He’d walked the quad twice. Sat by the lake until the mosquitoes got brave. Finished his assignments in a library carrel so small it felt like a coffin with fluorescent lighting. He’d even tried the student commons, but the noise there only made him aware of how quiet he felt inside.
And still he wasn't ready to go back to his room. Or rather, he wasn’t ready to risk going back too soon .
He rubbed at his face, felt salt from dried sweat. His shirt clung lightly to his back. The lamps hummed overhead, pools of soft yellow blooming at even intervals across the paths. The whole campus seemed to glow from its own memory of daylight.
He turned down a side path, one he didn’t normally take. The stone underfoot was warm. Somewhere, someone was laughing loudly—close enough to exist, far enough not to matter.
He really, really wanted his bed. That was the problem. Matt was the reason he was still out here.
Earlier, Matt had been moving around their dorm room with the frantic focus of a man preparing for a final exam in romance—flowers lifted from the campus garden, a suspiciously clean white tablecloth, half a bottle of red wine “borrowed” from the dining hall. Part of the dining hall hospitality , he’d said, smiling with the sincerity of someone already doomed.
Solan had watched him fuss over the placement of two mismatched cups like they were heirloom china and understood, instantly, that there was no version of this evening where he could stay. Matt had practically shoved him out the door anyway. “Please, bro. I need the space. She’s from the Art Department—everything’s about atmosphere.”
And now Solan was still here, drifting through the warmth and the dark, long after the joke had stopped being funny.
He rounded a corner and realized, belatedly, that he’d walked into the wrong residential cluster. None of the windows looked familiar. The balconies were shaped differently—more rounded, less gothic—and someone had hung string lights across the courtyard like it was a summer festival.
Solan slowed, unsure whether to turn back or pretend he meant to be here. That’s when he saw her.
A girl sat on the front stoop of the hall, elbows on her knees, face buried in the space between them. Her hair spilled forward like she was trying to hide inside it. From a distance, she looked… tired. Not sad, exactly. Just worn down in a way the warm night couldn’t fix. It took him a moment to recognize her.
He stopped a few steps away, unsure if approaching would make things worse. She looked like someone holding herself together by not moving at all. For a second—one shameful, uninvited second—Solan hoped she’d just broken up with her boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Something normal. Something survivable. He hated himself for thinking that.
He was about to say her name, quietly, when she lifted her head. Her face was pale in the courtyard light, cheeks flushed from heat or something else. Clara Vale blinked up at him like she’d sensed him before she heard him. “Evening, new kid.” Her voice was a little rough around the edges. “You got any snacks on you?”
The question hit him sideways. “…No,” he said. Then remembered basic human behavior. “Hi.” Brilliant, he told himself. Truly elite social performance.
Clara stared at him for a beat, then exhaled through her nose—half a laugh, half a sigh. She pushed her hair back, straightening only enough to look functional. “I’m gonna need a burger,” she announced, like this was a medical diagnosis. “You wanna come?”
Solan wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything, really—just tired, lost, and suddenly aware of how close they were. “Yes,” he said. It came out too quickly. He hoped she didn’t notice.
Clara stood, brushing dirt from her shorts. “Great. I know a place.” She stood up and started walking without waiting for confirmation. Solan fell into step beside her, and for the first time that night, his wandering had direction.
She didn’t say anything, and for a while neither did he. The silence wasn’t hostile—just full, like she’d already forgotten he was there and was letting him exist beside her anyway.
Solan tried to think of something normal to say. Anything. “So, um… what’s your major?” The words fell out of him like trash slipping from a torn bag. *Fuck.*Worst dialogue any college student has ever produced. Matt had warned him: never ask someone’s major—it’s the mating call of the socially bankrupt.
Clara didn’t seem to register it at all. She just answered, “Cognitive Neuroscience.”
“Cool,” Solan said, because his brain was on fire. “So you study… brain.”
“Not just brain. Humans. The reasons behind action or words or even thoughts. How we decide things. How language shapes the mind. How we lie. How we don’t.”
“Oh.” He nodded, uselessly. “Awesome. Sounds fun.” They walked a few more steps. The path curved under a line of warm courtyard lamps. He opened his mouth again, disastrously. “So… any other languages you guys study besides English?”
“We don’t study language. We study how language shapes the mind.” A beat. “But I’m learning Chinese.”
“Chinese? Cool…” He felt his mouth moving faster than his judgment. “You met me at a very Chinese—” He regretted it instantly. She had zero reaction. Not even a blink, just kept walking. Solan wished the ground would open and swallow him whole. Or at least trip him hard enough to justify a concussion.
