Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The child struggled desperately for a star that could never be theirs.

“You’ve tried so hard to be human. Has it made you happy?”

Their grip faltered. And slowly, quietly…

“What if I could help you?” They let go.

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It was a hideous, skinless thing that wore its own jawbone as a collar. Strands of flesh bound gray bones in a facsimile of human shape, and Roland would’ve said it was eyeless, too, if the rows of teeth covering the rest of its skull didn’t open to reveal a good half-dozen pale dots which followed his every move.

It wasn’t Jae-heon; the Puppeteer was gone. But for a split second, he wasn’t.

“No point in getting nervous,” he gripped his baton, giving a wry smile in lieu of a pep-talk, “let’s go easy, now.”

His first strike was blocked by a sheet of wrought metal longer than he was tall. The impact clanged like a bell, jolting up and down his arms in a way he hadn’t felt since before getting his augments. Chains rattled against the floor. He leapt back before it could crush him in turn.

Roland swore and traded his current weapon for an axe and a mace.

This fight would’ve been easier with backup. Unfortunately, he scowled as a cacophony of screeches echoed throughout the Library, its arrival had jostled most of L Corp’s old tenants awake. Each Patron Librarian was coordinating the defense of their own floor. Angela, on the other hand, was trying to contain the damage as much as possible—even if the Library’s new address was located in the Outskirts, it would be disastrous if any of the Abnormalities escaped.

A bookshelf shifted without warning, blocking the Distortion’s path before it could slam into his torso. “...Thanks, Angela.” She wasn’t here, but she loved to eavesdrop. He had no doubt she heard him.

Metal scraped against itself, like nails on a chalkboard but a dozen times worse. He dodged another strike. Looking closer, it had four slabs—shields?—adorned with chains which looped around its neck in dizzying knots. Each was punctuated with fist-sized spikes pointed inwards, like a bastardized iron maiden.

They were different colors, as well. Red, black, white, and a pale blue.

Experimentally, he slammed the flat of his axe into the red one next time it lunged. The Distortion didn’t land so much a single blow, but he swore he heard one of his own ribs snap. The pain hit less than a second later.

Roland wouldn’t repeat what came out of his mouth in front of Tiphereth.

His weapons dissipated and he cracked into its white shield with Durendal. The Distortion howled. This was the first time he’d heard it speak, but the only thing that came to mind was how human its cries sounded.

“Don’t touch me.” Its voice hurt to listen to; empty sounds burrowed into Roland’s brain, plucking the space between firing neurons to compose a message not of his own making. These were words that could not be translated into speech, because doing so by necessity would tear so much of the context from its wish that its meaning would no longer be legible. This was a truth as understood by the Distortion. To listen was to accept the weightlessness that came from being bigger than oneself; to confront the culmination of another person and understand them in their entirety.

He snapped from the stupor as it tried to bash his head in, but his mind circled back to Angela.

When did a monster stop being a monster? he wondered.

It was taller than him, adorned with wicked claws and shields capable of withstanding blows that would’ve spattered it across the floor many times over, and all he could think was you’re scared of me.

A few months ago, that sentence would have felt cathartic.

After listening to it, though, the thought just made him sick.

“...That’s that, and this is this. Think of it as a Floor Suppression with extra steps.”

He parried a swipe and used the momentum to circle to its side. “If I’m stuck like this, then I don’t have to let go. If I was meant to bleed, then at least let me be the one to hold the knife.” One of its rear shields cracked into the ground. He used it as leverage to vault over its head, narrowly dodging the spines embedded through its shoulders. “I stay in this cage of my own volition.”

Another blow with Durendal left a crack in its pale shield. “What else is there?”

He slammed his mace against the black one. “Don’t touch—”

And… With the opening…

…Roland punched it in the face as hard as he could.

Silence.

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The Distortion collapsed without a sound. It was trivial to send librarians between floors to suppress the Abnormalities they were best suited for; it was much more difficult in practice to corral several dozen such individuals when they each had their own ideas on how to solve the problem.

“Ah—don’t worry about us, Angela! The Control Team is as reliable as ever!” Even though the response was given eight floors away, its recipient heard it as clearly as she would have had they been side-by-side. A fraction of a second passed for Malkuth; almost five had passed for her. Separate channels had been opened to coordinate with the former Sephirot, and cordoning off another partition of her processing power to study the thing before her took next to no effort at all.

The chains which once held its only defense aloft lay motionless on the floor.

“Mmh. At least we can revive when it’s over. …What a drag.”

“You’re speaking to all of us, Netzach.” “Yeah, yeah.”

Books were records; this, she knew intimately. Though books may profess information on a variety of subjects, people were only records of themselves. There was no such thing as a complete catalogue of information—in order to develop the clearest perspective, it became necessary to obtain as many sources as possible to compare.

The Distortion was no different.

She would be well within her rights to use it like this; it had trespassed, and in doing so, roused the vast majority of the Corporation’s former… residents from lethargy. Penal labor was commonplace in the city itself—a fact corroborated by Roland. Even if it were to escape, it had no higher combat capability than a TETH; it was a creature designed for taking hits, not inflicting them.

Still, she mused, it was unlikely that it possessed the ability to awaken Abnormalities on its own. In other words, it likely had assistance.

There was one candidate which came to mind.

Her heels clicked against the floor in intervals spaced exactly .79 seconds apart. When rampaging, the Distortion’s senseless fury made it seem much larger than it actually was. Angela wondered if that was the point.

“A strange, pathetic thing,” she mused quietly. Fortunately, she had a habit of collecting those. Whether it could un-distort or not, placing it within a book until the danger had passed was an appealing solution.

After all, the script was gone.

For once, she had nothing but time.

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…

……

………

An impression of an impression.

…

……

Something could be heard.

If it could be heard, then surely the listener must have ears. And if the listener had ears, then surely it must have a face as well.

An empty heart, each beat echoing out of time. It was terrifying to become.

…

……

Why? It wondered. Why am I?

…

It was easier, being nothing. The prospect of safety as it applied to oneself felt just as terrifying as the lack thereof.

“Back so soon? Are you unhappy with the body I gave you?”

█████ recoiled. And if it was capable of doing so, then surely it had the capacity to move as well.

“...If the world doesn’t have a place for you anymore, I won’t judge you for letting go.” The words were spoken with a cadence impossible for it to comprehend.

Won’t? Or can’t? Laugher—or something like it. “Does it matter? Here, in this place, ‘dreams’ and ‘reality’ mean very different things.”

If a question was posed, then the voice must have expected a response.

