I was reading.
Actually reading. A book. With words. On paper. In my hands. Like a normal person in a normal world living a normal life.
It was peaceful.
Quiet.
Almost perfect.
"Young Master!"
I sighed.
There it goes. Bye bye my perfect moments.
Angy burst into the living room like a small hurricane wearing a maid outfit. Her blonde hair was wild—wilder than usual, which was saying something. Something chaos. Her dark eyes were sparkling with barely contained chaos. And she was holding—
Was that a list?
A very long list.
"Young Master! We're going shopping!"
I looked at her then looked at the list. Looked back at her.
"No."
"But—"
"No."
"Young Master—"
"I said no."
She deflated for approximately two seconds. Her shoulders drooped. Her face fell. The list drooped in her hands.
Then her eyes narrowed. Not in anger—in determination. The kind of look that said she'd already won this argument and I just didn't know it yet.
"Young Master." She walked closer. Sat on the coffee table directly in front of me. Leaned forward until her face was inches from mine. "When was the last time you left this house?"
"Yesterday. I went to school."
"For fun?"
"...No."
"For relaxation?"
"...No."
"For anything other than existing in a classroom?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"That's what I thought." She crossed her arms. Triumphant. "You need fresh air. Real air. Not school air where you sit in a classroom and think about sad things."
"I don't need—"
"Young Master." Her voice softened. Just slightly. The playfulness faded, replaced by something realer.
"When's the last time you just... existed? Without thinking? Without worrying? Without that thing you do with your face?"
"What thing?"
"The thing." She made a face—a scrunched-up, worried, thousand-yard-stare face that looked ridiculous on her but was apparently an accurate impression of me.
I make that face?
No.
Obviously no.
"I don't make that face."
"You absolutely make that face." Shenhe's voice came from the doorway. I looked up. She was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. But her eyes—those blue eyes that missed nothing—were soft. Almost warm. "You've made that face since we arrived. Probably before. We just couldn't see it."
They've been watching.
They're always watching.
And apparently, I have a face.
"I'm fine." The words came out automatically. A reflex. The thing you say when you don't want to talk about it.
"You're not." Angy didn't let me look away. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine. You just have to come with us to the market."
"How are those two things related?"
"Because!" She spread her arms wide. "The market has FOOD. And PEOPLE. And COLOR. And SMELLS. And SOUNDS. And—"
"She means," Shenhe interrupted smoothly, "that being around normal life might help you remember what normal feels like."
Normal.
What does normal even mean anymore?
Normal was Aventic. Normal was missions. Normal was watching my back and counting my breaths and never relaxing.
This place—this quiet, peaceful, terrifying place—is anything but normal.
"I don't—"
"Young Master." Angy's voice was barely a whisper now. She'd moved closer somehow, was sitting right beside me on the couch. Her hand rested on my arm—light, warm, present. "Please."
Please.
Since when does Angy say please?
I looked at her. Really looked. At the hope in her dark red eyes. At the way she was holding that ridiculously long list like it was a sacred document. At the way she was trying so hard to do something nice for me.
I looked at Shenhe. Still in the doorway. Still silent. Still watching. But there was something in her posture—a tension, a hope—that I'd never noticed before.
They want me there.
They want me with them.
Not because I'm useful.
Not because I'm strong.
Not because I'm the Young Master and they have to.
Just because... I'm me.
"Fine." The word came out rough. Scratchy. "One hour."
Angy's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds after a storm.
"Yes! Young Master is coming! Shenhe, he's coming! Get the bags! Get the shoes! Get the—"
"Angy." Shenhe's voice cut through. "Breathe."
Angy breathed.
But she was already bouncing.
• • •
Getting ready took forty-five minutes.
Yeah,forty-five minutes.
For a shopping trip.
"Young Master, this shirt or this shirt?"
I looked at the two shirts Angy was holding. They were identical. Same color. Same cut. Same everything.
"Angy, they're the same shirt."
"No, this one is slightly darker." She held them up to the light. Squinted. Turned them around. "See? In this light? No? Maybe it's the same. SHENHE! ARE THESE THE SAME?!"
Shenhe appeared in the doorway. Glanced at the shirts. Glanced at Angy. Glanced at me.
"They're the same."
"Oh." Angy deflated for a moment. Then brightened. "Okay! Young Master, this shirt or this OTHER shirt that is definitely different?"
Why.
Why is this happening.
Why did I agree to this.
I wanna stay in home.
• • •
We left at 10 AM.
