In the dim underbelly of Section 9, where stone walls sweat with damp and torchlight flickers like dying stars. The resting quarters—more accurately, a sprawling maze of old barracks and common rooms—reeked of sweat, stale ale, and the quiet rot of neglect. Beds lined the crumbling walls, some with mattresses half torn, others with nothing more than bundles of old cloth and jackets to sleep on.
In the far corner of one such room, near a rusted water pipe that hissed every few minutes like an exhausted serpent, a boy no older than ten was pressed against the wall.
"Didn't I tell you not to hang around here, runt?" snarled a man—an older Ident, maybe early twenties, face half-shadowed by the low flame of the torch mounted nearby. His breath reeked of old liquor and bitterness. "This ain't your corner."
The boy said nothing, arms hugged tightly around his thin frame. His tunic was too large for him, sleeves dragging past his hands, and his face bore the grime of too many nights slept on stone. He didn't flinch as the man grabbed his collar and shoved him back against the wall again.
Another adult stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with a crooked smirk. "Kid needs to learn. No one gets a free bed down here, not even gutter rats."
The man raised a hand, either to slap or strike—but before his arm could come down, a gust of air cut through the corridor. Not wind, not breath—but the sudden shift in pressure that comes when something powerful moves through space.
Then came the voice, calm but cold.
"Let go."
Both men turned their heads just as a spectral hand—translucent, flickering like pale smoke—wrapped around the raised wrist of the aggressor. It wasn't strong, not visibly so, but the pressure it exerted made the man wince.
Standing at the entrance to the room was Harriet Reacher.
He stepped in slowly, golden eyes faintly glowing in the torchlight, his long coat whispering against the stone floor. His gloved sleeves, as always, hung loose—empty. But behind him, six shimmering hands hovered, gentle in their motion, but tense.
"I said," Harriet repeated, walking forward, "let him go."
The man scoffed, trying to shake his arm free—but the spectral hand refused to budge. His bravado faltered under the boy's unwavering stare.
"He's a waste of space," the second man said, backing up a step. "He doesn't even belong in the—"
Another spectral hand extended, placing itself between the second man and the boy on the ground.
Harriet's voice, while soft, carried a weight it rarely did in public. "We don't get to choose what we're born with. But we choose who we hurt. Every day."
The first man growled low, but finally released the boy's collar. "Tch. This place's going to rot either way."
"Then rot alone," Harriet replied simply.
As the two men trudged off, Harriet crouched down beside the boy, the spectral hand that had defended him now offering a gentle lift to his arm.
"You alright?" he asked, voice softer now. "Did they hit you?"
The boy shook his head. He was clearly shaken, but unharmed.
"You got a place to sleep?" Harriet asked again.
The boy hesitated.
Harriet stood up and gestured with a thumb. "Come on. There's a corner near the south pillar. Less rats. I'll bring you a blanket."
The boy stared at him, uncertain. But when Harriet turned to go, the boy slowly followed.
The hallway narrowed as Harriet led the boy through the twisting underground paths, torchlight catching the damp in the cracked stone walls. They passed old banners, long since faded and curling with age, some torn down to strips of forgotten pride. The boy stuck close behind, silent, his bare feet barely making a sound.
Eventually, they turned a corner and stepped into a broader chamber.
The ceiling here was lower, the walls rounded and lined with old pipework. Blankets and makeshift bedding were spread out in tidy clusters—old crates converted into nightstands, crates stacked into shelves. It wasn't much, but it was warm. There were soft lanterns in the corners and the gentle sound of people breathing in sleep.
But it wasn't empty.
There were a few awake—sitting, talking, playing quiet games with pebbles and old dice. When the boy saw them, he stopped short, shrinking back behind Harriet.
Harriet paused too, glancing back. "Hey," he said gently. "Don't worry about them."
He gestured ahead with his chin. "They're just here to have a good sleep. I'm sure they're all good people."
