The video played on my phone, small and trembling in my hand — the same performance everyone kept talking about. I lay on my back, head sunk into the pillow, the room lit only by the pale flicker of the screen. My voice echoed from the tiny speaker, louder than I remembered, commanding, reverent. Every frame felt too slow, as if time itself hesitated to replay what I had already lived. I watched my hands move, my own face beneath the lights — alive, radiant, possessed.
I rewound, paused, studied the angle of my wrist, the shape of the flame when it bloomed across my palm. The butterflies rose again, shattering midair into soft gold. Beautiful, yes — but not enough. Never enough. If I could perfect the rhythm of the motion, the next time I faced Igor, I would be sharper. Stronger.
The phone warmed against my chest. Corvian lay across the couch in the corner, one arm thrown over his face, the other hanging off the side. His stillness filled the room like smoke. Even in half-darkness, he was carved from silence, a monument pretending to rest.
The air carried the city faintly through the window — a car passing, a door slamming, the distant cry of gulls that sounded farther inland than they should. I stared at the ceiling, thinking of Harry. Where was he now? Had the thing that took him learned to smile, to speak in his voice? Did it walk somewhere with his heartbeat, his gestures, his warmth — but none of him inside?
The thought twisted, sharp and soft at once. I could have asked Corvian, but I knew how that would go. Either he would find it amusing and try to toy with me, or he would say the one thing worse than mockery — that he didn't know.
I turned my head toward him. "Why don't you mind spending forever with me?" I asked quietly. "Or… to phrase it better, whatever's left of my life. You're aware that marking me will bind you for that long, right? Or am I not going to live very long?"
He didn't move. He only lowered his hand slightly, revealing the faint gleam of his eyes through the shadow. "I don't know how long you have," he said, calm, almost lazy. "But yes — I don't mind. You're not that bad."
For a second, I almost laughed. The line sounded like affection, like something human trying to crawl out of him. I studied the outline of his body — the slow rise and fall of breath he didn't need. Maybe he was softening. Maybe he was beginning to see us as… companions. Equals.
The thought alone felt dangerous. I shook my head, a quiet scoff escaping me. "No. That's ridiculous."
He stirred then — the couch creaked softly under his weight. "What is?" he asked. His voice was low, half-buried under exhaustion, or maybe indifference.
I hesitated. "Nothing. Just thinking too much."
"That seems to be your favorite pastime," he murmured. The hand over his face slid away; his eyes caught what little light the room offered, glinting like something almost alive. He sat up, slow and unbothered, resting his elbows on his knees. "You think yourself into ruin, Hugo."
"Someone has to," I said. "You don't."
He tilted his head, faintly amused. "I don't have to. I watch you do it for me."
A ghost of a smile touched my mouth. "Is that affection or cruelty?"
"Both," he said simply.
I wanted to ask if mercy counts as cruelty when it arrives in time.
He leaned back again, gaze drifting to the ceiling as if trying to see through it. The faint sound of traffic pulsed below the building. The air smelled faintly of iron and soap — my soap, the one he'd started using because, as he put it, it made the room tolerable. His stillness wasn't peace; it was calculation, waiting for meaning to form in silence.
I pressed the phone harder against my chest, feeling the heat of the battery against my skin. The light seeped through my fingers, faint and pulsing — like a heartbeat I had borrowed. The weight of everything hung between us: Harry's absence, the wrongness of what I'd done, the strange comfort of Corvian's presence beside it all.
"You know," he said after a long pause, "if I wanted to leave, I would have. You don't hold me here."
I turned to face him. "Then why stay?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes softened — if such a word could even apply to him. "Because I'm curious what you'll do with what's left of you."
That should have sounded cruel. Somehow, it didn't.
"I don't know what's left," I admitted.
"That's the interesting part."
He reclined again, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch, laying it carelessly over his lap. The gesture looked almost human — the way someone might hide warmth under indifference.
Somewhere in that quiet, I thought I heard Harry's laughter — distant, small, a trick of memory in the static. And beneath it, Corvian's earlier whisper still lingered in my mind: Happy birthday, Hugo.
The same day. The same beginning. Maybe that was what forever truly meant — two creatures born on the same night, cursed to outlast one another, bound by curiosity mistaken for care.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 28th, 2025.
Hugo Hollands, 25.
---------------------------------------
The air inside Powell's estate smelled faintly of sun-warmed grass and polished stone. The butler led me through a long corridor that opened into a glass-walled hall overlooking a golf field that rolled out like a sheet of painted light. Two men stood outside near the flag, swinging in quiet repetition — their laughter traveled through the glass, subdued by the hush of luxury.
I had looked up Henry Powell before coming here — his photographs painted him as a peculiar man: too charming to be harmless, too disciplined to be ordinary. When he finally stepped into the hall, I realized the pictures hadn't captured half of him.
