Chapter 23
Nova
I’ve been watching it die for the last hour. Couldn’t charge it even if I wanted to—no outlets in alleys, funny how that works. But I haven’t been able to stop checking it either, scrolling back through messages I’ve read a dozen times already.
Locke: Where are you?
Locke: Nova.
Locke: Answer your fucking phone.
Kyron: We know you left. We’re not angry. Just tell us you’re safe.
Rane: Please come back. Whatever happened, we can figure it out.
Beckett: You okay?
Vaelor: You don’t have to talk. Just let us know you’re alright.
Locke: This isn’t funny anymore. Where are you?
Unknown Number: Hey. I don’t know if you’ll see this. I heard what happened. I’m sorry.
Unknown Number: Oh. This is Trey by the way.
Why would he… I don’t know how to add him to my phone. I should have listened better when Rane told me.
Rane: I’m not mad. I promise I’m not mad. Just please answer.
Kyron: If you need space, fine. But we need to know you’re alive.
Vaelor: We’re looking for you. Not to drag you back. Just to make sure you’re okay.
Locke: If it’s about… I’m sorry if I did something. If any of us did something. Just come home.
Beckett: We miss you.
(Trey): I told Silas to fuck off. He had no business saying anything to you. Whatever it was.
(Trey): I’m with them now, Vaelor and the rest of them. Looking for you. In case that helps. Or makes it worse. I don’t know.
Rane: Nova please.
Kyron: Wherever you are, whatever you’re thinking—you’re wrong. Come back.
Vaelor: There’s food in the fridge. Your plate. It’s still there.
Locke: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. Just tell me how to fix this.
Beckett: Come home.
The screen flickers. 2%.
I lock the phone and press it against my chest like that’ll keep it alive longer.
It won’t.
The gate wasn’t even hard. A gap behind the maintenance building, exactly where I would’ve put one if I’d designed this place. Some Academy architect clearly never slept on the streets—you learn to spot the weak points in any fence within the first six months.
That was two days ago.
I’m almost impressed with myself.
Now I’m back in the kind of places I know. Not the same streets I grew up on, but close enough. Same architecture, same instincts.
My kind of places.
The ones I don’t have to read or figure out because I already understand them. Streets and people who look at me like they should—like I’m an inconvenience. Not like they did. When they looked at me like I was…
I don’t know. Something.
This is where I belong.
I find a spot behind an old textile warehouse—two walls, an overhang, sightline to the street. I picked it on instinct. I’ve done this a thousand times. Different alleys, same geometry.
Home sweet home.
The thought should be funny. But it doesn’t feel quite like it did before.
I settle against the wall and take inventory. No food, but I’ve gone longer. No jacket, which is a problem—nights are getting cold.
Phone’s still at 2%.
I stop myself from reading their texts again.
I wrap my arms around myself. At least it’s comfortable. The stone is cold through my pants but cold stopped being cold somewhere around year three.
This is fine. This is what I know.
So why does my chest feel like someone’s sitting on it?
Day one, I tell myself it’s hunger.
Day two, I know I’m lying.
The ache started small—a tightness behind my ribs that I wrote off as stress. But it’s not getting better. If anything, it’s getting worse. Like something’s fraying inside me, thread by thread, and I can feel each one snap.
I keep moving. That’s the rule. Never stay too long in one place, never get comfortable, never let anyone remember your face. I know how to do this. I’ve been doing this since I was eleven years old.
But my feet keep doing something wrong.
I’ll pick a direction and start walking, and twenty minutes later I’ll pass the same cracked sidewalk. The same graffiti tag on the corner pole. The same boarded-up shop with the faded awning.
I’m circling.
Not on purpose. But my body keeps pulling me back toward—
Toward what?
I know the answer. I don’t want to know the answer.
I take a different route. Cut across two streets, duck through an alley I haven’t used before, come out on a block I don’t recognize. Good. New territory. I can work with new territory.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at the same fucking corner.
What is wrong with me?
I stop walking. Stand there in the middle of the sidewalk like an idiot, staring at the graffiti tag.
You’re losing it. You’re finally, actually losing it.
A woman pushes past me with a muttered curse. I don’t move. My legs feel heavy. My chest feels heavier.
This is withdrawal. That’s all. Two weeks of regular meals and a soft bed and people who—
People who what?
I close my eyes.
Locke’s hands. The way they curled into fists when Harrick got too close. The way they went gentle when he touched my face.
Beckett’s silence. The plate with my name on it. The way he was just there, every time I needed someone to be there, without making it into a thing.
Vaelor in the kitchen, adjusting my coffee. Why? I don’t know. How Rane smelled when he sat too close. Kyron’s eyes tracking me like he could see every thought I was trying to hide.
And—
No.
Trey’s face. Gray eyes finding mine across a room. The brush of his arm as he passed me in Mark Theory. Too much space that felt like too much and not enough at the same time.
He’s not one of them. He’s not part of this. He’s—
He’s in my head anyway. Right there with the rest of them, taking up space I didn’t give him permission to take.
Fuck.
I start walking again. Faster this time, like I can outrun it. Like distance will make the ache stop, will make the faces fade, will make my stupid body stop trying to drag me back to a place I don’t belong.
You were fine before them. You’ll be fine after.
I’ve been telling myself that for two days. It keeps getting less convincing.
The sun’s going down by the time I admit I’m lost.
Not geographically—I know exactly where I am. Close. Too close. A few blocks from the warehouse, a couple turns from the market street. Maybe half a mile from the Academy wall.
Half a mile.
I’ve been walking for hours and I’m half a mile from where I started.
I stop in an alley and press my back against the wall and try to breathe. The ache in my chest has teeth now. Every inhale pulls at something raw.
Just go back.
The thought comes unbidden, and I shove it down so hard it should leave a bruise.
Go back to what? To people who are probably relieved you’re gone? To a room that was never really yours? To five men who were doing fine before you showed up—and probably better now that you’re gone?
Six, something whispers. Six men.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
You don’t belong there. You don’t belong anywhere. That’s the whole point. That’s what keeps you alive.
Fifteen years. I made it fifteen years without needing anyone.
Two weeks with them and I can’t even walk in a straight line.
Pathetic.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold ground, back against the stone. Same position as the warehouse. Same position as every alley, every rooftop, every forgotten corner I’ve called home for the last fifteen years.
The phone buzzes.
I pull it out. 1%. The screen’s so dim I can barely read it.
Beckett: Please.
The screen goes black.
I shove the dead phone in my pocket and pull my arms tighter around myself. The cold’s settling in. The light’s almost gone.
I should move. Find somewhere better for the night.
I don’t.