Corvian, 3180
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"How much are we looking for?" Clay asked, the words trimmed in politeness but glinting underneath, like a knife dulled just enough to appear civilized.
Hugo crossed his legs slowly, voice steady, unbothered. "Appearance plus twenty minutes on stage: two thousand pounds, and a room and wardrobe stipend."
Clay blinked. His smile faltered by a fraction, then returned, smooth as glass. "That's steep," he said after a breath. "I was thinking twelve hundred."
"Fifteen hundred," Hugo replied, his tone neither defensive nor pleading—just cool, deliberate. "Plus the wardrobe voucher."
A pause, long enough to stretch. Then Clay inclined his head. "Done."
I gave a small nod from where I sat behind them. His first proper negotiation. Not bad. Not refined either, but sufficient. It reminded me of watching a child learning to walk with a torch in hand—capable, though dangerously unaware of how easily things catch fire.
Clay leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. "Would you like to see the stage? We're not sure when else you'll be able to go over it. Maybe the morning of the event. You can take a look now, if you'd like."
"Yeah," Hugo said, too quickly. "I'd love to."
Clay rose, straightening the lapel of his suit. "Follow me."
We trailed after him through the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of our steps. The elevator was waiting as if summoned. He pressed the highest button—Roof.
Inside, the mirrored walls threw back three versions of the same lie: the professional, the performer, and the observer. No one spoke. Clay stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture deliberate; Hugo with his reflection—eyes lowered, mouth set, pretending he wasn't nervous; and I, watching both, measuring the theatre of it all.
I have always found humans so quick to mistake opportunity for destiny. They call it luck, or divine timing, when it's merely one man's vanity brushing up against another's desperation. This invitation, this charity event, was not born out of professionalism—it was a response to wounded ego. Clay had not brought Hugo here because he was needed. He brought him here because he refused him before. Pettiness in its most artful form: dressed in courtesy, sealed with an expensive smile.
Still, it worked in our favor. The Morrison's stage would open him to precisely the kind of audience he craved—politicians, investors, the bored elite who devour spectacle like communion. And if he played his cards well, quite literally, he'd be devoured gladly. Fame begins in small rooms and ends in contracts signed under golden chandeliers. All it takes is one rich spectator who wants a private encore.
The elevator ascended in silence, a low hum beneath us, and I studied Hugo through the mirrored surface. His reflection looked more real than he did. His pulse had shifted—slow but unsteady, the kind that comes from confusion rather than fear.
Humans like him fascinated me. Those who never learned what they wanted from desire. He carried no conviction in his pleasures, no clear allegiance. One moment he recoiled from affection; the next he sought it with trembling hands. I could not decide if that made him pitiful or divine.
He was, I think, the embodiment of a half-drawn circle—never closed, never complete. He let anyone step through the opening, so long as they offered warmth. Men, women, it did not matter. He followed what reached for him first. It was not love he pursued; it was relevance. A witness. Whoever promised to see him.
This troubled me more than it should have. Not because it was immoral—morality is a word for the frightened—but because it was so formless. It made him slippery, undefined. I prefer the damned who know what they want. He doesn't. He just wants want itself. And that, to me, is the most tiresome form of hunger.
Still, I tolerate him. I must. The weak-willed often burn the brightest when they finally decide to fall.
The elevator stilled with a quiet click. The doors opened to light—the open rooftop spreading in front of us, wind stirring the edges of Hugo's hair. Clay stepped out first, smiling over his shoulder, perfectly at ease.
"After you," he said.
And Hugo, ever polite, ever eager to prove himself, walked right into the trap—though it wasn't a trap of malice, not yet. Just one of circumstance.
I followed, the door sliding shut behind me like a sigh, thinking how easily men mistake ascent for safety.
As we approached the glass doors that led toward the rooftop corridor, Clay slowed his pace and turned to me, his smile adjusted into that polished courtesy reserved for strangers one intends to size up.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice dipped in apology but sharpened by intent. "We haven't really met. Properly, I mean." He extended a hand that gleamed faintly in the elevator's gold light. "I'm Clay Renshaw. I manage events here." His tone swelled a little on manage, as though the word itself was an ornament meant to catch the light. "And you are?"
"Corrin Vale," I said. "That's it."
He held my name a moment too long on his tongue, smiling as if expecting it to lengthen into something else—an occupation, a history, a purpose that might make sense of my presence.
