EVE POV
The Old Man was getting soft in his old age, or maybe he was just tired of the migraine I'd been giving him since we stepped foot in Jorgen City. He'd actually let us go out. Alone. No "safety protocols," no lead-lined jackets, just a strict 10:00 PM curfew and a warning that if we leveled a city block, he'd put us back in the jars for another decade.
"I'm serious, Adam," he'd said, pointing a spatula at my brother. "Keep the golden boy act on low. And Eve? If I see a single vacuum-burst on the local news, I'm changing the Netflix password."
So, here we were.
The Starlight Cinema was a cathedral of neon and the smell of artificial butter. It was the kind of place that would have made the Council's "prodigies" turn up their noses—too loud, too sticky, too crowded with the 'mice.' But for me? It was fascinating. I stood in the lobby, adjusted the collar of my slate-gray coat, and watched the chaos.
Adam was currently having a crisis over the snack counter.
"Eve, the salt-to-corn ratio in this large bucket is mathematically inconsistent," he murmured, staring at the menu board with the intensity of a man deciphering ancient runes. He was dressed in a crisp, white linen shirt and dark trousers, looking like he'd stepped off a yacht and accidentally wandered into a middle-class hangout. His Divine Light was tucked away, but he still had that "don't touch the art" aura that made people subconsciously give him a three-foot berth.
"It's popcorn, Adam. You put it in your mouth, it tastes like salt, you stop thinking," I said, leaning against a plastic pillar. "Just pick a size before the guy behind the counter has a stroke."
"The medium is the most efficient choice for a two-hour duration," he concluded, finally sliding a titanium card across the counter.
We were turning away from the counter, Adam cradling the bucket like it was a fragile core-stabilizer and me nursing a soda the size of a fire extinguisher, when the universe decided to humble the "Perfect Specimen."
A girl came sprinting around the corner of the arcade. She looked like she was vibrating on a different frequency than the rest of the lobby. Her hair was a shock of bright, seafoam aquamarine, pulled up into a messy, structural bun that looked like it was defying gravity. She was swamped in an oversized cerulean hoodie that made her look even smaller than she probably was, and her backpack was a chaotic museum of charms and pins that rattled with every frantic step she took.
CRUNCH.
She slammed into Adam with the force of a small runaway truck.
Usually, Adam's "Aegis-lite" reflex would have kicked in. He would have been a brick wall, and she would have bounced off him like a tennis ball. But he was so focused on the salt-to-corn ratio that he'd let his guard down. He stumbled back, his boots squeaking on the linoleum, and the popcorn bucket did a slow, graceful somersault in the air.
"Oh! Oh my gosh! I am so, so, so sorry!" she gasped, her voice a frantic, high-pitched chirrup.
She didn't fall. Instead, she pinballed into Adam's chest, her hands flying out to steady herself, clutching the straps of her backpack so hard her knuckles turned white. She looked up at him, and I saw her eyes—huge, wide, and the same startling blue as her hair. Her face was flushed, a few beads of sweat on her forehead, and her expression was one of absolute, wide-eyed panic. She looked like a startled kitten that had just accidentally tackled a lion.
Adam froze. He looked down at the tiny, hyperactive human currently occupying his personal space. His eyes went wide, and for a second, the cool, aristocratic "Statue of a God" vanished. He looked like he'd just been touched by a strange, vibrating alien species.
"It... it is acceptable," Adam stammered.
Stammered. I nearly choked on my straw.
"No, it's not! I totally wiped out your snacks! I was just—I'm late, and I wasn't looking, and—" She looked down at the popcorn on the floor, her blue-shadowed eyelids fluttering in distress. She looked like she was about to burst into tears or run another marathon. Then she looked back up at Adam, her gaze sweeping over his face. "Whoa. Wait. You're... you're like, really handsome? Like, unfairly handsome? Are you a model? Did I just tackle a celebrity? I am definitely going to jail, aren't I?"
I stepped back, leaning against the wall, enjoying this more than I would have enjoyed the actual movie.
Adam's face began to change. Usually, he only turned red when he was channeling too much solar energy. But right now, a very human, very deep flush was creeping up from his collar to his ears. He was staring at her, completely paralyzed by the sheer, unscripted chaos of her presence and the bluntness of her panic-induced flattery.
"I am not... a celebrity," he managed to say. His voice was an octave higher than usual.
