Nevan knew something was wrong the moment Alastor smiled.

It wasn’t the usual sharp, amused curve of his mouth—the one that warned people to step back. This smile was slower. Thoughtful. Like a conclusion had already been reached, and Nevan simply hadn’t been informed yet.

“Stay,” Alastor said, as the classroom emptied.

It wasn’t a command. That was what made Nevan obey.

The door closed behind the last student. The room fell quiet in that heavy way only empty spaces had, dust motes drifting through afternoon light. Nevan stood beside his desk, hands folded, pulse steady by force alone.

Alastor reached into his bag.

Nevan’s stomach tightened instantly.

“You don’t like surprises,” Alastor said mildly. “I noticed.”

Nevan didn’t answer.

Alastor placed a small box on the desk between them. Black. Matte. No markings. It looked expensive in the way things did when cost didn’t matter.

“A gift,” Alastor continued. “From me.”

Nevan stared at it.

“No,” he said softly.

Alastor’s eyebrow twitched. “You didn’t even see it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

Alastor nudged the box closer with one finger. The sound it made against the desk was quiet. Final.

“Open it.”

Nevan’s fingers felt numb as he reached forward. He told himself it was just a box. Just an object. He had endured worse than objects.

The lid lifted.

Inside lay a thin leather collar.

Not flashy. Not decorative. Plain, dark, worn smooth at the edges, like it had been handled often. There was no tag. No lock attached.

Just the implication.

Nevan’s vision swam.

The room tilted slightly, as if the floor had decided to move without him. His throat tightened, bile rising fast and hot. He slapped the box shut and staggered back a step, one hand gripping the desk.

His breathing broke.

Alastor watched him carefully—not with delight, but with something colder. Assessment.

“I told Airn you wouldn’t like it,” Alastor said. “But I was curious how you wouldn’t.”

Nevan swallowed hard. His mouth tasted wrong. Metallic. His hands shook despite his efforts to still them.

“Why,” he whispered.

Alastor tilted his head. “Because you recognize it.”

Nevan’s eyes snapped up.

“Not the object,” Alastor clarified. “The idea.”

The nausea surged again, sharper this time. Memories pressed too close—things Nevan kept buried behind calm and silence and distance. Control taken. Identity reduced. The way an object could erase a person if wielded correctly.

“Take it away,” Nevan said.

Alastor didn’t move.

“You know,” Alastor continued softly, “most people would laugh. Or panic. Or ask what it means.”

He leaned in just enough to invade Nevan’s space. “You went pale. Your body reacted before your mind did.”

Nevan straightened slowly.

And then—something inside him clicked.

The nausea didn’t vanish, but it locked itself away, shoved behind a door he slammed shut without mercy. His expression went blank. Empty. That terrifying stillness returned.

“I don’t belong to you,” Nevan said calmly.

Alastor smiled.

“Not yet.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

Airn appeared in the doorway, gaze flicking immediately to Nevan’s face, then to the box. His expression changed—irritation, then something like hunger.

“You gave it to him here?” Airn asked.

Alastor shrugged. “I wanted honesty.”

Airn looked at Nevan, eyes narrowing. “You going to throw up?”

Nevan met his gaze without flinching. “No.”

Airn studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed under his breath.

“Good,” he said. “That means you understood it.”

Nevan’s stomach twisted again—but he didn’t let it show.

Alastor closed the box gently and slid it back into his bag. “Think of it as a message,” he said. “Not a demand.”

Nevan’s voice was quiet. Flat. “Messages can be refused.”

Airn stepped closer, stopping just short of touching him. “Sure,” he said. “But they’re still received.”

The bell rang.

Neither twin moved until it stopped echoing.

Then Alastor gestured to the door. “Go home, Nevan.”

Nevan did.

But the image followed him—
the weight of meaning,
the threat without violence,
the knowledge that the rumors were never exaggerations.

They were warnings.

And Nevan had just been marked as someone worth testing.

Nevan walked home instead of taking the bus.

He didn’t remember deciding to.

One moment he was leaving the school gates, the next his feet were moving on instinct, following familiar streets, familiar cracks in the pavement. He counted them without meaning to. One, two, three—reset—one, two, three. It kept the world from tilting.

The nausea hadn’t left.

It sat heavy and warm beneath his ribs, like something alive. Every few steps, his throat tightened, breath hitching as if his body expected him to retch even when his mind refused.

It’s not happening now, he told himself.
It already happened. You’re here.

He flexed his hands. Fingertips tingled. Cold air bit at his skin, grounding in its own cruel way. He welcomed it.