"Oh," he said at last. "Are you his manager?"
I laughed under my breath, though it wasn't humor that moved it. "No. Hell no. I'm just tagging along. Helping a friend out."
Clay's eyes flicked between us—me and Hugo—with the mild surprise of a man unaccustomed to being denied hierarchy. "Ah. Fantastic," he said after a beat, the word thin as rice paper. "Would you like to take a seat somewhere? A drink, maybe?"
"No," I said, polite but absolute. "I'm doing fine. I'm accompanying him to get a sense of the atmosphere here." I let the sentence linger, a small echo between us. "So I'll still be accompanying him."
"Of course," he murmured, nodding once, his smile tightening like a thread drawn too taut. "Of course."
He turned, pressing his hand against the brass bar, and the door to the rooftop gave way with a quiet sigh.
The air outside carried warmth and the scent of polished wood. The space wasn't open to the sky as I expected—it was enclosed by tall boards of varnished cedar, arranged in long geometric lines, creating the illusion of an outdoor garden while still holding the polished sterility of the Morrison's interior. A row of lights traced the edges of the deck like captured fireflies.
Hugo stepped forward first, his breath unsteady, caught somewhere between awe and unease. The city's skyline shimmered beyond the wooden slats, thin ribbons of brightness threading through the gaps.
I followed slower, taking in the scene, the measured choreography of hospitality—the perfect balance between natural and constructed beauty. Clay was already explaining something about the layout, gesturing toward the far corner where a raised platform stood, draped in a pale linen canopy. His voice carried easily through the still air, confident, charming, rehearsed.
But while he spoke, I watched him instead. The subtle angle of his shoulders when he turned to Hugo, the way he made space only for him, the casual exclusion built into his stance whenever I drifted closer. An old, human habit—marking territory without claws.
He wanted me gone. That was clear.
Not in words, but in the delicate choreography of dominance. First, the handshake. Then the offer to sit, to drink—gentle attempts at separation masked as courtesy. The same gestures devils once used with angels when we still pretended civility mattered.
How quaint.
I could almost taste his irritation beneath the cologne. This man wanted to prove something: that he could summon Hugo, claim him under his roof, parade him like a discovery. A game of possession played in silk gloves.
But I have lived too long to misunderstand the performance. Men like Clay love to own what they do not understand. They love to polish it, frame it, ruin it when it ceases to entertain. I have seen kings do the same with faith, artists with muses, lovers with each other. And now this man—this hotel prophet of refinement—tried to do it with my creation.
Hugo stood between us, unaware. Still caught in the illusion of invitation, still believing opportunity had opened a door, not a snare.
Clay's voice blurred again in the background—something about how the roof lights would dim during the performance, how the skyline behind would frame him beautifully. I let him speak. I let Hugo nod. And I let the human think his gesture meant anything.
Because what he doesn't know is that I am never leaving this boy.
He is my newest fascination, the softest ruin I've ever molded. My favorite echo of grace, corrupted.
My most prized possession.
We left the Morrison beneath the weight of its glass doors. Outside, the late afternoon light pressed hard against the pavement, a pale shimmer on every parked car. The street was busy enough to feel alive but not so crowded that the silence between us could hide. Hugo's reflection rippled in the mirrored façade of the hotel, small against the gold lettering.
"I need a wardrobe," he said, his voice almost bright, almost new.
"I agree," I replied.
He paused, scanning the street like someone taking inventory of his next life. "Maybe I can also rent an apartment. With the deposit money I cashed from Clay, we could move somewhere decent."
I turned to him, shaking my head. "Never leave traces."
"But we can't stay in that hotel forever," he said. "You said so yourself."
"Suit yourself." I began to walk. The air carried the smell of fresh asphalt and perfume from passing strangers. It was the kind of air humans inhale when they think they're free.
"Wait—Corrin."
The sound of my name halted me. I turned, watching him catch up, his expression drawn somewhere between defiance and pleading.
"I know what you mean," he said, breath uneven. "But it's not like I'm stealing or doing anything bad. What traces could I possibly leave, and for who?"
I studied him for a moment, long enough to make him shift under it. "We can rent an apartment for now. Month-to-month, cash, no mail in your name" I said at last. "But you have to get used to moving around. You can't stay in one place."