"Well, you should be! You have the face of a prince! Or an angel!" She finally let go of his space, but she remained close, her big blue eyes searching his as if she were looking for a script. "Is your shirt silk? I probably got popcorn grease on silk! My life is over! Becky is going to be so mad that I'm late AND that I ruined a prince's day!"
Adam blinked rapidly. He looked toward me, his eyes pleading for a tactical extraction. He was a Mid-to-High tier Light-born, a masterpiece of genetic engineering who could probably vaporize a building with a thought, and he was being defeated by a girl in an oversized hoodie who looked like she'd just been electrocuted by her own anxiety.
"Eve," he hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of embarrassment and genuine confusion.
"You're doing great, Prince Adam," I chirped, raising my soda in a mock toast. "Answer the lady. Is your shirt ruined?"
The girl turned her hyperactive gaze to me, her aquamarine bun wobbling. "Is he your brother? Oh my gosh, you're both so pretty! Is it a family thing? Do you have a reality show? I'd watch it! I'm sorry I tackled your brother!"
"It's fine," I laughed. "He needed the wake-up call."
"Anyway!" She turned back to Adam, who was trying to subtly put some distance between them, but she just stepped with him, her charms jingling. She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill. "Here! For the popcorn! I have to go, I'm literally five minutes into the trailers and I'll actually perish if I miss the opening, but I'm super sorry again, Mister Prince!"
She shoved the five dollars into Adam's hand—his fingers closing around it automatically—and then she was gone, a blue-and-teal blur disappearing into the theaters.
Silence fell over the lobby.
Adam stood there, the crumpled five-dollar bill clutched in his hand, a few stray popcorn kernels still clinging to his shoulder. The flush hadn't faded; if anything, he looked even more flustered now that the whirlwind had passed. He looked down at the money, then at his shirt, then at me.
"She... she was very loud," he whispered.
"She was," I said, moving over to him and plucking a kernel off his collar. "And she called you an angel. I think I'm going to use that from now on. It really suits the brand."
"I didn't know how to... react," Adam said, his voice returning to its normal register, though his eyes were still a bit wild. "There was no threat profile. Her energy was completely erratic. It was like trying to track a swarm of butterflies."
"It's called a 'personality,' Adam. Humans have them. Sometimes they're even louder than Impulse energy." I laughed, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward our theater. "Come on, Prince. Let's go buy more popcorn with your hard-earned five dollars. You survived a blue-haired tornado. You should be proud."
"I am not going back to that counter," he muttered, though he let me lead him away. "The clerk saw the entire thing."
"Oh, the whole mall saw it," I teased. "You're probably on the security cameras right now. 'Handsome Prince Gets Obliterated by Anxiety-Girl.'"
"Eve, I will incinerate your phone."
"Worth it."
We settled into the back row of the theater just as the lights began to dim. Adam spent the first fifteen minutes of the movie meticulously checking his shirt for stains, his movements stiff and self-conscious. Every time a girl laughed in the audience, he'd jump slightly, his eyes darting toward the aisle like he was expecting another ambush.
I sat back, sipping my soda and watching the screen, but I couldn't stop grinning.
The Council could keep their "prodigies" and their navy-blue uniforms. Jeremy Klice could have his superior glares and his noble family crest. None of that was as entertaining as watching the world's most powerful Light-born get his ego dismantled by a girl in a baggy hoodie.
For thirty-six years, we'd been told we were something "other." Something higher. But in that lobby, Adam wasn't a masterpiece. He was just a guy who got flustered by a pretty girl. He was human, in the messiest, most embarrassing way possible.
I looked at him in the flickering light of the screen. He'd finally stopped fussing with his shirt and was staring at the five-dollar bill in his lap. A small, almost imperceptible smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What?" I whispered.
"She said I had the face of an angel," he murmured back, his voice full of a quiet, dawning vanity that was purely human.
I rolled my eyes and leaned my head back. "Go to sleep, Prince."
"Don't call me that."
"Make me."
The movie played on—some loud, pointless action flick—but I didn't care about the plot. I felt the Black Impulse in my core, quiet and content. We were out. We were together. And for at least one night, the only thing we had to worry about was our curfew and the fact that my brother was apparently a magnet for hyperactive blue-haired girls.
The dark was still out there, and the disappearances were still happening, but here in the theater, the only thing that mattered was the smell of popcorn and the quiet, gold-tinted heat of Adam sitting next to me.