Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wakes on stone.

Cold, slick stone, hard enough to bruise bone. It presses into his back like knives. His lungs fight to drag in air, but the air itself feels wrong, too heavy, too thick, like breathing smoke. He coughs and coughs until his chest burns and spits black grit onto the ground.

The sound is swallowed instantly.

No echo, no life, just silence.

His ears ring, high-pitched, drilling into his skull. Every heartbeat makes it stutter louder, louder, until he claws at his head like he can dig the noise out with his nails.

Nothing works.

He opens his eyes, slow, because even the light hurts. The world swims: gray sky, smoke curling in lazy ribbons, jagged outlines of collapsed towers stabbing upward like broken teeth. The ground is covered in ash so thick it looks like snow, except it’s bitter in his mouth and coats his tongue metallic.

The smell makes him gag. Fire, metal, rot. Charcoal that’s seeped into everything. It clings to his skin, his hair, his clothes like it’s in him, like he’s made of smoke.

He sits up on shaking arms. The stone tears his palms raw, dust filling the cuts until they sting like fire. His body feels heavy, wrong, stitched together badly. His head spins and spins until he curls forward, forehead pressed to his knees, trying not to throw up.

He doesn’t know his name.

He tries to remember but all he sees is an empty void.

He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t know anything, actually, not a single fact about himself, and that’s impossible, isn’t it? Everyone knows their name. Everyone knows something.

He pulls at the blank space in his mind anyway, frantic. He needs to know.

And something answers.

Flashes, too bright and too fast: fire roaring higher than towers, wings outlined in flame, a voice-his voice? Screaming until it broke. Heat blistering his skin. A thousand people screaming back.

And then silence.

He gasps and jerks back like the memories themselves are flames licking at him. His vision blurs. His stomach twists.

“No,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “no, no, no, stop, I don’t—”

The ruins don’t answer.

He shoves himself up, stumbling like a newborn, knees buckling with every step. His legs shake too badly to hold him but he forces them to. The city stretches endless: skyscrapers half-collapsed, skeletons of steel beams jutting like ribs. Neon signs hang dead, their broken bulbs still humming faintly like ghosts. Entire streets gape open where the ground’s split, jagged craters filled with stagnant water that stinks of metal.

The silence is unbearable. Every crunch of gravel underfoot echoes like an explosion. Every shaky breath sounds like he’s screaming. His own heartbeat feels too loud in the hollow city.

He keeps moving, because standing still feels worse. He doesn’t know why. Maybe something’s chasing him. Maybe something’s always chasing him.

Ash clings to him, coats his hair, slips into the scrapes on his hands until it looks like smoke is bleeding out of his veins. He wipes at his face and only smears the gray deeper into his skin.

A sound cuts through the silence.

Not the ringing, not his own steps. Something else.

Shuffle of feet. Whisper of fabric. A laugh that’s wrong.

He freezes. Turns slowly.

Shapes peel out of the shadows. Too many. Their eyes glint sickly yellow in the half-light, their skin stretched tight over bones. Bandits—maybe once human, not anymore. The Lower City warps people. Starves them, poisons them. Makes them predators in a place with nothing left to eat.

They smell like rot and rust and hunger.

Tommy stumbles back, every nerve screaming. His chest heaves, throat closing.

“No—stay back, stay—”

His voice cracks, too thin to carry. They grin, jagged teeth flashing. One drags a knife along the wall, sparks spitting into the dark. The screech rattles in his skull.

He grabs the nearest thing—rebar jutting out of rubble, jagged with rust. It’s heavy, wrong in his hands, but he clutches it like it matters. His arms shake so badly it rattles against the stone.

They don’t stop.

One lunges. He swings wild, eyes squeezed shut, and the rebar smacks against a skull with a dull crack. The bandit reels back hissing. Tommy nearly drops the weapon, stomach twisting at the sound.

Another grabs his arm. Fingers like iron dig into his skin, purple blooming instantly. He yanks free only because the grip slips, sweaty and weak. Luck. Only luck.

They laugh louder. Closing in.

“I don’t even know who I am!” he shouts, voice shredded raw, and it feels like a confession, an apology, not a threat.

They circle tighter. He backs up until his shoulders slam into broken brick. No way out. The rebar slips in his sweaty grip. His vision blurs. His heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

This is it. I’m nothing. Nobody. I’m going to die nameless in the ruins.

The leader steps forward, blade raised.

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut.

And the world breaks.

A weight slams down from above. The leader doesn’t even scream before he crumples—pink hair flashing, steel gleaming wet. The ground shudders with the impact.

“Step away from the kid.” The voice is low, guttural, dangerous in a way that makes the bandits freeze.

Arrows slice the air. One buries itself in the wall an inch from Tommy’s ear. Another pins a bandit’s arm to the ground before he can blink. Perched high on broken stone: a man with feathers silhouetted behind him, bow steady, eyes sharp enough to cut.

“Don’t let any of them touch him!” His words ring like commandment, a law the city itself should obey.

And then the last—tall, coat flaring as he strides into the chaos like he owns it. His grin is wicked, his voice sharp enough to slice the silence in half.

“You lot really picked the wrong day.”

The bandits falter. Some scatter instantly, rat-like. The stubborn ones stay only long enough to die for it—blade flashing, arrows whistling, voice corralling them into nothing.

It’s over in seconds. Too fast. Too clean.

Silence again.

Tommy still stands frozen against the wall, rebar trembling in his hands. His whole body shakes so hard his teeth clatter. His ears still ring. His chest heaves like he can’t get enough air.

They turn to him. Legends, monsters, gods in human skin.

The tall one kneels, coat settling around him. He holds his hands out like approaching something fragile, voice soft in a way that doesn’t match the carnage around them.

“Hey. Easy. We’re not here to hurt you.”

Tommy flinches anyway, pressing himself harder against the wall. His throat works before his voice crawls out, hoarse and broken.

“…Who am I?”

The three glance at each other. Something unreadable passes between them—grim, heavy.

The man with the bow sighs, quiet, aching, like a prayer he’s said too many times.

“…Poor lad.”

And Tommy feels the words settle in his chest like another stone he’ll never be able to lift.

Ash drifts down heavier, cloaking the four of them in gray.

The walk is too long. Or maybe too short. Tommy can’t tell.

The strangers lead him through the ruins like they’ve done it a thousand times, boots crunching sure and steady where his stumble feels pathetic. He trails a few paces behind because being too close feels like begging and too far feels like running. His hands shake so badly he keeps clenching them into fists, nails biting deep into raw palms.

Everywhere he looks the city is worse. Collapsed highways dangling like snapped spines. Streetlights bent double, glass shattered into glitter that crunches sharp underfoot. The sky is a flat gray bruise pressing low, always threatening rain but never delivering. The silence is broken only by crows perched on wire, black against black, watching. Always watching.

He tries to count steps to ground himself one, two, three, breathe but the ringing in his ears eats the rhythm.

The pink-haired man moves like a knife, cutting through rubble with no hesitation. The archer (Phil, he thinks, maybe he heard one of them say that name) scans every corner with eyes that glint like steel. And the loud one, the one with the grin too sharp to be safe he talks sometimes, mutters little comments at the others, and it always makes the air feel thinner. Like his voice can reshape the ruins just by being loud enough.

Tommy keeps his mouth shut. His throat feels scraped raw anyway.

After what feels like hours maybe days? They reach a door. Not a normal door. Heavy steel, welded into the side of a half-collapsed building, covered in scorch marks but standing proud. The kind of door that doesn’t ask you to knock. The kind of door that dares you.

The pink-haired one raps a coded rhythm on the metal. The sound echoes down inside the hollow building. Locks clang, gears shift. The door opens.

And warmth hits him in the face like a fist.

Light spills out-real light, not firelight, not neon buzz, but golden and steady. Warm air heavy with the smell of bread and oil and smoke that means hearth, not ruin. Voices, muffled but alive. Too alive.

Tommy reels back a step. It feels wrong, obscene, after the silence outside.

The loud one (Wilbur, that’s his name, he thinks) notices. He pauses in the doorway, tilts his head, studies Tommy like he’s a puzzle with missing pieces. His grin softens—not by much, just enough to show something less sharp under it.

“You coming in, kid?”

The word kid rattles in Tommy’s chest. Like he’s small, like he belongs somewhere, like he isn’t just smoke and ash. His feet move before his brain agrees, carrying him inside.

The door slams shut behind them, bolts sliding home. The sound makes Tommy flinch.

Inside is impossible.

The walls are patched steel and stone, lit by strings of salvaged bulbs humming warm yellow. Tables cluttered with maps, half-dismantled weapons, mugs of tea gone cold. A fireplace built out of scrap glows steady, flames licking safe and orange instead of wild and hungry. Shelves sag with supplies: tins, jars, bandages, stacks of books with cracked spines.

It smells like life.

And it’s loud. Voices echo from deeper in the safehouse, laughter sharp and sudden, footsteps pounding across upper floors. The air vibrates with it, and Tommy’s skin prickles like he’s standing too close to lightning.

His chest tightens. His hands won’t stop trembling. He wants to crawl back into the silence outside where nothing touched him, where nothing wanted him.

“Easy,” Phil murmurs, noticing. His voice is softer than it has any right to be. “It’s safe here.”

Safe. The word feels poisonous. Safe means letting your guard down, and letting your guard down means getting crushed.

He presses back against the nearest wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting across every corner of the room. Too many shadows. Too many people. Too many places someone could grab him.

Wilbur crouches in front of him, same as before, hands out like he’s coaxing a wild dog. His coat pools on the floor, ridiculous and regal all at once. His grin is gone now, replaced by something quieter.

“No one here’s gonna hurt you,” he says. “Not us. Not anyone.”

Tommy’s throat burns. He wants to believe it so badly it hurts worse than the bruises. But the words come out cracked and broken:

“…I don’t even know who I am.”

The room hushes. Even the muffled laughter from upstairs dims, like the safehouse itself is listening.

Techno (because that’s the pink-haired one, he remembers now, Techno) crosses his arms, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Then we’ll figure it out. You don’t need all the answers yet.”

Phil nods, feathers shifting faintly with the motion. “You’re alive. That’s what matters first.”

Alive. The word sits heavy in his chest. Heavy and unfamiliar.

Wilbur offers a hand. Palm open, steady. “Come on. Sit by the fire. You look like you’re freezing.”

Tommy stares at the hand like it’s a weapon. His own fingers twitch but don’t move. His heartbeat slams against his ribs.

The fire crackles. Ash drifts off his clothes in little clouds, settling on the floor of a place too clean for him.

He whispers, almost to himself, “…I don’t belong here.”

And the three of them exchange a look over his head complicated, weighted, like they know something he doesn’t.

Phil answers first, voice quiet but certain.

“You do now.”

The fire crackles too loud.

It shouldn’t. It’s only wood, fire contained in a scrap-metal hearth someone had clearly welded together with care. Flames licking orange, a steady rhythm, the kind people gather around. The kind that’s supposed to mean comfort. But to Tommy, each pop sounds like a bullet. Each shift in the wood is a scream too close to his ear. His skin prickles, hairs rising on his arms, and even as the heat wraps around him, he can’t stop shivering.

He sits hunched on the ragged couch they gave him, the one nearest the fire. The springs squeal if he moves too suddenly, so he doesn’t. His knees are pulled up tight, arms circling them like ropes binding him in place. His muscles ache with the tension. Every bandage wrapped around him feels like a lie—neat white fabric layered on a body that feels filthy, ruined, ash-stained. His fingers twitch against the gauze, trembling like they’ve been wired wrong.

The others move around him in fragments. Philbusies himself at the long counter on the far side of the room, the clink of mugs and faint scrape of spoons against ceramic grounding but sharp, like each sound digs into Tommy’s skull. Techno is in the corner sharpening a blade, every scrape of metal against stone dragging across his nerves. Wilbur paces sometimes, coat swishing, long legs restless, words spilling from him like a leaking tap. None of it makes sense—questions Tommy doesn’t know how to answer, jokes that hang in the air waiting for a reaction he doesn’t give.

Tommy shakes his head, again and again, until his neck is stiff. He has nothing to give. His mind is an empty room with the lights switched off.

And the silence behind the noise the laughter upstairs, the footsteps across boards, the low hum of lightbulbs strung above makes it worse. This house isn’t dead like the city. It’s alive, humming, buzzing. He feels wrong inside it, a black smear on the warm glow.

When Phil sets a steaming mug of tea beside him, Tommy doesn’t touch it. The smell is too much: sharp herbs, smoke, something grounding. He wants to want it. He doesn’t.

“Drink if you can,” Phil says gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t even linger. Just sets it down and moves on, feathers shifting faintly at his shoulders as he climbs the stairs.

Techno goes next, silent as stone. His gaze cuts across Tommy one last time before he disappears into the shadows. Stay alive, his eyes seem to say. Not unkind. Not warm. Just steady.

Wilbur lingers longer. He crouches near the fire, fiddling with something on the floor, humming low. When his eyes flick up, they burn too bright. “You look like you’re freezing,” he says. “But don’t worry. It’s warmer here than it looks.”

Tommy wants to believe him. Wants so badly it aches like a bruise. But the words catch on the barbed wire in his throat.

The safehouse quiets when Wilbur finally retreats upstairs. Doors creak, then shut. Silence swells.

It takes forever for Tommy’s body to relax enough to even think of sleep. He shifts, couch springs creaking, pulling the blanket tight against his chin. It smells of soap and woodsmoke, warm in a way that tugs at something in his chest some memory that refuses to surface. His eyes sting. He blinks until the sting dulls, until exhaustion drags him under.

And sleep is not kind.

The fire follows him.

It eats the city whole, climbing steel and stone like ivy. Screams swell around him, the ground vibrating with terror. Ash falls thick, coating his tongue bitter and dry. His own hands glow white-hot, light splitting through the cracks of his skin, and when he screams it isn’t words but flame, pouring out of him in a roar.

The name cuts through it all: Blazeborn.

It echoes against skyscrapers, whispered, shouted, screamed. His name, the world insists. His curse. His destiny.

And there wings. Great burning wings, feathers curling into smoke, rising from his back. He sees the glow reflect off glass, sees people scatter, sees the fire reaching for them, hungry. He can’t tell if he’s burning them or trying to save them.

The dream claws into him until he can’t breathe.

He wakes choking.

Sweat slicks his skin, hair plastered to his forehead. His hands shake so hard the blanket tangles around his legs. His throat burns raw, as if he’s been screaming. The safehouse is too dark, too quiet. The embers in the hearth spit low, the only light a faint orange glow that makes the shadows stretch.

Tommy presses his fists to his eyes. He doesn’t dare breathe too loud. His chest heaves anyway.

And then—footsteps.

