NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

They walked in silence, the soft pulse of their footsteps swallowed by the soundscape of the Citadel. It wasn't their bodies that were tired—neither of them had exerted much since the firefight—but the weight of what they'd seen, what they'd lost, dragged behind them like a ghost. Neither had truly rested since before the refinery. The chaos, the rift, the trap. It all pressed in now, numbing and heavy.

Ahead, the transportation kiosk emerged from the shadows of a sprawling plaza, nestled between two seamless towers of glass and light. Its holographic display pulsed in calm, curated colors, the map rotating with crisp efficiency. Fen stepped forward and swept his fingers across the panel and started typing. A name blinked to life, highlighted in the system's soft glow.

"There," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "It's still here. Just two blocks and a level down."

They moved quickly, following the subtle edge of a descending walkway. The city shifted as they walked. The Citadel's upper tiers gleamed in soft hues of marbled azure, their surfaces polished to a mirror shine. Hover vehicles drifted overhead in eerie silence, their operators hidden behind darkened glass. Crowds flowed along the walkways—players, and NPCs—each one moving like a cog in a machine too perfect to be real. Even the background noise—the casual hum of conversation and the flicker of market stalls—felt tuned to some invisible algorithm.

Fen's gaze swept the plaza. He'd been here before, in another cycle, another life. And yet something about the place still felt forced. Too pristine. Too symmetrical. Like reality had been pressure-washed and sharpened for maximum photogenic appeal.

Seraph leaned against his arm, still recovering but alert. Her eyes tracked the storefronts and crowds, wary. "Everything's perfect," she murmured. "But it's too perfect. Like it's all trying too hard."

"It is," Fen said, his voice low. "This is the layer they show off. Top tier of the Citadel—the curated experience. But the shine fades as you go lower. Streets get rougher. Players start bending the system. Some cheat the competitive ladders, others exploit the commerce sims. By the time you're a few levels down, the rules are more like suggestions."

Seraph tilted her head, considering that. "So why stay here? Why not move up?"

"Because you can't. Not really," Fen said. "This place runs like a game. Influence matters more than credits, and the ones who live up here? They hoard it—either by climbing over others on their way to the top or being coded to stay there. The rest just orbit, hoping something changes in their favor."

Her eyes lingered on a group of players clustered near a vendor stall—flashy gear, perfect avatars, laughter a little too loud. "Life in this city," she said softly. "Is it all performance? Seems exhausting."

"It is," Fen agreed, a touch of nostalgia threading through his voice as he watched the city churn around them. "But it's also alive. Even here, there's something beating underneath the gloss. You just have to watch and listen for it."

He'd never liked the upper part of the Citadel. Too clean. Too quiet in all the wrong ways. But there was something he respected about it—the effort, maybe. The way even the most rigidly programmed zones still had people grinding beneath the surface, clawing their way toward something better.

The ones he really respected, though, were the citizens of the lower levels. They held the whole city up. They were what made this place truly alive—the ones who kept going, even when the game was stacked against them.

He didn't belong here. Never had. And he'd never wanted to.

But he could respect the ones who did.

As they reached the edge of the tier, the street curved into a stairwell framed by artificial ivy and outdated signage. Fen slowed, glancing toward the shadows ahead. His thoughts drifted—not to the street, but to what Auri had said. What she hadn't said.

You were human once.

She hadn't repeated it. And he hadn't asked. But the words hung there, just beneath his awareness, waiting. It didn't feel like a lie. That was the worst part. It felt like a memory just out of reach. Like something important he was supposed to forget.

He exhaled through his nose and pushed the thought aside as they stepped onto the next level.

The Retro Grille came into view a moment later, tucked into the edge of the lower plaza like it had been wedged there by accident. It looked exactly as he remembered it—and just as awful.

