In New Elysion, weekends didn’t wait for calendars.
By Thursday night, the whole city was already pulsing. Portside metal bars, inner-city basement clubs, even rooftop hideouts and abandoned buildings on campus. All boiling over.
And tonight, for the first time, Solan Elric had been dragged into a full-blown house party. Like, capital-H House. The real kind.
“This is supposed to be a house?” Solan gawked at the angular, glass-paneled megastructure—a geometry professor’s fever dream given building permits.
“Correction—this is a mansion,” Matt said, giving him a friendly shove. “Scratchlist upperclassmen hosting. Word is, they’ve got fire hoses in the entry hall and medics hanging out by the snack table. You’ll be fine.”
They reached the gate—a pair of chromed doors pulsing faint light from within. Outside, a broad-shouldered guy in a bomber jacket stood sentinel, arms crossed, earpiece glowing faint blue. Not exactly security. More like a friend who’d decided he was security. Matt greeted him with that exaggerated half-hug men did when pretending not to care. “Hey, my guy,” he said, thumbing toward Solan. “This one’s with me.” The man’s gaze flicked over Solan, head to sneakers, then he gave a slow nod.
The second they stepped inside, heat and sound hit them like a wall. Not just body heat—but Kamuy energy. The kind of pressure that hummed in your teeth.
A girl was dancing upside-down from the ceiling—barefoot on a disc of golden flame, gravity-defying and spilling sweet-smelling pink sparks that people caught midair like confetti. One guy, wearing sunglasses at night, stood by the pool zapping arcs of electricity into the water every few seconds, creating ripple illusions and synchronized screams from girls in LED swimsuits. Near the stairs, an art-club-looking girl traced glowing cat animations in the air with a fingertip; each time someone passed.
Matt threw an arm over Solan’s shoulder. “Now this ,” he grinned, “is what college is supposed to feel like.”
Solan tried to approach the drinks table, but a bottle near him suddenly exploded into a hovering water sphere. A Water-type Kamuy user spun it casually on a fingertip before sipping it like soup.
The guy looked at Solan. “Newbie? Don’t touch the green stuff. Someone laced it with truth-serum Kamuy.”
“Excuse me—what?!”
Before Solan could flee the crime scene, Matt triumphantly wielding two radiant glasses from god-knows-where. “To love and poor life choices,” he toasted. “Mixed personally by Chemistry major #3. Drink it and you’ll see who you’re cosmically compatible with.”
“Please tell me you didn’t take two just to check your compatibility with me .”
“Bro,” Matt wheezed with laughter. “Just drink it.”
Solan eyed the glass like it might sprout legs and run. “If this tells me I’m meant for you, I’m jumping off the roof.”
He raised it to his lips. Didn’t even get halfway before choking. “What the HELL—!” He coughed, clawing at his throat.“That’s not alcohol. That’s molten cinnamon dragon lava! ”
Matt was already doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly slid down the wall. “Dude, you really drank it?! That’s Fire-Drake Cinnamon Reserve! Love-predicting my ass—if that worked, I’d be married by now!”
Solan couldn’t speak. His tongue was on fire. His lungs were spicy. His soul was scorched . Matt clapped him on the back.“Loosen up, man. It’s nightlife, not a final exam.”
“MATT!”
The voice was deep, roughened by laughter and too many late nights. A girl in a glitter-streaked jacket barreled toward them, half-running, half-dancing her way through the entry. Her hair flared tangerine under the club lights; a plastic cup of something electric sloshed in her hand. The denim skirt she wore was criminally short, and her boots hit the floor like punctuation.
She threw her arms around Matt with the kind of energy that could ignite a small bonfire. “Oh my God, you actually came! You have no idea who’s here—I’m gonna get him.”
Matt laughed, tightening the hug just enough. “Sure you will, girl.”
She grinned, then turned and, without hesitation, wrapped Solan in the same embrace—perfume, sequins, everything. “You must be Solan! First time seeing you. Matt told me so much—sword boy, right?”
Solan blinked. “Uh. Possibly.”
“I’d love to meet you properly later,” she said, pulling back with a grin that lingered a beat too long. “But Matt, I gotta run—I’ll catch you guys later.” She vanished into the crowd, laughter trailing like glitter.
"sword boy? really"
Matt grinned. “Just saying—it’s catchy. Oh, and for your own sake, I’m telling you most people here tonight are American.”