Slow, steady, descending the stairs. Too loud in the silence. Tommy freezes, breath stuttering. His fists clench so hard nails bite through bandages. If they heard him—if they saw—if they knew—

The shadow that rounds the corner is tall, shoulders draped in a coat. For a second Tommy sees wings again, vast and burning, and his whole body jerks.

But it’s just Wilbur.

His hair is mussed from sleep, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the ridiculous long coat hanging loose over his shoulders. He squints at Tommy, bleary but sharp, and when his eyes catch on Tommy’s trembling form, he softens. A tired smile curls across his face. Not the knife-edge grin, not the showman mask. Just warmth.

“Bad dreams?” His voice is rough with sleep.

Tommy can’t answer. His voice is locked behind his teeth. He hates himself for it.

Wilbur doesn’t push. He just drags a chair across the floor, spins it backwards, and straddles it. His chin rests on the top rail, arms draped loose. The firelight paints him in gold and shadow, flickering across tired eyes.

“You’re not the only one,” he says after a while. “This place… it keeps its ghosts. You’ll see.”

Tommy stares at his trembling hands. Bandages white in the firelight, smudged with ash where he’s clawed them. His throat works, but the words scrape raw when they finally spill out.

“…I saw fire.”

Wilbur’s face twitches, just for a heartbeat, before he schools it into something gentler. “Fire doesn’t always mean destruction,” he says softly. “Sometimes it just means you’re still burning. Still alive.”

Alive. The word sticks like a thorn in Tommy’s chest. He doesn’t feel alive. He feels like ash pretending to be a person.

Wilbur hums, low and tuneless. Something that might once have been a song, though Tommy doesn’t recognize it. The sound isn’t sharp or demanding it’s steady, soft, filling the silence with something that doesn’t choke.

Tommy’s breaths hitch, but slowly, painfully, they start to match the rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

His eyelids drag heavy again. He resists, fighting sleep like it’s another enemy, but the weight wins. His body sinks into the couch, the blanket pulling him down.

The last thing he sees before darkness takes him is Wilbur still there. Still humming. Still watching the fire like he can keep it alive with will alone, like he’s daring the nightmares to come back.

When Tommy wakes, it’s to the smell of tea again. The mug from last night sits on the floor, steam curling faintly, replaced fresh. The fire is low but alive. A blanket he doesn’t remember pulling tighter is tucked firm around his shoulders.

And he isn’t sure whether to feel safer or more trapped than ever.

Chapter Text

The safehouse wakes slow.

Floorboards creak before footsteps. A kettle rattles faintly on the old iron stove, steam drifting into air that still tastes faintly of last night’s smoke. The walls are too thin to hold in warmth, but the sound of Phil moving softens the cold. He moves like the house itself is his quiet, practical, steady.

Tommy drags himself out of bed because Wilbur wouldn’t let him stay in it even if he tried. The blanket is heavy with dust, the mattress thin, the morning light already burning pale through the window. His body aches from yesterday’s fight if it could be called that his bruises tight and swollen, his arms stiff as wood.

The kitchen feels older than the house, every surface scratched and worn, cupboards mismatched, one chair propped up by a brick. But it’s lived-in, too, in a way Tommy doesn’t know how to name. A knife left out on the counter. Phil’s scarf slung over the back of the chair. Techno’s boots by the door, mud caked on the soles. Wilbur humming off-key as he paces.

Phil slides a bowl in front of Tommy the moment he sits down, no words, just warm porridge with too much cinnamon. It tastes burnt at the edges, but it’s food, and it’s something, and Tommy swallows it down even as his throat scratches.

Wilbur, leaning against the counter, grins like a man with a plan. “Eat quick. We’re going out after.”

Tommy stares down into the bowl. His stomach twists. He doesn’t ask where “out” is, because he already knows: the yard. Training. He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

But Wilbur doesn’t leave room for choice.

The yard stretches behind the safehouse like a scar.

Dirt, mostly. A flat patch with a fence leaning at odd angles, half-choked by weeds, one lonely tree twisted and bent at the corner. Dust hangs in the air even without wind, coating the back of his throat. The ground is hard, cracked, as if it resents being walked on.

Wilbur plants himself at the center of it all, coat flaring, staff balanced easy in one hand. He gestures at Tommy like he’s welcoming him home.

“Right, lad. First lesson: staff work.”

Tommy blinks at him, the words rolling off his skin like they don’t belong. “Staff what?”

Wilbur steps closer, presses the rough wood into Tommy’s hands. It’s heavier than it looks, the weight uneven, the grain biting into his palms. Tommy’s fingers tighten, instinctively, like he’s done this before. His arms remember the balance. His feet shift to brace themselves without his mind catching up.

“See?” Wilbur says brightly, as though this proves something. “You’re a natural.”

Tommy frowns. His body feels wrong. Not weak, not clumsy though he is both but familiar. As though he’s walked this ground before, held this wood, fought these drills. His shoulders roll, his knees bend, and the staff sits in his grip like it belongs.

Wilbur notices, of course he does. His grin sharpens.

They start simple. Swing. Step. Block. Wilbur demonstrates, loose and practiced, the rhythm smooth as breathing. Tommy tries to mimic. The first attempt stumbles, wood too heavy, footing off. But the second time his arms snap into place without thinking. His weight shifts perfectly. He blocks at just the right angle.

It frightens him more than failing.

Wilbur claps like he expected it. “Yes, exactly that!”

Techno, sitting cross-legged near the porch sharpening his sword, glances up. His eyes narrow. He doesn’t say anything, but the tilt of his head makes Tommy want to crawl out of his skin.

They keep going.

Swing. Step. Block. Over and over. Tommy’s breath grows ragged, arms aching, shoulders burning. The staff rubs splinters into his palms. He should be tripping, fumbling, collapsing under the weight. But every now and then, his body takes over, moving fluid, too fast, too sure. He blocks one of Wilbur’s strikes without even looking. He spins the staff between his palms like it’s second nature, like he’s done it a thousand times.

Wilbur beams at him. Techno mutters something under his breath. Phil watches from the fence, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

Tommy feels sick.

Because it doesn’t feel like learning. It feels like remembering.

And remembering something when you don’t know who you are when you don’t even have a name for yourself feels like stealing. Like trespassing inside your own body.

The staff slips from his grip once, hitting dirt. He curses under his breath, clutching his palms. Splinters sting. A faint heat pulses in the cuts sharp, brief, gone before he can name it. He hides his hands in his shirt, heart pounding, throat tight.

Wilbur only says, cheerful as ever, “You’re better than you think, Tommy. We’ll keep at it tomorrow.”

Tommy nods. Pretends to believe him. Pretends the fire in his palms isn’t real.

The safehouse looms quiet when they step back inside. Dinner smells faintly of herbs and smoke. Phil hums as he stirs the pot. Techno vanishes upstairs. Wilbur talks too loud, filling every silence.

Tommy sits in the corner, staff still in his hands, and stares at the wood grain. His palms ache. His chest aches worse.

Because somewhere inside him, something knows how to fight.

And that terrifies him more than anything.

The safehouse breathes differently in the mornings.

Phil is always up first. You can tell by the smell: tea steeping, herbs burning faintly in the stove, bread already browning. His footsteps are soft, deliberate, like he knows the boards well enough to avoid the loud ones. Sometimes he hums, low and steady, the sound settling into the walls.

Tommy drags himself out of bed slower today. His body feels half-splintered, half-stitched together wrong. Arms sore, shoulders tight, palms bandaged clumsily from yesterday. He flexes his fingers under the wrappings and feels the dull throb of bruises in his knuckles.

The kitchen is warm but crowded. Wilbur leans against the counter, coat half-buttoned, gesturing wildly at some story. Techno sits silent at the table, sharpening a dagger, metal scraping in a steady rhythm. Phil moves between them, setting down plates of toast and fruit without missing a beat.

Tommy hovers in the doorway, awkward, wishing he could disappear.

Wilbur notices first, of course. He always does. “Ah! Sleeping beauty’s up. Eat quick, we’ve got work.”

Tommy slips into the chair across from Techno, who doesn’t look up from his blade. The toast crunches too loud in his mouth, crumbs sticking to his tongue. He swallows anyway, throat raw. His stomach knots at the word “work.”

The yard is waiting, same as yesterday.

Dust clings in the air, the cracked ground drinking in sunlight, the twisted tree leaning like a witness at the edge. The fence rattles faintly in the breeze.

Wilbur tosses him the staff before he’s even ready. The wood bites into his palms through the wrappings, heavier today, or maybe it’s just him. His shoulders ache at the weight.

“Repetition drills,” Wilbur says. “No flair. Just rhythm. Swing, step, block. Again and again until it’s in your bones.”

Tommy wants to argue. He doesn’t. He nods, throat too tight for words.

They start.

Swing. Step. Block.

The staff shudders through his arms with each impact. His palms sting where the bandages rub. His breath grows sharp, sweat sticking hair to his forehead. Dust rises at his feet. The sun beats down, cruel and unblinking.

Wilbur circles him, correcting angles, calling instructions too bright, too quick. Techno sits at the porch again, sharpening, but his eyes flick up every few minutes, cool and calculating. Phil leans against the fence, arms crossed, gaze softer but no less sharp.

At first Tommy stumbles. The rhythm feels jagged. But then his body remembers. His weight shifts smoother. His hands adjust before his mind catches up. The staff arcs clean through the air, block precise, step steady.

It unsettles him. Again.

Because it doesn’t feel like learning. It feels like slipping back into something left behind.

Wilbur’s grin widens every time it happens. “Good! You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Tommy freezes. His grip tightens on the staff. His throat locks. “N-no. I haven’t. I don’t ”

Wilbur tilts his head, studying, but doesn’t press. Techno mutters something that sounds like “too clean,” voice low but sharp enough to cut.

The drills grind on. Hours blur. His shoulders scream, his arms shake, his palms split through the wrappings until blood stains the wood. Splinters dig deeper. He keeps going anyway, teeth gritted, breath ragged.

“Again,” Wilbur calls.

Tommy swings. The staff jars. His vision blurs. Frustration boils sharp in his chest.

Why do I know this? Why do I move like this? Who was I before?

The questions claw through him, jagged, louder than Wilbur’s instructions, louder than the scrape of Techno’s blade, louder than Phil’s quiet hum.

His body stumbles under the weight of them. His palms burn. And then 

The head of the staff glows.

Just for a moment. Orange veins crackle faint under the wood grain. Smoke curls sharp and thin.

Tommy’s breath stutters. He jerks back, drops the staff. It hits dirt with a heavy thud, smoke still hissing faint.

Wilbur stills. Techno’s knife pauses mid-sharpen. Phil’s arms tighten across his chest.

Tommy collapses to his knees, clutching his hands to his stomach, hiding the faint scorch marks on the bandages. His chest heaves. He shakes his head, frantic. “I I can’t sorry, I can’t ”

He pretends it’s exhaustion. Pretends it’s weakness. Anything but what it is.

Phil steps forward, slow, sets a cup of water by his side. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t ask. Just says, steady, “Breathe.”

Wilbur’s eyes glint, sharp and knowing, but he doesn’t speak. Techno mutters something Tommy can’t catch, turns his gaze back to the knife.

The moment passes, buried in silence.

But the smell of smoke lingers in the dirt, curling up into the air.

Dinner that night feels heavier.

Wilbur hums as if nothing happened. Techno sharpens steel longer than usual, blade scraping in the quiet. Phil tends the stew until it’s thick, setting bowls down with the same careful steadiness as always.

Tommy eats in silence, bandaged hands tucked tight under the table. His chest still aches, and the ghost of heat hasn’t left his skin.

He doesn’t look at any of them. Because he’s afraid of what he’ll see there.

The safehouse always feels louder at night.

Not because the others talk more, but because every sound carries differently in the dark. The walls creak louder. The stove ticks sharp as it cools. Footsteps echo down the hall even when they’re soft. Tommy lies awake on the thin mattress, every noise cutting too deep into the silence.

He’s not supposed to hear them. He knows that.

But their voices bleed through the floorboards anyway.

Wilbur’s first, low but insistent. “I’m telling you, there’s something there. He moves like someone trained. He holds the staff like it’s familiar. That’s not nothing.”

Techno’s reply is colder, sharper, cutting through the air like the scrape of his blade. “Or he’s faking. Or worse, he’s dangerous. You don’t just pick up form like that by accident.”

Phil hums, steady, thoughtful. “He’s… not ordinary. That much is clear. But we don’t know what he is. We should be careful.”

Tommy curls tighter under the blanket, heart pounding so loud he’s sure they’ll hear it. His hands clutch the fabric until his palms ache.

Wilbur again, sharper now. “Careful’s fine, but hopeless? No. I’ve seen people train for months and never block the way he blocked me today. He’s got something in him.”

Hopeless. Dangerous. Not ordinary.

Tommy buries his face into the pillow, teeth sinking into the fabric to choke down the sound clawing up his throat. He doesn’t want to hear more, but he can’t stop listening.

Techno’s voice lowers, almost a growl. “Something in him isn’t always a good thing.”

The floorboards creak. Chairs scrape. Then silence, heavy and suffocating.

Tommy presses his palms against his chest. They still hum faintly, like embers hiding under ash.

Morning comes too bright, too fast.

The kitchen smells of toast and herbs again, but the warmth feels thinner today. Wilbur hums off-key as if to fill space. Techno sharpens steel with slower, heavier strokes. Phil moves quieter than usual.

Tommy eats quick, choking down bread, eyes on the table. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t want to.

Wilbur claps his hands after, too cheerful, too rehearsed. “Right! New drills today. Reaction work. You’ll like this, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t argue. His stomach knots anyway.

The yard waits, sun sharp overhead. Dust hangs in the air, clinging to his throat.

Wilbur stands across from him, a handful of pebbles in his coat pocket. “All you’ve got to do is dodge or block. Quick reactions. Trust your body.”

Tommy swallows hard. His body he doesn’t trust. His body knows too much already.

Wilbur flicks the first pebble without warning. Tommy flinches late, the stone smacking his shoulder.

“Too slow,” Techno mutters from the porch.

Again. Another pebble. It bounces off his knee.

Again. He jerks left too far, stumbles.

Again.

His breath grows ragged. His palms sting from the staff he grips too tight. His vision blurs in the heat. He hears yesterday’s words echoing in his skull: hopeless, dangerous, not ordinary.

Wilbur tosses another, sharper, faster.

This time, Tommy’s body moves before his head can. His staff whips up, clean block, pebble smacking wood with a crack. Smooth. Perfect.

Wilbur grins. “See? You’ve got it.”

Tommy shakes his head, panicked. “I I didn’t I don’t ”

Another pebble flies. Tommy dodges without looking. His weight shifts too neatly, too instinctive. He hates it. He hates the way his body knows things his mind doesn’t.