The village was awake. Farmers were already in the fields, their hands caked with rich black mud.
Children ran along the paths, chasing a ball made of rags, their laughter high and unburdened. Old people sat on porches, watching the world go by with the patience of those who'd seen it all before.
Normal.
So painfully, beautifully normal.
I walked between them—Angy on my left, chattering about everything and nothing; Shenhe on my right, silent and observant. A buffer against the world. A shield against my own thoughts.
"Young Master, look!" Angy grabbed my arm and pointed. "That stall sells fresh bread! Real bread! Not the packaged stuff! Can we get bread? Shenhe, can we get bread?"
"Bread is on the list."
"It IS?" Angy's eyes went wide. "I put bread on the list? I'm so smart!"
"You put 'baked goods.' I specified bread."
"Same thing!"
"It's not the same thing."
"It's the same SPIRIT!"
I listened to them argue. Watched the village pass. Felt the sun on my skin—warm, golden, real.
When was the last time I did this?
Just... walked.
With people.
Without a mission.
Without a target.
Without death waiting around the corner.
Without counting how many Dumans I could kill before they killed me.
I didn't know.
Maybe never.
• • •
The market appeared gradually.
First a few more stalls at the edge of the village—a vegetable stand, a fruit cart, someone selling handmade baskets. Then more.
Then suddenly we were in it—a sprawling collection of vendors and shoppers and noise and color and life.
"Young Master!" Angy grabbed my arm with both hands, dragging me forward. "Look! Vegetables! Real vegetables! Not the ones we get delivered—FRESH vegetables! From the GROUND! Can you believe it?"
"They're... vegetables."
"Yes! Beautiful, glorious, FRESH vegetables!" She pulled me toward a stall piled high with produce. "We need tomatoes. Shenhe, we need tomatoes, right?"
"Tomatoes are on the list."
"See? Tomatoes! We're so organized! We have a system! A plan! A—"
"Angy." Shenhe's voice, calm as still water. "Let him breathe."
Angy released my arm. But she was still bouncing.
The vegetable vendor was an old woman with kind eyes and weathered hands—the kind of hands that had been working the soil for decades. She smiled as we approached, her face creasing into a thousand wrinkles.
"Well, well. New faces." She looked at Angy first, then Shenhe, then me. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than the others. "You three are new around here, aren't you?"
"Just moved here," Angy said cheerfully. "We're settling in. Getting supplies. Exploring. You know how it is."
"I know exactly how it is." The old woman chuckled, a warm sound like crackling fire. "I've been here sixty years. Came as a bride, stayed as a grandmother. Seen a lot of new faces come and go."
She looked at me again. Those old eyes were sharp—sharper than they had any right to be. "You'll like it here. It's peaceful."
Peaceful.
That's what everyone says.
That's what I'm supposed to believe.
That's what I'm supposed to feel.
"That's what we're hoping for," Angy said. She'd already started selecting tomatoes, picking each one up, inspecting it, weighing it in her hand like she was judging a competition.
The old woman watched her for a moment, then turned back to me.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
I blinked. The question caught me off guard. "I... no. Not really."
"Nothing wrong with that." She nodded sagely, like she'd just confirmed something she already suspected.
"Talkers and listeners. World needs both." S
he glanced at Angy, who was now deep in conversation with a particularly large tomato.
"You've got a talker there."
"I've noticed."
"Good. Balance." She reached into her stall and pulled out a small tomato—deep red, perfectly ripe. Held it out to me.
"Here. Taste. Sweetest ones I've got."
I took it. Looked at it. Small and perfect in my palm.
Bit into it.
Juice burst across my tongue. Sweet—impossibly sweet. Nothing like the bland, uniform tomatoes from Aventic's hydroponic farms. This tasted like sun. Like earth. Like life.
"Good, right?"
I looked at her. Nodded. Swallowed.
"...Yeah. Really good."
She smiled. The kind of smile that came from a lifetime of watching people discover simple pleasures.
"See? Market's not just for shopping. It's for moments like this."
Moments like this.
Standing in a market, eating a tomato, while Angy argues with Shenhe about which vegetables to buy.
Is this what normal feels like?
Is this what I've been missing?
Probably.
• • •
We moved through the market slowly.
Angy stopped at every single stall. And I mean every single stall.
She asked questions about everything—where the food came from, how it was grown, what recipes it was good for, whether the vendor had any secrets they wanted to share.
I mean what the heck.
She tasted samples with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never tasted food before.
She bargained for better prices—badly, but enthusiastically.
