Hello everyone this is my writing blog (somewhat) and I'll be posting some of the chapters from my forever incomplete novels and other stuffs.
Some facts to know about me.
Female
18 years
Leo
ENFJ
Indian Muslim
I aspire to become a writer. And a Criminal Psychologist
Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw
You can kidnap me with the temptation of a proper Hyderabadi Biryani, free books, free calligraphy pens and a personal person who can type out the story that i have in my mind for me because i will only procrastinate.
Tell me what else should I add. Masterlist underneath ⬇️⬇️👇👇👇
MASTERLIST
(Old to New)
Keyper
The Moonchild & The Starboy
Nawabs
Two Strangers
Trouble (close to him)
And They Were Roommates
Yellow Like Sunflower
Saved By The Devil Himself
Sun Goddess
Tainted
The Beauty and The Jewel
The Library of The Dead
Royal Detective
Pretty Boy Across The Street pt. , pt.2
Wingwoman
Bibliophiles pt 1, pt2
Sunshine For Two
Quill & Court
The Black Rose
Enter The Killer
Whispers of Shadow & Love pt1 (WoS&L, i don't remember which one is the pt2 pt3 so..) OCs, OCs pt2, Facts, Moodboards, Moodboard 2
Love Thy Enemy
Fragile Feelings
Trees Of The Wretched
Rebel's Crown
Penna Luna
Forbidden Flames
TToTK&HK pt1, pt2, pt3, Moodboard, chapter reboot
Bound By The Shadows
Anchored Hearts , pt1
Legacy of Creation, Moodboard
Paradox Paragon
The Devil's Advocate
Transcendent Allies/ Crossing Realms, OCs
Beyond The Pages , OCs , ch1, Moodboard
A Matter of Time, Ch1, OCs
Shades of Erudition, Introduction
The Shadows We Cast,
A Future Unwritten
The Veil of Allegiance, ch1
Thorn-Kissed
The Silence That Binds Us, Questionnaire 1, Questionnaire 2,
Moon Seolmin has spent three years building the life he was never supposed to have. As the visual and main vocalist of VYRE — a six-member boy group on the edge of global breakout — and the actor behind the tragic heartthrob of On the Day the Snow Falls, he is, by every visible measure, human perfection. What no one on his team, in his fandom, or in his family knows is that Seolmin is a dokkaebi: a centuries-old spirit wearing the shape of a twenty-something idol, bound by old rules he barely remembers agreeing to and hiding in the one place no one would think to look for a monster, under stage lights, in front of a hundred cameras.
Ahn Gyeoul has spent her life training for a war most of the world doesn't know is being fought. Descended from a line of demon hunters, she stepped into acting as the perfect cover: a mystery-drama darling with a face made for magazine covers and a body built for extraction, exorcism, and the kill. When she's cast opposite Seolmin in House of Nightmares — a psychological horror series about a house that hunts the people who hunt it — it isn't a coincidence. Her organization has traced a string of unexplained deaths back to the production, and she's been sent to find the demon responsible.
She doesn't know it's her co-star. He knows exactly what she is the moment she walks into the first script read.
As filming pulls them into every kind of forced intimacy — press tours, late-night reshoots, scenes that ask them to perform trust they don't yet have — both are forced to become the best liars of their careers. But the deaths on set are real, and neither of them is the one responsible. Something older and hungrier has been drawn to the production, feeding on the very horror they're pretending to fear. To survive it, hunter and hunted will have to become allies, and then, despite every rule either of them was raised on, something else entirely.
Character Intro
Moon Seolmin
Age: Appears 24 |
Position: Main Vocalist, Visual, Actor
True nature: Dokkaebi
Seolmin has worn a lot of names over the years, but "Moon Seolmin" is the one he's grown fondest of, mostly because it's the first one anyone ever loved for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. Centuries of dokkaebi instinct — mischief, contrariness, a magpie's attraction to shiny things and interesting people — now get routed into stage presence and interviews he over-prepares for out of sheer nervous habit. He plays tragic leading men on screen and privately finds real grief a little difficult to sit with, which is its own kind of joke he doesn't tell anyone. He is, underneath the charm, extremely good at being alone, he's had a lot of practice. Meeting Gyeoul is the first time in a long time something has felt genuinely dangerous, and he hates how much he likes that.
Wants: To keep this life — this exact one, with these five idiots he calls his group — for as long as it can possibly last.
Fears: Being known and immediately lost, the way it's always gone before.
Ahn Gyeoul
Age: 25 |
Known for: The Secret of that Day |
True nature: Demon Hunter
Gyeoul was handed a blade before she was handed a script, and she's never fully forgiven her family for making both feel like inheritances she didn't get to refuse. Acting was supposed to be the cover story; somewhere along the way it became the one part of her life that isn't about duty, and she resents how much that scares her. She is precise, controlled, and privately furious at how her body keeps reacting to Seolmin in ways her training has no clean label for, hyperawareness she's spent a career mistaking for professional instinct, until it very clearly isn't. She does not trust easily. She trusts him even less, on principle, and it's driving her quietly insane that principle keeps losing.
Wants: To finish the job, go home, and stop feeling like the job has stopped being the point.
Fears: That the thing she's hunting might be the first thing that's ever hunted her back and that she wouldn't mind losing.
INTRODUCING, VYRE
Ryu Sihwan "Sol"
Age: 26 |
Position: Leader, Producer, Main Dancer
The one holding the group together with sheer stubbornness and a spreadsheet. Sol produces half of VYRE's discography himself and treats the other members' wellbeing like a project deadline he refuses to miss. He's the most likely to notice something is wrong with Seolmin before anyone says a word, he's built his whole role around noticing things first.
