Railroaded

by Solbook

Plunged into the world of Honkai: Star Rail, a man loses everything he once had. Combative and confused, he struggles with faith and seeing those around him as real while seeking a way back home. Thrown into the story he once controlled, he now faces the consequences of every choice, real or imagined.

2. The Day I Lost Twice

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# REWRITE NOTICE #

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[This chapter is part of the rewrite batch released on March 3rd, 2025]

- For more information: See chapter titled "Update - Rewrite Status (1-6): Complete"

- All rewritten chapters contain this notice at the top

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# SUPPORT & CONNECT #

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I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.

- Carl Gustav Jung

---

The guitar screams under her fingers, a raw, jagged sound that cuts through the workshop's stale air. Serval's hands move with a precision that borders on violence, her calloused fingertips pressing hard against the strings. The amp hums, the feedback building like a storm before she slams into the next chord. The sound is electric, alive, and for a moment, it drowns out everything else—the weight of the past, the ache in her chest, the way her back feels too exposed to the window that frames Qlipoth Fort in the distance.

Pela's drumming is steady, a counterpoint to Serval's fury. She's still in her Silvermane uniform, though the jacket hangs over the back of a chair, the gold trim catching the dim light. Her sleeves are rolled up, her gloves discarded, and her hands move with the same meticulous rhythm she uses to file reports or analyze terrain. But there's a looseness to her posture, a rare ease that only comes when she's here, in this workshop, with Serval and the music.

The song builds, the tension between them palpable. Serval's fingers falter for a split second, a discordant note slipping into the melody. She doesn't stop, doesn't even flinch, but Pela notices. Of course she does. Pela notices everything.

The drums slow, then stop. Serval's guitar wails one last time before she cuts the sound with a sharp twist of the volume knob. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded.

"You're off," Pela says, her voice calm but probing. She taps a drumstick against the edge of her snare, the sound sharp and deliberate. "Something's bothering you."

Serval shrugs, her back still turned. She adjusts the strap of her guitar, her fingers brushing the spot where her Architect badge used to hang. The weight of it is gone, but the phantom ache remains. "Just tired. Long day."

Pela doesn't buy it. She never does. "You're always tired these days."

Serval turns, finally, her guitar still slung low across her hips. Her blue eyes meet Pela's, and for a moment, there's something raw in her gaze, something she doesn't bother to hide. But then it's gone, replaced by the usual smirk. "What can I say? Rock stars don't sleep."

Pela rolls her eyes, but there's a flicker of concern in the gesture. She sets her drumsticks aside and leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Speaking of rock stars, we'll need to reschedule next week's practice. There's a ceremony at Qlipoth Fort. All high-ranking officers are required to attend."

Serval's fingers tighten around the neck of her guitar. The mention of the fort is like a spark to dry tinder, igniting something she's been trying to suppress. She forces a laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Of course. Wouldn't want to keep the Supreme Guardian waiting."

Pela hesitates, her gaze flickering to the window behind Serval. The fort looms in the distance, its spires cutting into the sky like a reminder of everything Serval has lost. "It's just a formality," Pela says carefully. "Commander Bronya's giving a speech alongside Gepard. Something about unity and duty. You know how he is."

Serval's jaw tightens. She does know how he is. Her brother, the perfect Landau, the one who never questions, never falters. The one who still believes in the system that cast her out. She wants to be proud of him—she is, in some buried part of herself—but the pride is tangled with something darker. Sharper.

"At least one of us is still upholding the family honor," she mutters, her voice low and bitter.

"Serval…"

"Stop." Serval cuts her off, her tone sharper than she intends. She turns away again, her fingers idly plucking at the guitar strings. The notes are soft, almost mournful. "It's fine. Really."

The silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. Pela shifts, her uniform creaking softly. "You could come," she says finally, her voice tentative. "As my guest. It might… I don't know. It might be good for you."

Serval's laugh is sharp, brittle. "Yeah, because nothing says 'good for you' like sitting in a room full of people who think you're a disgrace."

Pela flinches, and Serval immediately regrets the words. But she doesn't take them back. She can't. The truth is a blade, and sometimes it cuts both ways.

The tension lingers, unspoken but heavy. Pela picks up her drumsticks again, her movements stiff. "I didn't mean—"

"I know." Serval cuts her off, her voice softer now. She doesn't turn around, but her shoulders slump slightly. "I know you didn't."

They sit in silence for a moment, the air between them charged with things neither of them can say. Then Pela clears her throat, her tone deliberately light. "So, uh, I ran into Dunn the other day."

Serval groans, the sound half-exasperated, half-amused. "Don't tell me he's still asking about me."

Pela smirks, her usual composure returning. "He might have mentioned you. Specifically. Asked how you were doing."

"Of course he did." Serval rolls her eyes, her fingers strumming a lazy chord. "What did you tell him? That I'm still the same rebellious mess he tried to date?"

Pela laughs, the sound genuine this time. "I didn't say that, exactly. But he did seem… interested. Wanted to know if you were seeing anyone."

Serval snorts, her fingers stilling on the strings. "Interested? Dunn's idea of a good date is talking about the structural integrity of Qlipoth Fort's walls. The man called me 'Miss Landau' the entire time. Like we were at some formal dinner, not a bar."

Pela raises an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "Our former bandmate isn't that bad. A little stiff, sure, but he's… stable. Reliable."

"Stable and reliable," Serval repeats, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Exactly what every rebellious heart longs to hear."

Pela laughs again, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—something that makes Serval pause. She knows that look. It's the same look Pela gets when she's trying to solve a puzzle, when she's piecing together fragments of information to form a bigger picture.

"What?" Serval asks, her voice wary.

Pela hesitates, then shrugs. "Nothing. Just... you've been alone for a while. I thought maybe..."

Serval sighs, letting her head fall back. "Please don't tell me you're about to suggest what I think you're suggesting."

"He's accomplished. Respected in the Guard. Your father would—"

"Don't." Serval's fingers still on the strings, her shoulders tensing. "Just... don't."

The silence stretches between them, filled with all the things they never talk about - the Architects, her father's disappointment, the careful distance that's grown between her and everyone who still wears a badge.

Pela shifts on her stool, her uniform creaking softly. "I shouldn't have brought up your father."

"No, I..." Serval exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her frame. "I know you're trying to help. But I can't keep living my life trying to please people who've already decided who I should be." Her voice softens. "Does that make sense?"

"It does." Pela stands, but instead of leaving, she crosses to Serval and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "For what it's worth, I liked who you were before all this. But I like who you are now, too."

Serval looks up at her friend, caught off guard by the simple honesty in her voice. "Even when I'm being impossible?"

"Especially then." Pela squeezes her shoulder before stepping back. "I should head back. Night patrol. Tell Lynx I said hi."

"Sure. Same time next week?"

"Always." Pela pauses at the door. "And Serval? The right person won't care about badges or family names. They'll just care about you."

After Pela leaves, Serval sits in the quiet workshop, her fingers finding their way back to the strings. The melody that emerges isn't angry or bitter - it's questioning, searching. She plays until her fingers ache, until the music says everything she can't.

When she finally stops, the silence settles around her like a familiar weight. She sets the guitar aside and leans back in her chair, Pela's words echoing in her mind. Someone who won't care about badges or family names. Her fingers trace absently over the strings.

"Is there really someone like that out there?" she whispers to the empty workshop.

Through the window, Qlipoth Fort's spires pierce the evening sky, offering no answers.

---

The tires scream like wounded animals, shredding the morning's stillness. Alexander's head jerks toward the chaos just in time to catch the sedan hammering into the side of a pickup truck. Metal crumples with the crunch of bone, glass explodes outward, and the sedan spins wildly before collapsing on itself against the curb, smoking and still. The pickup lurches forward, stopping in a screeching skid mere feet from disaster.

The man's chest tightens. No time to think. His bike growls as he yanks it around hard, cutting a sharp U-turn into oncoming traffic. A car barrels past, missing him by inches in a rush of wind, but he doesn't so much as flinch. He slams the brakes, swings to the curb in one fluid motion, and ditches the bike, the kickstand snapping down as he flung himself off. The helmet barely hits the ground before he's sprinting, boots pounding the pavement.

He's moving toward the sedan, instincts overriding logic. The couple from the pickup spills out onto the street, adrenaline written in the jerky way they stumble, their skin ash-pale, their words tumbling over one another in frantic bursts of cursing. Alexander doesn't bother with them.

They're breathing. Conscious. They can wait.

The sedan tells a different story. Smoke curls from its crumpled hood. The windshield is split apart, a web of shatterlines; the driver's side door concaves into a twisted, bruised hunk of steel.

He barely registers his own movements—his steps closing the distance, the pounding in his chest drowned by a sharper instinct. He reaches the car and sees her slumped across the wheel, a nest of dark bloodied hair resting against the airbag. Glass flecks gleam against the lace of her white blouse like cruel ornaments. Blood streaks her face, her lips. She isn't breathing.

Move.

Alexander yanks at the driver's door, the metal letting loose a groan like it's begging him to stop. Acidic air—burnt rubber, fuel, and iron—slams him, but his hands don't hesitate. Fingers find her neck and press. Still. Too still.

His stomach turns.

Gunpowder. Blood. The sound of his father struggling to draw breath in a narrow alleyway in Rosario. His words swallowed by gurgling. His hands failing, no matter how hard he pressed against the wounds. Sirens wailing somewhere too far, seconds and lifetimes away.

He bites into his cheek until the sharp sting jolts him back, shoving memory aside. His arms hook under her shoulders, the broken glass digging into his skin as he drags her out of the wrecked car. Her head lolls bonelessly to one side, her weight pressing down on him as if daring him to stop. He lays her down with as much care as urgency will allow, barely noticing the grit and blood staining his hands.

CPR. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. The count drums through his head as his palms find her chest. He pumps with mechanical precision, the rhythm steady, unrelenting. Sweat drips into the blood on her blouse, and still, he doesn't stop. "Come on," he mutters under his breath. "Not today. Not you."

Movement stirs at the corner of his vision—bystanders gathering, gawking, useless. A car horn blares from somewhere behind him, punctuating the cacophony. The couple from the truck looms closer, their shouting muddled and uneven, noise without meaning.