Wilbur’s grin sharpens. Techno’s eyes narrow. Phil’s jaw tightens.

The next pebble arcs high, sunlight glinting off its edge. Tommy’s breath catches. His palms burn.

And before the stone reaches him it bursts.

A crack of heat, a flare of orange, smoke curling sharp in the air. Ash falls where the pebble should have landed.

Tommy stumbles back, staff dropping, chest heaving. “No no, I didn’t I didn’t ” His hands shake, heat still licking under his skin. He presses them into the dirt, trying to smother it, trying to hide it.

Wilbur’s grin falters into something thinner, sharper. Techno sits forward, eyes flashing. Phil steps once toward him, steady, grounding.

But no one says it. No one calls it what it is.

And Tommy, gasping in the dirt, pretends it didn’t happen. Pretends it was the sun, or a trick, or nothing at all.

He knows they don’t believe it. He knows they saw.

The smell of smoke lingers long after.

That night, Tommy can’t eat. The stew sits untouched, steam curling. Wilbur hums louder than usual. Techno sharpens longer. Phil clears the table quietly when Tommy doesn’t move.

The safehouse feels heavier. Like the walls know more than he does. Like the air itself waits for him to crack open.

Tommy lies awake again, palms pressed hard against his chest, terrified of the fire still crawling just under his skin.

The mornings never change, but Tommy does.

He notices it in small ways: the way the stairs groan under his weight differently each day, because his legs ache in new places. The way the kettle’s whistle grates sharper, because his head pounds harder. The way Phil’s tea smells stronger, earthier, because he breathes shallower to hide the stutter of his chest.

Routine piles up like dust in the corners of the safehouse. Phil sweeps every morning, but dust always wins.

Tommy drags himself to breakfast late. Wilbur already talks with his hands full of crumbs, Techno sits sharpening as always, Phil hums while stacking plates. It looks the same as every day, but Tommy feels the difference: his skin too tight, his palms still tingling, his chest humming with a faint, awful heat.

No one mentions yesterday. The air pretends, heavy and deliberate.

Wilbur breaks the silence with his usual too-bright clap. “Right, enough of the basics. Sparring today.”

Tommy chokes on his toast. “What?”

Wilbur grins like it’s a gift. “Practice means nothing if you can’t use it live. Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy.”

Techno snorts. “You won’t.”

Wilbur shrugs, not denying it.

Phil doesn’t look up from pouring tea. “Keep it controlled.”

Tommy doesn’t breathe until they leave the table.

–

The yard feels smaller today.

Wilbur stands across from him, staff spinning lazy in his hands like it belongs there. Tommy’s own staff feels heavier, unbalanced, the wood splintering under his bandaged grip.

“Don’t overthink,” Wilbur says. “React. Trust the rhythm.”

Tommy swallows hard. He doesn’t trust his rhythm.

They start.

Wilbur strikes fast, staff whistling through air. Tommy blocks on instinct, arms jarring with the impact. His shoulders scream. His feet stumble back into dirt.

Wilbur doesn’t pause. He presses again, again, again swing, step, jab each movement fluid, merciless. Tommy’s staff shakes with every block, his breath tearing sharp in his throat.

Techno calls from the porch, voice flat but cutting. “Your grip’s wrong. You’ll drop it like that.”

Wilbur jabs low. Tommy stumbles, barely catching it. His palms split open again, blood spotting the wrappings.

“Too slow,” Techno adds.

“Come on, you’ve got this,” Wilbur calls, too cheerful, too sharp. He swings high, staff cracking against Tommy’s block, the wood jarring through his bones.

Phil leans against the fence, arms crossed, watching steady. His eyes soften when Tommy falters, but he doesn’t step in. Not yet.

The spar drags on. Tommy’s arms quake. His legs feel hollow. His lungs burn. But every so often his body remembers.

A clean pivot, weight shifting smooth. A strike parried without thought. A counter jab that nearly lands.

Wilbur’s grin widens every time it happens. Techno’s eyes narrow further. Phil’s jaw tightens.

Tommy hates it. Hates how familiar it feels. Hates the way his body knows more than he does.

The rhythm breaks. His palms flare. The staff grows hot.

Too hot.

The wood smokes where his grip tightens. Black lines crawl along the grain. Splinters char under his skin.

Tommy panics, drops it. The staff hits dirt with a hiss, smoke curling from the impact.

Silence slams down.

Wilbur’s grin falters, then twists into something sharper. Techno rises from the porch, slow and deliberate. Phil steps forward quick, picking the staff up before it burns deeper, smothering the smoke with his sleeve.

Tommy stands frozen, chest heaving, palms raw and blackened. He wants to deny it, wants to hide, but the evidence is there in the dirt: the faint scorch marks, the smell of ash.

Wilbur breaks the silence first, voice low, almost reverent. “Told you. There’s something there.”

Techno’s reply is cold as steel. “Something dangerous.”

Phil doesn’t speak. He just sets the staff down on the fence rail, pats the dirt off his sleeve, and looks at Tommy with eyes too steady, too knowing.

Tommy wants the ground to swallow him whole.

That night, the safehouse feels hostile.

Every room too small. Every wall too close. Every creak too loud.

He eats nothing. He sits through dinner with hands hidden under the table, knuckles raw, palms still aching. Wilbur talks too much, Techno says nothing, Phil clears the bowls in silence.

Tommy escapes early to his room, curls under the blanket, presses his palms against his chest to hide the hum.

He doesn’t sleep.

Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees it again the staff smoking, the wood burning, the fire curling out of his hands like it belongs there.

And he’s terrified it does.

The safehouse doesn’t sleep evenly.

Phil is the first to fade. His footsteps quiet earliest, his door closing with a soft click. Wilbur lingers longer, humming scraps of half-finished songs as if the silence bites him. Techno is last   steel scraping long after midnight, sharpening until the blade sings.

Tommy listens to all of it from under his blanket, eyes wide in the dark. He doesn’t want to hear, but the house breathes too loud.

It should feel safe here. That’s what safehouses are meant for. But every board groans like it knows a secret. Every wall leans in like it wants to listen.

And every time Tommy closes his eyes, the dark burns orange behind them.

He tries to help in the morning. He really does.

Phil chops herbs for stew stock; Tommy offers to stir. The spoon slips from his hand, clatters too loud against the pot. He jumps like it’s an explosion.

Wilbur shrugs it off with a smile, but his eyes flicker sharp. Techno doesn’t even bother to hide his sigh.

Breakfast tastes of smoke even before it burns.

Training doesn’t wait. It never does.

Wilbur calls him to the yard with false cheer. “We’ll take it lighter today reaction and rhythm. Nothing too brutal.”

Tommy wants to say no. Wants to curl back under the blanket and hide from the light. But he can’t. Because if he refuses, they’ll call him useless. If he fails, they’ll throw him away. And if he tells the truth about the smoke, the heat, the fire still humming in his skin they’ll know.

So he grips the staff again, palms raw under the fresh bandages, and nods.

Wilbur circles him, quick strikes, feints, testing. Tommy stumbles, blocks, reacts clumsily. But every so often his body betrays him parrying smooth, pivoting sharp, too much competence for someone who “knows nothing.”

Techno watches from the porch, eyes narrowing more each time.

Phil stands nearby, water jug in hand, gaze heavy but unreadable.

The hours blur. The drills grind. Tommy’s arms shake, his chest burns. He stumbles into dirt again and again, staff slipping from blistered palms.

And still Wilbur presses. “Again. You can do this. Again.”

Until Tommy breaks.

Not in shouts, but in silence. His knees buckle. His palms slam into the dirt. His chest heaves with ragged, panicked breaths.

And the staff in his hands glows.

Not just smoke this time. Not just heat.

A faint orange pulse crawls through the grain, fire licking along the cracks like veins.

Tommy jerks back, drops it, scrambles away on his hands. The wood smolders in the dirt, smoking faint. His palms still glow with it, ember-hot, alive.

Phil steps forward fast, smothering the staff again, steady hands moving calm. Wilbur’s grin is too wide, too sharp. Techno’s voice cuts cold.

“He’s hiding something.”

Tommy stammers, “I’m not I didn’t ” His throat closes around the lie. His hands shake too hard to hide.

Wilbur crouches near, voice low, coaxing. “It’s alright, Tommy. It’s something. We can work with this.”

But Tommy doesn’t believe it. Can’t. Because he saw the look in Techno’s eyes, the wariness in Phil’s. Because he knows something’s wrong with him, even if he doesn’t remember what.

Because if fire like that lives under his skin what else does?

The night after is worse.

The house breathes heavy again, voices carrying sharper through the boards.

Techno, clipped: “You saw it. We can’t ignore it.”
Wilbur, quick: “I told you there’s something there. Something worth keeping.”
Phil, steady, quiet: “Or something dangerous.”

Tommy curls tighter on his mattress, palms pressed hard against his chest, terrified they’ll hear the hum of fire under his skin.

He bites his tongue until it bleeds, just to stay silent.

But silence doesn’t help when the fire finds him anyway.

He sneaks outside, long after their doors close. The yard glows pale under moonlight, dirt cold under his bare feet. He sits in the dust with the staff across his knees, breath sharp, heart hammering.

His hands ache. They always ache now.

When he opens them, the fire crawls free.

Not wild, not roaring. Just a flicker at first, faint orange licking at his skin. It curls along his fingers, soft, almost gentle, not burning him at all.

It should hurt. It doesn’t.

It feels like it belongs.

Tommy stares, shaking, torn between awe and horror. His breath fogs cold in the night air, but his palms glow hot, steady, alive.

“Why me?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Why the fuck me?”

The fire flickers, answering nothing.

He clenches his fists. The glow snuffs out.

And when he finally drags himself back inside, his chest feels heavier, not lighter. Because he knows now.

The fire isn’t just there.

It’s his.

The first dream comes like a knife.

Not soft, not slow. A strike to the skull, sudden and merciless.

Tommy jerks awake gasping, lungs clawing for air. His palms glow faint in the dark, heat crawling like insects under skin. Sweat slicks his back. The blanket sticks to his legs.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember the dream, not all of it. Just 

Fire.
Screams.
Stone cracking.
A name on someone’s lips, warped by the heat.

Not his name. Not Tommy.

Something else.

He presses his hands into his face, willing the images away. His chest heaves, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The safehouse groans around him, every board whispering like it knows.

He doesn’t sleep again.

Morning light feels cruel.

Phil cooks as always, herbs crackling in oil. Wilbur hums, too cheerful, while fiddling with papers. Techno sharpens slow, steady, steel rasping against stone.

It should be normal. It should feel safe. But Tommy’s skin won’t stop crawling. Every creak of the house sounds like the dream echoing back. Every scrape of Techno’s blade sounds like stone breaking. Every flick of fire under the pan makes his stomach twist.

He barely eats.

Phil notices. He always notices. He doesn’t push, doesn’t say a word, just passes Tommy a smaller portion and lets him sit quiet. That mercy feels heavier than any scolding would.

Training waits. Training always waits.

Wilbur meets him in the yard, staff spinning easy in his hands. “We’ll slow it down today,” he says, though his grin sharpens the words. “More sparring. Reaction. Let the body do the work.”

Tommy’s body always does the work. That’s the problem.

They start.

The staff feels heavier every day. The wood digs into blistered palms, bandages soaked with sweat and blood. Wilbur presses him hard swing, block, counter, dodge. Each motion grinds, every strike jars through his bones.

Techno’s voice cuts from the porch. “You’re leading with the wrong foot again. Amateur mistake.”

Tommy grits his teeth, fixes it, hates how natural the correction feels.

Because it is natural. Too natural.

His body doesn’t hesitate anymore. It slides into stances smooth, pivots sharp, parries clean. Every block lands just right. Every dodge too instinctive.

Wilbur’s grin widens. Techno’s scowl deepens. Phil watches, silent.

Tommy feels sick with every strike that lands. Because this isn’t learning. This is remembering.

And if he’s remembering, then the dream isn’t just a dream.

The fire follows him.

It flickers at the edge of his vision, curls along his palms when frustration bites. He smothers it each time, hissing into dirt or pressing hands against stone until the glow dies. But it always comes back.

In the kitchen, the kettle whistles too loud, and he flinches, heat sparking in his fist.
In the hall, Wilbur claps him on the back, and his palm warms too fast, too sharp.
At night, the dreams claw again, fire curling through ruins, screams echoing, that name ringing in his ears 

Blazeborn.

It doesn’t sound human in the dream. It sounds like a curse.

One night, he can’t hold it.

He stumbles outside, barefoot, breath sharp in the cold air. The yard glows faint under moonlight, dirt pale and soft. He kneels there, trembling, pressing fists into the ground.

“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop. Stop.”

The fire doesn’t stop.

It bursts.

Flares through his fingers, curls up his wrists. Bright, alive, orange searing the night. It dances like it knows him, like it loves him. Like it’s been waiting all along.

And it doesn’t hurt.

That’s what terrifies him most.

He stares, chest heaving, tears stinging his eyes. “What what the fuck am I?”

No answer. Only flame, steady and faithful.

He slams his fists into dirt, smothering it. Ash stains his bandages black. His breath shudders out in broken gasps.

Behind him, the safehouse creaks.

He spins, panicked, but no one’s there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe the walls just wanted to listen again.

He crawls back inside, shaking, guilt gnawing holes in his chest.

Because he knows now. The dream wasn’t just memory. It was a warning.

And whatever he used to be the fire hasn’t forgotten.

Chapter Text

The morning begins with rain.

Not the harsh kind, not the battering storms that gnash at the windows and shake the safehouse walls. Just a steady, soft drizzle, tapping against the roof like fingers on a drum. It paints the world outside grey, cool, damp, and the smell of wet earth curls through the cracked windows.

For once, there’s no barked call to the yard, no staff waiting, no drills lined up like soldiers in Wilbur’s head. The rain keeps them inside.

Tommy almost doesn’t know what to do with that.

He lingers in the kitchen doorway, blinking against the cozy glow of lamplight. Phil hums quiet as he sets bread to rise, flour dusting his hands. Wilbur sprawls on the rug in the sitting room, papers strewn everywhere, doodling between half-finished notes. Techno sits sharp-backed in a chair, book open, expression unreadable, but his shoulders are looser than usual.

It feels… normal. Too normal.

Tommy’s chest twists with the unfamiliar weight of it.

Phil makes porridge. Sweetens it with honey, sprinkles cinnamon over the top. He hands Tommy a bowl without a word, and Tommy nearly drops it because it’s warm, really warm, and not burning, not scorching. Just the right kind of heat.

“Eat up,” Phil says. His tone is casual, but his eyes flicker   watchful, soft, worried in the way they always are.

Tommy eats.

It tastes like safety, and he hates how badly he wants to cry into it.

The rain makes everything slower.