Oh Yeonwoo
Age: 24 |
Position: Lead Rapper, Sub-Vocal
Sharp-tongued in interviews, softer than he'd ever admit backstage. Yeonwoo writes most of his own verses and has an unnervingly good read on people's moods, which he mostly uses to make fun of them. He and Seolmin have the easy, needling closeness of two people who've never had to explain themselves to each other.
Xiao Haoran "Kove"
Age: 23 |
Position: Sub-Vocal, Variety King
The group's chaos engine and the reason half their content goes viral. Kove's entire public persona is "harmless goofball," which makes him an excellent unintentional cover whenever something strange happens around Seolmin, nobody questions weirdness that Kove's probably behind anyway.
Kim Jaehwi "Luo"
Age: 21 |
Position: Main Rapper, Maknae
The youngest, and allergic to being treated like it. Luo idolizes Seolmin a little more than he'd ever say out loud, which means he's also the first to get hurt if he ever finds out what's really being hidden from him.
Fujiwara Reito
Age: 24 |
Position: Lead Vocalist, Face of the Group
The member with the most to lose from any scandal, and the one who ends up closest to the truth. Reito is quieter than the others, watchful in a way that reads as reserved on camera and is actually just constant, careful attention. He notices Seolmin slipping first, and has to decide what kind of member, and what kind of friend, he wants to be once he does.
Star: The dead become stars, he'd heard people say at funerals, and standing in Dawon's empty dressing room, Yushin thought that was the cruelest thing anyone had ever invented to make loss sound beautiful. (SECOND SKIN)
Fate: He had no word for what Isae was, only the bone-deep certainty that fate was too small a word for something this old. (NEITHER SHORE)
Wish: "I don't wish for things anymore," Sauzer said, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve. "I make arrangements." (VESTITURE)
Future: She had no face for hope, but her future wore his name anyway. (READ ME WRONG)
your words are : Threshold, Hollow, Thread, Mirror
When beloved actor Choi Dawon is found murdered, Detective Im Yushin is assigned the case. Before he can file the evidence that would break it open, he's killed in a parking garage and wakes up in the body of Heo Maru, a C-list actor and one of Dawon's closest friends.
With no badge, no body, and a killer still walking free, Yushin does the only thing he knows how to do: keep investigating. From inside the industry that destroyed Dawon, he starts pulling threads. To get answers, Yushin needs access he doesn't have. That means getting close to Woo Heon, WH Group's formidable CEO, the most powerful man in Korean entertainment, and, as it turns out, someone already investigating Dawon's death for reasons he hasn't told anyone.
What follows is a calculated give-and-take between two people who are both using each other and both know it, layered with buried guilt, slow-burning tension, and the growing weight of a case that neither of them can walk away from.The truth, when it fully assembles, is worse than either expected. Justice, when it comes, is partial. And what remains between them afterward is something neither planned for.
Characters Intro
Heo Maru, 26
C-list actor. Warm, gentle, genuinely loved by the people who knew him. Was Dawon's closest friend in the industry. His body is now occupied by someone who shares none of his softness, but is slowly, involuntarily, inheriting his grief.
Im Yushin, 34
Violent Crimes detective. Brilliant, emotionally sealed, constitutionally incapable of leaving a case unsolved. Currently dead, inhabiting Maru's body, and deeply unimpressed by the entertainment industry. Cannot act. Will not stop investigating.
Woo Heon, 33
CEO of WH Group, Korea's largest entertainment conglomerate. Has been on three GQ covers and considers this roughly as relevant as his blood type. Noticed something was wrong with Maru and said nothing, because he wanted to understand it first.
Ryu Kiwoon, 35
Yushin's frenemy and reluctant accomplice. Flashier, more politically intelligent, equally stubborn. The only person in the story who talks to Yushin like Yushin. Did not sign up for any of this and showed up anyway.
Choi Dawon, 28 (deceased)
The reason everything happens. Warm, privately exhausted, quietly surviving things no one knew about until he decided to stop surviving quietly.
YOOOOOOO HE LOOKS DASHING YUHGXSZEWRSTRYGHJBNLKM
he's my spirit animal, frfr. i love how he is completely nonchalant wearing stolen and prison outfit. the best thing about him is that he looks like a serious person but i know people will feel betrayed when they get pranked by him lololol.
Zivi has spent centuries learning how to be alone without calling it loneliness. As a swan spirit and manuscript conservator in a quiet lakeside town, he has made a careful life, one built around beautiful, fragile things that ask nothing of him in return. He knows what love costs. He watched it hollow his father from the inside after his mother died, and he decided, quietly and completely, that he would never let it do the same to him.
Then Tài'ān opens a teahouse at the edge of town with no particular announcement, and Zivi walks in once for the silence, and keeps coming back without entirely meaning to.
Tài'ān is an immortal Qilin, old as rivers, warmer than he has any right to be, with a glint of mischief in his eyes and centuries of grief folded somewhere beneath it. He has saved kingdoms and buried friends and grown tired of grand stories. He is not looking for Zivi, he simply finds him, naturally and without force, and realizes he has found something worth staying still for.
Characters
Zivi
Swan spirit · manuscript conservator
Soft-spoken and observant, Zivi notices the world in small increments, the way light moves across a lake, how silence can feel warm or cold depending on who shares it. He chose a life of delicate, untouchable things because they cannot leave. What he calls solitude, others might call self-preservation. His swan nature pulls toward fidelity and lifelong bonds; he has spent years resisting it.
"Love doesn't end when someone dies. It keeps going and has nowhere to go. I watched what that does to a person."
Tài'ān
Immortal Qilin · teahouse keeper
Wise, warm, and quietly mischievous, Tài'ān carries centuries without wearing them heavily, most of the time. He chose smallness deliberately: a teahouse, good tea, unhurried mornings. He does not fall in love with Zivi so much as settle into him, the way one settles into a chair that turns out to be exactly right. His immortal nature means that to truly love Zivi is to keep him, longer than either of them yet understands.
