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. Leaning against a curved couch, 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.
Behind him, a knot of voices rose above the bass—bright, congratulatory, the tone people used when they wanted to be seen being generous.
“Felix—no way. You just landed Scratchlist eighty this afternoon?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t act humble. That’s insane.”
“Not even a combat Kamuy. You’re sick.”
“This party’s been kind to me. Nobody’s asked me to prove it yet.”
A laugh answered them—smooth, delighted with itself.
Then the voice slid closer, aimed at Solan’s shoulder like a hand on a steering wheel. “Well, well,” it drawled. “Look who’s here. They really are letting everyone in these days.”
Solan didn’t stop. The words barely registered as words. Just sound—another ripple in the noise. “Yeah, yeah, cool, talk later,” he mumbled, and clapped the guy once on the shoulder as he walked past.
He caught a flash of pale lenses. Sunglasses, indoors. Of course.
The guy said something else—closer now, like he was trying to hook him with it. “Hey. Elric. Wait—”
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—
Then the music dropped to a murmur, and the spell broke.
“Hey, I want you to meet someone.”
Solan nearly tripped.
“This is Nami,” Clara said, shifting sideways and gesturing toward the girl behind her.
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 Elric, right? Clara told me about your cucumber theory. I love it.”
Solan’s brain stalled for a second. He still remembered the cucumber. And the… hug.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, trying to sound normal. Alright. Still functional.
And then he had absolutely no idea what to say next. He 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 found himself liking this girl named Nami far too quickly.
“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,” he muttered. “If you really want.” He snapped his fingers. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it felt theatrical. Probably Matt’s fault. 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?”
No one had ever said that before. Matt usually just yelled at him to move the sword, saying he didn’t want to 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 hovering near the edge—not touching the blade itself, just close enough to feel its presence. Her brow creased slightly, not in calculation, but in disbelief. “It’s… dense,” she murmured. Then, after a beat, softer: “You really use this?”
He 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 his arm like he was putting away a part of himself. And maybe—just for a second—it felt a little less like something to hide.
“Do you like desserts?” Nami asked suddenly.
“She’s a genius baker,” Clara said, lifting her drink slightly toward Nami.
Nami grinned. “My dad runs a small bakery in the Old Quarter, on Tongbay Street. I test new recipes there when it’s slow.”
Solan blinked. “I love dessert.”
“Then you have to come,” Nami said. “And if you get there early enough, you might run into someone interesting. I think you two would get along.”
Solan had no idea who she meant, but the guy was definitely lucky.
He opened his mouth to say something, 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 stuff,” Clara said, more to the air than to him, wrinkling her nose as she turned her head away. The smell lingered anyway.
Solan couldn’t hear what the man said—if he said anything at all. He only saw him turn his head, slow and deliberate, and look at her. Not quite smiling. Not quite not. Then another drag, a neat coil of smoke looping lazily in the light.
Clara checked her phone without comment. The screen lit her wrist, catching on a silver bracelet—engraved with a stylized dragon.
From outside came the deep growl of an engine. A sports car rolled up to the curb, headlights dimmed like a beast breathing slow.
Solan didn’t get a good look. Didn’t really try. But it was definitely a Porsche, Low. Silver. The kind of car that didn’t rev loudly because it didn’t need to. The engine idled with a smooth, contained hum—like it trusted the street to move for it. He couldn’t tell the model. Didn’t care enough to. He just knew it cost more than everything he owned put together.
The window slid down halfway. Just enough to show a sharp jaw, black leather, and the reflection of streetlight along polished metal. Solan looked away first.
“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.
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.
She slowed. Not quite stopping.
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 even look at her. Just adjusted the cuff of his sleeve like the conversation was already over.
Clara stayed where she was. A beat too long.
Then Nami popped her head in from the hallway. “Clara?”
Clara turned without comment—loose blonde strands slipping free 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.”
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, Elric'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.”
“Unfortunate.” Herman 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!” Matt finally turned to him.
“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.
“Roommate, listen to me.” Matt grabbed his sleeve before he could drift farther. “This isn’t a statement. This is self-sabotage. You don’t swing at that guy in public unless you’re trying to… 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 twentieth. 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.