The pool held its borrowed light like a chapel floor, a thin gold trembling under blue. The air pricked my skin each time I rose; the chlorine sat bitter at the back of my tongue. No one else was there, no sound except the slow, steady lap of water against the tiles. Corvian sat at the far edge, one leg bent, the other stretched out with his foot in the water, still in his shirt and dark trousers, the kind of calm that felt carved rather than lived in.
I swam a full lap before stopping in front of him. My breath came slow and easy, shoulders heavy with the rhythm of it. I pushed my hair back and shook my head, sending droplets over his clothes, catching the collar of his shirt and the line of his throat.
He flinched lightly, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and said, "What is wrong with you?" His tone was sharp, clipped by disbelief. Then, quieter, "What a peasant."
I smiled. "What you did earlier with Kent was hot."
His brows knotted, the movement subtle but unmistakable. "Hot?"
"Yeah," I said, still catching my breath. "It was refreshing, seeing you use your abilities for once. All this time you've been making me do it on your behalf."
His gaze slid toward the water, where the surface reflected us in pieces—his pale outline stretched by the motion of my hands. "There's so much I can do, Hugo. You haven't even seen one percent of it."
"Then show me something," I said.
He clicked his tongue softly, a sound more habit than impatience, and shook his head.
I swam closer, until the water reached just below his knees. I planted both palms against the tile, one on each side of his thighs, and lifted myself slightly out of the water. The distance between us thinned, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating off his clothes.
"You told me I could see your original form if you took me with you," I said, my voice lower now, more deliberate. "On a visit."
His eyes met mine—steady, unreadable, but there was something there that almost looked like restraint. "You want everything all at once."
I leaned in, my mouth near his wrist. "You know I'm impatient."
He studied me for a moment that stretched too long to be comfortable. Then he reached forward and placed his hand flat on my chest, the touch light, almost tender. His fingers pressed once.
"Then learn to wait," he said.
And he pushed.
The motion was easy, fluid—almost careless. My body slipped backward, cutting through the surface, the sound swallowed immediately by water. For an instant the light fractured above me, the pool turning to glass that wavered and sealed itself shut.
I opened my eyes underwater. The world there was slow and blue, silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. I could see him sitting above, his outline broken by the surface. He didn't move. He never would. Corvian was not one to chase.
I didn't fear him. Not that way. Devils didn't kill—at least, not with their own hands. That was a rule older than any of us could name. But there were other ways he could break me. The kind that left no wounds, only recognition.
I let the water cradle me, the cold biting at my skin, the soundless quiet stretching around my ribs until it almost hurt. Somewhere above, the night burned soft against the pool lights, and Corvian's shadow leaned forward, patient as ever.
August 14th 2025,
Hugo Hollands, Age 25.
The applause followed me backstage like an aftertaste—bright, relentless, almost unreal. I could still feel it in my chest, the echo of hundreds of hands clapping against the walls, a pulse that wasn't mine but lived under my skin for a while longer. The corridor smelled of heat, sweat, and smoke—the residue of magic, if there was such a thing.
As I passed one of the stage crew, a woman still holding a clipboard against her chest, I caught her voice, half-whispered to no one in particular. "Did you see the butterflies? They were on fire!"
I didn't stop. But the corner of my mouth lifted, small, involuntary.
When I pushed open the dressing room door, the noise fell away. The room was dim, washed in the red light from the vanity bulbs. Poppy was there, sitting on the couch like she owned the silence. She had a red cup in her hand, her long hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulder, catching the glow as if the light preferred her. Her shirt—oversized and slipping off one shoulder—looked like something stolen from a man too slow to notice. The curve of her thigh glimmered against the shadow of her stockings, a dark crimson that caught the light each time she moved.
She looked up at me, lids heavy, eyes sharp beneath the slow rhythm of her expression. "Why weren't you watching?" I asked, still breathing out the stage.
"I did," she said, voice quiet but steady. "I just left right after you finished your last trick."
I sat down before the mirror. The bulbs made a halo of heat around the glass; ash lived in the sweat at my hairline. Eyes still burning with the crowd's light. I wiped my face, dragging the fabric down my neck until I could breathe again.