“What? Isn’t New Elysion part of America?”
Matt gestured toward the crowd, the lights, the rooftop skyline humming beyond the glass. “Sure, they hand you a passport if you’re born here. But that doesn’t make you American.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You’ll get it one day, sword boy.”
Solan gave a small, mock-solemn pat on his shoulder. “Sure thing, ambassador.”
Matt snorted. “Don’t jinx it.”
And with that, Matt vanished into a crowd of people wearing LED mohawks and shirts that glowed in sync with the bass.
Solan stood alone. Surrounded by strangers, flashing drinks, and bursts of uncontrolled Kamuy residue. He pressed his back to the wall and moved slowly, like he was infiltrating enemy lines. Avoid eye contact. Evade enthusiasm. Look for corners.
Then he turned—and saw her .
Clara Vele.
Standing at the center of it all like a magnet sculpted from light. There were people around her. Pouring drinks. Doing Kamuy-enhanced card tricks. Trying so hard . She just smiled. Calm. Collected. The kind of ease that made the room revolve around her, not the other way around.
Then she saw him . And waved. Solan felt the cinnamon fire roar back up his throat. He almost raised a hand. Almost. Instead, he shoved both hands in his pockets and turned away to stare very intently at a faded Club Recruitment poster on the wall. Like it was modern art. Like he might write his thesis on it.
Why is she here? Why didn’t I wave back?
She didn’t seem like the party type. But she was laughing. At ease. Like the air belonged to her. His brain turned into static. Every thought overlapping, overanalyzing, short-circuiting. He considered walking over. Then immediately imagined opening his mouth and saying, “So… uh… what are you drinking?”
Kill me now.
He looked at her again. She was already speaking to someone else. And that’s when he remembered:
“You’re sure I won’t die if I drink this?” He’d held up the pale blue bottle like it was radioactive.
Matt, still fixing his hair in the mirror, had just grinned. “Not die. At worst? Flushed cheeks, faster heart rate, speech inhibition bypass. Perfect for you.”
“You sound way too confident.”
“Buddy, this is your first real party. Not a tea ceremony. You’re there to make a mess. Trust science. I field-tested it.”
“You’re smiling like a scam artist.”
“You wanna be brave? Drink it. Wanna sit in the corner all night being wall decor? Put it down. I’ll still be here next year.”
He had just stood there, like a man awaiting sentencing. He’d looked back once—at the lights, the laughter, Clara’s silhouette in the crowd. She was there, glowing, out of reach.
Something cracked. Quietly. Like a glass in his chest finally giving in. He grabbed a cup. Marched over to the glowing metal keg that looked vaguely illegal. Spun the valve.
The smell alone made his face twist, sharp and bitter in his throat. “Screw it,” he said. “Let’s see just how dumb I can get in front of her.”
“Hey,” he asked the guy next to him, “what’s this one?”
“No clue, but we call it Suicide Squad.”
“Perfect.”
And down it went.
Time fractured. Five minutes? Ten? He’d lost track of how long he’d been moving. He didn’t even know if the drink had kicked in— or if he was just drunk on noise and lights.
The music detonated. Bass thudded like piledrivers beneath the floorboards, each hit landing square in his chest. Lights blurred and twitched—too many colors, too much motion. He moved carefully, drink in hand, weaving through clouds of sweat and synthetic fruit vapor, dodging elbows and perfume.
She was still there. Clara Vale. Leaning against a curved sofa, mid-conversation, jacket half-off one shoulder. And somehow—somehow—she looked up. And smiled. At him.
Something went buzz in Solan’s brain. Maybe the drink kicked in. Maybe the lights hit wrong. Didn’t matter. His feet moved on their own. Step by step.
“Well, well,” a voice drawled. “Look who’s here. They really are letting everyone in these days.”
Solan didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. “Yeah, yeah, cool, talk later,” he mumbled, barely audible over the music, and clapped the guy once on the shoulder as he walked past.
Felix Marr stood frozen, lips half-parted. Second time they’d met. Second time Solan walked past like he didn’t exist. Did he even know his name?
But Solan was already gone—sliding through the crowd, drink in hand, eyes locked ahead. She was talking to someone. He didn’t catch a single word. The music was too loud—like the ocean was crashing directly into his ears. He got closer. Until their shoulders were almost touching. Until they were touching. Skin to skin. The air was thick—perfume, breath, that sticky mix of syrupy drinks and heat. He felt the edge of her sleeve brush his arm. It sent something sharp and silent through him—straight from shoulder to ribcage.