They reached the edge of the quad, where the path sloped downhill toward a row of late-night food carts. Warm air drifted up—faint oil, grilled meat, something sweet from a waffle stand. The sounds sharpened: laughter, a blender, the scrape of metal tongs.
Clara slowed just enough that he ended up beside her. “Your accent is kind of different,” she said suddenly. “American ?”
“Well… born here.” He nudged a pebble with his shoe. “But I never really got to be here.”
Clara nodded like that was the most straightforward sentence in the world. “Then you missed a lot.”
They walked under a string of courtyard lamps. The yellow light pushed against the darkness like it was doing extra work tonight. “What do you think of it now that you’re back?” Her tone drifted—loose, dreamlike, as if the words had slipped out on their own.
Solan hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer anything she asked. He barely knew how to answer himself. “It’s… louder here,” he said finally. She waited. “And…” He searched for something gentler, something safe. “…the cucumbers taste different.”
“...The cucumbers?”
“Yeah.” His face warmed. He couldn’t stop now; momentum had doomed him. “Back where I was, they didn’t taste like anything. The skin was too thick, waxed over, lots of water, no flavor. Here they’ve got the little spines, crisp when you bite them. The juice splashes onto your sleeve. They taste green. Wild.”
For a heartbeat she just stared. Then she laughed—bright, sudden, real. Her eyes folded into crescent moons, soft even in the yellow light. “You’re the first person I’ve met who judges a city by its cucumbers.”
“That’s not—what I meant,” he could feel heat rising in his neck.
“It’s fine.” She was still laughing. “I get it. You mean everything there was tamed.”
He tried to respond, but her laughter knocked the words out of his chest. It was too clear, too warm—like someone had uncorked the entire night.
“Next time,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder as they approached the row of food carts, “I’ll take you to the farmer’s market. The cucumbers there might not bite back at all.” Solan had no idea what that meant. Clara walked a few more steps, then stopped—so abruptly he nearly ran into her. She turned, hair catching the courtyard light, her expression soft in a way that felt unguarded, tilted.
Before he could ask anything, she stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. It wasn’t careful. Just warm, loose, a little heavy from alcohol. Solan froze. Her cheek grazed his neck; something faintly citrus clung to her hair. Her breath landed against his skin in small, steady pulses. He had no idea what to do with his hands, his breathing, or the fact that she seemed to mean this completely.
So he looked past her. Anywhere. Anything else.
That was when he saw the flyers. A whole wall of them—bright ones, torn ones, others flattened into the walkway by the day’s foot traffic. A few scraps pressed against a lamppost; others curled at the edges, soft from humidity. The same line repeated across them, stark even in the dim light: NO REPRESENTATION, NO COMPETITION. LET US PLAY. THE NEW ELYSION BREAKERS.
Right. Earlier today, the protest. The noise. Someone yelling into a megaphone until their voice cracked. The Breakers flag—deep blue, the lightning mark. Someone wore it like a cape as they ran laps around the quad, hyping up a crowd that kept shrinking every year.
The Academy’s “official team.” Official in name only. They could scrimmage anyone, but they had no league. No division. No NCAA slot—because the Academy didn’t belong to any U.S. state, and rules were rules. No rankings. No broadcasts. No recognition. Maybe friendly matches, once in a while.
He remembered the look of the DOE building—dark windows, blinds drawn—as the last of the posters skidded across the pavement. One sheet had slapped against the glass door, clung there for a second, then slid down without a sound. It had been easier to keep walking than think about any of it. Just like now.
She finally let go. “Welcome back,” she murmured.
Before he could react, voices rose from across the street. “Clara! Where did you— we’ve been looking for you!”
Two girls—maybe hallmates, maybe friends—crossed the walkway in a quick, practiced sweep. One slipped an arm around Clara’s waist; the other steadied her elbow. They moved with the easy choreography of people who had rescued her from nights like this before. Neither of them looked at Solan. Not a glance. Not even the polite acknowledgment that he existed beside her. They just gathered Clara up, gently, efficiently, like retrieving something delicate they hadn’t meant to misplace. Clara let herself be steered, her steps loose, head turning once as if to confirm Solan was still there. Then she let the night pull her away.
A moment later they disappeared through the archway of the residential hall, swallowed by warm light and the muffled noise of other people’s lives. Solan stood there, not sure what to do with his arms or his breath or the shape the hug had left on his ribs. The flyers rustled behind him. A warm breeze slid over the stone path.
Solan really, really wanted to go back to bed.
Evening heat clung to the alley behind Kichijoji Station. The ramen shop’s air conditioner wheezed like a dying cat, rattling above the counter.
