June 16th, 2025
Hugo Hollands, Age 24.
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They called it the backstage room, but it was more of a storage space with a mirror and a door that didn't lock properly. I sat on a cracked stool near the vanity, watching the dust dance across the weak lightbulb above me. Someone had left half a glass of liquor on the counter. It smelled sharp, biting the air around it.
A bar had reached out to me—some place by the river, the kind where people came to forget the world and wake up worse. They asked if I could do a few tricks while everyone was too drunk to notice. Poppy insisted I go. An opportunity is an opportunity, she said, even if it's the kind you have to crawl through.
I'd been staying in the same hotel for a week now. No idea how we hadn't been thrown out yet. Corrin called it luck. I called it debt postponed. We hadn't paid a single coin.
Harry never showed up that day. The one he said he would. His phone was dead each time I called. That wasn't like him. Not the Harry who used to wait by the phone, who'd leave messages until I picked up, who couldn't stand the quiet between us. Ghosting me wasn't something he'd do. But even thinking that word—ghosting—made something in me curl in on itself. I couldn't bring myself to blame him. Not for disappearing. Not for anything.
The door creaked open behind me.
Corrin stepped in like he was entering a stage that had already been made for him. His reflection appeared beside mine in the mirror—tall, composed, too sharp for this place. "This is like a playground," he said, scanning the room with that cool amusement he always carried. "Everyone out there is drunk as hell and about to do something regrettable. Love that."
I let out a slow sigh. "I shouldn't have come."
"On the contrary," he said, moving closer. "This is a great opportunity for you to wow them. When they're that drunk, anything you do will be a miracle."
"You want me to ride an illusion?"
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Aren't you an illusionist?"
"No," I said quietly. "I'm a magician."
That made him laugh—soft, low, unbothered. "You said it like you're seven years old."
The sound stuck under my skin. My shoulders tensed before I could stop them.
Corrin caught the change. He stepped closer, the air tightening with his nearness. He reached out and cupped my face with both hands. His palms were warm, too warm, and the heat of them made the rest of the room feel colder.
"I don't like for my human to be so down," he said, voice lowering. "You need to seize opportunities like this. Maybe then, for your next birthday, you'll have something worth celebrating."
I nodded, too slowly. He smiled faintly before stepping back, the contact breaking like a small storm easing.
The warmth on my skin lingered, but the feeling was wrong. It wasn't touch—it was imitation. Like pressing a numb hand against your own skin: there's contact, yes, but no pulse beneath it. Just a weight. Just temperature. Hollow, heavy, bland.
I rubbed my face after he turned away, half-expecting the warmth to fade, but it stayed there, stubborn and unreal—proof of something that shouldn't have felt human, trying to.
Corrin lingered near the door, his reflection faint in the mirror behind me. He seemed to study my face for a moment, like he was reading something there that I couldn't see myself. Then his tone shifted—quieter, thoughtful in a way that never quite felt sincere.
"Do you know the myth of the Nemean Lion?" he asked.
I turned slightly, meeting his gaze through the glass. "No. What's that?"
He smiled, slow and deliberate. "You're an August child. You should know."
I waited, watching the way his eyes darkened when he sank into a story. When Corrin spoke of old things, his voice changed—like a relic remembering itself.
"The Nemean Lion," he began, "was born from something older than the gods who ruled over men. Its hide was impenetrable—no weapon, no blade could pierce it. The creature lived in the hills of Nemea, where the air was thick and golden, and no human dared to step without trembling. Every village nearby sent warriors, hunters, even priests. They all died trying to kill it."
He moved closer as he spoke, his words slow and rhythmic, each one finding its weight before it left his mouth. "Then came Heracles. Young, proud, desperate for glory. They sent him to slay the beast as one of his trials, knowing it could not be wounded. But Heracles was stubborn. He cornered it in its den, blocked the exits with stone, and wrestled it with his bare hands until he felt the spine crack between his arms."
Corrin's gaze drifted to the floor, as though seeing the scene unfold somewhere beneath us. "When it was over, he tried to skin it with his knife, but the blade snapped. He could only tear the hide off with its own claws. The lion became his cloak—the proof of what he'd conquered, a reminder of the thing that had once been invincible."
I stayed quiet, the sound of the bar's distant music bleeding through the walls in dull waves.
Corrin looked up, his eyes catching the light again. "The gods gave that lion immortality, and man broke it with persistence. The story isn't about courage, as they tell it. It's about arrogance. About man believing he can tear through what was never meant to yield."
He paused, the smallest tilt of amusement touching his mouth. "And you, being born in August, belong to that sign. The lion. The one that must be conquered for men to feel divine."