Wilbur drags Tommy onto the rug, scattering papers, pulling him into some nonsense game. Rolling dice, drawing on scraps, making up rules as they go. Wilbur cheats every time, grins sharp, insists he’s “just innovating.” Tommy shouts back, calls him names, kicks at his shin. They both laugh too loud, filling the house with sound.

Phil tells them to keep it down, but he’s smiling behind his mug.

Even Techno’s mouth twitches   just once, barely there, but Tommy sees it.

And it makes something bloom in his chest, fragile and stupid and warm.

Later, Wilbur pulls out his guitar. Strings hum under his fingers, warm and slow, the sound of rain given shape. Tommy hums along, voice cracking but earnest, filling the spaces between chords. Phil listens with closed eyes. Techno pretends to read, but the corner of his book doesn’t move for ten minutes straight.

For a while, Tommy forgets.

He forgets the staff, the drills, the way his palms ache with phantom fire.
He forgets the dream.
He forgets the word Blazeborn.

There’s only the music, and the rain, and the safehouse creaking like an old friend.

After lunch, Phil sets him to chores. Simple ones   drying dishes, folding cloth, patching a tear in a sleeve. Tommy groans, complains, whines loud enough to make Wilbur snicker, but he does them anyway.

It’s stupid, it’s boring, it’s nothing. And yet it feels like proof he exists here, really exists, not as a weapon or a mistake or a curse, but as someone who can help.

Every plate stacked, every shirt folded feels like a tether.

He clings to it harder than he’ll ever admit.

Evening stretches slow. The rain lightens to mist.

Phil cooks stew, rich and heavy, herbs filling the air. Wilbur sets the table messily, Techno fixes it with a roll of his eyes, Tommy sneaks bites when Phil’s back is turned. They bicker, laugh, move around each other like they’ve always done this.

Dinner feels too big, too warm, too alive.

Tommy doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Phil ruffles his hair, gentle and proud.

After dark, they sit by the fire.

The hearth crackles, soft and safe. Not like the fire in Tommy’s hands. This one is tame, old, trusted. He stares at it too long, chest aching, but he doesn’t look away.

Wilbur tells stories, exaggerated and stupid, about battles he’s never fought and kingdoms that never were. Tommy laughs until his ribs hurt. Phil chuckles, correcting the worst of his lies. Techno scoffs, mutters “idiot” without heat.

It’s stupid. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

For the first time in weeks, Tommy almost believes he belongs.

And then 

When everyone’s asleep, the house breathing soft around him, Tommy wakes.

The dream claws back, sharper this time. Screams, fire, stone shattering. The name again, louder now:

Blazeborn.

He jolts upright, fists clenched. His palms glow faint in the dark, heat curling gentle but insistent.

He stares at them, breath shaking.

Ninety-nine percent of the day was safe, soft, warm.

But the one percent always finds him.

The rain doesn’t stop.

Morning bleeds into morning, and the world outside stays grey, dripping steady, the earth soaked and softened. The safehouse walls hum with it, wood swollen faint with damp.

No one seems to mind.

Phil hums while he kneads bread, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flour smudged white against his forearms. He’s slower today, steady, like the weather has given him permission to breathe easier.

Wilbur scribbles in notebooks at the table, tongue poked out in concentration, occasionally breaking into humming   tuneless, loud, more noise than music.

Techno sits by the window with his book, hood down, hair loose. He doesn’t turn pages often, but no one comments.

And Tommy 

Tommy sits cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil scratching.

Not fire. Not battles. Not nightmares. Just the curve of Phil’s hands in the dough, the bend of Wilbur’s grin when he catches himself, the slant of Techno’s shoulders softened by lamplight. He draws because it feels safe to, because no one here rips pages from his hands.

And for the first time in weeks, his chest doesn’t ache while he does it.

The bread comes out golden. Phil cuts it warm, steam curling, butter melting instantly. He slides a piece onto Tommy’s plate first. Doesn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkle when Tommy devours it in three bites.

“Slow down,” Techno mutters, not looking up.

Tommy glares at him through a mouthful of crumbs. “Jealous.”

“Of your table manners? Never.”

Wilbur snorts so hard he chokes on his slice. Phil just sighs, like he’s dealing with children instead of soldiers, and for once Tommy doesn’t mind being the brat.

Afternoon turns into chores again.

Wilbur tries to balance spoons on his nose while they dry dishes. Tommy joins in, competitive, and ends up with three clattering to the floor. Phil groans, picks them up, and mutters about “raising fools.”

Tommy feels warm all the way down to his ribs.

Later, they drag blankets into the sitting room, pile them high into a crooked nest. Tommy insists it’s “engineering,” not a blanket fort. Wilbur crowns it with a hat he swears is royal, and Techno refuses to sit inside it until Tommy declares it’s a “war tent,” at which point Techno ducks in without a word.

Phil watches from the doorway, shaking his head, but he’s smiling again.

Evening drips in soft.

Wilbur pulls his guitar close, strings bright against the hush. This time, the song is gentler   lullabies half-remembered, stitched together with humming. Tommy sprawls across the rug, eyes half-shut, sketchbook forgotten at his side.

Phil sits in his chair, knitting quiet. Techno stays near the window, but his book rests closed on his knee.

It feels like home. Like a family. Like something whole.

Tommy doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want the fire in his chest to ruin this.

So he doesn’t think about it. He just listens, eyes slipping closed to the sound of strings and rain.

That night, the dream waits for him again. Fire, stone, screams, the name curling like smoke.

But when he wakes, breath catching, the safehouse is quiet, steady, alive around him.

And for a moment   just one   the warmth doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like belonging.

The morning is clear after days of rain.
The yard gleams damp, mud clinging heavy, air sharp with the scent of wet stone.

Wilbur decides it’s “a perfect day for drills.” His grin is too wide, like he’s already scripting Tommy’s triumph. Tommy groans, dragging his heels, staff already too heavy in his blistered hands.

Phil watches steady, arms crossed. Techno sharpens his blade at the bench, unimpressed.

“Swing, step, block,” Wilbur orders.

Tommy obeys.

But today, something’s wrong.

Or right.

Or both.

His body moves smoother than it should. Not polished, not graceful   but efficient, practiced. His feet land where they’re supposed to without him thinking. His arms bring the staff up in time to block a strike Wilbur never warned him of. His knees bend before his brain registers the motion.

He stumbles, breathless, staring at his hands.

That wasn’t me. That wasn’t mine.

Wilbur blinks, then laughs too bright. “See? You’re learning.”

Phil narrows his eyes. Techno says nothing, but his gaze sharpens.

The drills grow harder. Wilbur presses, striking faster. Tommy’s arms should fail him, but they don’t. He parries, counters, spins the staff in an arc that feels carved into his bones. He doesn’t remember learning it   but his body knows.

Each strike lands too clean.

Each dodge comes too early, too precise.

Each movement feels like a memory dragging his muscles behind it.

And with every one, his chest tightens.

Why do I know this?

Techno steps in at last, staff in his hands, eyes cold. “Fight me.”

Tommy shakes his head fast. “No. I can’t  I’ll lose ”

“Then you’ll learn.”

The match begins before he can breathe.

Techno swings hard, brutal, and Tommy blocks. Staff to staff, sparks in his arms, his wrists burning with impact   but he doesn’t fall. His feet carry him sideways, body ducking, countering, striking back with angles he shouldn’t know.

Wilbur whoops in delight. “See! I told you!”

Phil doesn’t smile.

The fight sharpens. Techno presses harder, faster. Tommy’s body keeps pace, each block instinctive, each dodge too sharp. He whirls the staff in a circle so quick the wood whistles, striking back at Techno’s exposed side 

And stops inches from his ribs.

He freezes, trembling. He hadn’t meant to. His body had moved without him.

Techno’s eyes narrow.

“You’ve done this before.”

Tommy drops the staff like it’s burning. “No I haven’t I don’t I swear ” His chest heaves. His palms ache. His throat closes.

Phil’s hand rests gentle on his shoulder, but the weight of three stares makes him want to vanish.

That night, Tommy curls in bed, staff marks still etched red on his skin. His arms ache, but not from clumsiness   from precision. From a fight he shouldn’t have been able to hold.

The fire whispers in his veins. His body hums with strength that doesn’t feel like his.

He doesn’t sleep.

When his eyes close, he sees flashes: smoke, screams, his own hands blazing gold, enemies falling like ash.

And the name again, echoing like it belongs to him.

Blazeborn.

In the kitchen the next morning, Wilbur grins like nothing’s wrong. “See? You’re a natural.”

Phil watches silent, careful.

Techno says, flat, “No one’s a natural like that.”

Tommy grips his spoon until his knuckles go white.

The morning feels sharp, air biting cold despite the sun. The yard smells of wet grass, drying earth. Wilbur is already bouncing, staff in hand, grinning like a man who’s convinced today will be glorious.

Tommy drags his heels, exhaustion sunk deep in his bones from another night of broken sleep. Fire kept humming beneath his ribs, whispering too loud, keeping his body restless. He’d curled into the blankets, biting down sobs until dawn.

And now Wilbur’s got that manic sparkle.
“Come on, Tommy! Today’s the day.”

“The day for what?” Tommy mutters.

Wilbur grins wider. “To see what you’re really made of.”

Techno stands across the yard, arms folded, axe strapped to his back. His eyes track Tommy with that sharp stillness that makes Tommy want to shrink smaller. Phil leans against the porch, quiet, unreadable, but he’s watching too.

Tommy already knows he’s not getting out of this.

The warmup is drills again: swing, step, block. Wilbur corrects his footing, nudges his shoulders, praises when he gets it right. Tommy’s body falls into the rhythm too quick. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t trip. Every strike lands too clean.

It should feel good. It doesn’t.

Wilbur beams. Techno frowns. Phil keeps silent.

Then Wilbur claps his hands, stepping back. “Alright. Real spar. Tommy versus Techno.”

Tommy’s stomach lurches. “No. No, I can’t I’ll die ”

“You won’t,” Wilbur says brightly. “You’re better than you think.”

Techno doesn’t wait for permission. He steps forward, staff in hand, stance low and sharp. “Fight.”

The first strike comes fast, brutal, enough to crack bone if Tommy misses. His arms fly up before he thinks. The block reverberates through his bones, but it holds.

Instinct drags him sideways, feet finding grip in the mud, staff swinging back in an arc that whistles through the air. Techno ducks, counters, presses harder.

Tommy’s mind screams I can’t, I can’t, but his body doesn’t listen. His body knows.

Each move flows into the next, sharp and practiced. He blocks before Techno strikes, parries blows with angles that shouldn’t be in his memory.

The clash builds faster, sharper.

And then 

Something bursts.

Heat rips through his palms. The staff smokes where he grips it, wood blackening, sparks spitting. Tommy gasps, tries to drop it, but his hands won’t let go. His arms swing fast, too fast, flames licking up the wood as if it were kindling.

Wilbur stares, frozen.
Phil’s eyes widen, jaw tight.
Techno’s expression sharpens, unreadable.

Tommy’s chest heaves. “I don’t I didn’t mean ”

But his body keeps fighting.

Staff collides with Techno’s, sparks exploding. Fire sprays out, hissing in the damp air, searing lines across the mud. The world narrows to flame and instinct. Every strike is guided, not chosen. Every dodge is perfect, merciless.

It feels like someone else is moving him.

It feels like remembering.

Phil shouts something distant, muffled. Wilbur calls his name, panicked. Techno presses harder, faster, trying to pin him down.

Tommy’s body won’t stop.

The fire grows hotter, brighter, staff blazing like a torch. Each strike burns the air. Smoke curls from his skin. He screams, voice cracking, but the fire doesn’t care.

It feels good.
It feels right.
It terrifies him.

At the peak, Techno swings hard for his shoulder. Tommy’s body doesn’t dodge. It steps into it, fire erupting in a shield that devours the blow whole.

The yard shakes with the force.

Silence follows.

Techno stands back, staff lowered, eyes burning. Wilbur stares in awe, terrified and thrilled. Phil is already moving forward, voice sharp.

“Tommy. Drop it. Now.”

Tommy gasps, clutching the staff. Flames roar up his arms, skin unburned but glowing. He tries to let go, fingers locked tight. Tears stream down his face.

“I can’t ”

“Look at me.” Phil’s voice cuts through, steady, fierce. He grips Tommy’s wrist, grounding. “You’re not fire. You’re not ash. You’re my boy. Let go.”

Something cracks. The staff clatters to the mud, half-charred, smoking. Flames sputter, dying into steam.

Tommy collapses with it.

The silence after is suffocating.

Wilbur kneels fast, hands fluttering, words tumbling. “That was amazing you’re incredible we’ll figure it out ”

“Wilbur.” Phil’s voice cuts sharp. “Not now.”

Techno doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave Tommy. Calculating.

Tommy curls small, shaking, sobs tearing out raw. “I didn’t mean to I didn’t want to I can’t ”

Phil gathers him close, firm, holding on like he won’t let fire take him away. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

But the word Blazeborn rings in Tommy’s skull, loud as thunder, louder than Phil’s comfort, louder than anything.

He clutches Phil’s shirt, choking on ash that isn’t there.

That night, the house is quiet. No one speaks of it. The charred staff lies abandoned outside, blackened ruin against the mud.

Tommy lies awake in bed, hands still trembling, heat pulsing under his skin. He presses his palms to his chest, praying it will stop.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

And somewhere in the dark, he whispers, “What if I’m not yours to save?”

No answer comes.

Only the hum of fire in his blood.

The charred staff still lies in the mud when morning breaks.

Tommy stares at it from the porch steps, knees hugged tight to his chest, jaw clenched. It looks like a corpse   blackened, brittle, smoke still faint on the air. He half expects it to twitch back to life.

Behind him, the house is noisy. Wilbur’s singing (loudly, badly), Phil’s sighing at every verse, Techno’s boots thudding across the floorboards. For once, Tommy lingers outside instead of rushing in.

When the door creaks open, Wilbur’s head pops out, curls messy, smile too wide.

“Tommy-boy! Breakfast. Eggs, burnt to perfection. And Phil swears he didn’t catch them from the neighbor’s chickens this time.”

Tommy snorts despite himself. “…This time?”

Wilbur winks. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The kitchen feels almost normal. Wilbur’s already halfway through his plate, humming between mouthfuls. Phil sits at the head of the table, calm, knife and fork moving with measured precision. Techno leans against the counter instead of sitting, tearing bread with his hands like some barbarian.

Tommy slips into his seat. His hands still feel too warm.

Wilbur leans over instantly, grinning. “So, our little firecracker. Planning to toast the toast for us this time?”

“Shut up,” Tommy mutters, ears pink.

Techno deadpans, “Not sure we should let him near dry wood again.”

“Oh, come on!” Wilbur protests. “Did you see him yesterday? He was glorious! Fire everywhere, staff blazing ”

Phil cuts in flat, “Wil. He nearly burned his own hands off.”