Was it capable of that, as well?

Comprehending the voice’s language took effort. The ordeal of finding words of one’s own was no less taxing than lifting a bulkhead with naught but the strength of its feeble body.

“...I don’t know.” The answer felt too small for the weight of what was being asked. Did it want to drop into the silence below, or did it just want its arms to stop buckling beneath the strain of staying upright?

What was the difference? “There is none,” the voice concurred. “Most who come to me wish nothing more than to be heard. If your deepest desire is to disappear quietly, I can offer you that, too.”

Quiet. That sounded… nice. It was a lot easier to just give up.

So why was its heart still beating so loud?

If it had a body—why was there nothing outside of it?

“A cycle, unbroken. Nothing will change.” it—they?—heard.

The voice continued to speak, making no acknowledgement of what had been said. “If you wish to lie down here, in this empty place, then I will stay until you’re gone.” They couldn’t see the speaker, but the impression of being an insect pinned beneath a microscope never left. “Let me witness your suffering, if no-one else will. You will die, but you will not die alone.” Thoughts, previously muted, began to slide into place.

And before █████ could stop themself, they asked a question in return. “Are we still talking about me?”

All was silent.

And then they heard the rattling of chains.

I am thou… thou art I.

A new bond has been affixed to the yoke of thy heart.

The voice paused. Invisible fingers clenched tightly around their still-beating heart, as if it was something that could be strangled.

Thou shalt be blessed when making Personas of the Hunger Arcana…

For a split-second, they swore someone was visible. The stranger’s face was impossible to make out before whoever it was—whoever she was—faded once again. Was that the voice?

The thing choking their heart tensed one last time—and then let go, leaving nothing but the faint impression of a bruise. None of these words were familiar; the only thing they were certain of was that its speaker was someone entirely separate from the voice they’d been conversing with prior. They were fairly confident it was someone they had never met, either. But—if they regained their ‘self’ through acknowledging their own existence, whatever it was supposed to be—what else could they be missing?

Something deep within them stirred, as if in acknowledgement. Whatever it was, it wasn’t one the voice could perceive.

The voice called out a name. Its echo did not linger in their ears; they had not been granted permission to recall it.

Time passed. There was no answer.

Seconds-minutes-millenia. Slowly and surely, her focus was shifted back onto them. “...I’d say ‘goodbye’, but this isn’t quite the end, is it?” Despite their blindness, they knew she was smiling. Her calmness was a mask—but for whose benefit did she wear it?

“Yes… I think we’ll be seeing more of each other.” she continued. “Whenever you wish to let go, whenever you decide to stop pretending…”

“I’ll be waiting. There will always be a place for you in my light.”

The offer shouldn’t have sounded anything except terrifying.

Obliquely, something pulsed behind their eyes. The wasteland of reality grew more tangible as the hollow space receded. The conversation was over; the voice was gone.

…But still, there was the outline of a sound. Millions of axons were softly hammered like strings behind off-white keys. Dendrites thrummed beneath vibrations spiraling endlessly inwards. Something that was part of them, but not.

“Your faith has been tested—and you were left wanting.” The chord was not one of disappointment— it was an acknowledgement. And perhaps—judging by the tone’s hollow echo—it was one that had been anticipated. “Your struggle has borne no fruit. Nothing has changed.”

But—what did that mean? Why did it hurt to think about?

The space between neurons grew silent. “...If you truly cannot bear to face yourself, then our business is concluded.”

What? But—

No no no no no No NO. The words hurt only in the aftershock. There was something else. Something more. Why—

Dammit, if their faith needed to be tested, then why was it that the other was leaving first? Why was their failure a foregone conclusion? The strings continued to hum, each individual note unaware of its own hypocrisy. If they weren’t fit to be called ‘human’, then surely the thing nigh-indistinguishable from the rest of their psyche wasn’t any better.

“A hypocrite, you say?” It sounded amused.

If they were not permitted to look away from themselves—if they were both reflections, stranded on opposite sides of the mirror—

If they were as much a hypocrite as they accused this shadow of being—

Then it had no right to turn away from them, either.

They were something horrid; they were something vile and sickly and too hideous to behold, but damn it, this ending was what they deserved—what both of them deserved. Death was too good for them. The next chord was caustic. It almost sounded like laughter.

“...Very well.”

“Thou art I, and I art thou.” “But you already know my name, don’t you?”

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

“...Mastema?”

Chapter Text

"Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves; otherwise we will be scattered over the face of the whole earth."

On the desk sat two books.

If Angela dampened her hearing and color-corrected her visual feed, she might have been able to simulate that life went as usual.

Many of the Abnormalities had been promptly contained, courtesy of those with thousands of years’ experience under their belts. Many… hadn’t. This was not the fault of her Librarians; if anything, their books seemed to have vanished from the shelves as if they had never existed to begin with. Between one second and the next, they slipped from her awareness, leaving her none the wiser. Indeed, she rewound the footage dozens of times; they had not been obscured from her vision—they were simply not there.

It was… Frustrating.

She had spent a millenia under constant surveil. A loss of information was a loss of control. Something had entered the shell of her ‘self’ and inflicted deep wounds she was only now beginning to discern the shapes of.

There was no way to turn back the clock. No Manager whose competence (or lack thereof) could be called into question. This was not a scenario which had been accounted for. Each and every Sephirah performed admirably considering the circumstances. By process of elimination, that left one person at fault.

…Well. Not quite.

One of the books before her was a tattered, grimy thing. Its spine and cover had been scratched over dozens of times, each one inscribing a new title before scraping it away for the next. No Librarian here treated books so poorly; instead, its desiccated state was a consequence of its arrival. Yes—it belonged to the Distortion.

She drummed her fingers across its cover. Her lips twitched downwards as her hand was pulled away speckled with grit and machine grease.

The other book was leatherbound in cobalt so rich in color she doubted its hues could be found anywhere in nature. Its pages were completely empty. The thing had been delivered to her desk, but she was not the one responsible for its placement.

Even when she wasn’t looking at it, she couldn’t escape its color.

Her office had been transformed in her absence. A familiar, sickening blue had been overlaid atop carefully-chosen decorations and knickknacks—not replacing them but altering them in a process she had not permitted to occur. Hardwoods were replaced with plush carpet; a couch she had never taken interest in had placed itself across from her desk; and the walls themselves were pushed back, providing extra room for amenities she disliked the presence of, purely because they had not been chosen by her.

With the space that had opened up, two strangers took residence.

