Dorian slumped onto the dusty, worn-out couch of his old apartment, the familiar smell of stale, recycled air hitting him like a wall. "Ugh," he groaned, "we should have come back home every once in a while when we were on Sela."
Ratik, standing in the middle of the small living room, looked at the layer of dust on every surface with a neutral, assessing expression. She took off her sharp suit jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on her luggage. She rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse. "Dorian," she said, her voice all business, "take the young master and miss to eat outside. Let me and Leo clean the house."
Dorian, still dazed from the "Mastery Cave" revelation, looked up. "Is this... inside the contract?"
Ratik's lips twitched. "Either that, or I change my mind."
That was all the motivation he needed. "Lyra, Marcus!" he called out, his voice suddenly energetic. "Let's eat outside, guys!"
"Yeayy!" came the immediate, happy reply from their rooms.
As the three Keplers left, Ratik was left alone in the apartment with Leo. The Compadre floated silently into the living room, its optical sensor a cold, steady blue as it watched her.
"I do not trust you," Leo stated.
Ratik, already wiping down the dinner table, did not even look up. "Oh yeah?" she replied coolly. "As long as I am useful, I will be here. You know that."
Leo hovered closer, its sensor flickering. "I will keep my sensor on you."
Ratik paused her cleaning. "Help me unpack, maybe?" she suggested, gesturing to the luggage.
Leo remained still, glaring, processing her request as an order. It floated backwards, keeping its sensor fixed on her the entire time, and in a low, almost threatening volume, said, "Keep your step clear."
Ratik just chuckled to herself and went back to cleaning.
…
This was where the Composer lived.
When Maestro Gil first told me to pick up his new prodigy from Nexus Prime, I thought it was a test. Or a joke. Nexus Prime. The slum system of the Mid-Rim, a planet-sized cesspool of unregulated industry and an illegal population that could never be accurately accounted for. I had always thought of it as a drought-world, utterly devoid of any real creativity.
But when I arrived that first morning, I saw an ordinary family, all clearly still half-awake, bewildered. Then, at the station, the Legion troopers tried to ruffle us. It was my own fault, of course, wearing such a formal suit on Nexus ground.
But as we took off, the Composer, this boy, seemed to understand the implication of my bribe. He saw the game I was playing with the off-duty Legion. Then, on the way to Sela, he was more intrigued by Roy's internal mechanisms than the luxury of the cruiser, and he seemed to know what he was talking about. Was he a composer, or a Compadre engineer?
Time passed. I saw him stand his ground, not just against Gil, but against Rita. He demanded the concert be delayed. He demanded his unknown, amateur friend be the star. And then, with his back against the wall, he did not just complain; he delivered. He wrote another song. A masterpiece.
The first time I heard the studio versions of both "Skyfall" and "No Time to Die," I knew. It was not just a ripple; it was an earthquake. A groundbreaking new sound, a new style, a new philosophy of music that no one had ever thought of.
I was looking at the future, a future where the title of "Maestro" would be a gross understatement for what this boy would become. At that moment, I knew my time with Gil, a living legend, was over. I had to follow the legend in the making. I asked to leave Maestro Gil's side that very night.
…
The night was cold, even on Sela. Ratik stood silently in the grand music room, a shadow in the doorway. Maestro Gil was at the Savarius, his hands moving over the keys. He was playing the waltz, the "Merry Go Round of Life" theme he had played with the composer.
But it was hollow. The piano, the storyteller, had no protagonist to speak to. Ratik could see the frustration in his movements. He was chasing the whisper of that duet, trying to recapture the magic, but the violin's voice was missing.
She waited patiently for him to finish. Several minutes later, the music stopped. Gil opened his eyes and sighed, the sound heavy in the vast room. He saw her reflection in the dark, polished wood of the piano.
"Ratik," he said, not turning around. "It is late. You can tell me the composer's progress tomorrow."
"Tomorrow will be my last day reporting to you, Maestro," Ratik said, her voice calm and clear.