Wilbur waves him off. “Details.”

Tommy sinks lower in his chair, groaning. “Can you all not ”

But Wilbur’s already miming, grabbing a spoon like a staff, spinning it with exaggerated twirls. “Whoosh, fwoosh! I am Tommy, destroyer of staves, terror of kindling, scourge of firewood!”

Tommy throws a crust at him. “You’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who wins battles,” Wilbur retorts, crust bouncing off his curls.

Techno mutters, “An idiot who’d be dead if Tommy actually hit him.”

“Thank you, Techno,” Tommy says sweetly.

Wilbur gasps, clutching his chest. “Et tu, Brute?”

Phil finally sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

After breakfast, Wilbur launches into planning. “Right! Training today. Tommy, you and me first. Then Techno can try not to kill you again.”

“Try?” Tommy echoes, horrified.

Techno shrugs. “No promises.”

Phil’s glare sharpens. “You will promise.”

Wilbur leans across the table, stage-whispering to Tommy, “See? Dad’s got your back.”

Phil smacks him lightly with the end of a fork. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, mum.”

The fork gets thrown.

Tommy laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his juice.

Out in the yard, the mud’s drying into firm ground. Wilbur stretches dramatically, groaning like he’s ancient. “Ohh, my back, my knees, I’m far too old to be sparring.”

“You’re literally only a few years older than me!” Tommy snaps.

Wilbur gasps, hand to his heart. “How dare you. I am a seasoned warrior, scarred veteran of battles untold”

“You tripped over a pig yesterday,” Techno interrupts.

Wilbur scowls. “It was a very large pig.”

Tommy wheezes with laughter, nearly dropping his staff.

Phil chuckles under his breath. “Focus.”

The spar begins light   Wilbur circling, teasing, throwing half-hearted jabs. Tommy blocks, awkward at first, then smoother. The fire hums low in his veins, restless.

Wilbur sings as he fights. “Tommy’s got the flames, but noooo aim ”

“Shut UP!” Tommy yells, swinging harder.

Techno calls out dryly, “Rhyming doesn’t make you a bard, Wil.”

“Jealous,” Wilbur retorts, narrowly dodging Tommy’s strike.

Phil rubs his temples like he regrets all his life choices.

It happens when Wilbur presses too hard. Tommy’s body stutters, instincts lurch forward. His staff swings sharp   and fire bursts again, just a flicker, just enough to scorch the air.

Everyone freezes.

Tommy drops the staff instantly, hands shaking. “I didn’t mean ”

Phil’s voice is calm, firm. “Breathe. It’s alright.”

Wilbur swallows, wide-eyed. “…That was so cool.”

“Wilbur.” Phil’s tone is warning.

“I’m just saying!”

Tommy glares through tears. “It’s not cool! It’s scary! What if I hurt you?”

Wilbur’s grin softens, turning gentle. “Then we roast marshmallows, obviously.”

Tommy gapes at him. “…You’re the worst.”

“Worst, but funniest,” Wilbur chirps.

Techno finally speaks, serious. “You need control. Right now you’re a hazard.”

“Thanks,” Tommy mutters bitterly.

Phil lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a hazard. You’re just… still learning. That’s all.”

Tommy swallows hard, nodding, clinging to the weight of Phil’s hand like it’s the only steady thing left.

By night, the house devolves into chaos again.

Wilbur insists on playing cards. Techno keeps winning, unamused. Wilbur accuses him of cheating. Tommy cheers every time Wilbur loses. Phil quietly steals the last cookie from the plate while they argue.

“Phil!” Wilbur yells.

Phil shrugs. “What?”

“That was mine!”

“You snooze, you lose,” Tommy says smugly, biting into it when Phil hands it to him.

Wilbur collapses face-first onto the table. “My whole family betrays me.”

Techno mutters, “You betrayed yourself.”

Tommy snorts so hard milk comes out his nose.

Banter fills the evening, warmth wrapping the house tight. For a little while, Tommy almost forgets the fire. Almost forgets the charred staff outside. Almost forgets the word Blazeborn whispering at the edges of his dreams.

But when the laughter fades, when he curls in bed listening to Wilbur humming off-key down the hall, when Phil dims the lanterns and Techno’s boots stop pacing 

Tommy’s hands still hum warm.

And in the dark, the fire whispers again.

You can’t hide forever.

Chapter Text

The safehouse wakes to the smell of bread and rain. Again.
Tommy sits at the table, eyes fixed on the cracked mug between his hands. Steam curls, disappears. His palms sting where his nails dug in last night   little crescent moons hidden by sleeves.

He smiles anyway.

Wilbur breezes in first, humming tunelessly, curls damp from a too-fast wash. He’s got a paper in one hand, butter knife in the other, and drops both when he sees Tommy already sitting. “You’re up early,” he says, voice bright. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Tommy shrugs. Makes himself shrug like it’s nothing. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wilbur grins like that’s normal, like Tommy’s a kid who stayed up playing games instead of a boy who spent the night on the floor, shaking, whispering old names to himself.

Phil appears next, sleeves rolled, towel over one shoulder. “You’re both up before me? That’s new.” His eyes flicker once   quick, sharp   to Tommy’s wrists where the fabric rides up. Nothing’s showing. Tommy tucks his hands deeper under the table anyway.

Techno comes last, silent as a blade. He gives no greeting, just nods once, takes a seat. His presence fills the room like a held breath.

Tommy raises the mug, forces a sip. Burns his tongue, swallows the pain. Smiles at them.

He’s good at this part.

Wilbur sprawls across the bench like a cat, buttering bread with dramatic flourishes. “Alright, sunshine. What’s the plan today? More stick-waving? More tripping over Techno’s boots?”

Tommy laughs, because it’s expected. Because he’s supposed to be harmless. “I’ll try not to embarrass you this time.”

Phil sets plates down, eyes soft but wary. “You’re improving.”

Techno snorts. “He’s surviving.”

Tommy forces his grin wider. “Surviving’s improvement, isn’t it?”

Wilbur raises a brow. “See? Always looking on the bright side. I like that about you.”

Tommy swallows down the twist in his gut. If Wilbur knew what he was smiling at, if any of them knew  

But they don’t. Not yet.

Breakfast is noisy. Wilbur tells some story about a chicken coop gone wrong, Phil mutters about fixing the roof, Techno critiques the bread crust. Tommy listens, nods, memorizes. He files away every weakness he can see: Phil’s knee bothering him when he leans. Wilbur’s habit of losing focus mid-sentence. Techno’s quiet protectiveness when he moves between Phil and the door.

Information, patterns, habits. All for later.

All for the plan.

His fingers twitch against the mug. He digs nails into his palm again until it hurts enough to focus.

He still smiles.

“Training after breakfast,” Wilbur announces, licking butter off his thumb. “Repetition drills. You need them.”

Tommy makes himself look exasperated. “More drills? I’m still sore from yesterday.”

“That’s the point,” Techno says.

Phil gives him a look. “Don’t push him too far.”

Techno doesn’t answer.

Tommy looks between them, feigning confusion, but inside the thought hums: keep playing small, keep playing weak, they won’t see you coming.

Except he can’t quite look at Phil when he thinks it.

They finish eating. Plates clatter, chairs scrape. Tommy offers to wash dishes   more practice, more time to watch. Phil thanks him softly. Wilbur tosses him a towel like it’s a game. Techno disappears outside.

Tommy stands at the sink, sleeves rolled high, wrists hidden in suds. The window over the basin shows the yard: damp training ground, patchy grass, splintered poles. He can already picture how Wilbur will move, how Techno will circle, how Phil will stand at the edge with arms crossed. He’s watched them enough to draw them blindfolded.

He’s watched them enough to kill them, if it came to that.

His stomach turns. He scrubs the plate harder until his knuckles ache.

Wilbur leans against the counter, watching. “You’re quieter today.”

Tommy flashes him a grin over his shoulder. “Saving my voice for all the yelling I’ll do when you make me run laps.”

Wilbur laughs, bumping his shoulder as he passes. “That’s the spirit.”

The touch is light, friendly. It burns worse than his palms.

The yard smells of wet earth and iron. Rain from last night clings to the training posts in beads, glinting faintly when the sun slips through the clouds. Wilbur stands at the edge with a staff under his arm like a conductor about to lead an orchestra. Techno looms a few feet away, arms folded. Phil leans against the porch rail, quiet sentinel.

Tommy stands barefoot in the mud, the staff in his hands heavier than it should be. He lets his knees knock a little. Lets his grip look sloppy. Lets his breathing sound uneven. He’s learned exactly how much weakness to show without making it obvious he’s faking.

“Alright, sunshine,” Wilbur calls. “Swing-step-block. Over and over. We’ll start slow.”

Tommy nods. Keeps his head down. The part he’s playing is shy, unsure, eager to please. The part of him underneath   Blazeborn, strategist   calculates angles, weight, foot placement. He knows how to fight. He’s done this a thousand times with real blades, not wooden sticks.

But now he does it wrong on purpose. Lets his elbow flare too wide. Misses a block he could make blindfolded.

Wilbur corrects him gently. Techno corrects him coldly. Phil doesn’t correct at all, just watches.

Tommy grits his teeth.

Hours blur. The drills grind down to a rhythm: swing, step, block, Wilbur’s voice, Techno’s mutters, Phil’s silence. The mud cakes under Tommy’s toes. His palms split where old blisters tear open. Blood beads bright against the wood.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wince. He can’t.

He has to look like he’s trying. Like he’s desperate. Like he’s weak.

Inside his chest the fire hums, restless, angry. His body remembers power. Muscle memory flickers like phantom limbs   parries he isn’t supposed to know, counters he isn’t supposed to make. He stumbles on purpose, hits the ground harder than necessary.

Wilbur frowns. “You alright?”

Tommy forces a laugh. “Yeah. Graceful as ever.”

Techno rolls his eyes. “More like hopeless as ever.”

Tommy flinches at that   not from hurt feelings, but because part of him wants to snarl, you’d be dead if I wanted you to be.

Instead he grips the staff tighter, nails biting into the wood until his knuckles ache.

Phil steps forward, a water flask in hand. “Take a break.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says, too quick.

Phil’s brows draw together. “You’re bleeding.”

Tommy looks down at his palms like he’s only just noticed. Shrugs. “Guess I’m soft.”

Wilbur makes a low noise, like he wants to argue, but Techno’s already moving to reset the targets. The moment passes.

More drills. Reaction training now: Wilbur tossing small weighted bags at Tommy, Techno shouting cues. Tommy’s supposed to dodge or block. He misses half on purpose, lets them hit his shoulder, his ribs. Each thud leaves a dark mark.

“Focus,” Techno snaps. “You’re slow.”

Tommy bares his teeth in a grin that’s all act. “Maybe you’re just fast.”

“Fast enough to hit you every time.”

“Fast enough to miss if I wanted you to,” Tommy thinks, but he only pants and swipes at his forehead with a sleeve.

Another bag flies. He ducks too late. It smacks his cheek. He tastes blood at the corner of his mouth. He swallows it, straightens, nods for the next one.

Phil’s voice cuts in, sharp. “That’s enough.”

Wilbur hesitates, glancing at Techno. “Maybe one more ”

“Enough,” Phil repeats.

Tommy laughs weakly. “I can keep going.”

“No,” Phil says. “You can’t.”

Tommy’s grin falters for a second. It feels too good, someone telling him to stop. Too dangerous. He looks down, hides it, forces a nod. “Okay.”

When Phil turns away to fetch bandages, Tommy’s hands tremble. He presses his palms together, feeling the sting where skin’s split. Feels the ache in his ribs, the ringing in his skull.

This is good, he tells himself. This is necessary. They believe him more when he’s hurting. They’ll trust him if he bleeds.

It’s part of the plan.

So why does it feel like punishment?

He digs his nails into his palms until the pain spikes bright. It keeps him steady. It keeps him small.

He smiles when Wilbur claps him on the back. “You’ll get there, sunshine.”

“I know,” Tommy says, and hopes his voice doesn’t crack.

Phil’s kitchen smells like chamomile and honey. Warm light filters through the windows, soft against the storm-gray clouds still hanging overhead. Tommy sits at the table with his hands stretched out on a towel. His knuckles are raw and his palms are a mess of shallow cuts and half-healed blisters.

Phil crouches beside him with a small tin of salve, his brows knit together. “You’ve got to tell me when it gets this bad, mate.”

Tommy shrugs, trying to sound sheepish. “Didn’t hurt that much.”

Phil huffs through his nose. “That’s what everyone says before they pass out on me.”

Wilbur leans against the counter, sipping tea like he owns the place. “To be fair, Dad, Tommy’s got a high pain tolerance. I saw him trip over his own staff and faceplant into the mud without even swearing. That’s commitment.”

Tommy laughs, light and airy. “Didn’t wanna embarrass myself in front of my cool teachers.”

Wilbur grins, overly dramatic. “Ah yes, the noble art of face-first combat. Techno, you seeing this?”

Techno stands near the doorway, arms crossed. His expression doesn’t change. “I’m seeing it,” he says flatly. “And it’s pathetic.”

Wilbur gasps in mock offense. “Don’t bully my student!”

Tommy presses his lips together to hide a smile. The banter bounces around the room like sunlight on water, warm and harmless   and it’s so easy to get lost in it, to forget this isn’t real.

Phil taps his arm gently. “Hey. You spacing out on me?”

Tommy blinks. “Sorry. Just tired.”

Phil softens. “Then you rest after this, yeah? No more drills today.”

He wants to argue   because spies don’t nap at the enemy’s table   but Phil’s tone leaves no room for disobedience. So Tommy nods, obedient, small.

Phil works in silence for a while. The salve stings when it hits the cuts, but Tommy doesn’t flinch. Instead, he watches Phil’s hands. Steady, practiced, gentle. There’s something unsettling about that kind of care. It’s too quiet. Too real.

He can’t remember the last time someone cleaned his wounds without an ulterior motive.

“You should keep these wrapped,” Phil murmurs. “Don’t want them getting infected.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says softly. “Thanks, Phil.”

The older man glances up, surprised at the sincerity in his tone. Tommy looks away before it can linger.

Wilbur plops down in the chair across from him, chin in hand. “You know,” he says conversationally, “most people take months to get as far as you’ve gotten in just a few weeks. You’re a fast learner.”

Tommy gives a weak laugh. “Guess I just really wanna not suck.”

Wilbur’s smile softens. “You don’t suck. You’re just… still finding your rhythm. Everyone’s clumsy at first.”

Tommy hums, noncommittal. He wants to believe that   wants to take the comfort and hold it like a real thing   but it sits heavy in his chest.

You’re not clumsy, his mind whispers. You’re pretending to be.

The thought sours everything.