The holo-sign flickered above the door, its neon lettering half-faded, the "R" in "Retro" blinking like it couldn't decide whether to die or keep going. The chrome trim was pitted and dull, framing windows clouded with grime. A cartoon rocket ship grinned from the door, its smile more unsettling than charming.

Fen paused outside, as memories took him back.

He'd first come here back when he was running a city noir quest line—some wannabe mob boss of a player had dragged him to this place trying to impress him. It hadn't worked. The guy had been all ego and no charm, but the burger?

The burger had been good enough to come back for. Best he'd ever had in all of his many adventures.

He remembered the owner too—barely. A big man with kind eyes and a laugh like gravel. Friendly in a quiet way. Fen hadn't seen him since.

He pushed open the door. It gave a reluctant creak, and a faint ding sounded overhead.

The inside was no better. Black-and-white checkered tile stretched across the floor, scuffed and uneven. The red vinyl booths sagged under the weight of time, patched with materials that didn't quite match. Posters of synth shakes and "out-of-this-world burgers" curled at the corners, their colors faded to dusty pastels. The jukebox in the corner clicked once, then wheezed out a burst of static like it had given up.

Still, the place had charm—stubborn, defiant charm. A greasy, coffee-laced scent lingered in the air, hitting Fen in a way nothing else in the Citadel ever had. While everything above rushed to update, to optimize, this place refused. It endured. A quiet testament to identity that hadn't been patched or polished out of existence.

"This is it," he said quietly. His eyes roamed the space, not searching for danger—just trying to remember. It was exactly as he'd remembered, and it was still standing.

And for now, that was enough.

Seraph leaned against the counter beside him, taking in the grime, the cracked tiles, the too-silent air. Her eyebrow lifted as she nodded toward a battered booth with torn vinyl seams.

"Really, Fen? This is your go-to?" Her voice was dry, teasing. "Looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the last system collapse."

Before Fen could reply, Auri shimmered into view beside her. Her glow flickered slightly, as if the diner itself resisted her presence.

"Oh yeah," she said, sweeping a hand across the scene. "Real upscale vibes. Were you planning to impress us with the fine dining or the ambiance?"

Fen gave her a look. "I never said it was fine dining."
He led the way toward a booth near the back—no other patrons in sight, so they had their pick of the place. "You want atmosphere, go up a tier. You want actual food? You come here."

He helped Seraph ease into the seat, careful of her side. "Hey, cut it out," he muttered. "This place has been around longer than half the upper levels. The first time I came through, I was stuck running NPC loops for a noir questline—system-assigned. Back when the AIs still cared about 'flavor.'"

Seraph raised an eyebrow. Auri drifted closer, visibly intrigued.

"They slotted me in as a corrupt inspector," Fen went on. "The whole assignment was to prop up whatever crime syndicate the player was pretending to run. It happened to be a real scumbag type—modded his avatar to look like a trench-coated mob boss, called himself Bishop. Tried to talk like noir was his native language. He kept calling me 'kid' like he was auditioning for a mob holo."

Auri grinned. "Of course he did."

"He brought me here for the 'atmosphere,'" Fen said, making air quotes. "Told me it was his secret spot—claimed the burger could 'make a man overlook a little civic disorder.' Wanted me to greenlight a protection racket. Said he had backing from a modded faction."

Seraph frowned. "Did you?"

Fen shrugged. "Didn't have to. He tripped and fell off a third-story balcony halfway through negotiations."

There was a pause.

"Tripped," Auri echoed flatly.

"Tragically," Fen said, deadpan. "Real safety hazard. I wasn't paid enough to report the tampered railing."

Seraph gave him a long look. "You didn't push him."

"I didn't. But I wasn't paid enough to grab him either," Fen offered, deadpan.

Auri stared. "You're awful."

"He was a blue-eyed softy," Fen said, tapping the corner of his eye like that somehow made it better. "Tough act, but no spine. One good gust of wind and he was gone. I didn't even get paid."

