Aurora skidded as she entered the Stone Kingdom. She walked now, chest heaving. She walked steadily, eyes scanning. There it was – new graffiti. A trail. She nodded. He had taken the bait.

Good.

The paintings got more visceral as she approached. It told the story of the Stone Kingdom’s tragedy. The paintings shifted as she walked—at first, all gray symmetry and mechanical lines. But then: a smear of red. A hand, outstretched and broken. Further in, faces appeared—distorted, mouths open mid-scream, bolts driven into their skulls. A woman clutched a child with cables for veins. It wasn’t abstract. It was indictment. Each brushstroke bled history: the Stone Kingdom’s promise of order, paid for in amputations, in silence, in soul. By the end, it wasn’t even paint. Something darker streaked the final canvas. This wasn’t a gallery.

It was a grave.

When she reached the end, she saw a man who was curled like he was shriveling. He looked at her, big eyes despite his bony body. He wore rags and was covered with dirt and soot. The man blinked at her slowly, then looked past her, as if she wasn’t even there. His voice cracked like it hadn’t been used in days. He squinted as she approached, eyes rimmed red from ash or exhaustion. When he spoke, it was soft but sharp.

“You actually came.” He looked her up and down—not with awe, but verification, like he was making sure she matched the lines he’d painted.

His hand gestured vaguely at the wall, pointing to her words: “keep hiding.”

“They don’t see anything anymore. Not unless it’s sanctioned. But you—you saw it.”

He stepped forward once, cautious. “You left a mark. A challenge for me.” His voice caught. “I’m tired of painting warnings. Tell me you’re here to do more than look.”

—--------

The man had washed up in one of the adjacent units—filthy, gaunt, eyes like smudged ink. Aurora left the door open and stood in the library, watching the city through the tall windows. Milo was still out there, making preparations for what she’d need.

He’s following me completely, she reminded herself. He’s going to do everything I need. A wave of guilt swept over her as she felt a jab of skepticism. She touched the metal on her chest – the Titan control system. The failsafe. She shook her head and exhaled slowly, chastising herself. She changed the subject.

Spending time waiting for the artist was a gamble. But her gut had screamed that they needed him, not someone else.

“I didn’t even start this chaos with a complete plan,” she muttered to no one.

And that’s okay, she imagined Milo saying. We pivot. Even when we make mistakes.

Especially when we make mistakes.

She let out a shaky breath, gripping the window frame. Then, down below, she saw movement. Her heart kicked. Milo. He moved through the alleyway like gravity bent around him—unnatural, deliberate, as if the world rearranged itself to make room.

She ran down the hall and threw her arms around him. He didn’t move for half a second—then she felt it. The faintest tension. Or had she imagined it? She pulled back quickly, searching his face for the thing she couldn’t name.

“It’s done,” he said. Nothing more. The weight of what he didn’t say hung heavier than the words. She looked at him again.

“Good,” she said quickly, shifting focus. “I brought the artist.”

He nodded once without comment or warmth. Then stepped past her. She turned, but her shoulders stayed tight, as if bracing for something she couldn’t name.

Something had shifted out there. Or maybe the shift was in him.

She shook it off. No time for spiraling. Milo had already slipped into the next room—silent, seamless, like he was part of the air. Aurora stepped forward. The artist stood frozen in the middle of the living room. He wasn’t staring at her. He was staring at everything else.

Stacks of books, artwork on the walls, sculptures. Books opened mid-thought. The whole space pulsed with contradiction, clinical and chaotic, sacred and sharp. He turned slowly, mouth parted, eyes wide. He was clean now, washed, re-dressed, but the slums hadn’t left him. It clung to his posture. His thinness. The way he flinched when they came in.

Aurora didn’t speak immediately. She just watched him, and watched the room through his eyes. This wasn’t just a living space. It was Milo, split open, waiting for a verdict. She glanced around the room, irritation flaring beneath her ribs.

Why do I care what he thinks? Why do I feel like I’m failing some test I never agreed to take?

Like Kristo had once said, she didn’t owe him anything. And yet, she felt a heavy weight in her chest again. Like she’d disappointed him. Like she needed to earn her place back. She clenched her jaw. I’m not here to please him. But the doubt didn’t leave.

She exhaled, let it go, and met his eyes with a sharp smile. “Thanks for coming.”

He scanned the room, then the window, then the floor. His pupils never stopped moving—like he was trying to solve something no one else could see. His gaze paused on the floor-to-ceiling window. Then drifted to the walls. Then to the shelves of books—each one worn, marked, combed through over years of obsession.

“I didn’t think people like this were real,” he murmured. Aurora followed his eyes. She thought of Milo. She nodded. Then his attention shifted toward her, slow but sharp.

He looked at her—really looked—eyes dragging from her boots to her face, reading her like another artifact out of place. “You’re not from here,” he said. “You’re from outside.”

Aurora nodded again.

His brow furrowed. “Then… why are you here?”

