DISCLAIMER: This story contains kidnapping, past abuse, mentions of self harm and unhealthy relationship dynamics.
Killer lay on the living room sofa, Snowball, a gentle tuxedo cat, resting comfortably against his dressed ribs at his side. Her low purr vibrated softly, tickling him. The cat's rounded ears twitched at the distant sound. Watching her sleep reminded Killer that this was a luxury he could indulge in anytime.
It was a dream come true, heh. His fingers rubbed Snowball's head, trying not to disturb her sleep, just to make sure she knew he was there. Touching often helped ground him. His mind, oh, it was so fearless when circumstances forced it to be. It happened less often than before, at least.
But all that was in the past. Killer still reminded himself—and when he couldn't believe it on a bad day, Color was there to do it for him.
It was a lazy Monday morning—he knew because the kitten calendar he'd bought had the days marked off in marker—filled with the herbal scent of the golden flower tea that usually filled his stomach at the start of each day.
Sometimes it was just that and a few sugar cookies that Color always brought from the nearby bakery. Other times, just a bit of chocolate chips or some ketchup on his tongue as a sort of placebo for his lackluster appetite. If time had taught him anything, it was that repetition creates habits, and habits produce normality.
Recently, Color had tried to expand his menu. Quite audacious coming from someone who consumed liters of tea with tapioca pearls and whose remnants of plastic cups had become a pile of makeshift flowerpots adorning every corner of his small house. Killer drew on each one to differentiate them while the seeds took their time to nourish themselves under the warm sun of the Omega timeline. With any luck, he'll learn to classify them by the shape of their leaves or the scent they give off when they reach maturity.
It gave him something to look forward to, something that didn't involve hurting himself or others above all else. And something Color could use, too! Perhaps a little rosemary and oregano could season the sauce of a good plate of spaghetti.
Killer really wants to eat spaghetti with Color someday. But for now, the road is long and his pace slow. With the current state of his soul, he can identify the vertigo the idea still stirs within him. There are smells he hasn't learned to tolerate without losing control. Nor textures or sights. Before, he didn't have to worry about any of these tiny inconveniences, but things have been different since he left his past life behind.
A life monopolized by a face and a name he didn't expect—or want—to hear again until today.
"I can't believe what I'm hearing." Color stood there, phone in hand. "This must be hard to process. I'm sorry things have come to this, Dream."
Killer tensed almost reflexively. It wasn't fear, it was that old survival instinct, a kind of guilt by association that made every metaphorical hair on his body stand on end. He knew that if Dream was "regretting" things, it was because he wasn't going to stop searching. People like him don't know when to give up; they need a body to close the book, and Nightmare's body was nowhere to be found.
"Do you think Nightmare is really dead?" Color tried to keep Killer from hearing it, but he caught on almost involuntarily, as if his mind was deliberately betraying him in that moment.
Killer looked at the basement door. That wooden rectangle suddenly seemed a little thinner. He lost interest in it almost immediately.
Dream's reply isn't loud enough to echo in the room, and Killer doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, his soul wavered, fluttering before settling again.
He resigns himself to reality: he's not part of this conversation until Color decides he is—he was the Boss here, after all.
After what feels like an eternity of indiscreet whispers, the landline phone clicks sharply in the living room. It's a small house, the kind where sound travels quickly; Color walks past the closed basement door—that mute wooden rectangle separating the warmth of the living room from the cold of the foundation—and finally enters Killer's field of vision, bathed in the golden light streaming through the bay window opposite the sofa.
Killer knew every single sound in the house by heart. The creaking of the floorboards under the carpet when Color walked, the hiss of the electric water heater, and the heavy silence emanating from the door at the end of the main hallway, the one that led to the lower level and which Color rarely opened since they'd decided life happened only upstairs. For him, that door was simply part of the scenery, a boundary between his bright present and a storage space he didn't need to visit.
Killer curled the edge of his scarf, appreciating the embroidered silhouette of the kitten as Color shuffled across the carpeted floor. He looked...neutral. If that was even a possible mood—Killer was still relearning. There was no anger on his face—his flames didn't have those sharp curves or hiss as he moved—or sadness. He was just someone who wanted to talk about something that was troubling him.