Techno breaks the silence with a quiet scoff. “You’re praising him too early. He barely lasted half the drills before he started shaking.”

Wilbur gives him a pointed look. “He’s still new, Tech.”

“New doesn’t mean fragile.”

Tommy can feel Techno’s gaze on him, sharp and dissecting. Like he’s peeling back layers and trying to see what’s underneath. For a heartbeat, he wonders if Techno already knows.

He swallows and drops his eyes to the table. “I’ll do better next time.”

“You will,” Techno says   and somehow it sounds more like a threat than reassurance.

Phil sighs. “Enough. You’re not scaring the kid off.”

Tommy forces a grin. “Nah, I’m fine. If I can survive Wilbur’s sense of humor, I can survive Techno.”

Wilbur gasps dramatically again. “The audacity!”

Phil chuckles under his breath. Techno just rolls his eyes, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like idiots.

Tommy laughs too, this time genuinely   because it’s impossible not to. The warmth in the room is dizzying. The easy rhythm of family, of people who care.

And he hates that it makes his chest ache.

Later, after the others scatter   Techno to his forge, Wilbur to scribble songs in his messy notebook   Phil ushers Tommy to the couch.

“Lie down before you fall down,” Phil says firmly.

Tommy hesitates. “I can go back to my room ”

“Nope,” Phil interrupts. “You’re staying where I can see you in case you faint again.”

“I didn’t faint,” Tommy protests weakly.

“Nearly did,” Phil says. “And that’s close enough.”

Tommy groans but obeys. The couch is soft and smells faintly like cedar and rain. He sinks into it, pulling the blanket Phil tosses him over his shoulders.

“Get some sleep, mate,” Phil murmurs, patting his shoulder before heading for the kitchen.

Tommy closes his eyes, feigning exhaustion. But sleep doesn’t come.

[Tommy POV]

Morning comes slow.
Light seeps through the curtains in strips, dust floating in the air like falling stars. Everything aches   his hands, his chest, his head. The blanket around him still smells faintly of smoke from the hearth and damp from the rain. Someone must’ve carried him inside after he fell asleep on the porch.

He blinks, groggy. The safehouse hums quietly with life   the clink of dishes, the low murmur of voices, the sound of Wilbur’s guitar somewhere in the background. Warm. Ordinary. It shouldn’t feel like safety, but it does.

Tommy sits up, joints popping, and pulls the blanket tighter. His hands are wrapped again, fresh bandages. He doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t remember much after the rain   only Techno’s voice steady against the storm, his own shaking, the soft weight of a hand on his shoulder.

He shouldn’t have cracked. Shouldn’t have shown that much.

He’d spent years training to keep control   to lie, to smile, to make them trust him while he learned where to strike. That was supposed to be the plan.

But something in this place scrapes the edges of his armor, makes him forget which mask he’s wearing.
Maybe that’s part of their trick. Maybe they’re soft so you’ll melt first.

He shakes the thought off, dragging himself up. The mirror over the sink catches his reflection   pale skin, dark circles, eyes too old for his face. His hair sticks up in every direction. He looks like someone who’s been lost and found too many times.

And maybe that’s true.

[Techno POV]

Techno’s never been good at letting things go.

He’s got a mind built for strategy   counting, cataloging, predicting   and when something doesn’t fit the pattern, it scratches like sandpaper against his thoughts. Tommy scratches. Everything about him does.

He moves like a fighter, but flinches like a civilian. Lies like a pro, but stumbles over simple kindness. He bleeds easily and then apologizes for existing.
Techno knows that kind of damage. He sees it in the way Tommy curls inward when someone raises their voice, in the way his gaze darts to exits instinctively.

But last night   that was something else.

He saw the heat. The air shimmered around the kid’s skin, steam rising where rain hit. It wasn’t human reflex or trauma response. That was power. Controlled, barely.
And he didn’t imagine the fear in Tommy’s eyes when it happened   not fear of the power, but of them seeing it.

So now, as Phil sets plates on the table and Wilbur hums to himself by the window, Techno keeps his mouth shut but his eyes open. The kid sits at the far end, nursing tea with trembling hands, pretending to be fine.

Techno doesn’t buy it.
But he also remembers the way Tommy collapsed against him, shaking like the world might fall apart if someone didn’t hold it steady.

So he waits. Watches. Calculates.

Sometimes strategy isn’t about attack. It’s about knowing when not to strike.

[Wilbur POV]

There’s something wrong in the rhythm of the morning.

Normally, breakfast in the safehouse hums with lazy, comforting chaos   Phil flipping pancakes, Techno muttering about ration control, Tommy laughing too loud at his own jokes. But today, the silence tastes heavier. Wilbur plays his guitar in the corner to fill it, the strings soft and slow.

He glances at Tommy. The kid’s been quiet since dawn, movements careful, eyes avoiding everyone’s. Even his jokes died before they reached his lips.
Wilbur’s been watching people long enough to recognize the shape of guilt. It sits heavy across Tommy’s shoulders, an invisible weight.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he can guess.

Wilbur’s made mistakes   bloody ones, bright ones, ones that keep him up at night. He knows what it’s like to wear remorse like armor. But Tommy’s guilt is different. Older, somehow. Like he’s been carrying it since before he learned to smile.

When Tommy excuses himself to the back porch, Wilbur hesitates, fingers stilling on the strings. Phil glances over his shoulder, eyes saying what words don’t   go after him.

Wilbur nods and follows.

[Tommy POV]

The morning air bites colder than before, damp from last night’s rain. The forest hums faintly in the distance   dripping leaves, birds waking. Tommy sits on the railing, legs swinging, trying to find silence in the noise.

His bandages itch. His thoughts are worse.
He can feel the weight of the staff still, the memory of it in his grip. The echo of power under his skin like a ghost muscle twitching.

“Mind if I join you?”
Wilbur’s voice breaks through the fog.

Tommy startles slightly. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.” Wilbur steps onto the porch, settling beside him with practiced ease. He smells like smoke and coffee. “Didn’t see you eat.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Tommy lies.

Wilbur hums. “You’ve got a terrible poker face.”

Tommy glares halfheartedly. “And you’ve got a terrible sense of boundaries.”

“That’s what brothers are for,” Wilbur says lightly, and it lands too easily, too familiarly. The word brothers lodges somewhere behind Tommy’s ribs.

He looks away quickly. “I’m not ”

“I know,” Wilbur interrupts softly. “You don’t have to be.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, filled only by the forest breathing around them.
Then Wilbur asks, “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t fighting anymore?”

Tommy freezes. “Why?”

“Because I do,” Wilbur says simply. “Every time I pick up a weapon. I think about what happens when I finally get to put it down.”

Tommy swallows. “I don’t think I’d know how.”

“Maybe that’s why you should try.”

Something inside Tommy twists painfully. He wants to scoff, make some cutting remark   what do you know about trying, about surviving?   but the words die on his tongue.
Wilbur just looks at him with that same steady warmth, the kind that burns slower than fire.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet: “You’re a strange guy, Wilbur.”

Wilbur laughs, the sound bright. “You’re just figuring that out?”

[Phil POV]

Phil’s not stupid.
He’s been raising soldiers longer than some of them have been alive. He’s seen every kind of broken   the ones that cry, the ones that fight, the ones that pretend they’re fine until they shatter.

Tommy’s all three.

He doesn’t know what the kid’s hiding, but he knows something’s wrong. The new bandages, the way Techno’s been extra quiet, the haunted look in Wilbur’s eyes when he came back in from the porch   all signs of a story not being told.

Phil doesn’t press. Not yet.
He just watches, makes tea, sets food out where Tommy can see it. Small gestures that say you’re safe here even if he doesn’t believe it fully himself.

But later, when Techno catches his eye over the table, there’s understanding in the silence between them.

We saw it too.

Phil nods slightly. We’ll deal with it.

Not yet. Not until Tommy’s ready to trust that they won’t hurt him for what he is.

Because Phil’s seen too many kids punished for the things they were made into.\

[Tommy POV]

By afternoon, the air grows heavy with the promise of another storm. Training resumes   Wilbur insists he needs to rebuild stamina, Techno oversees the drills with a clipboard, Phil watches quietly from the edge.

It’s almost normal. Almost.

“Focus,” Techno calls. “Don’t just swing. Watch my shoulders. Read movement.”

Tommy grits his teeth and tries. The staff feels foreign and familiar all at once, like his body remembers things his brain doesn’t. Every move pulls from something deeper   a memory of a time he can’t place, a rhythm burned into his muscles long before he ever stepped into this safehouse.

He steps, pivots, blocks.
The motion flows   too smooth, too precise.

Techno’s brows furrow. “Who taught you that form?”

Tommy freezes. His pulse spikes. “What form?”

“That counter. It’s advanced military-grade. You shouldn’t even know it.”

Tommy forces a grin. “Guess I’m just a natural.”

Wilbur laughs from the sidelines, but Techno doesn’t. His eyes stay sharp, calculating. The silence stretches too long, and Tommy’s skin crawls.

He swings again, deliberately sloppy. “See? Total amateur.”

Phil steps in before Techno can press. “Alright, break for lunch.”

Tommy nods too fast and bolts before anyone can stop him.

[Techno POV]

Something’s wrong.
It’s not paranoia   it’s pattern recognition. Tommy moves like someone who’s been trained to kill, but he flinches like someone who’s been punished for surviving. He shouldn’t know the form. He shouldn’t know that footwork. He shouldn’t burn like that.

And yet he does.

Techno finds himself staring at the training staff after Tommy leaves. The wood still hums faintly with heat. It shouldn’t do that.

“Phil,” he murmurs.

Phil joins him quietly, eyes narrowing at the scorch marks along the grip. “I thought you said he was just tired.”

“He’s not tired,” Techno says. “He’s terrified.”

Phil exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then we need to figure out why before it kills him.”

Techno nods. “Or before it kills us.”

But his tone isn’t cruel   it’s worried. The kind of worry he hasn’t let himself feel in years.

[Tommy POV]

He hides in the woods behind the safehouse, breath shaking. The trees close in around him, dripping with mist. He leans against a trunk, trying to quiet the storm inside.

He didn’t mean to slip. The form came out of nowhere   muscle memory, instinct. Phoenix’s drills, old commands whispered in firelight. Strike fast. Strike clean. Leave nothing standing.

His hands tremble.

He should run. He should vanish before they piece it together. But when he imagines leaving, all he sees is the empty dark   no warmth, no voices, no place that smells like rain and bread and guitar strings.

The forest is too quiet.
He sinks to his knees and presses his palms into the dirt, trying to ground himself. The heat stirs anyway, curling under his skin like it’s alive.

“Stop,” he whispers to it. “Please.”

For a moment, the warmth flickers   then dies down to a faint hum.

He laughs weakly. “Good boy,” he mutters to himself.

From the edge of the clearing, a voice says, “You talk to yourself often?”

He startles   Wilbur again, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too casual for someone who probably just tracked a runaway through the woods.

Tommy tries for a grin. “You stalking me?”

“Only when you run off mid-training,” Wilbur says. He sits beside him, uninvited, like always. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” Tommy lies again.

Wilbur studies him. “You know, you don’t have to lie every time we ask that.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says quietly. “I do.”

There’s no humor in it.
Wilbur doesn’t push   just leans back, eyes on the canopy above. “You ever notice how the forest sounds different after rain? Quieter. Like the world’s catching its breath.”

Tommy blinks. “That’s… kinda poetic.”

Wilbur grins. “Don’t tell Techno.”

For a while, they just sit there   two soldiers pretending they’re not broken. The silence settles softer this time, not empty but full of everything neither of them can say.

When they head back, Tommy’s pulse is still too fast, but the noise in his head is quieter. For now.

[Phil POV]

That night, after Tommy’s gone to bed, Phil finds Techno out back, staring into the woods.

“Still thinking about the kid?” Phil asks, lighting a lantern.

Techno grunts. “You saw it too. The heat. The form.”

“Yeah.” Phil sighs. “He’s not telling us everything.”

“He’s hiding something big,” Techno says. “But I don’t think it’s malicious. He looked more like he was running from himself than from us.”

Phil nods. “Then we help him stop running.”

“Even if he’s dangerous?”

“Especially then,” Phil says firmly. “Because if we don’t, someone else will find him   and use him.”

Techno’s jaw tightens. “Like Phoenix did.”

The name lingers in the air like a curse. Phil doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Somewhere inside the house, a floorboard creaks the faint sound of movement from Tommy’s room.

Neither of them mention it, but both of them know he heard.

[Tommy POV]

In bed, Tommy lies awake, staring at the ceiling.
Their voices echo faintly through the walls the words Phoenix and dangerous sharp enough to sting.

He presses a hand to his chest, feeling the faint hum of heat still trapped there.
They’re too close. Too smart.
If they find out who he really is what he’s done it’ll all burn down.

And yet… a part of him wants to believe Phil meant it. Then we help him stop running.

The thought shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

He turns onto his side, clutching the blanket tighter, eyes burning.
Tomorrow, he’ll lie better. Smile sharper. Be what they expect again.

But for tonight, he lets himself breathe in the warmth of the safehouse   and pretends, just for a heartbeat, that he belongs.

Chapter Text

Morning in the safehouse broke soft and golden, light slanting through cracked blinds. Dust hung in the air like the remnants of a storm, glittering against the faint hum of the old generator. The place smelled faintly of oil and tea Wilbur’s doing, probably and Tommy played the part: sleepy, yawning, rubbing at his eyes as though he hadn’t been awake since dawn.

Because he had.

He always was.

While the others slept, Tommy studied. The way Wilbur’s footsteps echoed through the hall when he woke early to pace; how Techno’s training boots always clicked twice before he fully entered a room; how Phil’s kettle whistled for exactly thirty-seven seconds before he took it off the heat. Every detail mattered. Every habit was a thread he could pull.

He’d been trained for this once. Dream’s voice still echoed in the back of his head like a curse and a comfort both everyone has a weakness, you just need to find where they flinch.

Now, Tommy smiled. Because here, with these heroes, he was already halfway there.

Phil was the first to greet him that morning, soft-spoken as always.
“Morning, lad. You sleep any?”

Tommy forced a sheepish grin. “Not really. Kinda hard when Techno’s snoring could wake the dead.”

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s always been like that. Used to drive me mad on patrol nights.”

“Didn’t know you could get mad,” Tommy said lightly, and Phil snorted just enough for Tommy to note how easily humor worked on him. Good. Kindness disarmed him fastest.

He catalogued it silently: Phil anchor, patient, nostalgic. Responds to gentleness and warmth.

Wilbur, on the other hand, was all restless energy. When he entered, coat half-buttoned, hair sticking up in a hundred directions, he looked like a man powered by tension alone.
“Tommy, outside. Ten minutes. I want to see how your reaction drills are coming along.”