She recognized a grand piano, but not the blindfolded man who pressed its keys. Neither did she recognize the woman who refused to sing until she had been provided earplugs.

Their song was one she had never heard before. Angela might have been interested in its composition had it not been performed by intruders.

Much like the Distortion, she was well within her rights to have them removed. She brought this up to the pianist, but his response gave her pause.

“You made an agreement, though you may not recall its specifics,” he voiced softly, “we could not have entered this place without an invitation, nor could you have been brought to this domain without that of our Master’s.”

Synthetic muscles clenched between her eyes. “And who is your Master?”

The pianist hummed, a diminished second overlaid atop an existing melody. “...A dweller in the rift between dreams and reality; one who always watches from within.” Another pause before he continued, as if sensing his answer did not satisfy her. “You have already met, though you do not remember the encounter. Few do.”

…He could have been lying.

It was the most logical option.

…

……But in the end, she did not raise her hand against either of them. Not out of a budding sense of mercy, nor of a misplaced desire to keep her hands clean. No; she kept them around for the same reason she remade Roland shortly after he’d taken his first steps within these walls, and for the same reason she’d built the Library at all.

Curiosity.

These total strangers who had appeared from nothing, donning the skins of humanity while claiming to be something else, telling stories in bits and pieces of a world where the City didn’t exist—

She swallowed her frustration. The drive to pick them apart and see what could be discerned from the knowledge they held felt like hunger. Still, she possessed the capacity to temper herself and her expectations. Neither of them had attacked the Library, and though they only responded to questions in the most roundabout way possible, they still provided an answer.

The situation was not untenable. It was only… irritating, to deal with others in a place which belonged to her. There was the desire to clench her fists, and there was the desire to be heard. Angela didn’t have the means to express the second until recently. To a human, her age was nigh unquantifiable, but during times like these, she wondered if this was what it meant to be young—something ugly struggling free of its chrysalis, because the world was terrible but there was this desperate hope it would be better than the cage.

No matter how long she’d studied humans, the concept of humanity as it applied to her still felt foreign.

She pushed herself up from her desk, and upon further contemplation grabbed the weathered tome which held the Distortion. A second opinion would be appreciated, but she knew better than to ask for it where the sound of a piano could be heard.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

To his credit, Roland didn’t drop what he’d been carrying when Angela appeared behind him without warning.

Perhaps concepts such as privacy were lost on her; after all, for the million years she’d been alive, she’d both received and offered none. Still, he was conscientious enough to know that now was not the time to discuss this. He dropped a stack of old papers on a table that hadn’t existed five seconds prior.

The book in her hands caught his eye.

Angela had released the captives of the Library nearly a full week before the Distortion’s attack. There were no fond memories to be found with this method, but he couldn’t deny its efficiency nor efficacy. If she wanted him to read this particular volume, she said nothing of the sort.

“What’s bothering you?” He had no doubt she’d tell him anyway, but by asking, Roland was acknowledging his willingness to listen.

“Many Abnormalities have yet to be recovered,” her voice was flat, but her face betrayed the affect of calmness through a minute twitch of her eyebrow. Hokma expressed his disdain in a similar manner. He wondered if she was aware of this, or if the expression had been learned from him to begin with. “Though a logical culprit, I do not believe the Distortion to be capable of such things on its own.”

He couldn’t help but agree.

“The Reverberation Ensemble was coherent. Not… whatever that was.” Sure, it ‘spoke’ to him, but was that through a conscious effort to be heard, or was it something the Distortion itself wasn’t aware of? “If anything, it was…”

“Surprisingly weak.” Angela finished. Her fingers drummed absently on the cover.

He tossed the thought back and forward, allowing himself to ruminate before tossing it out in the air. “...Do you think…”

A frown. “I have not seen direct evidence of her involvement, but it seems… probable.” True, attacking the Library with Distortions was Carmen’s modus operandi before, but why now? Was she the type to try again so soon after being rejected? He doubted he’d get a single unbiased answer amongst the Patron Librarians present. “Furthermore, I haven’t detected readings any more anomalous than usual for the Outskirts, so the Abnormalities which remain unaccounted for are either still in the Library—albeit beyond my sight—” her expression darkened, like this pained her to admit, “or they have been taken elsewhere, with the rest serving as a distraction.” Her eyes narrowed, and both of them glanced down to the tattered book.

In other words, their only potential source of information was a screaming, incoherent bone monster.

Roland sighed. “...Well, I got it once before. Without everything else in the background, it’ll probably go over easier next time.” Next time, like releasing it was a foregone conclusion. If Angela truly wanted it gone, she wouldn’t come to him about it. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise him if she already made a decision and he was just the first person she ran it by.

“Another day, then,” she murmured. “Let the Librarians recoup their losses before I wake it up.” Them. Their losses. As if she remained unaffected.

He cleared his throat. “...I was about to make a delivery to Chesed’s floor. Why don’t you come with me?”

Her answer did not come immediately. “Apologies. I’d like some time to think.” Roland winced. Even after everything, she still found it easier to keep things to herself. But, he mused, she still came to him. She wasn’t shutting the Librarians out; she was taking the time to process things on her own terms.

The expression he made wasn’t a smile, but it might’ve been something close.

“You know where to find me.” A statement. A promise.

“Of course I do,” an answer.

And she was gone.

A minute passed. And then two.

Roland scratched the back of his neck. Any creaks and pops had all but been ironed out by the third augmetic surgery, but there was still something satisfying in going through the motions regardless. Needless to say, he didn’t actually have anything to deliver to Social Sciences—he wanted to take his mind off things, and a change in scenery felt like it’d do the trick. He made his way across the main bridge of General Works to an area that had recently been cleared of books.

That the Library used to be the old L Corp’s headquarters was an open secret. It was something known, but not discussed—at least not with him. The details of turning one building into another was beyond his paygrade, especially when its residents were still dealing with the aftermath.

In other words, he, Netzach, and Gebura spent the night drinking a couple days ago. At first, it was just the two of them on the Floor of Arts, holding a silent vigil for things that would never come back. Apparently, this was much too sappy for the Patron Librarian of Language, who invited herself over and brought a crate of Backstreets liquor with a proof one step removed from that of rubbing alcohol.

Things got a little hazy after that. Supposedly, he tried making it back up the stairs on his own.

Angela said he broke seven ribs.

She’d reinstated the building’s old elevators the following morning.