She turned her head toward him. Her lips moved. He couldn’t hear. Not a thing. He nodded anyway. Smiled like he understood. She smiled back—like she knew he didn’t. And didn’t mind.
They were too close now. Close enough for him to see the soft curve of her lips, the small shimmer of fruit-flavored liquor she hadn’t quite wiped away. Close enough to feel her breath catch the edge of his cheek. For a moment— just a heartbeat— it felt like the world had drawn a little circle around them. No noise. No eyes. Just this.
He thought— maybe. Just a little closer—maybe—
And then, the music dropped. Not off. Just low. Someone had adjusted the volume, and the moment snapped like a rubber band.
“Let me introduce you to my friend.”
Solan nearly tripped.
“This is Nami,” Clara said, shifting sideways and gesturing toward the girl behind her. “The one I mentioned—genius baker.”
The girl in question was smiling like spring had a human form. Short, dark wavy hair framed her face—just long enough to tuck behind one ear. When she moved, the inner layer flashed a hidden streak of midnight blue, like a secret only the breeze could catch. Bright eyes. Strawberry-print crop top. A jingling keychain looped from her belt. She looked like she’d stepped out of a breeze that smelled like sugar and clean sidewalks.
“Hi, I’m Yuki Nami!” she waved. Cheerful. Unfiltered.
Solan swallowed.“Hi,” he said, trying to sound normal. Cool. Functional. He ran a hand through his hair. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then opened it one more time. “Oh, a genius? Cool. I’m... mostly awake.”
Silence. He winced. That was it? That was the best he could do? A dad joke. A tragically sleep-deprived, semi-coherent dad joke. He wanted to lie down and reboot.
Nami froze for half a second. Then burst into laughter—loud, full-bodied, head thrown back. “You’re hilarious! ”
Clara, deadpan to the bone, watched the two of them like they were feral cats she’d accidentally invited indoors.
Solan rubbed the back of his neck. Nami was still laughing—sunlight and strawberries. Clara just sipped her drink, eyes half-lidded like she was watching some slow-burn chemical reaction.
“Clara said you have a cool Kamuy,” Nami said suddenly, eyes bright. “Like—a sword? What’s that about?”
Solan blinked. He hadn’t expected Clara to talk about him to her friends—let alone like that. He glanced sideways. Clara was half-turned away, head low, sipping from her drink like she hadn’t said a word. “It’s… nothing,” he said. “Just a sword. I can summon it sometimes.” He never thought his Kamuy was worth mentioning. Nobody bragged about carrying a knife to school.
“Well, show us!” Nami leaned in, grinning. “Clara said she’s never seen it either.”
Clara said that? He looked at her again—but she didn’t look up. Just swirled the liquid in her cup, silent. She was right, though. He’d never shown the Black Blade to her. “Alright, if you insist.” He snapped his fingers. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it felt theatrical. Or maybe it gave him a second to breathe. The blade burst from his left arm, slick and sudden. He caught it midair without looking.
Nami gasped. “THAT’S SO COOL. Can we touch it?”
Solan’s face flushed. No one had ever said that before. Matt usually just said things like, “Bro, move the sword. I need the aisle clear. I don’t wanna lose a toe on the way to the bathroom.” He turned slightly—just in time to see Clara give a small nod, barely visible. That made it worse. His ears went hot. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was something else.
Nami stepped closer, eyes wide. “Can I…?”
Solan hesitated. Then flipped the blade, offering the hilt. “Just be careful. It’s heavier than it looks.”
She reached out with both hands and immediately staggered a little under the weight. “Oh my god—why is it this heavy?” she laughed, gripping tighter to stop it from tipping forward. “It’s like holding a parked motorcycle.” Clara leaned in too, fingers brushing the edge—not touching the blade itself, just tracing the outline in the air. Her eyes were narrowed, focused. Not just curious—measuring.
“It’s dense,” she murmured. “How do you swing this with one hand?”
Solan shrugged. “I’m used to it.” It wasn’t strength. Just repetition. The kind you didn’t notice building up until someone else couldn’t keep up.
Nami tilted it carefully, testing the balance. “It’s serious. Like... sword-of-someone-who’s-been-through-stuff serious.”
