area was still scattered with cracked wooden staves, dull blades, and Wilbur’s makeshift targets.

Techno was already there.

He stood with his arms crossed, face unreadable under the shade of his hood. A giant, motionless statue with eyes like cold iron. Tommy met his gaze and forced himself not to flinch.

“Ready?” Wilbur asked.

Tommy gripped the staff he’d been given. The wood was rough, biting into the split skin of his palms. “Always.”

Wilbur’s grin was bright and dangerous. “Good. Reaction drills, same as before. You block what I throw. Don’t think. Just move.”

Tommy nodded. Don’t think, he repeated inwardly, but his mind was already spinning a hundred thoughts.

The first rock came fast. He deflected it easily. Too easily. He’d done this before this rhythm, this dance. He could feel the pattern deep in his muscles, like a song he used to know by heart.

The second rock he dodged. The third, he caught midair and dropped it deliberately, making it look clumsy. He stumbled back, letting out a curse.

Wilbur barked, “Again!”

So Tommy missed the next one barely and let it clip his shoulder. Pain bloomed hot, and he hissed, pretending to be angry at himself.

They can’t suspect. They can’t know.

By the fifth repetition, Wilbur was shouting encouragement and Techno had begun muttering under his breath about “hopeless amateurs.” Perfect.

Tommy bit the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. They were falling for it the persona, the narrative of a broken boy trying to prove himself.

“Take a break,” Phil called after a while, appearing from the doorway with a towel and a cup of water. His timing was, as always, impeccable.

Tommy stumbled toward him, panting theatrically, and took the cup with shaking hands. “Thanks, Phil.”

Phil’s gaze softened. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Tommy glanced up, eyes wide and unsure. “You think I can do this, right?”

Phil hesitated exactly the reaction Tommy wanted. The older man’s fatherly nature made him too easy to manipulate. All Tommy had to do was act scared enough, small enough, and Phil would do the rest.

“You’re improving,” Phil said finally. “Give it time. None of us learned overnight.”

Tommy nodded, letting relief wash over his face. Inside, his mind buzzed with cold precision. Good. Keep him on your side. If the others start doubting you, Phil will defend you.

He’d been trained for this kind of balance truth laced with lies. He wasn’t sure if it was the old conditioning or his own cunning that made it so easy, but either way, it worked.

Later, when Wilbur left to take a call on the comms and Phil went to check the perimeter, Tommy found himself alone with Techno.

Perfect.

Techno’s silence was legendary. He never wasted words, but that only made the ones he did say more powerful. Tommy could use that.

“You don’t like me much, huh?” he asked, leaning against the staff like he wasn’t trembling from exhaustion.

Techno didn’t even look up. “You talk too much.”

Tommy laughed quietly. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He let the quiet stretch before adding, “You think I’m weak?”

“I think you’re green.”

“Green like… new, or green like stupid?”

“Both.”

Tommy grinned. “Cool. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, something like amusement flickered across Techno’s expression. Small victories mattered. Tommy didn’t need Techno to trust him he just needed him not to expect anything.

So he shrugged, kicked a pebble, and added, “Y’know, you don’t scare me as much as you want to.”

That got Techno’s attention. His gaze snapped up, sharp, and Tommy met it evenly. He let the silence hang there, dangerous and taut, before giving a small, almost mocking smile.

“Relax, big man. Just saying.”

He turned and walked away before Techno could answer.

Inside, his heartbeat thundered. Not from fear, but exhilaration.

Every day, every conversation, he was piecing them apart.

By midday, training had shifted into tactics. Wilbur drew diagrams in the dirt with a stick, explaining mission layouts and defense zones. Tommy listened, nodding, absorbing every word but his attention wasn’t on the lesson.

It was on the holes in the plans. The weaknesses.

Wilbur was smart brilliant, even but he was reckless. He trusted his instincts too much. He left gaps where he assumed others would fill them. Techno covered brute strength, Phil covered support, but together, they still had blind spots.

Tommy traced those blind spots in his mind like scars. Dream would have laughed at this, he thought bitterly. He’d have seen through them in seconds.

But Tommy wasn’t Dream. Not anymore.

He didn’t want to destroy them. He wanted to understand them. To see what made them heroes instead of monsters.

Maybe then, he could figure out if he’d ever been one of the latter.

By evening, the others were exhausted. Dinner was quiet Wilbur hunched over reports, Phil washing dishes, Techno sharpening his sword in the corner.

Tommy played his role perfectly. He hummed while cleaning his staff, cracked jokes when the silence got too heavy, laughed a little too loud to make them forget how strange it felt to have him there.

And it worked.

Wilbur smiled once or twice. Phil chuckled softly. Even Techno’s lips twitched.

But later, when the lights dimmed and the generator hummed low, Tommy sat alone by the window, staring out at the dark forest. His hands ached. His palms were bandaged, but beneath the gauze, faint scars glowed like embers.

He flexed his fingers once. The air shimmered faintly.

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself. “They can’t see. Not yet.”

Because the moment they did, everything would fall apart.

The next morning, the world was grey and damp. Rain whispered against the roof, steady as a heartbeat. The safehouse always felt smaller when it rained like the walls leaned in a little closer, the air growing heavy with things unsaid.

Tommy sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with a chipped mug while Wilbur scribbled notes across scattered maps. The smell of coffee hung thick, bitter and sharp. Phil moved quietly around the stove, humming a tune under his breath, and Techno sat in the corner, sharpening a knife that didn’t need sharpening.

It was, by all appearances, a normal morning.

But Tommy could feel the shift the subtle tension running underneath. Wilbur’s jaw was tight. Techno’s silence was too deliberate. They were worried about something, though they hadn’t said it yet.

He smiled faintly into his mug. Good. If they’re on edge, they’ll talk. If they talk, I’ll know.

It started small.

Phil was the one to break the quiet. “Got word from the outpost last night,” he said softly, setting down a plate of toast. “There’s been more activity along the southern ridge.”

Wilbur looked up sharply. “Commission agents?”

Phil nodded. “Maybe. They didn’t engage, but… they’re looking for something.”

“Or someone,” Techno added flatly.

Tommy kept his head down, pretending to be absorbed in his mug. His stomach twisted, but he forced a yawn and muttered, “Hope it’s not us.”

Wilbur hummed distractedly, still scanning the map. “We’re off-grid. They shouldn’t know we’re here.”

But there was a flicker of doubt in his voice, and Tommy caught it like a thread in a snare.

They’re worried about being found.

That was leverage. Not to use now but to store, to understand. Because every hero had something they’d do anything to protect.

And Tommy needed to know what that was.

The day’s training didn’t start until noon, rain still falling in soft sheets. The ground was slick with mud, the air cold enough to sting, but Wilbur insisted. “A hero doesn’t wait for fair weather.”

Tommy didn’t argue.

He trudged outside, soaked through in minutes, pretending to slip more than once. The mud clung to his boots, the staff slick in his hands. He could feel every movement of his muscles old instincts screaming for precision he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Focus!” Wilbur barked.

“I am focusing!” Tommy snapped, frustration carefully measured. “Maybe the mud’s throwing me off, did you think of that?”

Wilbur’s frown deepened, but Phil’s quiet voice cut through. “Enough. He’s cold, Wil.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy said quickly, panting for effect. “I can handle it.”

Inside, his pulse raced not from exhaustion, but exhilaration. Because they all reacted exactly as he needed them to.

Wilbur’s temper. Phil’s protectiveness. Techno’s detachment.

He was learning their rhythms like chords on a piano.

All he had to do was play them right.

Hours passed in that muddy clearing, and Tommy let himself falter just enough to make it believable. When he tripped and hit the ground hard, Wilbur swore under his breath and offered a hand.

“Up,” he said. “You’re not quitting over a little fall.”

Tommy grabbed his wrist, letting his grip shake, his breathing come out ragged. “I’m not quitting,” he muttered. “Just give me a sec.”

Wilbur hesitated, eyes flicking over him. Then, softer: “You remind me of me when I started.”

Tommy’s head jerked up. He blinked, all wide-eyed curiosity. “Yeah?”

Wilbur smiled faintly. “Yeah. Stubborn. Too angry for your own good.”

“Guess that makes us both idiots.”

Wilbur laughed, the sound cutting through the rain, and for a brief, dangerous moment, Tommy almost meant it.

Almost.

Because when Wilbur smiled like that warm, human, not the hero, not the strategist it was easy to forget who the enemy was supposed to be.

Back inside, the safehouse smelled of wet wool and metal polish. Phil passed out towels and tea, fussing over everyone like a quiet storm. Techno sat by the fire, steam rising off his cloak, and Wilbur paced restlessly, already dissecting the day’s session out loud.

Tommy sat near the fire, hands cupped around a mug. His fingers ached. His bandages were soaked through, faintly pink where blood had seeped through.

Phil noticed first. “You’re bleeding again.”

Tommy tried to hide his hands, too slow. “It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.”

Phil tutted and reached for the first aid kit. “No, sit. I’ll do it.”

As Phil wrapped his palms, Tommy stayed quiet. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, and he caught the faint smell of antiseptic, of warmth and rain-damp wood.

“You ever think it’s weird?” Tommy asked softly.

Phil glanced up. “What is?”

“Being here. Doing this. Pretending everything’s normal while the world outside is falling apart.”

Phil smiled sadly. “We don’t pretend, lad. We survive. And sometimes, surviving means finding small pieces of normal.”

Tommy stared into the fire. That’s what you call it?

He didn’t say it. But the thought lingered.

Later that night, Tommy wandered the halls. The rain had stopped, replaced by the rhythmic drip of water from the eaves. Most of the lights were out, but Wilbur’s office still glowed faintly.

Tommy hovered in the doorway. “You still up?”

Wilbur looked up from his notes, eyes rimmed red. “Barely. What’s wrong?”

Tommy leaned against the doorframe. “Can’t sleep.”

Wilbur gestured toward the chair across from him. “Join the club.”

Tommy sat, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. The silence stretched long enough to feel real before he spoke again. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

Wilbur blinked. “Of what?”

“Being the hero. Carrying all that weight. People looking at you like you can fix everything.”

Wilbur studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “More than you’d think.”

Tommy let the quiet hang between them, soft and heavy. Then he smiled faintly. “Guess I’m not the only idiot who can’t sleep.”