He leaned back in the booth, gaze flicking toward the old menu. "But no one in the city had to suffer under his protection scheme, either."

Seraph blinked. "And you came back here? To the Retro?"

"Had a few credits left, and nowhere else that didn't make me feel like background code," Fen said, sliding into the booth. The vinyl groaned beneath him. "Figured I'd at least get a decent meal out of the assignment. Burger was just as good without the crime lord commentary. The owner even gave me a discount when I said I knew Bishop."

Auri narrowed her eyes. "Did you mention Bishop was now floor art?"

Fen gave a lazy shrug. "Why do you think he gave me the discount?"

Seraph shook her head, fighting a smile. "You're the worst."

"Nah," Fen said, settling back against the cracked leather. "He was the worst. I just happened to be nearby."

"But the burger was that good?" Seraph asked, her stomach growling audibly.

"Sure was," Fen said. "But I'd have come back either way. This place has something that makes it feel like home. A certain… charm."

"Charm?" Auri echoed, spinning in place like a malfunctioning hostess. "The charm of existential despair, maybe."

"Not everything has to be shiny and perfect, Auri," Fen said. "Sometimes a place just feels real. Like it's not pretending to be anything other than what it is."

Seraph leaned against the table, idly picking her fingernail along the edge of the grimy menu laminated to it, a tired smirk tugging at her lips. "Fair. This place definitely isn't pretending to be anything."

Auri opened her mouth for another jab—then stopped.

Her glow flickered. Not much. Just a subtle shift in color and focus as she floated toward the far corner of the diner, gaze narrowing.

"Wait a minute…" she said slowly. "Is that a jukebox?"

Fen followed her line of sight. "Yeah, but I don't think it works. At least it didn't the last time I was—"

Auri was already drifting closer. Her glow was still muted from whatever the system had drained from her—but now it pulsed, faint but deliberate. Just a spark.

Fen felt it. Saw it.

Barely anything.

And yet, somehow, it was enough.

The jukebox came alive with a soft hum. Its lights fluttered, then stabilized, casting a nostalgic glow across the faded tile. A moment later, the room filled with warm, static-laced guitar tones. Otis Redding's voice spilled out like sunlight through dust.

"There we go," Auri said, spinning slowly in the air like a proud conductor. "Charting at number one in the winter of '68—'Sittin' On The Dock of the Bay.' You're welcome."

Fen blinked. That spark she used—it had barely been there.

And yet the system moved.

He didn't say anything, but the thought lingered.

How powerful is she, really?

Seraph tilted her head toward the jukebox, a tired smile tugging at her lips. "Okay, Fen. I'll admit it—this place just got upgraded."

Before he could respond, a door creaked open behind the counter. A low voice followed, dry and edged with disbelief.

"What in the blazes…? That thing hasn't worked in cycles."

Fen turned as the door creaked open behind the counter.

The man who stepped into view was a striking contrast to the worn-down diner around him—broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, built like a stone wall with calm, unreadable eyes. He moved with quiet authority, every step precise. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, the silver at his temples lending him a quiet dignity. His shirt was pressed. His apron spotless. And when his gaze landed on the jukebox—now flickering and humming with life—he stopped cold.

Stolen novel; please report.

Fen's eyes flicked to the red-eyed icon at the center of the man's HexID—hardcore. Not unheard of, but rare in a place like this. The spread was solid, mostly B-tier—already above average, and strange enough for a diner owner. But two stats stood out: Cognition and Presence, both marked A-tier.

That was rare anywhere in the SynthNet. Let alone for a man supposedly just running a retro diner.

A quiet awe passed over the man's face as the jukebox whirred softly, shifting records inside. The flickering neon danced across the polished curve of the machine, casting brief flashes of color over his expression.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, his voice a low rumble. "That thing hasn't made a sound since before most of the players in this city learned how to log in."