William sat near the back, close to the kitchen, wearing a faded navy Hawaiian shirt patterned with pale white hibiscus.
The fabric looked like it had survived too many summers and too few laundry cycles—creased, sun-worn, and missing one button near the collar. It clung to the oil-slick air, sweat and steam soaking into the rolled sleeves like the shirt belonged more to the room than to the man.
He slurped his noodles loud, like he was challenging someone. Not on purpose. It was just etiquette—Japanese custom said noise meant appreciation. And besides, this bowl was a level ten Hokkaido Hell Ramen . Eating it quietly would’ve been unnatural. The broth reeked of cheap bravado—less a recipe, more a last-ditch gamble by the chef. He’d ordered a Calpis on the side—too sweet, too watered down. But it matched the soup’s salt like a bad marriage made for balance.
That’s when his phone buzzed. He frowned. Didn’t answer. The phone went still. He kept eating. Another sip of broth. The chili hit late, scraping his throat raw. His glass was empty. He lifted it anyway, fished out the last sliver of ice, and chewed it with resigned patience. The phone buzzed again. With a sigh, he wiped his mouth and picked up.
“Mr. Grasse,” a bright voice chirped, youthful, polite, and completely disingenuous. “Can’t believe someone like you would still eat ramen in a Kichijoji chain joint.”
William belched. Casually. “It’s decent. Spice is right. Salt’s a bit much.”
A faint laugh from the other end—crystal clear, but sharp like biting down on glass. “I read about the explosion. Honestly, I thought you’d pick a better spot for someone that important.”
William stirred his broth with his chopsticks, slow and idle. “I was about to ask you that. When did you read about it? Before the explosion? Or right after?”
“Still charming,” the voice repeated, with a smile so cold it didn’t touch the syllables. “Precognition’s not real, you know. That kind of Kamuy doesn’t exist.”
“Is that so.” William’s eyes narrowed. A scallion floated to the surface like a corpse. “Funny. I just heard Lockhart refused to release any synthetic relics to treat her.”
“Shame.” The voice didn’t waver. “I rather liked the president. She did so many things for you that you couldn’t be bothered to do yourself. But you know how it is. Capitalism doesn’t spend money saving people when the relics cost more than a life.”
William gave a dry chuckle. “Money, huh. I always thought you didn’t need it. Just one call from you. That’s all it ever takes. Let it happen. Let it slide. Let it burn.” The line went silent. Not passive. Not confused. Challenging. William’s tone dropped. “Spare me the courtesy. Just say it.”
The voice didn’t skip a beat. “Everyone’s calling it Ouroboros now, aren’t they?” A pause. Light, amused. “If that helps them sleep.” Then the voice shifted. Lighter, breezier, like the moment never happened. “Anyway—how’s your field trip going, Vice President Grasse? Heard you’re sightseeing Japan for Effigies research. Any exciting new Drakespawn mutations? We just got a lecture about them in Dr. Yamada’s class this week. Guess you’re doing the fieldwork version.”
“Nothing impressive.” William stretched the pause. “Another one logged, same as always. But a few strains... I’ll admit I find charming.”
“You could always keep one. For fun.”
“I’m not like you,” William muttered. “I don’t keep pets.”
There it was. Light as breath. Twice as sharp. The voice went quiet for half a second. Then returned, just as cheery—just colder. “Pity. Well, if that’s all, I won’t keep you from your dinner.”
“The data key.” William’s voice cut through like the first drop of rain on a match.
The silence hung.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play dumb. My intel says Lockhart handed you a Sacred Relic—recovered from Asia. Personal handoff. Don’t tell me you missed it.”
“Ah—must’ve been a mix-up,” the voice said, utterly calm. “Could’ve been meant for the Foundry. Some student project. Nothing interesting. You know, all for the sake of research.”
“Research, huh.” William set his chopsticks down. “Then mind letting me borrow it? A couple days. Just to observe.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
The voice didn’t rush. Just a small pause, polite on the surface. But it lingered—like he was letting William think he still had control. “It’s just a key. Depends what kind of door you’re trying to open.” Click . The line went dead.
William didn’t move. Then reached for the ramen bowl. Lifted it with both hands. Drank the rest in one go. His throat burned. But he didn’t flinch. It wasn’t satisfaction. Just routine. He set the bowl down. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Some red chili oil clung to the edge of his lip. The only thing left from the call—its final, lingering heat.
He didn’t curse. Didn’t rage. Because he knew what he’d just spoken to wasn’t a student. Wasn’t a proxy. Wasn’t a courier or informant.
What he’d heard behind that voice…
was a dragon.
And it had just blinked at him through the line.