She made friends with at least seven vendors in the first hour alone.
Shenhe followed with the bags, adding items with quiet efficiency. She never spoke unless necessary, but when she did, it was always the right thing—redirecting Angy when she got too distracted, negotiating when Angy's bargaining went off the rails, reminding us what was actually on the list.
I just... walked.
Watched.
Listened.
Wait a minute. Am I Shenhe 2.0?
A fishmonger calling out his catch in a singsong voice. Children running between stalls, weaving through legs, their laughter trailing behind them.
Two old men arguing about politics—something about a treaty signed fifty years ago that neither of them had actually read. A mother bargaining for fabric while her toddler tugged at her skirt, demanding attention, demanding sweets, demanding everything.
Life.
Just... life.
Happening.
Without me.
But I'm here.
Watching.
Part of it.
"Young Master!" Angy appeared at my elbow, materializing out of the crowd like she had some kind of radar for my location. "Look what I found!"
She held up—
Was that a scarf?
"It's a scarf!"
"I can see that."
"It's your hair color! Black! And soft! Feel how soft!"
She pushed it toward me. I touched it. It was soft. Ridiculously, impossibly soft. Like petting a cloud that had been woven into fabric.
"I don't need a scarf."
"Need? NEED?" She looked genuinely scandalized, like I'd just insulted her entire existence.
"This isn't about need! This is about style! About presence! About making sure everyone knows our Young Master has excellent fashion sense! About—"
"Angy." I tried to interrupt.
"—making a STATEMENT! About walking into a room and having people THINK! About—"
"Angy."
"—projecting CONFIDENCE! About—"
"ANGY!."
She stopped. Looked at me.
"I don't need a scarf."
Her face fell. Just slightly. Just for a moment.
Then she straightened. Turned. "Shenhe! Tell him he needs this scarf!"
Shenhe approached through the crowd. Calm. Measured. Looked at the scarf. Looked at me. Looked at Angy.
"He doesn't need it."
Angy's face cycled through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Betrayal. Shock. Anger. More betrayal.
"TRAITOR!"
"But it suits him."
Angy froze.
"It... suits him?"
Shenhe nodded. Just once.
"The color. The texture. It fits."
Angy's face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.
"SEE?! Shenhe agrees! It's settled! You're getting the scarf!"
I'm getting the scarf.
Apparently.
Yeah, this is my life now.
Accepting unsolicited fashion advice from my maids.
In a market.
In another dimension.
By hour two, the bags were full.
Vegetables. Rice. Meat. Fish. Tea. Spices. Some kind of exotic fruit that Angy had been talked into buying by a very persuasive vendor. And one completely unnecessary but very soft black scarf that Angy had insisted on and Shenhe had endorsed.
Are we buying groceries for our whole lifetime or what?
We found a bench near the edge of the market, away from the main crowd.
Sat down. Let the world flow past us.
The bags formed a small mountain at our feet.
Angy leaned her head back, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun. "This was a good idea. I'm brilliant."
"You're something," Shenhe murmured.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"Still taking it."
I watched them. Their easy banter. Their comfort with each other. The way they'd known each other so long that words weren't always necessary.
Seventeen years.
They've been together for seventeen years.
With me.
Watching me.
Taking care of me.
And I never really saw them until now.
"Young Master." Shenhe's voice, quiet. "Are you alright?"
I thought about it.
Really thought.
Am I alright?
My team is dead. Or replaced. Or both. I don't know which is worse.
A girl who can erase existence keeps appearing on my road, asking questions I can't answer.
I have a friend who eats lunch with me on a roof and doesn't ask hard questions.
A cat named Mochi has adopted us, and I think it judges me.
I just spent two hours in a market, bought a scarf I didn't need, and watched my maids argue about tomatoes.
And somehow—
Somehow, I'm okay.
"Yeah." I said it, and meant it more than I'd meant anything in a long time.
"I think I am."
Shenhe nodded. Just once. But there was something in her eyes—relief, maybe. Or hope.
Angy opened one eye. Grinned. "Told you, Young Master. Market air fixes everything."
Does it?
Fix everything?
Probably not.
There are things market air can't fix. Things nothing can fix.
Marcus. The jungle. The thing wearing his face.
The girl with red eyes and the answers I'm afraid to ask for.
The dreams. The memories. The things I can't forget.
Market air couldn't fix any of that.
But for now—
For now, sitting on a bench with two people who cared about me, watching normal people live normal lives—
It was enough.
-----
--