There was hostility in his voice. She didn’t fit the picture of someone he’d follow, but that was nothing new. Aurora cleared her throat. “Tourism. But I figured while I was here, I might as well break the spell and ruin the regime. You know. Normal things.”

He stared. Like the shape of her didn’t match the story in his head.

Then he laughed.

Low at first. Disbelieving. Then louder, sharper, until it broke into something wild and rattling—like a dam giving way. It was clear he was laughing at her – the small, puny girl in front of him.

Aurora didn’t flinch. She just stepped to the window. “Look,” she said, pointing upward. “Carefully.”

He squinted. “I don’t—”

And then he saw it.

A single star, flickering red. Just for two seconds. Then back to white, glittering innocently above the city. He went quiet.

Aurora spoke gently. “My associate tampered with the dome projections. Minor enough Josen won’t notice. But for anyone who’s looking…” She turned, studying his face. “What’s wrong? You stopped laughing.”

She leaned forward, hand to her chest. “Was it something I said?”

—--------------------

The artist lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, slow and uneven—like sitting might anchor the thoughts colliding in his head. The man laughed—unsteady at first, then sharper, louder, unraveling until it cracked into something manic. Aurora let a flicker of a smile cross her lips.

Then the laughter stopped. His expression shifted. That look—fear catching up to realization. The same look Abben had given her in the alleyway.

Good.

She took another step forward. “Since you’re all washed up, you can crawl back into that unit. You’re not satisfied with your kingdom’s system. Yes?”

He nodded, mouth dry.

“I’ll have my partner bring supplies—paint, brushes, whatever you need.”

Her voice didn’t rise. If anything, it grew calmer, more surgical.

“We’ll copy your work into pamphlets. Your job is to critique the system. Critique Josen.” She paused. “And when the time comes—when they all look up—we’ll need you ready…You’ll paint the finale. A lightshow across the night sky.”

He stared at her for a few moments, deer in headlights. Then, he nodded, looking out at his kingdom, and said: “I’ll need lots of paint.”

—---

Aurora exhaled as the artist scrambled away. Memory and habit were giving way. Predictable. She had learned a little too much about manipulation at the Crystal Empire. And that’s why he left me, or else I’d never learned how to deal with men like him on my own.

She watched as the artist scampered away from her, as if she had the plague. But at least, at the end, he had some resolve in him. She turned, now she had to deal with something less predictable – Milo.

Aurora didn’t hesitate. She crossed the hall, boots hitting the floor with more force than necessary. At Milo’s door, she knocked once. Hard. Then shoved it open. The door slammed behind her.

She crossed her arms. “You disappeared. Again.” She didn’t blink.

He didn’t either, still sitting on his armchair by the window, turning a page. “I needed time to think. Unsettling you was not my intention. That was my mistake.”

She stepped forward, bristling then caught herself. She took a slow breath. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. He turned another page, the gesture maddeningly calm.

“Why do I feel like you’re trying to punish me?”

Milo shut the book with finality. He scrutinized her. She narrowed her eyes back. “I’m not punishing you, but mourning.”

“What?” Aurora bit back a sarcastic jab.

“You were supposed to be terrifying. Untouchable, even to me.”

She shook her head in confusion and disbelief, crossing her arms before locking his gaze.

“Yet you kiss me like I’m your salvation, when I was never supposed to be,” he continued.

An incredulous smile flickered on her lips. She let out a small laugh, studying the floor before looking at him, amusement in her eyes. He froze.

“So?” she pressed, leaning forward, closing the gap between them. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

His breath hitched. Her smile faded. “I want you,” she said unapologetically. “And I now know you want me too.” She leaned back again, hands folded, eyes thoughtful. “I never pinned you for the scared type. I thought this was what you craved: being human, meaning.”

His gaze darkened. “Don’t confuse hunger for meaning.”

Aurora laughed. “Hunger leads to meaning, Milo. Craving.” Her eyes twinkled. She cocked her head. “Don’t tell me you’re actually scared for me because…” She leaned in. “You’re scared I’ll break.”

She pulled back, gaze cutting. “Or maybe you’re just scared I’ll make you wish you didn’t.” She laughed lightly as his eyebrows raised. “You wanted terrifying. So here I am. Because I see you now, understand you, and I’m not running.” She smiled. “I’m chasing.”

“Craving creates meaning,” Milo muttered, in thought. “And… tragedy has its beauty.”

He leaned forward too, gaze locking hers. “You do know you’re growing soft beside me, right? That I’m ruining your journey. That it’s dangerous to choose me.”

Aurora brushed his hair back. “I’m just waiting for you to break with me.”

He caught her hand, she twisted to catch his.

“You’re the one always talking about meaning,” she said softly. “Well, it’s here. In front of us. Unexpected. So don’t be scared – don’t hesitate, Jin. Stop running and just… be with me.”

He nodded, sitting beside her on the bed. He touched her face as they kissed.

Outside, the artist’s brush scraped across canvas, like the world had exhaled.