His eyes stayed locked on the glowing lights for a beat longer. Then a smile cracked across his face—broad, brilliant, and completely at odds with his earlier stillness. It transformed him.

"It's like seeing an old friend come back to life," he said softly. "Thank you for that."

Auri floated forward, her glow still dim but pulsing with pride. "Well, I'm nothing if not a miracle worker," she quipped, spinning lightly in the air. "Call it a gift—this place deserved a little spark."

He turned his attention to her, sharp gaze softening as he gave a short nod. "Appreciated."

The opening chords of "Proud Mary" rolled out from the jukebox speakers, distorted slightly by age but still unmistakable. Auri twirled in the air, the faded neon catching on her shimmer.

"Rollin' on the river and rockin' this dive," she declared. "Jukebox resurrection complete. You're welcome."

Fen cleared his throat, watching the man's face.

"You're the owner, right?" Fen asked, his tone cautious but familiar. "You ran this place back in the day. I remember the burger you cooked—still the best I've ever had. Didn't catch your name back then."

The man tilted his head, eyes narrowing for a moment before recognition sparked.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. "That's right—I remember you now. You were here during that nasty bit of business with Bishop, weren't you?"

Fen gave a slow nod.

"Well, I'm glad someone walked away from that mess with a good meal," the man said, his smile wry. "Appreciate the compliment. That old grill's still kicking."

He extended a hand. "Name's Harlan Shaw. Friends call me Sarge."

Fen raised an eyebrow as he shook it. "Sarge? You ex-military?"

Harlan chuckled again, his voice was low and weathered, but full of warmth. "People call me that because apparently I've got resting drill sergeant face. Might also be because I'm constantly barking orders at Sam when he's here."

"Sam?" Seraph asked from her seat.

"Yeah," Harlan said, his smile widening. "My fry cook. He's off today—good kid, but don't tell him I said that. Wouldn't want it going to his head."

Fen leaned back in the booth beside Seraph, stretching a bit as Auri floated above them, inspecting the faded neon trim like it had personally offended her aesthetic standards.

"Well, Sarge," Fen said, relaxing into the cracked vinyl, "you look good for someone still shouting at fry cooks."

Harlan huffed a warm laugh, eyeing Fen with a spark of amusement. "And you look about the same. Maybe a little less like you're waiting for a bribe.."

Fen smirked. "I try to age gracefully."

"You never did introduce yourself properly, back in the day," Sarge added, settling into the booth across from them. "Considering the Bishop situation, I figured I'd earned a name."

"Fair enough." Fen tapped his chest. "I am Fen. This is Seraph, and the one judging your interior design choices is Auri."

"Charmed," Auri said, twirling once mid-air. "I'd offer a handshake, but I'm mostly light and sarcasm."

Sarge huffed a warm laugh, eyeing Fen with a spark of amusement. "And you look about the same—like the kind of guy problems tend to orbit."

Fen smirked. "Still my specialty, unfortunately. I try to stay consistent, at least."

Sarge's grin thinned slightly, his tone shifting. "Wish I recognized you just from those few times you came in back in the day."

He angled his head toward the counter and nodded toward a floating panel that flickered to life as he gestured at it. Headlines scrolled like ticker text along the bottom of the screen, while a still frame of Fen's face filled the main display.

"But these days, you're drawing a different kind of attention."

He flicked two fingers, expanding the feed so the others could see. "Not every day an NPC gets a full segment on the NewsNet."

Fen's brow furrowed. "A full segment? For what?"

Seraph leaned in, her expression tightening. "Is it about the AI's attack on the tutorial world?"

"Could be," Auri said lightly, drifting lower to peer at the panel. "Or maybe it's about how someone owes me a thank-you for saving his life like... a squillion times in the last few days."

Fen shot her a dry look. "I'll thank you when you stop counting.

"Sarge, can you turn it up?" Fen asked, trying to keep the unease out of his voice as he squinted at the screen.