And he was full of conflict, that's for sure. But Color loved him anyways.
He hated the idea of waking Snowball, but Killer needed to sit up straighter for what was supposed to be a long couch chat. Or at least an awkward one.
He watched his friend sit in the empty space next to him, his hands folded in his lap. He was wearing a silly sweater with a picture of a shark wearing sunglasses and pajama pants. It was a stark contrast to the grim news that was about to arrive.
Although "grim" was an exaggeration—or rather, an understatement—if you asked him.
"I see. Did he call you because he feels responsible for what his brother does?" He took his fingers away from Snowball's ears, scratching the space between them instead. "Typical of him"
"I don't know. It's possible," Color said with a grimace, his flames alternating between blue and green. "But Dream already has enough on his plate. I don't want to add to his burden. I think it was good of him to call us."
Ah yes, "us." Killer won't argue with that.
"Did you hear anything we talked about?" Color asks calmly. Killer knows he wants to get to the point, but the wounds are still too fresh to delve too deeply into the matter.
Killer wouldn't mind, but that wasn't a good sign of improvement. Color tried to choose his words carefully and always asked before acting or saying anything. It was a whole protocol he hadn't been aware of until then.
"Something. Not much, to be honest." Killer replies, sitting down on the sofa. Snowball raises her head, looking at him with curious, narrowed eyes, but doesn't protest. She just lies back down, surrendering to laziness.
Maybe she knows it's just sofa talk, too.
His fingers brushed against the cat's ears; the purring stopped as soon as he had to move, so he tried to reassure her that she could do that again, even though they were just having a sofa talk.
"So, Nightmare is dead?" Killer looked up at Color, searching for the truth in this confrontation of gazes. His soul throbbed with anticipation, and a feeling of heaviness grew stronger as the silence stretched on.
Curiosity could kill him.
"No. Apparently, they just...disappeared." The bewilderment in Color's voice spoke louder than his words. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the vase on the coffee table, as if searching for a logical explanation in a universe that had none.
It seemed as if even he couldn't believe something like this.
Killer's eyes widened slightly in what he interpreted as astonishment.
He felt a twinge of something like laughter rising in his throat, but he stifled it before it reached his teeth. His body was moving much faster than his mind could process. His hand stopped petting Snowball, but her happy purr lingered in the air, almost inspired by this controversial news.
There's something euphoric about reality that stirs them. A door opening before him, a world waiting to be discovered.
"I see." There's not much he can say, at least not for now. Killer really wished he could express himself better.
Perhaps it was the intoxicating idea of freedom that robbed him of any ability to express himself.
No. It was something simpler. It was the fact that he was free, plain and simple.
"Dream is worried about where he might be hiding. But he assured me that in his current state, Nightmare no longer seems to be the threat he used to be," Color added, returning his gaze to Killer's, perhaps content with the uncertainty if it brought security.
Oh, how even the great can fall. Killer really felt like laughing now. And he knew Color wouldn't judge him if he did.
He never would, and that was precious in cultivating their friendship.
"It sounds unbelievable. But that doesn't mean it's not possible." Killer sank into the sofa, overcome by an unusual laziness. As if his body were beginning to understand him better.
As if he could allow himself to for the first time in years.
"How do you feel about this?" At another time, Color's choice of words would have made her burst out laughing. But now, they were exactly what she needed to hear.
"Free," Killer gestured, moving her hand toward the soul floating in front of her chest, cupping it between her fingers. "It's like... I don't care about them anymore. And I think my body does too. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, it does," Color replied, unable to leave any room for doubt.
That warmed his soul; it felt like a comforting caress to the very core of his being. Color had that almost enviable ability to soothe any pain that haunted him.
Killer hoped to be able to do the same, or at least try to reach a minimum level that would help him repay each sweet favor.
Perhaps he had two things to look forward to now that he paused to think about it more carefully.
"It's strange...but I can live with this." He finds the words again, motivated by the validation of his emotions. His soul became a swaying heart.
"I think for the first time I feel like I can live in general," Killer says, surprised by the tone in his own voice. A hint of relief and hope sweetly intertwined.
"I'm glad to hear it, Killer. I really am." Color had made a habit of reinforcing his words whenever he spoke honestly. And while Killer didn't need it, like everything Color did, he treasured it.
