Author's Note:
He didn't move fast. He moved ahead. And when even battle-hardened soldiers start whispering your last name like a curse, you know the story's just beginning.
[Scene: Balcony. City lights. A stillness not quite peaceful. Jaime stands alone, drying blood under his nails. The shower helped. But not enough.]
He'd seen a lot of fighters in his life.
Some fast. Some ruthless. Some smart. A rare few who could blend all three.
But none of them—not one—moved like that boy.
It wasn't speed. Speed, he could measure. Speed had tells.
This had none.
It was something else. Like watching the future lean forward—just a second before everyone else caught up.
Jaime had watched Niv move through six armed men like they were part of a rehearsal he'd done a hundred times. No muscle tension. No wasted pivot. Like a violinist mid-solo, except the violin was a gun, a knife, a piece of glass, a broken tray.
He wasn't reacting. He was building. Constructing violence in real time like an engineer with blueprints only he could see.
Jaime had seen adaptive combat techniques before. Some high-level Delta. Israeli stuff. A few experimental things passed around private defense circles. All variations on the same ideal: read, react, neutralize.
But every single one of them had a limit.
The body. The brain. There's only so fast a synapse can fire. Only so quickly a human can assess input and produce output.
What he saw on that rooftop—wasn't possible under normal human constraints.
Not at that scale. Not with that clarity.
[Jaime, shirt off and half-bandaged, dials a secure number. No emotion on his face—just grim intent.]
Contact (picking up):
"Jaime. Been a while."
Jaime:
"Need intel. Quietly."
Contact:
"Go on."
Jaime hesitates, then says it flatly.
"Can you run a name for me? Nivrit Vashirayan."
Contact (silence):
"…Say that last part again?"
Jaime:
"Vashirayan."
The line goes dead for a moment—no click, no static. Just heavy, cold silence.
Contact:
"You didn't see anything tonight. You didn't meet anyone. Forget you even heard the name."
Jaime:
"What the hell does it mean?"
Contact:
"I don't know. I don't want to know. And neither do you."
He hangs up.
Jaime stands on the balcony, staring into the rain. A man who's been to war. Who's killed monsters.
And now—he's afraid.
Jaime:
"But you—"
He shakes his head.
[Scene: Sera's apartment. Lights low. Rain smearing across the glass.]
Niv sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless, towel draped over his shoulders. Cleaned up, but not relaxed.
Sera walks out in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair damp. No makeup. No walls.
Sera (quietly):
"Hey."
He looks up—just for a second. Enough to register her presence.
She crosses the room slowly and sits beside him.
Sera:
"They were after me, weren't they?"
Niv doesn't respond.
Sera (softer):
"I've had people come at me before. I've been in raids. Shootouts. Seen men get shredded in seconds. But this… it wasn't like that."
She turns slightly, studying him.
Sera:
"You didn't fight like someone defending. You fought like someone who already knew how it would end."
He doesn't respond.
Sera (firmer):
"Was it instinct? Training?"
Niv (quiet):
"Both. And something else."
She nods once, not surprised.
Sera:
"You moved like time didn't apply to you. Like your body already solved the problem and was just executing the answer."
Niv:
"That's… kind of how it works."
Sera:
"So that's what you were hiding?"
Niv:
"Part of it."
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Voice steady, but tired.
Niv:
"My family—what we are—was designed around one principle: survive anything. Fast enough. Sharp enough. Cold enough. You get used to building reactions that don't wait for thought."
She doesn't flinch. Just listens.
Sera:
"I don't care how many you've killed, Niv. You don't scare me."
He looks over, finally meets her eyes.
Sera (gently):
"But I do care if this costs you something. Inside."
Silence. Rain tapping the windows like a second heartbeat.
Sera:
"You seemed… untouched. Like it didn't rattle you at all. That's not strength. That's something else."
Niv (measured):
"I don't let things in unless I choose to."
Sera:
"That takes control. But it also takes damage."
She reaches for his hand. Holds it lightly.
Sera (quieter now):
"I know you're sick, Niv. I don't know the full picture—but I know there's more going on than you let me see."
He exhales, not denying it.
Sera:
"Is this—what happened tonight—the kind of thing that unravels you?"
A pause.
Niv:
"No. But it's the kind of thing that reminds me I could."
Her grip tightens. He doesn't pull away.
Sera:
"I don't want you to carry all of it alone."
Niv (quietly):
"I've had to."
Sera:
"Maybe. But now you don't."
She leans in. Forehead against his.
Sera (soft):
"I'm not asking for all of it. Just enough. Enough to know when to hold you before the pieces start falling."
He closes his eyes.
Niv:
"Alright."
Not dramatic. Not grand.
But honest.
She rests her head on his shoulder, and for the first time that night—he lets his body soften.