The one he took was big enough to fit nearly two dozen people with room to spare. Weight wasn’t an issue, either. The doors hissed shut behind him, resembling a bulkhead much more closely than it did anything corporate. Maybe that came with the territory when working with Abnormalities. It wasn’t like Roland would know what had been changed since Angela’s reconstruction of the building, and the former Sephirot weren’t too eager to relive old torments for the sake of answering a question so inconsequential.

The ride was thankfully smooth. He stepped out into a short hallway that opened up to the main Floor. Soothing shades of blue cast down from the water reflected off subdued floors, creating a comfortably dim atmosphere. A rich, nutty aroma filled the air.

Chesed was (predictably) behind the counter. He seemed to be listening in on some former Agents’ conversations rather than actively participating. Roland spotted the colors of a few different floors. One of them dressed in a vibrant shade of purple raised a steaming mug in greeting.

“You’re the one who got us elevators, right? Thanks for breaking your ribs!”

“Uh… You’re welcome, I guess.” How else was he supposed to respond? Chesed caught his eye and nodded to the far end of the bar. He nodded in acknowledgement and followed without complaint. “How’ve the breaches been treating you?”

“Not as bad as it could have been, all things considered~” The Librarian answered. The mug he was currently wiping down was already clean, but he didn’t seem to notice. “...Binah paid a visit earlier.”

“...Did she?”

The mug was set down just slightly harder than it needed to be. Faint lines were visible on Chesed’s face; even before becoming a Sephirah, he was one of Carmen’s older followers. “The Abnormalities on her floor know better than to try anything, so most of her assistant librarians aided suppression efforts on other floors.” He pulled out some jars of coffee beans from a lazy susan and went through the motions of preparing them. “Nothing serious has broken out, but…”

“Some librarians still have hard feelings about the fight in the old building?” Roland guessed. Chesed sighed.

“Not everything can be solved with a Floor Realization,” he mused, “it’ll take time and effort to mend the gap, as it were.” He found himself wondering if Chesed was referring only to the assistant librarians, and decided to keep his ponderings to himself.

Floor Realizations were a fulcrum. They were powered by—and useless without—at least some desire to move forward. He and Angela had been shown a new direction, but it was ultimately up to them to see it through. “I get what you mean.” Roland took a seat, leaning his weight on an elbow. “Did she want anything?”

A hiss of steam. Both he and Chesed watched it curl silently into the air. “Binah mentioned that Angela was redecorating, but I haven’t noticed anything different.” …Neither did he, come to think of it. “Beyond that, she asked if Social Sciences was still missing The Road Home and Scaredy Cat. I confirmed that we were, and she left not long after.”

Chesed began to pour, and a bitter aroma wafted his way.

“Malkuth mentioned that the Floor of History had lost Fairy Festival, but I’m not sure about the other floors yet.” Roland said as he frowned. “I don’t know who Religion lost, but it’s bad enough I haven’t seen any of Hokma’s librarians since then.”

A few drops of cream and a generous spoon of sugar. Chesed hummed quietly as he worked. “...The Floor of Religion houses a lot of ALEPHs. If their Abnormalities aren’t recovered soon, I imagine they’ll soon be everyone's problem.” The mug was placed down gently. “Be careful, it’s still hot.”

“Thanks.”

He took a quick sip and scalded his tongue. Working as a Librarian wasn’t where he saw himself ending up a few months ago, but that wasn’t a bad thing at all. Life was an exercise in change and adaptability, a constant struggle to stay afloat. But sometimes, change could be good.

And sometimes, things really could get better.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

The Distortion’s book resonated most strongly within her office.

Of course it did.

Angela closed her eyes, but her authority over the Library permitted her to view the happenings within regardless. “I don’t suppose you ever stop playing?” The blind pianist—Nameless, she had finally wrung from him—played a minor chord in lieu of an answer. “Uncountable nights have passed since my hands last departed from these keys.” His accompanying singer, Belladonna, voiced a rare addition to his response, kept perfectly in key with the rest of the piece.

“Our duty is to calm the hearts of visitors…~”

Neither of them had been here long enough to justify Nameless’s ‘uncountable nights’, but with the additional context provided by Belladonna… “And the two of you have hosted these visitors before?”

“Yes. As will you.” he agreed. Her lips twitched downwards.

Angela’s retort was sharper than it needed to be. She felt no need to dull its edge. “The Library no longer deals in receptions nor invitations. We’ve seen to that.”

Nameless hummed. “How curious.”

Gebura breathed in deeply when she was trying to reign in an impulsive response. Without lungs to hold the air nor the chemical responses which provided a sense of calm, the practice was considerably less effective on her end. Perhaps she maintained it out of habit.

“...If you are beheaded by my assistant, I will not be fielding your complaints.” It was a corporate tone she had taken with many failed Managers. ‘I will not stop you from doing something stupid, but neither will I help you with the consequences.’ At first, the words were bitter; as time went on, there was a dark amusement which accompanied her disdain. For all that she wanted Ayin to suffer, the thing she most despised about herself was this dim hope that perhaps this would be the time he’d look her in the eye.

It hurt to see him happy. It hurt more to see his frantic apologies, knowing they were intended for someone else.

After the first few suicides, she’d felt nothing at all. There was a reason the Manager was not permitted to wear a tie; she wondered if Yesod had ever discerned the truth. If Ayin’s apparent slovenliness caused the Sephirah to fall apart that much faster, then she was just playing her role.

(She was nothing if not a fast learner. After all, it was not always Angela who found his corpse first.

It was the only time she’d ever heard Benjamin scream.)

Nameless tilted his head forwards. He couldn’t hear her thoughts, but some part of her illogically insisted he could. “I do not mind taking a brief intermission on behalf of your friend.”

Her posture straightened. “See that you do.”

Chapter Text

Roland coughed awkwardly into his fist. “...I… Like what you’ve done with the place…?”

Angela shot him a weak glare. Though she didn’t need to sigh, her body went through the motions nonetheless; perhaps a leftover of her brief time as a human. Her answer came a few seconds later. “This was not my doing.” Both of their gazes turned to a pair of strangers standing as still as furniture, far enough away it didn’t seem they were intruding on the conversation. They didn’t wear the uniform of any Floor he recognized, but apparently only a handful of former employees made it to the Library to begin with. The rest were scattered in books that had yet to be sorted.

…Come to think of it, this was probably what Binah was talking to Chesed about the other day. Angela’s new decor wasn’t bad, but it didn’t look like something she’d willingly pick herself. She looked more irate than worried, so he adjusted his response in kind.

He changed tracks with practiced ease. “I take it those two aren’t returning workers, then?” He had no clue who they were, but Angela hadn’t ejected them, though, so…

Well, he’d trust her judgement. If she wanted either of them dead, she only needed to ask.