Ah. Freedom. What a beautiful and terryfying fantasy. And Killer can begin to live it properly.
Time on the Omega Line has that static quality, like a Sunday afternoon that refuses to end. For Killer, the days had become a choreography of small tasks that kept the remnants of his old life at bay. Although he began to see it more as a consequence of his progress and not as some kind of strict guide to follow in his new life.
Now he did the things he wanted to do without anyone telling him how or when. The other day, for example, he was in the yard with Snowball. They sat together in the shade of a mulberry tree that stood by the wall separating their house from the others. The scent of crushed mulberries filled the spring air along with the natural fragrance of the flowers.
It was...mundane and casual. And Killer liked it. Color was complaining that the mulberries were soiling the house's tiled floor too quickly, and every day he painstakingly picked each one before watering and mopping, with the patience only someone with a zest for life can possess. He told him that eating them was a bad idea, and leaving them wasn't an option either.
Killer watched him struggle from his spot on the ground, his back against the trunk of the mulberry tree. Snowball was trying to hunt a blackberry that had rolled near his paws, oblivious to the affectionate domestic tension that was brewing. Color was still hunched over, with a bucket of water and a brush, scrubbing a dark stain with a determination that bordered on obsessive.
"It's ridiculous how terribly one of these things can stain," said Color, continuing to scrub, his voice heavy with the weariness of someone who no longer has the energy for grand tragedies and prefers to focus on the trivial.
"Heh, certainly, something so small and so disastrous sounds like a joke of creation," Killer added with a smile that barely revealed his teeth. "Do you need help?"
Killer looked at the blackberry that Snowball had just squashed. The color of the tiles was intense, an almost black violet that seeped into the cracks of the cement, painting purple veins. It was the kind of mundane concern only those who have survived the worst can afford. He understood that this clean tile was the only order Color could control.
He also understood that control wasn't necessarily associated with something bad.
"I'd appreciate it. We have to remove them all before they fall again tomorrow," Color replied, straightening up with a creaking of his vertebrae that betrayed the weight of years. He wiped his forearm with a tired gesture.
Killer stood up with a slowness that Color interpreted as laziness. He approached the bucket, feeling the afternoon sun pierce his bones, and bent down to pick up a handful of blackberries that had escaped the brush.
"More will fall tomorrow, and the day after that too," Killer said, his voice calm as he placed the fruit in the trash bag the other had designated. "It just grows. That's what it does."
Color watched his slightly blurry reflection in the murky water of the bucket, the afternoon sun glinting off the surface. He let out a long sigh, watching Killer work with methodical precision, as committed to cleanliness as he was to himself.
"I'd rather wrestle with a tree than let the house get stained. We've had enough mess for a long time. Don't you think?"
They worked in silence for a while. Killer concentrated on the cracks in the cement, making sure not a trace of the dark juice remained. It was repetitive, almost hypnotic work. Snowball, bored with the lack of action, jumped onto the wall and watched them from above, like a sphinx judging their efforts.
"I think we got enough done today." Color finally spoke again, looking around. The pottery wasn't as stained anymore, though he could still see some old, dried streaks. "If I keep bending over, I feel like my back's going to snap."
They stood for a moment on the clean patio, enjoying the breeze. Killer wiped his hands in the bucket, noticing how the sweet scent of the fruit lingered on his white fingers.
"We should cool off a bit," he suggested, cracking his joints as he stretched. His silly gardener was covered in blackberry juice.
The wind that blew made the tree branches rustle with a soft, echoing creak. Then, with a swift flick of his wrist, the water in the bucket splashed out, bouncing onto Color's face in a small, cool spray.
Color froze for a second, his eyes wide as the cold water trickled down his jaw, dimming the glow of his flames. Killer held his gaze, that tiny, sharp smile on his face, waiting for retaliation, not screams.
"Seriously?" Color blinked, shaking his head like a wet dog. "You're lucky I'm too tired to drown you in that bucket, Killer."
"You were the one who said we needed to cool off," Killer retorted, shrugging with a feigned innocence that he pulled off quite well.
Color let out a short, mocking laugh, wiping his face with his hand. He didn't give him another word, retrieving the hose from the ground and squirting a stream of water directly at Killer.
