Half a month later, Julian's indicators finally returned to the green. The first thing he did after leaving the clinic was head to the most expensive coffee shop in the city and order their priciest roast.

But when the cup touched his lips, the desperate craving he'd lived with for months had simply... evaporated.

He looked down at his left wrist. The rubber band was long gone, and the skin was pale and smooth again.

A flicker of regret touched him, but he forced the memory into a locked corner of his mind. He didn't think he was a masochist; he had been beaten enough as a child to develop a bone-deep fear of physical punishment. He was the type of person who still whimpered at the sight of a needle or cried if he stubbed a toe.

And yet, there were the small, unconscious stings. The way he'd pinch his own arm when the anxiety peaked, or dig his nails into his palms when he was afraid. The yoga ball he used to crush his knotted muscles after a run.

Controlled pain was a stimulant, a way to anchor himself to the present when the world felt too loud. It was a massage for the mind—a sharp clarity that left him relaxed once the sting faded.

He realized now that Samuel had seen that edge in him. Samuel had intervened with a heavy hand because he'd recognized a spiral Julian hadn't even noticed himself.

Samuel was always guiding him, always pulling him toward a better version of himself. Julian felt a surge of gratitude, followed by a hollow, aching sadness. Samuel was too good to hate, but he was also too universal. His guidance and tolerance weren't a gift for Julian alone; they were just part of who Samuel was—a mentor who would likely do the same for Oliver or any other analyst he deemed worthy.

Julian wished Samuel was a bastard. He wished the man was as cold and arrogant as the rumors at Apex Capital claimed. It would have been easier to break the connection if Samuel hadn't been a machine of perfect, professional kindness.

That night, Julian skipped the duplex and headed to a small tavern in New York City. It was one of those dimly lit spots that hosted academic lectures during the day and served dream-like cocktails at night. He'd walked past it every day on his commute, but this was the first time he'd crossed the threshold.

He ordered a low-proof cocktail that looked like a nebula in a glass. He took a photo, considered posting it to his main feed, then decided it felt too much like a cry for attention. Instead, he sent it to Orca.

[Julian]: [Image] This place is actually decent.

[@Orca]: Are you at a bar? Alone?

[Julian]: Yeah.

[@Orca]: Where?

Julian dropped his location pin.

Twenty minutes later, Orca stepped through the door. Julian hadn't worn a mask tonight; he sat there in the open, watching the man approach. Orca was still a phantom in a hat, mask, and dark lenses.

Julian tilted his chin. "Sit".

Orca pulled out the chair across from him.

"What are you drinking?" Julian asked.

"I'm not," Orca replied.

Julian didn't press him. He ordered a second round for himself. He didn't want to get wasted, but the low-alcohol drinks meant he had to drink more to feel even a flicker of the buzz. At a hundred dollars a glass, the bill was already starting to sting.

He stared at the bottom of his glass. "How did you recognize me?".

Orca went silent.

"You didn't look around when you walked in," Julian noted. "You walked straight to this table".

"I know your silhouette," Orca said finally. "You're the only person in here with that frame".

Julian let out a sharp, dry laugh. He was done for the night. He started to stand, but Orca's voice stopped him.

"Did something happen? You look sad".

Julian's eyes snapped to the man's hidden face. "Why would you say that?".

"You're in a bad mood," Orca said. "You look like you're about to cry".

Julian didn't think; he just swung. His fist connected with Orca's shoulder, but the man didn't flinch. Instead, Orca's hand shot out, catching Julian's wrist and wrenching him forward until he was buried in the man's chest.

The familiar heat and the scent of the man's coat hit Julian like a physical blow. He scrambled back, his pulse racing. "Let go. Don't play therapist with me".

Orca released him instantly, looking almost surprised by his own reflex. The silence that followed was thick with an awkward, heavy tension.

"I'll stay with you," Orca said.

Julian didn't answer. He watched as Orca ordered a drink, lifting his mask just an inch to take a sip. Julian nearly laughed. "If you don't want to drink, don't. You look like a freak doing that".

Orca set the glass down obediently.

Julian toyed with the rim of his glass. "Is your family rich?".

"We're doing okay," Orca replied.

"Do you have one of those big dynasties? Where everyone is 'exceptional'?".

Orca paused. "Something like that".

"And do people like you always do the matchmaking thing?" Julian asked, his voice dropping. "Finding someone 'suitable' to marry?".

The silence lasted longer this time. "Most of them do," Orca admitted.

"And you?".

"I don't know," Orca said.

Julian blinked. He hadn't expected an honest answer, let alone one that sounded so conflicted. He understood the logic of that world—when there are billions of dollars and legacies at stake, only a fool chooses love over the empire.

Julian had no empire. He had no love. He was a man who couldn't change the circumstances of his birth, no matter how many miles he ran or how many reports he perfected.

He finished his drink and stepped out into the cold NYC night. Orca followed him, walking a step behind as they moved toward the residential block.

"Why are you following me?" Julian asked, looking over his shoulder.

"You drank," Orca said. "I'm walking you home".

Julian didn't argue. Having someone there felt better than the alternative. They walked in silence until they reached the gate of the apartment complex.

"I'm here," Julian said.

Orca gave a sharp nod and turned away. The streetlights stretched his shadow across the pavement, and for a fleeting second, the silhouette looked exactly like....

Julian didn't let the thought finish. He turned and went inside, back to his rental and his own reality.

Samuel Frost had his path, and Julian Hale had his.