The man quickly, greedily shoved his body closer, sliding a hand underneath his shirt. “I’ve heard of you… you’re not as soft as some of the others, but that’s part of the charm, ay? Haha… although you’re a F-rank, I’m a generous man.”

Ian muttered again, leaning closer to the man as his arms loosely wrapped around the other’s waist. The man excitedly hugged him closer, eager for more.

At his belt, neatly tucked in was a smooth, black gun. Ian’s finger grazed against it and a smile curved on his lips as he hooked his fingers against the hilt, tilting his sharp chin towards the man’s ear.

The man eagerly pressed his body closer, almost slobbering. “Come on, guide me.”

Ian’s voice was husky, hoarse from drunkenness, and delighted. “Of course. A one way trip to hell, just for you.”

The man flinched, pulling away a fraction. “What—“

Before he could react, Ian swiftly swept the gun from the holster, unlocking the safety as he fired at the floor. The Esper jumped into the air, shouting, and he spun his long legs around the man’s waist, knocking him to the ground.

He flipped the gun in his hands, slamming the butt down. A loud thud resounded, and he slammed down again for good measure.

His shoulders heaved with a smear of blood at the bottom of the gun. Nobody would believe this Esper, not really, with the amount of troubles that Espers and Guides ran into during the Culling.

Who would believe that the pathetic F-grade Guide could do anything except be a waste?

The poor pitiful, useless him could hardly stand up against an Esper.

Ian rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms. It’d been a while since he exerted much strength, more focused on restraining his temper. Sometimes, he worried he'd become so irritated with people his fists would work faster than his head. 

He glanced down at the gun, a heavy and sleek shape in his hands.

But not an unfamiliar one.

Many Espers carried weapons around for safety and comfort—they were honed to be ready for a battlefield. It was his lucky day that the Esper that followed him had a gun.

The recoil made his fingers tingle from a lack of use—he’d been better at them once. A long time ago. Back when he’d been qualified to train with the higher ranking Guides—the ones that were trained to be paired with the most powerful Espers.

Survivability improved their value, after all.

He scoffed bitterly, dragging the unconscious Esper towards the door to unlock the keypad.

‘What a messed up system. I can’t even use the bathroom in peace,’ he complained internally as he peered around the corner, narrowing his sharp eyes. He brushed his hair back, tying it back.

Lucian was putting up a struggle, so they shouldn’t have gotten too far. Despite his gentle and soft look, he was quite the character.

Ian still had a loving scar on his arm to prove it.

A shout came from down the hall, further away from the rooms where the Culling was taking place. He swerved, dashing as his heart raced against his chest, growing louder and louder in his ears.

Don’t be hasty, his mind warned. All these years of lying low were for a reason. But he couldn’t sit still, turn a blind eye, and pretend nothing was wrong.

He saw two figures entering a room, a taller man dragging a kicking, slim-built man inside. The metal door slid shut, locking behind him. Ian cursed, his feet pounding against the ground. He shoved his scanner against the keypad.

It rejected him. Decline, decline, decline. He wasn't authorized to open this door. He wasn't authorized to do anything but listen.

The rooms were all sound-proof, perfect to commit any misdeeds.

Red flashed in his vision and he slammed against the wall, beating his fists against the metal. Sound couldn’t leave the room, but that didn’t mean sound didn’t transmit from the outside.

It was an emergency protocol, in the case Espers had to be summoned back.

A rush of memories invaded his mind—black and blue bruises, red bleeding marks. Skin covered in colours, dyed in darkness and a pair of blank eyes with an empty smile.

‘Believe in me, Ian. We’ll escape soon. We’re so close.’

But they never were; never had been.

The images transformed into Lucian’s image, the young and beautiful young man and his empty green gaze, lost and despairing. A broken shell of what had once been.

The sound of footsteps thudded around the corner, crisp and heavy steps. Powerful steps.

Ian spun around and raised his gun. His hair had untangled, half-tied, and strands falling over his tall body. His black eyes burned with resentment, unguarded and burning in old memories.

A man emerged from around the corner, his frosty blue eyes trailing to the raised gun that pointed at his head. He looked over impassively, hands resting calmly in a long overcoat. His blonde hair was half brushed back, blonde locks falling over his face.

He would be handsome, but there was a strangeness about him—something disorientating that was hard to place.

Something abnormal.

Yet for moments, seconds that felt like hours, Ian stared transfixed. He loved beauty and power, loved it like he loved nothing else because those things could grant so much. He coveted it, staring at that man with a strange desire.

The man tilted his head, curious. A young face.

Nevertheless, as his heartbeat quickened, thudding throughout his body in warning, he held the gun steady. “Open this door.”

The man smiled, and Ian resisted the urge to leap back, like an animal trapped in a cage. The walls suddenly feel suffocating, and he swallowed. Because that wasn’t a smile—call it a mimickery, a mockery, but it was no smile.

“Why would I do that?”

Ian gritted his teeth. “There’s something of mine in there.”

A raised brow. A faint curve of amusement. “I wasn’t aware that Guides had the luxury of belongings.”

“Believe it or not, we aren’t just rats in a cage.”

“Aren’t you?”

Ian didn’t reply, and lowered the gun to his shoulder. “Open the door, or in three seconds I shoot.” He was running out of time—it took seconds to break a person. Lucian’s condition was unpredictable.

He wished he could leave him; wished he’d never seen Lucian leave the room. It was a terrible thought, but it would’ve saved him.

“One.”

The man coolly examined the empty halls. Nothing seemed to reflect in his dull gaze, flat and indifferent.

Ian gripped the gun tighter. “Two.”

The eyes fell back onto him, seizing his image.

“Three.”

Bang—!

A dark spot bloomed under the man’s jacket, quickly seeping into the dark fabric. Wisps of black and red twirled around the bullet wound, but he stood there, calmly gazing at the gunshot. Ian couldn’t read his expression.

“You shot me,” remarked the man flatly.

Ian stood steady. “I try to keep my promises.”

“I can tell.”

Panic raged in Ian’s chest, screaming in torrents of fear. His breath climbed, feeling the oppression of energy that squeezed around his body, stealing all the air.

He thrust the gun up again, ready to shoot again.

The man didn’t respond. Then, he took a step forward. Then, another. Ian scanned the man’s body, looking for a sliver of skin. One touch and it would be his win.

One touch and he would be in control.

The man’s unstable energy flowed around him, coating him in a shell of gloom and instinctive blood lust. His energy was out of control, but he didn’t look like a person that was losing himself.

He wasn’t on the verge of transforming; becoming another prey to the Infection. What was this man?

He stopped before the door. Slowly, he raised his arm, tugging his sleeve to reveal his scanner wrapped around a defined wrist. It beeped against the keypad, signaling approval.

He stepped to the side. Staring again.

Ian pressed the gun to his palm, scoring it into his skin as he narrowed his eyes. The metal door slid open, and Lucian’s shout of pain entered his ears. He had no time to hesitate, rushing inside.

As he entered the room, his eyes flicked sideways to meet the detached, observing blue eyes. A short space divided them. There was no smile, no pain.

There was nothing at all.