"I've buried everyone I loved. I would do it again. The having was always worth the losing."
Kǎiruò
Phoenix · forgets, returns, loves again
Warm as sunlight and unpredictable as fire, Kǎiruò burns brightly and forgets cleanly with every rebirth. His love is instinctive rather than remembered, he finds Lǐrán again each time not because he recalls him, but because something deeper does. He leaves ash and flower petals wherever he walks and has written the same poem dozens of times believing it new each time. His wings emerge only in moments of extreme emotion.
"Did I love you in the last life too?" — asked with the same earnestness, every time.
Lǐrán
Celestial Dragon · remembers everything
Serene, ancient, quietly sarcastic. Lǐrán is a living archive, his true form coils around forgotten libraries, and the characters on his robes rearrange when he is angry. He has watched Kǎiruò die and be reborn nine times. He has found him every time. He burns certain pages from his records to spare Kǎiruò pain, which is perhaps the most quietly devastating thing a being of preservation has ever done for love.
The kingdom of Lǐ has not known clean governance in living memory. Generations of emperors looked away, distracted, flattered, surrounded by men who learned long ago that the performance of loyalty is more profitable than the practice of it. The courts are theatrical, justice is purchased, the dead stay buried under whatever verdict convenience requires.
Lǐ Chénfēng is not his ancestors. Young, severe, and possessed of a patience his court mistakes for inexperience, the new emperor has been watching and counting since before he was crowned. His brothers — born of concubines and secondary queens — have been quietly settled into diminished roles, their ambitions absorbed or neutralized. None can rival him, the throne is secure. Now he moves, not with armies or proclamations, but with something quieter and therefore more dangerous.
He builds a bureau that answers to no seal but his own. To offend its members is to offend the throne itself. He calls it, Tiānyǎn Sī.
Cast
Lǐ Chénfēng
The Emperor
Still center of the story. Has been planning this bureau since before anyone realized he was planning anything.
Chén Wǎnlín
Lead Investigator
Synthesizes everything the others find into the complete picture. Sees the whole where others see only pieces.
Wáng Xuányuè
Voice Analysis
Reads lies, origins, and hidden emotion through how people speak. Cold, still, unsettling. Has a crow.
Yáng Méiyín
Scene Reconstruction
Spatial intuition. reads rooms, crime scenes, sequences of events. Trained in both classical dance and combat.
Zhāng Jìngchuān
Calculation & Patterns
Follows numbers where they were never meant to lead. Forgeries, logistics, financial crimes.
Liú Yúnqī
Medical Coroner
Speaks for the dead with precision the living cannot refute. Warm and gentle; grieves every victim.
Yáng Sùhé
Field Operative
Méiyín's twin. Was never supposed to be here. Recruited after the carriage incident. Extraordinarily agile; trained in both martial arts and classical dance.
Zhào Qīnglán
First Female General
Chénfēng's childhood sweetheart and only love. The kingdom's first female general. Slightly unnerved by Sùhé and entirely unwilling to admit it.
Nickname: Rita, exclusively by Vishrutā, and only in private.
Age: 24
Kind of being: Human.
Gender: Woman
Appearance: Deep rich brown skin, the kind that catches firelight and holds it. Darker than Vishrutā by several shades. Black hair, naturally curly, dense, and voluminous. Strong-featured face, jaw that holds tension well, dark eyes that do not move away from things, a mouth that defaults to a straight line and breaks into something startling when she is genuinely amused. Full gold jewelry worn into combat without removal.
Occupation: Officially, handmaiden of middling rank in Princess Vishrutā's retinue. Vishrutā's primary intelligence operative, personal protector, most trusted advisor, and the only person in either kingdom whose threat assessment Vishrutā fully defers to.
Currently operating under the cover identity Madanikā, wealthy South Asian patron of the merchant quarter, frivolous, spendthrift, flirtatious, and aggressively unbothered by anything as tedious as consequences.
Family members: Vishrutā Chandravansha: half-sister. The Mahārāja of Chandrakaṭa: biological father. Her mother, The legitimate siblings
Pets: None currently. In Chandrakaṭa she had a dog, large, ungainly, deeply stupid, and devoted to her.
Best friends: Vishrutā. There is no one else she would call a best friend.
Her room: In Zarinzar she occupies a handmaiden's quarters, small, functional, appropriate to her official rank. She requested the room at the end of the corridor specifically: one window overlooking the eastern courtyard, the door visible from the sleeping position, two exits if you count the window which she does. The room is almost entirely bare. What is there: a sleeping mat and one blanket. A small locked chest containing things she does not discuss. A knife under the mat, another inside the door frame, a third somewhere she will not specify. A single oil lamp. On the windowsill, a cutting of jasmine in a clay cup of water.
When she is operating as Madanikā she keeps separate quarters in the merchant district that are extravagantly, almost offensively appointed. Silk everywhere. Three mirrors. Enough perfume to constitute a weather system.
Way of speaking: Sparse. Direct to the point of occasional social alarm. She says what she means, means what she says, and has very little patience for the performance of meaning something else.
Physical characteristics (posture, gesture, attitude): Stands with her weight slightly forward, balanced, unconsciously ready. Sits the same way. Even at rest she is not quite at rest. Her hands are still when she is thinking.
Items in her pocket/purse: A small folded cloth containing three medicinal preparations she compounded herself, one for sleep, one for pain anothher is a mystery. A thin wire. A piece of chalk for marking. Two coins, always, because you never know. The knife she carries on her personally.
Hobbies: Archery, She reads, She maintains her weapons.
Favourite sports: Archery. Also — and this surprises people who meet her — swimming.