Poppy shifted on the couch. The leather sighed beneath her weight. She cleared her throat softly, an almost careful sound. "Are you and Eddie…" she hesitated, fingers circling the rim of her cup, "no longer going to be friends?"
I looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Eddie and I were never friends, Poppy."
Her brows pulled together. "That's not true. I've seen how you two were together. You were close—especially after, you know, what happened."
I laughed once, not kindly. "No. After what happened, we stuck together because we were grieving the same person. It wasn't friendship. It was… survival. A mirror held too close."
The towel hung loose in my hand. I could still hear Eddie's voice somewhere in the room, a ghost of it—his laugh, his insistence that we'd always be on the same side. I blinked it away.
"I think Eddie's better on his own," I said finally. "And I think I am too. It's good for both of us to go our own way."
Poppy tilted her head, studying me like she was afraid to push. "What happened? What could've torn you both apart like that?"
I met her eyes in the mirror again, and something inside me hardened. "I don't want to talk about it," I said. The words came out quiet but final.
She didn't move.
I set the towel aside, fingers pressing against the edge of the table. "It's something that means a lot to me. And Eddie…" I breathed out slowly. "He fucked up real bad. And maybe—maybe it wasn't all his fault. But I can't help it. I still see it as his."
The bulbs around the mirror buzzed softly, their light trembling across her face. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. The silence between us was enough—the kind that didn't comfort, didn't accuse, only stayed, heavy and alive, until it became something you had to live through.
The knock came soft, measured, as if the person behind the door already knew they were welcome.
"Come in," I said, still half-leaning against the vanity, my reflection dim in the mirror's light.
The door opened, and the air shifted.
She stepped inside quietly—a woman in an ivory silk blouse that caught the lamplight in a hundred small ripples. Her dark hair was tied low, with stray strands falling loose against her face, the kind that moved when she breathed. Her eyes were pale, washed in amber light, her mouth soft, deliberate. She wore a thin choker at her throat that drew the eye toward the quiet line of her collarbone. Everything about her was composed, yet not fragile—beauty sharpened by restraint.
For a moment, I forgot to speak.
She smiled politely, holding her hands together just in front of her waist. "Am I interrupting something?" Her voice was clear, melodic, the sort of tone people listened to even when she said nothing important. "I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you on your first crowd stage work."
I straightened a little, brushing the towel from my shoulders. "Thank you," I said.
She nodded once, as if memorizing the exchange. "I'm sorry," she continued. "I didn't introduce myself. I'm Helena Seign. I work as the secretary for Mr. Henry Powell."
The name tugged at something in my mind, but not enough to make sense of it. I tilted my head slightly. "Henry Powell?"
"Yes," she said, catching the question in my voice. "He's in politics. Parliament, to be precise. You may have heard of him—he's been working closely with the governor's cultural committee. He's… rather invested in the arts these days. Public relations, funding, reputation—it's all the same language in his world."
She spoke with the ease of someone who'd said the same sentence a hundred times, but her eyes didn't waver. They studied me quietly, the way one studies the source of something unexpected.
I leaned against the table, the corner pressing into my palm. "And he sent you?"
Helena smiled, a small, unassuming curve of her lips. "In a way. He's been watching your work, Mr. Hollands. Tonight's performance was… remarkable."
The word remarkable lingered in the air between us, its tone polished but not entirely neutral. I couldn't tell if it was flattery or warning.
Her gaze flickered briefly toward the door, then back to me. The scent of her perfume—something faintly floral but touched with musk—drifted in the still air.
"Well," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I won't take more of your time. I only wanted to offer my congratulations. And perhaps, to let you know that Mr. Powell would like to speak with you sometime soon. There's… potential interest."
She said it softly, but it landed heavy, like a pebble dropped in water.
I nodded, not trusting myself to answer yet.
Helena smiled again, gentler this time. "Good night, Mr. Hollands."
And before I could say anything else, she turned and slipped out of the room—leaving behind the faint shimmer of her presence, and a question that didn't yet have shape.
Poppy let out a low whistle as the door shut, her voice breaking the quiet like a drop into still water. "Goddamn," she said, half laughing. "She's gorgeous… illuminating, actually."
The word made me frown. I rubbed at the back of my neck, the adrenaline still crawling there, warm and restless. "Why do I always get sent women who work for some man?" I muttered, my tone more tired than bitter. "What the fuck is going on? Where's Corrin?"
