The bathroom door closes softly behind Skylar, the faint click sounding like a quiet full stop to an unspoken conversation. The muted yellow light spills out, casting a honey-warm yet slightly somber hue across the cramped room. Julian stands nearby, shoulders subtly hunched forward, arms crossed tight as though building an invisible wall around himself. His eyes narrow at the pile of dishes on the table — each bowl, cup, and utensil seeming less like simple clutter and more like a quiet act of defiance against the order he clings to. He tilts his head, lips pressed into a thin, rigid line, his gaze sharp as though the chaos has committed a personal offense.
Nathan appears at the door just then, poking his head in like a wary cat testing new territory. His hair is tousled, stray locks jutting out at chaotic angles as if he's been wrestling with dreams moments ago. His slippers glide almost soundlessly across the floor, the faint rustle of his blanket-creased clothes the only trace of his movement. One hand rubs at his heavy-lidded eyes, while the other clutches a small, worn pillow. Its fabric is sun-faded, its edges fraying, and the patchwork stitches scattered across it are like silent scars — the last tangible remnant of his family. He hugs it closer instinctively, as though it might shield him from the storm of memories forever waiting just beyond the edges of his mind.
"What's going on? I heard Skylar slam the door just now. Did you make her angry again?" His voice is hoarse, a mix of sleepiness and curiosity, the kind of tone that wavers between genuine concern and the mild amusement of someone fishing for drama. He presses the pillow tighter against his chest, as though bracing himself for an answer that might surprise him more than he expects.
Julian raises an eyebrow, the movement slow, deliberate — like the cocking of a gun before it fires. Irritation bubbles up in his gaze. "I? Make trouble?" His voice carries a sharp edge, the kind sharpened not by volume but by precision, each syllable honed to cut off Nathan's probing before it starts.
Nathan tilts his head, half his face disappearing behind the pillow so that only his narrowed eyes remain visible — eyes that glimmer with both suspicion and that boyish spark of trouble. "Then what are you planning to do with those?" He gestures toward the dishes, his fingers making a lazy but deliberate flick, as if pointing out something obvious just to provoke a reaction.
"Clean them," Julian snaps, the word clipped and quick, as if ending a sentence before it even has a chance to form. He moves toward the sink with a resigned exhale, the kind that feels less like giving in and more like surrendering to the inevitability of dealing with someone else's mess.
Nathan's ears perk up like a dog's, the lethargy in his eyes vanishing as though someone flipped a hidden switch. "And… Little Sky? Where is she?" There's a subtle shift in his voice — lighter, but edged with curiosity that threatens to dig deeper than casual interest.
After a few seconds of silence…
Julian lost his cool. He got angry. And then—
"Ah! Let go! I can walk myself!" Nathan stumbles, his slippers skidding slightly on the smooth floor before he regains his balance. He clutches his shirt in one hand while keeping the pillow pressed to his chest, the frayed fabric brushing against his chin like a small anchor in the sudden push away from warmth. "Oh… my shirt…"
"Then go change. You're impossible," Julian mutters, his voice low but final, like the last note of a song cut short. He closes the door softly but decisively, the click of the latch ringing louder in Nathan's ears than it should, carrying an unspoken warning.
The subtle, controlled click of the door seems to convey a quiet but unmistakable warning. Nathan remains stunned outside, his fingers curling tighter around the pillow, as though its worn stuffing is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. A faint tremor runs through his arms — not from cold, but from the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
He sinks against the wall, the cool plaster seeping into his back, grounding him in a reality that suddenly feels strange and unstable. Sweat runs down his temples, pupils shrinking. Did I just see… Julian cleaning dishes? Since when does he…? His thoughts twist in disbelief. No… I can't even… The absurdity of the image — Julian, sleeves rolled up, soap suds on his hands — clashes with every ingrained idea Nathan has of him, leaving his mind reeling.
After a moment, Nathan pushes himself up, hugging the pillow closer, the fabric damp where his grip has tightened unconsciously. He begins walking toward the convenience store at the dormitory block's end, each step measured and quiet, the rhythm of his heartbeat almost louder than the faint hum of the night around him.
His steps are quiet, but the rhythm of his heartbeat seems louder than the world around him. Might as well… get some cigarettes, he mutters, the words drifting into the air like smoke before the flame — soft, unfocused, carrying the heaviness of unease and the shadows of old guilt that have never quite left him.