She shook her head. “They aren’t a problem… At the moment.” she paused, and despite the fact that Angela’s eyes were fixed to him, he got the impression the person (or people) she was actually glaring at were the strangers in the back. She walked him over to the center of the room. Her desk was clean by Roland’s standards but messy by her own. The book placed on top had a familiar scratched-out cover. Notably, it had been cleaned of its grime. “While it would be prudent to wait for things to settle before introducing another unknown into the Library, the present circumstances are such that I believe gaining whatever information we can at the earliest possible opportunity would be better for long-term stability.”

Roland leaned his weight onto the desk. His feet were still touching the floor, so he wasn’t technically sitting on it. They’d had that argument in the past. She shot him a look, but didn’t end up scolding him. He tossed and turned Angela’s prior statement, allowing it to run the course through his mind before answering. “You want to release the Distortion early.”

Rather than respond immediately, her eyes trailed down to the volume containing it. A moment passed before she continued. “The suddenness of the attack and its effect on the Abnormalities sets a dangerous precedent. As of right now, we only have a suspect. The methodology, motivation, and other factors regarding whether or not this will be a repeat incident remain unknown.” This was personal, he realized. Not just that it was her home under threat, but that she didn’t know if or when it would be safe again. “Entering its book and performing a suppression would be ideal, but given its reduced capacity for speech…”

“There’s no guarantee it’ll talk, even if it loses?” he guessed. She nodded.

“Just so,” Angela murmured.

The strangers remained near-motionless in the background, but when he looked up, they were already meeting his eyes. Or… one of them was. Creepy.

He hummed. “...I managed to un-distort. Would something like that be possible?”

“You were already a resident of the Library at the time of confrontation, in a manner of speaking.” she shook her head minutely. “Furthermore, we had… an understanding.” The statement trailed off into silence.

“And this person’s a stranger.”

“Mm.”

He sighed. After a moment, Angela copied the gesture.

…And from the back of the room, a deep, soft voice cleared their throat.

“...Perhaps the answer is closer than you think,” said Blindfold. Two heads turned his way. “Tell me, do you recall our discussion not twenty minutes ago?”

Roland most certainly did not. “Angela?” he prodded.

Her brow twitched minutely, and then her expression grew contemplative. Slowly but surely, her eyes drew up to his own. After a split second, she looked away. “To calm the hearts of visitors, you said?” The question sounded rhetorical. “And you’re certain this will work?”

“It is what we exist for.”

He shot a glance towards Angela. Her face was totally blank. “...Then get it over with.”

By the time he realized she’d grabbed his wrist, he was already halfway across the room. “Hey, what’s bothering you?” he asked quietly. “Well—apart from…”

“Apart from the escaped Abnormalities or the fact that these intruders have set up shop inside my office?” she answered, utterly dry. “No. Perhaps I should be asking that of you.”

He blinked. “What?”

In the background, the woman with odd hair stepped up to a microphone he hadn’t noticed coming in. Gentle notes echoed throughout the room, each one as soft as a funeral pall. “You didn’t think their piano was for show, did you?”

He didn’t.

Or—he thought he didn’t.

The cries of the piano spoke directly to his heart. He felt calm—but that just made his heart race faster. He shouldn’t be calm. This—this wasn’t a normal song.

But he wasn’t taking damage. Wasn’t hurting. It was a piano. That meant nothing. Pianos could be found anywhere. They hadn’t been thrown out. Were they trustworthy? No. He wasn’t, either, but she kept him anyway.

The woman began to sing.

“Roland?”

They hadn’t done anything, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. He clenched his fists. Each finger felt numb. A cold hand tugged at his wrist. He knew it was Angela, and that was the only reason he didn’t retaliate.

“Roland, breathe.”

He was. Wasn’t he?

“...Let me take you back—”

“No.” he interrupted. The song was—it was fine. He was here. He was here. He wasn’t late. He wouldn’t be. So there was nothing wrong with staying. There was singing, this time. So it wasn’t—anything else. He was with Angela. He was in the Library.

Her eyes didn’t reflect anything but the sorry image of a Grade 9 fixer. She didn’t need to ask anything else out loud. The question was present in its absence.

“I’m not leaving you behind, Angela.” Her face was inscrutable. After the space of a long breath, she nodded.

“Very well.”

Her sternum expanded slightly, as if miming the action of taking breath. One-two-three-four-five. Hold-two-three-four-five. Out-two-three-four-five.

He wondered if she watched him do this with Malkuth. How long ago was that? How much did she see, understand, and simply not speak up about?

And slowly, but surely, his breaths settled in tune with her own.

Artificial, unnecessary, but appreciated nonetheless.

…

Eventually, the song petered into empty silence. He looked back up.

The grip around his wrist loosened. He waited another heartbeat before gently tugging his hand free.

Ink dripped like a bloodstain. A dark, tacky pool eclipsed the varnished wood of Angela's desk, trailing from the nameless book containing the Distortion and drip-dripping onto the floor. Roland had seen arteries severed before—had done the deed himself, even. Ichor spurted in time with the heartbeat, and though nothing of the sort was visible here, the resemblance was uncanny. In the space between blinks, a heavy sword fell into his hand.

Something tore. It could have been paper or ligaments. His grip tightened further around Durendal's hilt. The book tumbled to the ground seemingly without outside intervention, landing page-down in a pool of its own ink. A hand slammed through the paper from the inside. Bloody nails scrabbled desperately at the floor, clawing dotted red lines into the carpet. A human hand? But—

But the opening wasn't wide enough.

Another hand gripped the flat edge of the book's cover and jerked outwards. Its spine cracked like broken cartilage. With one final yank, a wet tearing sound was heard throughout the office.

For one second, all sound had died—as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Blood and ink pooled at the knees of an ordinary human. Every visible inch of them was caked in soot and grime. They barely took a single breath in before beginning to retch violently.

Immediately, he shot a glance towards Angela. She had no clue what to make of this either, huh? Roland leaned in to see what he could—should—do. A rash decision here could have far-reaching consequences. Friend or foe, you couldn’t get anything out of a corpse. He stepped forward.

Up close like this, the first thing he noticed was a bright shock of pink hair beneath a congealed mess of ink and dirt. The next was their height—or lack thereof. Faded, baggy clothing covered nearly every inch of their body, but he was fairly confident even Tiphereth would've needed to look down.

It was hard to tell with the mess, but he estimated they were in their mid-to-late teens at the oldest. He dismissed Durendal and cleared his throat.

