Chapter 25: Chapter 25: The Gloomy Older Brother

Chapter 25: The Gloomy Older Brother

Cyrus sat at the small table in his apartment, eating the pastries Daphne Whitlock had brought over, and decided that some human customs deserved serious praise.

If people did not knock on doors with little neighbor gifts, he would never have gotten to eat something this good for free.

The pastry in his hand was flaky, sweet, and soft in the middle. He took one bite, paused, and looked down at it with the respect a sensible person gave to a thing that could briefly make rent feel less important.

Then he looked at the breakfast gel pouch he had left on the table earlier.

The pouch was practical. It was filling. It also looked like punishment now.

If pastries could be used as breakfast every morning, Cyrus felt his opinion of waking up would improve immediately. Unfortunately, pastries belonged to people with stable wallets, not people who had rent, medicine, laundry, school supplies, and food cravings fighting inside the same pocket.

Still, a method did exist.

Daphne Whitlock lived next door now.

Daphne Whitlock was also his literature teacher, the woman managing this building, and the same person who had once seen his fever-shrunken Frostborn form and looked at him with an expression that made Cyrus understand why human society needed laws.

When he had been sick and small, she had ordered food without hesitation. She had fed him with alarming enthusiasm. If he appeared in that form again, getting something good to eat from her would probably be easy.

The idea lasted only a few seconds before survival killed it.

The risk was too high.

Whether Daphne would actually cross a line was not something Cyrus wanted to test with his own body. Even if she behaved, the child-form itself was a problem. If she realized that the little boy and Cyrus were the same person, then the issue would no longer be pastry. It would become rare-blood exposure, apartment exposure, teacher exposure, landlord access, and a chain of explanations he had no interest in giving.

Food was important.

Not getting dragged back into a cage was slightly more important.

Besides, there was the lounge job to consider. Daphne could not learn about The Full Moon Lounge. In human society, his current identity still counted as a student’s identity, and a student working nights in a cocktail lounge was not exactly the kind of thing a teacher-landlord-neighbor needed to know. Malcolm treated him well, and the work kept him fed, but explaining that would only invite questions.

Cyrus finished the last pastry slowly, giving it proper respect.

Using his child-form to cheat snacks out of Daphne Whitlock could only be saved for extreme hunger, temporary madness, or some future situation where all better plans had died.

After that, he got up to wash.

The bathroom filled with the sound of running water. He turned the temperature down until the water struck his skin cold enough to make most people gasp, but to him it felt clean and comfortable. The cramped room cooled further as the mirror stayed almost clear.

Cyrus closed his eyes beneath the spray.

At the lounge, he already used his ability in tiny ways. A drink could be chilled slightly better. A glass could hold its coldness a little longer. A customer would never notice anything strange, only that the drink tasted cleaner than expected.

At home, where no one was watching, was it really wrong to make life a little easier?

His body had already proved it could shrink when fever pushed his Frostborn traits too far. If that form could be controlled someday, then maybe it did not have to be only a weakness.

A life worth enjoying still depended on the person living it.

That sounded reasonable enough.

By the time Cyrus left the apartment, the September heat had sharpened again. The month had not even reached its midpoint, yet the sunlight outside still felt personally hostile.

He kept his bangs low, passed the convenience store, and bought a packaged roll for lunch because it was cheap, filling, and required no thought. He ate half while walking toward The Full Moon Lounge, keeping to whatever shade the buildings gave him.

He had not gone far when his phone rang. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

Malcolm Baird’s name appeared on the screen.

Cyrus answered.

Malcolm’s voice came through calm and apologetic. Something had come up on his end, so the lounge did not need Cyrus today. He told Cyrus to take the day off, paid, and to rest while he had the chance.

Cyrus accepted with complete sincerity.

Even without pay, he would not have complained much. With pay, Malcolm’s status rose from good person to almost suspiciously good person.

After the call ended, Cyrus stood inside a bus shelter and looked down the street.

He had options now.

He could go back to the apartment, where the room was cool, the bed existed, and no one asked him questions. He could also wander under the sun and punish himself for curiosity.

A bus pulled up before he finished deciding.

The doors opened with a sigh, and air-conditioning spilled out like an invitation.

Cyrus stepped on.

The bus was wide, clean enough, and mostly empty. He only rode a short distance, but the city shifted outside the window all the same. Storefronts thinned. The light widened. The air changed.

Soon, the coast opened ahead of him.

Grayhaven was a coastal city, so reaching the water was not difficult. Knowing that and seeing it were different matters.

Cyrus got off near the waterfront and walked closer to the beach. The sand lay beyond a stretch of pavement and low fencing, bright beneath the sun. Families had claimed patches of shade with towels, folding chairs, coolers, strollers, and toys in loud colors. Children ran toward the water and back again, shrieking whenever the tide caught their ankles.

Salt wind brushed against his face.

Cyrus found a shaded spot away from the worst of the sunlight and sat directly on the ground.

For a while, he did nothing.

