By the time I start the print cycle, my hands are shaking.

  Not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice, but I feel it in the fine motor control, the slightest delay between thought and motion as my fingers skim across the console. The data lab hums around us, steady and indifferent, machines doing what machines always do: recording, replicating, and preserving. The system accepts my credentials without question, the printers waking in staggered succession, thin sheets of translucent plymer feeding through with a soft, whispering sound.

  I have to actively remind myself to breathe.

  The man stands a few feet away, too close and yet not close enough, his presence like a pressure system I just can't escape. I can feel him watching me, not just looking, but tracking. Every movement I make, every glance toward a screen, every time I hesitate before confirming something, he sees it all. It makes my skin itch.

  "I'm going to go ahead and pull everything relevant," I say, more to fill the silence than because he asked. "Seismic data, localized distortion fields, temporal variance logs, and the raw anomaly trace before it was compressed by the system. All the stuff I've been mulling over today."

  His reflection stares back at me from the glassy surface of one of the monitors. "And this helps you how?"

  "It helps me understand what happened," I reply, keeping my voice as even as I can manage. "And what might happen again."

  "That's not an answer."

  I exhale through my nose and keep working. The printers continue their quiet chatter, pages stacking neatly in output trays. I slide one stack aside, already mentally sorting what I'll need to take with me and what I can leave secured here. I shouldn't be doing this at all, I know that. Every protocol alarm in my head is screaming at me to contact Professor Halvek.

  But protocols don't account for mysterious men who fall through the fabric of reality.

  "I want to run some tests," I say finally, turning to face him. "Nothing invasive, of course. Nothing would harm you, it's mostly just observation, response metrics, and energy resonance."

  His jaw tightens, and I can already see how this is going to go. "No."

  The word lands hard and final.

  I blink. 'You didn't even let me finish."

  "I don't need to." He takes a step closer. "You don't put a knife on the table unless you plan to use it."

  "That's not—this isn't like that."

  "You keep saying that." His voice is low, rough. "And you keep expecting me to trust it."

  I open my mouth, then close it again. He's right, and I hate that he's right. I've been assuming compliance because that's how things work here; inputs, outputs, consent forms signed with a stylus and a polite nod. This isn't a student volunteer; he's not a willing subject. This is a man who survived long enough in a violent world to learn that curiosity gets you killed.

  "They're harmless," I insist, softer now. "I wouldn't do anything without your permission."

  "You already are." He retorts.

  I frown, "What does that mean?"

  "You're studying me, scholar," he says flatly. "Every time you look at one of those screens, instead of me. Every time you print something that you haven't explained. You're gathering weapons, Thalia. You just don't call them that."

  I stiffen at the sound of my name on his tongue, at the way he says it like a challenge. Somehow, he makes me sound foreign, maybe it's his accent that I still haven't figured out.

  "I am a researcher," I snap, some of my composure finally cracking. "That's what I do. I gather information and try to make sense of it so I don't make a stupid, dangerous assumption."

  "And yet, you've made plenty," he replies. "You assume this place is safe, you assume you're in control, you assume I'll just sit here and let you decide what happens next."

  He moves again, slow and deliberate, and suddenly, my back is to the wall, my heart beating fast behind my ribs.

  I hadn't registered him closing the distance. One moment he's there, across the room, and the next he's braced a hand beside my head, body angled in a way that blocks the light and steals the air. Heat rolls off him, unfamiliar and distracting, the faint scent of my soap and something saltier beneath it.

  I dont scream or push him away, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me disheveled.

  Instead, I lift my chin. "You're proving my point."

  "Oh?" His mouth curves into not quite a smile. "Am I?"

  "You don't know anything about this world," I say, forcing steadieness into my voice. "You don't know what's dangerous and what isn't. And instead of asking, you're trying to intimidate me into giving you answers."

  His eyes darken down at me. "Seems like it's working, eh?"

  I swallow harshly, searching for words that wont come.

  "Why?" he demands. "I just don't understand why I am here. Why did you print all of that? Why do you keep lying by omission?"