Relationships (how she deals with other people): With Vishrutā: The one relationship she does not armor for. Still direct, still sparse — she is incapable of becoming soft in the sentimental sense — but the care is completely visible in what she does rather than what she says. She disagrees with Vishrutā openly, argues without apology, and then executes Vishrutā's decision with total commitment because the disagreement was never about undermining, it was about ensuring the decision was made with full information.
With strangers and acquaintances: She gives people exactly what the situation requires and nothing additional. This is frequently misread as hostility. It is not hostility, she is simply not performing warmth she does not feel, which in most social contexts is an unusual choice.
Fears: Vishrutā dying somewhere Ritambharā couldn't reach. Becoming so good at being Madanikā that she forgets, briefly, where Madanikā ends. Being illegitimate in a situation that matters.
Faults: She does not ask for help. She makes unilateral decisions about what Vishrutā needs to know. She will carry something too long before putting it down. She is constitutionally incapable of letting an injustice go unaddressed even when addressing it is operationally inadvisable.
Good points: Absolutely reliable. She does not punish people for their weaknesses. Her love, when it exists, is completely unconditional in the specific sense that it does not require anything in return. She is funny.
What she wants more than anything else: Vishrutā safe. Vishrutā with actual power in Zarinzar's court. Chandrakaṭa's people not consumed by Qaratagh. The people she loves to have enough. to be somewhere she belongs in the formal sense as well as the felt sense. To have a name that is recorded. To not be a margin note in someone else's history. for Vishrutā to be happy.
Best friends: Closest friends unknown, they consider many they meet as their friend
Describe their room: The bed is shoved up in one corner, most of the room is a dedicated workshop. Scattered around the workbench and various chests and draws are pieces of fabric, blocks of wood, string, paint, and tools.
Way of speaking: Gentle, straightforward
Physical characteristics (postures, gestures, attitude): Rather warm and easy-going.
Items in their pocket/purse: A knife, fire starting kit, needle and thread
Hobbies: hiking, fishing, stargazing
Favorite sports: none
Abilities/ talents/ powers: possesses an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the roads and trails, a skilled wood carver and builder.
Relationships (how they deal with other people): They rather enjoy the company of youngsters. Always tries to see the best in others. Doesn’t like those who are disrespectful of others.
Fears: deep water
Faults: Can be stubborn, will not forget wrongs—and they won’t let others forget either
Good points: Kind, trusting. Will be there for those they befriend, strong morals
What they want more than anything else:To bring enjoyment and happiness to others
I would like to submit you the adoption papers of Alder as he is my babie now. I shall protect him, but i think he'd rather stay with his family so i shall be his work from home guardian.
Wren slumps down further against the wall as their DS plays a little funeral march, their avatar displaying dead on the screen. With a huff, they thrust the DS out to the boy for him to take. “Beat this level for me.”
He’s positioned beside them, sitting straight as a board as he fiddles with a piece of jewelry. He takes it from them with a bit of an eagerness that Wren has become glad for now, restarting the level and starting to play. His expression is one of pure, straight concentration. It’s almost kind of goofy to see. Whether sorting through files, training, or playing a silly little video game, he always wears that tight-lipped, stony-faced expression, all serious and brooding.
They scoot close to his side to lean over his shoulder as he plays, careful to not fully allow their bodies to graze each other. “Don’t touch that guy, his spikes are poison,” they warn, pointing at the screen as he carefully swerves out of the enemy territory, meticulously climbing his way through this rather difficult level. He’s annoyingly good at it, having not seen a DS before this week. He seems to be good at just about everything he gets his hands on.
Wren’s jaw hangs open as he passes the finish line, completing the level so easily that it should actually be impossible. “Thats not fair,” they mumble, taking back the DS with an indignant huff. They don’t move to sit in their previous spot, instead making themself comfortable by the boy’s side. “Wanna go get something to eat? You liked those shops downtown, right?”
He gives them one of his many nods. “Dinner sounds nice.”
Wren smiles, satisfied, as they tuck their DS away in their bag. “We can go to that bistro we passed. I think it’s French. It’s called La Madeleine so I’m going to assume so,” they say with a shrug as they climb forward and start the van, the boy clambering into his seat next to them.
The drive is a short one, seeing as the bistro is just across from the park they visited the day before. Wren parks on the side of the street and peers through the windows of the van. There is a comfortable crowd of people inside, either seated at their tables or ordering at the counter, pointing at various beautifully decorated steaks placed inside a large display case. “Looks good,” they say, climbing out and leading the boy inside as he glances around in that wide-eyed awestruck way he always does.
A sign is placed inside the entrance, telling them to seat themself in big, thick chalk letters. And so Wren does exactly that, plopping themself down in a small, square table by the front window. They tilt their chin towards the boy, leaning back in their chair. “You like this?”
He nods, sitting down all neat and carefully, as he usually does. “Yes,” he mutters, gaze not on their face but instead travelling around the restaurant, soaking in all the sights with a sort of interest that no normal person should be able to carry.
Wren taps their fingers upon the table, pulling out two menus out of the little box on the table and sliding one over in front of him. “Oh! They have grilled cheese and tomato soup,” they say with an air of excitement. “Is that even French?”
“I don’t believe so,” the boy replies, picking up his own menu and scanning through it, violet eyes narrowed in concentration, as per usual. “What are you going to get?”
Wren shrugs slightly. “I don’t know what half the stuff on this menu is. It’s not even a fancy place, I don’t know why all the names are so fancy. I’m pretty sure this one is just chicken tenders,” they say, gesturing to one of the items, which has been pompously labelled in all French. “I think I’ll just do grilled cheese.”
The boy nods. “I’ll get that too then.” He says, setting his menu back inside the little holder spot.
Wren snorts, looking up from their menu with a small smirk. “You don’t have to get everything that I get, y’know. You can pick something else if you want.”
