Ian woke drenched in sweat, lurching from the soft padding beneath him. He gasped, hunching as pain wracked his body. A pillow spiraled towards his face, and he caught it with one hand.

  He heaved, peering over. Everything ached.

  Behind the pillow, Sylvan held a tray of soup and bread, wearing an impatient scowl. "I warned you," said the pink-haired man furiously. "And look where it got you."

  He crouched down and placed the tray on his crossed legs. He picked up the spoon, scooped the thick soup, and blew on it lightly before lifting it to Ian's lips. It hovered in waiting.

  Sylvan frowned. "If you don't eat it, I'll dump it on you here."

  A sudden threat. Ian had barely gathered his bearings, but obediently opened his mouth.

  The liquid slid down his throat, warming his esophagus and his churning stomach. One eye remained swollen, blurring his vision faintly. That was the result of a fight with a top-ranked Esper—an individual reigning at the top of humanity's evolution.

  Sylvan continued feeding him and complained. "Do you know how freaking shocking that was? Will said he found you by the gates, all bloodied and bruised. They were sure you'd encountered an SS-ranked monster, but there's no way. It was that bastard, wasn't it?"

  Ian swallowed. Although Victor was indeed a bastard, and no other word suited him better, he thought he should clear the misunderstanding. "I asked him."

  Sylvan paused and squinted. "You asked to get beaten?"

  "No. I asked him to train me."

  "So, you asked to get beaten." Sylvan exhaled, placing the bowl of soup down. When Ian's eyes followed the steaming bowl, he reluctantly picked it up and scooped another spoonful. "Okay, I get it. You have your goals, and the center is far. But don't mess with people like him."

  Ian stared at Sylvan levelly. "What do you know about that Esper?"

  Sylvan was kind. One word to sum up his actions, but it suited the Guide well. The soft blanket over Ian's legs proved it, tucked carefully beneath his mattress.

  At Sylvan's hesitation, Ian knew he hadn't read that strange anxiety wrong.

  There was a relationship, however faint, between Sylvan and Victor. But William was a fiercely loyal guard dog toward Sylvan.

  He wouldn't have allowed Victor close—anybody with enough brains would notice an abnormality in his gaze. A harrowing vacancy.

  In fact, Ian had been certain that the Esper would abandon him to the wilderness. That bastard would find amusement in forcing Ian to drag his body back. It would have been difficult, possibly impossible, but Ian had gone along regardless.

  There was simply no explanation that could logically define his reasons.

  Nothing but the vengeance etched into his future, whether it wanted to be there or not, and that wrenching, consuming envy.

  Envy twisted into morbid desires that held no name nor shape.

  "I know little," said Sylvan carefully, measuring his words. "Some say he's the Supreme Commander, the Leader who nobody's ever seen. Others say he's part of the Aegis Alliance. Everybody knows his name, but they can only speculate on his intentions."

  Ian's gaze fell to the emptied bowl, scraped clean. Another chip ran along its edge, tiny cracks branching against the ceramic. "What do you think he is?"

  Sylvan coughed. He hastily rose, with the bowl, and went to wash it in the shallow sink of water. They used the same water throughout the day and emptied it at night to prevent exceeding their maximum allowance.

  "Sylvan," called Ian without impatience.

  The younger man stiffened, setting the bowl into the water.

  Ripples speckled the murky surface, lightly coated in bubbles. Beneath the wavering surface, he saw his hands—slender, rough, and scarred. His left pinky was significantly shorter, and the nail on his left thumb grew in two separate, overlapping halves.

  Ian shuffled, rustling the sheets as he straightened.

  "He's a ticking time bomb, that bastard," said Ian. "Unfortunately, potentially he strongest Esper recorded. All smiles, ugly ones at that, but he'll never let anybody leash him. He's probably murdered a dozen, and let two times that die in front of him."

  Sylvan turned solemnly, gripping the bowl. "If you want to try and leash—"

  "I'm not pursuing romance," interrupted Ian. He didn't look a single bit like a man who barely scraped by life, colored in every shade of purple and red. He wouldn't make a full recovery for weeks. "I don't have such poor taste."

  Sylvan didn't believe him.

  Sometimes he felt like an immature brat whining in front of an older brother, but reality was cruel. The most respectable individual could abandon their morals for survival—and winning Victor's affection would be survival.

  If they lived to achieve that.

  "Others have tried," persisted Sylvan, shaking off the water. He plopped back down by the mattress, sighing. "To seduce and befriend him. He's got a pretty face, true, so sometimes people fall for it. They think they mean something."

  "And what happens?"