A man edges forward from the group, his shirt untucked, his face twisted in misplaced determination. His hands flap uselessly at his sides, the gestures half-formed, clumsy, like he hasn't made up his mind about what he wants to do. "You're doing it wrong!" he shouts, his voice cracking, louder than it needs to be—as if volume could mask the uncertainty in his tone.

Alexander doesn't even glance up. He can tell, without wasting a second, that the man doesn't have a clue. Doesn't see the steady compressions. Doesn't hear the faint, gasping breaths Alexander's fighting to coax from her lungs. Maybe he's picturing some TV version of CPR or worse, just needs to feel useful.

"Get the hell back," Alexander snaps, his voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. Precise.

The man falters, his mouth opening to argue. "But I think—"

Alexander's glare finally lands on him, a thunderclap in its own right. "Think all you want—over there." His tone bristles with such force it pins the man where he stands. A flush creeps up the man's neck as an older woman pulls him away by the arm, whispering something harsh under her breath about letting the guy work.

Alexander has already turned back to her—to rhythm, breathing, life—and the rest of the world falls back into the noise where it belongs. His focus is unbreakable, his mind half-lost in the repetition. Compressions. Breaths. A plea murmured between clenched teeth, barely audible. Come on. Breathe. Please!

Through it all, he doesn't even notice the slick streaks of blood on his forearms anymore. Keep pushing. Keep going. And then—

A sound. Small. A whisper fighting to be heard. The faintest gasp escapes her lips, rattling weakly in her throat, followed by a shallow, uneven breath. He freezes. Her eyes flutter open, the thin film of confusion spreading across them like frost.

She coughs, wet and broken, blood smearing her lips. "I… I looked at my phone," she rasps, her voice distant, fragile. "Didn't see… I didn't…"

"Quiet," Alexander cuts in sharply, his hands already tearing a strip from his shirt to press against a cut at her temple. His tone softens, muting itself as if speaking might undo her fragile revival. "You're here. You're okay now. Just stay with me."

Distant sirens climb closer, the noise swelling over the scattered murmurs of onlookers. The woman from the truck calls out, her voice shaking. "We called 911! They should be here any second!"

He doesn't acknowledge her, his eyes glued to the woman beneath him. Still breathing. Stay breathing.

When the paramedics arrive, it's a blur of practiced urgency—gloved hands, clipped instructions, the hiss of oxygen tanks. Alexander steps back, letting them do what he couldn't. His breaths come in shallow gasps, though he barely realizes. His hands dangle at his sides, blood tacky on his palms.

"You did good." The voice belongs to one of the officers who showed up in the commotion, his notebook open, pen poised. The words hold no weight; Alexander barely hears him. Instead, he focuses on the ambulance pulling away, its lights painting the early morning gray in harsh streaks of red and blue.

"Good," Alexander mutters, like he's testing the word. His fists clench, nails digging into his palms. He takes a breath that tastes of blood and scorched air and rubs a trembling hand down his face.

Behind him, the officer speaks, waiting for answers. In his periphery, bystanders shift, their curiosity waning now that the life-or-death moment has passed.

The vibration of his phone breaks through it all. He pulls it from his pocket, presses dial with unsteady fingers. Nataly's voice answers on the second ring, rapid-fire with worry. "Boss? Where the hell are you? We're having our prep meeting in just about—"

"There was a wreck." His voice, calm now, measured. "I'll be late. Twenty, twenty-five minutes."

"What happened? Are you hurt?" Her concern slices through for just a second. He hears it.

"I was just on my way to work and…" The words scrape his throat, empty and hollow, before his mind yanks him backward—to where he'd been minutes ago.

He'd been sitting on his bike in the barren parking lot of a church, the engine purring beneath him, helmet balanced loosely on the handlebars. Across the cracked pavement, the temple doors stood resolute, intimidating in their quiet, patient vigil. He couldn't move. Just sat there, frozen, staring at the building like it might come alive and swallow him whole.

Go inside. The thought repeated like a drumbeat, a litany pounding against his skull. But his body wouldn't obey. There was too much dread lodged in his gut, too much shame twisting its barbed wire grip around his ribs. He could see himself walking through those doors, facing everything that waited for him on the other side. Confession. Redemption. Weakness.

The words made his palms sweat.

Minutes passed. Or maybe they were hours—it hardly mattered. He couldn't bring himself to even swing his leg off the bike. And then, before he could entertain the thought any further, shame won out over resolve. Panic seared through him, numbing his limbs, lighting his nerves on fire. He bolted, twisting the throttle and tearing out of the lot as if outrunning the confrontation he'd refused to have.

On the road, his mind barely registered the blur of buildings and cars lining his route to the office. Just static, noise. Then—screeching tires. Shattering glass. The sedan careening into a pickup truck. And without thinking, he'd turned the bike, rushing toward the wreck.

Toward something he could actually fix.

"Alexander?" Nataly's voice yanks him back to the present.

He wets his dry lips, fighting against the tangle of memory and adrenaline that clings to him. "I…" He exhales sharply, dragging himself into the moment. His gaze locks on the now-empty street, the ambulance long gone and the blood still drying on the sidewalk.

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to his torn, blood-streaked shirt. Shit.

"Never mind that. Nataly, I need a favor," he adds, his jaw clenched. "In the locker room—there should be a spare shirt in there. Use my keys and grab it for me."

There's a beat of silence on the other end, long enough for him to hear the confusion lace her reply. "A shirt? What—"

"Please," he snaps, sharper than intended. A moment later, he draws a breath, forcing the tension to bleed from his tone. "Just—handle it. I'll explain later."

Another pause. She doesn't push further, though the hesitation in her voice is clear. "Okay. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks," he mutters before ending the call brusquely. The phone slips back into his pocket as he exhales slowly, willing his thoughts back into some semblance of order. For a moment, he stands there, motionless, the phantom pressure of compressions still buzzing in his hands, his fingers memory-bound to the rhythm.

Is this enough? Will this make up for everything?

The question lingers as he turns back toward his bike. He knows it won't answer itself. The day isn't over yet.

---

Himeko leans against the railing of the Astral Express's observation deck, watching the gleaming spires of Herta Space Station grow larger through the viewport. The massive structure stretches out before them like a mechanical flower blooming in the void, its docking arms extended in silent welcome. Behind her, she hears March 7th's camera clicking away, immortalizing yet another arrival.

"Careful with the shutter speed in zero-G," Welt calls out, his voice carrying that gentle instructor's tone. "The station's rotation can blur your shots."

"Got it!" March chirps back, adjusting something on her camera. "But look how the light hits those panels! It's like they're made of liquid gold."

Himeko smiles to herself, letting their familiar banter wash over her. Her fingers drum against the railing, a nervous habit she's never quite shaken. The Express needs this resupply stop - their adventure on Nyssa-III had depleted more resources than expected. But time isn't exactly on their side, not with the Charmony Festival looming and two more worlds crying out for help.

The comm system crackles to life. "Express One-Four-Zero, you are cleared for docking at Platform Three," a crisp voice announces. "Please maintain your current approach vector."

Dan Heng's quiet footsteps approach from behind. "I'll handle the docking sequence," he offers, already moving toward the bridge. His reflection in the viewport shows the slight tension in his shoulders - he's never quite comfortable during station approaches.

"I've got it," Himeko says, straightening up. "Why don't you help March document our grand entrance? She's been trying to get that perfect shot of the docking clamps for weeks."

A flicker of relief crosses Dan's face before he nods, turning back to where March is practically bouncing with excitement. Welt catches Himeko's eye and gives her an approving nod. He understands - sometimes the kindest leadership is knowing when to let someone step back.

The Express glides into the docking bay with practiced grace, the magnetic clamps engaging with a series of satisfying thunks that reverberate through the hull. Through the viewport, Himeko spots Asta waiting on the platform, clipboard in hand and looking as put-together as ever. Beside her stands Arlan, his usual stern expression softened slightly by what might be the ghost of a smile.

"Home sweet home," March sighs happily, snapping another photo. "Well, one of them, anyway."

Himeko pushes off from the railing, her movements fluid in the artificial gravity. "Let's not keep our welcoming committee waiting. And March?" She pauses at the doorway, a knowing look in her eye. "Try not to overwhelm Arlan with too many photos this time. I think he's still recovering from your last documentary attempt."

March's laugh echoes through the observation deck as they make their way to the airlock. This might be a quick stop, Himeko thinks, but maybe - just maybe - it's exactly what her crew needs right now.

The docking bay of the Herta Space Station hummed with activity as the Astral Express slid gracefully into its berth, its sleek, train-like form gleaming against the star-studded backdrop. Himeko stood at the edge of the platform, her hands resting on the railing, and watched with a quiet satisfaction as the crew of the station sprang into action. Cranes whirred to life, extending their mechanical arms to unload the supplies, while the metallic clang of tools echoed through the vast chamber. The air was thick with the scent of fuel and the faint tang of ozone, a familiar and comforting smell that reminded her of countless stops like this one.

Behind her, the crew of the Astral Express began to disembark, their movements relaxed after the long journey from Nyssa-III. March 7th bounced ahead, her eyes wide with excitement, her camera in hand as she snapped photos of everything in sight. Dan Heng followed more slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the area with a practiced air of caution, his Cloud-Piercer lance resting against his shoulder. Welt brought up the rear, his cane tapping softly against the metal floor, his expression calm and observant.

Himeko turned to greet Asta, who approached with her clipboard clutched tightly in one hand, a warm smile on her face. "Welcome back, everyone," Asta said, her voice crisp and professional. "It's good to see you all again. I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"Uneventful might be stretching it," Himeko replied with a wry smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But we made it in one piece. Thanks for the welcome."

Arlan, standing a few paces back, nodded in greeting, his arms crossed over his chest. His purple eyes flicked briefly to Dan, a small, almost imperceptible nod passing between them. Himeko noticed it and filed it away, a mental note to check in with Dan later. He had been quieter than usual since their last stop, and she knew better than to press him when he was in one of his withdrawn moods.

As the station crew moved to unload the supplies, Asta gestured toward the main part of the station. "I was thinking, since you're here, you might want to stay for the night. It's been a while since you've had a chance to rest properly, and I'm sure the crew could use the break."

Himeko hesitated for a moment, glancing at her crew. March was busy trying to get a shot of a particularly large crate being lifted by a crane, her camera held up to her eye. Dan stood off to the side, his back to the large windows that offered a view of the stars, his expression unreadable. Welt leaned against a nearby pillar, watching the scene with an air of quiet amusement.