Tommy blinked up at him, wide-eyed and just the right amount of confused. “Already? It’s not even breakfast ”

“Discipline doesn’t wait for meals,” Wilbur interrupted, voice sharp, though not unkind.

Tommy bit back his smirk. Wilbur ego-driven, thrives on control, motivated by belief he’s helping. Play submissive.

“Right, sir,” he said, mocking just enough respect to make it sound genuine. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the great Wilbur.”

Wilbur froze a fraction of a second caught between pride and suspicion then nodded briskly. “Good. Don’t be late.”

Outside, the morning was crisp and bright, the kind that hurt Tommy’s eyes. The safehouse’s clearing stretched wide, bordered by forest. Birds darted through the branches, and the training area was still scattered with cracked wooden staves, dull blades, and Wilbur’s makeshift targets.

Techno was already there.

He stood with his arms crossed, face unreadable under the shade of his hood. A giant, motionless statue with eyes like cold iron. Tommy met his gaze and forced himself not to flinch.

“Ready?” Wilbur asked.

Tommy gripped the staff he’d been given. The wood was rough, biting into the split skin of his palms. “Always.”

Wilbur’s grin was bright and dangerous. “Good. Reaction drills, same as before. You block what I throw. Don’t think. Just move.”

Tommy nodded. Don’t think, he repeated inwardly, but his mind was already spinning a hundred thoughts.

The first rock came fast. He deflected it easily. Too easily. He’d done this before this rhythm, this dance. He could feel the pattern deep in his muscles, like a song he used to know by heart.

The second rock he dodged. The third, he caught midair and dropped it deliberately, making it look clumsy. He stumbled back, letting out a curse.

Wilbur barked, “Again!”

So Tommy missed the next one barely and let it clip his shoulder. Pain bloomed hot, and he hissed, pretending to be angry at himself.

They can’t suspect. They can’t know.

By the fifth repetition, Wilbur was shouting encouragement and Techno had begun muttering under his breath about “hopeless amateurs.” Perfect.

Tommy bit the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. They were falling for it the persona, the narrative of a broken boy trying to prove himself.

“Take a break,” Phil called after a while, appearing from the doorway with a towel and a cup of water. His timing was, as always, impeccable.

Tommy stumbled toward him, panting theatrically, and took the cup with shaking hands. “Thanks, Phil.”

Phil’s gaze softened. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Tommy glanced up, eyes wide and unsure. “You think I can do this, right?”

Phil hesitated exactly the reaction Tommy wanted. The older man’s fatherly nature made him too easy to manipulate. All Tommy had to do was act scared enough, small enough, and Phil would do the rest.

“You’re improving,” Phil said finally. “Give it time. None of us learned overnight.”

Tommy nodded, letting relief wash over his face. Inside, his mind buzzed with cold precision. Good. Keep him on your side. If the others start doubting you, Phil will defend you.

He’d been trained for this kind of balance truth laced with lies. He wasn’t sure if it was the old conditioning or his own cunning that made it so easy, but either way, it worked.

Later, when Wilbur left to take a call on the comms and Phil went to check the perimeter, Tommy found himself alone with Techno.

Perfect.

Techno’s silence was legendary. He never wasted words, but that only made the ones he did say more powerful. Tommy could use that.

“You don’t like me much, huh?” he asked, leaning against the staff like he wasn’t trembling from exhaustion.

Techno didn’t even look up. “You talk too much.”

Tommy laughed quietly. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He let the quiet stretch before adding, “You think I’m weak?”

“I think you’re green.”

“Green like… new, or green like stupid?”

“Both.”

Tommy grinned. “Cool. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, something like amusement flickered across Techno’s expression. Small victories mattered. Tommy didn’t need Techno to trust him he just needed him not to expect anything.

So he shrugged, kicked a pebble, and added, “Y’know, you don’t scare me as much as you want to.”

That got Techno’s attention. His gaze snapped up, sharp, and Tommy met it evenly. He let the silence hang there, dangerous and taut, before giving a small, almost mocking smile.

“Relax, big man. Just saying.”

He turned and walked away before Techno could answer.

Inside, his heartbeat thundered. Not from fear, but exhilaration.

Every day, every conversation, he was piecing them apart.

By midday, training had shifted into tactics. Wilbur drew diagrams in the dirt with a stick, explaining mission layouts and defense zones. Tommy listened, nodding, absorbing every word but his attention wasn’t on the lesson.

It was on the holes in the plans. The weaknesses.

Wilbur was smart brilliant, even but he was reckless. He trusted his instincts too much. He left gaps where he assumed others would fill them. Techno covered brute strength, Phil covered support, but together, they still had blind spots.

Tommy traced those blind spots in his mind like scars. Dream would have laughed at this, he thought bitterly. He’d have seen through them in seconds.

But Tommy wasn’t Dream. Not anymore.

He didn’t want to destroy them. He wanted to understand them. To see what made them heroes instead of monsters.

Maybe then, he could figure out if he’d ever been one of the latter.

By evening, the others were exhausted. Dinner was quiet Wilbur hunched over reports, Phil washing dishes, Techno sharpening his sword in the corner.

Tommy played his role perfectly. He hummed while cleaning his staff, cracked jokes when the silence got too heavy, laughed a little too loud to make them forget how strange it felt to have him there.

And it worked.

Wilbur smiled once or twice. Phil chuckled softly. Even Techno’s lips twitched.

But later, when the lights dimmed and the generator hummed low, Tommy sat alone by the window, staring out at the dark forest. His hands ached. His palms were bandaged, but beneath the gauze, faint scars glowed like embers.

He flexed his fingers once. The air shimmered faintly.

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself. “They can’t see. Not yet.”

Because the moment they did, everything would fall apart.

The next morning, the world was grey and damp. Rain whispered against the roof, steady as a heartbeat. The safehouse always felt smaller when it rained like the walls leaned in a little closer, the air growing heavy with things unsaid.

Tommy sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with a chipped mug while Wilbur scribbled notes across scattered maps. The smell of coffee hung thick, bitter and sharp. Phil moved quietly around the stove, humming a tune under his breath, and Techno sat in the corner, sharpening a knife that didn’t need sharpening.

It was, by all appearances, a normal morning.

But Tommy could feel the shift the subtle tension running underneath. Wilbur’s jaw was tight. Techno’s silence was too deliberate. They were worried about something, though they hadn’t said it yet.

He smiled faintly into his mug. Good. If they’re on edge, they’ll talk. If they talk, I’ll know.

It started small.

Phil was the one to break the quiet. “Got word from the outpost last night,” he said softly, setting down a plate of toast. “There’s been more activity along the southern ridge.”

Wilbur looked up sharply. “Commission agents?”

Phil nodded. “Maybe. They didn’t engage, but… they’re looking for something.”

“Or someone,” Techno added flatly.

Tommy kept his head down, pretending to be absorbed in his mug. His stomach twisted, but he forced a yawn and muttered, “Hope it’s not us.”

Wilbur hummed distractedly, still scanning the map. “We’re off-grid. They shouldn’t know we’re here.”

But there was a flicker of doubt in his voice, and Tommy caught it like a thread in a snare.

They’re worried about being found.

That was leverage. Not to use now but to store, to understand. Because every hero had something they’d do anything to protect.

And Tommy needed to know what that was.

The day’s training didn’t start until noon, rain still falling in soft sheets. The ground was slick with mud, the air cold enough to sting, but Wilbur insisted. “A hero doesn’t wait for fair weather.”

Tommy didn’t argue.

He trudged outside, soaked through in minutes, pretending to slip more than once. The mud clung to his boots, the staff slick in his hands. He could feel every movement of his muscles old instincts screaming for precision he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Focus!” Wilbur barked.

“I am focusing!” Tommy snapped, frustration carefully measured. “Maybe the mud’s throwing me off, did you think of that?”

Wilbur’s frown deepened, but Phil’s quiet voice cut through. “Enough. He’s cold, Wil.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy said quickly, panting for effect. “I can handle it.”

Inside, his pulse raced not from exhaustion, but exhilaration. Because they all reacted exactly as he needed them to.

Wilbur’s temper. Phil’s protectiveness. Techno’s detachment.

He was learning their rhythms like chords on a piano.

All he had to do was play them right.

Hours passed in that muddy clearing, and Tommy let himself falter just enough to make it believable. When he tripped and hit the ground hard, Wilbur swore under his breath and offered a hand.

“Up,” he said. “You’re not quitting over a little fall.”

Tommy grabbed his wrist, letting his grip shake, his breathing come out ragged. “I’m not quitting,” he muttered. “Just give me a sec.”

Wilbur hesitated, eyes flicking over him. Then, softer: “You remind me of me when I started.”

Tommy’s head jerked up. He blinked, all wide-eyed curiosity. “Yeah?”

Wilbur smiled faintly. “Yeah. Stubborn. Too angry for your own good.”

“Guess that makes us both idiots.”

Wilbur laughed, the sound cutting through the rain, and for a brief, dangerous moment, Tommy almost meant it.

Almost.

Because when Wilbur smiled like that warm, human, not the hero, not the strategist it was easy to forget who the enemy was supposed to be.

Back inside, the safehouse smelled of wet wool and metal polish. Phil passed out towels and tea, fussing over everyone like a quiet storm. Techno sat by the fire, steam rising off his cloak, and Wilbur paced restlessly, already dissecting the day’s session out loud.

Tommy sat near the fire, hands cupped around a mug. His fingers ached. His bandages were soaked through, faintly pink where blood had seeped through.

Phil noticed first. “You’re bleeding again.”

Tommy tried to hide his hands, too slow. “It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.”

Phil tutted and reached for the first aid kit. “No, sit. I’ll do it.”

As Phil wrapped his palms, Tommy stayed quiet. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, and he caught the faint smell of antiseptic, of warmth and rain-damp wood.

“You ever think it’s weird?” Tommy asked softly.

Phil glanced up. “What is?”

“Being here. Doing this. Pretending everything’s normal while the world outside is falling apart.”

Phil smiled sadly. “We don’t pretend, lad. We survive. And sometimes, surviving means finding small pieces of normal.”

Tommy stared into the fire. That’s what you call it?

He didn’t say it. But the thought lingered.

Later that night, Tommy wandered the halls. The rain had stopped, replaced by the rhythmic drip of water from the eaves. Most of the lights were out, but Wilbur’s office still glowed faintly.

Tommy hovered in the doorway. “You still up?”

Wilbur looked up from his notes, eyes rimmed red. “Barely. What’s wrong?”

Tommy leaned against the doorframe. “Can’t sleep.”

Wilbur gestured toward the chair across from him. “Join the club.”

Tommy sat, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. The silence stretched long enough to feel real before he spoke again. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

Wilbur blinked. “Of what?”

“Being the hero. Carrying all that weight. People looking at you like you can fix everything.”

Wilbur studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “More than you’d think.”

Tommy let the quiet hang between them, soft and heavy. Then he smiled faintly. “Guess I’m not the only idiot who can’t sleep.”

Wilbur chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re a strange kid, Tommy.”

Tommy shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

It was the easiest kind of manipulation shared exhaustion. People dropped their guard when they thought you were broken in the same way.

But as Wilbur’s eyes softened in that dim light, Tommy’s chest tightened. Because it worked. It worked too well.

He wasn’t sure when the lies had started feeling like something else.

When he finally slipped back to his room, the safehouse was silent. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it, breathing hard.

His hands trembled faintly. Not from fear, but from restraint. He could still feel it the buried heat in his palms, the thrum beneath his skin. The power that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

He flexed his fingers, and the air shimmered faintly, just for a heartbeat. Enough to make his breath hitch.

Stop it, he told himself. Don’t lose control. Not here.

He’d already burned bridges once. He couldn’t afford to do it again.

Not when they still saw him as something worth saving.

By dawn, the rain had stopped. Mist curled low over the clearing, the air damp and silver. Wilbur and Techno were already outside, training again moving in near-perfect sync, steel flashing in the morning light.

Tommy watched from the doorway, unseen. They looked powerful together. Efficient. The kind of force that had once terrified him when he was on the other side of the battlefield.

He used to be part of that terror, didn’t he? Dream’s perfect weapon. The boy who’d burned entire squads because someone told him to.

Now he was the stray they’d taken in.

He smiled faintly. Fitting, isn’t it?

When Phil found him there, staring out at the mist, Tommy plastered on his usual grin. “Morning, old man.”

Phil raised a brow. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“Can’t prove that,” Tommy said cheerfully, stretching. “What’s the plan for today?”

Phil handed him a small satchel. “Supply run. You’re coming with me.”

Tommy blinked. “Really?”

“Wilbur thinks you’re ready to handle low-risk work. I think he’s right.”

Tommy’s heart skipped. Not from fear but opportunity.

A chance to see more. To listen. To map out the edges of their world.

He slung the satchel over his shoulder with a grin. “Guess it’s field trip day.”

Phil chuckled. “Let’s hope it’s a quiet one.”

They left just after sunrise, the forest alive with the sound of dripping leaves and distant birds. The path wound through moss and roots, dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy.

Phil moved with the easy grace of someone who’d walked this trail a thousand times. Tommy followed, noting every landmark, every turn. He memorized it all.

Not because he planned to use it against them.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

When they reached the market outpost a hidden network of traders and old allies the world burst into color and noise. Voices shouted across stalls, the air thick with spice and smoke.

Tommy’s senses lit up. He hadn’t been around this many people in months.

Phil stayed close, exchanging words with a few trusted contacts, and Tommy drifted, pretending to browse.

He listened. Observed. Collected whispers.

Someone mentioned Commission scouts nearby. Someone else muttered about a “lost operative” resurfacing.

Tommy’s pulse spiked. Me.

He forced his expression to stay neutral, but the words stuck to his ribs like ice. They were still looking.

Phil’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Tommy? You alright?”

He turned, grin automatic. “Yeah. Just lotta noise, that’s all.”

Phil nodded, not pressing. But his gaze lingered, thoughtful.

That night, back in the safehouse, Tommy lay awake staring at the ceiling. The hum of the generator was distant, steady. Outside, the forest was quiet again.

He thought about the whispers. About Dream’s voice, sharp and cold in his memory. About the way Wilbur had laughed at his joke, or how Phil had patched his hands without hesitation.

It didn’t make sense how they could be this kind, this trusting. Heroes weren’t supposed to be human. Not in the stories he’d been told.

He turned on his side, pressing his bandaged palms to his chest.

The faint warmth pulsed there again.

Maybe it wasn’t power. Maybe it was guilt.

Either way, it burned.

The storm came back three days later.
It rolled in from the mountains without warning, splitting the sky in half. The safehouse shuddered under the weight of thunder, every window rattling in its frame.

Tommy stood by the kitchen window, arms crossed, watching rain hammer down on the clearing. The forest beyond blurred into a watercolor wash of green and grey.

