----
I know what they do to us.
I've seen it, the way they hunt, the way they take. I've heard the screams, raw and broken, echoing through the underground where names don't exist, only numbers. I've watched from the shadows as they dragged my kind away, wrists bound, blindfolds tight against their trembling faces.Some fought. Some begged. Some only sobbed.
It never mattered.
I've seen the auction houses, where they dress us up like dolls, pretty, fragile things meant to be owned. The chains on their wrists are polished, the silken garments draped over their shoulders a cruel mockery of dignity. Behind the glass, beyond the velvet ropes, espers whisper, their voices dripping with amusement and hunger.
Like we're nothing.
I've seen guides reduced to that, nothing.
That's why I hide.
That's why I never let my power slip, why I keep my head down, why I force myself to be nothing but another human drifting through life, unnoticed, unimportant.
Because the moment they see me, the moment they know, it's over.
But I've always known... it was only a matter of time before someone saw through me.
----
The café is suffocating tonight. The air is thick with heat and the bitter scent of coffee, a cloying mix of sugar and espresso that clings to my lungs. The noise grates against my nerves, chatter, clinking glasses, the distant hum of the city beyond the rain-streaked windows. It all blurs together, an oppressive weight pressing down on me.
But it's not the sounds or the smells that make my skin crawl.
It's them.
Espers.
They sit at a table in the corner, their presence warping the very air around them. Power thrums in the space they occupy, thick and electric, distorting the atmosphere like the eye of a storm. Even without looking, I can feel it, the sharp edges of their energy, their arrogance, their confidence. They don't try to hide what they are.
They never have to.
My fingers tighten around the tray in my hands as I approach them, my pulse a heavy, hammering beat in my ears. Each step is measured, precise. I control every movement, every breath.
Don't tremble.
Don't react.
Don't let them sense anything.
I set the drinks down carefully, avoiding eye contact.
One of them, a dark-haired esper with golden eyes, tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharp, assessing. "You're new."
His voice is smooth, but there's something beneath it, something coiled and waiting.
I keep my expression neutral. "I've been here for a few months."
He studies me. Amused. Curious. Like he's watching something squirm beneath his fingertips.
A smirk tugs at his lips. "She's pretty," another one murmurs lazily, stretching his arms over his chair. "Wouldn't mind having a guide like her."
The words twist something deep in my gut, but I don't flinch.
It's a casual statement. A joke to them.
To me, it's a reminder.
Guides are currency to them. Property. Tools to be bought, broken, and discarded when they are no longer useful.
The golden eyed one hums thoughtfully. "I don't think she's a guide."
The room tilts.
For a fraction of a second, my body betrays me, I stiffen, my breath catching.
His smirk deepens.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his golden gaze gleaming like a predator that just caught the scent of blood.
"Interesting."
My fingers dig into the tray. He's testing me. He suspects something.
But I've been hiding my whole life.
"Just a waitress." I say evenly. My voice is perfectly calm. Unshaken.
A heartbeat passes.
Then another.
He watches me for a moment longer, then finally leans back, the tension dissolving like mist. "Pity."
I turn and walk away, slow, controlled.
I don't let out the breath I'm holding until I'm in the backroom, out of sight. My hands tremble against the cold metal counter.
That was too close.
----
The apartment is dark when I step inside. The only light comes from the city beyond the window, its glow spilling into the small space in fractured blues and grays. Shadows stretch across the cluttered floor, wrapping around the furniture like silent sentinels.
Lunar is curled up on the couch, sketchbook in her lap. The soft, rhythmic scratch of her pencil is the only sound in the stillness.
"You're late."
I drop my bag by the door, rubbing at my temples. "Had to stay longer."
Lunar looks up. She already knows.
"Espers?" she asks, her voice tight.
I nod.
She exhales sharply, snapping her sketchbook shut. "Did they suspect anything?"
I hesitate. It's small. Barely noticeable.
But Lunar notices.
She stands in an instant, crossing the room in two quick steps. "Sera—"
"I handled it." I say, forcing my voice to sound steady. Convincing myself as much as her.
She searches my face. I can see the worry flickering in her eyes, the frustration, the fear.
"You need to be more careful," she says, her voice softer now, but no less urgent. "If they find out—"
"I know."
But the truth is, I don't know if hiding will be enough anymore.
She doesn't look convinced. Neither am I.
Lunar sinks back down onto the couch, flipping through her sketchbook absently. "There was another raid last night."
A chill snakes down my spine.
Raids. The government hunting down unregistered guides.
I swallow. "Where?"
"South District." Her voice is hollow. "They took at least ten."
I close my eyes.
Ten people like me. Ten people who thought they could hide.
Lunar's voice is barely a whisper. "It's getting worse."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say.
I sit beside her, resting my head against her shoulder.
"I'll be fine" I murmur.
She lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. "You always say that."
We both know I'm lying.
----
The next day, I feel it before I even step inside the café.
A shift in the air. A weight.
Something wrong.
I stop at the door. My heartbeat stutters, then quickens, a sickening pulse in my throat.
I take a slow breath. Then another.
And step inside.
The moment I do, I feel him.
Sitting in the farthest booth, his back to the wall. Silent. Watching.
Waiting.
His coat is dark, still damp from the rain, the fabric clinging to his frame. But it's his eyes that unnerve me.. silver, cold, unnatural. They lock onto mine the second I enter.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
He knows.
I don't know how, but he does.
The café fades. The customers, the chatter, the clinking of cups ... all of it dulls to a distant hum.
There is only him.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
He just watches.
For me.
My hands go numb. My pulse hammers against my skull.
I turn away too quickly, my movements stiff. I force myself to act normal. To pretend he's nothing.
But deep down, I know.
He's not nothing.
And he's not leaving.
I grip the tray, my knuckles white.