“That’s okay.” The boy dismisses them easily. He looks sort of content, in a way, to follow them and copy what they do. They guess it kind of makes sense, given how Eden operates. Yet they still can’t feel slightly uneasy about it. They thought that within a few days he would manage to shake off his odd little habits he’d picked up at Eden, learn a little more independence. But obviously they were wrong. Eden seems to have tangled its roots into his core deeper than they had assumed.
They hum, choosing for once not to argue back. This dinner is nice, and they’ve come to realize by now that the best way to earn his trust is to be patient with him. And so patient they continue to be, as they slide their menu into place beside his, glancing towards the counter towards the back of the restaurant. “You wanna try ordering or do you want me to?”
He hesitates for a second, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he sets his shoulders back, determined. “I’ll try.”
Wten smiles and nods, fishing cash out of their pocket and handing it over to him. “Want me to come with?”
The boy nods, getting to his feet and accepting the cash from them. Wren allows him to take the lead this time, nodding reassuringly to him as he approaches the counter and steps towards the cashier.
His fingers fumble with the crumpled-up cash in his hands, gait awkward as he attempts to order for the first time. “Could I get two orders of grilled cheese?” He asks in a painfully monotone voice, eyes drilling holes into the cashier’s. Wren does their best to bite down their laugh, crossing their arms and trying their best to look serious as the cashier shoots them a look.
In a few quick seconds their order is ringed up and the boy is accepting their receipt and a little wooden block with their number on it, muttering a thank you.
He glances towards them for approval, eyes downturnt, head cocking to the side a bit; the similarities between him and a little wet-eyed puppy is almost enough to make Wren laugh. They shoot him a wide grin, giving him two thumbs up. “Good job dude, you did it. Let’s go and sit now and they’ll bring it to us.”
His face brightens almost instantly, eyes shining at the praise. In a seemingly more chipper mood than before, he follows them back to the table, chest puffed up in pride.
Wren finds a certain delight about it all. They smile to themself, lounging back in their seat and glancing down the street. This spot is actually quite nice, with the soft, gentle warmth of the fading sun casting an orange haze from outside the window, and the breeze of the air conditioners blowing upon their neck. Wren thinks this place, despite all of its pretentious regality, was quite a nice stop in between the two of theirs nightly routine. The boy loves familiarity, they’ve noticed, with all his careful regimes amongst their own nonchalance. It’s good when they can manage to pull him out of his own shell. Even with the impending doom of Eden chasing after them, tonight all Wren can think about is how completely nice this is.
“That’s a cute dog,” they say, pointing. There’s a little Dachshund down the street, all dolled up as it's led away by its owner.
“We were never allowed pets at the base.” The boy murmurs, softly adding, as his gaze shifts down the street, “I always secretly wanted one, though.”
Wren snaps their head in his direction. “What? Actually?” They gape, quickly recovering from his shocking backstory reveal. They sigh, puffing their cheeks out in a dramatic fashion. “As soon as this is all done, we’re getting you a pet.” They declare defiantly. “What kind of pet have you wanted?”
The boy pauses. “A cat seems nice. That or maybe a porcupine… Perhaps a lizard.” He replies thoughtfully.
Wren grins and lets out an amused huff at his answer. “You seem like you’d like cats. I used to have some lizards. They were cool.”
“Oh.” He blinks, fixing them with that piercing glare. “Did they die?” He asks, blunt as ever.
Wren snorts and shakes their head, amused by how unequivocable plain-spoken he always is. Eden has no sense of decorum with their soldiers, it seems. “Nah, they’re still at my house. My mom probably takes care of them. She always liked them.” They say softly, brow furrowing slightly.
The boy nods. “You don’t talk to her anymore?”
Wren’s posture goes stiff – almost as stiff and straight as the boy’s own. Their face hardens, and they glance away, chewing away at a piece of skin on their lip. “Nope. Not anymore.”
A large lump seems to have suddenly grown inside their throat, their mouth dry. Wren blinks hard, ignoring the twisting pain resting in their gut, stronger than it's been since their companion has left with them. Jesus, when was the last time someone asked them about their mom?
They didn’t realize it would hurt so much.
The boy doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh.” He echoes, folding his hands in front of himself, copying them as he gazes out the window, eyes unfocused as he seems to become wrapped up in memories himself, his expression melancholy.
Wren sighs, pushing the thoughts away from their mind and resting their chin in their hand. Rather than pursue the subject further, they change it. Everything to do with their mom is unimportant, as of now. She’s long gone now, they’ve made sure of it. It's best they just keep that part of themself shut away. It’s easiest like this.
They smile at him again. “What would you name it? Your cat.”
“I’m not sure,” the boy admits. “I’ve never really thought about that.”
Wren scoffs and clicks their tongue, wagging a finger in his direction. “That’s just no good. You need a name!”
The boy ponders on the name for a moment. “It would depend on the type of breed that I bought, and the personality of the cat, I think.” He says, humming.
Wren hums to themself, nodding along. “That makes sense. If I got one, I’d want a calico. A fat one.”
The boy nods again. “I’m not sure what I would want yet.”
Wren leans back in their seat and nods. “We’ll find you a good cat.” They look up when a server makes her presence known with a smile, setting down two plates with little cups of tomato soup and a sandwich in them. Wren thanks the woman and looks down at their food excitedly, licking their lips. “Mmm.”
They don’t hesitate to tear their sandwich apart, watching the cheese pull with delight. “You have to dip it in the soup. That’s the best way to eat it,” they explain to the boy, who watches them stiffly, not yet making a move towards his own dish. They demonstrate gracelessly, dunking their sandwich in the soup with vigour and taking a large bite.
