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.