The cheerful chords of the jukebox played quietly in the background—warm, nostalgic—but the tone of the NewsNet feed painted a very different mood. The panel displayed shaky footage from the tutorial sector: fractured terrain, rifts splitting the sky, and waves of anomalies crashing through simulated buildings like a storm surge. Scrolling headlines flashed beneath the footage in bold, pulsing red.

"…rogue NPC activity suspected… unprecedented destruction…"

The words cut through the noise like glass. Fen's grip tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as the voiceover sharpened.

"…catastrophic interference with SynthNet base layers… origin of attack still under investigation…"

The footage jumped—this time to chaotic first-person clips from fleeing players. Screams echoed through tinny audio, avatars sprinting through smoke-choked ruins, shadows tearing past the edges of frame. Panic surged in every cut.

Then the camera found him.

Fen—mid-swing, sword raised—slashing through anomalies. But the edits were surgical. The background cropped, the angles distorted, the audio mismatched. One frame showed a player sprinting past just as Fen's blade dropped; the next, a shriek. A veering ship cut hard to the right, footage overlayed with screams. Fen again—weapon drawn, framed as the source.

The segment slowed, colors muted to cast his glow in darker tones. His usual resonance—normally brilliant, white-blue light—had been recolored to black. Tendrils of fake energy lanced out from his hands, tethering the anomalies as if he were commanding them. One even folded midair, its collapse edited to look like Fen absorbed it. A clipped voiceover rang out:

"…suspected control vector identified…"

Fen's jaw clenched.

Then there he was.

The camera panned to the tall, gangly player, HUD light casting odd shadows across his face. James—the streamer who'd refused to leave. The one who'd stayed for the perfect shot, even as the world collapsed around him. He had stared at the sky like it was a movie made for him, he had filmed everything and sent it to his rig.

Then the voiceover.

Doctored. Spliced. Rearranged from what Fen had heard himself.

"Leave me alone… this subroutine is gonna get me neurolocked… it's a death sentence. This footage… is worth it. It's a bug. Not a legend…"

It hit Fen like a slap, he had tried to save the man.

Fen had heard those words. Had heard the arrogance behind them. The reckless glee. But now they were twisted—framed as fear. Regret. A last plea.

Then the rift bloomed behind James.

The camera lingered just long enough to catch him glance back. Arms raised. One last defiant pose. The sky ruptured behind him.

And Fen's sword came down.

The clip synced it perfectly. No hesitation. Just cause and effect—James's last words echoing beneath the sound of Fen's blade.

The screen faded to black.

The implication didn't need to be said. It was carved in every frame.

The news anchor's voice returned, grim and resolute.

"Authorities are investigating this catastrophic event as a possible coordinated attack by rogue NPCs, escalating tensions within the SynthNet. Survivors are encouraged to report any sightings of this individual immediately."

Seraph's voice broke the heavy silence at the booth. "What… in the sparking circuits?"

Fen didn't answer. He couldn't. The accusations weren't just lies—they were precise. Polished. Whoever had doctored that footage knew exactly what they were doing. The edits had rhythm, emotional build-up, perfectly timed cuts. It was misleading and it was persuasive.

He stared at the panel, barely seeing it, his reflection ghosting across the darkened edge of the screen. Auri's voice buzzed softly at his shoulder, quieter than usual.

"They're setting you up, Fen."

"I know," he said. His voice was flat, barely above a whisper.

He didn't look at them. Just at the footage still looping. His hands curled tighter around the edge of the table, white-knuckled. "And they're doing a damn good job of it."

He forced himself to breathe, but it felt thin. Disconnected. It was like watching his own life be turned into someone else's story—one where he was the villain. A perfect scapegoat. And the worst part was… it worked. If he didn't know the truth, even he might've believed it.

The broadcast rolled on, unrelenting.

"Efforts to collect evidence from the tutorial sector have been hindered," the anchor continued, voice lowering. "Authorities report the entire section has fragmented into isolated data caches, rendering direct investigation nearly impossible."