"We weren't planning on staying," Himeko said finally, "but... maybe it's not a bad idea. The crew could use a bit of downtime."

Asta nodded understandingly. "I thought you might say that. You're always on the move, Himeko. It's good to take a breather every now and then."

Himeko smiled, though a small pang of guilt tugged at her. They had been pushing hard, trying to reach as many worlds as possible before the Charmony Festival on Penacony. The Festival was still a few weeks away, but the recent surge in Stellaron appearances had made her restless. Every delay could mean more worlds in danger, more lives lost.

As if reading her thoughts, Asta said, "We've been monitoring the Stellaron activity too. It's concerning, to say the least. But you can't pour from an empty cup, right? Take the rest. You'll be better off for it."

"Thanks, Asta," Himeko replied, meaning it. She turned to her crew. "Alright, everyone. Let's take Asta up on her offer. We'll stay for the night, restock, and head out fresh in the morning."

March let out a whoop of excitement, lowering her camera. "Yes! I can finally get some real sleep!" She bounced over to Himeko, her eyes shining. "Do you think they have any good food here? I'm starving!"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "You're always starving, March."

"Well, someone's got to keep their strength up," March shot back, grinning. "Besides, I heard the station has some amazing desserts. I need to try them all!"

Welt chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Let's see how that goes."

---

The motorcycle's engine cuts off abruptly as Alexander coasts into the parking lot, tires skidding ever so slightly on the asphalt. In one swift motion, he swings his leg over, ripping off his helmet and running a hand through sweat-dampened hair. The morning sun carved harsh lines across the floor, forcing him to squint as sweat trickled down his temple.

Nataly stands by the entrance, stiletto heels tapping an impatient rhythm against the pavement. A neatly folded shirt rests in her arms. Her eyes narrow as they rake over him, catching on the blood smeared across his collar, the dried flakes clinging to his knuckles. Her lips part, but before she can voice the questions swirling in her gaze, he's already moving toward her, strides quick and deliberate.

"Oh my God, Alexander. What happened?" Her voice edges on panic, rising above the muted hum of the city waking up around them. "Are you hurt? Tell me that's not your blood."

He exhales sharply through his nose, scrubbing a rough hand over his jaw as if to wipe away the tension etched there. "It's not mine," he says, already turning away from her probing gaze, shoulders rigid. The ruined shirt clings to his skin, sticky with sweat and not his own blood. With a grimace, he peels it off, muscles tensing as the fabric scrapes over raw knuckles. Nataly averts her eyes quickly, though not before noticing the results of what were clearly years of disciplined training.

"There was a crash," he offers curtly, eyes flicking past her. "Driver wasn't breathing. I handled it."

Her eyes widen, disbelief mingling with concern. "You mean—you performed CPR?"

"Yes." He yanks the clean shirt over his shoulders, fingers working the buttons with practiced efficiency. "She's alive. That's what matters." He looks at her then, gaze hard. "Now, are we confirmed for Powell?"

She hesitates, still processing, but he can see her switch gears—the professional mask sliding back into place. Yet she can't resist muttering under her breath, "You have to stop throwing yourself into chaos."

He ignores it, brushing past her as they head inside. The glass doors glide open with a whisper, and the cool embrace of air conditioning washes over them, a stark contrast to the heat outside. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, the antiseptic scent of the office filling his lungs. Eyes flicker toward him—some curious, others wary—but he pays them no mind, his focus razor-sharp.

As they stride through the maze of cubicles, a weight settles on his shoulders. This deal isn't just another notch in his belt; it's a lifeline. He glanced at his phone, ignoring the latest payment reminder from Metropolitan Hospital. Nine bullets, three surgeries, and endless physical therapy sessions - all adding up to numbers that made his head spin. All those years of scraping by, of paying for specialists who might help reverse the damage. Dad could focus on therapy. Mom wouldn't have to keep everything together with tape and sheer willpower.

He keeps moving, the thought a silent mantra. Nothing is going to derail this today.

Whispers trail in his wake, hushed voices nibbling at the edges of his resolve. He catches snippets—mentions of blood, of his abrupt arrival—but he doesn't break stride. "Everything's fine," he says firmly but quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Please, just focus on work."

Reaching his workstation, he finds James hovering uncertainly beside the cluttered desk. The younger man's gaze flits from the scattered papers to Alexander's still-raw knuckles.

"James," Alexander begins, not bothering with pleasantries. "Where's the quarterly projections file I asked for?"

James fidgets, shifting his weight like a skittish animal. "Quarterly... projections?" His voice wavers. "I didn't—no one sent that to me. I didn't know you needed one."

His insides twisted, each muscle coiling tighter with every word from James's stammering explanation. He straightens, the air around him seeming to tense. "I asked for it last week," he says evenly, a dangerous calm lacing his words.

James blanches, eyes darting toward Nataly in silent plea. "I swear, I didn't get anything about that."

Nataly steps forward, her own composure fraying at the edges. "Wait, what? I emailed the department heads after you mentioned it in last Friday's meeting."

Alexander turns to her, jaw tight. "Who exactly did you contact?"

She fumbles with her phone, scrolling rapidly. "Tom in Data," she replies, urgency creeping into her voice. "He's handled projections before, so I thought—"

"Tom's on vacation," Alexander cuts in, realization striking like a knife. His eyes harden. "You didn't check if he assigned someone to cover?"

A flicker of frustration crosses her features. "I assumed it would be automatically handed off."

"Assumed." The word tastes bitter on his tongue. "So no one informed James, and the task fell into a void." His hands clench at his sides, knuckles whitening. The morning's events press down on him—the crash, the lifeless woman brought back from the brink, and now this.

Without warning, he turns and drives his fist into the nearest wall. The drywall gives way with a dull thud, a small crater left in the wake of his anger. Dust floats to the ground like ash.

A hiss escapes between his teeth. "Fuck!" The sting in his knuckles is nothing compared to the churn of frustration boiling inside. His own failures stacking one atop another, each misstep and oversight threatening to bury him.

Silence falls around them, the office momentarily frozen. Faces peer over cubicle walls, eyes wide and mouths agape. A few whispers of "Should we call HR?" drift through the air, but nobody moves.

Calm the hell down! He inhales slowly, forcing the air into his lungs, tamping down the fire threatening to consume him. Turning back to James and Nataly, he releases his fists. "Sorry… This… This isn't on you," he says, voice steady but low. "It's on me. I should have ensured the handoff was clear." His gaze softens just a fraction. "What matters now is how we fix it. When we close this, because we will, you're both getting a significant bonus. I promise."

James nods hurriedly, relief washing over his features. Nataly presses her lips together, a mixture of guilt and determination settling in her eyes.

Alexander straightens, rolling his shoulders back. "What do we know about who Powell's bringing beyond our champion? Their CTO? CFO?"

Nataly hesitates, a glimmer in her eye. "That's actually interesting - they've been unusually tight-lipped about it, but I did some digging. I'm almost certain Stephen Watkins himself will be there."

"Stephen Watkins?" Alexander's brow furrows. "Their CEO? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure." She glances at James, who's already typing on his laptop. "James and I have been researching everything we can find on him since I got the tip."

James nods, eyes scanning his screen. "We've found a few angles - he's big on sustainable tech, sits on three environmental boards..."

"He's done TED talks on innovation," Nataly adds.

"And according to his Instagram," James continues, "he's obsessed with the Dallas Cowboys."

Alexander pauses. "Wait. Say that last part again?"

"He's a Huge Dallas Cowboys fan."

An idea sparks—sharp and clear. Alexander's lips twitch into a semblance of a smile. "Perfect."

Nataly raises an eyebrow. "What's perfect?"

"I have a connection. Someone who can sway Watkins in our favor."

Without waiting for a response, he pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts until he lands on a familiar name: Marcus Johnson.

He taps the call button. The phone rings, each tone stretching longer than the last. Finally, a warm voice answers. "Well, if it isn't Alexander. Is the Argentinian calling to finally admit the superiority of American football over your precious soccer?"

A grimace of disgust crosses Alexander's face. "It's football, Marcus. Your sport barely even uses feet - just a bunch of guys carrying a ball with their hands." He pauses, humor warming his tone. "But that's not why I'm calling. Is your brother in town?"

There's a pause. "TJ? Yeah, he's around. What's this about?"

"I'm meeting with Stephen Watkins from Powell this afternoon. He's a big fan of your brother. If TJ could drop by the office, make a brief appearance..." He lets the suggestion hang.

Marcus's voice turns guarded. "Using TJ to schmooze a client? I don't know, man..."

"Remember Caracas?" Alexander's voice drops low, heavy with meaning. "When you called me at 3 AM, desperate?" A beat of silence. "I didn't ask questions then. Just got on a plane."

The line goes quiet for several heartbeats. When Marcus speaks again, his tone has shifted. "Yeah. Yeah, you did." Another pause, shorter this time. "And here I am, hesitating over getting my brother to say hello to some fan." A resigned sigh. "Alright, I'll talk to him. Just remember this isn't close to settling that debt."

"3:15 sharp. I'll make it worth your while."

"Save it," Marcus replies, warmth returning to his voice. "Just don't make me regret this. I'll let you know once I talk to him."

"Appreciate it." Alexander ends the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He turns to find Nataly and James watching him with poorly concealed curiosity. Their eyes dart away when he meets their gaze, but the questions hang in the air like static. Caracas. 3 AM. The kind of favor that creates an unspoken debt.

Neither of them dares to ask.

"We have a new plan," he announces. "TJ Johnson—star player for the Cowboys—is making a surprise visit during our meeting."

James's eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

Alexander nods. "Watkins won't see it coming. It'll give us the opening we need."

Nataly crosses her arms, skeptical. "And you think a celebrity cameo is enough to seal this deal?"

"It's not about sealing it," he counters. "It's about getting his attention. Once we have that, the rest is up to us—and our numbers." He fixes them with a steady gaze. "We have an hour and a half. Please double-check to make sure everything else is flawless."

They nod, urgency propelling them back to their tasks. Papers shuffle, keyboards clack, the electric buzz of focused energy filling the space.