Wilbur chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re a strange kid, Tommy.”

Tommy shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

It was the easiest kind of manipulation shared exhaustion. People dropped their guard when they thought you were broken in the same way.

But as Wilbur’s eyes softened in that dim light, Tommy’s chest tightened. Because it worked. It worked too well.

He wasn’t sure when the lies had started feeling like something else.

When he finally slipped back to his room, the safehouse was silent. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it, breathing hard.

His hands trembled faintly. Not from fear, but from restraint. He could still feel it the buried heat in his palms, the thrum beneath his skin. The power that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

He flexed his fingers, and the air shimmered faintly, just for a heartbeat. Enough to make his breath hitch.

Stop it, he told himself. Don’t lose control. Not here.

He’d already burned bridges once. He couldn’t afford to do it again.

Not when they still saw him as something worth saving.

By dawn, the rain had stopped. Mist curled low over the clearing, the air damp and silver. Wilbur and Techno were already outside, training again moving in near-perfect sync, steel flashing in the morning light.

Tommy watched from the doorway, unseen. They looked powerful together. Efficient. The kind of force that had once terrified him when he was on the other side of the battlefield.

He used to be part of that terror, didn’t he? Dream’s perfect weapon. The boy who’d burned entire squads because someone told him to.

Now he was the stray they’d taken in.

He smiled faintly. Fitting, isn’t it?

When Phil found him there, staring out at the mist, Tommy plastered on his usual grin. “Morning, old man.”

Phil raised a brow. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“Can’t prove that,” Tommy said cheerfully, stretching. “What’s the plan for today?”

Phil handed him a small satchel. “Supply run. You’re coming with me.”

Tommy blinked. “Really?”

“Wilbur thinks you’re ready to handle low-risk work. I think he’s right.”

Tommy’s heart skipped. Not from fear but opportunity.

A chance to see more. To listen. To map out the edges of their world.

He slung the satchel over his shoulder with a grin. “Guess it’s field trip day.”

Phil chuckled. “Let’s hope it’s a quiet one.”

They left just after sunrise, the forest alive with the sound of dripping leaves and distant birds. The path wound through moss and roots, dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy.

Phil moved with the easy grace of someone who’d walked this trail a thousand times. Tommy followed, noting every landmark, every turn. He memorized it all.

Not because he planned to use it against them.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

When they reached the market outpost a hidden network of traders and old allies the world burst into color and noise. Voices shouted across stalls, the air thick with spice and smoke.

Tommy’s senses lit up. He hadn’t been around this many people in months.

Phil stayed close, exchanging words with a few trusted contacts, and Tommy drifted, pretending to browse.

He listened. Observed. Collected whispers.

Someone mentioned Commission scouts nearby. Someone else muttered about a “lost operative” resurfacing.

Tommy’s pulse spiked. Me.

He forced his expression to stay neutral, but the words stuck to his ribs like ice. They were still looking.

Phil’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Tommy? You alright?”

He turned, grin automatic. “Yeah. Just lotta noise, that’s all.”

Phil nodded, not pressing. But his gaze lingered, thoughtful.

That night, back in the safehouse, Tommy lay awake staring at the ceiling. The hum of the generator was distant, steady. Outside, the forest was quiet again.

He thought about the whispers. About Dream’s voice, sharp and cold in his memory. About the way Wilbur had laughed at his joke, or how Phil had patched his hands without hesitation.

It didn’t make sense how they could be this kind, this trusting. Heroes weren’t supposed to be human. Not in the stories he’d been told.

He turned on his side, pressing his bandaged palms to his chest.

The faint warmth pulsed there again.

Maybe it wasn’t power. Maybe it was guilt.

Either way, it burned.

The storm came back three days later.
It rolled in from the mountains without warning, splitting the sky in half. The safehouse shuddered under the weight of thunder, every window rattling in its frame.

Tommy stood by the kitchen window, arms crossed, watching rain hammer down on the clearing. The forest beyond blurred into a watercolor wash of green and grey.

Wilbur was pacing again, muttering to himself about fortifications and relocation routes. Techno cleaned his weapons in silence, each motion precise, rhythmic. Phil sat near the hearth, fixing a torn strap on one of Tommy’s gloves, humming softly over the sound of the rain.

It should have felt safe.
Instead, it felt loud.

Too loud.

The world inside Tommy’s head buzzed like static. His muscles ached in that wrong way the kind that wasn’t tiredness but restraint. He’d been holding something back for days, and his body was starting to notice.

He forced a grin when Phil handed him the repaired glove. “Cheers, old man. Didn’t know you were moonlighting as a tailor.”

Phil snorted. “I’ve done worse jobs.”

Wilbur glanced over. “You could try doing this one for a bit, Phil Tommy’s coordination’s gotten worse every day.”

Tommy threw him a half-hearted glare. “I’m getting better!”

“Are you?” Techno murmured without looking up.

That hit harder than it should’ve. Tommy felt something sharp twist in his chest, but he buried it quick turned it into something bright and flippant. “Guess you’ll just have to keep training me till I’m as perfect as you, huh?”

Techno’s eyebrow twitched, but Wilbur laughed, and the tension in the room cracked open just a little.

Good. He needed that. Keep them laughing, keep them looking away.

The power inside him wasn’t asleep anymore.
It hummed when he sparred. It flared when he lied. It even pulsed faintly when Wilbur smiled at him too long or when Techno’s stare lingered a beat too sharp.

It wanted out.

He could almost hear Dream’s voice, slick and cold at the edges of memory:

Control it, or it controls you. You’re a weapon, not a person. Don’t forget that.

He’d spent months trying to forget it.

Now, standing ankle-deep in mud again with a wooden staff in his grip, he felt it return with every heartbeat.

Wilbur’s voice cut through the rain. “Again!”

Tommy swung. The impact jarred his bones. His fingers burned where they split against the rough wood.

“Again!”

He swung harder.

Phil watched from under the porch, arms crossed, worry etched into his face. Techno leaned against a tree, eyes like knives, silent.

Tommy didn’t stop until his vision blurred. Until every breath scraped against his throat.

Wilbur opened his mouth to call a break
  and the staff caught fire.

Not a full blaze. Just a flicker an ember’s kiss at the edge of the wood. Enough to smoke. Enough to crackle. Enough for Wilbur to freeze mid-step, staring.

Tommy dropped it like it bit him. “It it’s just friction! It’s ”

The words fell apart. The rain hissed as it hit the faint smoke curling up from the mud.

Techno took one slow step forward. “That wasn’t friction.”

Tommy’s pulse spiked. “It it must’ve been! I was swinging hard, it’s wet, maybe ”

Phil cut in gently. “Tommy.”

He looked at them three sets of eyes, all on him, and his chest seized. For a heartbeat he thought they know. They know what you are.

And then Wilbur laughed soft, disbelieving. “You’ve officially broken my training staff. Guess we’ll add that to the expenses.”

Phil rolled his eyes, and Techno after one long, unreadable look turned away.

Just like that, the tension snapped.

Tommy laughed, too loud, too bright, like it didn’t feel like the world was cracking under his ribs.

They bought it. Somehow, they always did.

That night, he dreamed of fire.

Not warmth wild, hungry fire. The kind that devoured air and sound. He saw himself at its center, face half-burned away, power dripping off his fingers like blood. Dream stood behind him, whispering things that tasted like control.

You were born for this. Don’t pretend to be less than what you are.

He woke with a strangled gasp, sweat soaking through his shirt. The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor.

His hands glowed faintly. Just faintly. Like coals under skin.

Tommy bit his tongue until he tasted copper. He pressed his palms into the mattress, forcing the heat down, forcing the world to go still again.

When the glow faded, he sat in the dark for a long time, breathing shallowly.

“Still got it,” he whispered bitterly. “Congratulations, mate. You’re still a monster.”

The next morning, everything was… normal. Too normal.

Phil made pancakes, Wilbur hummed a tune as he tuned his guitar, and Techno pretended not to be listening to either of them while quietly fixing his axe.

Tommy joined in the chatter, making jokes, stealing bites of Phil’s breakfast, laughing too easily.

If he acted normal enough, maybe it would become true.

When Phil mentioned needing someone to help reinforce the generator shed, Tommy jumped at it. “I’ll go!”

Wilbur blinked. “You sure? It’s freezing out.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said with a grin that hurt. “Good excuse to skip drills, right?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, but Phil smiled. “Take the toolkit and a coat, at least.”

He did. He fixed the broken latch, patched the roof seam, even replaced the cracked wire casing. Every movement was precise, efficient. The kind of precision that didn’t belong to some amnesiac kid.

When he caught himself working from muscle memory stripping a wire, twisting the ends perfectly he stopped, staring at his hands.

He’d done this before.

Not here. Not like this. But somewhere.

The knowledge sat cold in his gut.

He wiped his hands on his coat, forcing his breathing to steady. “You’re fine,” he muttered. “Just instincts. Everyone’s got instincts.”

But when he stepped back into the house, Wilbur glanced up from his desk and said, “You’re getting better with your hands.”

Tommy froze. “What?”

Wilbur nodded at the toolkit. “Most people don’t handle repairs that cleanly. You sure you’ve never done this before?”

Tommy’s pulse tripped over itself. He laughed. “Guess I’m a natural.”

Wilbur smiled, satisfied. “Guess so.”

And Tommy felt like he was standing on a knife’s edge.

That evening, a cold wind swept through the valley. The forest bent and hissed under it, whispering secrets through the branches.

Tommy sat with Wilbur near the fire, playing cards. Techno read something dense in the corner; Phil had gone upstairs to check inventory.

It should’ve been peaceful.

But Wilbur kept watching him. Not suspiciously curiously. Like he was trying to figure out the shape of a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

“You’ve got fast reflexes,” he said suddenly.

Tommy blinked. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean fast. You dodge before I move half the time.”

Tommy forced a shrug. “Lucky guess.”

Wilbur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tommy, can I ask you something weird?”

Every alarm bell in Tommy’s brain went off. He still smiled. “Shoot.”

“When I first found you,” Wilbur said slowly, “you looked like someone who’d already survived a war. Not just a fight something bigger. And sometimes when you move, when you react… I don’t see a scared kid. I see a soldier.”