Then, together, they handed it back. Solan caught it smoothly, the weight familiar in his grip. “Thanks,” Nami said, smiling. “That was awesome.” Clara echoed her—quieter, but sincere. “Yeah. Thanks for showing us.”
Solan didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, sliding the blade back into the air like he was putting away a part of himself. And maybe—just for a second—it felt a little less like something to hide.
For tonight, he decided not to worry about the advanced calculus midterm next week. Or the fact that it landed one day before the fight. Future problems. Future panic. Right now, he had two girls beside him, whom had just complimented his blade. That felt like enough to count as a win.
The conversation drifted. Lost its rhythm. Clara and Nami leaned in toward each other, talking in low tones. Not whispering, exactly—but close. Their faces tilted at just the right angle for it to feel private. Shared secrets. Half-laughs. Quick glances.
Solan stood there, holding a half-empty drink, nodding slightly like that made him part of it. He wasn’t. They weren’t excluding him. Not on purpose. But they didn’t need him to keep the beat going.
He took a sip. Looked around. A few feet away, he caught the tail end of a conversation gone wrong—a guy gesturing wildly at a brunette girl, his face twisting into disbelief as she shook her head and walked away without even breaking stride. The guy’s hand lingered in the air, mid-sentence. Then dropped.
Solan watched the whole thing like it was a short film. “Definitely sending mixed signals,” he said, then lifted his glass and drank as if that could wash the words back down.
Nami snorted. Then doubled over laughing. “Oh my god, stop—you can’t just—” she wheezed, covering her mouth. “The poor guy’s still emotionally leaking all over the carpet.”
Clara just raised a brow over her glass. “You two are unhinged.” But there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The kind that didn’t need to be big to be real.
For a moment, the three of them just stood there—in the warm spill of music and voices, not quite a trio, but maybe getting closer. Just three people sharing a pocket of warmth in a building that smelled like neon and ego.
Solan opened his mouth to say something—to either of them—but the words caught, hovering just behind his teeth. Something sharp had crept into the air. Not strong. Just enough to nudge the moment sideways. Chemical. Wet. Synthetic.
Scaleflame.
He turned. By the couch, someone lounged against the armrest, all loose limbs and practiced disregard. A lit coil of Scaleflame rested between two fingers, smoke rising in faint, iridescent strands— blue at the base, silver near the tip, like heat dreaming of metal.
The scent hit next. Something almost biological. It didn’t flood the room so much as thread through it—a splinter of static in the warmth.
Scaleflame wasn’t illegal. Not exactly. It was made from draconic keratin—ground, pressed, laced with botanical additives, then rolled into black spirals. For most people, a single drag meant a hospital visit. Convulsions. Blackouts. In one infamous case, a ceiling fan on fire—lit from the bloodstream up.
But for those with control? It sharpened everything. Perception. Reflexes. Kamuy responsiveness. Just briefly. Just enough to tempt fate. And no one was supposed to smoke it indoors.
“Still smoking that junk,” Clara wrinkled her nose, just slightly, and turned her head away. Her lashes cast flickering shadows under the bar light—like the wings of a butterfly beating once.
The man didn’t say anything. But he turned his head, slow, deliberate. And looked at her. Not quite smiling. Not quite not. Just… registering. Then he took another drag. Exhaled a perfect coil of smoke that looped lazily in the light.
“We gotta go.” Clara tapped her phone. The screen lit her wrist, catching on a silver bracelet—engraved with a stylized dragon.
Solan didn’t ask. Some things you didn’t touch, even if they burned. From outside came the deep growl of an engine. A dark-silver sports car rolled up to the curb, headlights dimmed like a beast breathing slow. The window slid down halfway—just enough to reveal a sharp jaw, and the glint of black leather. The rest was lost in shadow and streetlight glare.
Solan didn’t get a good look. Didn’t really try. But the car— that was a Mercedes-AMG GT 63. He recognized it instantly. Had looked it up once. Checked the specs. Realized he couldn’t afford the insurance. Hell, not even the door handle.
“Want me to walk you out?” he asked, voice tighter than he meant.
Clara paused, wrapping her scarf. He caught the faintest hint of citrus in the wool. “No need.”
Nami had already wandered ahead, waving at someone by the door with both hands—familiar, cheerful.
Clara gave Solan one last glance. Brief. Unreadable. Then turned away.
She cut a quiet line through the room—stepping past the edge of the crowd toward the couch in the corner.In front of her, the man’s Scaleflame flared—its tip burning ghost-blue.The light caught his blond hair like molten metal, his gaze half-lidded under the haze.