Poppy laughed softly, swirling the drink in her cup. "Chill, man. You're becoming more famous now. People like her are gonna start showing up."
Becoming famous.
The phrase hooked itself in my mind and stayed there. I stared past her, toward the mirror, where the reflection of the dressing room sat dim and fractured—the lights behind me haloed and cruel.
Would they ever play one of my shows in a prison's entertainment room? Would a group of men, all dressed the same, sit on the edge of plastic chairs while I performed on a screen, not knowing who I was until one of them—my father—recognized me? Would he stand, chest tightening, hand shaking as he pointed to me and said, that's my son? Would he even dare to?
Or would he just watch in silence, jaw set, knowing what he'd lost when he let me become this?
And my mother…
Would she ever sit before a television on one of those long, airless nights, the kind where silence clings to the walls and time moves like a slow bruise, and see me there? Would she recognize the shape of me beneath the lights—the way I move, the way I lift my hand as if to conjure something out of air—and know that it came from her? Would she freeze mid-breath, tea cooling in her hand, her reflection trembling against the glass of the screen as though the two of us were divided by something thinner than years?
Would she whisper my name then? The one she gave me before she learned what it meant to let it go. Would her voice falter when she said it, or would it carry the same authority it once had—the tone that made me turn, always, without question?
Would she tell herself she didn't mean to leave? That she only did what the world demanded of her? Would she build me into a reason she could live with?
Would she ever come to my door again—older now, the light drained from her eyes, her hands trembling around the weight of regret—and ask to be let in? Would she say my name and wait for the sound of forgiveness? Would she tell me she thought I'd never make it, that she didn't know how to love what she broke, that she's sorry, so goddamn sorry, for choosing to forget me?
Would she fall apart before I could decide if I still wanted her there?
Or would she never come at all, choosing instead to keep me alive in her imagination—a boy suspended in time, untouched by disappointment, easier to mourn than to face?
Would she whisper the name she gave me before she learned how to live without it?
Was she even alive?
"Hugo?"
Poppy's voice cut through, soft and hesitant. "Why are you crying? Are you okay?"
I blinked. I hadn't even felt it—just the slow, cooling trail across my cheek. I wiped at it quickly, fingers brushing the dampness like it wasn't mine. "I'm fine," I said, forcing a quiet laugh. "Maybe the adrenaline's wearing off or something."
She watched me for a beat too long, like she didn't believe me but didn't know how to say so.
I turned away, reaching for my jacket, the words leaving me before I could think about them. "Where's Corrin?"
The question came out heavier than I meant it to, low enough that it almost disappeared into the quiet. But Poppy heard. And I think she understood that I wasn't really asking where he was—just if he still would be, when everything else eventually left.
I left the room too quickly, the door swinging shut behind me before Poppy could say another word. The corridor was empty except for one figure sitting by the wall, his posture perfectly composed, head bowed as though he'd been waiting for a while.
Corvian.
The sight of him loosened something in my chest. Relief—strange, heavy, uninvited—rushed through me so fast it stung. My throat burned, the ache returning from nowhere. I hadn't realized how close the tears still were until I felt them threaten again.
He looked up at me, the dim hallway light catching in his eyes. "Well done," he said simply.
I stood there, breath uneven, my pulse still catching against my ribs. "I want to find my mother," I said, the words spilling out before I could soften them.
His brows drew together, a quiet question forming before he spoke. "Why?"
"I need her to see me now."
The silence after it felt too large for the corridor. The air hung between us, thick and motionless, the sound of my own breathing too loud against the stillness.
Corvian didn't answer right away. He only studied me, eyes unreadable, as though weighing what it meant—for me to want something so human, so unbearably small, in a world that had already taken so much.
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Corvian, 3181
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Humans never outgrow their wounds. They carry them in silence, like small faithful pets that sleep inside their ribs. I have watched centuries pass through their faces, and still, none of them learn how to let go of what made them ache first.
A man never stops needing his mother. He only learns how to speak around the absence.
He said he wanted to find her, to make her see him now—to stand before the one who discarded him and prove he had become something she could no longer ignore. But I knew what truly drove him. It wasn't pride. It wasn't vengeance. Beneath the performance of anger lay something smaller, more pitiful, and infinitely more human. He still wanted her touch. The warmth that told him he had been born wanted. The assurance that the world had room for him, even if she had none left to give.