  Sylvan picked at his nails, shuffling. "Some become obsessed with possessing him, and he lets them linger until they irritate him. Others fall behind and are abandoned. Most die, by his hand or his neglect."

  Ian hummed. "He's responsible for their lives?"

  "No, I don't mean that. But he's nobody's ally, even if you think he could be."

  Sylvan swallowed and jerked his head up, eager to persuade Ian, and froze instead. A faint smile graced the older Guide's face.

  For Ian, Victor was perfect. An ally that didn't blind his eyes, possessed ample power to bring him to the Center, and wouldn't linger. No attachments. Ian didn't want the complications of affection or all that hesitation.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He needed somebody he could abandon without guilt. Not like Sylvan or William, whom he couldn't reject, or Lucian, whose memory drifted on occasion.

  When the day arrived when he was abandoned or left Victor, would he regret it?

  Not even close.

  Sylvan squinted, curling his fingers to flick Ian's forehead. Ian caught the thin wrist easily, earning a frown of protest. "At least let me knock some sense into you! I haven't scared you off at all, right?"

  "The opposite," agreed Ian. "I'm not looking for an ally or trust."

  "You're speaking big for somebody who hadn't entered a Rift until three weeks ago," scoffed Sylvan, tutting under his breath. "Fine, whatever. Stay still and recuperate. That's your punishment."

  He wagged the wooden spoon threateningly. "I'll remind you, I'm damn good at using this!"

  A lazy smile drew across Ian's face. "To hit people, or to cook?"

  "Both! I'm an individual of many talents."

  Ian chuckled, a muted laughter lasting the briefest of a second, but Sylvan greedily captured it to memory. Ian rolled up a knee, draping himself over it languidly. "Alright. I'll listen to you."

  He reached out, ruffling the mussed head of pink hair. A flush shot up Sylvan's cheeks as he vibrated for a few seconds and leaped to his feet, pointing the spoon.

  "Good!" He fiddled with his hair dazedly. "You remind me a little of Will, you know? Anyway, stay put! I'll be back later."

  And upon Sylvan's insistence, Ian lounged there mindlessly. He fell into a rhythm, shared meals around the small table, William's humorous tales, and Sylvan's loud complaints.

  Time ticked. Always. For a short time, Ian allowed him to forget his aspirations.

  Just as long as it would take the injuries to heal.

  They taught him a card game called Old Maid, and he lost a dozen times. He followed them into minor Rifts, simple foraging tasks for extra points. But in the backdrop of his thoughts, the clock continued to tick.

  An echo thudding against his skull.

  Another meal, another game, and another Rift. Repeat. Warm laughter, nights accompanied by their presence, and endless conversation. Repeat.

  It was comfortable, he affirmed. William had also grown fond of him, he knew. Even if danger surrounded Ian, and placed Sylvan at Risk. The Esper would cast a few glances, thoughtful, but said nothing. As if he didn't want to ask Ian to leave.

  Routine. What a frightening thing it was.

  On the evening of the tenth day, Sylvan returned to a folded bed. As if Ian had never been there. And although he'd known their time was limited, and Ian would inevitably run again, he crouched and cursed.

  "Seriously!" he exclaimed bitterly. "If I see that guy again, I'm going to drag him back and force him to stay with us! And beat him up!"

  "Syl, love," said William kindly, ruffling his hair with a soft laugh. "Could you beat him?"

  Sylvan turned fiercely, gripping the wooden spoon. "You think I can't?"

  William smiled and squished the tender layer of fat on his stomach from a lack of exercise. Although their diets were poor, Sylvan claimed he was allergic to exercise, save for the occasional Rift, and gained weight easily. "You think you can?"

  "...hey!"

  William laughed again, sidestepping a murderous, flailing spoon, but his eyes dropped to the folded bed. He liked Ian. He really, really did. But an unknown desire scaled those black pupils.

  Something haunting. And vengeful.

  He remembered the warmth of Ian's hands and the comfort he brought. The Guide was often quiet, sometimes laughed softly, and had a reliable air. Like an older sibling.

  It wouldn't have been bad, William had thought, to live with Ian and Syl, who'd long grown fond of that stranger. It wouldn't have been bad if they could pretend his entire being didn't yearn for something more—

  —something greater. Something beyond them all.

  ——+++——

  By the decontamination room, which consisted of four metal walls and a bench to cram in suspected infected individuals, trucks rumbled in and out. A few spilled out of the rooms after their identification and state was verified.

  Vermillion stains etched the decontamination windows, but nobody paid a second glance. There, perhaps hundreds of innocents died, but the risk of allowing infections into the base would risk thousands more.

  What did the value of one matter when it came to protecting a society?