"Harriet?" came a voice from deeper in the room. A young woman, maybe late teens, looked up from where she was tying a cloth bundle. Her eyes lit up. "You brought someone new?"
"He's not staying long," Harriet replied, stepping aside to let the boy see the room fully. "Just needed a quieter place."
Another person—a stocky man missing a few teeth but with a wide grin—raised a hand lazily in greeting. "Any friend of yours, Reacher, is good with us."
"More like I'm their friend," Harriet muttered with a shrug.
The boy looked up at him.
Harriet lowered his voice and knelt slightly. "They're not perfect. But they're trying. Just like you are."
The boy nodded, hesitantly. Harriet guided him to a clean patch of floor near an old crate with a folded blanket on top. He unfurled it with one of his spectral hands—smooth, practiced, gentle—and set it down.
"Sleep here," he said. "I'll check on you later."
"Wait," the boy asked. "Why're you helping me?"
Harriet paused for a moment, then turned back with a smile.
"Why shouldn't I help you?"
There was a quiet nod from one of the others in the room.
"That's how I met him too," said a tall, thin man leaning against the wall. "I was in the infirmary. Thought I wasn't worth much. This kid—" he jerked a thumb at Harriet—"told me the only thing broken was my spirit. Then he made me eat five bowls of soup until I passed out."
A few quiet laughs followed, and even the boy cracked a brief smile.
Harriet lifted a hand as if waving, though his sleeves still hung loose.
"Don't go making me sound like a saint," he said.
"You're no saint," another older voice replied with a chuckle. "But you do keep showing up when it counts."
Harriet just shook his head and turned to leave, walking through the room as hands rose in small waves, smiles exchanged. He didn't bask in it—didn't walk like someone who believed he deserved their gratitude.
But it followed him anyway.
Not because he wanted it.
But because people remembered the way he made them feel
Seen.
Capable.
Human.
Harriet moved quietly through the room, his steps light, almost reverent—as if he didn't want to disturb the worn peace stitched together here. A pair of twins tugged on his coat as he passed, both barely taller than his waist. He turned without hesitation, kneeling low so his golden eyes met theirs.
"Is it okay if we borrow your storybook again?" the smaller twin asked, clutching the edge of Harriet's sleeve with sticky fingers.
Harriet's brow arched, playful. "Only if you promise to stop skipping the sad chapters."
The taller twin huffed. "But those are boring!"
Harriet chuckled. "Sad things teach you where to look for the light. You don't always have to enjoy it, but it's good to know it's there."
From inside his coat, one of his spectral hands unwrapped a small bundle of cloth, revealing a battered, hand-stitched book. He handed it over carefully. "Bring it back by tomorrow, alright?"
The twins nodded in unison and darted off toward a quiet corner of the room, the book held between them like a shared treasure.
Harriet stood again, stretching a little with a sigh. He winced as one of his legs stiffened—leftover soreness from training, maybe. Or carrying four unconscious Idents through the air like sacks of grain. Either way, he didn't complain.
On the far side of the room, an older woman was struggling to sit upright, coughing into a rag that had seen better days. Harriet made his way over and gently lowered her back down with a soft nudge from one of his invisible hands.
"Too much air down here," she muttered with a smile, raspy but fond.
"You say that every time," Harriet replied as he gently tucked the blanket tighter around her frail body.
"And every time you bring me that bitter root tea like it's a miracle cure."
Harriet gave a crooked grin. "It might not cure you, but at least it tastes like something's working."
He didn't need to ask; another hand had already reached into his satchel, lifting a warm flask and unscrewing the lid. The scent of earthy herbs drifted out. He poured some into a wooden cup resting by her bed.
"Thank you." she said after sipping, her voice a little steadier now. "You're the only one who remembers."
Harriet looked away for a moment. "I just… don't like forgetting."
There was silence for a beat. Not a hollow one—but a full, soft quiet that settled like a comforting weight in the room. The kind of quiet that meant things were better than before.