The boy slowly dips his sandwich, letting it soak up some soup before taking a large bite. Although he isn’t as excited or animated as he had been when the two had stopped for McDonald’s, he still chews his food happily, savouring each bite.
Wren finishes half of their sandwich in a surprisingly little amount of bites. Before grabbing the other half, they look up at the boy, covering their mouth as they speak through a mouthful. “Good?”
The boy nods, swallowing and delicately wiping his mouth before he allows himself to speak. “Yes. Very.”
Wren grins from behind their hand. “Good.” They look out the window again, eyeing a few people before pointing at a random man in a peacoat, hurrying down the sidewalk. “What do you think his name is?”
The boy squints. “I’m not sure,” he says, his limited social skills striking once again.
Wren shrugs.”Well what do you want to name him?” They ask, shifting their eyes towards him again.
“I don’t know.” He states, eyes still on the man. He’s definitely not catching on very easily.
Wren rolls their eyes. “Okay, his name is Arnold. Call him Arnold. What does Arnold do for work?”
“I don’t know.” The boy examines the man, trying to detect some sort of hint that allows him to guess where the man works. But before he can find anything, the man is gone around the corner.
Wren sighs and gives him a thin smile. “It’s a game. You pick someone and make stuff up about them. Let’s try again,” they say, pointing to a woman sitting outside at a cafe across the street, phone in hand as she sips out of a steaming mug. “What about her?”
The boy pauses, eyes flicking to Wren for a second before back to the woman. It’s obvious he’s trying to impress them, even with his limited social skills. “Uh, her name is….” He glances around. “Willow.” He says, his eyes landing upon the symbol of a willow tree in a nearby shop.
Wren smiles at his answer, their companion finally seeming to understand. “Willow? All right, good name. Tell me about her. Any pets? Married? Job?”
“Ummm…” The boy is seriously struggling here. A ring on the woman’s finger catches his eye, and he latches onto that idea. “She’s married.”
Wren turns to look at the woman again as he speaks. “Oh yeah? Tell me about her marriage. Who’s she married to?”
“Uh–” The boy’s eyes scan the customers eating outside in the cafe. He points to a man making his way to the tables scattered about in the dining area outside the cafe, a bag of sweets in hand. “She’s married to him.”
Wren raises a brow and tilts their head slightly. “Oh really? And what’s his name?”
“Um,” The boy frowns for a second, trying to think of one. “Atlas.”
Wren hums. “Atlas, okay. Atlas and Willow. What’s their life like?” They ask, eyes glued to the pair they are observing as they take another absentminded bite of their sandwich.
“Uhhhh,” The boy pauses again to try to come up with something. “They have two kids and live in a three-bedroom apartment up the street.”
Wren chuckles. “Oh really? What are their kids’ names then. Are they good parents?”
“Mhm. They have a son and a daughter.” The boy replies, his response coming a little easier this time.
Wren smiles as they finish the rest of their sandwich, the sun dipping low into the horizon now, sky a splash of magenta and pink. “Well,” they say, turning to stare at the boy, eyes crinkling. “It was nice to meet Willow and Atlas.”
His expression softens, eyes shooting to his own unfinished dinner as he takes a few big bites, his ears a little pinker than usual. “Right.” He mumbles, busying himself with eating the rest of his meal.
Wren watches him for a moment, in all his timidness, an unknown emotion stretching between the pair; they snort to themself, something about this entire scene, this feeling of complete normalcy with the boy — all of it fills them with a sort of warmth they’re not used to. Weird. Gulping down the rest of their soup in one big slurp, they sigh with contentment, gazing out into the darkening street once again.
“There’s live music in the town square tomorrow. Every week according to the flyer I saw on the way in here.” They mutter. “We should check it out.”
They boy nods, tapping his fingertips against the polished wood of the table. “Okay.”
Wren smiles, pushing their dishes away from them as the boy finishes his own. A concert is just what the two of them need right now. Something actually fun.
They stand. “Let’s head back.”
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Atlas has always wanted to go to a real concert.
He can’t count on how many occasions he sat in Ira’s room, hanging onto her every word as she mumbled in that soft, deep tone her voice would always take after lights out, describing in perfect detail her first concert. She’d only been to a few before Eden took her in, but Atlas didn’t care. He made her replay each of the stories over and over, until he knew her memories like they were his very own. From the music the band played to the weather of the night, he could still imagine each instance with such a clarity he could almost convince himself he was actually there with her.
The thought of Ira’s old stories about their life before Eden brings a sharp pang of pain to his chest; he hasn’t allowed himself to think of her much since they arrived here. He tries to push away the sadness their absence brings, focusing instead on the facts he knows. It was all fake. Just a lie.
There’s no reason to feel sad about it. She certainly wouldn’t have actually enjoyed coming here with him, wouldn’t have even thought of showing him a real concert. She wouldn’t have thought of anything that didn’t revolve around herself. And that’s all that matters. He made the right choice leaving — they would have just used and discarded him. And what kind of life would that have been?
Rather than continue to focus on his guilt-ridden memories of Ira, he pushes them out of his mind completely. Because today, Wren is going to take him to his very first concert, and he isn’t going to miss it for the world. He won’t let the unwanted thoughts of a bastardly traitor dampen his mood.
“Alright!” Wren, who has been glancing at the time impatiently every minute or so for the past hour, leaps up excitedly when the clock finally hits seven. “Let’s boogie.”
They grin, squirming into the front seat and starting up the van. “It’ll probably be super crowded,” they say, glancing behind them as they pull out of their parking spot. “You okay with that?”
Atlas follows them to the front, buckling himself in as he nods. “That’s alright.” He says.
Wren nods and then they’re off, leaving the parking garage and rolling down the street, passing through downtown as a blur of activity whizzes by. As expected, the town square is packed with people. A stage is set up at the center and it is surrounded by a hoard of picnic tables and food stands.