He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had long ago learned to fill every room. His frame was tall and deliberate, his shoulders squared beneath the looseness of his sportswear — pale fabric that caught the light in smooth folds. His face carried an unstudied elegance, strong-jawed with a soft, wry curve to his mouth that hinted at humor never quite spent. His hair — dark, brushed carelessly back — glimmered in the afternoon light that spilled through the windows, and behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were the shade of amber steeped in evening.
"Mr. Hollands," he said, spreading his arms slightly, voice steady but threaded with warmth. "What an honor."
I stood to meet him, extending my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Powell."
He clasped it firmly, smiling as though we already shared a private joke. "Please, sit down." He turned toward the butler. "Liam, bring us drinks, would you?" Then he faced me again. "I'm afraid I don't keep any alcohol here. I hope that's alright."
"It's too early in the day anyway," I said.
He chuckled, settling into the seat across from me. "Right? But I'll tell you — I've been sober for six years now. Not trying to go back, you know?"
"Best of luck," I said, leaning back slightly. "It's a never-ending journey."
"Yes! Exactly." He nodded, eyes lighting up, grateful for the understanding. "Every day is a challenge."
Liam returned briefly with two glasses of iced tea, leaving them on the low table before disappearing again. Henry swirled his glass, ice clicking softly. "Have you ever played golf before?"
I shook my head. "No. Never."
He smiled — wide, boyish almost. "Are you curious?"
"I'm more curious why you brought me here."
He laughed, head tipping back slightly, his voice bright in the still air. "You're quite sharp. Straight to the point."
"I don't have that much time on my hands," I said. "And, if I'm honest, a little anxious."
"You have every right to be," he replied easily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "But let me tell you something…" His smile softened, that politician's charm curling into sincerity. "We're going to be friends."
I couldn't help it— I frowned, then laughed under my breath. "I don't think so."
He feigned a pout, genuine amusement flickering across his features. "Why's that?"
"My likes and your likes never become friends."
He grinned at that— not offended, not surprised, simply entertained. "Then it sounds like one of us will have to learn new things."
I looked out the glass wall again. The two men outside had vanished, leaving the golf field empty, wind brushing the grass in shallow waves. Henry's reflection hovered beside mine on the glass— calm, confident, unreadable.
Something about him felt rehearsed, every gesture balanced between grace and calculation. Yet beneath it, there was a pulse— an almost childlike eagerness, as though he wanted to be liked by the very people who shouldn't trust him.
He took another sip of his drink, studying me as if I were a puzzle he'd already decided he would solve. "I've seen your performances," he said at last. "You have something most people don't— conviction. I like that."
I wasn't sure whether to take it as praise or warning.
The thought slipped out before I could stop it. "Here we go," I said aloud, resting my elbows on the table. "Is it a script they hand you?"
Henry's brows tightened. "I beg your pardon?"
"It just seems," I said, leaning back, "like every single person who wants something from me starts the same way— walking in, saying how amazing of a performer I am, and then sliding into what they really came for. So where am I performing, Henry? Do you have a private party? Is it one of those with masks? Anonymity, decadence, the usual?" I exhaled slowly. "Let's cut to the chase."
He blinked once, then laughed— not offended, just intrigued. "Oh, we're on a first-name basis now. Alright." He tilted his head. "You're a little aggressive, Hugo. I don't think you're like that. Helena said you were perfectly nice to her. Is it because she's a woman? Beauty privilege really does help, you know."
I smirked, the kind that carried no humor. "You're as beautiful as Helena, Mr. Powell. And I'm sorry if I crossed the line. I just—" I paused, the words heavy at the back of my throat. "I'm getting sick of this game. I want to perform on stage, for people— real people, not the ones who want to own what they see. But lately, everyone who approaches me wants something for themselves. I understand it comes with the damage, so I get it."
Henry's eyes softened with a kind of pity that didn't reach his smile. "So what if I told you you're not going to be performing in front of anyone?"
I looked up at him, unsure if I'd misheard. "What do you mean? Like — not even a private event?"
He shook his head, voice almost playful. "Nope. It's very, very, very private. And it's not a party." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees again. "But before we get to the point, I need to know if you're my friend or not. Because if you are, you'll have to sign some paperwork to promise you'll never talk about this to anyone. Otherwise, I'll have the right to sue the hell out of you." His smile widened, pleasant as sunlight. "And not just suing, Hugo. If you break that trust, I might come for your neck."
I grinned, slow and deliberate. "Is this a threat? Because I don't know what kind of friendship starts with one."
"Oh no, no, please," he said quickly, hands raised, voice light again. "It's not a threat. Poor phrasing on my part."