Wilbur was pacing again, muttering to himself about fortifications and relocation routes. Techno cleaned his weapons in silence, each motion precise, rhythmic. Phil sat near the hearth, fixing a torn strap on one of Tommy’s gloves, humming softly over the sound of the rain.

It should have felt safe.
Instead, it felt loud.

Too loud.

The world inside Tommy’s head buzzed like static. His muscles ached in that wrong way the kind that wasn’t tiredness but restraint. He’d been holding something back for days, and his body was starting to notice.

He forced a grin when Phil handed him the repaired glove. “Cheers, old man. Didn’t know you were moonlighting as a tailor.”

Phil snorted. “I’ve done worse jobs.”

Wilbur glanced over. “You could try doing this one for a bit, Phil Tommy’s coordination’s gotten worse every day.”

Tommy threw him a half-hearted glare. “I’m getting better!”

“Are you?” Techno murmured without looking up.

That hit harder than it should’ve. Tommy felt something sharp twist in his chest, but he buried it quick turned it into something bright and flippant. “Guess you’ll just have to keep training me till I’m as perfect as you, huh?”

Techno’s eyebrow twitched, but Wilbur laughed, and the tension in the room cracked open just a little.

Good. He needed that. Keep them laughing, keep them looking away.

The power inside him wasn’t asleep anymore.
It hummed when he sparred. It flared when he lied. It even pulsed faintly when Wilbur smiled at him too long or when Techno’s stare lingered a beat too sharp.

It wanted out.

He could almost hear Dream’s voice, slick and cold at the edges of memory:

Control it, or it controls you. You’re a weapon, not a person. Don’t forget that.

He’d spent months trying to forget it.

Now, standing ankle-deep in mud again with a wooden staff in his grip, he felt it return with every heartbeat.

Wilbur’s voice cut through the rain. “Again!”

Tommy swung. The impact jarred his bones. His fingers burned where they split against the rough wood.

“Again!”

He swung harder.

Phil watched from under the porch, arms crossed, worry etched into his face. Techno leaned against a tree, eyes like knives, silent.

Tommy didn’t stop until his vision blurred. Until every breath scraped against his throat.

Wilbur opened his mouth to call a break
  and the staff caught fire.

Not a full blaze. Just a flicker an ember’s kiss at the edge of the wood. Enough to smoke. Enough to crackle. Enough for Wilbur to freeze mid-step, staring.

Tommy dropped it like it bit him. “It it’s just friction! It’s ”

The words fell apart. The rain hissed as it hit the faint smoke curling up from the mud.

Techno took one slow step forward. “That wasn’t friction.”

Tommy’s pulse spiked. “It it must’ve been! I was swinging hard, it’s wet, maybe ”

Phil cut in gently. “Tommy.”

He looked at them three sets of eyes, all on him, and his chest seized. For a heartbeat he thought they know. They know what you are.

And then Wilbur laughed soft, disbelieving. “You’ve officially broken my training staff. Guess we’ll add that to the expenses.”

Phil rolled his eyes, and Techno after one long, unreadable look turned away.

Just like that, the tension snapped.

Tommy laughed, too loud, too bright, like it didn’t feel like the world was cracking under his ribs.

They bought it. Somehow, they always did.

That night, he dreamed of fire.

Not warmth wild, hungry fire. The kind that devoured air and sound. He saw himself at its center, face half-burned away, power dripping off his fingers like blood. Dream stood behind him, whispering things that tasted like control.

You were born for this. Don’t pretend to be less than what you are.

He woke with a strangled gasp, sweat soaking through his shirt. The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor.

His hands glowed faintly. Just faintly. Like coals under skin.

Tommy bit his tongue until he tasted copper. He pressed his palms into the mattress, forcing the heat down, forcing the world to go still again.

When the glow faded, he sat in the dark for a long time, breathing shallowly.

“Still got it,” he whispered bitterly. “Congratulations, mate. You’re still a monster.”

The next morning, everything was… normal. Too normal.

Phil made pancakes, Wilbur hummed a tune as he tuned his guitar, and Techno pretended not to be listening to either of them while quietly fixing his axe.

Tommy joined in the chatter, making jokes, stealing bites of Phil’s breakfast, laughing too easily.

If he acted normal enough, maybe it would become true.

When Phil mentioned needing someone to help reinforce the generator shed, Tommy jumped at it. “I’ll go!”

Wilbur blinked. “You sure? It’s freezing out.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said with a grin that hurt. “Good excuse to skip drills, right?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, but Phil smiled. “Take the toolkit and a coat, at least.”

He did. He fixed the broken latch, patched the roof seam, even replaced the cracked wire casing. Every movement was precise, efficient. The kind of precision that didn’t belong to some amnesiac kid.

When he caught himself working from muscle memory stripping a wire, twisting the ends perfectly he stopped, staring at his hands.

He’d done this before.

Not here. Not like this. But somewhere.

The knowledge sat cold in his gut.

He wiped his hands on his coat, forcing his breathing to steady. “You’re fine,” he muttered. “Just instincts. Everyone’s got instincts.”

But when he stepped back into the house, Wilbur glanced up from his desk and said, “You’re getting better with your hands.”

Tommy froze. “What?”

Wilbur nodded at the toolkit. “Most people don’t handle repairs that cleanly. You sure you’ve never done this before?”

Tommy’s pulse tripped over itself. He laughed. “Guess I’m a natural.”

Wilbur smiled, satisfied. “Guess so.”

And Tommy felt like he was standing on a knife’s edge.

That evening, a cold wind swept through the valley. The forest bent and hissed under it, whispering secrets through the branches.

Tommy sat with Wilbur near the fire, playing cards. Techno read something dense in the corner; Phil had gone upstairs to check inventory.

It should’ve been peaceful.

But Wilbur kept watching him. Not suspiciously curiously. Like he was trying to figure out the shape of a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

“You’ve got fast reflexes,” he said suddenly.

Tommy blinked. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean fast. You dodge before I move half the time.”

Tommy forced a shrug. “Lucky guess.”

Wilbur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tommy, can I ask you something weird?”

Every alarm bell in Tommy’s brain went off. He still smiled. “Shoot.”

“When I first found you,” Wilbur said slowly, “you looked like someone who’d already survived a war. Not just a fight something bigger. And sometimes when you move, when you react… I don’t see a scared kid. I see a soldier.”

The fire popped sharply, sparks hissing into the air.

Tommy didn’t breathe.

He had a hundred lies ready, but none of them felt right. So he said the simplest thing he could: “Maybe I was.”

Wilbur blinked, caught off-guard by the honesty. “You don’t remember?”

Tommy looked down at his hands. “I remember enough to wish I didn’t.”

Silence settled between them, thick as smoke.

Then Wilbur sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… know that you’re safe here, alright?”

Tommy almost laughed. The irony was too sharp. Safe here. With the heroes he was supposed to destroy.

He nodded anyway. “Yeah. I know.”

Wilbur smiled faintly. “Good.”

The conversation drifted after that, back to harmless things music, jokes, stories from before the war. But Tommy couldn’t shake the sound of Wilbur’s voice when he’d said soldier.

Because that’s what he was.

And no matter how much tea they gave him, no matter how gentle Phil’s voice was or how steady Techno’s gaze felt he was still Dream’s weapon.

He’d just gotten very, very good at pretending not to be.

Later that night, lightning flashed again.

Tommy lay awake, eyes open in the dark, listening to the storm breathe outside. The rain drummed against the roof in uneven bursts.

He could feel the heat under his skin again low, restless, hungry.

He flexed his hand and let a small spark dance between his fingers, watching it flicker. It didn’t hurt. It never did.

It just reminded him what he was made for.

He whispered to the dark, voice barely audible over the rain:
“I’m not the weapon anymore.”

The spark dimmed.

“I’m not.”

Outside, thunder rolled.

And deep in his chest, something that had been sleeping for weeks began to stir again.

Morning came like it was trying to apologize for the storm.
Golden light spilled through the cracked windows, cutting the air into warm rectangles. The world smelled of wet earth and smoke.

Tommy sat at the table, half-awake, a mug of something too hot pressed against his palms. Phil hummed at the stove. Wilbur scribbled notes over a half-burned map. Techno sharpened his blade in the corner, every stroke whisper-soft.

For once, no one spoke.

And in that quiet, Tommy realized how deeply he’d started to fit in.

Wilbur trusted him with supply runs. Phil let him help cook. Even Techno cold, unshakeable Techno had started giving him nods that almost looked like respect.

It should’ve been comforting.
Instead, it felt like the walls were closing in.

Because the better they knew him, the less he could afford to slip.

By noon, the forest was dry again. Wilbur decided they needed fresh water from the river two miles out, and somehow Tommy ended up alone with Techno.

He tried not to make it weird. He failed.

Every twig snap sounded too loud. Every glance from Techno felt like a question Tommy couldn’t answer.

They filled the canteens in silence. The river shimmered with light, calm and glassy.

“Wilbur worries about you,” Techno said suddenly.

Tommy nearly dropped the bottle. “What?”

“He pretends he doesn’t, but he does. You’re… unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable’s fun,” Tommy said, forcing a grin.

Techno didn’t smile. “It’s dangerous.”

Something about the word made Tommy’s throat close. He crouched by the water, watching it ripple. His reflection stared back boyish, freckled, harmless.

He could almost believe it.

“Look,” Techno said after a moment, softer. “Whatever’s going on in your head   whatever you think you’re hiding   just don’t let it eat you. We’ve all got ghosts.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess we do.”

He didn’t look up until Techno turned away. The relief that flooded him was sharp enough to hurt.

That night, the house felt alive.

Wilbur played guitar by the fire, half-humming, half-dreaming. Phil laughed at some quiet joke. Techno leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed.

Tommy sat cross-legged on the rug, sketchbook open, pencil dancing across the page. He drew them   not as soldiers, but as people. Phil’s gentle hands. Wilbur’s lopsided grin. Techno’s sharp eyes softened by light.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Wilbur leaned over his shoulder.

“Is that me?”

Tommy jumped. “No maybe shut up.”

Wilbur laughed, easy and real. “You’re good. Didn’t know you could draw like that.”

Tommy shrugged, pretending to focus on the paper. “Guess I’m a man of many talents.”

“Guess so,” Wilbur said, smiling. “You make this place feel alive again.”

That sentence stuck to Tommy’s ribs.

Alive. Again.

He looked at the others the family he’d been ordered to destroy and something inside him twisted so hard it almost broke.

He could see how easily he could ruin them.
He could feel how much he didn’t want to.

Later, when everyone had gone to bed, Tommy stayed awake by the dying fire.

He stared into the coals, hands clasped tight in his lap. He didn’t try to sleep anymore not when dreams meant fire and screaming and Dream’s voice in his ear.

He thought about Wilbur’s laugh. About Phil’s patience. About the way Techno had said we’ve all got ghosts.

And then he thought about what Dream would do if he ever found him.

He was supposed to be invisible, a sleeping weapon waiting for a signal. But he’d gone and built a life instead.

He should’ve felt proud.
Instead, he felt sick.

Because the manipulation wasn’t one-sided anymore.

They trusted him because he’d made them. But now he trusted them too, in all the wrong ways.

He’d blurred the line until he couldn’t tell where the lies ended and he began.

The power woke again just before dawn.

It didn’t creep this time it surged. Heat rolled through his chest, down his arms, blooming in his palms like wildfire.

Tommy gasped and pressed his hands to the floorboards. Sparks jumped, searing tiny holes into the wood.

“Stop stop stop,” he hissed through clenched teeth, forcing it back, shoving it down with everything he had.

But it wanted out.

It wanted noise, flame, freedom.

The room smelled of smoke.

And for a terrifying second, he saw it not the safehouse, but a burned field, bodies, ash drifting like snow. Dream’s voice echoing over the roar of flames:

You were made to destroy. Don’t pretend you can do anything else.

Tommy slammed his hand against the wall. The pain broke the vision.

He sat there shaking, smoke curling off his fingertips, tears stinging his eyes.

He’d promised himself they’d never see it. That he’d never lose control.

Now the house smelled like something burning.

Phil was the first to wake. He found Tommy in the hallway, pale and shaking.

“Hey, hey what happened?”

Tommy forced a laugh. “Burned my hand on the stove, s’all. Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

Phil frowned, unconvinced. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy lied, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Just clumsy.”

Phil’s expression softened, but his eyes lingered on the faint scorch marks near the doorframe.

He didn’t ask. Tommy was grateful.

By afternoon, the tension had stretched invisible across the house.

Wilbur was restless. Techno sharper than usual. Phil moved like someone waiting for a fight.

Tommy felt all of it. He fed off it, even when he didn’t mean to. Every heartbeat in the room synced with his own until he could sense their emotions brushing against him curiosity, worry, suspicion.

He’d always been good at reading people. Now it felt almost supernatural.

When Wilbur snapped at Techno over a broken compass, Tommy stepped between them without thinking.

“Hey. Don’t start, yeah? We’re all just tired.”

Wilbur blinked, thrown off balance. Techno hesitated.

And then, somehow, they both relaxed.

Tommy hadn’t touched them, hadn’t said much at all but the tension drained like someone had cut its strings.

He stood there, heart pounding.

He hadn’t meant to do that.

That night, he tested it.

Just a little.

A whisper here, a glance there.

He told Wilbur he was proud of him   and saw the exhaustion in his eyes melt into hope.
He thanked Phil for dinner   and watched the older man’s shoulders ease.
He nodded to Techno   and felt, faintly, the edge of suspicion dull.

Power didn’t always look like fire. Sometimes it looked like trust.

And Tommy was getting too good at it.

By midnight, the house was quiet again.

Tommy stood at the window, watching lightning blink over the horizon.

He knew the calm wouldn’t last.

Dream always had a plan.

If Dream came now, if he whispered the command Tommy had been trained to obey  ignite, destroy, erase   Tommy wasn’t sure he could stop himself.

He looked at his reflection in the glass: soft light, tired eyes, hands trembling just enough to notice.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

The reflection didn’t answer, but the faintest spark pulsed beneath his skin, warm and waiting.

He turned away before it could grow.

When he finally lay down, sleep came quick and merciless.

He dreamed of strings again  golden, glowing, stretching from his fingers to everyone in the house.

He tugged one, and Wilbur laughed.
He tugged another, and Phil smiled.
He tugged the last, and Techno bowed his head in silence.

At first, it felt like safety. Like control.

But then the strings wrapped around him.

Tightened.

Pulled.

Dream’s voice came from the dark:

You think you’re holding the strings? Look closer.

The golden light turned green.

Tommy woke choking on air that smelled like smoke. His sheets were scorched at the edges.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, the echo of strings still trembling in his hands.

He didn’t know if the dream had ended  or if it had finally begun.