Silence reigned once more, a subtle harbinger of the chaos to come. Killer felt the damp clothes against his bones, the collar of his turtleneck sweater swollen with water, dripping down his chest and arms. He stood there, dripping, feeling the water seep through the vertebrae of his neck and soak the hem of his athletic shorts. If it had been anyone else, at any other time in his life, that skeleton would no longer have a head. But it was Color. And it was just another Tuesday on the Omega Timeline.
"You're not getting away with this," Killer muttered, shaking himself like Snowball as a genuine smile, not one of those defensive grimaces, spread across his face.
His hand gripped the bucket handle, and Color, laughing, raised the hose, adopting a defensive stance.
"Don't even think about it, Killer!" Color warned, taking a step back as the water continued to spray harmlessly onto the lawn. "If you get the doormat wet, you'll be drying it yourself with a hairdryer!"
Killer didn't reply. He simply stepped to the side with that agility Color always admired and, in one fluid motion, emptied the rest of the bucket. Color tried to shield himself with the hose, but it was useless; the water hit him squarely in the face, soaking his overalls and causing his flames to hiss comically as they went out. His eye sockets blackened, murky water trickling from his nose and the cracks in his skull. It was like watching a fruit juice fountain in action.
Oh, getting used to this was a lot easier than Killer ever thought.
Some time later, they decided the house needed a bit of "spring cleaning." Snowball decided to help too, chasing after the dust bunnies Color swept up on the floor while Killer dusted the cushions and replaced the covers with new ones. He'd found a new way to feel satisfied without it involving destroying anything (or anyone).
Killer dropped the cushion onto the sofa with a thud, raising a tiny cloud of dust that Snowball scrambled to catch. The air in the living room was thick, heavy with that lemon scent Color loved so much and that was starting to give Killer a headache. He stretched, feeling the fabric of his new sweatshirt—one Color had bought him just last week—tighten against his shoulder blades.
"I'd like to empty the upstairs closet. There's a lot of stuff that doesn't need a place up there," Color added, exhaling as he wiped the sweat from his head with his wrist. "Especially since you've been nagging me to get you some new clothes."
Killer kept rubbing the porcelain figurine in his hands. It was a swan, or something like it, one of those trinkets Color insisted on keeping because they "made the house feel warm." The room was crammed with odds and ends because empty spaces weren't a pretty sight, again, according to Color. And lots of picture frames that needed dusting.
"Dusting" It's a distasteful word.
“Every time I asked you if I should wear them, you told me I looked, and I quote, ‘very good’ in them,” Killer added defensively, holding another of the figurines—a dolphin—between his thumb and forefinger, applying just enough pressure not to break it.
His fingers, now stronger, possessed a memory of strength that domestic peace tried to suppress. He polished the curved surface of the dolphin’s back until it shone, treating the piece with the same absolute care one uses to handle a fragile secret. “It’s your fault for spoiling me.”
“Oh, you like it when I do,” he said, smiling as if that absolved him of blame.
“So do you. This is mutual,” Killer concluded petulantly, ending the banter for the time being.
Color continued humming, sweeping the dust bunnies with Snowball. Killer glanced at the coffee table. There was a plate of cookies from the local bakery, the kind with that chocolate rim that Killer knew Nightmare would despise for being "too plain." With a movement that seemed pure inertia, Killer grabbed one and slipped it into his pants pocket. It was quick, the gesture of someone who'd been hiding things for years, but Color, who had a special radar for Killer's movements, caught it out of the corner of his eye as he packed away the dirty laundry.
"Cookies before dinner?" Color's tone wasn't scolding, but genuinely surprised, tilting his head slightly.
"I like the ones with chocolate coating," Killer simply said, feeling the light weight of the cookie in his pocket.
A sweet indulgence for later.
"Okay. If you help me empty the boxes, I'll let you have more of those."
Killer left the rag on the counter and headed into the hallway. Snowball, sensing a new opportunity to play, trotted after him, peeking curiously when the box came into view. He found the cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs; the cardboard was slightly worn and smelled of that stale air of closed closets.
He sat on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the basement door, and began to rummage through it. He pulled out a dark, heavy, and rough-to-the-touch fabric: his old black sweater. It had stains that were now part of the fabric and the scent of a life Killer preferred not to recall in too much detail.