The fire popped sharply, sparks hissing into the air.

Tommy didn’t breathe.

He had a hundred lies ready, but none of them felt right. So he said the simplest thing he could: “Maybe I was.”

Wilbur blinked, caught off-guard by the honesty. “You don’t remember?”

Tommy looked down at his hands. “I remember enough to wish I didn’t.”

Silence settled between them, thick as smoke.

Then Wilbur sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… know that you’re safe here, alright?”

Tommy almost laughed. The irony was too sharp. Safe here. With the heroes he was supposed to destroy.

He nodded anyway. “Yeah. I know.”

Wilbur smiled faintly. “Good.”

The conversation drifted after that, back to harmless things music, jokes, stories from before the war. But Tommy couldn’t shake the sound of Wilbur’s voice when he’d said soldier.

Because that’s what he was.

And no matter how much tea they gave him, no matter how gentle Phil’s voice was or how steady Techno’s gaze felt he was still Dream’s weapon.

He’d just gotten very, very good at pretending not to be.

Later that night, lightning flashed again.

Tommy lay awake, eyes open in the dark, listening to the storm breathe outside. The rain drummed against the roof in uneven bursts.

He could feel the heat under his skin again low, restless, hungry.

He flexed his hand and let a small spark dance between his fingers, watching it flicker. It didn’t hurt. It never did.

It just reminded him what he was made for.

He whispered to the dark, voice barely audible over the rain:
“I’m not the weapon anymore.”

The spark dimmed.

“I’m not.”

Outside, thunder rolled.

And deep in his chest, something that had been sleeping for weeks began to stir again.

Morning came like it was trying to apologize for the storm.
Golden light spilled through the cracked windows, cutting the air into warm rectangles. The world smelled of wet earth and smoke.

Tommy sat at the table, half-awake, a mug of something too hot pressed against his palms. Phil hummed at the stove. Wilbur scribbled notes over a half-burned map. Techno sharpened his blade in the corner, every stroke whisper-soft.

For once, no one spoke.

And in that quiet, Tommy realized how deeply he’d started to fit in.

Wilbur trusted him with supply runs. Phil let him help cook. Even Techno cold, unshakeable Techno had started giving him nods that almost looked like respect.

It should’ve been comforting.
Instead, it felt like the walls were closing in.

Because the better they knew him, the less he could afford to slip.

By noon, the forest was dry again. Wilbur decided they needed fresh water from the river two miles out, and somehow Tommy ended up alone with Techno.

He tried not to make it weird. He failed.

Every twig snap sounded too loud. Every glance from Techno felt like a question Tommy couldn’t answer.

They filled the canteens in silence. The river shimmered with light, calm and glassy.

“Wilbur worries about you,” Techno said suddenly.

Tommy nearly dropped the bottle. “What?”

“He pretends he doesn’t, but he does. You’re… unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable’s fun,” Tommy said, forcing a grin.

Techno didn’t smile. “It’s dangerous.”

Something about the word made Tommy’s throat close. He crouched by the water, watching it ripple. His reflection stared back boyish, freckled, harmless.

He could almost believe it.

“Look,” Techno said after a moment, softer. “Whatever’s going on in your head   whatever you think you’re hiding   just don’t let it eat you. We’ve all got ghosts.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess we do.”

He didn’t look up until Techno turned away. The relief that flooded him was sharp enough to hurt.

That night, the house felt alive.

Wilbur played guitar by the fire, half-humming, half-dreaming. Phil laughed at some quiet joke. Techno leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed.

Tommy sat cross-legged on the rug, sketchbook open, pencil dancing across the page. He drew them   not as soldiers, but as people. Phil’s gentle hands. Wilbur’s lopsided grin. Techno’s sharp eyes softened by light.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Wilbur leaned over his shoulder.

“Is that me?”

Tommy jumped. “No maybe shut up.”

Wilbur laughed, easy and real. “You’re good. Didn’t know you could draw like that.”

Tommy shrugged, pretending to focus on the paper. “Guess I’m a man of many talents.”

“Guess so,” Wilbur said, smiling. “You make this place feel alive again.”

That sentence stuck to Tommy’s ribs.

Alive. Again.

He looked at the others the family he’d been ordered to destroy and something inside him twisted so hard it almost broke.

He could see how easily he could ruin them.
He could feel how much he didn’t want to.

Later, when everyone had gone to bed, Tommy stayed awake by the dying fire.

He stared into the coals, hands clasped tight in his lap. He didn’t try to sleep anymore not when dreams meant fire and screaming and Dream’s voice in his ear.

He thought about Wilbur’s laugh. About Phil’s patience. About the way Techno had said we’ve all got ghosts.

And then he thought about what Dream would do if he ever found him.

He was supposed to be invisible, a sleeping weapon waiting for a signal. But he’d gone and built a life instead.

He should’ve felt proud.
Instead, he felt sick.

Because the manipulation wasn’t one-sided anymore.

They trusted him because he’d made them. But now he trusted them too, in all the wrong ways.

He’d blurred the line until he couldn’t tell where the lies ended and he began.

The power woke again just before dawn.

It didn’t creep this time it surged. Heat rolled through his chest, down his arms, blooming in his palms like wildfire.

Tommy gasped and pressed his hands to the floorboards. Sparks jumped, searing tiny holes into the wood.

“Stop stop stop,” he hissed through clenched teeth, forcing it back, shoving it down with everything he had.

But it wanted out.

It wanted noise, flame, freedom.

The room smelled of smoke.

And for a terrifying second, he saw it not the safehouse, but a burned field, bodies, ash drifting like snow. Dream’s voice echoing over the roar of flames:

You were made to destroy. Don’t pretend you can do anything else.

Tommy slammed his hand against the wall. The pain broke the vision.

He sat there shaking, smoke curling off his fingertips, tears stinging his eyes.

He’d promised himself they’d never see it. That he’d never lose control.

Now the house smelled like something burning.

Phil was the first to wake. He found Tommy in the hallway, pale and shaking.

“Hey, hey what happened?”

Tommy forced a laugh. “Burned my hand on the stove, s’all. Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

Phil frowned, unconvinced. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy lied, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Just clumsy.”

Phil’s expression softened, but his eyes lingered on the faint scorch marks near the doorframe.

He didn’t ask. Tommy was grateful.

By afternoon, the tension had stretched invisible across the house.

Wilbur was restless. Techno sharper than usual. Phil moved like someone waiting for a fight.

Tommy felt all of it. He fed off it, even when he didn’t mean to. Every heartbeat in the room synced with his own until he could sense their emotions brushing against him curiosity, worry, suspicion.

He’d always been good at reading people. Now it felt almost supernatural.

When Wilbur snapped at Techno over a broken compass, Tommy stepped between them without thinking.

“Hey. Don’t start, yeah? We’re all just tired.”

Wilbur blinked, thrown off balance. Techno hesitated.

And then, somehow, they both relaxed.

Tommy hadn’t touched them, hadn’t said much at all but the tension drained like someone had cut its strings.

He stood there, heart pounding.

He hadn’t meant to do that.

That night, he tested it.

Just a little.

A whisper here, a glance there.

He told Wilbur he was proud of him   and saw the exhaustion in his eyes melt into hope.
He thanked Phil for dinner   and watched the older man’s shoulders ease.
He nodded to Techno   and felt, faintly, the edge of suspicion dull.

Power didn’t always look like fire. Sometimes it looked like trust.

And Tommy was getting too good at it.

By midnight, the house was quiet again.

Tommy stood at the window, watching lightning blink over the horizon.

He knew the calm wouldn’t last.

Dream always had a plan.

If Dream came now, if he whispered the command Tommy had been trained to obey  ignite, destroy, erase   Tommy wasn’t sure he could stop himself.

He looked at his reflection in the glass: soft light, tired eyes, hands trembling just enough to notice.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

The reflection didn’t answer, but the faintest spark pulsed beneath his skin, warm and waiting.

He turned away before it could grow.

When he finally lay down, sleep came quick and merciless.

He dreamed of strings again  golden, glowing, stretching from his fingers to everyone in the house.

He tugged one, and Wilbur laughed.
He tugged another, and Phil smiled.
He tugged the last, and Techno bowed his head in silence.

At first, it felt like safety. Like control.

But then the strings wrapped around him.

Tightened.

Pulled.

Dream’s voice came from the dark:

You think you’re holding the strings? Look closer.

The golden light turned green.

Tommy woke choking on air that smelled like smoke. His sheets were scorched at the edges.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, the echo of strings still trembling in his hands.

He didn’t know if the dream had ended  or if it had finally begun.

Chapter Text

Morning slides in through the cracked blinds, thin as dust. The safehouse is too quietthe kind of quiet that hums behind the ears. Somewhere deeper in the hall, a floorboard ticks with the slow cooling of the night’s rain.

Tommy stands in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand. Steam curls from the pan, catching the sunlight in faint gold ribbons. The smell of butter and half-burnt bread fills the room. It should feel normal. It almost does.

Phil’s old kettle whistles on the back burner, the sound weaving through the space like birdsong. Wilbur hums from the couch, half a tune and half a distraction. Techno sits by the window, sharpening a blade small enough to pass for kitchen cutlery, metal whispering against stone.

Everything looks right. Everything feels off.

Tommy tells himself it’s just the sleep that won’t leave his bones. He was awake too long last nightthinking, always thinking. But there’s something else under his skin this morning, something coiled and restless. Every time he blinks, the corners of the room bend wrong, as if the light can’t decide where to fall.

He plates the eggs, hears Phil’s voice behind himsoft, steady, father-warm.
“Smells good, mate. Didn’t have to cook, you know.”

Tommy grins without looking up. “Figured I’d do something useful before you all kicked me around again.”

Wilbur laughs from the couch. “It’s called training, sunshine. Builds character.”

“Yeah, well, I’m full of character now,” Tommy mutters.

Phil chuckles. “Still. Appreciate it.”

The kettle shrieks louder. Tommy flinches, hand jerking; the spatula clatters, metal biting tile. For a breath, the whistle folds into another sound entirelya low, soft voice murmuring under it. You’re slipping again.

He freezes.

The whistle cuts off as Phil lifts the kettle from the heat. “You all right, lad?”