Alexander stands back, watching his team prepare with practiced efficiency. His gaze drifts to his hands, still faintly stained despite his best efforts to scrub them clean before he arrived. The woman's face flashes through his mind—blue-tinged lips, vacant eyes—before chest compressions brought color flooding back. With a sharp exhale, he pulls out a cigarette and heads for the fire escape.

The metal creaks under his weight as he leans against the railing, lighting up with practiced motions. Between drags and fielding rapid-fire questions from his team through the window, he pulls out his phone. His fingers move automatically through the familiar motions of his daily quests in Honkai: Star Rail, the mindless routine offering a moment of escape from the morning's chaos. Sebastian had been right about one thing - mobile games made excellent distractions. Should never have let him talk me into downloading this, he thinks, thumb hovering over auto-battle. I should check if Phainon is getting a re-run sometime soon.

As the minutes tick by, he checks his phone: no message yet from Marcus. He resists the urge to call again, knowing it won't hasten anything.

Finally, his phone vibrates. A text: TJ's in. See you at 3:15.

"Bingo."

---

The holographic display keeps flickering. It's been doing that for weeks now, and Welt's pretty sure someone should fix it—probably not Himeko though, given what happened last time she tried to "improve" the station's equipment. He watches the unsteady light paint weird shadows across Asta's face as she pulls up their latest data.

Stars, his eyes are tired. How long have they been staring at these readings? The coffee machine's broken again (definitely not Himeko's fault this time), and he's starting to see patterns in everything. Though maybe that's just the Stellaron data getting to him.

"Your findings from the Nyssa-III readings are fascinating," Asta says, and Welt has to bite back a laugh. Fascinating. That's one way to put it. Try terrifying. Try impossible. Try 'what the hell were we thinking going that close to begin with.'

Himeko's leaning way too close to the display, her hair practically touching the hologram. She'll get a headache if she keeps that up, but he knows better than to say anything. "The Stellaron's behavior pattern was..." She trails off, squinting at something. "Hang on, is that—? No, never mind. It was just doing its usual 'let's destroy everything' thing, but... differently?"

Welt nods, mostly because his neck needs the stretch. "Yeah, it's like it was..." He waves his hand vaguely at the graph, which honestly looks more like abstract art at this point. "Like it was doing math while it tried to kill us. Very considerate of it, really."

"Herta's gonna love this," Asta says, fiddling with her glasses. They're smudged again—she always forgets to clean them when she's excited about data. "Though I guess she's got her own pet catastrophe to play with now."

Welt winces. He still can't believe Herta managed to get approval for that. Sure, she's an Emanator, but keeping a Stellaron on a space station? For science? It's like keeping a black hole in your pocket because you're curious about what it'll do to your spare change.

But again, he of all people couldn't speak aloud against the idea, given his powers.

"Even with the best containment tech and Herta's whole..." Asta waves her hand in what Welt assumes is meant to be an impression of Herta's particular brand of genius, "...thing, we haven't exactly made progress. These things don't exactly play nice in a lab setting."

He catches Himeko's expression—that dangerous mix of curiosity and determination that usually ends with something exploding. "Don't even think about it," he mutters, but she's already thinking about it.

"Do you think it's possible?" She turns to him, and yeah, she's definitely got that look in her eyes. "To study them properly, I mean. Without the whole 'corruption and destruction' part?"

Welt sighs. He's been around long enough to know better, but... "Even with everything I've seen—" Which is a lot, thank you very much. "I'm practically a toddler compared to some of the beings out there." He shrugs, feeling every one of his considerably numerous years. "Most Emanators would look at this problem and go 'nope, not today, thanks.' And we need answers yesterday."

"Speaking of yesterday..." Asta pulls up a map that makes Welt's stomach drop. Red dots everywhere, like a case of cosmic measles. "They're popping up faster than bad coffee jokes in the crew lounge. Star rails are going dark, and—"

"And we're all screwed if we can't fix it," Himeko finishes, unusually blunt. She's staring at the trade routes, probably already calculating how many systems are one broken rail away from collapse.

Welt watches the wheels turn in her head. The IPC's going to have a collective aneurysm if they lose any more major routes. Whole planets dependent on each other, economies balanced on the edge of a knife—or in this case, on the stability of paths between stars.

"What about your home?" Asta asks Himeko, her voice gentle. "Are you worried about—"

Welt goes very, very still. Oh, here we go.

"Nothing to worry about back home," Himeko says, with that particular smile she uses when she's already halfway to the next star system in her head. It's the same smile she wore when she left... well, everything. Everyone. Always chasing the next horizon, their Himeko.

Welt pretends to be very interested in a data point he's already memorized. Some things are better left unsaid, even if everyone in the room can read them in the careful way Himeko changes the subject.

---

Numbers blur together on the conference room table. Alexander's been staring at them so long they're starting to dance, but Watkins—he's taking his sweet time with every page. The CEO's expression hasn't changed in the last five minutes: that same, pinched look that screams 'I'm about to tear your projections apart.' His finger keeps tapping the table, not quite in rhythm with the humming fluorescent lights overhead.

Come on, come on. Alexander steals another glance at his phone. 3:13. Almost showtime.

"These projections..." Watkins finally looks up from the page, and yep, there it is—that look Alexander's seen a hundred times before. The 'I'm about to tell you why you're wrong' look. "They're optimistic." He pauses, probably searching for a diplomatic way to say 'bullshit.' "Too optimistic. You're telling me you can hit these numbers without—"

knock knock knock

Perfect timing. TJ Johnson could've been a damn actor in another life—everything about him right now is pure performance. The Cowboys jacket (probably fresh from the team shop, knowing Marcus), that easy stride that says 'yeah, I catch million-dollar passes for a living.' Alexander fights down a smirk. Hook, line...

"TJ." He lets his voice carry just enough annoyance. Not too much—gotta sell it. "You were supposed to call first. I'm in the middle of something here."

TJ's response comes with that million-watt grin of his. "My bad, my bad." He waves it off like he's brushing away an interception. "Handle your business." Then he's gone, that practiced swagger carrying him toward the elevator, leaving behind a wake of dropped jaws and wide eyes.

The silence stretches. Alexander counts the seconds in his head, letting it build. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

"That was..." Watkins's voice cracks a little. Had to be killing him, trying to maintain that CEO composure. "That wasn't..."

"TJ Johnson?" Alexander keeps his eyes on the projections, like NFL stars drop by his office every Tuesday. "Yeah. His brother Marcus helped us out with some logistics a while back." He glances up, catching Watkins's stunned expression. "Complex situation. TJ checks in sometimes, sees how the business side's doing."

Watkins's pen hovers over the page, forgotten. The skepticism from earlier? Gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like hero worship. "He just... stops by?"

"When he's not busy destroying the Eagles' secondary." Alexander taps the forgotten projections with his pen. Might as well twist the knife a little. "Now, about these numbers..."

The rest of the meeting? Pure poetry. Every point lands like it's been gift-wrapped. Watkins isn't just listening anymore—he's leaning in, nodding, actually smiling. Even laughs at one of James's terrible gradient charts (note to self: really need to talk to him about those).

By the end, Watkins can barely keep still, hovering at the door like a kid at Christmas. "If Johnson ever happens to be around again..."

Alexander lets himself smile. Just a little. Just enough. "Get legal moving on this deal," he says, "and we'll see about making that happen. Might even get his thoughts on their playoff chances."

The gleam in Watkins's eyes? Worth every steak dinner he'll owe Marcus for the next year. "I'll have the paperwork tomorrow." He adjusts his tie, remembering himself. "First thing."

Dad's doctors are gonna need a bigger filing cabinet, Alexander thinks, already tasting victory.

Sometimes the best plays are the ones you never see coming—unless, of course, you're the one who planned them.

---

Dan hated security bays. Too many eyes, too many cameras, too many chances for someone to notice... well, everything. He hung back behind March—at least her endless picture-taking gave him something to hide behind. Though honestly, did she have to document every single blinking light they passed?

Ahead of them, Arlan was going on about the station's defenses. Kid couldn't be more than what, twenty? The way he kept stumbling over technical terms almost made Dan want to smile. Almost.

"And here we have our main monitoring station." Arlan's voice had that proud puppy enthusiasm that made Dan's chest tight with... something. Memory, maybe. "We can track every movement in and out of the station—"

Great. Fantastic. Just what he needed to hear.

March bounced up on her toes (how did she have so much energy?), camera already whirring. "They look like they're dancing!" She was grinning at the screens like they were putting on a show just for her. Sometimes Dan envied how she could just... exist. Like that. Open.

He kept his eyes moving. Old habits. Bad habits, maybe, but they'd kept him alive this long. The security officers were watching them—watching him—and... yep, here it comes.

"Pardon." One of them was already walking over, eyes fixed on Dan's clothes. Stupid, stupid, should've changed before coming here. "You're with the Xianzhou Alliance?"

Dan managed a nod. Bare minimum. Don't engage. His throat felt too tight anyway. The officer backed off (thank whatever stars were listening), and Dan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Some techs were muttering about readings or interference or whatever. Dan caught Mr. Yang looking at him—that slight furrow in his brow that meant he'd noticed something off. But Welt didn't say anything. Dan appreciated that about him—how he seemed to understand exactly when someone needed space, when to step back and let others come forward in their own time. It was a wisdom earned through decades, probably.

Their assigned quarters were... nice, actually. Clean lines and modern comforts—exactly what you'd expect from the Herta Space Station. Dan set his bag down on the sleek metal table and found himself drawn to the window. Space stretched out before him, endless and familiar now in a way that stirred mixed feelings in his chest. No real home among those stars, not anymore, not since... well. But the Express was there somewhere, and its crew. Maybe that was enough of a home these days.

Himeko was at her window too, across the way. She had that look—the one Dan recognized because he practiced hiding it in mirrors. Everyone's running from something. He just wished his something would stop weighing so heavy in his chest every time someone asked about the Xianzhou.

The automated bed adjusted to his weight as he sat down—some fancy pressure-sensing system he didn't quite understand. Everything here was cutting-edge; Herta wouldn't have it any other way. The station's systems hummed through the walls, people walked past in the corridor, and his thoughts felt too loud in his head. He tried to breathe slowly, like he'd been taught. Guard your past, guard your mind. The old lessons still echoed.

March's excitement over those security lights kept playing in his head. Arlan's earnest pride in his systems. Welt's quiet understanding. The officer's question hanging in the air: Xianzhou Alliance?

