"Haa…"
I let the breath out slowly and watched Maya sit on the edge of the bed like she didn't trust the floor to hold her.
Her shoulders were tight. Her hands stayed close to her body. Even after the shower, even after the uniform that didn't fit her shoulders properly, her posture still carried the hallway. Like she expected someone to yank her hair again if she relaxed for even a second.
The worst part wasn't the fear.
It was how practiced it was.
You didn't get that kind of fear from one bad day. You got it from repetition. From learning that kindness was either a trick or an accident.
In the original story, Maya Serenity was a name that eventually meant something.
Later, she would stand straight. Later, she would look people in the eye. Later, she would turn a room cold just by entering it.
But this was before all of that.
This was the version the world tried to erase before she ever got the chance to become dangerous.
I kept my voice low, careful.
"What's your name?" I asked again.
Maya flinched—still, even now—like the question itself could be a trap. Her eyes lifted in small increments, testing my expression first, then my tone, then the distance between us.
"…M-Maya," she said. "My name is Maya."
She didn't add anything else.
No last name. No history. No invitation.
Smart.
I nodded like that was enough.
"It is," I said. "Before we do anything else… tell me what you want."
Her brow creased.
"Huh…?"
"Not what you think you're supposed to say," I added. "Not what gets you out of trouble. What you actually want."
For a moment, she looked at me like I'd spoken a language she'd never learned.
In the Triangle, people didn't ask what you wanted.
They asked what you could offer.
Maya's gaze dropped to her lap. Her fingers tightened on the bedsheet like she needed an anchor.
"…Why?" she whispered.
The question wasn't accusatory.
It was worse than that.
It was afraid.
"Why do you want to help me?"
When she looked up again, her eyes held two things at once—fear and something fragile enough to break if I handled it wrong.
Hope.
I could lie.
I could tell her it was because I was "a good person," because it was "the right thing," because "anyone would help."
But lies like that were easy to test. Easy to disprove. Easy to turn into a weapon.
So I chose something harder.
"I like you," I said.
Maya froze.
Not like someone embarrassed.
Like someone bracing for a punch that didn't come.
Her lips parted, and no sound came out at first. Then, in a thin, disbelieving whisper:
"…You like me?"
"Yes," I said simply.
I didn't lean closer. I didn't touch her. I didn't do anything that could be mistaken for pressure.
"You were getting hurt in a hallway full of people," I continued. "And not one of them moved. That tells me enough."
Her breath hitched. Her eyes shook, trying to stay steady.
"I'm not… I'm not useful," she said quickly, like she was reciting something she'd learned. "I don't— I can't—"
"You're alive," I cut in. Calm. Firm. Not harsh. "That's already more than most people manage in this place."
Something in her face cracked.
Tears spilled before she could stop them, and the anger that followed was aimed inward, not at me.
"This… isn't a dream," she whispered, voice warping around the words. "Right?"
"It's not a dream," I said.
She broke after that.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't quiet. It wasn't the neat kind of crying stories liked to write.
It was ugly relief. It was shaking breaths and grief that didn't know where to go now that it had permission to exist.
She folded over herself, hands gripping the sheet, sobbing like the sound had been locked behind her ribs for years and finally forced its way out.
I didn't speak.
I didn't "comfort" her with speeches.
I just waited, present and still, letting her body realize it wasn't about to be punished for making noise.
Minutes passed.
Her breathing slowed in uneven steps, like a storm losing strength.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were red, her cheeks damp, her voice scraped raw.
"…I want help," she said. "I want to get stronger."
She swallowed hard.
"Please."
There it was.
Not a performance. Not a plea for pity.
A choice.
I felt a tightness in my chest—not entirely mine.
Dreyden's body remembered what it meant to be abandoned.
Maybe that was why this scene hit harder than it should've.
"I will," I said.
Not dramatic.
Not heroic.
Just certain.
Maya hesitated, then leaned forward like she wasn't sure she was allowed to move toward someone.
I met her halfway and pulled her into a hug.
She went rigid for two seconds—pure reflex.
Then her shoulders sagged as if her body finally ran out of strength to keep pretending it didn't need anyone.
She didn't cling.
She just held on like a person holding onto a doorframe in a flood.