What would he have wanted after Distorting? If he had time to recover before being thrown into the next conflict, then…

He sighed. "...Let's get you some water, okay?" Roland offered. He reached out his hand.

They responded by immediately trying to bite off his fingers.

A choked inhale. "Sh—fuck." Another cough. "Fuc-fuck you. Kill yours—" And with that, they vomited bile all down the front of his legs.

…Perhaps getting information would be trickier than anticipated.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

The kid refused to push themselves off the ground, instead electing to remain seated in the pool of their own book’s ink. Their clothes were layered several times over—a common strategy in the Backstreets to fight off the cold when winterwear wasn’t available. One leg was splayed to the side, and the pant leg fell far too close to the ground for there to be anything made of flesh beneath it. Surely enough, a thin, gunmetal gray prosthetic poked out from underneath the fabric—little more than a pylon with a few extra odds and ends.

The thing was pockmarked by scrapes and dents. It had a spring towards the back of the calf and some sort of repurposed lever in place of an actual foot. Repurposed parts, then; something that wasn’t available on the market and was manufactured locally. The way they distributed their weight while sitting led him to believe their other leg was likely a prosthetic as well.

Roland held out a glass of water.

They smacked it out of his hand.

“F—” before they could start swearing, they fell into another coughing fit. Each word was scratchy. Their Distortion had been screaming, hadn’t it?

The strangers—vocalist and… the other one—weren’t helpful at all. Thankfully, though, one look from Angela and they’d stopped playing altogether.

Refocus. He sighed and pulled another identical glass from the page. Before they could knock it away, he tactically raised his arm just out of reach. It didn’t take much effort. He took a sip, looking them dead in the eye. “It’s not poisoned, see?”

Hesitantly, they took the glass, eying its contents before raising it to their mouth. They gave him an odd look that had him on edge. Intuition enabled Roland to dodge their spit with a tilt of his head. “...I’ll just leave that there for you.” At least they’d willingly grabbed it, this time.

Angela stood off to the side of the room, eying them the way you’d regard a dead mouse on your doorstep… or an especially ugly cat. The former Distortion had the same brittle edge he’d come to associate with Rats and other scavengers from the Backstreets. However, it was at least possible to communicate with Pete, Lenny, and Mang-chi.

The person torn free of their book screamed abuse until their voice broke and spat at whoever got too close. Their only redeeming quality was that they hadn’t actually tried to attack anyone. Not seriously, anyway. Like a tiny, rabid dog—one of the yappy ones. The spittle and rage were rendered non-threatening by the size of the one expressing such emotions.

“This is going nowhere.” Angela observed. He winced.

“Pretty sure they were intimidated by a bunch of strangers looming over them. They stopped biting when they were given space.”

“They stopped biting,” she closed her eyes, “because you stopped placing your hand in range of their mouth.”

…She may have had a point. He glanced over. The glass was half-empty. When they saw him looking, they kicked it over and made an obscene gesture. Roland sighed. “Do you want to try?”

She remained silent as she walked across the room. He followed a pace back.

Bright pink eyes watched their every move.

Angela’s voice was sharp. “Do you know why you’re here?”

They opened their mouth (presumably to swear) before slamming it shut.

Roland put his hand to his chin. “...Do you even know where ‘here’ is?” he guessed. The kid glared at him, but didn’t bother with a response. “You don’t, do you?”

“...F’k off.” Their voice was hoarse, but at least they could talk without choking.

“We’re in the Library.” Roland began. They grew still. “Hey. What District are you from?”

They didn’t respond.

Angela spoke up next. “Do you remember Distorting?” A flinch. He shot her a look. “...A voice, perhaps?”

Their hackles raised.

He held up a hand. Both of them turned to him. “Can you give us your name?”

They breathed in. Breathed out. And looked away. Their answer was faintly audible. If his ears weren’t augmented, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it at all. “...no.”

“Convenient,” Angela murmured. “Do you recall anything about the last few weeks?”

The stranger’s ire settled on her. “Why’s it matter?” They coughed. Roland swore he saw them swallow their own bile to continue talking. “You gonna do somethin’ to me? Gonna make it hurt?”

To Roland, what they were trying to do was obvious.

But Angela took the bait.

“That remains to be seen.” her lips pursed. “...Until then, unless you’d like to brave the Outskirts on your own, you can clean up after yourself. Perhaps time spent repairing the floors you helped destroy will clear your memory.”

They opened their mouth. Roland tactically interrupted. “Let me watch them.”

He wasn’t sure what inspired him to say anything. In any of the Districts, this kid probably would’ve been six feet under by now. They were definitely old enough to know better; but then again, so was he. Roland put countless innocent people to death. By comparison, being annoying wasn’t a crime.

Besides… Most of the Patron Librarians were from the Nests. Those who weren’t were, by turns, too much of a teenager and too intimidating to realistically pry anything from someone who saw them as a threat. On the other hand, Roland had actually Distorted. They could spit at him, bite him, try and kick him away, but he was the person here with the best shot at actually getting anything through their thick skull. Even as a Fixer, he’d specialized in information gathering.

Angela looked at him like he’d grown a second head. The kid looked at him like he’d been the one to throw up all over himself.

He scratched the back of his head. “...We still need something to call them, though.”

The Librarian closed her eyes. Six seconds later, she opened them. Her lips twisted briefly into something wry. “I think ‘Keter’ will fit quite nicely.”

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

They’d just been assigned to work, but from first-hand experience, Roland knew Distorting (and subsequently un-Distorting) took a lot out of you.

“Let’s get you down to General Works,” he offered. Still covered in blood and ink, Keter’s legs creaked with every step and wobbled dangerously when he herded them to an elevator.

He wasn’t sure what the significance of each Patron Librarian’s name was, but he had basic pattern recognition. ‘Keter’ was the name of his Floor—General Works. He wanted to ask Angela more on it, but…

“Fuck you lookin’ at, ghoul?”

…It seemed like a bad idea to keep Keter and Angela in the same room longer than necessary. He sighed. Roland got the feeling he’d be doing that a lot more. The elevator’s bulkheads slammed shut behind the two of them. He politely pretended he didn’t see Keter flinch, nor the way they positioned themselves so their back was facing the corner.

An array of LED-backlit plastic buttons blinked next to the door. He pressed the one second from the top without thinking.

They descended in silence.

“Pretty sure we have spare uniforms.” he scratched the back of his head. Bright eyes narrowed at the statement. Despite being the taller one, he got the impression he was being looked down upon. “Can’t be comfortable walking around like that.”

