For a long moment, I couldn't speak. My throat had gone dry, my pulse still clawing its way through the shock. The air between us was too still, too deliberate, as if waiting for something to break.
Then the words tore out of me. "Are you stalking me? Are you one of the fucking weirdos from the shelter?"
He laughed. A quiet, amused sound that didn't match the emptiness around us. "Oh wow," he said, his voice low, easy. "After all you've been through, that's the first thing that comes to your mind? That I'm a stalker?"
"You were inside the shelter," I snapped, the cigarette shaking between my fingers. "And now you're following me here. What the fuck do you want?"
He lifted his gaze toward me, and that faint grin didn't leave his face. "Oh, well, then you're going to suffer a lot with me following you. Because this—" he gestured vaguely between us "—this is the thing now. Our thing."
"What?" I stepped back, my heel scraping against the concrete. "What are you talking about? You're fucked in the head. I'll call the police."
He rolled his shoulders, unbothered. "Go ahead. Call them. I'd love to see the police come here, try to find me. You know what'll happen? They'll lock you up for bothering them. You're not exactly their favorite kind of citizen, Hugo."
That last word struck something deep in me. My chest tightened. "What do you mean by that?"
He let his mouth hitch, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the question. "It's going to be such a long road with you. Hugo, right?"
My breath hitched. "Yeah," I said after a pause. "And you are?"
"Corvian," he said. Then, after a heartbeat, "Or Corrin, for the public."
"Corrin for the public?" I repeated, trying to make sense of it.
"Yeah." His voice was soft, unhurried. "My real name is Corvian. But publicly, I like to go by Corrin."
"You're so weird," I muttered. "What are you even talking about?"
He curved his mouth wider, eyes glinting like something alive behind calm water. "I'm your wish come true, Hugo. Sorry it took me so long. I was finding the perfect suit."
"What suit?" I asked.
"This body."
I looked at him properly then. Really looked.
He stood a little taller than me, posture loose but unyielding. The hood of his sweatshirt framed his face, drawing it into focus beneath the dull glow of the alley light. The color of his skin was warm, the kind of warmth that belonged to something living, not ethereal. His features were sharp yet unthreatening—cheekbones cut with precision, a straight nose, a calm mouth that seemed too composed for someone speaking nonsense. His hair fell dark and tousled across his brow, the strands catching the light in thin copper streaks.
Small beauty marks dotted the side of his cheek and near the hollow of his throat. His eyes were steady, a brown so deep it bordered on black, yet there was something there—a flicker beneath the calm, as if they were too aware of everything they touched. His ears were pierced, a glint of metal at the edges catching every stray light.
There was no smell of smoke or dirt on him, none of the scent that clung to the shelter walls. He didn't look sick, or tired, or hungry. He didn't even look real. He looked like a person sculpted out of intention, the kind of beauty that draws you in not because it's flawless, but because it feels dangerous to stare at.
He canted his head, studying me like I was something still unfinished. The corners of his mouth lifted again, almost tenderly.
And standing there, I realized there was nothing supernatural in how he appeared—no distortion, no sound, no warning. Just a man, quiet and unshaken, wearing the kind of body that could walk through a crowd unnoticed and still make the world turn toward him.
I took a step back, pulse quickening, but he didn't move. He just watched me, patient, almost amused.
It was then I understood that whatever this was, it wasn't ending anytime soon.
He didn't move closer, but somehow the space between us grew smaller, as if the air itself leaned toward him.
"What do you want?" I asked. My voice cracked, not from fear, but from something heavier—exhaustion laced with disbelief. "If this is supposed to be some kind of cosmic joke, you picked the wrong person."
He gave a quiet hum, tilting his head slightly. "You really think you were chosen for a joke?" His tone was mild, nearly gentle. "No, Hugo. You called, and I came."
"I didn't call for anything."
He smiled. "Of course you did. Maybe not with words. Maybe not even with intent. But you called. Every desperate thought is an invocation. Every wish made in the dark is a prayer to something listening."
I shook my head, staring at the cracked wall beside him just to keep from looking into those eyes. "You're talking like a lunatic."
