Ian was seated in a small room in an apartment building near the walls surrounding the base’s inner edge. He sat on a creaking wooden chair with a shabby smiley-face pillow as a cushion. It was alarmingly bright—a glaring pink, to be precise.

Posters were layered over each other on the walls, and a tree made of coiling copper and gears stood at the corner. Beside the broken table with two seats, a mattress lay on the ground with a thin sheet to cover it.

The man had left him in this room, scanning his wristband and then telling him to stay put before leaving with the children.

Naturally, Ian disobeyed. It took him around three seconds of silently observing the room to grow bored, so he went to stand by the balcony. The sliding door that had to be lifted slightly before opening, the window faced the inner base.

He saw rows and rows of buildings, high and low. The ones closer to the center were sleek and polished, luxurious compared to Zone 5. With the limited space and growing population, apartments became a standard for cramming humans into living spaces.

The front door creaked open with a rough push, the hinges scraping against the ground. The man entered, sighing with exhaustion as his lively eyes lifted to face Ian.

“Good, you managed to stay put. Well, not where I left you, but it’ll do.”

“Where would I go?”

The man paused. “Good point. You don’t really seem like the obedient type though—trouble follows you, I’d bet.”

Ian frowned. If trouble followed him, then it was the fault of whatever brought the trouble and not him. He was a perfectly obedient and cooperative person. Simply one look at how compliant and meek he was during the bullying attempts told it all.

He conveniently forgot certain violent actions that occurred in between and after those events.

The man laughed, taking in his expression. “You want to disagree, don’t you? Cheeky. Although I’m definitely right.”

He walked over to the attached kitchen which consisted of one counter space, an old stove, and a small fridge. Rummaging through the drawers, he emerged with a lighter and cranked the gas on, lighting the flame after two attempts.

Ian watched the familiar movements as the man settled into his own space, humming a tune and ignoring Ian.

He poured a liquid from the fridge. It was thick and pale in colour, but the aroma that slowly drifted towards Ian was comforting, like the blend of herbs and warmth.

He scooped the soup into two bowls. One had a chip in the corner. The man placed it in front of the empty chair, and then the other before Ian, sliding in to sit.

Once the man bent his head, blowing on a spoon, he looked up.

“Am I that good looking? Hurry up and eat, it’ll get cold. Don’t tell me you waste food.”

Ian shook his head, dipping the spoon in and blowing lightly. The soup slipped into his mouth, sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach. A trail of warmth flowed into him with every swallow, soothing the ache of his bones.

The man, at some point, finished and grinned. It was a playful and wholehearted smile that matched his pink hair.

“Good isn’t it? We may have limited ingredients, but Will’s good at scrounging the best. Although obviously, I’m the better cook.” The man yawned, leaning on his chin. “Oh yeah, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sylvan. And you?”

“Ian.”

“Nice and short. You can call me Syl. My partner’s coming later, and he’s William, but Will is good. Better actually, William is a mouthful when you’re out and about.” He laughed; a bright sound that filled the cracks of the room and made it a home. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Ouch. Really, not even a thank you for the food?”

Ian paused, glancing at his empty bowl, scraped clean. It’d been a while since he’d eaten anything. “Thank you.”

Sylvan grinned brightly. “So you have some manners, don’t you?”

He didn’t speak again, allowing Ian to comfortably finish his food without interruptions. That kind of subtle kindness made Ian more uncomfortable, his body heavy against the painted chair.

He preferred selfishness, the type of people who wouldn’t consider others and do as they pleased. They were easier to understand and easier to hate.

Before long, the door creaked open and a larger, lean man stepped inside with a vest strapped over his chest. He unclipped the sides, draping it by the wall, and looked up with surprise.

He smiled pleasantly in greeting, walking over. “Good evening. You’re Syl’s guest? I’m William, but Will works too.”

Ian nodded. “Ian.”

“Will!” exclaimed Sylvan, launching off his seat to swing his arms around the other in a clinging embrace. William caught him with delight sparking in his intelligent blue eyes. “I found him on the streets while taking care of the kids.”

“How is Zero progressing with his training?”

“Oh, you know that little menace. Pretty good, actually, but he keeps messing around and his energy goes all over the place!”

Ian listened quietly, thinking of the lively young boy. All Guides and Espers were registered in the system, and children were often taken to the Center or a specialized school in the surrounding schools for training.

Weapons could not be allowed to roam freely.

Of course, once their ranking came out and they were separated into worthy and trash piles, things changed. They would go to lower districts and scrounge for living through small tasks, or find another means to utilize their abilities.

However, they were not useful for clearing Rifts. And therefore, by definition of the base, useless to the functioning society.

“An unlicensed Esper,” remarked Ian quietly.

The conversation dropped, and both heads swerved to him. Sylvan opened and closed his mouth, ducking his head and scratching furiously. “Damn!” He spun in the chair, leaning forward. “Listen, don’t you dare say a word! The Academies would be hell for them, especially now.”

Ian tilted his head. “The Academies are designed for specialized training to best utilize their potential. Families receive points as well for their contribution.”

His knowledge of the world was limited, forcing him into weakness. He could steal newspapers of the surface, or eavesdrop on conversations, but he could never have familiarity with a place he didn’t know.

In an old, creaking chair, William took a seat calmly without the burst of anger. He folded his hands neatly, a solemnity appearing in his gentle eyes. But Ian saw the nervousness lining his shoulders, like a little wolf facading elegance. He was protective, of both that man and the children.

The young man wore a facade of maturity as a defense. “Ian, how well informed are you of the situation within the base?”

Ian stared steadily ahead without speaking.

The questioned implicated him—a knowing that he had come from somewhere that limited his knowledge. He noted to himself to be careful in the future.

He couldn’t imagine the life in the Academies where other registered Guides and Espers were said to coexist. It was difficult to imagine a life outside of what he’d known, because wouldn’t it make all their efforts worthless?

Had they merely been born on the surface, they wouldn’t retreat to the agony of being an Esper’s pet. The base’s resource.

William smiled without pressing the subject. “We would appreciate if you didn’t speak to anyone about the children. They’re under our care.”

“Your care,” repeated Ian, tilting his head. “You think that’s the best place for them?”

The responsibility of another’s unpredictable life. He thought that was a terrifying thing. But it was admirable, in the same way that Lucian’s determination provoked admiration. Everybody continued to strive to survive in their subjective manners.

Sylvan clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. “You trying to say it isn’t?”

“No. I wouldn’t know the best place.”

The bland response seemed to diffuse the anger out of the fiery character as he deflated, shaking his head. “You’re a strange one, that’s for sure. Where the hell did you come from, anyway? Wait, no, don’t tell me. You look like somebody with secrets.”

Ian only stared quietly, and Sylvan squirmed in his seat. There was something about that black gaze, both distantly lit with a withering flame and yet devoid of light. A detachment that couldn’t be easily placed.

It made a person both uncomfortable and stricken with a desire to possess that gaze.