Those words hardly felt real to Simma when Sarah said them. Since simma replied...

"You're joking, right?" His face carried the look of a man trapped between disbelief and irritation, and that expression was deeply discomforting for Sarah.

"I'm not joking, Si," she persisted.

"I said I'm coming with you." She slid onto the bed beside him, as if planting a flag of stubborn loyalty.

"Besides," she added, a small smile flickering at the corner of her lips,

"you need someone who'll make sure you don't collect any more scars."

Simma gave no sign of gratitude. He didn't even bother to look thankful.

"No, you're not coming with me," he said, flat and blunt, almost arrogant.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. Her face stiffened, her mood hardening like clay left in the sun. But before she could speak, Simma cut her off.

"It's dangerous, Sarah. I can't risk putting anyone else in danger on my quest for revenge."

"Then don't do this, Simma. Let it go."

He shook his head, stubbornness carved deep into his jaw.

"It's a little late for that, Sarah. Nothing can change my mind…" He hesitated, then added, for clarity but also cruelty,

"Not even you."

Those words struck Sarah's heart like a hammer. She felt meaning growing in them like vines she couldn't pull off. She stood from the bed—an unspoken cue to Simma that she was leaving. But before stepping away, she spoke like someone delivering her last line on stage.

"Just know that no Fluxborn is allowed into the woods, or should I say outside the Force after sundown. If you're caught, Simma… it's bye-bye to Azren."

Simma didn't flinch. He stood unfazed and replied, almost carelessly,

"That's if I'm caught."

Sarah exhaled. Her efforts felt like they were crashing against stone. With slow, worried steps, she walked toward the door and disappeared behind it.

Simma let out a deep breath, unaware he'd been holding it like a man clutching a secret.

"I'm finishing this tonight," he muttered.

...

Darkness shrouded the great city. It was the time Simma have been waiting for, like Christians waited for the coming of christ. It was the perfect time to carry out his words to Sarah.

Sarah, back in her room, paced like a caged animal. Worry crawled up her spine, amplified by the darkness thickening outside. She had never felt this particular fear before... real concern for someone else's safety. The feeling surprised her as much as it unsettled her.

She stopped, sensing something. Slowly, she strode to the large window, shifted the heavy curtains, and peered out. Her lips moved involuntarily, as if her body spoke before her mind.

"No. No. No. This is not good," she whispered.

What she saw was a hooded figure on a horse, galloping into the darkness beyond the citadel walls. Simma. She would swear it.

Her hands went to her temples as her mind unraveled. Their earlier conversation replayed over and over like a bad tune, and "comfortable" was the last thing she felt.

---

Simma galloped through the streets, aiming for the city's edge. Once he was beyond the walls unseen, he'd clear his first obstacle. How he wished he could just turn invisible. He knew his chances were slim; even people he didn't see might have already seen him.

He chose a horse over a bike. A bike's engine would tear through the night like a scream, alerting the guards. And gas runs out; hooves don't. He rode carefully so the horse's shoes barely kissed the cobblestones.

On the horse's back sat a large bundle covered in a broad, rough woolen blanket, the sort shepherds might throw over their shoulders in the highlands, a heavy, earthy brown cloth that hid whatever was beneath like a secret in plain sight.

After weaving through alleys and bends, Simma reached the main gate of the city.

The gate rose like a monument, carved from black stone laced with veins of silver.

Gold-tipped spikes crowned its arch, glinting even in the low light. Two massive doors, each etched with ancient runes of protection, stood closed but not still, the carvings themselves seemed to shift faintly, like they were breathing.

Tall watchtowers flanked it on either side, and from each, rotating search-beams of pale blue light swept across the approach. The beams were sharp, cold, and hungry, turning lazily but ready to shriek an alarm if they caught so much as a rabbit.

Simma smiled anyway, a smile out of place, crooked and reckless. Most people wouldn't smile on seeing the thick security. And honestly there was no obvious way past such security, but recklessness had long since become his companion.

He stopped far enough away to study the gate and the pacing guards.

Then calmly and quietly he slid off the horse, patted her belly, as the horse answered with a soft clop of hooves.