At home, Nevan kicked off his shoes and went straight to his room. No lights. No mirrors. He sat on the floor, back against the bed, knees drawn up.

Then he reached for the old, scratched MP3 player on his desk.

Music first. Always music.

He put the earbuds in and hit play without checking the song. A low, steady rhythm filled his head—nothing dramatic, just sound. Something with a heartbeat. He focused on it, breathing in time.

In.
Out.
Again.

His pulse slowed.

Next came touch. He dragged his fingers across the rough carpet, naming the sensation in his head. Scratchy. Warm. Real. He pressed his palm flat to the floor, then to his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath his ribs.

Still here.

The image of the box tried to surface.

He shut it down.

Instead, Nevan stood and crossed the room to the terrarium by the window. Inside, his lizard lifted its head lazily, blinking at him. Slow. Unbothered. Alive in a way that asked nothing of him.

Nevan opened the lid and let the small weight crawl onto his wrist. Warm scales. Tiny claws.

“Hey,” he whispered.

The word felt strange in his mouth. Human. Gentle.

The nausea eased—not gone, but manageable. Like waves pulling back just enough to breathe.

A knock sounded at his door.

Nevan froze.

“Nev?” Theo’s voice, familiar and wrong all at once. “You home?”

Nevan hesitated, then carefully placed the lizard back inside and closed the lid. He wiped his hands on his jeans and opened the door.

Theo stood there with his backpack slung over one shoulder, dark brown hair messy as ever, falling into his eyes. He smiled—easy, unguarded.

“Skipped the bus,” Theo said. “Thought I’d walk with you, but you vanished.”

Nevan shrugged. “Needed air.”

Theo frowned, just slightly. “You okay?”

Nevan nodded too fast.

Theo didn’t push. That was one of the reasons Nevan trusted him.

“I, uh,” Theo said, scratching the back of his neck. “I forgot my notebook in class. Thought I’d swing by, then head back.”

Nevan stepped aside automatically. “Sure.”

Theo dropped his bag by the desk, rummaging through papers. Nevan leaned against the doorframe, watching him move through the space like he belonged there.

Then Theo froze.

“What’s this?”

Nevan’s stomach dropped.

Theo stood by the bed, holding something small and black. Matte. Familiar.

The box.

Nevan moved without thinking. “Put that down.”

Theo startled, eyes snapping up. “Sorry—I thought it was—”

“Put it down,” Nevan repeated, voice sharper now.

Theo did, slowly, placing it back exactly where it had been. He looked at Nevan, confusion knitting his brows.

“Hey,” Theo said carefully. “What is it?”

Nevan swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again.

“Nothing.”

Theo didn’t believe him. Nevan could see it in the way his gaze flicked between Nevan’s face and the box.

“That’s not nothing,” Theo said. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Nevan forced his hands to unclench. “It’s… a bad joke.”

Theo hesitated. “From who?”

Nevan didn’t answer.

Theo exhaled slowly. “The twins.”

Nevan’s silence was answer enough.

Theo’s expression darkened—not fear, not yet. Anger. Protective, immediate.

“They gave you something,” Theo said. “Didn’t they?”

Nevan looked away.

Theo stepped closer. “Nev, what did they do?”

“Nothing,” Nevan said, automatically. Then, quieter, “Not today.”

Theo frowned. “That’s not comforting.”

Nevan met his eyes then, something cold and flat settling over his features. “Don’t ask me to explain.”

Theo faltered.

“…Okay,” he said after a moment. “I won’t.”

But his gaze slid back to the box again, curiosity warring with unease.

“Can I ask one thing?”

Nevan closed his eyes briefly. “What.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Nevan opened them.

“Yes.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “Then why do you still have it?”

Nevan didn’t answer.

Because part of him needed to know it was real.
Because throwing it away wouldn’t undo what it represented.
Because control wasn’t always taken—sometimes it was offered, and that terrified him more than anything.

Theo watched him too closely.

“You don’t have to deal with them alone,” Theo said.

Nevan almost laughed.

“They don’t want you,” Nevan said quietly.

Theo stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Nevan replied, voice steady, “that if you involve yourself, they will notice.”

Theo straightened. “I already noticed.”

Nevan’s calm cracked just slightly.

“Please,” he said.

Theo stared at him, then nodded once. “Okay. I’ll drop it.”

But as he shouldered his bag and headed for the door, his eyes lingered on the box one last time.

Nevan felt the weight of that look settle into his chest.

Because Theo didn’t understand the warning.