Kade sat alone in his room.
Night had already fallen by the time his father sent him home. He'd moved through the streets under cover of darkness, careful to avoid people, careful not to be seen. The blood had dried by then, stiff against his clothes, dark and unmistakable.
Now he sat on the edge of his bed, motionless.
He searched himself.
Not his pockets. Not his room.
His mind.
He looked for regret. For grief. For even the faintest whisper of doubt telling him he'd acted too quickly, too brutally, too far beyond what was necessary.
There was nothing.
The absence didn't disturb him as much as it should have.
Kade was beginning to understand how his mind worked now. He hadn't become some hollow, unfeeling sociopath. That much was obvious. He still cared about Tina—about her safety, her recovery, her future. He still cared about his mother. Even about his father, despite everything Trent had done and everything he was still hiding.
But when Kade made a decision, something else happened.
Anything that might slow him down—fear, hesitation, moral friction—burned away.
Not suppressed.
Removed.
He wasn't numb. He wasn't empty.
He was focused.
A blade did not question its target once it had been swung.
The realization unsettled him.
He had spent most of his life wishing to be free of hesitation. Free of the invisible rules and social restraints that stopped people from doing what was right when it mattered. Now that wish had been granted.
And only now did the weight of it settle in.
Who was he to decide what the right thing was?
A few days ago, he'd been just another high schooler. One more face in the crowd. One more kid complaining about the world without having the power to change it.
Now he could feel his thoughts shifting. His morals realigning. His worldview recalibrating in real time.
He was aware of it.
And helpless to stop it.
Yet, deep down, he knew this wasn't something new being forced onto him.
His father had been clear.
Enlightenment amplified what was already there. It didn't create something out of nothing.
And a dual gaze turned the volume higher than it ever should have been.
So if this was what he had become after the amplification—
What did that say about who Kade Moren really was?
He thought of his father, somewhere out there in the dark, cleaning up the body of a boy Kade had killed. Trent had said he would take care of it. Had said it with the same calm he brought to everything else, but Kade had seen the white knuckles. Had seen the fear beneath the analysis.
Trent was doing this because he loved him. Because he was afraid of what Kade was becoming and couldn't stop it, so he would bury it instead.
That was worse than indifference.
The front door downstairs opened and closed.
Footsteps followed—fast, uneven, panicked.
His mother.
Judging by the urgency in her steps, he surmised she'd been told about the incident.
Kade wondered what lie his father had spun this time. Maybe a mugging gone wrong. Maybe Rex fell in with the wrong crowd and paid for it. Something that would account for the violence without requiring a body that looked like it had been hit by a vehicle. Something with enough messiness to explain why Kade had blood on him when he came home.
Footsteps climbed the stairs in a hurry, then stopped just outside his door.
There was a pause.
A tentative knock.
Kade stood, intending to open it immediately—then caught his reflection in the mirror of his closet door.
Blood.
Still smeared across his skin. Dried along his arms. Dark against his collarbone.
He looked like something out of a nightmare.
"Hey, Mum," he called quickly. "Just—give me a few seconds. Let me clean up."
On the other side of the door, Theresa hesitated.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. Careful.
"Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I'm right here."
She thought he'd been crying.
The assumption twisted something uncomfortable in his chest.
Kade felt a flicker of guilt—not for what he'd done, but for the lies surrounding it. For the way he kept having to stand in the middle of half-truths and omissions, complicit whether he wanted to be or not.
Even if he tried to tell her everything, the Veil would erase it.
And even if it didn't, his father wouldn't allow it.
There it was again.
Choice.
Taken.
Decided for him.
It made him sick.
No one should be stripped of their right to choose.
Now that he was officially on this path, he would see it done.
He turned away from the door and stepped into the bathroom.
The bloodstained clothes came off first. He stuffed them into the bottom of the hamper, already planning to burn them later. Then he stepped into the shower and turned the water on cold.
Not to clear his head.
His mind had never been clearer.
The dried blood loosened and ran down his skin in dark rivulets, pooling briefly at his feet before disappearing down the drain. He scrubbed until there was nothing left.