The wind moved through his hair. Waves folded over themselves in a steady rhythm. Somewhere nearby, a small child tried to chase a gull, then screamed when the gull turned around and chased back.

Cyrus watched the water.

If he had stayed in the mountains, what would any of this have had to do with him?

Nothing at all.

The city, the buses, the bakeries, the food blocks, the school cafeterias, the strange teachers, the helpful classmates, the suspicious detective, the paid day off, and the sea would have belonged to other people. He would have stayed inland, somewhere enclosed, somewhere his choices were managed before he could touch them.

Running away had been the best decision of his life.

The sun was still too strong for him to go down and play near the water the way some of the children did. Heat pressed against the edge of his comfort, and he had no intention of turning into a small child in public. That would be less like enjoying the beach and more like announcing his rare-blood identity through a megaphone.

Still, the sight made him smile.

If he came here at midnight and played in the waves alone, someone would probably assume he had come to throw himself into the ocean.

Humans loved dramatic conclusions near water.

Cyrus stayed by the sea for nearly half an hour. His mind drifted and circled back more than once to the ring on his finger.

The ring had followed every change in his body. It had stayed fitted when he was fever-small. It had stayed fixed when he tried to remove it. It had stayed quiet even after months away from Isolde Calder.

If it could track him, should she not have appeared by now?

He had been gone long enough to build a route, a job, a school pattern, a rent problem, and several separate sources of unwanted female attention. He had spent enough time in Grayhaven for the city to become real in his day-to-day life.

If the ring could lead Isolde here, she was taking her time.

Cyrus did not understand it.

He stopped trying.

Thinking too hard about the ring had never produced food.

Buying something hot might.

The walk back was not terrible. He could have taken the bus again, but walking would let him pass more food. The sunlight had softened slightly, though not enough to become friendly.

Cyrus bought two warm stuffed rolls from a small counter on the way, ate one while walking, and saved the other for later.

After a while, he passed into a neighborhood park and decided to rest there. He had nowhere urgent to be. A paid day off meant wasting a little time was allowed.

A bench sat under a tree near the edge of the playground. Cyrus took it, leaned back, and let the second roll warm his hand through the paper bag.

Then he heard crying.

It came from deeper in the park, near the seesaw.

Cyrus turned his head.

Two children stood beside the equipment. One was a little girl wiping her eyes with both fists. The other, a boy who looked a little older, stood rigid beside her, trying to look brave and failing around the edges.

"If you didn’t make me walk so far, we wouldn’t be lost," the girl sobbed.

"You said you wanted to play on the seesaw," the boy said, his voice tight.

"I want to go home."

"I know, so stop crying and let me think."

The girl cried harder, but not loudly enough to pull much attention from the sidewalk outside the park. The boy looked toward the paths and then back at his sister, clearly trying to decide which direction would make him less wrong.

Cyrus watched from the bench.

The correct plan was to wait.

Someone else would notice. Someone with a brighter face, a better voice, and a more trustworthy appearance would help them. That person would not look like a gloomy teenage boy with long bangs, a hidden face, and the general presence of someone who should not be placed near children in a public-service poster.

Waiting was safer.

The girl sniffled.

The boy’s eyes were red now too. He was only refusing to cry because his sister was already using up all available panic.

Cyrus sighed.

For no reason at all, Owen Keats appeared in his mind. Owen, who helped people move spilled fruit from the street. Owen, who handed out notes, explained homework, and treated simple kindness like it did not require a strategy meeting.

Cyrus stood.

He walked over slowly, keeping his hands visible and stopping at a respectful distance.

"Do you need help?"

His voice came out cooler than intended.

The boy immediately stepped in front of his sister.

That was good, actually.

At least the child had some sense.

Cyrus softened his tone as much as he could without sounding fake. "I am not going to touch either of you. If you are lost, I can help you find a police officer or the park security desk."

The little girl peeked around her brother’s arm.

The boy still looked suspicious. "We got lost."

"Then we should find an adult whose job is to help," Cyrus said. "There is usually a security desk near the main entrance."

The girl rubbed her face with her sleeve. "Are you a bad guy?"

"I am the person telling you to go toward people with badges," Cyrus said. "That is not usually a bad guy’s favorite direction."

The boy considered that with the solemn doubt of someone who had not yet decided whether logic itself could be a trap.

Cyrus pointed toward the path leading out of the playground. "You can walk behind me. Keep some space if that makes you feel better. When we reach the desk, you tell the staff you are lost. I will not ask where you live."

The boy looked at his sister.

The girl gripped his sleeve and nodded.

"All right," the boy said, still wary. "We can go."

"Stay where I can see you," Cyrus said.

He turned and began walking toward the park entrance at an easy pace, slow enough for the children to follow without needing to hurry.

Behind him, the girl whispered, "He doesn’t look sunny."

Her brother whispered back, "Sunny people can be bad too."

Cyrus pretended not to hear.

Maybe children were not completely hopeless after all.