The meditation wasn’t helping. It never really did, which was probably another sign of his spiritual inadequacy. Brother Matthias could meditate for hours, his face a perfect mask of serenity. Cass mostly just got distracted and started counting ceiling stains, and today he couldn’t even manage that because his eyes kept losing focus and his thoughts kept circling back to strawberries and cream.
Stop thinking about him. Think about Honey. Think about the mission.
But Honey felt far away and abstract, like something from a story he’d been told rather than his own life. And the mission felt impossible. And the only thing that felt real was the memory ofgentle hands on his arm and a rough voice sayingI’m not going to hurt you.
With a sigh, Cass dragged himself to the bathroom.
The face in the mirror looked wrong. Thinner than he remembered, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and there was a flush across his cheekbones that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. When he splashed cold water on his face, his skin seemed to drink it in, desperate for relief from a heat that shouldn’t be there.
The water smelled like metal. Everything in the Neutral Zone smelled like something it shouldn’t. He missed the filtered air of Springfield Gardens, the way water tasted like nothing at all, and the predictable cleanliness of a properly managed environment.
Just stress,he told himself again, meeting his own eyes in the spotted mirror.Just the mission. Just everything.
Getting dressed was harder than it should have been. His robes felt heavy, the fabric dragging against skin that seemed too aware of every texture, and when he lifted his left arm to check Riot’s bandage, his shoulder protested like he’d been carrying stones.
The bandage itself was still neat and professional, the torn fabric holding firm despite two nights of restless sleep. Riot had done good work. He had such quick, confident hands—hands that knew exactly what they were doing despite being covered in blood.
Cass’s stomach did something strange at the memory. A sort of swoop, like missing a step on stairs.
Definitely the flu, he decided.Stomach symptoms. That’s a flu thing.
He surveyed his dwindling supplies as he finished dressing. A few meditation bracelets left. Three recruitment pamphlets, their edges soft from being handled and rejected and handled again. His wellness supplements—he’d almost forgotten to takethem this morning, which would have been bad. Brother Matthias said consistency was important for maintaining spiritual equilibrium away from the community.
He dry-swallowed two of the small pills and tried not to think about how few were left.
Two weeks. He had two weeks to find someone willing to consider Elysian guidance, or he’d be sent back for additional support. They’d probably try Project Chrysalis on him again…
The thought made his stomach clench, though he couldn’t quite remember why the idea scared him so much. There was something there, like a gap in his memory where understanding should be. A door in his mind that wouldn’t open no matter how hard he pushed.
Some experiences are too spiritually intense to retain consciously,Brother Matthias had explained once, when Cass asked about the blankness.The gaps are a gift, protecting you from memories that would impede your development.
Cass had learned not to push at that door. Pushing made his head hurt and his hands shake and his chest feel tight in ways that the breathing exercises couldn’t fix.
“I am a worthy vessel for spiritual enlightenment,” he recited, another daily affirmation. “My journey serves the collective harmony. My dedication honors the sacred bond that awaits fulfillment.”
The words felt hollow this morning, but he said them anyway. Maybe if he said them enough times, they’d start feeling true again.
With one last check of his bandaged arm, Cass gathered his recruitment materials and headed for the door.
Maybe today will be different. Maybe today someone will actually listen.
The hope felt thin and worn, like fabric that had been washed too many times. But it was all he had.
The hallway smelled like old carpet and whatever chemical they used to make old carpet smell slightly less like old carpet. Normally Cass barely noticed it, but today the smell seemed to crawl inside his nose and take up residence, thick and cloying and impossible to ignore. Everything smelled too strong this morning. The mildew in the walls. The synthetic soap from the bathroom down the hall. Someone’s breakfast, greasy and heavy, seeping out from under a door he passed.
His skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending tuned too high.
Just stress,he reminded himself, though the explanation was starting to feel inadequate.
He walked directly into what felt like a wall.
A wall that smelled like strawberries and cream.
The scent hit him like a physical force, cutting through the carpet smell and the mildew and all the general Neutral Zone unpleasantness. It filled his head with something warm and sweet and right, and his whole body responded—his skin prickling, his heart stuttering, a wave of heat rolling through him that had nothing to do with any flu.
“Oh,” Cass breathed, looking up. “It’s you.”
Riot stood frozen mid-step, close enough that Cass could see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his nostrils flared as he inhaled. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His copper hair was more disheveled than before, sticking up in places like he’d been running his hands through it, and his flannel jacket was wrinkled like he’d been wearing it for days.
