Page 89 of GlitchBorn Heart

I tiptoe to the bed, not there. It hasn’t been touched.

The sheets are still tucked with military precision, corners sharp enough to cut. Not a single wrinkle where someone might have sat, no impression of weight, no warmth. It looks less like a place meant for sleep and more like a display, untouched and preserved.

My fingers hover over the luxurious comforter before I pull it back. Of course he doesn’t rest here. Of course he doesn’t allow himself something as indulgent as comfort.

The sheets smell faintly of clean linen and him, warm spice mixed with the sterile air of the lab. It clings to everything he owns. No personal clutter anywhere. No half-read ebooks. No abandoned clothes on the floor. And somehow, that unsettles me more than any mess ever could.

Because it tells me something important about Kael.

He doesn’t let himself enjoy anything. Not even his own bed.

For a breath, I flirt with the decision to cut the feed and retreat. Do the right thing, make the smart, tactical choice, and stop trying to find out more. I’m here to present him with cold facts, not to get to know him.

Instead, curiosity, stupid, treasonous curiosity, wins. A faint warm golden glow of an orb lamp lights the single drawer nightstand next to his bed. One drawer. No lock. Of course not. Kael doesn’t strike me as someone who fears being discovered so much as someone who assumes no one will be brave enough to look closely at his belongings.

I push, and the drawer slides open with a soft hiss.

At first, it’s nothing. A slim comm-chip, a folded pair of motorcycle gloves, a silver ring I don’t recognize. Then my fingers brush cool glass.

I lift it out slowly.

It’s a frame, old by tech standards, not a live holo but a static digital image, edges faintly worn like it’s been handled too often. The photo flickers once, then steadies.

Little Kael.

Younger. Softer. No harsh angles yet. No darkness in his eyes. He’s maybe ten, lanky, all knees and elbows, standing barefoot on what looks like a stone path. A beautiful little girl clings to his side, younger, her smile innocent, dark hair pulled into uneven pigtails. His sister? I know it instantly. She looks just like him.

Behind them, a woman kneels, hands resting on their shoulders. Her face is gentle but tired. She’s wearing a lab coat and looking way too young and beautiful to have children that age. There’s a man beside her, Kael’s father I assume, formal in a structured suit, posture rigid, like he never quite learned how to relax. He’s holding some type of reward, a digital achievement plaque.

Kyoto. The details click into place without effort: the garden stones, the wooden slats of the house behind them, a red Torii gate on the hill in the distance, and a warm light shining on the family, softer than anything in Oneiro City.

My chest compresses.

This isn’t the Kael I know. This isn’t the man in the suit or the deviant shadow in the RedRoom or even the architect of systems. This is a boy who belonged somewhere. A family that existed before StarFell rewrote the world.

I stare at his mother, and something chilling slips down my spine. A patch says her name on one side of her lab coat; the other side says CyberCorp stitched clinically in crimson thread. There’s intelligence in her eyes, just like Kael. The kind that solves problems quietly, again like Kael. The kind a corporation would notice and not let go of once they’ve found it.

I think of a life before StarFell and of the way Kael treats that night like a wound he refuses to probe too deeply. His hate for U21 magic consumes him whenever we mention nanoparticles or shooting stars.

And suddenly this photo feels less like a keepsake and more like a clue.

I slide the frame back into the drawer with care, closing it until it clicks softly into place. My hands are shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of what I might have just glimpsed.

Something happened to Kael’s family. He never elaborates. I just know we share the curse of dead parents. And whatever happened to them, he wants it to stay buried in the past.

I hear a muted rush of water from underneath the door to the bathroom. He’s in there with the door half-closed. It’s open enough to fill the room with tiny glowing particles of steam. The soft halo of light mirrors off the tile in warm gold, reflecting his movement in shadow.

Showering at midnight? Must have been one hell of a night at STATIK.

His soapy scent begins to fill the space, clean but still spicy, like citrus dusted with cinnamon. I peer in and can see the full-length mirror, steam beads on the glass, softening the edges of his reflection until he looks like a sculpture in motion.

I’ll just wait here for him. I sit, my holo-image making a dent in the end of his perfect bed. My stomach turns when I realize the dilemma presenting itself. I blink, and for a second my plan to speak to him, to be impersonal, and accusing, collapses into something messier.

Something very, very dangerous.

No, Lyra...don’t you dare. Go back now, cut the holo-feed, and wait for him.

I go back to the door, stepping ever so softly, not to make a sound. He’s turned away, shoulders broad under the sheet of water cascading from the ceiling. The muscles of his back flex with each breath and each movement of his arms.