When he finished, he shut off the water and stared at himself in the mirror.
Dark skin.
Wet, coiled hair clinging to his forehead.
Green eyes.
Sharper now. Colder. Stripped of the warmth they once carried.
His jaw tightened.
He dressed carefully, then adjusted his expression. Subtle. Just enough grief. Just enough loss.
He still didn't know what lie his father had told his mother.
He couldn't afford to contradict it.
Kade opened the door.
He barely had time to register his mother's face before she crashed into him.
Theresa wrapped her arms around him and broke into tears.
Her sobs came fast and raw, knocking the breath from his lungs as she clutched at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. If he'd been the boy he was a week ago, the impact might have sent him stumbling.
Now, he barely moved.
"Kade—oh God, I'm so sorry," she cried. "I'm so, so sorry you had to see that. Seeing your friend get hit by a truck like that… it's too much for anyone. Rex was like a son to me. Such a sweet boy. He didn't deserve this."
She kept talking.
Apologizing.
Grieving.
Kade held her.
He let her soak the clean shirt he'd just put on with tears and snot. He didn't flinch. Didn't tighten his grip. Didn't speak.
Hit by a truck.
Of all the impossible stories, his father had chosen the one that required a vehicle, a road, and a corpse with a chest cavity that looked nothing like tire damage. It was absurd. It was laughable. It was the kind of lie that should have collapsed under the slightest scrutiny.
And yet his mother believed it completely. The Veil, or his father's influence, or some combination of both had reached into her head and made the impossible seem ordinary.
The thought chilled him more than the blood ever had.
There was warmth in his chest as his mother cried against him—real warmth. Proof that he still felt. That he still cared. That his new state of mind could coexist with his softer impulses.
Eventually, her sobs slowed.
Theresa pulled back, wiping her eyes, then suddenly pressed a hand to her temple.
"Oh—God," she said weakly. "I nearly forgot."
Kade's focus sharpened.
"I came home with someone," she continued. "I saw her walking along the road. Just wandering. Completely out of it. The poor thing."
She hesitated, then added gently, "Tina's downstairs, sweetheart. I thought you two should be together right now."
She didn't wait for an answer, already turning back toward the stairs.
Kade remained still.
If Tina was here—walking freely—then his father had already ensured she wouldn't do anything reckless.
That much was clear.
He exhaled slowly.
He had never intended to run from this.
He would be leaving soon. Training. Distance. No return date.
Before that happened, he needed to face her.
To understand where she stood.
Even if she now saw him as a monster.
Kade descended the stairs, already hearing voices drifting from the kitchen.
His mother's—and another, quieter voice that he assumed was Tina's.
He almost didn't recognize it.
The voice sounded tired. Hollow. Like someone who had reached the end of patience, hope, and resistance all at once.
The sound tightened painfully around his heart.
Once again, he cursed himself for allowing her to suffer for so long.
He could only hope her mind wasn't beyond repair. That somewhere beneath the exhaustion and damage, there was still a trace of the smiling, vibrant girl who used to light up every room she entered.
The one who now existed only in his memories.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the kitchen doorway.
The conversation stopped immediately.
Both women looked up.
Theresa was the first to react. She stood, crossed the room, and kissed Tina on the forehead before pulling her into a brief hug. Then she turned to Kade, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and quietly excused herself, heading back upstairs.
The kitchen fell silent.
Kade and Tina stood facing each other across the room.
Kade assessed her without meaning to.
Her blonde hair had lost its sheen and volume, hanging limp around her face. Without makeup, her skin looked pale, dark circles etched beneath her eyes. The bruises lining her arms—once carefully concealed—were now exposed, as if hiding them no longer mattered. Her nails were bitten down to the quick.
She looked ruined.
Tina, meanwhile, was studying him just as closely.
There was no fear in her gaze.
Only sadness.
And not for herself.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Kade spoke.
"Who would've thought we'd end up like this," he said quietly. "I won't pretend to understand what you've been through. And I won't blame you if you hate me for what I did."