  A young man, bearing the disposition of a friendly dog, chatted with his companions. He loaded cargo into a hideous truck, hammered with crude alloy plates and haphazard alterations.

  "Okay, that's two Espers, one Guide, and one civilian—I think we can fit one more in?" He clapped, peeking sideways. Various solo members would roam, seeking a team to enter the Rifts with.

  On cue, haloed by the beaming light, a tall man strolled toward the gate. Broad shoulders, and hands shoved into a dark windbreaker. Several bandages wrapped around his exposed wrist and neck, while his scrutinizing raven eyes swept across the scene.

  The young man's eyes lit up, following a simple logic. Anybody that good-looking was surely powerful. It was a completely illogical and biased view.

  The older man passed them, profile set in indifference, like a bomb waiting for a fuse. But when his gaze landed on a pair of kids, they softened, just a fraction. A little bitter, but gentle.

  "Man," muttered a teenager with hair swept across one eye. "He's kind of intimidating, right? Maybe not."

  The young man shook his head. "He looks strong—super cool. I feel like he might be a Guide! It's good to gather a variety of people, so I'll go ask, and if he rejects me, it can't be helped."

  Without waiting for a response, he broke into a light jog and skidded to a stop in front of the man. He beamed. "Sorry for scaring you, but are you alone?"

  Ian's eyes narrowed sharply. "What's it to you?"

  He'd encountered a colorful variety of people this week, worsening his mood. William had kindly threatened them to keep their hands away, and Sylvan directly whipped them with his trusted wooden spoon.

  Clearly, Ian had somewhat of a weirdo magnet. He wondered if it was the karma of seeking revenge. He was a bundle of negativity, attracting more of it.

  The young man thrust his hands up, coughing. "Easy! I mean no harm, really. My buddies and I are heading out to an easy Rift, and it's supposed to be a good one for training. I was hoping to fit another person into our group."

  It didn't seem to be a lie. Ian cocked his head. "What are you?"

  The young man straightened."I'm a 20-year-old Esper from Zone 5-A, and I live with—"

  "Not your dating profile," interrupted Ian as a flush bloomed across the other's freckled face. Not a bad kid. He arched his eyebrows, letting out a huff of amusement. "You're an Esper, and I'm a Guide. What are they?"

  The young man coughed. "We have two Espers, including myself, one Guide—with you, it'll be two, and then one civilian! Oh, I'm Adam, by the way."

  "You're counting me already?"

  Adam choked and hurriedly waved his hands. "No, no! You can say no."

  Ian hummed, crossing his arms. The young Esper was slightly shorter and a little cute. Compared to most he'd met. Under Ian's judgmental gaze, Adam coughed again, clearing his throat until he accidentally choked on air.

  "Cough! Ack... cough... cough!" He turned sideways and hunched over. When he was done dying, he sniffed and looked imploringly back at Ian. "It's good to have a group, isn't it?"

  Ian traced a hand over his knives. William and Sylvan were a lucky encounter, but anybody with half a brain knew better than to wander outside alone, without gear.

  According to his little sister, he only had a quarter of a brain and a reclusive personality.

  He nodded. Betrayals and incompatibilities existed everywhere, so there was no point culling a perfect group unless he was searching for long-term friends.

  "Guide. Low-ranked," he said curtly.

  "Great! Would you be fine providing some guiding before we enter? I think we should all be in a pretty good state. The civilian, her name's Maya, and she's pretty experienced, so there's no problem there."

  The man's enthusiasm sparked suspicion in Ian's mind. No person in the miserable world should be that happy; although Sylvan was a close contender, he was also a liar with many secrets.

  "Plus," smiled the Esper. "You can claim shotgun."

  Ian squinted. "I have a gun."

  "No, no, shotgun. Best seat ever? People rush to compete for it—unless you're with a professional team, where I definitely don't recommend fighting."

  Ian blinked and stapled the word to memory.

  When he was led over and briefly introduced, he slid into the passenger seat, or so the young man claimed, shotgun. The seat with the best view to slack off, without needing to exert his brain to focus. Enlightening.

  Adam grinned, resting his hands against the wheel. "See? Shotgun's the best, isn't it?"

  Ian nodded, and Maya cackled, fiddling with a real shotgun. "Careful, Adam. Wouldn't want to introduce a new passenger princess to the world."

  Ian's heart felt aged as they exchanged chatter. Evidently, they shared one language, but he couldn't understand their meaning. Was the facility's education lacking—it wouldn't be a surprise—but they instructed them on everything necessary.

  These new concepts seemed very important for cementing his laziness.

  Thus, the self-proclaimed old man reclined into the leather seat and continued to enlighten himself with their specialized speech.