“Yeah. Just loud.” Tommy forces the grin back onto his face. “Need to fix that thing before it drives me mental.”

Wilbur glances over his shoulder. His smile is easy, but there’s a furrow between his brows that wasn’t there a second ago. “You sure you’re sleeping enough? You look like you wrestled the ghosts last night.”

Tommy shrugs. “Guess I lost.”

Phil hands him a mug. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

The tea smells like honey and damp air. He sips, burns his tongue, swallows anyway. The taste settles heavy in his throat.

Across the table, Techno finally speaks, voice rough from disuse. “You’re shaking.”

Tommy looks down. His hands tremble minutely against the mug’s handle. “Hot tea.”

Techno doesn’t argue, just watches him for a long moment before returning to his knife. The scrape of metal resumes, too steady, too measured.

The quiet swells again, pressing against Tommy’s ribs.

He starts cleaning to fill itrinsing plates, wiping counters, anything to keep moving. Every so often he catches his reflection in the dull steel of the toaster: pale face, dark eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. Once, for the briefest heartbeat, the reflection smiles when he doesn’t.

He drops the dishcloth.

You miss him, the voice whispers. It isn’t sound, exactly. More like a thought that didn’t belong to him finding a way in. You miss the way he made you sharp.

Tommy grips the counter until his knuckles go white. The tile is cold under his fingertips. He breathes slow, steady. “Shut up,” he whispers under his breath.

Wilbur’s voice drifts from the living room. “You say something?”

Tommy clears his throat. “Just talking to the dishes.”

“Tell them I said thanks.”

He forces a laugh, too loud. The sound dies against the walls.

Phil hums as he moves around, cupboards opening and closing. The normalcy almost holdsuntil the lights above them flicker. Once, twice, a quick heartbeat of darkness.

Phil pauses mid-reach. “Hmm. Must be the wiring again.”

“Or ghosts,” Wilbur offers.

“Not funny,” Phil says automatically.

Tommy doesn’t speak. The moment the lights blink, he feels it: a pulse behind his eyes, like something tugging at a string that runs straight through him. It’s gone before he can blink again, leaving the faint smell of ozone in the air.

Techno notices it too. His head tilts, nose wrinkling slightly. “Smells like a storm.”

“There’s none scheduled,” Phil answers, checking the window. “Sky’s clear.”

Tommy forces his breathing even. “Probably the wiring again.”

Wilbur rises, stretching until his back pops. “You offering to fix it, handyman?”

Tommy shrugs. “Maybe later. If I don’t burn the place down first.”

The joke lands, but only barely. Wilbur laughs; Phil half-smiles; Techno just watches him again, eyes unreadable.

The air feels heavy now, as if the walls themselves are listening.

Phil takes his mug, rinses it. “We’ll head out for supplies later. Need to restock the med-kit and get more canned food. Tommy, you can come if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good.”

Wilbur nudges him lightly as he passes. “You’ll have to carry the heavy stuff, though. That’s the rule for new recruits.”

“Recruit?” Tommy echoes, half-smile flickering. “Thought I was more of a stray.”

Wilbur grins. “Stray, recruit same thing in this house.”

Phil laughs softly. “He’s not wrong.”

For a while, the mood lifts. They finish breakfast, talk about repairs, about weather patterns, about some skirmish Techno’s been tracking in the northern districts. It almost feels real.

Then Wilbur asks, “You ever remember anything new, Tommy? About before we found you?”

The question lands like a stone in his stomach.

He shakes his head quickly, eyes on his plate. “Bits. Nothing that makes sense.”

“Any names?” Wilbur’s voice stays casual, but there’s curiosity under it.

Tommy hesitates a fraction too long. “Nah.”

Wilbur studies him, then nods slowly. “All right. Didn’t mean to pry.”

Phil shoots Wilbur a looklet it go. Wilbur holds up his hands. “Just wondering. You know I like puzzles.”

“Some puzzles bite,” Techno mutters without looking up.

Wilbur snorts. “Everything bites with you.”

“Because I’m right most of the time.”

Tommy listens, laughing where he should, but his mind’s elsewhere. The whisper lingers just beneath the conversation, threading through their words. You shouldn’t lie to them. Not unless you mean to break them later.

He grips the edge of the table until his fingers ache. The voice slides closer, coaxing. They’d forgive you if you told them. They always do, don’t they? You’re good at that.

He stares down at his hands scarred knuckles, thin fingers, faint red marks where the bandages used to sit. “Stop,” he mouths silently.

Phil looks up. “Hmm?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Phil studies him for a beat longer than usual before smiling again. “All right then.”

Outside, the morning light brightens to gold. The safehouse hums faintly as the city beyond it wakes the distant sound of hover-trams, the murmur of markets opening, the rhythmic buzz of power lines. The ordinary world pushing in against their fragile peace.

For a second, Tommy almost believes in that peace. Then the kettle rattles on the counter, though no one touched it.

He flinches, and the air goes still again.

The kettle’s rattle fades, but something about it lingers.
A tremor in the air, a memory that shouldn’t exist.

Phil steadies the pot with a frown. “Huh. Must be the pressure line.”

Wilbur gives a low laugh, half-nervous, half-charming. “Or the ghosts are just trying to make tea.”

Techno doesn’t move. “That wasn’t pressure,” he says finally. “That was static.”

Phil’s head snaps up. “Static?”

“Like a current passing through.” Techno’s eyes flick to Tommy. “Like a surge.”

Tommy looks away before he can meet the older man’s gaze. His throat feels tight. “You guys act like the house is haunted.”

Wilbur grins. “You’d tell us if it was, right, Tom?”

Tommy swallows hard, smile too small. “Sure. Wouldn’t want to ruin breakfast.”

He turns away before they can see how pale he’s gone. He knows what static feels like. He knows the hum of energy crawling across skin, knows the pull of invisible threads tightening around his ribs. He knows that sound not of the house, but of him.

By noon, the team’s ready to head into the city.
Phil packs light; Wilbur hums a half-finished tune as he shoulders his bag; Techno checks the perimeter twice before locking the door. The routine calms everyone but Tommy.

He keeps his steps easy, his grin in place, his heartbeat too fast. He’s getting good at lying with his body  it’s muscle memory by now. The same way Dream taught him.

“If they can’t read you, they can’t reach you.”

The words echo, unbidden, and the street ahead of him wavers in the heat.

Wilbur’s voice drags him back. “You all right, mate? You’re walking like we’re marching into a war.”

“Maybe we are,” Tommy says without thinking.

Wilbur laughs too loud, too trusting. “Then let’s hope you’ve got good aim.”

Tommy manages a grin, but inside, something twists. Because he does have good aim. Too good. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he can feel Dream smiling.

The market is loud, colorful, alive. Vendors shout from stalls; neon signs flash over cracked pavement. It smells like metal and spice and oil. It should be comforting  noise always hid the guilt best  but today every sound scrapes across Tommy’s nerves.

Phil’s talking to a medic-supplier about gauze prices, Wilbur’s haggling over batteries, and Techno’s quietly watching the crowd for threats. It’s all perfectly normal, perfectly safe. Except Tommy can’t stop feeling watched.

Every reflective surface  car windows, shop doors, puddles  catches the wrong angle of his face. For half a second, he swears he sees another reflection layered over his own: a mask made of green glass, grinning like it knows the ending.

His breath catches. He blinks, and it’s gone.

“You good?” Wilbur’s beside him now, voice low.

“Yeah. Sun’s just bright,” Tommy lies.

Wilbur squints at him, then offers his water bottle. “Hydrate, or Phil’ll give you that ‘responsibility talk’ again.”

Tommy snorts. “God forbid.”

The small laugh settles the moment, but Wilbur doesn’t quite walk away. He lingers, eyes still too perceptive. It’s not suspicion  not yet. But it’s getting close. Tommy can feel it tightening around him, thread by thread.

When they finally head home, the sun’s bleeding out behind the skyline. Shadows stretch long across the cracked concrete roads, the kind that make the air look bruised. Tommy keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down.

Phil hums softly beside him  an old tune, something warm and quiet.
Wilbur and Techno argue ahead about strategy, half-banter, half-serious.

Tommy tunes them out.

There’s a whisper under the hum of the city now, sliding beneath every sound. It isn’t a voice exactly  more like a vibration that lives in the bones of words.

They’re soft, it murmurs. You could end this. One move. One lie.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. “Not now,” he mutters.

Phil glances over. “What was that?”

Tommy shakes his head quickly. “Talking to myself.”

Phil chuckles lightly. “You do that a lot.”

“Yeah.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Keeps me company.”

That night, the power flickers again.

They’re in the common room  Wilbur on guitar, Techno polishing a blade, Phil reading through mission reports. Tommy sits curled up on the couch, pretending to doodle in his sketchbook. Every few seconds, the lines blur  not because his hand’s shaking, but because his vision keeps glitching, like static on an old screen.

Wilbur looks up. “Lights doing that again?”

Phil sighs. “Guess so. I’ll check the grid tomorrow.”

The flicker comes once more  and for a split second, Tommy isn’t in the room. He’s standing in a dark corridor lit by green pulse-light, the air heavy with the sound of machinery and distant laughter.

Dream’s voice, low and calm: “You remember what happens when you hesitate?”

He gasps  and the safehouse snaps back around him. His sketchbook’s on the floor, pages scattered.

“Whoa,” Wilbur says. “You okay?”

Tommy blinks rapidly. “Yeah. Just zoned out.”

Techno tilts his head. “Zoned out?”

“Yeah. I’ve been tired.”

Phil sets his papers down. “Tommy, you’ve been off lately. You sure you’re”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

The words slice the air open. Silence follows, thick and tense.

Phil’s brows furrow. “Hey, I’m not attacking you”

Tommy exhales sharply, forcing himself to soften. “Sorry. Just tired. I didn’t mean to bite.”

Wilbur gives a small smile, trying to break the tension. “You sure? You’ve got some teeth on you.”

Tommy smirks. “Occupational hazard.”

Phil watches him a second longer, then nods. “All right. But get some rest tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Promise.”

It’s the easiest lie he’s ever told.

He lies awake long after everyone’s asleep.
The moonlight through the window paints the room in dull silver. The city hums below. He can hear Techno’s even breathing from across the hall, Wilbur mumbling softly in his sleep, Phil’s quiet snore  all comforting, all wrong.

