Ezra took Ciarra’s advice to heart—for once. Spring came, and for the first time in years, he did something he never thought he would do. He sat this one out.

  No bs.No Silent Legion.No graviton research.

  Just home.

  And to keep himself from spiraling into the abyss? He went back to an old comfort. Video games. Bruiser, ever the helpful bastard, had a recommendation. Not just any game.

  Dark Souls.

  "Bro, you’ll love it," Bruiser had said. "It’s about suffering." Ezra should have known better.

  "Are you serious?!" Ezra smmed the controller onto his desk, running both hands through his hair.

  "Bro, you’re getting folded by a skeleton with a stick." Bruiser wheezed through voice chat.

  Ezra gritted his teeth as his character died. Again. This game was bullshit. Total, unfiltered bullshit. "This is some 1990s arcade scam bullshit," Ezra growled. "The hitboxes don’t make sense, the enemies are cracked out of their minds, and I’m getting ratio’d by a fucking zombie knight."

  "Skill issue," Bruiser quipped.

  "I will uninstall this game."

  Just as he was about to rage quit, Bruiser spoke up. "Hang on, hang on, let’s beat this boss first."

  They were stuck on a particurly nasty level, a massive armor-cd monstrosity with unpredictable attacks. Ezra’s usual "rush in and swing until it dies" strategy wasn’t working. Bruiser, meanwhile? He made it look easy. "Watch its movement patterns," Bruiser said. "There’s always a pattern."

  Ezra grumbled. But fine. He tried again. Died. Tried again. Died. Then—Something clicked.

  He started seeing it. The way the boss’s sword lingered in the air before a swing. The way it faked left before dashing right. The pattern.

  It was difficult. Frustrating. But with Bruiser’s help—he finally overcame it. Ezra sighed loudly in relief, putting the controller down. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

  Bruiser, smug as ever, chuckled in his headset. "Told you, man. There’s always a pattern."

  Ezra rubbed his face, still processing the stupid amount of relief he felt over a damn video game. "Thanks for the lesson, Sensei Dickhead," Ezra muttered.

  "Anytime, student Dumbass." Ezra rolled his eyes, but for the first time in weeks, he actually felt a little lighter.

  Spring passed slowly. Ezra checked in on Adam every chance he got. He was patching things up with Julie, slowly but surely. But his son… His son was showing signs.

  ADHD? ASD? Something else entirely? The doctors couldn’t pinpoint it yet. The ABCs of diagnoses were murky at best. Only time would tell.

  Ezra didn’t know what the future held. Didn’t know if his son would struggle the way he had. Didn’t know if he’d even be around to help. But one thing was clear. There was always a pattern. And one day? He was going to figure it out.

  Ezra noticed the cough first. It was sporadic—just a clearing of the throat here, a short rasp there. At first, he didn’t think much of it. It was allergy season, after all. But as spring progressed, the cough didn’t fade—it got worse.

  By the end of the season, it was persistent, deeper, settling into his dad’s chest like it belonged there. Seth, being Seth, waved him off. "It’s fine. Don’t start with your doctor crap, boy. I’m good."

  Ezra wasn’t buying it. He turned to Ciarra instead. She had noticed too. She was keeping tabs on him, but it wasn’t their pce to force treatment. Seth had to make that decision himself.

  Ezra grumbled, reluctant. Ciarra just sighed and gave him one of those patient, knowing looks. "You can lead a horse to water, Ez," she murmured, "but you can’t make it drink."

  Ezra crossed his arms. "Yeah? Well, what if the horse knew what glue was?"

  Ciarra chuckled, ruffling his hair like he was a kid. "Then that’s just natural selection."

  He huffed, but let it drop. For now.

  Nonna was in good health, but her spirit? She was worried. Worried about Seth. Worried about the family. Worried about Ezra.

  She didn’t say it outright, but Ezra could see it in the way she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  The quiet gnces. The gentle hand on his shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

  She knew.

  She always knew.

  One afternoon, Ezra needed out of the house. Too many thoughts, too much restlessness. He decided to go for a walk into the mountainous countryside, hoping to clear his mind. Ciarra, ever perceptive, asked to tag along.

  They hiked up a steep trail, breathing in the crisp mountain air, feeling the tension of the past months ease slightly. It wasn’t until they reached a peaceful spot overlooking Turn, its skyscrapers barely a glimmering mirage in the distance, that Ezra finally sighed. "Got any more skeletons in your closet I should know about?" he asked, only half-joking.

  Ciarra exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "After everything we’ve been through?" she murmured. "I just want to spend some quality time with my da—"

  She caught herself. Ezra’s brow arched slightly. He didn’t react immediately—just let the moment hang. But he’d heard it. And she knew he’d heard it. Ezra smirked to himself. He had to lure the kitty out with catnip. "You bring the good stuff?"

  Ciarra snorted, rolling her eyes. "Of course I did."

  Ezra grinned. "Atta girl."

  She pulled out her peace pipe, and together, they smoked in the quiet woods, the only sound the distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. Ezra rested against a tree, sighing. He wrapped an arm around Ciarra, pulling her closer in a zy side-hug. She didn’t resist, curling up against him, purring softly as he petted her hair.

  "You know," Ezra murmured, "you can tell me anything. If you feel like it."

  Ciarra nuzzled into his side, letting his warmth and scent soothe her. For a moment, it was peaceful. Then—Ezra pushed. "So. Your dad."

  Ciarra’s purring stopped.

  Ezra took another hit of the pipe, exhaling slowly. "He worked with gravitons, right?"

  Silence. Ezra smirked slightly. "Why won’t you share his story with me?"

  Ciarra took a deep breath, her voice softer this time.

