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The mansion was quiet, quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and most likely empty of any staff that helped with its care. They were split, some taking their temporary leave, some transferred to the next location to arrange the evening’s affairs. Yet that silence was the most haunting part, seemingly draining away the life that entered its shadows.

Separate from the main branch of the house, a small corridor that led to a bedroom, hardly touched by the nightmares that whispered in the nights. Inside was a younger brother, though he was no longer young, fidgeting with every piece of formal attire, taking up more time than he had to spare.

Looking into the mirror, he saw that some of his medium-length brown waves were tousled in a mess, covering the green eyes that stared back. But the messy hair was unable to hide the golden traces of his spirit that lined his skin. Dark circles under his eyes were easy to hide; he could make them go away with a small change. It would have been preferred that he wore some makeup if he'd had the time, but with a shift so subtle, hardly anyone would notice the difference anyway. 

“See, look at yourself. It’s as if nothing is wrong. Because there is nothing wrong,” he attempted, assuring himself, but the cold strike of an ebony cane, plated in fine metal, topped with a dark sapphire, cracked him from his concentration as it echoed.

Ethan's blood ran cold as he threw open the door and shouted out into the dark, “Dylan!?”, but not a soul answered him as he waited on bated breath. Before the chill could settle in, he snatched the bag from the foot of the bed and stowed it into his extrapolator quickly, before the painted gazes of the past shamed him into changing his mind. He straightened out the twisted sleeves of his coat as he hastened down his empty path, desperate to outrun the weight of reality before it could catch up.

-

Dylan, the elder of the two brothers, was preparing in his quarters. A simple and uniform space, just like any other station, one that remained indifferent whether the home that marked his body was a mere walking distance or worlds apart.

Pressed formal attire slipped over scars, persisting through the pains of the battered muscles and bruised skin in a flawless routine of muscle memory. No one should ever suspect the pain that lies underneath. Why would they? To question the condition of a soldier was to imply a weakness that was not allowed, especially a military officer. This kind of weakness allowed people to look too closely at the soldier beneath the uniform, allowing them to find that only a vacancy remained inside a man who had fought for his survival every single day, without ever taking a step onto a battlefield.