Before I could respond, Liam entered with a silver tray. He moved like part of the air— no sound, no wasted step. He set down the drinks with care: sparkling water, tea, iced tea. The glasses caught the sunlight, little prisms glinting across the table. Henry didn't speak until the butler vanished again behind the door.
"I didn't know your preference," he said easily. "It's pretty hot today, so I thought the iced tea might do."
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm fine."
He laughed softly. "I swear I didn't put anything in it, if that's what's worrying you."
"Oh no," I said. "I just don't like drinks. Not in the mood. Please continue, Henry. You were saying— this isn't a threat. Then what is it?"
He lifted the glass and turned it in his hand, watching the light pass through. "Are you sure you don't want the sweet tea? It's really good. We brew it here for like—"
"You don't brew tea, Henry," I interrupted. "But I'm sure you have very soft hands that know how it's made." I let the smallest smile trace my lips. "Anyway, point is, what do you offer in return? Because this doesn't sound like friendship. And you don't seem like someone who's incapable of giving back. I can tell you have plenty."
Henry's gaze sharpened— the kind of look that measured worth and obedience in equal weight. "Whatever you want," he said finally. "And I mean it — whatever you want. You know, I control the stages around Ebonreach. Every hall, every club, every single venue with a light and a mic. I can book you wherever you dream of performing. I can give you money, if that's what you want. I can give you women, if that's what you're into. And if not…" He smiled, half-apology, half-invitation. "I don't judge. Men, too. Anything you desire from entertainment— I have it. I can give it to you."
I watched him closely. "You must want something big then."
He squinted, his grin widening just enough to unsettle me. "Oh, yes," he said quietly. "Very big."
The silence that followed didn't belong to the room— it belonged to something that waited just outside it, like heat before a storm, like the pause before a secret is spoken aloud.
Curiosity was a sickness, the kind that settled deep in the ribs and pulsed until reason went quiet. I could feel it clawing already— the what-if, the promise hidden in his voice. Part of me wanted to walk out, keep my clean streak intact, keep my name where it finally belonged. After all, I was in a good place now. I had stages, crowds, applause that didn't sound like pity. Corvian hadn't interfered in weeks. Maybe this was the peace I was supposed to have.
But what if Henry flipped? Men like him could close doors just as quickly as they opened them. One word from him and every venue in Ebonreach could turn its lights off for me.
I took a slow breath. "If I have to sign something," I said, "does that mean I'll also have to do whatever this is? Or can I just hear it first and decide later?"
Henry hummed, running a hand through his hair as he thought it over. His rings caught the light, a little glimmer of gold against his tanned fingers. "The NDA says you don't talk about it," he said finally, "but not necessarily that you have to do it." He leaned back, smiling to himself. "You just gave me an idea."
"Then let me read the agreement first," I said. "Then we can talk."
He groaned, dragging the sound out like a complaint from the gods. "You're no fun, Hugo. Wake up, it's the real world. You've been fucking with Patrick Swanson, haven't you? Do you know how powerful that man is?" His voice rose with each question, the practiced charm slipping, revealing the irritation beneath. "Fuck it, do you even know how powerful I am?" He jabbed a finger toward me, pacing a little. "I can just—" He stopped, catching himself, then laughed softly. "I need you to do this thing for me, okay? You're an arsonist, right?"
I blinked. "Arsonist? Oh, no, I'm not— I only use fire for my shows. It's not real, it doesn't burn, it doesn't even hurt me. Look."
I raised both hands, palms open. "See? No scorches. No scars. Nothing."
Henry leaned closer, studying my skin as if searching for proof. "Peculiar," he said finally, tone light but edged. "So you just lie to people?"
I smiled thinly. "Isn't that what magic is?"
He chuckled once, short and amused. "Ah, that's debatable. But you're in the big world now, kid. You've got a lot of eyes on you."
"More reason I shouldn't agree to whatever you want me to agree to," I said, settling back into my seat.
"Ah, you are so annoying!" His voice cracked with laughter and exasperation all at once. "Fine, fine."
He stood abruptly, walking to the side table where his bag rested. He pulled out a slim leather folder, then an envelope, and crossed the distance back to me. The air between us shifted — warmer, denser — as he handed it over.
"Check it for yourself," he said, his voice dropping low, suddenly serious.
The envelope was heavier than I expected. Inside were papers — crisp, white, precise. I slid them out and unfolded the first page. My name was printed near the top, black ink underlined in neat serif. My reflection hovered faintly on the glossy surface. The air felt too still.
Henry hovered near the window, arms crossed as I read, pretending disinterest though his eyes followed every flick of the page. Outside, sunlight burned against the glass, slicing across the floor in long lines that reached my shoes.
The words blurred together for a moment — Non-Disclosure, liability, binding clause, permanent secrecy — all those neat legal arrangements meant to make silence sound civilized.
Somewhere between the paragraphs, I realized his offer wasn't about performance at all.