Even after she threw him away like refuse, he still craved her arms. The tragedy of humans is that they keep loving through their ruin.
I watched him tremble in the half-light of the corridor, shoulders stiff as if trying to cage the sob that threatened to escape. His jaw tightened, but his eyes gave him away—wide, desperate, the same kind of fear that belongs to children who think no one will come back for them.
Would I be cruel, I wondered, if I reached for him now? Would the gesture dishonor what I am—or reveal too much of what I've learned from them?
The thought lingered no longer than breath.
I rose from the chair. The floorboards sighed under my weight. He didn't look up until I stood before him. Then I reached out and drew him in.
The contact was tentative at first—his body taut, uncertain, as if waiting for the pain that always followed affection. My hand rested against the back of his head, fingers slipping through the damp curls there. For an instant, he stayed motionless, air trapped in his chest. Then something inside him broke open.
The sound he made wasn't a cry—it was quieter, raw, the sound of something exhaling after being held too long. His shoulders collapsed forward, his breath hot against my collar. He clutched at me as though the act itself was foreign and frightening. I felt the tremor of it through his arms.
I let him.
His tears soaked through the fabric of my shirt, darkening it where they fell. The scent of salt and skin rose between us, sharp and real. He didn't speak, didn't try to explain, and I didn't ask. Devils know the language of grief better than they ever admit.
After a moment, he shifted, his hands gripping the back of my coat, holding on as though he feared the world might tear him loose again. He hugged me back—clumsy, human, and devastatingly sincere.
I closed my eyes.
Perhaps mercy was not beneath me after all.
His breathing slowed against me, uneven at first, then steadier—like the body had finally remembered what it meant to be held. I could feel his pulse through the thin barrier of fabric, a stuttering rhythm that softened the longer I stayed still.
I lowered my head slightly, close enough that my breath stirred the hair at his temple. The words rose before I decided to speak them, small and quiet, carrying no ceremony, only the weight of recognition.
"Happy birthday, Hugo."
He froze. For a heartbeat, even the air seemed to pause with him. Then his hands tightened around me, a sudden, instinctive hold, as though he were afraid that if he let go, the world would take this moment back.
The silence that followed was heavy, not with sadness but with something slower, older—something that lived between gratitude and grief. His fingers pressed harder into the back of my coat, and I felt the faint shudder of breath he was trying to hide.
He didn't speak, but his silence said enough. I felt it ripple through him—the weight of what he'd buried, the ghosts of every birthday that had passed unmarked, unnoticed. Each year folding quietly into the next, like paper forgotten in the dark.
His breath hitched once, then steadied. He pressed his face against my shoulder, and for a moment, I could almost convince myself that this was an act of faith, not desperation. That he trusted me, rather than simply having no one else left.
His voice, when it finally came, was small. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
He laughed under his breath, though it broke halfway through. "You're not supposed to."
I could have told him that devils remember everything—that memory is both curse and craft, that I carry every soul I've ever touched like embers under the skin—but I didn't. I simply said, "Someone should."
He drew back slightly, enough for me to see his face. His lashes were wet, eyes rimmed in red, but there was something startlingly pure about the way he looked at me—like the chaos had cleared for once and left only the boy underneath.
The corridor light turned the tears on his cheeks into small streaks of gold. He tried to smile and failed, his mouth trembling around the attempt.
"I hate that you make me feel this much," he whispered.
"I know," I said.
He nodded once, as if the confession had cost him too much already, and then he leaned forward again, forehead resting against my collar.
The warmth between us deepened—not desire, not pity, but something stranger, heavier. Something neither of us could name without breaking it. I felt the tremor in his hands begin to quiet, the air shifting as he let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Outside, the corridor lamps hummed softly. The world was still. For once, Hugo didn't try to speak. He just stayed there, anchored to me, as though time itself had agreed to wait.
Well I wonder
Do you hear me when you sleep?
I hoarsely cry
Well I wonder
Do you see me when we pass?
I half-die
Please keep me in mind, please keep me in mind
Gasping but somehow still alive
This is the fierce last stand of all I am
Gasping, dying but somehow still alive
This is the final stand of all I am
Please keep me in mind