There’s a weight sitting on his chest, like someone pressing down with invisible hands. The whisper returns, softer this time.

You don’t belong here, Tommy. You never did.

He shuts his eyes tight. “Shut up.”

They’ll turn on you when they find out.

“Shut up.”

You could stop it before it starts. One word, one spark

“STOP.”

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, breathing hard. The lamp by his bedside flickers wildly, then bursts. The bulb shatters with a pop and a small flare of light.

The whole house hums like it’s alive for a moment  wires trembling in the walls, power surging like it’s angry.

Phil bursts into the hallway first, sword in hand, Techno behind him.
Wilbur stumbles out rubbing his eyes. “What happened?”

Tommy stares at the shards on the floor, hands trembling. “It just blew. I didn’t touch it.”

Phil’s eyes sweep the room, calm but alert. “You smell that? Ozone again.”

Techno frowns. “This keeps happening around him.”

Tommy’s heart lurches. “What’re you implying?”

“Nothing,” Techno says too evenly. “Just an observation.”

Phil cuts in before the tension can snap. “All right, everyone calm down. Power surges happen. We’ll get a new bulb.”

Wilbur’s already halfway back to his room, yawning. “If ghosts start paying rent, I’m out.”

Phil chuckles tiredly. “Go back to bed, all of you.”

They disperse, one by one. But Techno lingers. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Tommy for a long, long moment eyes like crimson glass before finally turning away.

When the hallway goes dark again, Tommy sinks to the floor. His hands are still shaking, but not from fear this time. From familiarity.

He remembers the training rooms the smell of scorched metal, the buzz of power dancing at his fingertips. Dream standing over him, voice cold and calm: “Control is just obedience wearing your face.”

Tommy presses his palms to his eyes. “Not anymore.”

But deep down, he knows it isn’t that simple. Because control always comes back when he stops fighting it. Because some part of him likes the hum.

And outside, unseen through the cracked blinds, the city lights flicker again once, twice  like something answering back.

Morning sunlight slants through the warped panes of the safehouse windows, spilling over dust motes and the long table littered with maps, half-eaten toast, and a mug gone cold. The whole place hums faintly the electricity still unreliable, the generator outside grumbling like a tired beast.

Tommy sits on the counter, legs swinging, pretending to listen while Wilbur talks strategy. Pretending is second nature by now. He keeps his expression open, curious, just shy of bright; the picture of a kid eager to help.

Inside, though, the whisper has teeth.
They don’t see you. They see what you let them see.
Dream’s voice isn’t really a voice anymoreit’s the echo that curls between thoughts, the pressure behind his eyes. A ghost of a command.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, snapping him back. “You tracking this?”

Tommy blinks, quick smile, a stammered laugh. “Yeahyeah, sorry. You said north route, right?”

Wilbur frowns but doesn’t push. Techno’s seated across the table, sharpening a blade, movements precise and slow. The sound is rhythmic, like a pulse. Phil’s by the window, checking the weather through a narrow gap in the curtain. The air outside smells like rain again.

It’s so ordinary it hurts.

He hates how much he wants to keep it.

You’re wasting time, the whisper says. They’ll turn on you the second they know.

He swallows and slides down from the counter. “I can take the north route,” he says too quickly. “If you want, I mean.”

Wilbur looks up, startled. “You don’t even know the terrain yet.”

“I’ll learn,” Tommy shoots back, too sharp, then softens his tone like he’s catching himself. “I just want to help.”

That does it. Wilbur’s expression shiftsguilt, maybe, or fondness. “You don’t have to prove yourself every second, you know.”

Tommy shrugs. “Feels like I do.”

Across the table, Techno’s knife pauses mid-stroke. His gaze flicks upquick, unreadable. “People who say that usually have something to prove.”

Tommy forces a grin. “Guess I’m people then.”

Phil clears his throat, an anchor in the silence. “Let’s focus. Wil, you and Techno take west. I’ll run supply checks. Tommyyou stay and help with comms.”

Tommy nods, relief hidden under compliance. Comms means access. Access means information. And information
Information means power.

The whisper finishes the thought for him.

When they scatter, the safehouse breathes easier. Tommy lingers by the radio setup, wires tangled like vines across the desk. Static hums softly in the background, white noise to think by.

He traces the cracks in the desk with his finger. It’s all so… lived-in. A house of heroes that somehow still looks like people. There’s a jacket hanging off a chair, an old mug left near the sink, a dent in the wall from one of Techno’s knives gone wide.

Every imperfection feels intimate, and that intimacy feels dangerous.

He presses the transmitter switch and listens to the faint hiss of the channel. Dream taught him this trickhow to find the spaces between frequencies, where messages could hide. It’s instinct now.

You’re falling behind, the whisper murmurs, low and coaxing. You were made for more than this.

Tommy exhales, a shaky sound. “I know,” he whispers back, barely moving his lips.

The radio pops once, faintly, like acknowledgment.

And then Wilbur’s voice calls from the hall, startling him. “Tommy? You all right?”

He jolts, slaps the switch off, and turns with the easy smile he’s perfected. “Yeah! Juststatic’s annoying.”

Wilbur steps into the doorway, his curls messy, eyes tired. There’s always something half-haunted about him, like he’s carrying ghosts Tommy can’t see. “We’ll get a cleaner line soon,” Wilbur says. “Techno’s building a repeater.”

“Cool,” Tommy says.

Wilbur studies him for a second too long. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tommy lies. “Promise.”

Wilbur nods, but there’s that little crease between his brows again the one that means he’s trying to solve a puzzle without enough pieces.

The day stretches long. Tasks blur. Lunch comes and goes.

Tommy keeps busyfetching supplies, taking notes, pretending he doesn’t see the faint smoke curling from his fingertips when he’s angry. It’s easier to hide movement than stillness.

Techno catches him once, eyes narrowing at the faint burn mark on a crate. “You need to watch where you’re standing.”

Tommy mumbles an apology and moves on. His pulse doesn’t settle for hours.

By evening, the sky’s gone violet and gold. The team eats in near silence, too tired for talk. Wilbur’s reading something by lamplight; Techno’s cleaning his sword again; Phil hums under his breath, mending a tear in his coat.

Tommy sits across from them, hands wrapped around a chipped mug. The warmth seeps into his skin, grounding and unbearable at once.

He shouldn’t feel safe here. He shouldn’t want to.

You know what safety costs, Dream’s voice hisses in the back of his mind. You burn it down before it burns you.

Tommy’s jaw tightens.

“Something on your mind?” Phil asks gently.

Tommy looks up, startled. He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking. “Just tired.”

Phil nods. “You’ve been pushing hard.”

“Trying to be useful.”

“You already are.”

The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do. They feel like a bruise pressed by accident.

He forces a smile and excuses himself early.

Night again.

The safehouse creaks as it cools. The storm that’s been threatening all day finally breaks, rain whispering against the windows.

Tommy sits on the floor of his room, back against the wall, the radio guts open in front of him. He tells himself he’s fixing it. In truth, he’s listening.

Static fills the space, soft as breath. Beneath itfainter stilla pulse. A rhythm that shouldn’t be there.

Did you think you could forget me? Dream’s voice, almost kind. You’re built to obey.

Tommy’s nails dig into his palms. “Not anymore,” he whispers.

The static laughs. You can lie to them, Blazeborn. Not to me.

The name cuts through him like a blade. He hasn’t heard it spoken since
No. He won’t think about it.

The air around him hums with heat. The smell of smoke lingers in the quiet.

Down the hall, he hears movementfootsteps. He scrambles to shut off the radio, shoves the pieces aside.

A soft knock. Phil’s voice. “You awake?”

Tommy swallows, forces steady. “Yeah. Justcouldn’t sleep.”

Phil cracks the door open, lamplight spilling over his lined face. “You’re sure you’re all right, lad?”

Tommy nods, too fast. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Phil studies him for a beat longer, then sighs. “All right. Try to get some rest.”

When he’s gone, Tommy slumps against the wall, breath shaking.

The radio is silent now, but the whisper isn’t gone.

They’ll figure it out soon, Dream murmurs. And when they do, they’ll burn you first.

Tommy presses his hands over his ears. It doesn’t help.

The storm hadn’t stopped in two days.

It clung to the world like a feversky thick and electric, thunder crawling lazy and low through the mountains that hid the safehouse. Inside, the air was dense with heat and suspicion. The smell of coffee, ozone, and soldered wires hung like ghosts between them.

Phil worked silently at the kitchen counter, mending a piece of Techno’s armor with delicate precision. His hands, usually steady, trembled just enough to betray how tightly wound he was. Wilbur stood by the window, the outline of his frame haloed by the flicker of lightning. His jaw was tight. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger.

And Tommysweet, reckless, too-clever Tommysat cross-legged on the floor beside a pile of half-disassembled drones, pretending to focus on his work. His hands moved automatically, deft and sure, even though his mind was somewhere else entirely. He could feel it again: that tug, that whisper.

You’re doing good, the voice murmured in the corner of his skull. They trust you. Keep it up.

Dream’s voice.

He didn’t answer it aloud. He’d learned not to.

Tommy kept his face blank, lips twitching with the same restless energy that used to earn him fond eye-rolls from Wilbur. He hated how easily he could slip into the maskwide grin, sharp quips, the perfect blend of vulnerability and charm. He hated that it worked.

Across the room, Techno adjusted his helmet with a grunt. “He’s too quiet,” he muttered, not bothering to hide it.

Wilbur’s reflection met Techno’s in the windowpane. “He’s tired,” he said flatly. “We all are.”

Techno’s tone didn’t change. “Tired doesn’t make you hum under your breath in code.”

Tommy froze for half a second. Then forced a laugh. “Mate, that’s justwhat, you think I’m writing Morse in my sleep now?” He flashed a grin, too easy, too bright. “You’re paranoid, Techno.”

Techno’s stare was cold as a blade. “I’m observant.”

“Observant my ass,” Tommy shot back, nerves lacing through the words before he swallowed them down. “I’ve been fixing your surveillance junk for hours, by the way. You’re welcome.”

Phil cleared his throat quietly. “Enough, you two.”

