The smell of burning oil lingered in the air—sharp, bitter, and oddly comforting.
Donte tightened the last bolt on the custom rifle assembly, his hands moving with deliberate precision beneath the amber light of Marcus's overhead lamp. The faint whirr of generators buzzed in the walls, adding a steady pulse beneath the silence.
They'd been in the workshop for hours. Focused. Wordless. Until now.
"Your reload grip's still too stiff," Marcus said, breaking the silence. He sat across the bench, arms folded, watching with the eye of someone who'd seen too many amateurs bleed for sloppy technique. "You rush under pressure, you'll jam the chamber."
Donte shifted the grip, adjusting the balance. He pulled the bolt back again—click—smooth, clean.
"Better," Marcus said, nodding slowly. "Good instincts. You're picking this up faster than most would."
Donte didn't answer. He just studied the finished frame, running a thumb along the cool metal.
Something about it felt… natural.
Not learned.
Remembered.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the blueprints pinned haphazardly on the walls. Schematics of rifles, sidearms, scope mods—some etched with faint Magic Script, the glowing glyphs more functional than aesthetic. A few prosthetic designs sat rolled in the corner, half-covered in dust.
"You ever think about what kind of sniper you want to be?" Marcus asked.
Donte looked up, thoughtful. "The kind that doesn't miss."
Marcus chuckled. "Everyone says that. That's the dream. I meant—how you get there."
He gestured toward the wall behind them.
"There's the ghost-on-the-hill type. Patient. Still. Waits for the shot that ends everything," he said. "Then there's the mover—the kind who fights dirty, adapts on the fly, keeps the enemy guessing and on their heels."
Donte turned his attention back to the rifle. "I want to be both."
Marcus watched him, then nodded once. "Yeah. That tracks."
Silence settled in again, broken only by the low hum of the forge heater.
Then Marcus stood, brushing metal shavings off his coat.
"I used to be stationed on the southern border," he said, voice quieter now, almost distant. "Not far from the Graven Fault. Tense place. Unstable terrain. Unstable people."
Donte stayed still, sensing the shift in weight behind Marcus's words.
"We were a tight team. Snipers, engineers, scouts. We handled ops no one else wanted—cleanup, retrieval, blacksite investigations. Got results."
He paused.
"But one op went sideways. Orders changed mid-run, and half the squad didn't get the update. We turned our barrels on our own."
His jaw clenched.
"I pulled the trigger on someone I trusted. Someone I was supposed to cover. By the time we figured out the mistake, it was too late. They wanted to give me a medal for it."
Donte's fingers stilled on the rifle.
"I walked instead," Marcus finished, his voice dry. "Figured I'd rather disappear than be remembered for the wrong kill."
The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn't clear.
"I don't train you because I think you're some prodigy," Marcus said, turning toward him. "I train you because someone like you shouldn't have to learn that lesson the hard way."
Donte looked up, meeting his gaze.
"Maybe you'll build something better than the wreckage we left behind."
"I'm not interested in wreckage," Donte said. "I'm not interested in medals either."
"Good," Marcus replied. "Just remember—if you build your path out of nothing but steel, don't be surprised when it cuts you."
He grabbed his coat, slinging it over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
"The Ceremony's coming. Get some rest. You'll need it."
Donte remained at the bench long after the door shut behind him.
He stared at the weapon.
Not admiring it. Not daydreaming.
Just… measuring.
Later that night, the orphanage lay under a blanket of quiet.
Donte slipped through the halls, boots soft against warped floorboards. His return was technically past curfew, but the night staff rarely noticed anything not on fire.
Outside his door, someone waited.
Vespera.
Arms crossed. Back against the wall. Her teal braids shimmered faintly under the flickering hallway bulb.
"You're out late again," she said as he approached.
"I was working," Donte replied.
"I figured." She stepped aside. "That's all you do now."
Donte opened the door, but didn't invite her in. She followed anyway, closing it gently behind her.
"You're different," she said.
He sat at the edge of the bed, expression unreadable. "People change."
"You've changed fast."
She stepped closer, her voice steady but quieter now.
"You used to flinch when Kaelen looked at you. Now he walks the other way."
Donte shrugged. "Maybe I stopped giving him permission."
Vespera studied him. Her silhouette caught the moonlight spilling through the window, turning her gold eyes to polished brass.
"I'm not saying it's bad," she said eventually. "You're stronger. More confident. But…"
She hesitated.
"You look at people like you're already past them. Like you've done the math and moved on."
Donte looked at her. "Maybe I have."
A quiet stretched between them. Not awkward—but full of unsaid truths.
"I'm not trying to pry," she said, crossing her arms again. "Just… don't lose yourself chasing whatever this is."
He nodded slightly, his eyes lowering.
"I haven't lost anything," he said. "I'm just reconfiguring."
Vespera tilted her head. "Cryptic."
"I know."
She turned to leave, pausing at the door. "If you ever want someone to talk to…"
"I know," Donte repeated.
She didn't push. Just nodded once and left, leaving the door cracked behind her.
Donte sat in the dark for a long time.
He wasn't hiding.
But he couldn't explain it either. Not yet. Not to her.
Not the fractured memories. Not the knowledge that shouldn't be his. Not the flashes of a life that didn't belong in this world—but somehow fit inside it.
He wasn't cold. He wasn't cruel.
But he was shifting.
Becoming.
Piece by deliberate piece.
Outside, wind whistled through the alley gaps, and a loose shutter clattered against the side of the building.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tower rang.
Twelve soft chimes.
Midnight.
The Ceremony was coming.
And with it, the first step of a much larger design.