Yuki sat Niko down at one of the corner tables, the tavern still mostly empty in the early morning hush. Niko tried not to lean too hard on the table, but his body was screaming in protest. Every joint ached. His skin itched with grime and dried blood. His shirt smelled like it had been through a fire—because it had.
Yuki didn't sit right away. He muttered something about "damn kids and their dramatics," then moved behind the bar, clinking around as he prepped a small plate. Niko heard a mug fill with coffee, followed by the soft thud of something sweet and dense landing on a ceramic dish.
When Yuki returned, he slid the plate in front of him: a slice of cake and a steaming mug. Then he took the seat across from Niko, leaning back with a raised brow.
"So," Yuki said, folding his arms, "you choosing not to talk, huh?"
Niko glanced up, chewing quietly. He gave a sheepish nod and mumbled, "Sorry."
Yuki didn't press. He just sighed through his nose and watched him eat like a man who'd seen too many people come back from too many bad places.
Niko appreciated that. Because truthfully, he didn't want to lie to him—but he really didn't want to tell him the truth either. A war. The Devil of Light. Incarnations. Prophets reborn. Fate looping like a curse. It sounded like something out of a madman's play, and Yuki didn't deserve to be caught in it. Especially with an ability like his—useful for storage, sure, but in a fight? Useless. It would get him killed.
So Niko just ate.
By the time he was scraping the last bite of cake off the plate like a hungry kid, Yuki had already moved to wipe down another table nearby. The bar was slowly starting to stir. Two patrons wandered in through the front—Niko caught one of them giving him a look like he'd just crawled out of a sewer pipe.
He stood with a soft grunt, brushing crumbs from his shirt. A few flakes of dried blood came with it.
"Yikes," he muttered under his breath. "I really need to get cleaned up."
He turned to wave. "Thanks, Yuki."
"Don't die," Yuki called without looking up.
As Niko stepped toward the door, something slipped from his pocket. A small clink hit the floor—the token Cane had given him. Niko froze.
He'd almost forgotten about it. He knelt, picked it up, turned it over in his fingers.
…He still hadn't returned it.
Pocketing the token again with a low sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the street.
The sunlight was warmer now, casting long morning shadows through the alleys and over the rooftops. The streets were starting to fill—vendors setting up stalls, carts rolling by, kids darting between legs with laughter trailing behind them.
And in the middle of it all, Niko walked like a sleep-deprived disaster. His shirt was torn. His face was smeared with soot and blood. He had a limp in his left leg and a faint, slightly manic smile on his face.
He was smiling because despite everything—despite getting thrashed by a literal myth, despite the looming war, despite the weight of everything he'd learned—he was alive. He was learning. He was changing.
And from anyone else's perspective, he looked insane.
A woman across the road grabbed her young son by the collar and tugged him away, whispering sharply as she gave Niko a wide berth. Another man crossed the street entirely.
Niko didn't care.
He walked, head tilted back slightly to soak in the sun, the ghost of a grin still on his lips. Whatever came next, he was in it now. No more pretending this was just another mission.
This world was warping. And somehow, he was becoming someone who could shape it back.
The tavern where he and Iri were staying looked the same from the outside—dim wood, slightly crooked sign, worn steps leading to the door—but something felt off the moment Niko pushed it open.
The front desk had a new face.
Instead of the usual gruff man with a bad attitude and a worse haircut, there stood a woman. She looked about mid-thirties, pale and jittery, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the desk like she wanted to disappear into it. Her eyes widened as soon as she saw Niko walk in.
He didn't blame her.
He probably looked like a stray animal that had survived a forest fire. His shirt was burned, his skin scratched, and there was dried blood crusted around one ear. His expression didn't help—half-dazed, half-smiling, a little too calm.
"Uh," Niko said as he approached the desk, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "I just got into a little… mix-up. I'm not, like… dangerous."
The woman didn't answer. She just nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the counter. Not even a word. Not even a blink.
Niko sighed. "Can I get a key? Room upstairs."
She hesitated—really hesitated—then reached under the desk and slid a key across without making eye contact.
"…Thanks."
He took the key and started toward the hall. The smell of wood polish and old beer filled his nose. Same as always.
But halfway down the corridor, he froze.
Someone was coming around the corner. Small frame. Loose stride. A headband tied lazily over messy black hair. A toothbrush hanging out of his mouth like he didn't care. Soap suds were still clinging to his jaw, and his pajamas had little printed clouds on them.
It was him.
Juno.
Niko stopped breathing.
Every instinct in him screamed to bolt, to vanish, to slam himself out the nearest window if it meant not being noticed. Because he remembered. He remembered how Juno moved—how fast he was. How inhuman. He remembered how Iri, the White Ghost, had to fight with everything just to stay ahead of him.
If this kid decided to attack, Niko would be dead in less than a second. No tricks. No tendrils. Just dead.
He stood there, paralyzed, gripping the key so hard his knuckles turned white.
But Juno didn't even glance at him. He walked right past, casually, like Niko was a coat rack. Humming something tuneless, brushing soap from his chin.
And suddenly, Niko understood.
Of course. Why would Juno know who he was?
He hadn't come for Niko that day in the corridor—he came for Iri. Niko was just background noise. A variable to monitor. Not even worth a second thought.
Niko relaxed slightly.
…Until Juno stopped walking.
Turned.
Tilted his head, one eye narrowed slightly.
"Do I know you?" he asked, toothbrush still hanging between his lips.
Niko's heart leapt into his throat.
Juno wasn't looking at his face. He wasn't recognizing his features. He was sensing something. That little tilt of the head, the slight frown—Juno was feeling Niko's energy.
He'd felt it before. And now it was stronger.
Niko blinked. For a moment, his mind raced with lies.
Say no. Say you're new. Say you're a twin.
But something in Juno's gaze told him none of that would work. The kid was sharp. Not in the academic sense—but in that way animals were. He could smell things beneath the surface.
So Niko just said the one thing he could manage, voice dry.
"…We crossed paths."
Juno raised an eyebrow. "Huh." He took the toothbrush out and pointed it vaguely at Niko's chest. "You're different now. But… same thread."
Thread?
Before Niko could ask, Juno turned around again, yawning.
"Tell the ghost girl I said hi," he mumbled through the yawn, walking down the hall toward what looked like the bath chamber.
And just like that, he was gone. Pajamas rustling, footsteps soft.
Niko let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Then he muttered, "What the hell is going on in this place," and dragged himself the rest of the way to his room.