He nodded, his shoulders softening with relief. "Got it."
Then he smiled—quietly at first, then with something alive behind it. It startled me more than I cared to admit.
"What?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just… excited. And I feel like I want to say I'm happy, but I'm scared."
"Don't be scared," I said. "You can be happy."
He looked at me, then tilted his head with that same, disarming curiosity that often precedes his worst questions. "Do devils have sexual urges?"
The words hit the air like a dropped stone. I almost choked on the breath I didn't need to take. He blinked at me, waiting.
I coughed once, the sound sharp in my throat. "What?"
He patted my back gently, a gesture so human it nearly offended me.
"What if they do?" I said at last, slower, my tone regaining shape.
"Just wondering," he said, smiling as if it were the most natural curiosity in the world. "You told me you have complex emotions, but I don't know if lust is one of them."
"It is," I answered.
His smile widened, though it carried thought behind it now. "Do devils get married? Have babies?"
I laughed, quietly, though it wasn't humor—it was disbelief. "No. Devils don't reproduce like humans do."
He fell silent for a moment, walking beside me again.
I kept my gaze ahead, on the shifting light over the street, on the motion of people coming and going from places they believed they owned. His questions lingered behind me like warm fingerprints.
He may be the first human to ask me such things—not out of fear, or reverence, or superstition, but out of genuine curiosity. The kind that doesn't want to know if I feel, but how. It is a dangerous kind of attention, that sort of wonder. I've seen it before, long ago, in the faces of those who mistook the fallen for gods.
Still, I walk beside him.
My newest creature, forever asking what should never be asked.
"I've got to go meet Eddie," he said, glancing toward the road. "Wanna come?"
I looked at him sidelong. "Do I have any other option?"
"I feel like you do," he said, smiling faintly, "but you don't do anything about it."
I didn't answer. A smirk shaped itself across my mouth and stayed there as we walked.
The taxi carried us back south through the sprawl of Ebonreach, where the city began to rot into itself again—the Morrison's marble traded for cracked windows, its perfume for smoke and hot bread. The streets were smaller here, more honest. People argued outside shopfronts, children shouted from the curb, and every doorway smelled of something recently cooked or burned.
Christo's Deli stood where it always had, dull glass fogged from the steam inside. Hugo pushed the door and the small bell above it gave its usual, weary ring.
Eddie was there by the window, hunched over his coffee, staring out as though the street owed him an apology. He looked up at the sound. "Hey—" he began, then saw me, and the warmth in his face died. "Ugh. What's he doing here?"
"Cut it," Hugo said, already moving toward him. He pulled out a chair with the confidence of someone who expected to be forgiven for everything. "I come bearing an offer."
"I'm not interested."
"Just listen." Hugo leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Do you want to be my manager?"
Eddie blinked, then laughed. Not a quiet laugh—a full, raw sound that made the waitstaff look over. It wasn't unkind, but it was close.
I stayed standing, watching the exchange. When Hugo turned to me for rescue, I lifted a shoulder, an almost-silent I told you so.
"Eddie, I'm not joking," Hugo said, voice tightening. "I secured a gig at the Morrison."
That silenced him. His laughter thinned into disbelief. "The Morrison Hotel?"
"Yes!" Hugo's eyes lit, too bright for this side of town.
Eddie shook his head, still incredulous. "I don't get it. Why do you need a manager then? You've got that odd friend there with you."
"I'm very flattered," I said quietly.
"Shut the fuck up," Eddie snapped without looking at me.
I exhaled softly, not in offense but in understanding. Humans always mistake discomfort for dominance. "I'll go out for a smoke," I said. "Sort it out."
Neither stopped me.
Outside, the air carried a different temperature—thicker, salted faintly with the memory of the nearby docks. The neon sign above the deli flickered in rhythmic exhaustion, the color spilling over the cracked pavement like diluted blood. I stepped to the corner, pulled a cigarette from my coat, and lit it.
The first inhale burned with a satisfying quiet. The flame reflected once in the glass before disappearing, leaving only the coil of smoke that climbed against the dim air.
Behind me, voices still rose and fell—human tones, messy and uneven, full of belief. Hugo's urgency, Eddie's rough skepticism. The eternal dialogue of the living, forever convinced they are shaping their futures when they're merely circling the same small flame.