He rose and glanced around again. People here weren't whole. They were tired, some broken, many forgotten.
But they were breathing easier when he was near.
They weren't afraid to laugh. To speak. To hope.
As he reached the corridor again, a younger man nodded at him from the shadows. "You're not what I expected when they said a kid was cleaning up Section 9."
Harriet didn't respond immediately.
Then "I'm not cleaning it up," he said softly. "I'm just... keeping it from falling apart until the right people show up."
He offered a half-smile before turning away, the hallway swallowing his steps.
No triumph in his voice. No pride.
And that quiet, weightless strength that lit up the worn corners of the underground like a single, steady flame.
The cold breath of night curled around Harriet's collar as he emerged from the underground. The creaking, rusted gate that separated the depths of Section 9 from the surface moaned in protest behind him. Stars pricked the sky—dim, muted by the dust and smoke that forever hovered above the old Colosseum. From here, its cracked pillars and crumbling archways looked like the broken bones of a forgotten beast. Silent, unmoving, but not yet dead.
Harriet took a deep breath. The night air was always a bit cleaner than the air below. It carried a chill, sure, but also a certain clarity. Like it hadn't given up yet.
He found Garron leaning against the outer wall of the arena, a flask in one hand, and a lit lantern sitting on a crate beside him. The lantern's glow cast his hulking figure in shades of amber and shadow, his head tilted back as he stared lazily at the stars.
"You're late," Garron muttered without looking down, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. "Or maybe I'm just early. Time's slippery when you're drinking."
"You said midnight," Harriet said, stepping closer. "It's three minutes to."
"Then I suppose I stand corrected," Garron said with a low chuckle, finally glancing down at him. "You ready for your grand lesson from a washed-up Grade 2?"
Harriet offered no sarcasm, no smug grin. Just a firm nod. "I am."
Garron studied him for a moment. His eyes weren't tired tonight. Just… distant. Like they were watching something only he could see.
He took a swig from the flask and screwed the cap back on, placing it beside the lantern.
"Alright then," he said, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. "First rule: Strength doesn't come from power. It comes from knowing what not to fight."
Harriet raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
Garron smirked. "You wanted a lesson. I'm starting with the easy ones."
The man turned, motioning Harriet to follow as he stepped onto the Colosseum floor. The ground was cracked, dust rising with each step. Moonlight streamed down in silver columns through the shattered roof above, painting the fighting ring in faded grandeur.
"This place was once the heart of Section 9," Garron said. "Warriors from every corner trained here. Now it's where we send green kids to punch each other until something breaks."
Harriet walked beside him, golden eyes scanning the ring. "Why didn't anyone try to fix it?"
Garron stopped walking. His voice dropped. "Because no one stayed long enough to care."
Harriet was quiet.
Then he asked, "Why did you stay?"
Garron didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the arena walls, where old banners hung in tatters, long bleached of color.
"Because once… I believed I could change it."
"And now?"
Garron looked down at him, eyes a little glassy, but serious. "Now I'm just waiting to see if someone else can."
Harriet didn't smile. He didn't reply. He just walked to the center of the ring, his boots brushing dust from ancient stone.
Garron followed with a grunt, stretching out one arm. "Lesson two: Everything has weight. Your body, your choices… your regrets. Learn how to carry all of them."
With a snap, Garron's boots shifted, his stance widening. The air changed.
Even Harriet felt it.
The drunken shell that was Garron Veldt peeled back just a little—and beneath it, there was something massive. Something dangerous.
"Come at me," Garron said. "Hit me like you've got something worth proving."
Harriet clenched his fists. His invisible hands flickered into being.
And then, without a word, he charged.
The first lesson from a Grade 2 Ident had begun.
The night deepened, and the arena stood silent, save for the shuffling of dust and the low hum of moonlight filtering through fractured stone. A thousand invisible fists surged toward Garron Veldt—each one guided by Harriet's will, all honed in unison. They tore through the air like spectral comets, a hundred arms of intent, of need, of raw determination, hammering at the colossal wall before them.