Yes. No. It's complicated. It's always complicated.

The crew, though... they were different. They'd seen him fight. Seen him bleed. Never pushed when he clammed up about his past. Maybe someday he'd tell them. Maybe. If he could figure out how to force the words past all these years of keeping them locked away.

Looking out at the star-scattered void, Dan felt his eyes growing heavy. The Express might be home, but he had to admit—these station beds were something else. As sleep began to take him, he couldn't have known that in just a few hours, alarms would blare through the station's corridors. Couldn't have seen the massive shape that was even now gliding through the shadow of a distant moon, its course set directly for them.

---

Footsteps and victory chatter fade down the hallway. Alexander stays behind in the conference room, letting his fingertips trail across the polished wood where Watkins had signed. Still feels surreal. Like the whole morning's been some fever dream—the crash, the blood, the deal that almost slipped away.

Shit. The wall.

He should probably deal with that first. Write up an incident report or... something. His knuckles throb at the memory.

"Quite a show you put on in there."

He turns to find Nataly in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with that look she gets when she's figured something out. The one that makes him want to—nope, not going there. Summer's face flashes in his mind, grounding him.

"The Cowboys thing?" He shrugs, gathering the scattered presentations. "Just got lucky."

She snorts. "Please. You don't do luck. You orchestrate." A pause. Her voice softens. "Even after that wall incident... when you were ready to tear the place apart, you still made sure James and I knew it wasn't on us, even though both you and I know we could have double-checked with you. That's what I mean. That's classic Salvatore—carrying everything on your shoulders, even when you're about to crack under the weight."

"I broke company property," he says flatly, though something warm unfurls in his chest at her reading of him. "That's on me."

"Alexander." Collins appears in the doorway, his salt-and-pepper beard failing to hide his grin. The VP of Sales looks like he's about to burst. "Hell of a close. And about the wall—maintenance already patched it. Consider it a battle scar. This company's seen worse for less reward."

Relief floods through him, though he keeps his face neutral. "Still, I should—"

"You should celebrate is what you should do," Collins cuts in. "Word is the engineering team's organizing something."

Right on cue, James pokes his head in. "Drinks at Murphy's! Even got some of the code monkeys to emerge from their cave." He grins. "You're coming, right, boss?"

Alexander's chest tightens. The invite feels genuine—warm, even. But he can feel Nataly's eyes on him, that current of possibility humming between them. The same one that used to lead him down paths he's promised himself (promised Summer) he wouldn't walk anymore.

"Can't," he says, maybe too quickly. "Got things at home."

James's face falls, but he recovers fast. "Next time then."

Alexander nods, already moving toward engineering. Needs to get this next part over with.

The familiar whir of cooling fans hits him first. Then the coffee-and-silicon smell that never quite leaves your clothes. Mitch spots him first, pushing up those perpetually sliding glasses.

"The prodigal son returns!" Mitch's grin is infectious. "Though I hear you're too busy being a hotshot salesman to remember your roots. What was it you used to say? 'Sales is just engineering with better clothes'?"

Alexander can't help but smile. God, he misses this sometimes. The straightforward problems, the satisfaction of making something work. "Yeah, well," he adjusts his tie, "someone's got to keep you all employed."

He scans their current setup, muscle memory kicking in. "That your new build? Looks like the power routing's off."

"Still got the eye," Mitch admits. "But we're not your problem anymore, remember?"

No, not anymore. Only dad's medical bills are. The thought sobers him. "Yeah, I remember." He straightens. "Keep up the good work."

He's almost at his desk when Nataly catches up to him. There's something in her stance that makes him brace himself.

"You know," she starts, her voice softer than usual, "one drink wouldn't—"

"Nataly." He cuts her off, gentle but firm. Keeps his eyes on his monitor. "About those bonuses. You and James? Eighty percent bump this month."

Her sharp intake of breath is almost comical. "What? You can't just—Alexander!"

He's already walking away, fighting a smile as her protests follow him to the elevator.

"This isn't how bonuses work! You can't just drop that and—" The doors slide shut, blessed silence falling.

Alexander exhales, long and slow. His phone buzzes—a text from Summer. Something about dinner plans. His thumb hovers over the screen, that familiar warmth spreading through his chest.

Yeah, he thinks. This is better.

---

Clara's tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she concentrated on the tiny gear in her hands. It was perfect—or at least she hoped it was perfect. She'd spent three whole days picking through the scrap heap to find just the right one.

"Mr. Svarog?" She held up the gear, letting it catch the workshop's dim light. "Do you think this one will work better? I calculated the teeth ratio like you showed me."

Svarog's pink eye studied the component with mechanical precision. "The measurements are correct," he confirmed. Clara beamed at that, but then he added, "Though the material composition may prove insufficient for long-term operation."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped a little. She turned the gear over in her hands, trying to see what he saw. "But maybe if we reinforce it? Like how you showed me with the other Automatons?"

"A logical solution," Svarog agreed. His massive frame shifted slightly, servos whirring as he leaned closer to examine her work. "You are learning to think systematically."

Clara brightened at that. Mr. Svarog didn't give praise unless you really earned it. Still... "I wish I could make them more like you," she said, glancing at the partially assembled automaton on her workbench. "Not just following orders, but... thinking. Caring."

Svarog's eye did that slow blink-pulse thing that meant he was thinking super hard about something. Clara counted the pulses in her head—one... two... three... She'd gotten pretty good at telling how long his pauses would be, like knowing when Hook was about to say "absolutely not" to one of her ideas.

"My programming is unique," he finally said, all careful and measured like always. "And not all aspects of it are... optimal."

"That's just silly!" Clara spun around so fast her stool wobbled dangerously, and oh—there went her screwdriver, clattering across the floor. Oops. "You're the best ever!" She waved her arms for emphasis, almost knocking over her tool tray this time (double oops). "You take care of everyone, even when they're being really dumb about it. And you..." Her fingers found that loose thread on her coat again—she should probably fix that sometime. "You found me. When nobody else did."

The silence stretched out forever after that. Or maybe just a minute. Time got weird when Mr. Svarog was thinking really hard. Clara kicked her feet against the stool legs and waited. She'd learned that pushing him to talk faster was like trying to make a stuck gear turn—it just made everything more stuck.

"My primary directive is to protect the people of the Underworld," he said at last. "You required protection."

"Is that the only reason?" Clara asked, her voice small. She knew she shouldn't push—Mr. Svarog always told her exactly what he meant. But sometimes... sometimes she thought she saw something more in the way his eye would track her movements, or how he'd stand between her and any perceived threat.

Svarog's mechanisms whirred softly. "Initial parameters have... expanded," he said carefully. "Your presence has necessitated additional considerations beyond basic protective protocols."

Clara grinned. That was probably the closest thing to "I love you too" that she'd ever get from him, and she'd learned to hear it for what it was. "Well, I'm glad your parameters expanded then," she said, turning back to her work. "Even if you think they're not optimal."

She could have sworn she heard an extra click in Svarog's systems—the sound he made when something surprised him. But when she looked up, his eye was focused on the workshop door with its usual steady glow.

"The workshop requires organizing," he said abruptly, eye scanning the scattered parts around them.

Clara smiled to herself. She knew what he wasn't saying—that he worried about her working too long, that maybe she should take a break. He had funny ways of showing he cared sometimes. "I'll clean up after I finish this part," she promised. "Will you help me test it when it's done?"

"Affirmative." Svarog moved to stand at her shoulder, a familiar presence. "I will assist in evaluating its functionality."

Clara hummed to herself as she worked, trying to get the stupid gear to sit just right. Her hands weren't shaking at all anymore—she'd practiced lots and lots until they got steady. Behind her, Mr. Svarog's eye glowed that soft pink color that always reminded her of the string lights Hook had put up in the workshop that one time (before they sort of exploded, but that wasn't really anyone's fault).

The workshop smelled like metal and oil and safety. That's what home meant to Clara—the whirring of friendly robots, the comfortable clank of Mr. Svarog shifting his weight when he thought she was working too hard, the way everything felt secure even when the rest of the Underworld was dark and scary.

Sometimes she wished... well, she wished Mr. Svarog would ruffle her hair like she'd seen other dads do, or maybe give her a hug without calculating the optimal pressure first. But he was trying, in his own way. She could tell by how his eye would follow her around the room, how he'd stand a little closer whenever she felt scared. Maybe someday he'd figure out how to be the kind of dad she dreamed about.

Until then, she'd keep trying to show him how.

---

The doors slide open. Alexander rolls his shoulders, wincing at the ghost of morning's compressions still pulsing through his muscles. One-two-three-four... the rhythm haunts him even now. Above, the company's building pierces the darkening sky—all those little windows burning like votive candles. Like confessionals.

Christ, he needs a smoke.

His knuckles throb. Funny how losing control leaves marks that linger. The duffel weighs heavy on his shoulder, that blood-stained shirt inside feeling more like evidence than fabric. Burn it, something whispers in his mind. Too many ghosts for one piece of cotton.

His phone buzzes. Sebastian.

Brother, what the fuck? Summer just called my girl saying you were in some accident? Something about bringing someone back from the dead? You alright?

Alexander snorts, thumbs moving across the screen. News travels fast. I'm fine. Just some CPR.

"Just some CPR." You goddamned bastard. You can't just drop shit like that. What happened?

Car crash. Woman wasn't breathing. Did what anyone would do.

Right. Because everyone just casually saves lives before their morning coffee. And what's this about you redecorating the office with your fist?

He can almost hear Sebastian's mix of concern and exasperation. Another message pops up: Tennis tomorrow? Feel like you need to blow off some steam before you destroy more walls. I know how you personally handle this sort of stuff.

The motorcycle waits in its usual spot, black paint drinking in the security lights. His fingers tap out a quick reply: Sure. Your dad's courts. Try to work on your serve before then.

Screw you. Just for that, I'm making you play against the wall. Maybe you two can settle your differences.

A smile tugs at his lips as he pockets the phone. Trust Sebastian to check up on him and still be an ass about it. His hands move through the pre-ride check automatically. Tank, brakes, chain... The ritual steadies him. Almost like prayer used to, before—

No.