Gil's hands froze over the keys. He turned slowly, taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I am thankful for everything you have done," she said, giving a slight bow. "I know you raised me to be your heir's manager. But I see someone who is in need of my expertise more."
Gil's expression hardened slightly. "Is it Percival?"
"Yes, Maestro."
Gil scoffed, pressing a single, dissonant note on the piano. He looked up at the holographic moving pictures of his family on the wall. "Those rascals," he muttered. "They were never meant for the industry anyway. The first is too meek, the second too naive, and the third... the third is too smart to ever be trapped by it."
He sighed and turned his sharp, silver eyes back to Ratik. "How would you be by his side? Do you think he will trust you? In his eyes, you are my person."
"I will annul our contract," Ratik said stoically, "and make a new one with Composer Percival."
"You have been in the inside of this industry long enough to know that a piece of paper does not mean anything when push comes to shove," Gil challenged.
"But," Ratik replied, her gaze unwavering, "it is a start that opens the gate."
Gil studied her for a long moment, seeing the same unshakeable resolve she had always possessed. He nodded, a slow, resigned gesture. "Good. You have made up your mind. Take care of him."
"You do not need to say it," Ratik replied.
…
Dorian, Lyra, and Marcus arrived back at their apartment, takeout bags in hand.
"We're back!" Dorian called out, his voice echoing in the small, silent apartment. They did not hear a reply.
They walked into the living room and stopped. The apartment was spotless. The dust was gone, the surfaces gleamed, and the air smelled faintly of ozone and polish. Ratik was asleep on the couch, her professional suit jacket neatly folded on a chair, her sleeves still rolled up, a cleaning towel clutched loosely in her hand.
Hovering a few feet away, its optical sensor a steady, unblinking blue, was Leo.
"Dorian," Leo whispered, its voice a low, conspiratorial hum. "I have kept my sensor on her. She has not done anything suspicious... yet."
Dorian looked at the spotless house, then at the exhausted, professional woman asleep on their lumpy couch. "Whoa," he whispered. "That was fast." He placed the takeout bag meant for Ratik on the dinner table.
"I helped. A lot," Leo stated.
"Did you?" Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Does... keeping an eye on her count as helping?"
"No," Lyra whispered from behind him.
"...Then I helped a little," Leo conceded.
Dorian chuckled quietly. He went to the cupboard, pulled out a familiar, worn blanket, and gently draped it over Ratik. "Alright," he whispered to his siblings. "Let's all go to sleep. We all have space lag. Let's sleep and reset, okay?"
"Okay," Lyra and Marcus murmured, and padded off to their rooms.
…
In a secure, sterile meeting hall on Nexus Prime, Verza Zal sat at the head of a long table, her face a mask of cold fury. The holographic image of Major Kalzor Darvek scowled back at her.
"Supervisor Zal," his synthetic Gunnossian voice buzzed, "is there any possibility your... extreme tightening of troops on the ground has scared our suspect away?"
"Negative on our end, sir," Verza said, her voice perfectly level. "But there is a high possibility he has run to another sector."
"Then how do you know it was not your fault?" Kalzor snapped. "What do you mean 'negative on your end'? It was your end to begin with!"
Verza held her tongue, a single vein bulging in her neck. She knew saying anything else would only make the conversation worse.
Major Kalzor's silver eyes narrowed. "Find another point of intel on this suspect, or I will transfer the Nexus belt command back to Supervisor Valdi."
The threat hung in the air, a profound and deliberate insult. "Yes, sir," Verza said, her voice clipped.
The hologram vanished, leaving her in the cold, oppressive silence. She stared at her datapad. Nexus Prime had too many people, and too many of them were trying to look good in the BSO's eyes. They reported every little, insignificant thing. They were drowning in useless information and starving for real knowledge.
She made a decision. She tapped her comm. "Lieutenant Breind, my office."
Her second-in-command, Ret Breind, entered a moment later. "Ma'am?"