Outside, the night is quiet, wrapped in a heavy blanket of darkness that swallows distant sounds and softens the edges of the world. Nathan pauses under the awning of the store as a few drops of rain begin to fall, each one tapping against the metal above like the slow, tentative start of a drumbeat.
He lifts his face, inhaling deeply as the scent of wet asphalt — sharp, earthy, and faintly metallic — cuts through the damp air. For a brief moment, the smell pulls at something deep inside him, an echo of nights long past.
Soon, the drizzle intensifies, but he does not step into it. The rain blurs the street beyond into rippling shadows and liquid light, but Nathan stays still, unmoving. He remains under the awning, the pillow clutched tightly, as though letting go would release the ghosts he keeps trapped inside. His knuckles whiten, and for a moment, he can almost feel small, warm hands clutching his own — memories pressing at the edges of the present.
Nathan steps into the convenience store, pushing the glass door open with his shoulder, the faint jingle of the overhead bell sounding far too cheerful for the heaviness in his chest. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a pale, almost clinical glow that makes the colors of the snacks and drinks seem oddly artificial. The sudden brightness forces his eyes to narrow; it feels intrusive, like the light is peeling back the thin layer of calm he's been holding onto since leaving the dorm.
He moves through the aisles, his slippers making a soft slapping sound against the cool linoleum floor. His fingers trail over the edges of the familiar shelves, lingering briefly on items he's seen a hundred times before—ramen cups stacked precariously, bottled tea sweating under the refrigeration, a dusty box of chewing gum that probably hasn't sold in months, until he reaches the counter for a pack of cigarettes. His voice is quiet when he orders them, as though speaking too loudly might wake the ghosts he carries. His eyes flick to small details—the linoleum worn to a dull shine in the high-traffic spots, faint stains that even years of mopping haven't erased, the sharp yet oddly comforting scent of instant coffee drifting from a machine in the corner, the muted music playing softly over the speakers — a slow, nostalgic ballad in a language he doesn't fully understand, but one that somehow makes his chest tighten anyway. The clerk glances at him, noting the pillow clutched tightly to his chest, but says nothing. There's a flicker of curiosity in the man's eyes, but it dies quickly, replaced by the polite detachment of someone who has seen stranger things at 9 p.m. in a neighborhood convenience store.
Back outside, he pauses under the awning. The glass door swings shut behind him with a muted thud, and the warmth of the store is instantly replaced by the damp breath of the night air. A thin drizzle falls, pattering against the roof in a soft, irregular rhythm that almost matches the uneven beat of his heart. He grips the pillow, feeling the cool dampness of the fabric from the mist, his fingers finding the uneven stitches along one seam — a repair done long ago, in a hurry, but with care. He remembers doing it himself, hands trembling, needle slipping in and out of the fabric while his mind tried to push away the sound of distant gunfire.
He remembers Elara and Lucas vividly now — the way their small, bright faces would tilt toward him when they laughed, eyes crinkling, teeth flashing in that unguarded way only children can manage, laughter echoing like sunlight in a room long forgotten.
"Elara… Lucas…" The names leave his lips in a whisper, like a prayer, or maybe a confession. Their voices — high, unbroken, full of life — crash into his mind so suddenly that for a moment he swears he can hear the sound of their footsteps on wooden floors.
The flashback cuts in with brutal clarity: the suffocating heat of the mission site, the stench of smoke and metal, his hesitation like a boulder lodged in his chest, the gunfire, the chaos… and the final silence that fell heavier than any explosion, heavier than the weight of the bodies he couldn't save.
Hesitate, and you die. The words are carved deep into his bones, as much a part of him as his heartbeat, the mantra that shaped the rest of his life echoing painfully in his chest.
Nathan lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The tip flares orange against the darkness, briefly illuminating the shadows under his eyes. Smoke curls upward, mingling with the humid night air and vanishing into the drizzle like something too fragile to last.
Standing there, he thinks of Skylar — the way her laughter bursts out like a spark, quick and bright, but always a little too loud, a little too practiced, her mischief masking vulnerability.
She reminds him so painfully of his siblings, and of himself. He knows that mask well; he's worn it so long it feels like skin. Both of them wear masks to survive, to keep the world at bay.
Meanwhile, Skylar steps out of the bathroom, pushing the door open with her shoulder as a small cloud of steam escapes, curling lazily into the cooler air of the room, hair damp and plastered to her shoulders. Droplets slide down the strands, tracing thin paths along the fabric of her faded pajamas.