"Then you're a lunatic too," he said softly. "You wanted more than what the world gave you. You wanted to be seen, to be powerful, to make your hands do what your heart never could. That kind of hunger, Hugo, doesn't go unnoticed. We listen for it. We always have."
He spoke like someone reciting scripture backward, twisting the holy until it became something else.
"I didn't ask for you," I said again, quieter this time.
He moved a little closer, the light catching the edge of his mouth, the small curve that never seemed to fade. "That's what they all say. No one ever asks. They just reach—sometimes with words, sometimes with silence. A hand is a hand, even when it trembles."
"I didn't reach for anything," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment, as though weighing the shape of my lie. "You wanted what couldn't be given to you. You wanted to stop feeling small. You wanted the world to bend for once. You wanted to matter."
His voice was smooth, not cruel. It carried the quiet patience of someone who had watched this happen a thousand times before.
I felt my jaw tighten. "You talk like you know me."
"I do," he said simply. "I know the sound of someone who has prayed without believing, begged without expecting, lived without being seen. I know the ones who mistake their hunger for ambition."
The words sank like stones. He stepped closer, hands still in his pockets. "Tell me something, Hugo. If you could have everything you wanted—peace, control, love that didn't rot—what would you give in return?"
"I wouldn't give anything," I said. "Because you don't exist."
He smiled again, thinly. "Then you have nothing to lose, do you?"
"I don't want this," I said. "Whatever you are."
He tilted his head slightly, the shadow moving across his face like water. "That's the strange thing about wanting," he murmured. "It doesn't stop just because you're afraid of it. It grows in silence, feeds on what you deny. And when it's full enough, it calls."
He took one last step, and for a moment I could see the faint reflection of myself in his eyes—tired, hollow, shaking.
"You don't remember calling," he said softly, "but I do."
I wanted to move, to push him away, to breathe, but everything in me felt caught between heartbeat and paralysis.
He smiled again—calm, certain, as if he'd already seen where all this would lead.
"You wanted to be big with magic, right?" he asked. His tone was almost casual, like we were just two people having a smoke, not standing in a back alley where reality had already begun to split open.
I swallowed. "Yeah."
"Well," he said, spreading his hands slightly, "this is what I'm here for. You called me, remember?"
"I didn't—" I stopped. The words caught somewhere between denial and realization. "So this is what a companion looks like?"
He raised a brow. "Don't offend my appearance. I really took a long time choosing the suit."
"Why do you keep calling it a suit?"
"Because they're all suits," he said, tapping his chest lightly. "Bodies. Temporary. Borrowed things. You could be someone's suit someday."
I stared at him. "What the fuck?"
He let out a small laugh, running his hand through his hair. "Look, this isn't going to be easy on you, so don't make it hard on me too. I'm here to do a job I was assigned to do. So let me help you. Stop resisting, stop asking questions, and stop pushing things too far, okay?"
I blinked, words tumbling over themselves before I could form them. "What the fuck was that back there? It was you, right? The—whatever that was. Was that a dream?"
"No," he said. "Not a dream. That was a memory of yours."
"I don't—why would—" My hands gestured helplessly in the air. "So I dreamed of a memory?"
"Nope." He smiled like this was all entertainment to him. "You were in the memory."
"Why? Why was I in it?"
"Because I put you there."
"You what?" I took a step toward him. "Why would you put me there?"
He shrugged, easy and thoughtless. "I just didn't want to show up empty-handed."
My jaw tightened. "So you picked one of the worst fucking memories I have from when I was a kid and threw me back into it?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "Exactly. That's what happened, Hugo."
I stared at him, waiting for some sign of remorse, but there was nothing. "So is your show over now? Are you ready to help me?"
"I'm ready to help you," he said, "but the show isn't over."
My voice rose. "What do you mean?"
"You have plenty of memories to visit."
"I don't visit them in my mind for a reason."
He nodded as though I'd said something sensible. "Fair point," he said lightly, "but that doesn't make any difference to me. Your emotions don't matter that much to me. It's fun."
Something in me snapped. "You're supposed to be my companion. My emotions should matter to you."
He was in front of me before I could blink. One step, maybe two—but the space between us collapsed. His face hovered close, his voice dropped low, and when he spoke, every word pressed against my skin like heat.