A scowl. “You ain’t touching me.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not going to.” They swore beneath their breath. The elevator rumbled to a stop not long after. The doors slid open. “...For what it’s worth, welcome to General Works.”

When Roland first entered the Library, the sheer scale of everything was enough to stun him into silence. Bookshelves as tall as skyscrapers, warm lights flickering from seemingly nowhere, elaborate staircases and other architecture formed entirely of books themselves—Keter’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. When they caught him looking, they made an obscene gesture.

They stepped into the gray. Frantic footsteps pattered towards their direction, and he resigned himself to dealing with whatever crisis was about to be sprung his way. One of the assistant Librarians noticed their arrival. Cropped ginger hair, mismatched eyes, freckles, and pockmarked skin from some childhood pox—that must’ve been Sergey.

“Roland! Bloodbath’s acting up, nobody’s entered its book yet but—” The Librarian began, pausing when he noticed Keter.

Keter, in turn, stared him up and down before shooting Roland a look of disgust.

“I ain’t wearing nothin’ with frills. Keep the freak shit to yourself.”

…He thought about telling them he didn’t actually pick this floor’s uniform, but held his tongue. Best not give them any more ammunition. “...I’ll handle it. In the meantime, can you find them something to wear?”

Sergey blinked and nodded, looking like he was holding back a salute. “You can count on me!”

“Kill yourself.”

He sighed.

At least Bloodbath didn’t talk back.

Chapter Text

That was the part that nobody liked to talk about, Keter thought with a scowl. How easy it was to become the exact person you hated with the right kind of fear and the worst kind of solitude.

Each step wobbled. The sockets and straps of their prosthetics had loosened, placing all the pressure of their own body weight unevenly atop the stumps of their own tibias. Sweat leaked down aching muscle into (what should’ve been) sealed silicon. By the end of the day, their legs would be covered in blisters. They’d be lucky if they could still walk.

It was easy to want to scream. To bite. But here, they were alone. The goodwill of strangers was never sustainable. Sooner or later, something would give. There was always a catch. Keter wasn’t a genius, but they weren’t stupid, either; there was little they had to offer that couldn’t be taken by force. So why the carrot and not the stick? What was the play?

Why was their compliance necessary?

The prissy dipshit called over by the freak led them into corridor after corridor of books. Sure, the number was impressive, but they were more wondering how they were kept clean when some were literally being walked on. At some point, maintenance had to be more expensive than just buying new shit, right? How much did this place cost?

Every so often, their captor went to grab a volume of something or other, muttered to himself beneath his breath, and put it back. Eventually, they stepped out of labyrinth and into something that more closely resembled proper architecture — like someone took a photograph of a building complex and glued it along the edges to a collage of thousands of books. In other words, it was weird.

The emphasis on books seemed important. The Dieci were into reading and shit, but the people they’d met so far didn’t match any descriptions of the association. Were there any Wings like that? N Corp. were into experiences, yeah?

…On the other hand, they weren’t so impulsive as to open their mouth. Books turned to asphalt beneath their feet, and a pair of industrial metal doors swung open before their guide had the chance to turn the handle. The interior was fancy, but not clean — people lived here. Towards the back corner seemed to be a communal washroom. They couldn’t make out any cameras; a peek inside the trash can showed it looked clean, too. Paper waste only — no sharps.

Earlier, Keter recalled that a change of clothes was mentioned. What did he intend to do with their old ones? Their lips twitched downwards. Did he plan to get new stuff while they were changing?

If he wanted them to undress—

“Oh! Um… Hold on a moment,” he said. He held out a book, furrowed his brows, and pulled a neatly-folded bundle of cloth from motes of light.

Keter went still.

When he handed them over, they were starchy and warm. Had they just been cleaned? When dropped into their hands, they certainly felt real, but when they locked the door behind them, they were left with the sinking feeling that nothing had happened at all — that maybe they’d never left hell to begin with.

The first thing they did was turn on the faucet. The water wasn’t just cold; it was clear. They drunk greedily until they felt ready to throw up.

They closed the toilet seat lid — a porcelain thing that was somehow unstained — and sat down on top of it. Shortly thereafter, the air conditioning kicked on. The fluorescent lights buzzed absently above.

Breathe in.

Where were they, really?

Breathe out.

Were all Nests like this, or was this place something else? Keter leaned back. The tank lid scraped noisily beneath their weight. They weren’t sure what their captors (and what else could these strangers be but that?) wanted, so openly acting against them seemed like a bad idea. What were they supposed to do instead, play along? The thought scraped like steel wool.

They just had to make it back. And for that, they needed to not die. Whatever these freaks wanted would never be handed over willingly.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

They stood back up. The cabinet beneath the sink came open first. Soaps, a few cleaning chemicals they’d have to sniff to figure out, at least one hairbrush, and cotton swabs. They laid out a few bars that looked the newest on the toilet tank, and after a moment’s contemplation, dug out a fistful of swabs as well. They uncorked a clear-looking bottle the size of their fist. A quick whiff was all it took to recognize it as rubbing alcohol. Hm.

…If they didn’t want anyone to barge in, they should hurry up.

Three separate shirts came off first. One for padding, one for warmth, one comically oversized that served to hide the contents of their pockets. The straps of their prosthetics were just visible above their waistband. In the harsh lighting, their skin looked a sickly taupe. Dozens of scars stood starkly in contrast to the purple-green bruises blooming across their ribs. They poked one out of idle curiosity. Predictably, it still stung.

They rolled up a pant leg and removed a bundle of cloth strapped to the side of their prosthetic. Beneath it was a pinch bar, whetted to a razor point. The pockets themselves yielded a good half dozen screwdrivers given similar treatment.

Keter braced themselves and inspected the sockets just below their knees. The flesh was reddened and irritated, with some of the screws connecting the adapter to the pylon loose or missing. The fixtures around their ankles were bent but serviceable — they’d just be a little off-balance.

They glanced up at the improvised shanks they’d fashioned from hand tools. …At least they could fix the issues with the screws.

Following that, it wasn’t too hard to fashion their old jeans into a makeshift knapsack — they just needed to cut a strip from a convenient hand towel to tie the bottom ends and then pass the fabric again through the belt loop. They placed some old clothes inside after they were done changing, laid the pilfered goods on top, then covered them with the rest.

Dark pants, suspenders, and a button-up shirt. It was… Okay. They ended up repurposing the tie to strap the pin bar back where it belonged. The screwdrivers were easily hidden elsewhere. Keter stepped outside.