It was covered in dust from being locked away and had a few holes in the sleeves. Killer no longer remembered the reason behind each one, nor did he think he needed to.
With a curious impulse, he tried to put it on over his current clothes. He slipped one arm in, then the other, and when he tried to adjust the garment over his shoulders, a sharp, violent crack of tearing fibers broke the silence of the hallway. The seam at his armpit and right shoulder simply popped under the pressure of his own body. The sound was as resounding as if he'd smashed his head against the pavement.
At least it felt like it, judging by the way his soul lurched.
Killer lay still, his arm half-caught in a web of musty fabric that looked ready to tear with every small movement.
Color joined him, drawn by what might have been the commotion or the heavy silence that followed.
"Are you okay, Killer?" he asked, watching him from the far end of the hallway. His body was blocking the closed basement door.
"Yeah, I was just...trying this thing on," Killer assured him, struggling to pull the sweater off.
Color walked over to him, sitting on the floor to help him, only to witness the material's tenacity firsthand.
"It's tight," he hissed, trying to pull it up. "I can take it off if you want, but we'll have to rip it in the process."
Killer said nothing, weighing his words. He shouldn't have hesitated to reply, but Color didn't judge him for doing so.
"Cut it," Killer said decisively. "It's no use to me anymore."
Color nodded and stood up to find some scissors in the kitchen. He returned a moment later and, with a couple of precise cuts, finished freeing Killer from the black fabric. The sweater fell to the floor, reduced to a pile of useless rags that Snowball began to sniff suspiciously.
Killer rubbed his shoulder, feeling the relief of the circulation returning to his arm. The sensation of the seam bursting still vibrated in his soul, but it was brief, dissipating almost immediately.
"You've definitely gained weight," Color commented, observing the remains on the floor with a mixture of pride and melancholy.
"I told you it was your fault for spoiling me," Killer retorted, standing up and brushing the dust off his new pants. "That thing was garbage anyway."
The kitten calendar accumulated black marker cross-outs, one after another, without any crisis interrupting the sequence.
The weeks that followed that conversation on the sofa weren't an explosion of changes, but a steady trickle of small victories that began to accumulate, laying the foundation for a space that Killer learned to call home.
Nightmare's disappearance soon became a news story that aged quickly, a whisper that the wind of the Omega Line eventually dissipated. For the rest of the multiverse, the King of Nightmares was a fading urban legend; for Color's house—and Killer, it could now be said—he was simply a name no longer spoken, like a stain finally removed from the carpet.
Killer stood in front of the window, small scissors in hand, assessing the rosemary's health. His fingers, which had previously only known the cold of a knife handle, caressed the evergreen leaves with an almost reverential delicacy.
The cut was clean. The resinous aroma flooded his senses, and for a second, Killer allowed himself to savor it. There was no urgency. No shouting. Just the sound of Color humming a nonsensical tune in the kitchen and the cat's paws against his ankles.
"Hey Red, would you mind giving me a hand? You know I'm not very good with knives!" Color's voice came from the kitchen, soft, somewhat timid.
Killer looked away from the row of plastic cups, now replaced by ceramic pots he himself had helped paint on one of the many rainy afternoons they'd had lately. Today was no exception. The rosemary and oregano were no longer just promises, but robust plants that filled the window nook with a fresh, earthy scent.
"I'm coming," Killer assured him, wiping the dirt from his fingers with a dish towel.
He placed the herbs on a ceramic plate and took a moment to look at his own hands. They were clean. There was no trace of the black stains of determination, nor of the blood of universes that no longer existed. He felt like a new man, or at least, a very well-rehearsed version of one.
He entered the kitchen and found Color battling a mountain of tomatoes and onions. Steam was already beginning to fog the windows, and the air was warm, almost stifling from the humidity rising from the pot.
"The rosemary grew really well," said Killer, placing the plate of herbs on the counter.
"Oh! We should add them then," Color exclaimed, stepping aside.
Killer chopped the ingredients with absolute concentration. It wasn't just cooking; it was a language he had learned to respect. Every cut, the order of the seasonings, the steam rising from the pot... everything echoed someone who was no longer there, but whose presence Color kept alive in every dish. It was a sacred ritual.