"Don't talk to me like I'm human, do you understand? " he said. "Because I'm not."
I could feel the steadiness of his breath, could see the calm behind his eyes—no malice, no warmth, just the kind of stillness that doesn't belong to living things.
"Don't ask me to understand your emotions, because I won't," he continued. "I can maybe see them, study them, trace their shape—but I can never feel them. I'm laying it bare for you, Hugo, so let it sink in."
His voice had no anger in it, but the weight of it pressed into me until I couldn't tell if it was fear or awe that made my pulse stutter. He didn't blink, didn't look away. He just waited—like he expected me to break first.
"Let's take a walk, shall we?" Corrin said, his voice light, almost cheerful.
The street stretched before us, narrow and half-asleep, a thin breath of fog creeping along the gutters. I hesitated, but he was already walking, hands in his pockets, steps measured like someone pacing a stage. I followed because I didn't know what else to do.
"What may seem like crazy talk to you," he began, his tone threaded with amusement, "is your new reality, okay? You're not allowed to tell anyone about me. They'll see me only when I choose to appear before them—and that's because of the suit. They don't need to know who I am or what I actually do. That's why Corrin for the public."
He said it with the satisfaction of someone revealing a marketing slogan.
"Second rule," he continued, "it's not really a rule—more of a manual. When I'm assigned to you, you can borrow a little from my abilities. Think of it as a shared system. If I can control fire, you can control fire, but not as powerfully as I can. If I can move objects, slam doors, break glass—you'll be able to do the same, but smaller, weaker, quieter. Do you understand?"
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. "Okay, so anyone who has a companion can do the same?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding once. "There are different devils, different affinities. Whoever we're assigned to gets a sliver of what we can do. But," he added, smirking thinly, "we don't call them powers. We call them abilities."
"Abilities," I repeated flatly.
"Though personally," he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, "I prefer 'powers.' It has drama. I live for drama."
I glanced at him sideways. "So I'll be able to control fire, move stuff from afar, and what—control memory too?"
He clicked his tongue softly. "I don't control memory. I don't change events. I just place you inside the memory. And no, you won't be able to do that. That one's off-limits. But you might be able to blur things—fade a few moments, pause them if you will. It's not guaranteed, though."
"What does that depend on?"
"On how close we are," he said, "and on the marking."
I stopped walking. "The what?"
"The marking." He turned toward me, smiling as if he were talking about something romantic. "I can mark you. It ties me to you. Permanently. You'd gain more of what I can do."
I shook my head immediately. "No. I don't want that. Thank you."
He chuckled under his breath. "It's funny how you think this is optional. But fine. I'll humor you."
"And what if I don't want it?" I asked, my voice sharper. "What if I don't want to be forever tied to you?"
"Well," he said, pretending to consider it, "I don't want to be forever tied to you either. I don't even like you that much yet. Although"—his tone warmed suddenly—"I am a big fan of your latest works. Sodomy. Betrayal. Lying. Truly inspired. Great stuff, by the way."
"So you know everything."
"Of course I do. Don't underestimate me, Hugo. I told you, I'm not human. I only look like this because I chose to. I could've stayed unseen, helped you from the shadows, but where's the joy in that? I thought this way would be more… entertaining."
I snorted. "You flatter yourself too much. You just like to play dress-up. What's next, cross-dressing?"
He grinned. "Actually, I don't hate that idea. I think I'd thrive as a drag queen."
I shook my head, muttering, "Christ."
"Not his jurisdiction anymore," he said brightly.
We walked for a while in silence. The city was thinning behind us—only the sound of our footsteps against the uneven ground, the stray hum of a far-off train.
"So how far are we going?" I asked.
"Until you're tired," he said. "I don't get tired. That's your domain—you and your very loud, very fragile feelings."
I looked over at him. "So, all the people I met in the mountains—they were like you?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted upward, as if he were watching something far above the clouds. Then he smiled again, that same knowing smile that always made my stomach turn.
"Do you want to hear something surprising?"
"Sure," I said cautiously.
"Do you remember Deus? The guy from the warehouse?"
"Yeah," I said, frowning. "What about him?"