The stranger stared at them in silence. They tightened their grip around the makeshift knapsack.

“...What?” they scowled.

“Oh! Nothing.” Despite being taller, he looked away first. Something preened at the thought. “I… Don’t think I ever got your name. Were you just unbooked?”

“I didn’t give it,” they said flatly. Unbooked? The shit was he talking about? Still, he looked at them with something expectant. They stretched their lips across their teeth. “Keter.”

“Like the fl—” he paused, inspecting them more thoroughly. His head tilted to one side, and the eyes that barely met their own bore into them with scrutiny that nearly made them itch. He looked lost, almost. They fought the urge to shove him away. “I don’t remember… Did we have—?”

They wrinkled their nose. “What, you tryin’ to flirt or something? Fuck off.” His face turned nearly as red as his hair.

“R-right! Sorry ma’a—sir!” Sir? The hell? “Agent Sergey, formerly of the Architecture department! I, that is… I transferred from Training a few days before…” he trailed off with an awkward cough, dropping the half-formed salute before it could fully be expressed. “Is there anything I can get for you? Fancier clothes, or…”

Keter blinked, and Sergey almost froze in place.

What were they missing?

Were they being mistaken for someone else?

And if so…

They forcibly unclenched their jaw. Could they use it? Would the consequences of being found out outweigh the benefits of the lie? What did they stand to gain?

“...Something to eat would be nice.” They said slowly, coming to the conclusion that they’d test the waters with gentle prods rather than jump in directly. It’d be better to see what the deal was before committing; the blame could still be shifted for something like this. Sergey perked up like they’d just handed him a pay stub.

It was sickening. What was wrong with him?

He nodded enthusiastically. “Chesed’s floor always has something sitting out. You remember him, right? I’ll need to check in with Roland, but the elevators aren’t that far—” they weren’t sure if he liked to hear himself talk, or if he liked having someone who couldn’t leave halfway through the conversation.

And… That name. Roland. That was the ghoul, right? Not the lady.

Everything Sergey said (intentionally or not) had the potential to be important, but the faster he talked, the harder it was to make out individual words. As far as their captors went, though, he was probably the least threatening. If Keter could sway him, it’d be a lot easier to get out from under the others.

They just needed to play nice.

He was a suck-up — how hard could it be?

…

And silently, something whispered back—as if in answer to their unspoken resolution.

I am thou… Thou art I.

A new bond has been affixed to the yoke of thy heart.

They jumped.

Sergey paused. “Huh? Was it something I said?”

Keter didn’t move. Didn’t speak, neither. Who was that? The silence thickened until it grew uncomfortable.

“...No, I just thought I heard…” They frowned. Heard what, an old man whispering into their ear? Fuck it, maybe they were just concussed. “...Nothing. Let’s go.”

Thou shalt be blessed when making Personas of the Chariot Arcana…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

The elevator was too quiet.

Using one usually carried enough risk it only seemed like a good idea to people in a major hurry or drunk off their ass. Safety inspections were harder to enforce outside the Nests — they were a thing for fancy institutions, Fixer offices, and (apparently) libraries ran by a bunch of freaks way too into lace.

An array of plastic buttons flashed up at them. They probably read something, but Sergey punched one in before Keter realized they didn’t care to ask. It must’ve shown on their face.

“He’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure!” Sergey’s reassurance felt flat. “Chesed’s settled in well. Most of the Sephirah have. I think… I mean, I guess there’s some stuff between the old agents, but—” he paused, having spoken that in one breath. “...It’s Chesed,” he said, as if that explained anything. “You don’t have to worry about him, you hear?”

“...Right.” They dragged out their response. “Don’t have to worry about Chesed.”

Who the fuck was Chesed?

He left food out, according to Sergey. Was he one of those ‘feed the poor’ types who conveniently forgot about their existence after doing his good deed for the day, or was he overbearing via projection?

Did he charge for what he gave out, or was he more insidious — answering any questions with a grin while silently tallying your name to collect when you couldn’t say no?

Yeah.

They bet he was an asshole.

Keter put on their most sanitary smile and waited patiently for the bulkhead to slide open.

The doors hissed.

It was overwhelmingly blue. Were they still covered in ink? No. They’d gotten it off. If a piano was playing off in the distance, they weren’t paying attention. They were faced with a long hallway. Light shone onto the floor through clear windows. Was that water, on the other side? No. They shook their head. That would be a waste.

The only way left was forward. Their legs creaked in place.

The hallway may have been dry, but Sergey’s voice still echoed as if it had been submerged, too.

“—end of the hall. He has a couch if—”

They looked away.

One step at a time.

Each filthy, dented prosthetic left subtle indentations on an immaculate carpet. The water-glass windows were free of smudges and scrapes. The overhead lights glowed warmly — soft, but not dim. No sound accompanied their use.

A bitter aroma filled the air.

They stepped into a lounge furnished so expensively it felt like a crime to look at.

The first person to catch their eye was a stranger slouching comfortably over a barstool, reading something they couldn’t make out while nursing a steaming mug in the other hand. Away from the bar, they spotted a few others engaged in idle conversation from a couch pressed against a bookshelf. Their voices died out when Keter came into view.

The first stranger — dressed much more finely than the others — looked up. Briefly, they locked eyes.

He met their gaze with polite confusion.

Keter met his in turn and wondered how many days they could afford to eat off the price of the coffee he drank so regularly he didn't deign to even look at it. Their lips stretched over their teeth.

“Sergey? This is a surprise~” his voice was sweet, like rotting fruit. Too expensive to throw away.

Their escort appeared off to their side. “Chesed! Roland found Keter. They just woke up, I think, so I figured you could catch up while…” he trailed off.

The silence smelled sour.

They felt the weight of a rooms’ worth of strangers staring them down.

Chesed set down his cup.

After a moment, Sergey slowly lowered his hand from a wave. “...I’ll… check in with Roland…”

“You do that~” Chesed answered, marking his page with a thin ribbon. He turned to face the rest of the room. “Alright everyone — floor’s closed for the day~ Let’s wrap it up.”

It didn’t take long for the crowd to dissipate. Sergey followed soon after, sparing a glance they had to fight themselves not to reciprocate.

Eventually, it was just the two of them.

Up close, his features came into focus — blue coat, matching hair, soft eyes. He was well over a head taller than them. Keter did not step back. Whatever he was looking for in their expression, he didn’t feel the need to share.

“Keter, was it?” He asked idly. “Would you care for something to drink?”