I leaned against the brick and smiled to myself. The cigarette ash fell in thin grey lines onto the street, a little offering to the chaos I'd built around him.
Eddie came out of the deli with the door swinging hard behind him, the bell above it jangling like a nervous heart. He saw me at once—his eyes narrowing, jaw working as though the words he wanted to spit had been waiting for days. He stopped close enough that I could smell the coffee and heat still clinging to him.
"What's your story, man?" he said, his tone clipped, brittle. "What the fuck do you want with him?"
I met his stare. "I don't want anything to do with him."
He frowned, thrown for a second. "Are you from the mountains?"
I shook my head slowly, my expression steady, composed. The kind of composure that unsettles the mortal who expects heat and finds ice instead.
Before I could reply further, the door behind him opened again. Hugo stepped out, his voice sharp and tired. "Eddie, if you don't want to be on with it, then fuck it. I knew you weren't really that supportive, but you don't have to attack my friend here as well."
"Are you crazy, Hugo?" Eddie's voice rose, cracking slightly with disbelief. "You disappear for weeks, come back, ask me to be your manager for some performance that's already gone too far. I'm asking you to drop all this bullshit once and for all."
Hugo's eyes hardened. "It's too late, Eddie. It's either you're in or you're out—forever."
Eddie scoffed, a short, dry sound. "Forever?"
"Yes."
Ah. The word hit with all the weight of conviction borrowed from desperation. I could feel it ripple through him, that stubborn little flame that humans mistake for courage. I leaned back slightly against the wall, the cigarette ember burning low between my fingers. The scene was unfolding beautifully.
Hugo stood there, defiant, his chest rising and falling with something close to pride. He was standing for me—for me—in the full light of day, against a friend who'd known him far longer. I could almost taste the irony. I have seen kings fall to their knees before gods they despised, but watching him defend a devil… that was art.
Eddie exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His anger softened into the face of an older emotion—worry. The kind humans use to pretend their fear is love. "You know I care about you so fucking much, right?" he said. "I'm not doing this because I want to stand in your way, or because I don't support you."
Oh, fuck, I thought, a private murmur inside my head. Here come the sentiments.
He went on, the words tumbling faster now, heavy with sincerity. "I'm not against you pursuing your dream. If anything, I wish you success, long-term, real success. But I just have a bad feeling about this."
"Trust me this time," Hugo said. His voice broke a little around the edges—not weakness, just the strain of trying to sound sure. "I want to pay you back for all the times you stood up for me."
There it was. The human cycle in perfect motion—love pressed into guilt, guilt disguised as independence, independence surrendered again to the nearest open hand.
Eddie stared at him, silent. His shoulders had dropped; the fight was leaking out. He wanted to believe him, but fear of loss was stronger than faith in recovery. I could almost hear the old pulse of friendship thrumming between them, the one that thinks it's saving the other by saying no.
I drew from the cigarette one last time, let the smoke dissolve against the wind, and watched them with the quiet affection of a craftsman admiring his work.
They still think the choice is theirs. That's what makes it all so exquisite.
Eddie's shoulders eased, his anger cooling into something quieter—resignation, maybe, or reluctant care. His gaze moved between the two of us, as though the answer might be found in the distance rather than the moment.
"Fine," he said at last, voice low. "But I need some time to talk to Cole."
Hugo grinned, relief spilling through him like light through a crack. "Take your time. The event's on July second. Wednesday."
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Then let me try this event out first—before I talk to Cole."
"Deal," Hugo said, already stepping forward. The movement carried a warmth that felt almost innocent. He wrapped his arms around Eddie, the kind of embrace that belonged to a world I could never touch.
Eddie hesitated, then gave in, returning it. The sound of it—the soft drag of fabric against fabric—seemed loud against the street's hush. He turned his head while still holding him, his eyes finding mine over Hugo's shoulder.
I met his gaze.
There was suspicion there, but also an echo of something older—fear shaped like recognition. I've seen that look in priests, in lovers, in dying men who realize too late that what stands before them doesn't belong to the earth.
I smiled at him. Not wide, not cruel. Just enough to show I understood everything he was feeling.
He broke the eye contact first.
The two of them stayed like that a moment longer, and for once I did not interrupt.
And though Hugo still clung to his friend, whispering some soft gratitude I could not hear, I knew he would not remain in that embrace for long. He never does.