But Garron didn't move from his stance.
He pivoted his foot once.
His shoulders shifted—an arc of effortless motion, and then—
CRACK.
One punch. A second. A third. Then a blur of hundreds.
Every blow that approached him shattered in the wind, countered by fists as heavy as falling stars, guided by instinct sharpened on the battlefield and tempered in alcohol. It was an art form. Garron didn't block. He erased. He danced with the impossible, his movements too wide to be precise—yet each was a perfect response.
To anyone watching, it was like watching a storm battle a hurricane.
The ground beneath Harriet's feet fractured, his power trying to find traction against the sheer scale of Garron's presence. His breath began to race—faster, harder—until he finally broke off the barrage, panting, hands trembling, sweat already dripping down his back.
He hadn't landed a single blow.
Garron was still standing. Barely out of breath.
He exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulder.
"Too slow," Garron said simply. "Not because you're weak. But because you're trying to fight like a man who hasn't accepted what he is yet."
Harriet narrowed his eyes. "What I am?"
Garron stepped closer. "Let me show you something."
He reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment—Harriet's Ident application letter. The wax seal of Innocent association was still faintly visible, smeared by age and booze.
"Jelle Binger wrote this, didn't she?" Garron asked, waving it.
Harriet blinked. "Y-Yeah. How do you—?"
"I trained with her once. She doesn't write unless it matters."
He tapped the paper with a thick finger.
"You didn't mention it aloud, but she did. You've got a [Great Artist's Corpse Part] embedded in your skull. Left eye, right?"
Harriet stiffened, one hand unconsciously drifting near his cheek. "I… haven't figured out how to use it."
"I know." Garron tossed the letter back into the crate and stepped into the lantern light, shadows crawling up his face. "That's why I'm telling you what you won't find in books."
He raised a finger.
"Lesson three. There's something in this world more ancient than any sword or spell, more sacred than kingdoms or creeds. We call it Singularität. The one. The singular. Your soul's scream, made real. The moment you were born into this world, you already know that it is Singularität."
The wind rolled over the broken Colosseum, whispering through fractured stone.
"Most people never awaken theirs. Some inherit one, usually by blood, or tragedy. But there's another way—pushing one emotion to its final breath. Rage. Joy. Hope. Doesn't matter. If you carry it far enough, deep enough, it'll crack reality open for you."
Harriet listened, still catching his breath.
Garron's voice dropped to a hush, like he was telling a forbidden truth. "The Great Artist's Corpse Part… that's different. It's both a gift and a curse. It doesn't come from your soul—but it awakens what's already there."
He pointed at Harriet's chest. "That part of the artist, it's not just an eye. It's a memory. A world of its own. When you finally tap into it… when you accept what you are…"
He clenched his hand into a fist, knuckles cracking. "It'll answer you. Maybe not the way you want, but it will."
Harriet looked down.
Garron tilted his head. "You're not fighting me, Harriet. You're fighting the mirror. The one thing even your ghostly hands can't grasp."
The words hung heavy between them, suspended in the dim glow of the lantern and the silence of the old Colosseum. And then Garron cracked his neck again and muttered—
"Alright. One more time. But this time… don't try to win. Try to see."
Harriet took a step forward. Then another.
The night air, crisp and still, seemed to sharpen around him. The broken Colosseum, with its crumbling stone and overgrown cracks, fell away from his awareness. In this moment, it was just him and Garron. No crowd. No sky. No war drums or cheers. Just the weight of expectation… and the silence of understanding.
Harriet closed his eyes.
"Try to see," Garron had said.
But see what?
He reached inward, further than before. Past the reflexes he had trained. Past the countless invisible hands his body summoned. Past the memories of fights, of survival, of screaming without words. He searched for something more than motion—he searched for that thread that Garron had spoken of. The thing inside that wasn't just power, but meaning.
And then—he opened his eyes.
He moved.