One cigarette first. He cups the flame against the evening breeze, draws deep until his lungs burn. Smoke curls up toward a moon that doesn't give a damn about any of it. About the woman who stopped breathing this morning. About his father's medical bills. About nine bullets in a Rosario alley that—

The bike roars to life beneath him, drowning out memory. Thank God for small mercies.

He takes the curves too fast, lets the wind strip away the day's weight. Buildings blur past like confessional booths he can't bring himself to enter. The engine's growl drowns out everything except the basics: lean into the turn, watch the apex, breathe. Simple physics. No moral grey areas here.

Summer's silhouette appears in the doorway as he pulls up. Her hair—warm chestnut catching porch light like liquid copper—falls loose around shoulders that somehow always seem to know exactly how straight to stand. Those rich brown eyes find his, holding secrets he's not sure he wants to decode. She's beautiful in that dangerous way—the kind that doesn't need to try, that sneaks past your defenses before you realize you've let your guard down.

Her gaze catches on his trembling fingers, the duffel bag, but she doesn't ask. Just takes it with a kiss to his cheek that feels too natural, too easy. Like she's done this a hundred times.

Like she'll do it a hundred more.

God, that's what makes her lethal, isn't it? The way she makes him want to let her.

"You smell like smoke," she murmurs. No judgment. No pushing. Just... space. Always so much space.

"Bad habit." Among others.

The house wraps around him—warm air, garlic, basil. His stomach growls, reminding him that protein bars don't count as meals. When was the last time he actually ate? This morning feels like years ago.

Summer moves through the kitchen like smoke, close enough that he can feel her warmth, far enough that she won't crowd. She's perfected this dance—this careful orbit around his edges. "Your mom texted," she says, stirring something that smells like home. "Earlier."

The guilt hits like a sucker punch. He pulls out his phone, stares at the lockscreen. His parents at Miami Beach—Dad in the wheelchair but smiling, Mom's hand on his shoulder. Six months old, that photo. Maybe more. Shit.

His mother answers on the second ring and they slip into Spanish, the words flowing easier in their mother tongue.

"Alexander!" Her voice fills the kitchen. "Finally remembering your poor mother exists?"

Something catches in his throat. "Been busy, Mom. How's Dad?"

The pause stretches too long. His chest tightens.

"He has good days and bad days," she says finally. "The new medication helps with the pain but..." She trails off. They both know the rest.

Summer moves like a ghost around him, giving him space while staying close. Her hands are steady as she plates the pasta, the sauce rich and red as...

God damn it, Alex.

"The deal closed today," he says, and for once the brightness in his tone isn't forced. "Eight figures. Commission alone would cover Dad's treatment for..." He pauses, doing the math. "Hell, maybe the whole year, mortgage included. No more choosing between specialists, Mom. No more payment plans."

"Alexander..." His mother's voice breaks, and he can picture her pressing her hand to her mouth, the way she does when emotion overtakes her. "My son, this is... but you work too hard. Your father, he worries. Says you're carrying too much."

If they only knew how much.

"I'm fine, Mom." The lie slips out smooth as silk. Practice makes perfect. "Look, I could fly down next weekend. Friday night, maybe?"

Her excitement bubbles through the phone. They spend the next few minutes planning—flight times, his father's schedule between therapy sessions, his mother's promise to make his favorite dishes. When they hang up, the kitchen feels too quiet.

Summer slides a plate in front of him, then settles into the chair beside him. Her knee brushes his under the table. Such a small point of contact. Such a dangerous comfort.

"You're going to Miami?" she asks, twirling pasta around her fork. No pressure in her voice. Just curiosity. Always so careful, this one.

He nods, twirling pasta around his fork. The sauce tastes like his mother's—like memories of simpler times, before bullets and blood and broken promises. "Need to see them. Been too long."

Her fingers brush his arm, light as a whisper. "That's good, Alex. They miss you."

He covers her hand with his, surprised by how natural the gesture feels. A year ago, he wouldn't have allowed this. Would have kept her at arm's length, like all the other women he had dated before her. But Summer... she plays a longer game. Knows exactly when to advance and when to retreat. What buttons to press and which ones to leave alone.

The pasta disappears between comfortable silences and careful conversations. She doesn't ask about the blood-stained shirt in his duffel. Doesn't mention the hole he put in the office wall. Doesn't raise the topic about the woman he saved earlier that day, which Nataly must have told her about. Just fills his wine glass when it empties, lets her touches linger a half-second longer each time.

His phone buzzes again. Sebastian: BTW, that tennis court's still got the mark from when you threw your racquet. Think they kept it as a memorial to your temper.

A smile tugs at his lips. Summer catches it, her head tilting slightly. "Good news?"

"Just Sebastian being an ass." He sets the phone aside. "We're playing some tennis tomorrow."

"Mm." She takes their plates to the sink. Water runs. Steam rises. "You know, I've only ever seen you two at the gym. Or climbing. Or gaming. Hard to picture you playing tennis."

He watches her move through the kitchen, the way her hips sway just enough to draw his eye. Calculated. Everything about her is calculated. "Used to play whenever I visited. We were terrible at first, but—"

Her lips find his neck, cutting off the memory. When did she get so close? Her fingers trail up his chest, mapping territory she's claimed a hundred times before. "Tell me more about tennis," she breathes against his skin.

But his hands are already moving, muscle memory taking over. One slides into her hair—warm chestnut silk between his fingers. The other finds her waist, pulls her closer. Her breath hitches. Right on cue.

They barely make it to the bedroom. Clothes mark their trail like breadcrumbs, and then she's beneath him, all warm skin and practiced responses. Her nails rake down his back, leaving trails of fire that should ground him in the present. Should. Don't.

His fingers find her pulse points one by one—throat, wrist, inner thigh—marking time like a metronome. Each touch calculated, each response catalogued. When her breath hitches, he counts the seconds until her next gasp. When her back arches, he adjusts his angle by precise degrees. A formula, perfected through countless nights just like this one.

When he finally pushes inside her, her body welcomes him like it's written in the script. He drives into her with mechanical precision, making her come undone around him once, twice, his name a prayer on her lips. But even as he brings them both to release, some part of him hovers above the scene, watching. Clinical. Detached.

The way she looks at him, though—that's the deadly part. Her eyes heavy-lidded but clear, bottom lip caught between her teeth, filled with something that looks too much like devotion. Like she'd give him everything, plan a whole future around his smile, if he'd only ask. The raw honesty in her gaze threatens to crack his chest wide open. He kisses her hard instead, drives deeper, desperate to make her close those too-seeing eyes.

Hours blur together like this—him taking her again and again, until her voice grows hoarse from crying out his name, until her legs tremble too much to wrap around his waist, until she collapses spent and boneless against the sheets. Each thrust, each touch a battle between pleasure and distance, between wanting to lose himself in her completely and knowing he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. So he pushes harder, faster, drowning out the whispers of what if with the sound of skin on skin, with her gasps, with anything that isn't the way her eyes make him feel like maybe he deserves more than this.

He does not.

After, when they're tangled in sheets and sweat-cooled skin, her head resting on his chest, he almost tells her. About Argentina. About why he has always turned down her invitations to visit the temple on Sundays. About hands that gave both death and salvation. The words rise like bile, dangerous and sharp.

Summer shifts closer, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. Not asking. Not pushing. Just present. And somehow, that's worse than if she'd demanded answers.

The moon spills silver light through the window, painting shadows on the wall. Somewhere in Miami, his father's probably awake, pain keeping him company. In a hospital across town, a woman is breathing because of him. In an office downtown, a hole in the wall tells its own story of control and chaos.

And somewhere back in Rosario, thousands of kilometers down south, a child who's not so little anymore might still wake up screaming.

Alex closes his eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Not with Summer's heartbeat steady against his chest, so trusting. Not with the weight of everything else.

They say saving a life balances taking one. They say time heals all wounds. They lie.

For tonight, this will have to be enough.

It never is.

---

The Clock Tower looms at the far edge of the cosmos, a monument to genius and ambition. Its spires twist impossibly, defying the laws of physics as they pierce the starry void. Gears of unimaginable size turn slowly, their teeth meshing with the very fabric of space-time.

Within this marvel of engineering, The Herta stands before a wall of shimmering mirrors. Her ash-brown hair cascades down her back, contrasting sharply with her black and purple dress. Her purple eyes gleam with intelligence as she surveys her reflection—no, her reflections. Each mirror shows a different facet of her brilliance, ideas sparking and dancing across their surfaces.

Around her, dozens of Herta dolls bustle about, each engaged in its own experiment. One suddenly explodes in a shower of sparks, but The Herta doesn't even flinch. She merely waves a hand, summoning another doll to clean up the mess.

"Naturally, another breakthrough," she murmurs, a smirk playing on her lips. "Herta doll number 42, make a note: even my failures are more impressive than most beings' successes."

The doll dutifully scribbles in a notebook, its pen leaving trails of stardust on the page. "Of course, Madam Herta," it chirps. "Your genius knows no bounds!"

The Herta preens at the compliment, though she knows it's just her own programming. Still, it's nice to hear the truth spoken aloud.

She turns back to the mirrors, which have begun to coalesce into a single, vast screen. "Now then," she says, cracking her knuckles. "Let's get to work on this codex entry. The universe won't document itself, after all."

As she begins to dictate, the mirrors ripple and shift, displaying complex diagrams and swirling equations. The Herta's voice is clear and confident, echoing through the tower as she speaks.

"Simulated Universe Research Log: Project ARCANUM–MNEMOSYNE. Subject: Path Interplay, designation 'Metaphysical Archive Protocol.' Principal Investigator: The Herta, Genius Society number 83. Obviously."

She pauses, admiring the way her title looks emblazoned across the mirror. "Theoretical Foundations," she continues. "Path Interplay represents a rare phenomenon where two distinct Paths temporarily achieve resonance despite their normally rigid boundaries. It's the universe bending its own rules—with my help, of course."

The mirrors shift, displaying ethereal visualizations of energy patterns converging and intertwining.

"In this specific case," Herta continues, tracing a finger along the diagram, "I'm examining the fascinating convergence between Preservation's static fortification principles and Remembrance's archival permanence. Two Paths that, theoretically, share just enough philosophical alignment to achieve harmony. Of course, I've only been able to witness this phenomenon within the constraints of the Simulated Universe—its programmable attributes make observation much simpler compared to the extraordinary difficulty of observing it in our reality."