When Wren is able to finally find parking, they climb out, zipping up their jacket. “The band’s announcing themselves right now. No one I know though. Apparently it’s all local artists.”
Atlas climbs out after them. “Wow.” He states, glancing around at all the people. Despite the fact that his voice carries no emotion and his expression is blank like usual, it’s evident he is very, very excited for this.
It’s better than he ever could have imagined.
“Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” Wren declares, leading him through the bustling crowd as they scope out an empty table. Atlas finds himself barely able to keep up, his attention pulled from one thing to the next. It’s loud, an ambience of noise carrying over the entire area, speakers blasting music Atlas is unable to decipher over the rest of the noise. His head turns from side to side, eyes sparkling with excitement as he takes in all of the people. This is so cool.
Wren spots a couple abandoning their picnic table and is quick to grab Atlas by the arm and tug him along to sit. They plop down facing the stage and lean forward, watching curiously.
Atlas is kind of taken aback by the abruptness of it, everything to do with this concert the exact opposite of what he’s come to expect. There’s people everywhere, groups of all different ages and backgrounds. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many people together all at once, not even in the warehouse. His classes were always carefully confined, each face and body molded to look exactly like the next. It’s so… diverse. He’s not sure what to do with it.
Sitting down next to Wren, he subconsciously copies their movements, looking up towards the stage excitedly.
The first act is already in full-introduction. A woman stands alone on the stage, leaping and twirling around, music blasting from the speakers behind her. She sings an upbeat song Atlas has never heard before, the genre completely foreign to him, a mix of electronic and bouncy guitar music. He has to admit, it’s pretty catchy.
He watches on in awe, entranced by the performance. He’s wanted to see a concert live his entire life, and it feels surreal that it’s truly happening right before his very eyes. It’s bright, vibrant, and most importantly, fun. There’s no judgement or imposed rules, the woman on stage expressing herself with a sparkly pink, disco-style pantsuit that reflects the flickering lights of the place. It’s so different, so new.
Wren bobs their head to the music from beside him, swaying to the tempo of the song, slowing in speed as the woman fades into a new one. They glance over in his direction, giving him a slight nudge with their shoulder that Atlas finds he doesn’t mind just as much as he usually would. “You like?” They ask, shooting him a wide grin.
“Mhm.” He nods, not peeling his eyes from the stage. “This is remarkable.”
Wren’s lips pull into a smirk at Atlas’s honest, simple answer. “Yeah, it is.” They agree, shouting from over the music. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen something live.”
Instead of attempting to keep their conversation flowing, Atlas allows it to fizzle out, keeping his full attention on the performance before them. It truly is remarkable. The music is lively and exuberant, loud and flashy and everything Atlas isn’t. Yet he finds himself in love with it, the lyrics and voice of the main singer reverberating around him, completely real and alive. He becomes wrapped up in it, intertwined and entangled in a way he’s never allowed himself to before.
“There’s nothing like your first concert,” Ira told him once, hanging off the edge of his cot. They’d brought a new CD for him to listen to — Boston — and he’d sat there, soaking in the music as they recalled old tales.
Sitting here now, the vibrations of the music shooting through his entire being, he can’t help but agree. He’s lost in it, none of his worries or anxieties present in his mind. All he can hear is the sound of the music, a perfect melody to his ears, washing over him in perfect hypnotic symphonies.
😭 atlas ordering in that completely flat monotone voice and then looking at wren for approval like a little wet dog?? the cashier's reaction said everything i was thinking
and then wren naming the random guy arnold and atlas just. not getting it at first. "I don't know." three times in a row. and then he names the man in the couple "atlas" and his ears go pink and wren NOTICES and just smiles to herself and says nothing about it??
the concert section broke me a little because he spent his whole childhood listening to ira describe concerts secondhand and memorizing her memories like they were his own and NOW HE'S ACTUALLY THERE
like that's not just character development that's healing
The better part of the day has been spent rooting through files that the two had not yet reviewed the previous day, slowly and methodically sorting through the various videos, documents, and other miscellaneous recordings that Wren has collected. Atlas finds the organizing somewhat relaxing; something to pull his thoughts from the crippling truth of his reality. A distraction.
But Wren, on the other hand, evidently thinks otherwise.
He turns his gaze to them with a blink, not surprised when they sigh loudly and snap the laptop shut, cutting off his view of the document he had previously been viewing. He’s noticed, over the course of the past few days, that Wren tends to be very exaggerated in their reactions to practically everything. “Where shall we go?” He asks, tilting his head curiously.
“Somewhere.” Wren shrugs, clamouring over the console and into the front seat, turning the van on with a hum. “I dunno. We’ll find a place.”
And just like that, Wren is pulling out of their little hiding spot, gliding back onto the main road as Atlas tucks himself back in his own seat. No sense of routine, no rhyme or reason. Simply “going with the flow”, as Wren puts it. Atlas can’t help but feel annoyed by it.
But there is no inane rambling as they head down the road, or the shrieks of past Elites leaking from Wren’s laptop, and so Atlas can’t bring himself to be too uncomfortable by it as they pass into a nicer part of town, away from the graffiti and torn-down buildings. The more empty, abandoned streets are exchanged for brightly-lit ones, shops bustling with excitement. People can be seen walking together with cups of coffee, checking out different sorts of attractions lining the road, bakeries and restaurants alike passing them by. Atlas even notices a guy playing the guitar on the one street corner, a bucket of change at his feet.
His eyes flick over each and every person they drive by. He likes people watching, he’s found, with all this travelling he and Wren have been doing. It’s so interesting, to see all the different things people are up to as they go through their day, nothing like the same strict routine he had at the base.