I tried to smile, but the weight of his tone pinned me still. "So what does that make me?"
He leaned closer, voice lower, almost a whisper. "The lion or the fool who thinks he can tame it. I haven't decided which."
His words hung there, heavy and patient. I looked at him through the mirror again, and for a brief moment, I couldn't tell if he was telling me a myth—or warning me of what I was becoming.
The door swung open without warning, the sound sharp enough to cut through the room's stillness. A man leaned halfway in—a bartender, I guessed, judging by the stained apron and the glaze of exhaustion on his face.
"Henry, you're up," he said, and was gone before either of us could answer.
Corrin blinked, the word hanging in the air between us like a bad joke. "Henry?"
I exhaled through my nose. "Is the bartender also drunk?"
Corrin didn't laugh. He stepped closer instead, his presence folding the air inward. "Go," he said softly, the word more command than suggestion. "Make them remember your name. Awaken their drunken minds. Carve that name into them."
The light above the mirror caught his eyes as he said it—an almost unearthly gleam, like the reflection of fire seen through smoke. It wasn't encouragement. It was invocation.
Something in me responded before thought could interfere. I stood, rolling my shoulders back, feeling that strange energy coil through me again—the one that made my skin feel too tight for my bones. My reflection in the mirror looked different now. Sharper. Less uncertain.
I wasn't Henry.
The name sat foreign in my ears, like an insult meant for someone else. No, I was Hugo Hollands—the boy who used to shuffle cards beneath streetlamps, who had once begged the world to see him. And now it would.
I nodded once, slow, deliberate. Corrin's gaze followed me as I reached for the door. His smile was small, knowing, almost proud.
The noise from the bar rolled in as soon as I stepped out—laughter, glasses clinking, the uneven rhythm of drunken talk. It all blurred together, but beneath it, I could already feel something shifting, as if the air itself was waiting for me to speak.
Every step toward the stage felt lighter, charged, threaded with that dangerous thrill of being seen. Whatever this night would become, it would bear my name—and they would remember it.
The stage was barely a stage—just a raised wooden platform, sticky from spilled liquor, with a mic stand that leaned slightly to the left. The light above it buzzed with that tired yellow glow bars always had, the kind that made every face look older.
I stepped up and took the microphone. The metal was cold against my palm. "Good evening, everyone," I said, forcing my voice to sound steady. "I'm Hugo Hollands. I'll be performing a few tricks tonight."
No one turned. A lone ice cube clacking in a glass louder than my name
The room swelled with chatter and laughter, the clink of glasses, the dull beat of music leaking from an old speaker. A woman in a corner booth was shouting into someone's ear; two men at the bar were arguing over the score of a game. I might as well have been speaking underwater.
I tried again, clearing my throat, shuffling the deck in my hand for the sake of motion. "Let's start simple."
I flicked my wrist, and the cards lifted clean from the deck, fanning out midair before circling me like a slow current. They moved beautifully, each one gliding as if the air itself obeyed me. But no one looked. Not a single head turned.
The music went on. The glasses clinked. The laughter pressed against my skin like static.
My pulse began to climb. It wasn't the nerves of stage fright—it was worse. It was the quiet humiliation of being seen and ignored at the same time. I let the cards fall, scattering across the stage, and looked toward the crowd.
That was when I saw him.
Corrin sat among them—front row, perfectly composed, his expression unreadable. And further back, in the shadows of a booth, Poppy was there too. Her hands were clasped together on the table, eyes fixed on me, like she was silently begging me not to falter.
Something in my chest twisted. I couldn't let it end there. Not like this.
I turned toward the bar. A man sat at the far end, thick-shouldered, halfway through his drink, not paying me any mind. I didn't think. I just moved.
A small motion of my hand—and the flame appeared. It slipped into his glass like a breath caught wrong, catching the liquid in a low, golden burn.
He jerked back, startled, eyes snapping toward the stage.
I held his gaze. Didn't speak. Didn't blink.
The bar quieted slowly, the sound collapsing into itself as one by one they noticed.
The man turned again, looking at his glass. It had moved. Only slightly, but enough.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor. "You're conspiring with the bartender to pull that bullshit," he said, his voice louder than it needed to be.
I smiled. "Shall we prove the bartender had nothing to do with it?"
His face tightened. "You better."
I raised my hand. The glass lifted from the counter, hovered for a breathless second, then shot across the room—straight into my open palm.
The man's jaw slackened. Someone gasped. Somewhere, a drink spilled.