As she speaks, the mirrors display intricate models of amber crystals intertwining with shimmering ice structures. The Herta watches with satisfaction as her words bring the concept to life before her eyes.

"While most Paths exist in states of philosophical opposition—take the Destruction and the Abundance, for example, which would sooner annihilate each other than cooperate—Preservation and Remembrance share complementary aims. One secures physical form, the other immortalizes information and memory."

She gestures expansively, and the visualization expands to show a miniature pier constructed of amber, wrapped in a lattice of crystalline ice.

"The mechanism involves what I'm calling Resonance Hybridization," she explains. "Qlipoth's Amber combines with Fuli's 'memory ice' to generate constructs that endure both physically and as archived data. Essentially, we're creating structures that can repair themselves by remembering their original form. It's a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. And I do."

A Herta doll pipes up from nearby. "Absolutely brilliant, Madam Herta! Your insights are unparalleled!"

The Herta nods sagely. "Naturally. Now, where was I? Ah yes. While such fusion would be extraordinarily rare and difficult to achieve in the tangible universe, the Simulated Universe's programmable nature permits these normally discrete Paths to coexist in a hybrid state with far fewer constraints. It's almost as if the universe itself recognizes my genius and bends to accommodate it."

She taps her chin thoughtfully. "In real life, though? While theoretically possible, replicating Path Interplay would be incredibly challenging. Based on my astute assessment, the entity attempting it must fulfill several stringent conditions." She counts them off on her elegant fingers. "First, they must possess an extraordinary level of affinity for both Paths simultaneously. Second, they must achieve perfect philosophical alignment or incentive with both Paths. And third—" she smirks, "—they must even know how to properly walk these Paths in the first place, something most beings can barely manage with a single Path, let alone two."

Herta gazes at the swirling visualizations with a hint of wistfulness. "The odds are astronomical. Most people can't even properly comprehend one Aeon's philosophy, and here we're talking about synthesizing two. It's like expecting a flounder to solve quantum equations while simultaneously composing a symphony. Theoretically possible? Perhaps. Realistically feasible? Only for a genius of my caliber, and even I find it challenging."

She continues dictating, the mirrors shifting to display each concept as she describes it. When she reaches the experimental observations, her eyes light up with excitement.

"The Amber–Ice Hybridization Trials were particularly fascinating," she says, her voice quickening. "Test structures modeled after a simulated Pier Point demonstrated the ability to restore damaged walls by retrieving and integrating archived design data. It's like watching history rewrite itself in real-time. Only I could conceive of such a marvel."

As she delves into the ethical and philosophical considerations, The Herta's brow furrows slightly. "The question of Aeon Sovereignty is... troubling," she admits, her tone serious for once. "If Path Interplay between Remembrance and Preservation were to manifest in reality, it would inevitably spark conflict between the IPC, which aligns with Qlipoth, and the Garden of Recollection, which follows Fuli."

She traces a complex pattern in the air, and the mirrors split to show images of both factions. "The disputes would extend far beyond mere ownership. We're talking about fundamental cultural and faith-related conflicts. Each organization has built its entire identity around their respective Aeon's philosophy."

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Imagine the theological crisis. A hybrid construct would challenge everything they believe about the separation of Paths. Would adherents of Qlipoth embrace or reject elements of Remembrance within their sacred Preservation? Would Fuli's followers consider such hybridization a form of contamination or evolution?"

She waves a hand dismissively. "Of course, they'd eventually turn to me for answers. But the existential questioning alone would be... messy. Faith and science have never mixed well, especially when territorial interests come into play."

Finally, she reaches the research objectives. "Determine whether hybrid constructs can exceed the longevity of their originating Aeons," she dictates. "Assess the feasibility of embedding Stellaron data within Amber–Ice matrices. And most intriguingly, explore contradictory Path synergies."

The Herta pauses, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Ah, and my personal note," she says, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Preservation secures form; Remembrance immortalizes it. Yet even as we coax these two into dialogue, my instruments have picked up faint, inexplicable signals hinting at the union of other, seemingly antithetical Paths. If proven, such contradictions could upend our understanding of the Simulated Universe's very fabric. Perhaps, even of our own universe. Something to ask Droidhead."

She steps back, admiring her work displayed across the mirrors. "For now, I remain both excited and circumspect," she concludes. "Sometimes the most profound discoveries are born from embracing cosmic paradoxes. And who better to embrace them than me?"

Just as The Herta is about to dismiss the mirrors and move on to her next groundbreaking idea, a Herta doll approaches hesitantly. "Erm, Madam Herta?" it squeaks. "We've received an alert from one of your dolls stationed at the Herta Space Station. It appears to be under attack by the Antimatter Legion."

The Herta's expression shifts from serene contemplation to irritated annoyance, her brow furrowing at the interruption. Not from concern for those in danger, but from the audacity of anyone daring to pull her attention away from her work.

"Hooh?" she says, tilting her head. "Those pesky Legion units are nothing but malfunctioning garbage to be incinerated." She taps her finger impatiently against her arm. "Has Asta sent an SOS signal requesting my intervention?"

The Herta doll shakes its head. "No, Madam Herta. There's been no direct communication from Lead Researcher Asta."

The Herta hums thoughtfully, twirling a strand of ash-brown hair around her finger. "Well then, if Asta hasn't contacted me, the situation can't be that dire. She's quite capable, after all." She pauses. "And I assume my dolls would have notified me if communication systems were compromised?"

"Yes, Madam. All systems appear operational."

"As expected." The Herta turns back to her mirrors with a dismissive wave. "I'll attend to that mess... after I complete these additional log entries. These discoveries take precedence over a few bumbling antimatter constructs. The universe's understanding of Path Interplay simply cannot wait, but those Legion units certainly can wait for their demise."

With that, she refocuses on the shimmering screens, already lost in thought about her next world-changing discovery, the distant crisis momentarily filed away as a minor inconvenience to be addressed later.

---

Morning sun slants harsh through the kitchen window. Alexander stares into his coffee gone cold, last night's ghosts still clinging to the edges of his mind. Sleep hadn't come easy, even with Summer's warmth beside him. Even with the way she'd helped him forget, for a while.

He watches her navigate the kitchen with an almost imperceptible stiffness to her walk. A smirk tugs at his lips—a welcome distraction from darker thoughts.

She catches his expression, rolling her eyes even as color rises in her cheeks. "Stop looking so pleased with yourself," she mutters, but can't quite hide her own smile. "I have to wrangle twenty four-year-olds today."

"Want me to write you a note?" he asks innocently, grateful for this moment of lightness. "'Dear Kindergarten, Ms. Summer can't sit on the reading circle floor today because—'"

She swats him with a dish towel, both of them laughing. "You're impossible." Her kiss lands on his cheek, perfume lingering after she's gone. For a moment, he lets himself imagine a life where mornings like this could be enough. Where the past stays buried and memories don't bleed through.

His thumb pauses on a news headline: "Dallas Claims Deadly Crown Again: City's Traffic Fatality Rate Tops Nation for Third Straight Year." He swipes past it. Not exactly breakfast reading.

His phone buzzes. Sebastian.

"Tell me you're not still at your desk," Sebastian's voice carries that mix of amusement and exasperation only best friends master.

Alexander glances at the doorway where Summer just left, still feeling oddly proud of himself. "Nah, taking a half day. We're good for tennis today? Though we could hit the gym first if you want. Been slacking on my deadlifts this week."

"You? Slacking?" Sebastian snorts. "Mr. Four-Plates-Each-Side? Please. And don't even start with the MMA excuses—I saw you demolishing that bag yesterday morning." A pause. "Though you do sound wrecked. Late night?"

Heat creeps up Alexander's neck. "Shut up."

"Ha! Knew it. Summer keeping you busy, huh?" There's a softer note in his voice now. "You good though? Really?"

The genuine concern in his friend's voice makes Alexander's chest tighten. Sebastian's the only one who knows everything—about that night in Argentina over ten years ago, about what he did to the man who shot his father. About the little girl who—

"I'm fine," he cuts off the thought. "Just... celebrating, I guess. That deal's going to change everything for Dad's treatments."

"Still can't believe that commission. Your mom must've lost it when you told her."

"Pretty sure she was crying. Dad's got another round of therapy next week when I fly down."

"Speaking of crying—" Sebastian's voice cuts off in a choking sound. "Wait till you log in tonight. They announced a rerun of Tribbie's banner. The child is coming home."

Alexander snorts, standing to grab his helmet. "Really? You're pulling for a literal kid? Should I call the cops on you?"

"Oh no, don't even try that shit with me. Not when Hoyoverse keeps making these broken harmony units. Have you seen her Eidolons? It's disgusting. Damage dealt by all allies which ignores a percentage of the target's defense—"

"I'll stick to waiting for Phainon's rerun. Got my pity ready."

"Look at you, actually planning ahead in a Gacha game. I'm so proud. Remember when you first started and blew everything trying to get—"

"Blade, yeah. That went horrible. Look, I gotta go. Meeting at nine."

"Fine, fine. Courts at two? Try not to kill anyone with your backhand."

"Screw you." Alexander grins despite himself. "See you then."

The motorcycle purrs to life beneath him, familiar and solid. Traffic's lighter than usual—a small mercy in a city that treats speed limits like suggestions. He weaves between cars, muscle memory taking over. Lean into the turn. Watch the apex. Breathe.

For a moment, the morning light seems to bend strangely around him, like water rippling. He blinks, chalking it up to lack of sleep. Too many nightmares. Too many memories.

A notification pings through his helmet speaker. Summer: Miss you already.

His chest does that thing again—that dangerous warmth he's not ready to name. Before he can reply, movement catches his eye. An old sedan drifting into his lane without signaling.

Alexander eases off the throttle, watching the driver's eyes in the rearview. Not seeing him. He brakes, swerving right, the near-miss sending adrenaline spiking through his veins. Through the window, an elderly woman mouths "sorry."

He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. No point getting worked up.

The light ahead turns red. Cars line up behind him as he waits, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the handlebars. One-two-three-four... like compressions on a chest that won't rise. Like a heart that won't—

The air around him shimmers again, reality seeming to flex and stretch for just a heartbeat. Then green floods his vision. He twists the throttle.

The roar of an engine from his left comes too late to register. Just a black blur in his periphery, then the sickening crunch of metal on metal. His bike tears away beneath him. For one suspended moment, he's weightless.