  "I'm not lying," I say too quickly.

  "You're hiding something." He points out definitively.

  The distance feels thin, even to me.

  I glance sideways, at the stacks of data still warm from the printer, at the screens alive with scrolling lines of data and pulsing graphs, at the lab that has been my refuge and my battleground for years.

  "Because I think you're important," I say quietly.

  "That's not exactly comforting, scholar."

  "I didn't mean it to be."

  He leans in closer. I can feel his breath against my cheek now, warm and steady, the intimacy of it making my skin prickle. My pulse jumps traitorously, and I hate myself for it. How long has it been since a man has been this close to me?

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  "I think," I continue carefully, "that what happened to you wasn't random."

  His hand presses more firmly into the wall. "Go on."

  "I think you're connected to something really, really old" I say. "Something that predates our systems, our city, our understanding of how magic and technology intersect."

  He searches my face like he's looking for a lie he can rip out of me.

  "And?"

  "And I think you might be a Keeper." I whisper lowly.

  His expression goes completely blank. "A what?"

  I wince. "You don't know."

  "Clearly."

  I open my mouth, then hesitate. This is not a conversation I should be having here, not with active systems listening, not with logs recording ambient audio whether I authorized it or not, and surely not where any one of my colleagues or professors could wander in at any given moment."

  "Okay, listen," I lower my voice again. "This isn't a safe space to talk about it."

  His eyes narrow. "You drop a word like that and then expect me to let it go?"

  "No, but I do expect you to let me move."

  For a moment, I fear he wont. His body is a wall, solid and unyielding, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel next to him, how exposed. Then, slowly, he eases back just enough to give me space to breathe.

  I step out from under him immediately.

  "We should go back to my apartment," I say. "I can explain what I know there more freely. What little I know, anyways. But before we do, I need to test some things."

  He crosses his arms. "Ah, yes, the experiments." The last world comes out bitter.

  "Tests," I correct, "and only if you agree."

  "Why?"

  I hesistate and then decide it's worth the gamble.

  "Because whatever I find," I reply, meeting his gaze, "could be a lead on how to get you home."

  Something shifts in him at that. A crack in the armor he's trying so hard to present. Something like hope.

  "You swear it?" he asks.

  My chest tightens, but I realize I'm in too deep now. "I swear," I say back.

  It's a lie. Or at least a bluff. But he doesn't know that.

  After a long moment of silence, he nods once. "Fine."

  Relief floods me so fast that my knees threaten to buckle.

  "But," he adds, stepping back, "you do nothing I don't agree to. And the moment I say stop, we're done."

  "Agreed," I say quickly, eyes lighting up with anticipation.

  His eyes linger on me for a second longer, as if he's memorizing my face. Then, he turns toward the center of the lab. "Show me what you've got, Keeper-hunter."

  I don't correct him, not yet.

  ***

  The tests are simple. Or they should be.

  I start with passive observation; energy field readings taken at varying distances, monitoring how the ambient systems respond to his presence. He stands where I ask him to stand, arms folded, posture rigid. He watches my every movement, every flicker of light on the screens, his suspicion etched into every line of his body.

  The first spike hits the moment he steps inside the marked circle.

  It's subtle, easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for. A brief tremor in the background field, a flicker of amber turning briefly red before settling again.

  "Did you feel that?" I ask.

  "Feel what?"

  I glance at the screen. "Nothing, that's the problem."

  I adjust parameters, pulling up comparative data from the ruins. I overlay time stamps and, suddenly, the patterns line up too neatly to be coincidence.

  "Holy shit," I say slowly, "where you come from... what do people believe about the Keepers?"

  He snorts, irritation dripping from his next words, "I told you, I've never heard the word."

  My stomach drops. "That's not possible," I murmur.

  "Try me."

  I make an attempt at running a hand through my hair, curls tangling further around my fingers. "The Keepers are... were... supposed to be conduits. Anchors. Like living bridges between worlds, between raw magic and physical reality. Most scholars think they're myth. Or allegory."

  "And you," he says, "don't."