Section 1: Disclosure and Confidentiality. Standard, I thought at first. Nothing unusual. No disclosure of content, no naming parties, no public statements, no recordings. But then, near the bottom of the paragraph, a line stood out:
"The undersigned acknowledges that participation, whether active or observational, may involve exposure to classified, nonpublic procedures, events, or entities not governed by the legal parameters of the Ebonreach civil code."
I stopped. Entities. Church word. Graveyard word. Not a venue word.
I kept reading.
Section 2: Consent. A soft ringing grew in my ears as I followed the legal phrasing—consent to nondisclosure, to anonymity, to "temporary forfeiture of artistic license in the service of a confidential cause."
My eyes skimmed the next few lines:
"The undersigned agrees to be present at a location disclosed only upon arrival. No external documentation of said location, participants, or occurrences will be permitted. The undersigned accepts the presence of recorded supervision and relinquishes objection to the same."
Supervision. Recorded. It read like a contract written by someone who knew too well what it meant to watch others without being seen.
I flipped to the second page.
Section 3: Compensation and Penalty. The numbers were obscene. More money than I'd made in all my shows combined. It should have thrilled me, but it didn't. It only made me nauseous. The sum glittered on the page like bait.
"In the event of breach, the participant forfeits compensation and submits to prosecution by the Powell Foundation and its designated affiliates."
It didn't say government. It said foundation. And that—more than anything—was what made me uneasy.
Section 4: Clause of Non-Attribution.
"The undersigned's participation will not be publicly acknowledged. Any trace of contribution, artistic or otherwise, remains the intellectual and proprietary property of the appointing authority."
I could almost hear Corvian's dry amusement whispering through my skull: So you wanted fame, and here they offer you erasure.
I closed the folder, setting it slowly on the table. The air in the room felt heavier, the light too gold, too sharp.
Henry watched me with that polite smile that never touched his eyes. "Well?"
I didn't answer immediately. I looked at the fields through the window. The men outside were gone again. The flag at the end of the green lay still.
"It's a hell of a contract," I said finally. My voice came out quieter than I expected. "So what exactly am I signing up for?"
Henry took a long sip from his glass, then set it down carefully. His tone changed—not playful now, not even charming. Just steady. "You're signing up to witness something extraordinary. Something that needs someone like you. A performer who knows how to make people believe in the impossible… even when it's real."
He leaned forward, eyes catching mine with an odd, feverish light. "You make illusions. I need you to handle something that isn't one."
My throat went dry. "What do you mean?"
"You'll see," he said, smiling again as if the whole thing were a game. "But first… sign. Then we'll talk about fire."
Henry stood. The motion was smooth, deliberate — the kind of practiced elegance men like him perfected early in life. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a pen, sleek and black, polished enough to catch the light from the window. When he walked toward me, the air shifted — not colder, just heavier, as if the room itself leaned closer to listen.
He stopped by my chair, the pen held between his fingers like an offering. "Here," he said softly.
I looked up. He was smiling, that easy, practiced kind of smile that looked kind but wasn't. There was no warmth in it, only composure — a face built to soothe while it stripped you bare. They all wore masks, I thought. Men like him, men like Swanson, men who called corruption negotiation. They smiled as they devoured you.
I took the pen from his hand. It was warm, not from the sun but from him, from the heat that clung to his skin. My own reflection wavered on the inked surface as I bent over the page. The paper rustled softly when I signed, my name curling across the white like something alive trying to escape.
When I handed it back, Henry's smile widened, genuine in its satisfaction if not in spirit. He studied the signature for a long second, as though tasting it. "Very well," he said. "We've started our friendship."
I leaned back. "Now talk."
He chuckled, light, teasing. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Stop messing around," I said, sharper than I intended.
His laughter cracked the tension, bright and almost musical. "Okay, okay," he said, setting the papers neatly aside. Then his tone shifted, mellowed into something quieter, too calm to trust. "Look, you know how your fire has no trace? No smoke, no smell, no starting point, no root?"
I frowned. "What?"
"I need you to set something on fire, Hugo."
For a moment, I thought I'd misheard. The words didn't sound dangerous the way most requests do — they sounded simple, polite even, a favor between acquaintances. Yet there was something in the way he said fire that made my pulse tighten, a thin wire drawn through the chest.
He didn't elaborate. He just stood there, looking down at me with that same practiced ease, sunlight cutting through the glass behind him and washing his outline in a shallow gold. Outside, the world was bright, ordinary — green fields, quiet air, the echo of a golf swing. Inside, something darker was beginning to take shape.
I watched his hands, steady, precise, the way they rested against the table edge. "Set what on fire?" I asked finally, though part of me already regretted it.
Henry smiled again — small, satisfied, the look of a man who'd just confirmed he had my attention.
I made flames that never left a scar. That was the trick. That was the sin.