"That wasn't human."
I stopped in my tracks. "What?"
Corrin turned to face me, eyes gleaming with quiet delight. "Yeah. Deus wasn't human. You had this strong urge in you, this hunger. You wanted something so badly that we noticed. That's how it always starts. Deus was just there to do their job."
I stared at him, the words clawing at my chest. The streetlight caught his face again, gold bleeding into shadow.
"You're lying," I said softly.
He smiled wider, almost tenderly. "I never lie, Hugo. I just let you believe the truth that hurts the most."
I let out a low, sharp laugh, the kind that feels like it's cut from disbelief.
"So I was targeted," I said. "See? It wasn't me who called for you."
Corrin stopped walking. He turned his head slightly, the light from a passing car gliding across his face, catching in his eyes. "Why are you so sensitive about this?" he asked. "After everything—the roads, the rituals—you still hate the idea that this is the consequence of your own doing. You can't stand admitting that you called for me."
"I didn't," I said, the words too quick, too defensive.
He studied me, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you don't remember the rituals. Maybe seeing your money burn wiped your memory clean."
My stomach twisted. "They burned the money?"
"Of course they did." His voice softened, matter-of-fact. "Why would they use it? They don't need it. We don't need the money."
"Fucking hell."
He smiled slightly. "Music to my ears."
I stared at him, the silence between us stretching. The street around us was near-empty now, lamplight pooling in pale circles on the pavement. "Some of my friends knew," I said quietly. "They knew I was going to do it. They knew I wanted to get into black magic."
Corrin looked over, not slowing his steps. "I'll have to remove them."
My head snapped toward him. "You're going to kill them?"
"No," he said, tone steady, as if explaining something to a child. "I don't kill. Devils don't partake in that. We don't need to. Fear does it cheaper. Your kind takes care of it just fine."
I stopped walking. "But I didn't know about this rule before I told them. If I had known—"
"You wouldn't have said anything," he finished for me, his gaze still fixed ahead. "You seem very sentimental about those friends of yours."
"They're everything I have."
He turned then, the smallest flicker of amusement touching his mouth. "Oh, I'm jealous. I'm what you have too. Give me some credit." His tone lowered, more deliberate. "I'm jealous, Hugo. I'm possessive. I don't share easily."
"I think I'm going to throw up," I muttered.
"Then do it where I can't see you." His eyes lifted to mine again. "This body has certain... sensitivities. It doesn't like the sight."
I stared at him, my pulse quickening. "Are you fucking serious?"
He exhaled slowly, a ghost of a laugh escaping. "I'm not going to kill your friends," he said. "Just figure out a lie. You don't have to tell them what I am. Maybe I'm just a friend you met, someone from a place they've never been. Someone ordinary."
"Are you scared they might end up killing you?" I asked.
He smiled without warmth. "They could try," he said. "But they'd only be killing what they can see."
The words lingered long after, quiet and heavy, like ash settling over the night.
We kept walking. The sound of our steps folded into the quiet, soft and deliberate, echoing off the walls that boxed the narrow street. The night had settled heavy over Ebonreach, the kind that presses down on thought until everything starts to sound like confession.
Corrin's gaze drifted ahead, his voice calm, almost tender. "Although I know your heart is still bound to something long, long gone," he said, "I believe it's only a matter of time. We're going to enjoy this new life of yours."
His words cut through me, not for what they promised, but for how certain they sounded. We, he said, as though there were no longer a distinction between his path and mine. I turned toward him, the lamplight drawing a pale edge around his face.
"Then make it worth it," I said.
He stopped walking. For a moment, his expression changed—barely perceptible, like a flicker behind glass. Then his lips curved, slow and deliberate. "You," he said quietly, "you are what's going to make it worth it. Not me. I'm just accompanying you."
He looked at me as if the words themselves amused him, as if there were something inevitable already written in the space between us.
A breeze stirred the air, brushing through the loose strands of his hair. The city around us had gone still, the kind of stillness that comes when everything's waiting for the next sound, the next move.
He turned his eyes back to the street, and I followed his gaze, feeling the strange pull of his certainty—like gravity, invisible and patient, drawing me further in.