"That's a good girl," Simma grinned, then turned to the covered bundle.

"We're here. Are you okay?"

If anyone had been there, they would've thought he'd lost his mind, talking to a bundle wrapped in a blanket.

But the bundle answered.

"Yeah, I'm fine… and I'm never doing this again, Simma."

"Fine," he said, pulling off the cloth. It wasn't road supplies he'd been hiding. It was a young woman.

"C'mon," he said, helping her clamber down from the horse.

She had short purple hair that caught the faint light like silk threads, and a small frame that matched her restless personality. She was the kind who tried to dominate new things by sheer chatter. Her eyes, big and bright, seemed always ready to roll at the world.

"Why the hell would you take a horse?" she hissed.

"We have air cars, land cars, bikes, even skaters! I love skaters. And I love skating. So why..."

"Hey. Hey. Hey." Simma held up a hand, cutting her off.

No narrator was needed to know this girl could talk a sunbeam off the sky. Her voice was a high, piercing trill, like a tin whistle being overblown. It wasn't just high-pitched; it was rapid-fire too, every word tumbling into the next like dominoes. To Simma, it was like being stung by a very cheerful mosquito.

It was a miracle she'd kept silent through the ride. But she wasn't stupid; she knew if she made noise and they were caught, it'd be bye-bye Azren.

"Telling me about my ride isn't why you're here, okay?" Simma shook his head.

She raised a brow, somehow even more comfortable than he'd expected. He remembered begging her to help. Back then, she'd sounded afraid. But now? She was… excited. Unbelievable.

"I'm just saying," she went on, while Simma scanned the gate,

"even my pop-pops back in the day didn't ride horses. I mean, ew. Who rides horses when better things are everywhere? Air cars have heated seats, holo-music, snack dispensers! Skaters hover so smooth you feel like dancing on air. But a horse? A bony, sweaty, bumpy horse? Ugh. Oh God, you know there is nothing....nothing...like reclining in a car seat compared to clinging to the backbone of a horse."

Simma exhaled. He wasn't sure if his real problem was the security ahead or Mrs. Talker behind him.

"Well, like I said, I'm not doing this next time with you," she added.

"Even if I do, you'll have to fly me, not gallop me…"

"Just shut up, Angela…" He dragged a palm down his face.

"What?" Angela began again, but Simma cut her off before she could launch another round of verbal fireworks.

"Just do your thing, okay? That's what you're here for."

Angela hesitated a beat, then said,

"Fine."

But just before she would walk up close to Simma her voice tore through the air again, like some dog that could not be Leashed.

"...Uh... don't get me started on skaters. Skaters glide; horses bounce... Pff... two differentthings. And the smell, oh my gosh. Do you know how many bugs are probably clinging to its tail and..."

"ANGELAAA!" Simma yelled in a loud whisper, more of through gritted teeth.

Angela threw both arms on the air as if been scolded for a crime she didn't commit.

"Okay... okay... God" she sneered.

She walked up beside him and closed her eyes, feeling not only her environment but also the one beyond the gate. Hard to believe someone so noisy could concentrate at all.

Calmly, she opened her eyes. They now glowed a soft lilac. Like a conductor guiding a silent orchestra, she moved her hands with serene precision. A lilac mist rose, curling around Simma and the horse. It felt like a cold bath poured not just over his skin but through his bones, as if the water was dissolving him and scattering his edges. Slowly, quietly, he began to blur.

Angela was a Fluxborn, her power teleportation. But as a novice, she could only teleport through solid objects if she kept her eyes on the object. That was what was happening now. Simma had brought her close enough to the gate since her eyes had to lock on the target for the jump to work.

Through the hum of power, Simma reminded her of their deal.

"Remember to keep your phone beside you at all times," he said. His voice was already echoing, glitching like a bad transmission.

"Just like we said, I'll call you when I get back so you can teleport me back inside. Thank..."

He vanished mid-word, horse and all.

"Well," Angela muttered,

"that was fun. Who knew breaking rules was this fun?"

She kept talking, of course, until she too faded in a soft lilac burst.

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