Out here, Atlas has come to find new faces surrounding him every day, not a single repeat for the past three days he’s been gone. Here, he doesn’t stand out, with his dyed hair and piercings, the other soldiers at the base not allowed with such privileges. The civilians that pass them by are nothing like that, with their own unique clothing styles, haircuts, and accessories that fit right in with Atlas’s own. No one person appears the same, allowed to freely express themselves as they so please.
“There’s a park over there. Wanna walk through it?”
Atlas perks up at the sound of Wren’s voice, their question cutting through the smooth melancholic music leaking from the radio. A park? He’s always dreamed of passing through a park.
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
Wren nods and parks along the side of the street behind a row of other parked cars, turning the van off with a turn of their key and stepping out. They jerk their head in a motion for Atlas to follow and begin to cross the street over to the park where a cobblestone path begins, leading through a field of grass with artfully placed flowery shrubs.
Atlas glances around in wonder of it all. It’s almost an exact replica of everything he’s ever dreamed of. Late nights inside the warehouse, holed up down in the library, scouring the long, towering shelves for anything that could give him an inkling of information of what life outside was like. Biographies, mind-numbingly boring scraps of articles that anyone else would have disregarded within an instant… he took anything he could get his hands on.
He’d always fantasized about something like this. A solo mission, perhaps; one where he wasn’t stuck inside the back of a cold, steel-plated, windowless truck up until the moment they slid into whatever destination Cato had deemed as necessary. No, a mission where he was alone, free, in a sense. Travelling on his own, watching with careful eyes for every sight he passed by. Discovering all the things he missed while dedicating his life to the greater good.
But this, here with Wren, is better than he could have ever imagined.
Wren begins their trek down the little path, Atlas in tow. There are couples, joggers, and the occasional elderly person scattered around the trail. Perched upon a bench, walking their dog, chattering excitedly, watching the passersby. All of it is exhilarating to Atlas. The nature surrounding them is truly remarkable. Unlike the warehouse, which, although being hidden deep within the woods bordering no-man’s land, had always been not much more than tall, plain gray buildings, the thick gates circling the base cutting off all connections to the true outdoors. But here, it’s brilliantly green, with bursts of colours in every direction. Flowers, weeds, plants, and the like. Atlas is in love with every inch of it.
“Usually,” Wren says, glancing toward him. “There’d be more kids but school is still in session.”
“What’s school like?”
“Well the classes are shitty and the people are shittier. But I guess it has its pluses. Or so I’m told,” Wren says as they tuck their hands into their pockets.
“How are the classes shitty?” Atlas asks again, hanging onto Wren’s every word.
Wren shrugs with a mild huff. “Usually it has to do with the teachers. They suck most of the time. And the things they teach are dumb. Science is cool sometimes though.”
“School sounds fun.” Atlas states. “I went to lessons when I was younger to learn the main subjects, but I don’t think it was how a normal school operates. I think it would be nice to learn around a bunch of different people.”
Wren looks at Atlas for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I guess most people take it for granted— getting to be around people and stuff. It’s nice, sometimes.” They add, almost wistful.
Atlas nods, glancing back towards the shrubbery with a barely concealed look of awe. Being on the road for so long, he and Wren haven’t passed by many spots like these, so rich in natural plantlife. The most he’s seen these past few days is long stretches of dirt and grass, as they cross through the prairies between each town. It’s nothing like this. It’s beautiful out, gentle sunlight filtering through the trees, soaking into his skin with its warmth. With a cool breeze and not many clouds blocking the view of the sky, it feels like a perfect day.
“Hey, let’s go over there.”
The path curves, winding around trees and over hills. Wren points down a few feet to their left, where a little play area is set up, fairly abandoned as adults pay it no mind.
The area isn’t very large. A few simple climbing structures smattered about on a sort of surface covered by wood chips. Slides, a merry-go-round, and swing set can be found around it, rusting and well-used. It’s nothing like Atlas has ever seen before.
Wren makes a b-line for the swings and plops down on one, chains creaking and groaning at their suddenness. Atlas copies them, sitting down rather stiffly on the plastic swing beside them, his eyes flickering around the playground in curiosity. The swing is hard, uncomfortable, and cheap. The play structures seem to be the same, rickety and old. Not suited for a proper soldier.
Atlas loves it.
“You swing your legs like this,” Wren instructs, pumping their legs in an exaggerated movement as they show him. Atlas quickly copies them, falling into place beside them, and Wren smiles. “Good.”
Wren turns their attention elsewhere, body tilted back as they shoot upwards, eyes closed in pure bliss, and the two fall into a comfortable silence, only the sounds of the park around them to disturb their peace.
The breeze feels nice along Atlas’s arms as he swings, the activity strangely freeing, despite its simplicity. He scans the playground as he moves, unable to tear his gaze away for more than a small moment. Everything out here is so colourful and vibrant — nothing like the dark grayness of the base.
He decides he likes it better out here.
“How’s this?” Wren asks from beside him.
Atlas is quiet for a small second. “It’s nice.” He murmurs, content as he rises higher into the air, enjoying his newfound freedom.
this chapter made me feel things i was not expecting after everything that came before it. like we've spent all this time watching atlas hold himself together and then he sits on a playground swing and just... exists for a second. the detail about him spending late nights in the warehouse library reading boring articles just trying to imagine what outside looked like?? i wanted to cry.
he's been dreaming about a park his whole life and he finally gets one and it's with wren of all people and neither of them are making it a big deal and that's exactly what makes it so tender. and wren being almost wistful about school and people and then catching themselves — "it's nice, sometimes" — like they don't want to admit they feel things either.
these two are so similar and so stubborn about it.
"he decides he likes it better out here" after everything — the files, cato, the elites, all of it — landing on that quiet little sentence is so earned. this is the first moment atlas has felt like a person and not a soldier and i felt it in my chest.