  "I think myths come from somewhere."

  Another spike rolls across the screen, stronger this time.

  He stiffens. "That one I felt."

  My heart races. The lab hum deepens, lights pulsing faintly in response. Somewhere deep in the system, something is paying attention.

  "Okay," I say, forcing calm. "That's enough for tonight."

  He doesn't argue.

  We gather the prints quickly, stacking them into my bag. I shut down terminals, scrub temporary logs, do everything I can to make it look like we were never here. It's not perfect. It's not enough. But it's all I have.

  As we move toward the exit, I feel the weight of what I've done settle heavy in my chest.

  I've crossed a line. Lied to a dangerous man. Pulled him deeper into my life when I should have been pushing him away.

  And as the man walks beside me, silent and watchful, I know one thing with terrifying clarity: Whatever he is, whatever a Keeper truly means— He's going to change everything.

  ***

  My apartment feels different when we finally return. It's like remembering something it wasn't meant to hold. The lights warm automatically as evening settles in beyond the windows, casting the room in amber and soft shadow. Outside, the city hums on, glass and rune-light threading the dark, unaware that something old and impossible just passed through its skin.

  He steps inside and stops. He doesn't wander this time, doesn't pace or test the space the way he did earlier. He stands just past the threshold, shoulders squared, eyes moving in slow sweeps, mapping everything again. The coat I bought him hangs open now, the modern cloths still not quite sitting right on his frame, like the world tried to dress him but failed to finish the job.

  I lock the door and tell myself to not watch him watching.

  "You can sit," I say, nodding toward the couch. "Or not, whatever you want."

  "I'll stand."

  Right, I should've assumed that.

  I set my bag down on the counter and start unloading the data prints I brought from the lab, sliding them into the secure drawer beneath the work surface. My hands feel steadier here, in my own space. The flat has rhythms I know, like the soft cycle of the air filter or the quiet tick of the temporal monitor beneath the floor. Safe sounds, familiar ones.

  "I can make food," I offer, glancing back at him. "If you're hungry."

  He studies the kitchenette. "I'm not."

  It's sharp and firm and final. I nod. "Okay."

  I pour myself a glass of water anyway, then another. I sip slowly and stall while I feel the weight of him in the room, the way the air seems to bend around his presence. Then, I have a thought that slips out in a jumble of words before I can stop it. "Wait, I bet you've never had pizza before, have you?"

  He closes his eyes, just for a heartbeat. Then, he exhales through his nose, irritation rolling off him in a way that feels deeply familiar, like a man used to dealing with foolish questions. "You can assume," he says flatly, opening his eyes again, "that I've not had anything you're familiar with."

  "Oh," I wince. "That's... fair."

  I pull my phone out anyway,

  "What are you doing?" he asks.

  "Ordering pizza."

  "I told you I wasn't hungry."

  "And I heard you," I say lightly. "But you also haven't eaten since yesterday, neither of us have. So. Pizza."

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly deciding whether this is worth the fight. "You're very confident for someone who was backed against a wall earlier."

  "I'm in my apartment," I reply.

  Something shifts in his expression at that.

  I place the order quickly and set my phone aside. The confirmation chime echoes faintly through the room, absurdly mundane.

  Eventually, he takes the edge of the couch, posture ridig, elbows resting on his knees. I sit on the opposite end, leaving space between us. The silence isn't awkward, it's watchful, like both of us are waiting to see who moves first.

  "You still haven't told me your name," I say eventually.

  His gaze cuts to me like a knife. "I told you why."

  "You said I hadn't earned it," I reply. "I just... don't understand what that means. I've never heard that before."

  He leans back slightly, eyes drifting to the window, the city's glow reflecting faintly in them. "Where I'm from," he says slowly, "words matter."

  I stay quiet as he continues. "They aren't just sounds people make to get your attention, they're promises, reputation, sometimes the only thing a man has when everything else is stripped away."

  My chest tightens a bit at his sad words.

  "You give someone your name," he looks solemnly past me, "and you give them something they can use. To call you, to curse you, to remember you."