The tension slithered away, but didn’t die. It simply curled tighter.

Later that night, the generator failed.

A low, stuttering cough of powerthen darkness swallowed the safehouse whole. The rain softened to a whisper outside.

Wilbur cursed under his breath. “Again?” He reached for a flashlight. “Tommy, check the grid in the basement. You know how to reroute it.”

Tommy hesitated. The whisper in his head purred, warm and approving. Perfect. Go on, Tommy. Downstairs. You know what you need to do.

He forced a smile. “Yeah, sure, bossman.”

The basement was cold. The hum of the storm above was muted here, replaced by the slow drip of condensation. The emergency lights cast everything in a dull red glow, like the whole place was bleeding quietly.

He crouched beside the fuse box, fingers hovering over the wiring. His hands moved before he even thoughtmuscle memory, precise and mechanical. He rerouted a line, flipped a switch, and for just a second, the whole panel shimmered with that strange, golden flicker again.

Tommy blinked. The spark danced across his fingers, harmless but too bright, too alive.

He yanked his hands back. “No. No, not that again.” His voice was a whisper swallowed by the dark.

The power surged back on with a low hum. Upstairs, he could hear the others moving, murmuring. Everything looked normal.

Except his pulse wouldn’t slow down.

Dream’s voice was softer now, like static leaking through a speaker. You can’t hide what you are, Tommy. You were made for this. They’re just using you.

He clenched his jaw. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut up.”

When he came back up, Wilbur met him at the stairs, flashlight in hand. “You’re fast,” he said, too casually. “Almost like you knew exactly which circuit to hit.”

Tommy shrugged, feigning boredom. “Guess I’m just that good.”

Wilbur smiled thinly. “Guess so.”

Phil’s gaze lingered on him as he walked past. Techno didn’t even look up from his laptop, but his fingers hovered motionless over the keys. None of them said anything, but Tommy could feel itthe shift. The first hairline crack in their trust.

He sat back down, resuming his work with deliberate slowness. The light buzzed faintly above him, its rhythm syncing to his heartbeat.

Wilbur’s voice came again, softer this time. “You’ve been working yourself too hard, mate. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Tommy almost laughed. Don’t I?

But he bit it back. He forced a smile instead. “Yeah. Sure.”

It should’ve ended there. But laterlong after midnight, when the others were asleepTommy heard a sound.

Not Dream. Not the storm.

It was the quiet creak of a door, the muffled footsteps of someone coming downstairs.

He held still, pretending to sleep on the couch. Then, through half-lidded eyes, he saw Wilbur crouch near the table, rifling through the pile of blueprints Tommy had been working on earlier. His brow furrowed. His fingers traced the edges of a schematic a map Tommy had altered, subtly, without even realizing it.

A different pattern. One Dream had whispered into his mind hours ago.

Wilbur’s voice broke the silence, low and careful. “...Phil,” he murmured, calling up the stairs. “You should see this.”

Tommy’s pulse spiked.

They can’t know. Not yet.

The whisper came againsteady, certain, almost fond. Fix it, Tommy.

And before he could think, Tommy sat up. “What’re you doing?” His tone was sharp enough to make both men freeze.

Wilbur straightened slowly. “Checking your work.”

Tommy laughed, cold and too loud. “Right, because I’m the liability here, huh? You think I’m feeding info to the bad guys? Jesus, Wil”

Phil raised a hand. “No one said that.”

“But you’re thinking it,” Tommy snapped. His voice cracked halfway through, but he didn’t stop. “You all are.”

Lightning flashed through the window, white and violent. For an instant, the room was pure lightand in that flash, Wilbur saw it again. The flicker in Tommy’s eyes. The shimmer in his palms.

And for the first time, Wilbur didn’t have a clever thing to say.

He just looked… afraid.

Chapter Text

The silence after Tommy’s outburst was loud enough to drown the storm.

Wilbur stood frozen, one hand still resting on the edge of the blueprint table. His expression had gone perfectly stilltoo calm, too careful. Phil’s eyes flicked between them, measuring, calculating whether to step in. The safehouse lights hummed faintly, flickering like a nervous tic.

Tommy’s chest heaved. “Well?” he demanded. “Say something, then.”

Wilbur finally did. “I think,” he said softly, “you need to sit down before you fall.”

Tommy barked a laugh, harsh and brittle. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“You’re shaking,” Phil said gently.

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. His hands were trembling badly, and the faint golden shimmer still clung to his fingertips like residue. He curled them into fists and forced himself to breathe. Dream’s whisper pulsed behind his temples like a heartbeat.

They don’t trust you, Tommy. You knew this would happen.

“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath.

Wilbur frowned. “Stop what?”

Tommy realized too late that he’d said it aloud. “Nothing,” he lied quickly. “Forget it.”

Phil exchanged a look with Wilbur, the kind of silent communication they’d perfected over years of fighting side by side. It made Tommy’s stomach twist. He used to envy that bond. Now it felt like a threat.

Wilbur straightened. “We’re not accusing you of anything,” he said slowly, as if talking to an unstable explosive. “But there are inconsistencies in your work. Designs that don’t match what we’ve built before. Coordinates that don’t lead anywhere real.”

“I must’ve miscopied something.”

“You don’t miscopy,” Techno’s voice cut in from the stairs. He’d come down without a sound, armor plates catching the dim light. “You build with muscle memory. Every mark’s deliberate.”

Tommy stiffened. “Then maybe your memory’s wrong.”

“Mine doesn’t glitch.” Techno’s gaze was cold. “Yours does.”

The air snapped between them.

Phil exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. “All right. Everyone take a step back before this turns into a firefight in our own kitchen.”

No one moved.

Wilbur finally broke the stalemate by reaching across the table and rolling the altered blueprint into a tight tube. “I’m keeping this,” he said, tone still mild. “For now.”

Tommy wanted to snatch it back, to tear it apart, to make it disappear before anyone could trace the lines Dream had drawn through his thoughts. Instead, he said nothing. His pulse roared in his ears.

You could take it from him, Dream whispered. You’re faster than he is. Stronger. You’ve been pretending to be small for too long.

“No,” Tommy whispered, almost soundless.

“What?” Wilbur asked.

“Nothing,” he said again, louder. “I’m going to bed.”

He pushed past them before anyone could stop him, footsteps echoing sharp and uneven up the narrow stairs. The safehouse door at the top slammed shut behind him.

Upstairs, the tiny room that had become his felt smaller than ever. The rain against the roof turned the world to white noise. Tommy sank onto the bed, dragging both hands through his hair until it hurt. His whole body thrummed with leftover energy, that strange charge under his skin that wasn’t quite magic and wasn’t quite human.

He’d been trained to hide it. Dream had seen to that.
Muscle memory. Reflex before reason. Every movement was drilled until it bypassed thought.

He remembered the first time Dream had made him fight blindfoldedvoice low and patient as he corrected Tommy’s stance, breath ghosting over his shoulder. Don’t think, just feel. The body remembers what the mind fears to know.

He’d been good at it. Too good.

Tommy stared at his hands, flexing them slowly. “I’m not him anymore,” he whispered.

But the thing inside him disagreed.

Downstairs, the others were still awake. Phil poured three mugs of coffee, all untouched. The smell of it filled the room like a reminder of normalcy that none of them believed anymore.

Techno leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You saw it too,” he said quietly. “The glow.”

Wilbur didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the blueprint tube, paper crackling softly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I saw it.”

Phil set one mug in front of him. “Could be residual energy. You’ve seen weird before.”

“Not like that.” Wilbur’s voice was almost reverent, almost horrified. “That was control. Intent.”

Techno grunted. “Then the question’s simplecontrol from where?

They fell silent again, the storm filling the gaps.

Phil spoke last. “Whatever it is, we tread carefully. He’s not the enemy.”

Wilbur looked up. His eyes were shadowed, old. “No,” he said. “But what if the enemy’s already inside him?”

Tommy didn’t sleep. He sat awake until dawn, watching the horizon bleed from black to gray. When the first light hit, he rose quietly and went outside.

The air was cold enough to bite. Mist pooled low over the clearing, turning the forest into a ghost world. He needed to movetraining, distraction, anything to keep the voice quiet.

He grabbed the staff and began the drills Wilbur had drilled into him for weeks: swing, step, block, pivot. Over and over. Until the rhythm became something deeper, older. Until his body stopped obeying Wilbur’s pattern and started tracing anotherfaster, sharper, a dance of muscle and instinct that Dream had etched into his bones.

He didn’t realize he’d started humming under his breath until he heard it: a tune he didn’t remember learning, low and haunting. His staff cut arcs through the air, each movement perfect. Too perfect.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

He spun, weapon raised.

Phil stood in the doorway, hands raised in peace. “Easy, lad.”

Tommy froze, lowering the staff by inches. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“Didn’t mean to. You move like thunder when you train.” Phil’s voice was mild, but his eyes weren’t. “That wasn’t Wil’s form, was it?”

Tommy forced a grin. “Improvised.”

Phil’s gaze lingered. “You ever improvise something you’ve never learned?”

Tommy’s heart stuttered. “Guess I’m a natural.”

“Guess so,” Phil said softly. “Come have breakfast.”

He turned back inside, leaving Tommy alone with the echo of his own movements. The mist swirled around him, whispering like a voice half-remembered.

You see? You can’t even lie right anymore.

Tommy clenched his teeth. “Shut up.”

The whisper only laughed.

Breakfast was awkward in a way that made Tommy’s skin crawl.
Phil chatted idly about the weather, Wilbur hummed under his breath while flipping through mission notes, and Techno sat silently, eating with mechanical precision. None of them looked directly at Tommy for long, but all of them were aware of him. Watching without watching.

It made his head feel full of static.

He pushed his eggs around the plate, pretending he didn’t notice Wilbur’s hand twitch slightly whenever Tommy’s fork scraped the metal. Dream had taught him to read people every breath, every nervous shift, every micro-expression that gave away intent. Right now, their “family breakfast” looked like a standoff dressed up in politeness.

He smiled, sharp and tired. “You guys are always this cheerful in the morning?”

Wilbur’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Nothing. Just wondering if the whole ‘doom and gloom before 9 a.m.’ thing is, like, a house rule or whatever.”

