The forge was hotter than usual, the air thick with smoke and sharp metallic tangs. Symond stood hunched over a crucible, waiting for the metal to cool just enough to add the fire potion. He couldn’t think of the technical name of them, even after years of study. The one that looked like a living flame trapped in a glass bottle, suffocating, nipping at the cork for release. That one. He always thought it was odd to add living fire to molten metal that was basically already on fire. How did the metal know it was being combined with something different and it wasn’t just in the furnace again? Whatever. It was for the scholars to figure out. He just mixed the components at the right times and sharpened and honed the finished product. Easy. Mindless.
He poured the enchantment infused metal into the mold but his hands trembled slightly ruining his precision.
It wasn’t the weight or the heat.
It was the laughter.
Other Hive recruits worked nearby, barely paying attention to their own gear while swapping stories that grated on his nerves. Three of them. Laughing like idiots. Acting like they were the best of friends when he knew they'd turn their knives on each other for the right price.
“…and she had the nerve to call me selfish after—”
“‘cause you are.”
“Please. She came back the next night, didn’t she?”
Laughter echoed off the stone.
They were talking about women. About sex. Casual. Loud. Like it was something they deserved, something theyunderstood.
He didn’t.
And he hated it. Hated them.
He really hated how much it bothered him, how the sting felt more like a dagger twisting the longer it went on. He heard them brag about the possibilities, the conquests, the way they had anything and everything they wanted.
He wanted to be able to laugh like that. Joke like that. Let his guard down, just once. He wanted to make it not matter, the years of experiments, conditioning, the never-ending paranoia. He wanted to forget how every mention of touch scraped at old wounds. How it always came back to the Institute. To the betrayals there. How he never knew a hand that didn’t end up hurting him.
He worked the forge like a machine. But he felt like it was working him, each swing of the mallet conditioning him, reforging him into the product of what they made. He tried not to care. But the laughter kept burning hotter.
Midday break. He'd fix this. Prove to himself that before was just a fluke. He wasn't broken.
He chose someone different this time.
Nothing like Elora. This one was softer—brown eyes, olive skin. She didn't smile too much, didn't flirt, didn't seem to care who he was. That was the point.
This will work,he told himself as he followed her.Last time was just because of the resemblance. This time will be different. This time will prove I'm normal.
Elora had reminded him of the Institute. He had let his mind wander back to the gates of hell. Let himself believe that the demons would be on his side. Of course they weren't. They never were.
He wouldn't let them latch on this time.
As the girl led him into the room, started undressing with slow, practiced fingers, Symond stayed too still. Too quiet. He answered her soft questions with single words, watched her every move not out of lust, but out of calculation.
Just focus. Stay present. Normal men can do this. It's simple. Basic.
When she leaned in to kiss his neck, he flinched—not visibly, but enough to make her pause.
"I can stop," she offered gently.
He shook his head. "No. It's fine."
It has to be fine. It will be fine.
He kept saying that, both aloud and in his head.
It's fine. This is working. Just stay here. Don't think about anything else.
Even when she touched him, even when she kneeled at his feet, even when he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth of her mouth, the gentle strokes of her tongue. It was fine. It had to be.