"Call off the reinforcement patrols," Verza ordered. "Lax the troops on the ground. I want our Legion units to switch to the local Nexon security uniforms. Their presence is too obvious. It is time we blended in."
"Yes, ma'am," Ret said, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Verza leaned her head on her hand, the waiting game already taking its toll. Hopefully, the suspect would see the change, get comfortable, and take the bait.
…
Contrary to Verza's and the BSO's belief, the suspect they were waiting for had not fled. He had just been busy attending the concert of a lifetime on Sela, and he was just now waking up.
A cold morning with no sun filtering through the window reminded Dorian instantly that he was not on Sela anymore. He was home. He washed his face, the cold water a sharp, familiar shock, and went out to the kitchen, ready to make breakfast. He saw Ratik, still fast asleep on the couch, the blanket he had given her kicked half-off.
He smiled, then thought, System. A cascade of fresh, purple-star ingredients materialized on the kitchen counter. He whispered, "Leo, help me cook."
The two of them began to work, the quiet sounds of a real breakfast being prepared, the sizzle of bacon, the crack of an egg, filling the small apartment. A few minutes later, Dorian heard a low groan from the living room. Ratik was stirring, woken by the smell.
"Good morning," Dorian said cheerfully, not looking up from the pan.
Ratik sat up, her professional bun slightly askew, her eyes blinking in the dim light, completely disoriented. "I know there is no sun," Dorian continued, "but it is kind of hard to not feel like it is morning with this smell, right?"
Ratik slowly collected herself, her mind catching up.
"I brought you a takeaway last night," Dorian said, "but I threw it away."
"Why?" she asked, her voice still groggy.
"Tadaa," he said, gesturing to the sizzling pan with his spatula. "Because of this. Good food is real food."
Ratik's eyes widened. She saw the plates Dorian was preparing, a full, real breakfast. She then looked past him, to the kitchen counter, where she saw the leftover raw ingredients. It was not a one-time purchase. He had a supply.
She stood, washed her hands in the sink, and then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, began to tidy the dinner table, making space for the plates.
"You are not curious where I got them?" Dorian asked, a small, testing smile on his face.
Ratik continued to work, her movements efficient and smooth. "I trust you will tell me," she said, her voice calm and even, "when you trust me."
Dorian just shrugged, a look of profound respect in his eyes, and jogged off to wake Lyra and Marcus, leaving his new manager to set the table.
The morning breakfast was a cherished ritual. Dorian had prepared a small feast: fluffy pancakes, sizzling bacon, and perfectly scrambled eggs, all ingredients coming from his Gacha stash. Ratik sat with them at the small table, her posture as immaculate as ever, a stark, professional contrast to the cozy, domestic scene.
She took her first bite, a small, polite cut of the pancake. She tried to maintain her stoic, professional mask, but the flavor, the impossible, rich, real flavor hit her with the force of a physical shock. Her eyes widened, just a fraction, and her hand, holding the fork, paused in mid-air for a split second before she could force it to continue.
Lyra, who had been watching her with a keen, analytical eye, caught the tiny break in composure. She stifled a giggle behind her hand, which made Marcus giggle too.
"Brother Dorian's cooking is good, right, Sister Ratik?" Lyra asked, her voice laced with the smug, knowing tone of a seasoned connoisseur.
Ratik, caught off guard, quickly composed herself, clearing her throat. "Yes, Miss Lyra," she said, her voice perfectly even once more. "It is... an exceptional breakfast."
As the meal continued, Marcus looked up from his plate, his mouth full of pancake. "Does Sister Ratik live here now?"
Ratik dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "No, Young Master," she replied. "I will be leaving this noon. I have to go and inspect some potential locations."
Dorian, who had been quietly sipping his own Gacha-pulled tea, looked up, impressed. "Already got a list of properties?"
Ratik turned her cool, professional gaze on him. "Get used to it, Dorian. I work fast."
A slow, confident smile spread across Dorian's face, a perfect match for her own. "I love your confidence."
**A/N**
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**A/N**