  "That sounds... heavy," I murmur.

  "It is."

  He looks at me then. "You don't hand something like that over to anyone."

  I nod, the pieces sliding into place in my mind. "But you still have a name."

  "Yes."

  I let my mind wander a bit and ponder everything he just told me. "You chose it, your name."

  His jaw tightens. "I did." He admits.

  "Why?"

  He hesitates, and the pause tells me more than his answer ever could. "After a story," he says finally. "A legend sailors used to whisper about when the seas were bad and the odds worse."

  I sit up on the couch a bit more. "What kind of legend?"

  "The kind about a man who survives every odd against him," he replies, a boyish grin creeping its way into his features. "Who walks away from things no one else does."

  He shifts on the couch, elbows resting on his knees again, hands clasped loosely as if he doesn't quite trust them to not give way. He turns inward, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond my living room walls.

  "They called him the Tide-Marked," he begins. "Not because the sea favored him, quite the opposite. Storms followed him, ships sank around him, crews died under his command." His mouth twists slightly. "Men started refusing to sail with him, said the ocean wanted him dead and kept missing."

  "Okay, that's ominous," I say softly.

  A breath of something like a laugh escapes him. "Aye. The legend says he was cast overboard three times. Once by mutineers, once by an enemy ship, and once by his own crew, broken and afraid." His fingers tighten briefly. "Every time, the sea should've taken him."

  "But it didn't," I guessed.

  "No." His eyes flick to mine, sharp and intent. "He washed ashore every time. Sometimes days later, sometimes weeks. Always somewhere different, alive when no one else would've been."

  I can't help the shiver that crawls up my spine. "People really believed that?"

  "Belief doesn't matter," he says. "Stories like that grow because men need them. Something to point at when the world doesn't make sense." He pauses. "They said the sea couldn't claim him because he didn't belong to it. That he was meant for something else, something unfinished."

  The words hang between us, heavy and unsettling, and I realize my hands have curled into the cushion beneath me. "So you took his name," I say.

  He nods once. "I did. Not because I thought I was him," his voice lowers, just a fraction, "but because I wanted to be the kind of man who survives. The kind of man who walks away but doesn't disappear when the world decides he should."

  There's a quiet honesty there that tightens my throat more than any threat he's made since we met. For all his sharp edges and guarded silence, there's something painfully human in that confession.

  "But even that name," he continues, "is borrowed. A story layered over something I don't fully remember." His jaw sets. "That's why it isn't given lightly."

  I swallow. "So earning it means proving you won't misuse it."

  "Proving you'll respect it," he corrects. "And me."

  I nod slowly. "That makes more sense than you think."

  His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, unreadable, then drifts away again just as a chime sounds through the apartment—bright, cheerful, and wildly out of place.

  "Oh," I say, startled. "That'll be the pizza."

  He stiffens instantly. "Someone's coming here?"

  "Just a delivery person," I assure him quickly. "They won't come inside. They won't even look twice." Probably.

  He stands as I move toward the door, positioning himself slightly behind me, close enough that I can feel his presence like a steady pressure at my back. When I open the door and take the box, warm and fragrant, nothing explodes, no alarms go off, and no one tries to arrest the ancient pirate standing in my living room. Small miracles.

  I shut the door and turn back, holding the box out between us like a peace offering. "See? Harmless."

  He studies it suspiciously. "It smells... like a lot."

  I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound bubbling out too loud in the quiet room. Something in his expression softens—not much, but enough that I notice.

  We sit again, the box between us, steam curling into the air. For a few seconds, there's nothing but the city outside and the strange, fragile normalcy of sharing a meal in a world that shouldn't exist for him.

  Then he looks at me, really looks at me, eyes sharp and intent once more. "So," he says, voice low and deliberate, "Thalia."

  My name sounds different in his mouth this time, like maybe it matters now.

  "Tell me," he continues, "what you know about these Keepers."

  The lid of the pizza box creaks softly as I open it, the smell filling the room—and suddenly, I'm not sure which of us just crossed the more dangerous line.