Seraph shifted beside him, like she wanted to speak, to push back against what they were hearing—but she stayed quiet. The feed was still going.

The screen changed. First, a cold hospital room. Then, a small, cluttered apartment. Framed stills hovered—blurry, mundane—but carried an eerie finality.

"James Wetherbee," the anchor said, "a freelance journalist residing in the Mariner Habitat near Sirius A, was found dead in his apartment late last night. Cause of death has been ruled as suspected neurolock—the first confirmed case since the early era of the SynthNet. Investigators state that Wetherbee's neural rig showed signs of catastrophic overload, leaving no chance for recovery."

Fen's breath caught. The words hit like a physical blow. First confirmed case. He'd known it was possible. Had warned James himself. But the confirmation twisted something in his gut. This wasn't just a framing job anymore. It was a funeral. They'd buried the kid, spun the narrative, and used both to ignite a storm.

Auri's glow dimmed slightly at his side. Seraph finally spoke, voice quiet but steady.

"They're not just blaming you," she said. "They're building a case."

The feed cut again—this time to a flat blue emblem. No footage. No face. Just the hollow, mechanical voice of a Control AI.

"The circumstances surrounding this anomaly are unprecedented. While the individual's passing is regrettable, the cause is rooted in factors beyond our capacity to intervene. The implications pose a threat unlike any we have seen."

The booth fell silent again.

Outside, the lights of the Citadel flickered and spun. But in here, beneath the neon buzz of a resurrected jukebox, it felt like the air had gone still.

Fen looked down at his hands. At the place where his sword had been. At fingers that had saved lives—and were now being used to damn him.

Fen couldn't hear the rest. The voice of the anchor, the thrum of the jukebox—it all fell away beneath the roar of thoughts trying to connect. The broadcast hadn't just twisted the facts. It had weaponized them.

He turned slowly toward Sarge, eyes still tracking the faint ghost of James's final frame on the now-dark panel.

"If you saw all that before you walked out here," Fen said, voice low, "why didn't you just turn us in? Or lock the doors and stall until someone came knocking?"
He hesitated. "Are the authorities already on the way?"

Sarge didn't answer right away. He just studied Fen for a long moment, unreadable. Then, with a quiet breath, he said, "Because I know doctored evidence when I see it. And because you're the one who kept this part of the Citadel out of Bishop's hands. Figured you deserved a chance to explain before I made any final decision."

It was clear he wasn't with them. Not yet. He'd listen—but he was still deciding whether to turn them in or help.

Fen respected that. The man didn't seem like the type to offer leniency without reason. If Sarge passed judgment and decided Fen matched the broadcast—unstable, dangerous—then that would be that. No speeches. No warning. He didn't look like someone who bluffed. He looked like someone who finished things.

Fen gave a nod. "Thank you, Harlan. That's fair."

Seraph broke the silence, her voice firm. "Fen didn't do that. The broadcast—it twisted everything. James stayed behind. Fen tried to warn him. But that"—she nodded toward the blank screen—"that's not what happened."

Auri hovered closer to the table, her glow still weak but her tone edged with heat. "If we wanted to destroy the SynthNet," she said dryly, "trust me—we wouldn't be that messy." She shot Sarge a look. "And Fen never attacked any players. Not a single one. He was defending the egress ships, same as I was."

Sarge didn't flinch, but his silence stretched long enough to feel heavy.

Fen caught it—that tiny pause before his answer. Not disbelief. Calculation.

Auri's line—"If we wanted to destroy the SynthNet, trust me—we wouldn't be that messy"—echoed in his mind. She'd said it like a throwaway, all quip and flair, but Fen felt the truth humming beneath it. Whatever she was becoming, it wasn't posturing. Their bond had given him glimpses—enough to know she didn't need to bring down the whole system to leave it broken. She could hurt it. Bend it. Maybe even make it kneel. And somehow, that didn't scare him—not like it should.