“There’s a lot of people here,” Clara said softly.
The man exhaled through his nose. “If anyone had a problem, they’d have said it already. Looks like you’re the only one who minds.” He didn’t look at her. Just adjusted the cuff of his sleeve like the conversation was already over.
Clara didn’t press. Just standing there, caught between words. A second later, Nami popped her head in from the hallway.“Clara?”
Then she was gone too—dark curls shifting as she followed Nami out, whose keychain jingled like a casual exit cue. Their silhouettes thinned in the wind, vanishing like steam.
Solan looked down at his drink, amber rippling in the cup, and knocked it back in one go. The liquor burned. But it wasn’t enough.
Outside, taillights disappeared down the road. And Solan, deep down, wished every tall, expensive-car-driving, cool-smoke-exhaling, too-handsome-for-their-own-good guy would just evaporate on the spot. Even ten minutes would do.
Three shots of tequila later, and he was sure—dead sure—that guy’s golden hair didn’t even look that good. In fact, he was almost confident the Black Blade might—just this once—not betray him.
That was the exact moment he found himself standing directly in front of that guy. “This is a public space.”
The words left his mouth faster than thought. And immediately— regrettably— higher-pitched than intended.He sounded like a high school sophomore trying to file a noise complaint.
The Black Blade twitched inside his arm. It liked this tension. It thrived in it.
The man turned his head, exhaled another curl of smoke. His light-gold eyes narrowed slightly. Like a cat spotting a rabbit on its porch.
“Oh?”
Solan’s mouth kept going.
“You smoke that crap—what, did something bite your olfactory nerve as a kid?”
The man blinked. Then smiled. And it was that kind of smile. The kind that said: Oh. We’re doing this.
“Ah,” he drawled, “so you’re the one who shut down the defensive grid. Brilliant performance. I didn’t think the curve could bend lower, but you… found new depths.”
“Thanks for the feedback,” Solan said tightly. “And your smell stink still sucks.” He surprised even himself.
The blond didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just took another inhale. “So,” he said, voice cool, “you’re doing this because of her?”
The Scaleflame glowed between his fingers. He took his time. Smoked like he had all night. “Interesting.”
The room seemed to still. He stood—uncoiling to his full height. Six-foot-three. Maybe taller. The kind of height that made shadows look personal.
He looked down at him, eyes colder now. The smile was gone.“You know who grades that class?” His voice dropped. Low. Private. “The one you’re failing.”
Solan blinked.
Wait. No. No way.
Herman Winton.
That’s why the cheekbones had backstory. Solan felt his stomach do a full Olympic dive. The kind with splash and shame. They’d told him in the email. Herman Winton. Guest TA. And somehow—somehow—he hadn’t made the connection until now.
“Your practical performance?” Herman added, flicking ash onto Solan’s shoe.“I grade it.”
Solan’s brain flatlined. There was a thump in his chest. Like a gun misfiring.
Herman leaned back, satisfied.“You’re welcome. After all, you walked right into it.”
Matt appeared out of nowhere. Practically slid between them like a human ‘Do Not Engage’ sign.
“Herman, hey! Buddy. Professor Winton. Sir.” He threw out every title like candy at a parade.“No need for grading drama tonight, right? We’re all friends. Big Kamuy family.”
Herman didn’t blink.
Matt kept going.“Besides, Solan’s clearly just—y’know—overhydrated. Happens at parties. Makes people brave. Or stupid. Or both.”
Solan opened his mouth. Matt elbowed him immediately.
Herman’s gaze lingered on Matt like he was checking the expiration date on a carton of milk. “You’re his friend?”
“Best,” Matt said brightly.
“Unfortunate.” He turned. Just like that. Scaleflame smoke trailing behind him like a leash of apathy.
Solan just stood there.
The smoke, the silence, the certainty of failure—
All of it clung to his clothes like sweat.
“What the hell was that?! You know he decides your grade!”
“You heard what he said.” Solan’s words slurred together as he turned away, unsteady. Heat crawled up his neck, burning in his ears. The room swayed like it was trying to shove him off his feet.
“Solan—listen to me. You’re not standing up for justice here. You’re not being a hero. You’re going toe-to-toe with the guy who can delay your graduation—for a girl who… Oh fuck, how much did you drink?”
“Just... stop.”
