"Kael Tavren?"
"Present-ish," Kael muttered, raising a hand without lifting his head from the desk.
Instructor Halden didn't so much as blink. The man could probably recite a eulogy or a breakfast menu with the same emotional investment—none. He tapped his crystal stylus against the attendance slate with the solemnity of a man clocking in for a shift in purgatory.
"Lyra Venn?"
"Here."
The usual shuffle of half-awake students filled the stale air. The lecture hall, a utilitarian wedge of recycled light and humming panels, was as indifferent to their presence as Halden himself. Outside the reinforced windows, the city's towers loomed like silent watchers.
Once names were checked and bodies accounted for, Halden launched into his morning ritual: a tone-deaf tirade on Aerial Ward formation history —a topic only marginally less painful than blunt force trauma.
Kael, for his part, was draped across his seat in a pose that defied both posture and school regulation. One leg over the armrest, shirt half-untucked, glitterfruit stick wedged behind one ear like a rebel's quill. He chewed on another like it was a cheap cigar, letting the artificial berry tang dull the edge of boredom.
And yet, despite his usual theatrics, something inside him refused to settle.
Neo was gone.
Not late. Not skipping.
Gone. Instructor Halden didn't even bother calling him out.
The absence throbbed at the edges of the room, subtle but jarring—like someone had removed a load-bearing beam and pretended nothing changed. Neo, with his tall frame, always-pressed uniform, storm-grey eyes, and a politeness sharp enough to cut—he was a constant. A grounding force. The grey-haired, upright figure who sat two rows ahead, always listening, always punctual. Always there.
But now?
Kael glanced at the empty seat.
Nothing.
The classroom felt slightly off-kilter. Unanchored.
He tried to focus. He really did. But Halden's voice bled into the background hum of recycled air and distant machinery, drowned beneath the clamor of Kael's own spiraling thoughts.
Where the hell are you, Neo?
Their last conversation played in his head—a dry back-and-forth about nutrient balance and caloric efficiency. Typical Neo stuff. Efficient. Dull.
And yet…
Something prickled.
A memory. Faint, but vivid enough now to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
Damian.
That smug, silk-voiced bastard with eyes that smiled the way predators do—hungry and hollow. Neo had crossed paths with him a week ago. It had been nothing overt, just a moment. A murmur. A phrase laced with shadow.
'Enjoy your little moment, Neo. You may not get many more. Not after the trials.'
At the time, Kael had waved it off. Damian liked mind games. He fed on discomfort. But now? Now, Neo was missing, and Kael's gut was sending alarms he couldn't ignore.
When class finally ended—mercifully and without bloodshed—Kael sprang from his seat like a man late to an escape. He ignored Lyra's snide remark about "emotional delinquency" and strode through the crowded hall, ignoring the faces, the voices, the hum of morning gossip.
Neo's dorm. First stop.
The door was locked, obviously. Kael jiggled the handle, glanced both ways, and pulled out a tiny multi-pick from the lining of his jacket. The kind of tool the academy definitely frowned upon.
Click.
He stepped inside.
The room was immaculate. Not just clean. Curated.
Bed made. Desk wiped. Not a stray wire or nutrient bar wrapper in sight. It looked like a showpiece more than a space someone lived in. Which would've been normal—Neo was always painfully neat.
But something was off.
Kael's eyes dropped to the door.
No tomes.
Neo's books—worn, tattered, polished every day like clockwork—were gone. Not stored. Not shifted. Gone.
Neo never left without them. Not even for a dorm fire drill.
Kael's stomach twisted.
This wasn't just a disappearance. This was a clean exit. Or worse—a forced one, staged to look like order.
He left quickly, locking the door behind him. He needed noise. Clues. Witnesses.
So he went to where the city still breathed through its cracks—the Alleys.
They were all grit and echo, colored by street art, old synth posters, and the ever-present stench of synth-spice and damp concrete. Kael moved like he belonged, because he did. This was his other classroom—part crime, part survival, all real.
He found them near a broken filtration unit, wheezing and glowing faint green. Three teens: patched clothes, chipped smiles, hard eyes.
"Back again?" the tall girl asked. Her eyebrow piercing gleamed beneath the harsh light. "Didn't expect glass-tower royalty twice in one week."
"Missed the air," Kael said, flashing his teeth. "Has that charming 'chemical soup' finish."
They eyed him, not hostile but not open either. The girl chewed on a toothpick like it might bite back.
"Looking for someone," he added. "Neo. Grey hair, stiff shoulders, walks like someone surgically removed his ability to chill."
They exchanged a glance. The boy with the burner holopad stopped tapping.
"Yesterday," the girl said slowly. "Passed through. Late."
Kael nodded slowly. "Did he come back this way?"
"Nope." Her tone was final. "Didn't stop. Didn't talk."
Behind them, a new piece of graffiti caught his eye—three hands reaching for a sun bleeding spirals of red and black. Fresh paint. Strange motif. Ominous.
He dropped a few credits on the concrete and moved on.
One stop left: Red Embers Relic.
The antique shop crouched between buildings like it had something to hide. A crooked sign. A cracked window. The air inside smelled like rust and old regret.
"Boss Lann!" Kael called, stepping into the musty gloom. "Still hoarding haunted cutlery, or did the forks finally turn on you?"
From behind a suit of armor, the shopkeeper emerged. Lann looked like he'd been carved out of bitterness and dust, his face more lines than skin, eyes sharp and tired.
"You," he rasped.
"It's me," Kael echoed with forced cheer. "Neo around?"
Lann blinked once. "Haven't seen him."
Too fast.
Kael tilted his head. "Weird. He never misses a shift."
"Maybe he quit." Lann busied himself with dusting nothing.
Kael's smile thinned. "You spent weeks convincing him to work here, remember? Pretty sure you offered blood and a family heirloom to seal the deal."
"People change their minds," Lann snapped.
"Neo doesn't," Kael said quietly.
They stared at each other across the dust-heavy air. And in Lann's gaze, Kael saw something flicker—guilt, or maybe fear. But not ignorance.
He didn't push. Not yet.
He left the shop with a knot in his chest.
Neo was gone.
And someone wanted it to look clean.
---