He blinked, dragging his focus back to the booth, to the flicker of the news panel still burned behind his eyes. "None of that matters if people already believe the lie."

Sarge finally spoke, voice calm but steady. "Exactly. Doesn't matter what the facts are. It matters what the feed shows, what it says you did. And right now?" He nodded toward the screen. "It's painting a target the size of this city on your back."

Fen looked down at his hands, curling into fists on the table. "It's a damn good fake," he muttered. "Clean edits. Layered audio. Real player footage and just enough guilt to sell it."

"You're not wrong," Sarge said. "Whoever made that didn't just want to deflect blame. They wanted a villain. And they wanted it to stick."

Fen looked up. "And now it's stuck to me."

"You think this is personal?" Sarge asked, not unkindly. "It's not. It's a tactic. A story the system can use to scare people away from the truth. I don't know what you really did, but it scared the sparks out of someone. Someone with a lot more power than you, unfortunately."

The words hit Fen harder than he expected—not because they surprised him, but because he couldn't argue with them.

Seraph's arms were crossed now, her mouth drawn tight. "They're going to come for us."

"Probably," Sarge said. "But not yet. Not if you're sitting here. If they haven't found you by now, it means they're still trying to pick up the trail. I've seen enough manhunts and witch trials to know how this goes. They'll come soon, though. City's big, but not that big. Someone's going to notice eventually."

Sarge met his gaze without flinching. "Because I saw what Bishop did to this district—and you helped clear him out. That earned you some goodwill. But that's not the whole reason."

He leaned forward, voice low and full of conviction. "Truth is, I've had... bad experiences with our so-called Overseers. Let's just say I've seen what happens when they stop watching and start rewriting. I don't trust them. Haven't for a long time."

He paused, then nodded toward the now-blank panel. "And I know a cover-up when I see one. That broadcast? They're burying something, and dragging you through the dirt to do it."

The silence stretched. When he spoke again, his words landed like judgment being passed. "Truth is a luxury most folks can't afford. But it's still the only currency that matters. I want to know what really happened. If only out of old habits. And lastly? Because I don't trust a system that can kill a kid and use it as a tool to shape a narrative. That's a line you don't cross."

His arms stayed crossed, but something in his posture eased—just slightly. "You want my help, you tell me everything. Start to finish."

Fen didn't hesitate. He gave a quiet nod—one of understanding, and respect.

Beside him, Auri flickered dimly and muttered, "Better buckle in, Sarge. It's a long one."

The older man snorted, finally showing a flicker of a smile. "Good thing the coffee's hot." He gestured toward the kitchen. "Let me grab a fresh pot—then we can see what kind of mess you've brought to my door."

"Do you think we can trust him, Fen?" Seraph asked, leaning in as Sarge disappeared into the kitchen.

"I do," Fen said quietly. "Call me crazy, but I trust that man's judgment right now more than I trust my own."

Seraph nodded. "Me too. There's just… something solid about him. And let's be honest—anyone's judgment is going to be better than yours."

Fen scoffed. "Rude."

"Accurate," Auri chimed in. "Let's review: you tried to fight intangible nightmare anomalies with a regular sword, then proceeded to monologue to an ancient, possibly world-rending AI. Real stable behavior, Fen. A true testament to your flawless judgment."

Fen opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then said reluctantly, "You make it sound worse when you say it out loud."

Auri's glow softened. "Jokes aside... Thank you, Fen. You've gotten us this far." She drifted closer, her voice gentler now. "We're going to be okay."

Seraph reached over, finding his hand and giving it a quiet squeeze.

For a moment, the flicker of the jukebox and the scent of coffee filled the silence—and somehow, that was enough.

The trio sat quietly, letting the warmth and stillness settle over them. Just a breath. Just a moment to feel safe.