I turned the glass once between my fingers, feeling the warmth of the fire still humming inside it, and for the first time that night, I knew the crowd was watching. Every eye, every breath, fixed on me.
I could feel Corrin's gaze most of all—sharp, approving, almost proud.
They knew my name now.
I turned toward the bar, the glass still warm in my hand. The silence hadn't yet decided if it wanted to stay or scatter again, so I caught it while I could.
"Turn off this fucking music while I'm performing."
The bartender froze, caught mid-pour. He looked at me like he wasn't sure if he'd heard right, then muttered something and went to kill the sound. The music cut mid-beat. The silence that followed was sharp, almost physical. Every conversation bled out at once.
"Now we can start," I said.
I let the glass hover beside me, twisting slowly in the air like it had learned to breathe on its own. Then I opened my palm toward the cards scattered across the stage. They rose one by one, the edges glinting under the tired bar light, forming a slow whirl that circled above my head.
Someone whispered something—too low to catch—but it carried the awe I'd been starving for.
I flicked my wrist, and the cards stopped midair. Then, with the slightest movement, I sent them slicing forward in a perfect column, landing edge-first into the wooden wall behind the bar. They hung there, a row of silvered teeth.
A woman near the front gasped, her hand halfway to her mouth.
I bent, picked up one stray card from the floor, and let it balance on my fingertip. The air around it thickened. The card burned slowly at the edges, curling inward, yet the flame never touched me. When it turned completely to ash, I blew across my palm, and the ashes reformed midair into a coin that caught the dim light and rolled gently down into my hand.
The audience shifted closer. A low murmur rippled through them, that mixture of disbelief and fear I'd come to crave.
Next, I gestured toward a man sitting near the center, a cigarette hanging from his lips. "Light that," I said.
He blinked, confused, until the tip of his cigarette flared on its own—no lighter, no spark. Just fire. He pulled it from his mouth and stared at it as though it had bitten him.
Laughter—nervous, scattered—broke through the tension. I smiled, small and sharp. "You're welcome."
I raised my hands slightly, fingers spread. The glass that had hovered by my side began to spin, slow at first, then faster, until the liquid inside it lifted like a spiral ribbon of light. I let it hang there for a heartbeat, the color flickering between gold and crimson, before it folded back into the glass, perfect and untouched.
Someone in the back clapped once, then stopped, unsure if it was allowed.
I could feel Corrin's eyes on me again, and Poppy's too—hers worried, his delighted. The crowd's attention pressed against my skin like heat, and I let it. For once, it didn't feel like a burden. It felt like recognition.
The cards trembled in the wall, the glass glowed faintly where my power had brushed it, and the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what I would do next.
I stepped off the stage still breathless, my pulse chasing itself through my veins. The crowd had turned back to their drinks, though their laughter carried an unfamiliar note—something almost reverent. My fingers trembled slightly as I pushed through them, the echo of what I'd done still alive in my blood.
I didn't think. I just moved. Straight toward Corrin.
I didn't know why that was my first instinct—why, after all that noise and light and disbelief, I went to him. Maybe because I needed to hear it. To have him say it.
He stood as I reached him, that rare, deliberate smile curving his mouth. "Well done. See? Even insects learn tricks." he said. "Did that feel good?"
I laughed under my breath, unable to hold it in. "It felt amazing."
"Good," he said simply, his gaze fixed on me as though he'd sculpted the moment himself.
Then someone's hand brushed my shoulder. A man's voice, bright and drunk with admiration. "Hey—Hugo, right? That was mesmerizing. How the hell did you do that?"
I turned to him, still high on the applause, on Corrin's voice ringing behind it. "I've been practicing for a long time."
"Oh yeah?" The man grinned. He looked expensive but carelessly so—shirt half untucked, watch glinting under the bar's light. "Well, listen. I've got a beach house near the edges of Ebonreach. Hosting a small gathering next week. Thought maybe you'd come and perform?"
"Depends on the pay," I said, still smiling, the rhythm of confidence too good to drop.
He barked a laugh. "A small gathering, like I said. So… two hundred pounds?"
I glanced over my shoulder. Corrin gave a slow, near-imperceptible shake of his head.
I turned back to the man. "Two hundred's a bit little," I said evenly. "I've got a reservation at Morrison Hotel, and I need to prepare for it. Two hundred's too small to take out of my preparation time."
He blinked, a flicker of surprise. "Morrison Hotel? And you're here performing?"
"I like to entertain the public," I said, "to give them a glimpse of what they're missing when I'm in bigger places."
He laughed again, uncertain this time. "Well, too bad then."