A flicker of wind broke around him. Invisible fists bloomed in every direction, each a perfect extension of his will. They flowed forward not as a storm, but as a statement. A question, flung out into the dark.
Garron didn't move.
He simply was. A presence too vast for the ground beneath him. He stood like a monument, forged of things Harriet didn't yet understand.
Again, Harriet's fists darted, striking from all angles—high, low, spinning through the dark like dancers in shadow. He could feel the movements. He could feel the flow.
But he couldn't see.
CRACK.
One after another, Garron countered. Each invisible strike was unraveled before it made contact, deflected by impossibly timed jabs or collapsed by the sheer weight of his presence. His movements weren't fast—they were inevitable.
Harriet's breath hitched.
He tried again. And again. But there was no opening.
No pattern.
No flaw.
He was chasing the tail of a beast whose body was made of oceans and centuries.
Then—bam!
One of Garron's fists curved in through Harriet's own guard. It didn't hit his face—it just stopped inches away, like a father catching his son mid-sprint.
Harriet froze.
"Still not there," Garron said, lowering his arm.
"I… I tried," Harriet breathed, shoulders slumping.
"I know," Garron replied, quieter now. "That's the point."
Harriet stared at the ground, jaw clenched. The scent of sweat and stone filled his lungs.
"I thought if I just… pushed harder, I'd reach it."
"You don't break through by force," Garron murmured. "You peel away. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but truth."
Harriet didn't respond.
Garron walked past him, the sound of boots on dirt echoing like thunder in the night.
"You'll get there, kid," he said without turning around. "But don't try to rush into the sky when you've still got one foot in the mud. Learn to see the mud. That's where your Singularität is hiding."
Harriet stood in silence, eyes locked on the faint imprint his steps had left on the cracked floor.
He had failed.
But something inside stirred—not despair, not even frustration.
A quiet thought.
"Not yet."
And somewhere deep behind his golden eyes, his left eye itched—just for a moment. A strange warmth settled beneath the skin.
But Harriet ignored it for now.
He had a lot more mud to see.
"…How do you know so much about the Great Artist's corpse parts?"
Garron paused mid-step, his back to Harriet. For a long moment, he said nothing—just stood there beneath the pale moonlight, the amber in his bottle reflecting silver now.
Then, his voice came—low, like a memory drifting in from another time.
"…My wife," Garron said. "Klara's mother. She carried the right eye."
Harriet blinked. "She… had one too?"
Garron tilted his head back, just enough that the starlight caught the weathered creases beneath his eyes. "Yeah. She had the sight of the horizon, the eye that glimpsed unfinished things. Paintings never drawn. Melodies never sung. Futures never lived."
There was something wistful in the way he spoke—something fragile, buried under his usual gruffness and slurred tone. A tired man remembering a world that no longer existed.
"We used to spend every waking hour chasing the meanings behind those corpse parts," Garron continued. "What they were, where they came from. She said they belonged to someone who could change the shape of the world through their soul alone. But..."
He took another swig, then chuckled bitterly.
"We never figured it all out. Just got lost in the wonder of it. I guess, in the end, that was enough for her."
Harriet stepped forward slowly. "What happened to her?"
Another pause.
"War happened," Garron said simply. "The kind that doesn't make headlines. The kind that burns slow, until you forget it was ever burning."
The quiet hung heavy.
"I still see her sometimes," he said, lifting the bottle and shaking it gently. "In the bottom of a glass. In Klara's eyes. In the way people reach out to each other, even when it's easier to walk away."
Harriet's throat tightened. He didn't know what to say. Maybe there wasn't anything to say.
Garron finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable under the dim torchlight. But there was a weight in his stare—a man who had seen too much, lost too much, and still stood, swaying only because he chose to.
"She used to say the corpse parts don't awaken with strength," he murmured. "They awaken with meaning. You'll understand that… eventually."
And just like that, he walked off into the night, the clink of his flask the only sound echoing in the hollow bones of the Colosseum.