  "Trust is a brittle thing, Ezra," she murmured. "Mine’s been broken so many times, it’s practically dust."

  Ezra didn’t stop petting her hair. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

  Ciarra swallowed, then nodded against his chest. "But… I’ve seen what your stress is doing to you." She hesitated. "I don’t want to burden you more than you’re already carrying."

  Ezra exhaled, staring at the clear blue sky above them. "Lay it on me, Ciarra," he said, voice bold, firm. "What doesn’t kill me will probably piss me off." He grinned slightly. "But I’ll deal with it."

  Ciarra ughed softly, shaking her head. "Fine," she whispered. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "You’ve seen the core already, haven’t you?"

  Ezra’s expression twitched. "Yeah," he admitted. "And—" Wait. His eyes narrowed slightly. "How do you know about the core?"

  Ciarra’s gaze turned serious. "Because," she said slowly, "I know what it is."

  Ezra didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. "What is it?" he asked.

  Ciarra took another long drag of the pipe, her eyes locking onto the horizon. "It’s a prison," she whispered.

  Ezra’s stomach turned cold. Ciarra continued, her voice low, distant. "The thing inside it… it has the power to destroy humanity." Ezra’s grip tightened slightly around her.

  "It’s been dormant for thousands of years," she continued. "Waiting for someone to set it free."

  Ezra groaned. "For fuck’s sake, Ciarra," he muttered, rubbing his face. "This is starting to sound like some foreshadowing type bullshit."

  Ciarra ughed, her purring returning slightly.

  Ezra threw up a hand. "Next thing you’re gonna tell me—there’s a legendary hero, with stereotypically main-character white hair, destined to free the beast so he might sy it!"

  Ciarra giggled.

  Ezra threw his arms up dramatically. "O’ Oracle Ciarra, before you tell me thy prophecy, tell me the winning lottery numbers tomorrow!"

  Ciarra cracked up, burying her face into his shoulder.

  Ezra grinned. "You do have a White-Card, you know," she teased. "Why do you need the lottery?"

  Ezra shrugged. "I dunno, just hoping my winning numbers are 13, 42, 69, and 420."

  Ciarra wheezed, kicking her legs slightly. Ezra held her close, petting her absently. For now? This was enough.

  Ezra was lounging on the living room couch, halfway through a zy afternoon nap, when Julie nudged him awake. "Ezra," she said, holding up her phone. "It’s for you."

  Ezra squinted. "For me?"

  Julie sighed, nudging him harder. "You forgot to get a new phone, dumbass. Mr. Key’s been trying to reach you. For weeks."

  Ezra groaned, rubbing his face. "Shit. Alright."

  Julie plopped the phone in his hand and walked off. Ezra sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Mr. Key?"

  "Boyo."

  Ezra winced. "Shit. Sorry, I—"

  "Forgot to buy a new phone. Yeah, yeah, we gathered."

  Ezra could almost hear the amusement in Mr. Key’s voice.

  "Everything alright?"

  Ezra sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "No."

  Mr. Key was silent for a moment. Then, calmly—"Talk to me, kid."

  Ezra exhaled, leaning his head back. "My job…" he muttered, staring at the ceiling. "I dunno if I’m cut out for it." Mr. Key hummed. "Too much spooky shit," Ezra admitted. "The core duty trip—it wasn’t just rough. It was… fucked."

  Mr. Key didn’t interrupt. Just listened. Ezra let out a humorless chuckle. "The Silent Legion? The way they test people? The way they just watch?" He shook his head. "I feel like a rat in a really fucked up experiment."

  Mr. Key finally spoke, his voice measured. "I hear you."

  That was it. Not dismissal. Not condescension. Just understanding.

  Ezra was about to thank him, maybe even admit he felt relieved, when Mr. Key added something curious.

  "When you return to work," he said slowly, "next time you go through the core duty protocols…" Ezra frowned. "Take a closer look at the safety protocol console." Ezra’s entire body froze.

  His breath caught. What? "The safety protocol console?" Ezra repeated.

  Mr. Key chuckled softly. "You heard me."

  Ezra sat straighter, fully alert now. "What the fuck did I miss?" The tour had been brief, sure, but it was detailed. Every protocol. Every fail-safe. Every emergency measure. He hadn’t been rushing through it. Hadn’t been skimming.

  And yet—he missed something? Mr. Key’s voice was cryptic, amused. "Don’t worry about it," he said. "You’ll figure it out in due time."

  Ezra’s fingers tightened around the phone. He wanted to press him for details. To demand answers. But deep down? He knew Mr. Key wouldn’t give him any.

  At least, not yet.

  Mr. Key exhaled, shifting the conversation. "In the meantime," he said, "don’t forget you have a White Card."

  Ezra blinked. "…Okay?"

  "Go get a new phone, boyo."

  Ezra groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "Fuck."

  Mr. Key chuckled. "You keep forgetting you’re rich now, don’t you?"

  "It’s cheaty," Ezra grumbled. "I’m not used to prosperity."

  "You say that," Mr. Key mused, "and yet you literally have the ability to book a luxury private jet to anywhere in the sor system." Ezra grumbled louder. Mr. Key just ughed.

  "Fine," Ezra muttered. "I’ll get a burner phone instead. The cheapest, most bottom-tier model I can find."

  Mr. Key sighed. "Christ, Ezra."

  "That way, I’m not an inconvenience."

  "To who?!"

  "The universe."

  There was a long pause. Then—Mr. Key wheezed out a ugh. "Goddamn it, boyo," he muttered. "You never change."

  Ezra finally cracked a smirk. "Yeah," he muttered. "And yet… everything else does."

  Mr. Key didn’t respond to that. Ezra let out a slow breath. He didn’t realize it before—but for the first time in weeks, he felt just a little lighter.