Her pajamas are faded, loose, the edges worn and soft, threadbare in places from countless washes, carrying the faint, comforting scent of soap.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she surveys the spotless table and floor, blinking rapidly as though unsure she's looking at the same place she left just minutes ago. The clutter, the stains, the chaos — gone, replaced by an almost military neatness.
"Huh? The table… it's… clean?" Her voice rises at the end, tilting toward disbelief rather than praise.
She rubs her eyes, disbelief still evident, like maybe this is a trick her mind is playing, some domestic mirage conjured by the warmth of the shower.
Julian wipes his hands on a towel, irritation evident despite his quiet effort, each movement precise, controlled, as though even the act of drying his hands must be done without wasting energy.
"Satisfied?" His tone is flat, but there's a faint undercurrent — something between annoyance and a reluctant need for acknowledgment.
Skylar beams, unconcerned. Her grin is wide enough to light up her face, the kind that ignores all tension in the room. "Yeah, yeah."
She picks up a wet towel from the table and holds it out. The gesture is casual but not without care, like a reflex she doesn't want to admit is affectionate. "Here. Wipe your face. I don't want you breaking out from stress."
Julian quirks an eyebrow, a small, almost teasing smile tugging at his lips, a subtle crack in his usually stoic expression.
"Oh? Concerned about me now? Not so hostile, then." His voice carries a quiet challenge, as if testing whether she'll admit it.
The yellow light from the lamp casts warm tones across the room, highlighting their features, turning damp hair into strands of gold and deepening the shadows under their eyes into something almost intimate.
A breeze drifts through the slightly open window, ruffling Skylar's hair, brushing against her flushed cheeks, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of rain-soaked concrete.
Julian notices every subtle movement, every faint rise of color, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary, as though cataloguing these details for reasons he won't admit even to himself.
The rain outside has slowed, tiny droplets tapping gently against the window, creating a calm, almost romantic backdrop, each drop a soft punctuation in the silence between them.
Nathan, from just outside the room, leans against the wall, holding the pillow tightly, silent, a witness to the intimate moment, his expression unreadable in the dim hallway light. The smell of cigarette smoke still clings faintly to him, mixing with the damp scent of rain, wrapping around him like a second skin.
"9:30 already. Time to study," Nathan announces, pushing the door slightly open, the edge of his voice just firm enough to remind them that moments like this have limits.
Skylar startles, jumping and flailing in mild panic. Her hand flies to her chest as if to physically hold in the surprise. "Ah! Why do you always appear at the doorway like that? You scared me!"
Nathan gives no reply, just a slight nod. "Study. No playing around." His tone is clipped, as if sealing off whatever he might have been thinking a moment earlier.
He retreats, leaving the room in quiet again, the soft thud of his footsteps fading into the hum of the rain outside.
Skylar turns to Julian, draping her arm casually over his shoulder, leaning in just close enough to make the air between them feel charged. "Hey!"
Her voice is playful, mischievous, a hint of challenge, the kind that makes trouble sound like an invitation. Julian raises an eyebrow, sensing trouble, yet the corner of his lips lifts.
"What?" It's not quite a smile, but it's close enough to betray interest.
"I've had this idea for a long time… finally, I can do it. You're my accomplice now," she says, eyes sparkling with excitement and danger, her grin widening as though the weight of the day has evaporated in an instant.
Julian's smirk widens. He meets her gaze, noting the daring glint. "And what idea? Don't worry. I won't let you do it alone. I'll never let you be alone again." The last sentence is softer, almost swallowed, but it lands between them with the quiet weight of a promise.
Outside, Nathan grips the pillow tighter, the frayed edges damp from the mist, the fabric cold against his skin, grounding him just enough to keep from drifting too far into memory.
He thinks of Elara and Lucas once more, their voices threading into Skylar's like overlapping melodies — one from the past, one from the present, their laughter mingling with Nathan's spirit.
The memories are both painful and comforting, a reminder of innocence lost and the fragility of life he still fights to protect, a balance he knows he can never fully reconcile.
The night stretches quietly, as though holding its breath for what comes next.
Julian and Skylar share a fleeting moment, hands brushing, soft smiles exchanged, the room bathed in golden light, their reflections trembling faintly in the window glass with each drop of rain that slides down. Outside, the rain now whispers against the roof, a gentle lullaby, its rhythm slow and steady, like a heartbeat lulling the world toward sleep.
In his room, Nathan takes a final drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the humid night air, the ember fading to nothing in the darkness, holding the pillow close as he contemplates both the ghosts of the past and the warmth of the present.