Harriet remained where he stood, alone now, watching the stars flicker above the crumbling ruin. His invisible hands flexed once, then stilled.
"…Meaning, huh."
Harriet was on his way back, the night air following him like a silent companion down the worn stairs of Section 9's underground. The old stone walls, slick with damp and echoing with distant snoring, seemed less like a home and more like a forgotten beast breathing in its sleep.
At a bend in the corridor, under the flickering orange hue of a dying torch, he spotted Klara sitting on a crooked bench carved from the wall itself. Her notebook was closed on her lap. She was staring at the flame like it might answer something.
"You waiting for the torch to tell you the secrets of the world?" Harriet asked, voice light.
Klara looked up. "Just hoping it doesn't go out before I finish thinking."
He chuckled, slowing his pace to sit beside her. "What are you thinking about?"
"…About how weird my dad is."
Harriet grinned. "That's what I said too."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "No, seriously. He told you about the corpse parts, didn't he?"
"Yeah," Harriet nodded, the image of Garron sitting in the torchlight, half-drunk and speaking like the cosmos whispered in his ear, still vivid. "It was kind of beautiful, in a chaotic, tragic kind of way."
Klara rested her chin in her hand. "He wasn't always like this, you know. There was a time he stood straighter than anyone. Spoke less, did more. My mother—she used to say he was made of iron, but his heart was softer than the sky before a storm."
Harriet glanced at her. "That doesn't sound like the man who drinks through half his sentences."
"Yeah. That part came later. After she passed, he changed. Not suddenly. More like… a slow fading. Like watching someone forget the color of the sky one day at a time."
The hallway went quiet except for the creaking of wood and stone settling.
"I never hated him for it," Klara said, voice quieter. "But I wanted to. Sometimes I still do."
Harriet let the silence hold for a moment before speaking. "Do you think he'll find his way again?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "He's strong enough to shatter the world, but… not brave enough to step back into it."
Harriet leaned back against the wall. "That's the hardest part sometimes."
"What is?"
"Choosing to move again, even when you've convinced yourself there's no point."
Klara looked over at him. "Do you say stuff like that a lot?"
"Yeah?" he smiled, almost surprised.
"Yeah. You talk like someone who's been through a hundred stories but still believes the ending can be good."
He laughed softly. "Well, if I stop believing that, who else will?"
She didn't answer, but the quiet was warmer this time.
Harriet stood and stretched. "I should sleep before someone I know forces me to sleep even though he is very far from here."
"Too late," Klara smirked.
"Goodnight, Klara."
"Goodnight, Harriet."
Harriet walked away from the dim glow of the corridor, footsteps soft against the cracked stone beneath him. The air in the lower halls of Section 9 always carried a stale chill—faint traces of metal, old water, and dust stirred with breath and memory.
As he passed by the familiar turns and faded murals long since worn beyond meaning, he slowed his pace. A faint humming came from above—pipes shifting, groaning like tired beasts.
He ran a gloved hand along the wall. It was cool to the touch, rough with forgotten carvings. Someone had once tried to beautify these ruins. Someone had once believed this place could be more.
He kept walking.
The sleeping quarters were ahead—a narrow row of bunks tucked behind thin curtains made of patchwork cloth. Some snores reached his ears. Others were silent, their occupants restless. He moved quietly past them, nodding at the few who stirred, giving a silent wave to a boy curled around a threadbare pillow.
At his space, he pulled back his curtain and sat. The mat beneath him was thin, but he'd long since gotten used to it.
He didn't lie down right away.
Instead, he glanced up at the ceiling, where a single wooden beam ran across overhead, cracked through the center but still holding firm.
He reached out with one invisible hand and gently flicked the lantern beside him, dimming the light. His other spectral hand tugged the curtain mostly closed, leaving just a sliver of space where the torchlight from the hallway trickled through.
His eyes lingered on that gap in the curtain for a little longer than usual.
Then, finally, he lay down.
Tomorrow would come.