"I'll help you," I murmured. "But we do it right. No shortcuts. No begging. No letting them decide who you are."
Maya nodded against my shoulder.
Tiny. Trembling.
But real.
When she finally pulled back, she wiped her face quickly, embarrassed by her own tears, like shame was a habit she didn't know how to stop.
I didn't comment on it.
Instead, I shifted the conversation to the one thing in the Triangle that mattered more than emotion:
facts.
"Maya," I said. "Show me your status."
Her whole body stiffened.
The fear snapped back like a chain tugged tight.
"P-please…" she whispered. "Just—just listen calmly first. Okay?"
"I will," I said.
She stared at me, searching my face for the moment the kindness would flip into disgust.
When she didn't find it, she took a shaky breath.
"Visible Status."
Light formed in the air.
The holographic screen flickered once, as if unsure it wanted to exist in this room.
Then it stabilized.
STATUS — Maya Serenity
Strength: 10
Toughness: 13
Agility: 11
Intelligence: 20
Perception: 13
Magic Energy: 20
Reality Manipulation — Identity (Lv. 10)
An offshoot of Original Reality. Allows assimilation of another's identity across universes, gaining their memories and skills.
Side Effects:
— High activation cost
— Personality bleedthrough
— Magic cost increases per new identity
— Deactivates automatically
I stared for a second longer than I meant to.
Not because it was "cool."
Because it was terrifying.
Level 10.
Original offshoot.
Assimilation.
Memory transfer.
Skill acquisition.
This wasn't a tool.
This was a calamity wearing a human face.
I exhaled slowly.
"…That's insane," I muttered.
Maya blinked, confused.
"You're… you're not mad?" she asked carefully. "That I hid it?"
I looked at her.
"Mad?" I repeated.
Then I shook my head.
"Honestly, I'd think you were stupid if you didn't hide it."
Her mouth opened slightly.
Like she didn't know that answer existed.
The tension in her shoulders loosened—just a fraction, but enough that I saw it.
"It costs…" she hesitated, then admitted it like it was a confession. "Seven hundred and thirty magic energy just to activate."
That explained everything.
The begging. The helplessness. The way she'd been trapped in a body that couldn't afford its own weapon.
Her eyes sharpened slightly as the logic clicked into place.
"I need magic control," she said. "Urgently."
Then she paused, staring.
"Wait… why aren't you shocked it's level 10?"
"Because I'm not normal either," I said.
Her breathing caught.
I raised my hand.
"Status."
My screen flashed into existence.
Just enough.
Just the essentials.
Maya's eyes widened so fast it looked like fear again—until I saw the other emotion underneath it.
Understanding.
"U-unregistered skill…" she whispered. "You— you can copy skills…?"
"Only you know that," I said.
I tapped the screen, closing it.
"To everyone else, I only have Fire Fists. That's the mask."
Maya nodded, slow and serious.
"Understood," she said. Not a promise. A vow.
Good.
I stood, walked to the desk, and pulled out the thin manual—the one Lucas had thrown away in the original story.
I tossed it onto the bed.
Maya caught it with both hands, like it was fragile.
Like it was sacred.
"Read," I said. "We start with your core."
Her fingers traced the cover.
"What… what if I fail?" she asked quietly.
I leaned against the wall instead of hovering.
"Then we stop before you hurt yourself and we try again tomorrow," I said. "No panic. No rushing."
Maya looked up.
"Why are you—" She stopped herself, swallowing. "Why are you doing this for me?"
I didn't answer with romance.
I didn't answer with destiny.
I answered with reality.
"Because the monthly test is coming," I said. "And if you walk into it like you are now, the Triangle will finish what that hallway started."
Maya's face went pale.
Then her jaw tightened.
Not fear.
Decision.
I nodded once.
"While you build your core, I'll inject magic energy to stabilize your circulation," I continued. "It'll hurt. You'll want to stop. You won't. Not because you're tough—because you're choosing to live."
Maya stared at the manual.
Her hands stopped shaking.
She lifted her eyes to me, and something different was in them now.
Not gratitude.
Not worship.
Resolve.
"I'm ready," she said.
Her voice trembled.
Her will did not.
I felt my mouth curve slightly.
"Good," I said. "Finish the first section."
I pushed off the wall.
"We begin now."