"I didn't catch your name," I said, tilting my head slightly.
"You didn't ask," he replied, grinning. "It's Clay."
"Alright, Clay," I said. "Give me your phone number. I'll see if I can squeeze you into my schedule."
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't even ask when it is."
"It doesn't matter," I said. "I'm busy all the time."
That drew a genuine laugh from him. "Okay then. It's next week, Saturday."
He reached into his pocket, found a pen, and wrote something on the edge of a napkin. His handwriting slanted, hurried. He tore it free, folded it once, and handed it to me.
The paper was still warm when I took it. I slipped it into my pocket without unfolding it, the corners brushing against my fingers like a living thing. My heart hadn't slowed. It beat hard enough that I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists. The air around me still pulsed with what I'd done—the bar's lights, the astonished faces, the silence that had bent for me.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was reaching upward. For a moment, I was what they were looking at.
Corrin's eyes caught mine again across the noise. He didn't speak this time. The curve of his mouth was enough—half pride, half possession.
And I, standing there with the napkin burning softly in my pocket, realized that I was still performing. Even off the stage.
Corrin's gaze lingered on me for a moment before he spoke, his voice low and smooth. "That," he said, "is how you negotiate. Well done."
There was no exaggeration in his tone—just certainty, a measured satisfaction that slipped under my skin and stayed there. I could have lived off that praise for days.
Before I could answer, Poppy came running through the crowd, weaving between tables, her laughter bubbling over the chatter. She threw herself into my arms with so much force that I nearly lost balance. "You were amazing! Oh my god, Hugo!"
I laughed, catching her around the waist and squeezing back, the adrenaline still singing through me. "Thank you, Poppy."
She pulled away just enough to look up at me, eyes bright, hair sticking slightly to her forehead from the heat of the bar. "When you shouted at the bartender to turn off the music—God, that was so hot. Honestly, I never thought you could talk to anyone like that! Except for Eddie!"
Her excitement made me grin, but it also left me strangely hollow. I shrugged. "I don't know how I did that either."
"A confident person," Corrin said, stepping closer, "can do even more than that."
Poppy turned toward him, her face softening. "You've been such a great support for Hugo," she said, sincerity pouring out of her. "Thank you."
Corrin's mouth curved, not kindly but beautifully. "My pleasure," he said.
I couldn't help it—I laughed under my breath, the sound escaping like a secret. The whole thing was absurd. Poppy, warm and beaming, thanking him of all beings. The devil himself, the creature who'd slipped into my life through the cracks of my loneliness, now standing there like a guardian, soaking up her gratitude.
The irony wasn't lost on me. If there were angels listening, they must've turned away by now.
The night spilled them out into the street, air sharp with smoke and river damp. Poppy was still talking, her voice a bright thread winding endlessly beside us—something about the crowd, the lights, the bartender's face when I raised my voice. Corrin walked beside her, silent, his jaw set in a way that looked dangerously close to breaking. The longer she talked, the more I thought he might combust.
I walked ahead a little, the sound of my footsteps quick, unsteady. The adrenaline hadn't left me yet—it lived in my veins, restless, pulsing under my skin. Every thought came sharper, louder. The world felt too clear, too close.
I thought about Clay. The way he'd looked under the bar light—tall, lean, dressed in black that fit too well, the collar of his shirt open just enough to show the edge of his throat. His hair was dark, falling to his shoulders in loose disarray, framing a face that looked carved more than born. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a soft brown that seemed to burn when he laughed. His mouth was the kind that looked like it had secrets—full, precise, almost too careful to be kind.
I could still see him writing his number on the napkin, his fingers steady, the ink trailing across the paper like it already knew where it was meant to end. Something about him stayed with me—his calm, the quiet command in his posture. The kind of man who didn't need to shout to be obeyed.
And I wondered—stupidly, vividly—what his beach house looked like. If the windows faced the water. If the walls smelled of salt and old liquor. If his bed sheets were pale, if his skin would taste like the sea. The thought came sudden and uninvited, dragging a rush of heat to the surface. I imagined him there, barefoot, shirt open, skin washed in the color of salt and morning. I imagined how he might look undone.
The performance had never really ended; it had only moved inward, into the body that still wanted applause, still wanted touch, still wanted to feel itself mattering in the dark. Every nerve was awake. My body felt heavier, but not tired—charged, wanting. It was strange, how power and desire could feel so alike.
I fell a few steps behind them, listening to Poppy laugh, to Corrin's restrained silence, and I thought—not for the first time—that maybe this was what it meant to feel alive again. To burn, even if I didn't know whether it was from pride or hunger.