His eyes hardened.
"Just know this—if I had to do it again, the only thing I'd change is that I wouldn't have taken so long to take out the trash."
Tina didn't flinch.
She didn't react to his dismissal of Rex. Didn't react to the admission that he would kill him again.
Instead, she met his eyes.
"I knew something was different about you," she said. "Since that day in class. You started watching everything like it was beneath you. Cold. Detached."
She inhaled slowly.
"And while you were observing everyone else—you were being observed too."
Kade's brows lifted slightly.
She continued.
"Rex has been blackmailing me for almost a year. Long before whatever happened to you. He forced me to do things. Awful things. Right under your nose."
Her voice trembled, but she didn't stop.
"I tried to reach you. He wouldn't let me talk. He wouldn't let me message you. So I looked at you. I begged you with my eyes."
She paused, and something flickered across her face—pain, or memory, or both.
"That Tuesday before spring break. The cafeteria. You were sitting across from us, and I looked at you—really looked at you—while Rex was telling some stupid joke. And you smiled back at me. You smiled, Kade. Because you were looking at him, not at me. Not at my eyes. Not at what was behind them."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"After he finally broke me—then you noticed."
Kade's vision blurred.
"So tell me, Kade Moren," Tina said sharply, "who the fuck do you think you are to decide who lives and dies?"
The words shattered him.
"Who made you judge, jury, and executioner—when you're just as bad?"
Kade opened his mouth.
He wanted to say something. Anything. An apology, an explanation, a promise that he would spend the rest of his life making this right. The words were there, heavy and urgent behind his teeth.
He couldn't get them out.
"You're not a hero," Tina said quietly. "You're just as bad as him."
She stepped back.
"You probably came here looking for forgiveness," she said. "Or something to make this easier for you."
She shook her head.
"I don't care that you killed Rex. He was trash. I've lived through worse than witnessing a murder."
She paused. Her eyes went distant, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely audible.
"All I feel for you is pity."
Her words cut deeper than any accusation.
"You think you're a hero," she said. "But you're not."
She turned toward the door.
"Tell your mum I said thank you for everything."
Kade tried to speak her name.
The word died in his throat.
"My family's leaving town," she added. "Have a nice life."
The door slammed.
The sound echoed through the house.
Kade remained on the kitchen floor, alone.
One sob tore through him—raw, uncontrollable, the only sound he could make. Then silence. He stayed there, kneeling on the tile, until the trembling stopped and there was nothing left but the weight of truth.
He did not get up.
The house settled around him, quiet and dark. Exhaustion pressed down like a physical weight, heavier than gravity. He felt his consciousness fraying at the edges, pulled toward something vast and unfamiliar.
A cold sensation stirred at the base of his skull.
Not pain. Not the tearing of before. Something gentler. A current tugging him downward, like sleep reaching up through deep water.
Kade's eyes closed.
And the world fell away.
When awareness returned, he was no longer in the kitchen.
He stood in a vast chamber of impossible scale, its walls woven from structured light that pulsed with slow, rhythmic brilliance. The air hummed with a pressure that made his teeth ache. He looked down at himself—he was solid, real, but when he touched his own arm, his fingers passed through flesh for a fraction of a second before snapping back.
He was dreaming. Or he was somewhere else.
A voice filled the chamber, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Speak."
Kade turned.
A figure knelt before a throne of bound light, radiance flickering around its form like a nervous halo. Upon the throne sat a colossal shape composed of soft, restrained luminescence—unfathomably deep, unbearably heavy. To look at it was to feel the weight of every hope that had ever gone unrealized.
The kneeling figure spoke, its voice many voices at once.
"Yes, my Lord Hope."
It lowered its gaze.
"As stated in my transmission, I was engaged in combat with one of the vile kin when a breach consumed us both. Upon arrival in the world of men, I encountered a human male and elected to bestow my gaze."
The light around it dimmed.
"The vile kin exploited the moment. It delivered a decisive strike and, while I recovered, imposed its gaze upon the same human."
A pause.
"To my surprise, the human did not perish."
Another pause.