Phil chuckled too easily, Tommy thought. “You’re not wrong, mate. Coffee helps.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, watching them over the rim of his mug. They were trying too hard to act normal. That meant they knew something. Or suspected it, at least. He couldn’t afford to let them confirm it.

Then don’t, Dream’s voice murmured, faint but unmistakable. Keep playing. You’re good at that.

Tommy almost nodded before catching himself. He pressed his nails into his palm under the table instead of a small, grounding pain to drown out the whisper.

He glanced up, forcing a grin. “So, big plans today? Another thrilling session of Phil trying to make me fall off the training platforms?”

Phil smiled thinly. “Something like that.”

“Great,” Tommy said, draining his mug. “I’ll grab my gear.”

He stood before anyone could object. The air in the kitchen felt too thick to breathe anyway.

Outside, the clearing was damp and shining from the night’s rain. Dew clung to the grass, catching the pale morning light. Tommy stretched his arms, muscles twinging faintly, and picked up his staff again.

He started slow, Phil’s drills this time, the familiar ones. Wide sweeps. Grounded balance. Breathing in sync with movement. He kept his expression blank, bored even, because he knew they were watching. There was no privacy here anymore.

It didn’t matter. He could fake normalcy better than anyone alive. He’d had to.

Wilbur appeared first, under the pretense of “checking perimeter seals.” Techno followed minutes later, silent as always, leaning against a tree just within Tommy’s periphery. Phil lingered on the porch. A neat triangle of eyes, all trained on him.

Good. Let them think they were in control.

Tommy spun the staff, let it slip behind his back, and brought it forward with perfect symmetry. A bit too smooth. Just enough to make Techno narrow his eyes.

He could feel the suspicion roll off them, warm, predictable, useful.

Dream’s voice hummed faintly again, threading through the noise of wind and motion. They’ll never trust you. You’ll always be the weapon, even if you’re pretending to be the child.

Tommy didn’t answer. Not aloud. But the whisper still smiled.

So remind them why they should fear you.

He almost did. Almost. The heat under his skin begged for release, a pulse, a flicker, just to feel something real for once. But then he saw Phil shift uncomfortably on the porch, rubbing his wrist absently, the same motion Wilbur did when anxious, and it broke the rhythm. The pressure in his chest twisted instead of exploding.

He dropped the staff, breathing hard. “Think I’m done for now.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

Tommy shrugged. “Guess I’m just tired of showing off.”

He walked past them, shouldering through the invisible wall of tension like it didn’t exist. Inside, he shut himself in the workshop and locked the door.

Only when he was sure they couldn’t hear did he whisper, “What do you want?”

The answer came like a low hum in his skull. You know what I want, Tommy. I just need a way in.

His vision blurred. “You already are in.”

Not enough. Dream’s tone softened, coaxing. They’ve buried me under their kindness, haven’t they? You can feel it. The fog. The way they’re softening your edges.

“I, Tommy, dug my fingers into the table. “They’re not, they’re just”

Lying to you? Yes. Like they always have. You don’t belong with them. You belong with me. You know it.

The words slid through him like warm oil. His heartbeat slowed, matching the voice’s rhythm. He hated how easy it was to listen. How right it sounded.

They’ll never forgive what you’ve done. But I will.

Something inside Tommy cracked. “I didn’t.”

You did. But that’s okay. Because I made you strong.

His breath hitched. “You ruined me.”

I perfected you.

Tommy slammed his hands on the desk, and the faint glow returned in thin veins of golden light tracing under his skin before flickering out again. He bit down a curse, clutching his palms tight until it stopped.

Through the door, he could hear footsteps: Techno’s heavy stride, Wilbur’s quicker one, Phil’s measured calm. He forced himself to stand straight, count to five, and let his face fall back into a mask.

They couldn’t know. Not yet.

Techno knocked once, curt. “You okay in there?”

“Fine,” Tommy called, voice steady. “Just tinkering.”

“Sounded like a war zone.”

“Wasn’t.”

A pause. Then Techno, quieter: “You ever need to talk?”

“Yeah, yeah, family, trust, communication,” Tommy interrupted. “Got the memo. You can go now.”

Footsteps receded. The silence that followed was almost worse.

Tommy sank to the floor, back against the door, and exhaled shakily. His reflection in the metal cabinet looked wrong, eyes a bit too bright, hair a mess, posture tense. For a moment, the shadows around him seemed to breathe, to pulse in time with Dream’s whispers.

He whispered, “You’re not real.”

Dream laughed softly. Then why do you always listen?

Tommy had no answer.

Night again.

The house was too quiet. Wilbur had fallen asleep on the couch with a half-finished melody still humming faintly from his guitar. Phil’s light burned in the kitchen, reading old notes. Techno was outside on watch.

Tommy moved silently down the hall, bare feet on creaking boards. He slipped into the comms room, the one lined with dusty monitors and half-dead wires, and closed the door. The hum of old tech was comforting in its own way.

“Okay,” he whispered to no one. “You win. Just tell me what you want.”

The static in his head sharpened immediately, forming a voice that was both inside and around him.

There’s a file on their system coordinates to their backup base. They don’t trust you enough to show you yet. Find it for me.

“Why?” Tommy hissed. “You’ll hurt them.”

They’ll hurt you first.

“That’s not”

Don’t lie, Tommy. The voice softened again. You’re good at it, but not with me. I made you too well.

Tommy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The old muscle memory kicked in before he could stop it, a dozen invisible shortcuts, memorized encryption bypasses, codes that no one should know but him.

He paused. His reflection on the monitor screen stared back, half-lit by the static glow.
And for a terrifying second, it wasn’t his reflection at all.

It was Dream’s mask.

He flinched back. “Nono, no, no”

The lights flickered. The hum of the system stuttered.

Somewhere upstairs, something shifted in the air like the house itself sensed the intrusion.

Tommy slammed the terminal shut and backed away, shaking.

The voice in his head turned cold. You can’t run from me. Not after everything I built you to be.

He pressed his hands over his ears. “Shut up!”

Silence, then a faint, mocking chuckle that faded into nothing.

Outside, Techno felt it first. A ripple of pressure, like a thunderclap that never sounded. His instincts went rigid. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

He turned toward the safehouse, every muscle tensed. “Wilbur,” he said softly into his comm. “We’ve got a problem.”

Wilbur’s sleepy voice crackled through. “Define problem.”

“Magic. Internal. Someone’s broadcasting energy.”

A pause. Then, sharper: “Tommy?”

Techno didn’t answer, but his silence said enough.

He was already moving.

The night hums low and cold. Rain needles against the safehouse windows, rhythm soft but constant, like a heartbeat Tommy can’t quite match. He sits on the edge of his bunk, hands trembling faintly over a mug of tea Phil had made earlier. It’s cold nowlike everything else here. Like him.

Wilbur’s laughter filters in faintly from the kitchen. Techno’s voice follows, sharp as a blade and twice as precise, arguing over strategy. It’s background noise. Familiar, grounding until it isn’t.

Because underneath the warmth, Tommy hears him.

They don’t trust you, you know.

Dream’s voice. Not out loud, never out loudbut threaded through Tommy’s skull like a needle pulling skin. He swallows hard, staring at the chipped mug. His reflection warps in the liquid. For a second, he swears he sees green instead of blue.

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Forces himself back. “Not now,” he whispers.

Not now? The laugh crawls up the back of his neck. You forget who taught you that tone, Tommy. Who made you what you are?

Tommy clenches his jaw until his teeth ache. “Shut up,” he mutters. The sound of his own voice startles himit sounds too small, too young. He’s supposed to be calm. Confident. Strategic. A girlboss, as Tubbo used to say, back before any of this mattered.

But now? He’s shaking.

“Tommy?”

Phil’s voice is soft, cautious. Tommy’s head snaps up instantly, a smile snapping into place. “Yeah?”

Phil leans against the doorframe, brow furrowed, wings half-unfolded like he’s ready to shield or scold. “You good, mate? You’ve been quiet.”

Tommy blinks, all false brightness. “Yeah, yeah, just thinking. About training. About… Wilbur’s footwork drills.”

Phil’s gaze lingers, sharp in a way only a father’s could be. “Right. Well… don’t think yourself into exhaustion, alright? Eat something before bed.”

“ ’Course,” Tommy says. His voice sounds fine. Too fine. Phil smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes before he walks off, the low creak of his boots fading down the hall.

As soon as he’s gone, Tommy’s smile drops. He sets the mug down and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, muttering, “Get out of my head, Dream. I mean it.”

Silence.

Thentsk tsk. You think you’re manipulating them, but look at you. You can’t even fool yourself.

Tommy’s breath hitches. For a second, the walls seem to pulse faintly, like the world itself is breathing with himno, with Dream. The mark hidden under his sleeve burns faintly. A reminder.

By morning, he’s got the mask back on.

He joins them at the kitchen table, smiling like he slept fine. Wilbur’s already halfway through a plate of toast, gesturing with a knife as he argues with Techno about patrol routes.

Techno grunts, unimpressed. “You’re planning too wide a perimeter. You’ll burn through energy before you get a single sighting.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Wilbur shoots back. “Besides, the city’s been getting worse. We can’t afford to” Toto run ourselves into the ground chasing shadows?” Techno’s tone cuts clean through the air.

Tommy sips his tea quietly, eyes flicking between them. Perfectly unnoticed. That’s the trick. Always be in the background. Always be harmless.

Phil cuts in before the brothers can escalate. “You both make good points,” he says, voice calm as a steady current. “We’ll test both routes. Techno, you and I will scout the inner districts. Wilbur and Tommy can take the outskirts.”

Tommy freezes mid-sip. Outskirts. That’s where Dream’s old hideouts are.

Wilbur glances over and grins. “Guess it’s you and me, kid.”

Tommy smiles back, though his stomach twists. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The outskirts are quiet, all smoke-stained concrete and wind-battered fences. The city feels heavier herelike something is watching, listening.

Wilbur hums softly beside him, scanning rooftops. “You’ve gotten faster,” he notes after Tommy scales a fire escape without hesitation.

“Guess I’ve been learning from the best,” Tommy says lightly.

Wilbur chuckles. “Flattery won’t save you if you trip on the next jump.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But his heart skips. Because a dream doesn’t feel like just a word anymore.

