The Story Already Written

"...Let's say I am, Lirui," Misha said at last.

The wetness in his blue eyes shimmered unnaturally—like diamonds under moonlight, like sorrow too long held. He smiled, the expression as innocent as a child’s but veiling something keener beneath. Slowly, he peeled himself away from the column. He clasped his hands behind his back and took small, balletic steps backward, like a dancer retreating into his spotlight.

"What does this change?"

Ru didn’t answer right away. His emerald eyes flickered toward Jazz, standing silent and statue-like, and he felt something deeper than thought lurch in his chest. The demonic heart inside him—the one he sometimes pretended wasn’t there—was pulling him in two directions. One thread was tied to Jazz, taut and sharp like a violin string about to snap. But the other... the other was woven into Misha, inevitable as gravity.

Oh.

A realization struck, half-formed and still dangerous.

He didn’t know everything, but he understood enough.