"He survived."
Silence settled across the throne room.
Then the voice from the throne spoke, unchanged and untroubled.
"It is of no consequence."
The kneeling figure did not question this.
"Inform our pawns among the Enlightened," the voice continued. "The boy is to be observed. Nothing more."
The Lucent inclined its head. "As you will, Lord Hope."
Its radiance flared briefly before dissolving into the light of the chamber, vanishing as though it had never existed.
The throne room returned to stillness.
It did not remain so for long.
A point of darkness appeared in the air before the throne, like ink spilled upon a canvas. It swirled slowly at first, then faster, expanding as its presence deepened. Lord Hope did not move. Its colossal form remained unmoving as the darkness reached its zenith and collapsed inward.
From it emerged another figure.
A humanoid form wreathed entirely in shadow, darkness clinging to it like living flesh. Only its eyes were visible, glowing the color of freshly spilled blood. Its presence dimmed the brilliance of the chamber, bringing with it a crushing weight that pressed against reality itself.
A voice rang out—sharp and grating, like steel drawn across a whetstone. It was soaked in bloodlust, the kind that would shatter a human mind with sound alone.
"I trust you've received the news, bright bastard."
The shadowed being's contempt was unmistakable.
Lord Hope remained unmoving as its voice answered, calm as ever.
"Carnage. I believe we spoke about announcing your arrival. No matter. Yes, I am aware. A survivor of dual gaze. The first in centuries."
A pause.
"As I told my subordinate, it is of no consequence. He will end as the others did."
Carnage's eyes narrowed.
"You say that," it replied, "but you've already given orders to watch him. As cunning as ever, you shining bastard. I will do the same."
Without waiting for a response, Carnage dissolved into shadow, vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared.
Lord Hope remained alone upon the throne.
The chamber was silent. The war raged beyond its walls, endless and furious, while the two leaders who commanded it spoke like old acquaintances before parting ways.
Kade stood in the shadows of the chamber, watching, unseen. He had not moved since arriving, had not dared to breathe. The scale of what he was witnessing dwarfed anything his father had described. These were not the primal, untouchable gods Trent had spoken of. They were something older, something more deliberate, and the casual alliance between them made his skin crawl.
Then Lord Hope moved.
Just a fraction. A slow, almost imperceptible turn of its colossal head.
And its gaze found him.
Kade's body locked. The weight that pressed against him was not physical—it was existential, the accumulated pressure of every hope that had ever been placed upon a human soul, every dream that had ever gone unrealized, every aspiration that had ever been whispered into the dark. It crushed down on him with a force that made his knees buckle, that threatened to compress his very being into nothing.
He could not breathe. Could not think. Could not exist beneath that attention.
For one infinite moment, Lord Hope looked at him.
Then, softly, from everywhere and nowhere, a single word filled the chamber.
"Interesting."
The sound was not loud. It was vast. And it struck Kade like a hammer through glass.
His vision shattered. The throne room, the light, the impossible weight—all of it dissolved at once, torn away by a force he could not resist. He felt himself falling, tumbling backward through layers of consciousness, the word echoing behind him like a bell that would not stop ringing.
Kade gasped, his eyes snapping open.
He was on the kitchen floor, cheek pressed against cold tile. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest. The phantom weight of Lord Hope's gaze still pressed against his skull, a lingering pressure that made his vision swim.
He lay there, breathing hard, unsure if what he'd seen was real or a trauma-induced hallucination. But the memory remained sharp, too sharp for a dream. Lord Hope. Carnage. The casual alliance between enemies while their armies tore each other apart. And that word—interesting—spoken with the weight of ages behind it.
He thought of his father's voice, reciting the old lessons: The Lucent are the defenders of humanity. The Dreadbound seek to push into the world of men.
If what he'd seen was true, then Trent had been wrong. Or Trent had been lied to. Or Trent had known and chosen not to tell him.
Kade stared up at the kitchen ceiling, the weight of too many truths pressing down on him, the echo of Lord Hope's gaze still burning behind his eyes.
He did not get up for a long time.