“I wish I could stop. But you’re about to fail this semester because your ego picked a fight with a genetically engineered Ken doll.”
Solan didn’t bother. What was the point? Because deep down, he knew Matt was right. This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t courage. Just tequila and a broken brainstem. He wasn’t defending anyone. He’d just officially set himself on fire.
Everything after that burned together. He woke himself up coughing.
The sound ripped out of him like a protest—sharp, dry, stupid. He was slumped in a wicker chair on the balcony, limbs tangled like half-defrosted noodles. His neck didn’t know what direction was. His skull felt like someone had been playing Beethoven’s Symphony No.5 directly on his cerebral cortex.
“Ugh—”
The night air smelled like sugar and beer and something vaguely citrus that had died in the sun. He squinted up. Fairy lights bobbed gently overhead. Far off, the last of the poolside laughter still echoed like it didn’t know the party was over.
Matt was next to him, drink in one hand, phone in the other. The drink was the color of regret. The phone was glowing with mild disdain.
“Hey, you’re alive.”
Solan groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead.
“What time is it…”
“Almost midnight. You threw up once, wandered onto this balcony, and passed out like a deflated piñata.” Matt sipped his drink, casual as the weather channel. “Oh, and apparently told Herman he smokes Scaleflame because a wild beast bit his nose as a child.”
Solan didn’t respond. Just let his eyes close in slow horror. He inhaled deeply, trying to push the shame into his stomach—and promptly caught a scent cocktail of body odor, warm cheese, and a hotdog someone had stepped on. He gagged. “I’m dying.”
“Define dying,” Matt said dryly.“Academic death? Moral death? Social death?”
Solan curled forward with a groan. “Did I actually insult him to his face?”
“Not really,” Matt said cheerfully. “You smiled while insulting him. Even patted his shoulder.”
Solan didn’t move. He stared into the void, eyes unfocused, voice barely more than a breath. “Should I call the cops?”
“Try Enforcment Bureau.”
Solan let his arms fall limp. Mouth half-open, eyes dead. “I’m done…”
Matt gave a solemn nod. “You are. But damn, you were handsome while self-destructing.”
Then, a pause. Matt was flipping a stress ball in the dark like it held the answer to thermodynamics. “Y’know,” he said finally, “for a guy with Kamuy, you got off easy.”
Solan didn’t move. “If this is a pep talk, skip to the part where I stop sucking.”
“No, I’m serious.” Thwip. The stress ball bounced off the wall. “You’ve got that slow-burn Kamuy thing, right? No nosebleeds. No seizures. No sudden craving to eat gravel. You’re like… a chill Kamuy-bearer.”
“Just a chill Kamuy-bearer,” Solan repeated, deadpan. “Sounds cuddly. Put that on my gravestone.”
Matt leaned in, voice low: “I know a guy. Goes by Puppeteer.”
“I’m not doing ventriloquism.”
“He’s Kamuy,” Matt said, dead serious now. “Takes over your body. Just in battle. Short bursts. Precision control.”
Solan stared. Expression frozen. “That’s cheating.”
“Brother,” Matt said, eyes wide, “your swordsmanship is like a raccoon trying to solve calculus. Herman could parry you in his sleep. You really want him playing that footage in class review? Slow-mo? Commentary?”
Solan said nothing. Just looked out over the city, where lights blinked like bored eyes.
Matt softened his tone. “Just one match. Trial run. He offered. No charge.”
Silence stretched. The party was quieter now. But Solan could still feel all the people out there. Still feel Clara's absence. Still see Herman's smile. “When he’s controlling me…” Solan said finally, voice low. “Am I still in my body?”
“Yeah.”Matt swirled his can. “Think of it like riding shotgun. You’re there. Just… not touching the wheel.”
Solan stared down at his hand. Opened it. Closed it. Again. And again. Knuckles pale. He didn’t care about winning. Not really. But he didn’t want to be humiliated. Not in front of him .
Matt’s voice dropped further, softer than before—like a truth he wasn’t quite supposed to say. “Puppeteer can’t beat someone ranked fortieth. That guy’s a tank. But he can help you go down clean. Controlled. No flailing, no panic, no public faceplant.”
He paused. Then: “You’d still lose. That doesn’t change. But people remember the way you lose. Sometimes that’s the difference between being ignored… and being a punchline.”
Solan didn’t look up. The tension in his fist changed. And he finally stopped pretending he hadn’t already made up his mind.