This is going to hurt.

The pavement rushes up to meet him. Pain explodes through his body, sharp and absolute. He can't breathe. Can't move. The sky above him spins lazily, clouds drifting by like they've got all the time in the world. Then something... shifts. Like reality hiccuping around him. The sounds of screeching tires and shouting voices start to warp, stretching and contracting like taffy.

Not like this, he thinks. Not yet. You know I'm not ready.

A little girl's screams echo from years ago, from a night in Rosario when his fists wouldn't stop. When blood that wasn't his stained his knuckles just like today.

Please, he tries to say, but the words won't come. I haven't made it right yet. I haven't!

The void rushes up to claim him. The last thing he hears are footsteps running toward him, their rhythm strange and distorted, growing fainter and fainter until they seem to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Then silence swallows everything, and Alexander Salvatore drifts into darkness.

---

Tires screech against asphalt. A small crowd gathers at the intersection, phones raised to call emergency services. The first responders who reach the point of impact pause, confused. Oil leaks from twisted metal, morning light catching on scattered chrome and shattered pieces of a Ducati's fairings. A helmet rolls to a stop against the curb, its visor cracked but intact. A few drops of blood darken the pavement, still wet, still fresh.

But that's all there is to find.

---

Darkness swallows everything. No sound, no sensation, no sight. Movement feels like a foreign concept, something I might have understood once, in another life. The void stretches endlessly, yet somehow feels suffocating.

Where am I?

Sensation floods back like a tide breaking against rocks. Hard surface beneath me, cold and unyielding. A mechanical buzz that reminds me of hospital equipment—God knows I've spent enough time around those, between Dad's treatments and... other things. The air carries that sterile chill that makes my skin prickle. It's all distant at first, like trying to piece together a dream, but slowly sharpening into focus.

Then voices cut through the haze. They become clearer with each passing second, like someone slowly turning up the volume on reality.

A male voice, precise and controlled. Clinical, almost. Like those specialists who'd review Dad's charts, discussing nerve damage and physical therapy options. "Weren't his coordinates transmitted from the space station...?"

A female voice responds, bright and energetic—almost jarringly so. There's genuine concern there, though, like a worried sister. "Who cares? He's here and alive. Does he look like a dummy to you?"

The male voice sighs. "Weak heartbeat and pulse... March, you should perform CPR."

"Huh!?" The female voice—March?—rises with anxiety. "I—I've never done it before. Dan Heng, you do it!"

What?

Strength surges back through my limbs. My eyes snap open to a blur of shapes and colors, but clear enough to make out someone's face hovering inches from mine. My combat training kicks in before conscious thought can catch up. Just like those nights in the gym, muscle memory takes over. My left hand shoots out, connecting with what feels like a man's face, sending him reeling back.

A shocked gasp cuts through the air, high-pitched and worried. "Dan! Sorry, sorry! We're so sorry!" The woman's voice again, heavy with regret. "We thought you needed help. Please, we mean you no harm!"

I turn my head carefully, assessing potential threats just like my father taught me when I was but a runt. The girl—March, apparently—can't be more than early twenties. Pink hair frames a face that's both anxious and kind, with the most striking eyes I've ever seen: aquamarine with hints of lilac. What the hell? Her outfit looks like some cosplay of a sailor uniform, but sleek and modern. The dangerously short skirt shows off pale, slender legs ending in boots that look both fashionable and functional. An Instax camera hangs at her waist like an afterthought.

Something about her tugs at my memory, like déjà vu playing in reverse. The same feeling hits when I look at the man—Dan Heng—who's rubbing his cheek where I struck him. Tall, refined features, with jet-black hair and emerald eyes that seem to hold centuries. His white overcoat with green accents looks like something out of those gacha games Sebastian got me hooked on, complete with an ornate shoulder pauldron.

My tactical assessment continues automatically. This isn't any hospital I know, and I've seen plenty. The walls are too pristine, the tech too advanced. I'm not even on a bed or chair, but sprawled on the cold floor against a wall like some discarded puppet.

Pain lances through my skull suddenly, sharp enough to make me grunt. It's different from the ache after a long session at the heavy bag, more like molten metal being poured directly into my brain. Behind my eyes, memories flash in brutal clarity—tires screaming, metal crunching, bone breaking. My last moments before everything went dark.

The accident. Right. But then why...?

I squint through the pain at March, who's still hovering nearby with her hands raised in a peacekeeping gesture. My voice scrapes raw. "What happened?" A pause, shorter than a heartbeat. "What hospital is this?"

March shakes her head, pink hair swaying with the motion. "Um, this isn't a hospital. We're on the Herta Space Station. I'm March 7th, and this is Dan Heng." She gestures toward the thin man, who's studying me with an intensity that reminds me of certain people I met in Rosario—the ones who saw too much.

I stare at them, mind spinning. Space station? The words bounce around my skull like a bad joke. I scan the area for hidden cameras, but all I see are more alien-looking walls and screens. The production value would be impressive for a prank, but something feels off. The air moves wrong. The gravity feels... different.

"Very funny," I say, the words coming out sharp as broken glass. "Where am I really? I remember the crash, but the pain..." I flex experimentally, surprised to find nothing hurts. No road rash, no broken bones. Nothing like what should follow an impact like that. Instead, my body feels... different. Lighter. More nimble. Like someone replaced my muscles with coiled springs.

Then reality crashes back like a wave. The company. Sebastian. Summer. My parents! "How long have I been out? I need to call some people—my family, they'll be worried sick."

March's brow furrows in concern as she glances around. "Uh, um... Sheesh, this is a first. I think you hit your head really hard. Dan Heng, any help?" She forces an awkward smile, looking to her companion.

Dan rises from the floor with fluid grace that speaks of martial training. His eyes hold something that might be concern, might be suspicion. "Could you have been attacked and suffered a concussion? Please, try not to move too much just in case. As my friend said, this isn't a hospital. You're aboard the Herta Space Station. We received an SOS distress signal and came as soon as we could."

The final words barely register as my mind catches on something else. "Attack? SOS signal?"

Dan's eyebrows lift slightly. "You must have seriously been out of it. The station is being attacked by members of the Anti-Matter Legion. March and I are Nameless who ride aboard the Astral Express—we were called in as reinforcements."

"Maybe you've heard of us?" March adds brightly. "Kickass heroes traveling across the stars, helping innocents in need? Ring any bells?"

I scoff, but there's something about March's earnest tone that makes me hesitate. Dan Heng has that same unshakeable composure I used to see in certain people back in Argentina—the ones who'd seen enough that lies became unnecessary. Part of me wants to believe them, if only because the alternative is that I've completely lost my mind.

"Kuh—!" Pain explodes behind my eyes, worse than before, sending waves of agony through my skull. Light flashes strobe through my mind—images, sounds, memories flooding in like a broken dam. Sebastian's face swims into focus, his voice echoing with enthusiasm about some game he couldn't stop playing. Finding myself actually getting invested in it, the game becoming a convenient distraction when there wasn't a warm body in my bed to help me forget—

"Hey, are you okay?" March's voice sounds distant, like she's speaking through water.

The game. What was it called? My gut screams that it matters, that it's the key to understanding what's happening. "Honkai something...!"

"Huh? Honkai?" March's voice warbles like a badly tuned radio.

"You said... you rode aboard an express...?"

Dan's voice cuts through clearer. "Yes, the Astral Express. Created by the Aeon Akivili the Trailblaze."

Trains. Tracks. Honkai: Star Rail. The pieces click into place with terrifying clarity.

I surge to my feet, startling March. "What is it?" she asks, concern painting her features.

I study her again. Those impossible eyes. That cotton-candy hair. My breath comes faster now, memories of mindless late-night grinding on my phone flooding back, Sebastian's constant messages about which characters to pull for lighting up my screen. "This can't be happening," I wheeze, the words tasting like ash. "It was just a game. A stupid mobile game I used to play on my phone." My eyes dart around, taking in details I should have noticed sooner. Everything's wrong—the architecture, the lighting, the very air itself. "You can't be real. None of this can be!"

Dan's eyes narrow, and March steps toward me, one hand extended like she's approaching a spooked animal. "Please, calm down. We understand you're scared but—"

"Don't touch me!" I knock her hand aside and stumble back. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. This has to be some kind of coma dream. The kind that feels real until you wake up in a hospital bed with tubes down your throat.

But everything feels too solid, too present. The floor beneath my feet. The texture of the recycled air. The jumble of sensations coursing through my nervous system. It's all too vivid, too detailed.

My breath comes in sharp gasps. Get it together, Salvatore. You've handled worse. Remember the slums. Remember—

Dan takes a careful step forward, hand extended. "You're in shock. Just breathe, slowly, in and out—"

I don't wait for him to finish. Pure instinct takes over, and I bolt. My feet carry me down the corridor and into darkness, hearing Dan curse behind me as footsteps echo in pursuit.

The hallway stretches endlessly ahead, lit by eerie blue panels that remind me of the road markers I'd passed on my bike just before everything went wrong. My heart pounds as I race past countless metal doors, lungs burning as I navigate mechanical stairs. No destination in mind, just the primal need to run, to escape, to wake up from whatever this is.

It has to wake me up. It has to!

I burst through a set of double doors into what must be some kind of chamber. The ceiling soars at least four stories up, maybe more. Focused lights beam down in precise cones, creating pools of illumination on the floor. Between them, shadows gather like living things.

A twisted roar echoes from somewhere ahead, freezing me in place. I slow down, stopping just shy of the nearest light pool, and peer into the darkness.

Heavy footsteps approach. Metallic. Someone's coming. Years of training kick in as I analyze the sound. Whatever's making those footsteps is big, and wearing some kind of armor.

Two massive figures emerge from the shadows, catching the light like nightmares made metal. Black armor covers them from head to toe, all sharp angles and malicious intent. Their arms end in curved blades marked with strange stars. They tower over me, easily clearing six feet. At first glance, they might pass for knights, but there's something fundamentally wrong about how they move—like predators wearing armor for show.

Dan Heng's warning rings out behind me. "Reavers! Watch out!" The monsters lumber closer, and any doubt about their humanity vanishes. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I'm frozen, eyes locked on those star-etched blades. In horrible slow motion, I watch one raise its weapon high, ready to strike.

"Get away!"

The blade descends.