Cooking was, in most cases—only if Color was involved—a very enjoyable task.
"If you didn't want to chop anything, why didn't you use the blender?"
Color looked at him with a guilt that didn't stem from a sin, but from a shameful secret that, thankfully, he wanted to share.
"It's just that I like watching you in action," the truth slipped out with a snort that made the words tremble, "I mean, the movement of your wrist, you know? It looks great when you chop things non-lethally."
It never ceased to be funny to watch him try and fail. Killer laid the knife on the cutting board next to the onions and chopped tomato and rested both hands on the kitchen island.
"That was terrible," he finally said, with a small smile.
"Oh, let me have a win this time, okay?" Color pleaded, getting to work crushing the tomatoes while he finished chopping the rest of the ingredients.
Dinner became a slow, almost choreographed process. Killer watched the sauce bubble in the pot, releasing the aroma of the rosemary he himself had tossed in minutes before. Watching Color move around the kitchen, avoiding sharp edges but handling the heat with calm confidence, gave Killer a sense of stability that still felt strange.
They sat down at the table, and the steam rising from the dishes filled the space between them. Killer took the first bite, chewing with a slowness he hadn't possessed before. He remembered the days when eating was a biological necessity, something he did standing up, quickly, always alert for the next order, the next massacre. Sometimes by force. Now, the simple act of savoring the pasta, of noticing the acidity of the tomato and the freshness of the herb on his palate, felt like a silent rebellion against his own past.
There was something different about him. He could feel it in the way his hand no longer trembled as he held the fork, in how the vertigo he used to feel in the face of calm had transformed into a heavy, sweet comfort. He glanced at Color, who was talking enthusiastically about how ceramic pots retained moisture better than plastic cups. Killer nodded at just the right moments, joining in on this trivial conversation that he would have previously considered a complete waste of time.
Sometimes everything seemed so sweetened in an unreal way that the fear of waking up and realizing it was all a fantasy woven by his mind throbbed in the back of his head.
His soul didn't twist as much as before, marking a rhythm between the full peak of his emotions and a gentle numbness at times.
Even if Color couldn't stop looking at him with concern when stage two returned, he still had that gift of patience with him that helped so much in this long process.
"Does it taste so good you're speechless?" Color asked, pausing to take a sip of juice.
Killer put down his fork and stared at the now-empty plate. The change wasn't just sitting there; it was the fact that he didn't want to be anywhere else. It was experiencing satiety again after a good meal. It was being able to eat spaghetti and not associate each bite with a gnawing guilt that gnawed at his soul. It was living in peace with himself for the first time in many years.
"No, I've just been thinking about how I got here," Killer pricked the edge of his eye socket with a finger, a thoughtful gesture he'd recently developed, "and that you were right. I just needed... to be able to choose for myself for once. I'm grateful to you for that."
"I don't regret helping you then."
Color smiled at him, one of those smiles that reached his flames and made them glow with a vibrant blue. They lingered at the table a while longer, sharing what remained of the golden flower tea while Snowball lurked beneath their chairs, hoping for a crumb that never came. Killer felt grounded, real, as if he had finally put down roots in that small house on the Omega Line.
Everything that mattered to him was here, under this very roof.
Sooner rather than later, midnight finally arrived.
The glow of the television bathed them both, lying close together on the sofa. Snowball had long since retired to sleep on the cushion she herself had adopted as her bed; her body a black and white bundle that rose and fell to the rhythm of a low purr, lying on her side with her little paws outstretched. She looked comfortable, and it was a sight that inspired one to lie down beside her.
"Don't stay up too late."
Color let out a long yawn that testified to his weariness; his flames had diminished, small and rounded, flowing like a lava lamp. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes, giving him an unusually gloomy appearance.
Killer nodded, though his gaze remained glued to the screen, where images flickered by in a constant cycle of blue and gray lights. The television screen flickered in his empty eye sockets.
"Just a little while longer. I want to see how this ends," he said gently.
Color didn't press the issue. He gave him a friendly pat on the face, a gesture laden with that blind trust that still made Killer's stomach churn, and stood up with a muffled groan. It was the kind of affection that asked for nothing in return, and that was precisely what made it so difficult to process. Color looked at him and didn't see the killer collecting dust from his victims; he saw a friend who was finally being able to get some sleep at night.
