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“Okay.”
Reaching out, he taps a few keys, and the screens go dark.
His arm hooks under my ass, and he stands, the chair rolling back on the floor. “How about macaroni and cheese for dinner tonight?”
I hum in agreement and wrap my arms and legs around him.
And the tension in my shoulders finally eases.
9
Iclutch my tablet to my chest as I trail after Kain into the lobby at Lantern Key Games.
It’s been three weeks since Kain joined the forum cleanup team. He’s gone to exactly two in-person meetings, and this time, he got Julian’s approval to bring me along.
This is better than Disneyland.
The purple from the website coats the walls, but in person, the color is dull, stripped of its online vibrancy. That’s okay, though, because it just reminds me how long this game has been around.
The reception desk sits unmanned, a sleek, curved slab of walnut with a tablet resting face-down in its center. Beyond it, a hallway stretches toward the studio wing, its walls lined with framed concept art, and I vibrate with excitement.
Hand-drawn character sketches.
The Sentinel is on the far left, his outline rough and angular, his cloak a series of quick slashes that convey motion even on static paper.
The Ember District bartender stands next to him, his figure broader than the one that made it into the final game.
The Oracle’s final design sits beside three earlier versions, each iteration less severe than the last until the finished model appears serene.
Before Kain has finished signing us in at the reception tablet, I drift forward, stopping close enough for my breath to fog the glass. As the world narrows to this single image, I flatten my palm over where the Sentinel holds his sword.
“Bunny.”
Kain’s fingers curl along my spine as he steers me two steps away from the display before the receptionist, who has materialized from a side door, can discover smudges on their fifteen-year-old art.
Kain had walked me through the visiting process before we left, a whole list of rules that ended with him saying, “Stay with me, Bunny.”
That command evaporated the second I stepped into the building.
“We’ll be here for two hours,” Kain murmurs, for my ears alone. “You can stare at it on the way out.”
“I want to take selfies.”
His hand stays put. “Later.”
The receptionist, a young woman wearing a lime green Lantern Key lanyard, finishes verifying Kain’s credentials on the tablet. “Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Vey had a visitor pass prepared for you.”
“Thanks.” He accepts a badge and turns to clip it to the collar of my hoodie.
“Kain!”
The call comes from the studio wing, and I spin, nearly ripping off the badge before Kain fixes it in place.
Julian Vey appears at the far end of the corridor, his thin-framed glasses pushed on top of his head, a cashmere sweater the color of wet concrete draped over his slender shoulders and chest.
The carpet silences his designer sneakers as he crosses toward us.
“And Reef.” He grins and holds out a hand. “Glad you’re here.”