He tries to focus on the missionsurveying potential smuggling routes, tagging safe zonesbut every time he catches a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, the voice hums back to life.

Remember this place? You hid here once.

His breath stutters as they pass a burnt-out warehouse. He remembers the fire. The smoke. His hands were glowing red.

Wilbur notices his hesitation. “You alright?”

Tommy nods quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… déjà vu.”

Wilbur studies him for a moment longer, but says nothing.

Inside, Tommy screams.

Later that night, Tommy couldn’t sleep again. The safehouse feels the creaks and murmurs too deliberate, too knowing. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, fingers tracing faint patterns over the sheets.

Dream’s voice drifts back in, low and venom-smooth. You can’t keep pretending forever. They’ll see what you really are.

Tommy whispers back, “They already do. They see what I want them to.”

Do they?

The voice sounds amused, almost proud. You think you’re in control, Tommy, but tell me who taught you how to lie? Who taught you how to pull their strings?

Tommy’s breath catches. He doesn’t answer.

The mark flares again, faint green light bleeding through his sleeve. He clutches his arm, eyes watering, forcing the glow down through sheer will.

That’s it, Dream whispers. Hide it. Bury it. That’s what you’re best at.

Tommy shudders, curling in on himself. He wants to scream, but that would wake them. And he can’t risk that. Not now. Not when he’s this close to earning their trust.

The next day, the world carries on like nothing’s wrong.

Wilbur drags him into more training, laughing, teasing his usual exhausting energy. Phil brings lunch. Techno offers advice, still sharp but not cruel.

And Tommy? He plays his part flawlessly.

He laughs at Wilbur’s jokes. He stumbles just enough to look clumsy. He thanks Phil fothe r food he can’t taste.

But when he catches his reflection in the training hall mirror, he sees something else. Something hungry in his own eyes.

For a moment, Dream’s voice isn’t in his headit’s in the glass. Whispering from his reflection.

You’re not one of them, Tommy. You never were.

The reflection smiles when he doesn’t.

That night, it rains again. The safehouse hums with warmthWilbur and Techno arguing over cards, Phil humming in the kitchen. Domestic. Peaceful.

Tommy sits on the couch, pretending to read. His hands shake every few minutes, but he hides it well, tucking them under the blanket.

When Wilbur sits beside him, leaning back with a sigh, Tommy looks up automatically.

“Long day?”

Wilbur hums. “You could say that. You did well today, though. You’ve got potential.”

Tommy’s throat tightens. “You think?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re still reckless as hell,” Wilbur teases, grinning, “but it’s… familiar. Like I’ve seen that kind of fire before.”

Tommy swallows hard. “Maybe I just remind you of yourself.”

“Maybe,” Wilbur says softly. He studies Tommy for a second longer, eyes thoughtful. “You ever feel like… there’s a piece of you missing?”

Tommy’s heart stops.

Wilbur laughs before he can answer. “Never mind. Philosophical junk. Ignore me.”

Tommy smiles weakly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That word again. That damn word.

The room flickers faintlylights dimming, air thickening.

Wilbur doesn’t notice. But Tommy does. He feels the mark on his arm pulse once, twice, in rhythm with his heartbeat.

He grips his sleeve tightly, hiding the glow.

That’s the pattern now. Every day he trains, smiles, pretends. Every night, Dream whispers. The lines blur until Tommy can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

And yet… the guilt twists deeper than any command. Because sometimes, when Phil laughs, or Techno offers quiet advice, or Wilbur calls him “kid” like it means somethingTommy almost forgets.

Almost.

But then Dream reminds him. They’ll never forgive you once they know.

And Tommy believes him.

He always does.

The morning air in the training hall is heavy, thick with the metallic scent of sweat and sparring dust. Wooden weapons line the walls, scarred from use. Wilbur stands in the center, staff twirling lazily in his grip. “Alright, runt,” he calls, smirking. “Let’s see what you’ve got today.”

Tommy grins back, practiced and bright. “Bet I can knock you off your feet this time.”

Phil’s perched on the railing above, mug in hand, watching like a hawk. Techno leans in the far corner, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The atmosphere hums normally. Familiar. Safe.

It’s almost enough to make Tommy forget the way his right hand still tingles. The faint burn that never quite went away.

They start slow. Step, block, parry. Wilbur tests his rhythm, deliberately leaving openings. Tommy takes the bait, swings, overextends, and tumbles back as Wilbur hooks his ankle.

“Predictable,” Wilbur chides, half-smiling.

“Yeah, well,” Tommy ducks, just barely dodging a counterstrike, “you’re slow!”

Phil chuckles above. Techno hums, unimpressed.

Wilbur presses harder, strikes flowing faster nowsharp arcs that Tommy should be struggling to follow. But he isn’t. His body moves before his mind does, instincts snapping into place like old clockwork. He catches Wilbur’s next hit midair, pivots, and drives his staff forward too fast, too clean.

Wilbur barely blocks it. The crack of wood echoes like thunder.

Then silence.

Wilbur’s grin falters. Techno straightens slightly.

Phil sets his mug down. “...Do that again.”

Tommy freezes. “What?”

“That move,” Techno says, voice low. “That wasn’t ours. You didn’t learn that from us.”

Tommy forces a laugh. “Guess I’m just a natural?”

Wilbur stares at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “That wasn’t instinct, kid. That was”

The floor trembles faintly beneath their feet. The mark on Tommy’s arm pulses once, faint and green, hidden under fabric.

He grips his staff tighter, knuckles white. “Can we just keep going?”

Phil opens his mouth to protest, but Techno nods slowly. “Let him.”

So they do.

And as they fight, something changes.

Tommy’s movements blur not faster, but more deliberate. Too deliberate. His stance lowers; strikes flow in perfect rhythm, efficient, ruthless. Each hit lands with precise, surgical intent. It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying.

Wilbur catches a glimpse of Tommy’s expressiomid-swingnd for a second, it’s not Tommy at all. It’s someone colder. Someone who knows exactly how to kill him.

Wilbur’s staff shatters first. The sound snaps through the room like a gunshot.

Tommy blinks. His chest heaves. His staff smokes faintly at the tips, heat still clinging to the wood.

Nobody speaks.

Finally, Phil’s voice was quiet, trembling just slightly: “Tommy… where did you learn that?”

Tommy opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

Dream’s voice fills the silence instead, whispering through his mind. Don’t tell them. Don’t you dare.

He smiles, small and shaky. “I… don’t know. It just happened.”

Wilbur stares a second too long. “You’re lying.”

Tommy’s heart lurches. “Whatno”

Techno cuts in, calm but sharp. “He’s not lying. He believes that.”

Phil’s brow furrows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Techno says, stepping forward, “his body remembers something his head doesn’t.”

The air turns heavy.

Tommy backs up a step, every nerve screaming. He can feel Dream laughing.

They’re figuring it out. You’ll ruin everything.

Tommy grips his staff until it creaks. “I’m fine. You’re all being weird.”

Wilbur steps closer, slow and deliberate. “Tommylook at me.”

He does.

And for the first time, Wilbur looks afraid.

That night, the tension doesn’t fade.

Dinner is quiet. The clatter of forks sounds too loud. Tommy forces himself to eat, though the food turns to ash on his tongue.

Phil keeps glancing his way. Techno says nothing at all. Wilbur tries to joke once or twice, but it falls flat every time.

Tommy feels like the walls are closing in.

He excuses himself early, retreating to his room. The door shuts. He exhales hard, pressing his back against it, shaking.

You slipped up, Dream hums. You showed too much.

“I didn’t mean to.”

You never do.

The mark burns again. He yanks his sleeve up and glares, desperate. “You said I’d be free if I got close to them.”

And you are. Look at how close you are now.

“Shut up.”

They’re starting to see you, Tommy. The real you.

His reflection in the window shifts faintlyeyes flashing green for half a heartbeat.

“Shut up,” he repeats, louder this time.

A knock on the door makes him jump.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice. Cautious.

Tommy scrambles to hide the glow, tugging his sleeve back down. “Yeah?”

The door opens. Wilbur leans in, face tired, eyes soft in a way that cuts deep. “Didn’t mean to push you earlier,” he says quietly. “You did well today. Scared me a little, but… good.”

Tommy forces a smile. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

Wilbur chuckles, but there’s something heavy behind it. “Yeah. You really are.”

He hesitates like he wants to say more, then leaves. The door clicks shut.

Tommy stares at it for a long time.

Then whispers, “I can’t do this much longer.”

Dream’s voice answers, smooth and certain. Then don’t.

Tommy closes his eyes. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his sleeve comes away damp.

By the next day, the safehouse feels different. The team moves around him like he’s made of glass. Techno’s gaze lingers too long. Phil hovers. Wilbur… Wilbur watches, quiet, calculating.

Tommy keeps smiling. Keeps lying. Keeps pretending it doesn’t hurt that they’re pulling away.

But late that afternoon, while training alone, something in him snaps.

He swings the staff again and again, each motion harder, sharper. Wood cracks against air, sweat burns in his eyes. His arms tremble. His chest aches.

Then the staff catches fire.

A thin, green flame, curling from his hands like a whisper.

He drops it instantly, backing away, breathing hard. The flame doesn’t burn the woodit eats it, erasing it to ash.

Dream’s laughter fills his head. There you are.

Tommy stumbles backward, shaking. “No, no, no”

The door slams open.

Wilbur stands in the doorway, eyes wide.

The fire vanishes.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Wilbur takes a cautious step forward. “Tommy… what was that?”

Tommy’s pulse is a roar in his ears. “It’s not that not that ”

Wilbur’s voice softens, too careful. “You can tell me.”

Don’t you dare.

Tommy grips his arms, digging nails into skin. “It was an accident.”

Wilbur doesn’t buy it, but he nods slowly. “Okay. Okay, kid. Breathe.”

Tommy does. Barely.

But behind his calm mask, his mind races. He can’t afford to lose control again. Not now. Not when the cracks are showing.

He smiles weakly. “Guess I still need practice.”

Wilbur doesn’t smile back. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Guess you do.”

And when he leaves, Tommy finally lets the panic show.

He sinks to his knees.

They’ll find out.

He presses his hands to his face. “They already have.”

TO BE CONTINUED…