"See you tomorrow," he murmured before heading upstairs.
He heard the click of Color's door and the absolute silence that followed. He didn't move for five minutes. His fingers drummed on his skull, tracing the outline of his face.
Killer waited a while, counting each second by the beat of his recovered soul. He waited in the darkness of the living room, broken only by the glare of the outside lights reflecting off the clean screen of the television in front of him. His silhouette was barely visible on the glass; the red beam of his soul helped to better define the contours of his face and the white bone of his neck, like a red warning amidst the domestic peace.
He got up silently, skipping the third step because he knew it creaked with a dry groan. But Killer descended the stairs with deliberate slowness, not because he was afraid Color would hear him (an impossible feat considering how much of a sleeper he was), but because he enjoyed the ritual. He descended each step at a snail's pace, feeling the air grow denser, heavier, as the warmth of the upper floor receded behind him.
Below, the aroma of tea and clean wood from the house vanished, replaced by the stale smell of confinement, old dust, and a metallic tinge that clung to the tongue. The landing was heavy, a dull thud of his soles against the concrete that echoed in the enclosed space. Killer reached for the light switch. The main light flickered a couple of times before flooding the room with a harsh, yellowish glow that made his eye sockets ache.
He walked past the jumble of boxes, into his work area. On a long, metal table—cold to the touch and with rust stains at the corners—lay his collection. Glass jars where old blood had thickened to the consistency of tar; vials of monster powder so fine it resembled ash; and small containers where fragments of broken souls emitted a pale pulse, a vibration Killer could feel in his fingertips.
His way of keeping his hands—and his mind—busy, but also an endless quest for self-discovery. Color never went down; It was a complicated issue for him, but he respected Killer's "therapeutic privacy." He understood that this was his way of dealing with his condition. This willingness to refrain from judgment made everything easier.
Not having to give explanations always made everything simpler, really. Perhaps he was becoming a little indifferent. But if someone were in his situation, if someone lived like him, they could understand.
Not that Killer was interested in being understood. Not by the masses who looked down their noses at him every time he wandered around with Color in public, at least.
Anyway, this wasn't the time to stray from what mattered.
"This place is a bit crowded," Killer muttered. His voice sounded different down here, rougher, losing the softness he reserved for sofa conversations. He walked between the shelves, dodging stacked boxes containing remnants of a life that no longer belonged to him. His words slipped between trinkets and medical instruments. "The window's too small, but the sun still gets in pretty well."
Killer stopped in front of the pale figure barely distinguishable among the shadows of the boxes and covered shelves. No, it hadn't moved. It was still there, like just another piece of furniture no one bothered to dust. Its presence was merely a trace of cold that the dim lightbulb couldn't warm. A skeletal whiteness that melted—at times—into the gray of the concrete walls, as if it could merge with them.
Killer crouched down in front of him, mimicking the relaxed posture he usually had upstairs on the sofa. He took the chocolate cookie from his pocket and placed it on the cement, right at the edge where the mattress began. The crunch of the treat against the floor was the only thing that filled the void of words the other refused to utter.
"I did what I could in the short time I had. I hope you can forgive the mess," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the exposed pipes and the low ceiling. "But the good news is, no one's going to bother you. You've always valued your precious privacy. We have that in common. You and I."
The figure didn't look up from the floor. Only the gentle movement of fingers on his knees betrayed that he was listening. Killer reached out and, with deliberate slowness, brushed against the edge of the other's eye socket, repeating the gesture Color had made to him in the living room. The contact was icy, but Killer didn't back away.
"They said it's going to get cooler tomorrow. An autumnal front in the middle of spring. These things happen. At least that's what I heard," Killer remarked, his voice flat, almost conversational. "I should get you another blanket. We don't want you catching a cold, do we, Boss?"
Killer remained squatting for a moment longer, savoring the weight of the last word in the air. He used it as a reminder, a thread that still bound them, but whose end Killer now held tightly, coiled around his own hand.
And, in that moment, the clarity that washes over him is as illuminating as the golden sunlight that filters through the kitchen window each morning.
Everything that matters to him was here, under this very roof.
