The safe-house kitchen smelled of burnt copper and cheap synth-coffee.
03:14 a.m. blinked red on the wall clock, its digits half-dead.
Deeprd pushed the door with her shoulder—the left one, still warm from the rail-round—and swallowed a hiss when the hinge squealed.
Inside, only the stove bulb burned, throwing a cone of bruised yellow over the cracked linoleum.
Kael sat at the table, sharpening the ceramic blade he loved more than city permits allowed.
The stone scraped, scraped, paused.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“Traffic,” she answered.
Her voice cracked like thin ice; she tasted iron.
Kael’s thumb tested the edge, a bead of blood rising dark against his callus.
He flicked it off, finally met her eyes.
“Blue’s not your colour when it’s leaking.”
Deeprd glanced down: cobalt blood had seeped through the carbon-weave, blooming like spilled ink across her ribs.
She shrugged with the good shoulder.
“Still breathing.”
“For now.”
He stood, chair legs screeching.
The blade clattered beside the coffee tin, steel on steel, and then his hands were on her collar, peeling fabric before she could twist away.
The wound hissed—air on raw flesh—and the smell of singed skin curled between them.
Deeprd sucked air through her teeth.
“Kael, it’s—”
“Shut up.”
His fingers probed, gentle despite the order.
She felt the tremor in them, a vibration no spy-scope could fake.
“You took a high-velocity to the seam. Two centimetres left, it would’ve opened your lung.”
“Missed me,” she whispered.
He stepped back, wiped his hands on his thighs, leaving twin streaks of blue.
“Sit. Coffee’s still hot.”
She lowered herself onto the chair, spine creaking louder than the wood.
Kael poured; black liquid splashed, thin as oil.
Steam rose, carrying the chemical bite of over-replicated beans.
He nudged the mug toward her.
“Drink. Then we dig the slug out.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the heat bite her palms.
“No clinic?”
“Clinics ask questions.”
He lifted the ceramic knife, its edge a line of pale moonlight.
“Besides, you owe me scars.”
Deeprd huffed a laugh that hurt.
“Add it to the tally.”
Outside, a mag-lev rumbled overhead, shaking dust from the ceiling.
They waited in the vibration, listening to the city’s iron pulse.

Ten minutes later the bathroom bulb flickered like a dying heartbeat.
Deeprd sat on the toilet lid, shirt peeled to her waist, skin prickling where cold air kissed burn and blood alike.
The mirror reflected two ghosts: her cobalt torso smeared rust-red under iodine, Kael behind her, sleeves rolled, forearms corded.
He set a pair of needle-nose pliers—salvaged, sterilised in cheap vodka—into a chipped bowl.
The metal clink sounded final.
“Turn,” he said.
She pivoted, knees brushing his.
The round had buried itself in the collar-bone seam, a dark coin under swollen flesh.
Kael dabbed iodine; brown rivers ran to her elbow.
“Bite this.”
He offered a folded dish-towel.
She shook her head.
“Just do it.”
His jaw tightened, but he obeyed.
Pliers kissed skin, then bit.
Pain flared white, erasing thought.
Deeprd’s hands found the porcelain sink edge, fingers whitening.
A low sound escaped—half growl, half whimper.
Kael’s voice cut through the haze.
“Almost… got it.”
Metal scraped bone; she felt the tug, the give, the pop.
The slug came free, a mangled bead of tungsten, and clinked into the bowl beside the pliers.
Blood followed—one thick cobalt drop that refused to dilute when Kael poured water over it.
He pressed gauze, taped it rough.
His hands were steady now, but she caught the tremor returning as he washed the pliers, water pink then clear.
She exhaled, long and slow, forehead resting against the cool mirror glass.
“Thanks,” she breathed.
Kael dried his hands, voice low.
“Next time bring the bastard’s head instead of his bullet.”
She turned, managed a crooked grin.
“Heads are heavy.”
He didn’t smile back.
“So’s a body bag.”
Silence stretched, elastic and sore.
The bulb flickered again, then steadied, as if deciding they still deserved light.

Dawn leaked through the bedroom blinds in thin razors of grey and violet.
They lay on top of the covers, boots still laced, too tired to pretend cleanliness mattered.
The ceiling bore a map of old water stains; Deeprd traced them with her eyes, naming continents only she could see.
Kael’s head rested on her good shoulder, his palm splayed across her ribs, counting them like prayer beads.
Outside, rain started, a hush of needles on tin.
He spoke first, voice rough from disuse.
“What if tomorrow you don’t come back?”
The question hung, a noose of silk.
Deeprd watched the ceiling, not him.
“Then you won’t wait up.”
“Don’t.”
He lifted onto an elbow, eyes storm-coloured in the half-light.
“I need the real answer.”
She swallowed, tasted copper and coffee.
“When I was small, snow fell blue on our roof. First time, I thought the sky was bleeding. My mother said colour didn’t matter—cold still killed.”
A pause; rain filled it.
“I go out there because the snow keeps falling. Someone has to watch the colour.”
Kael’s fingers tightened on her ribs.
“That’s not an answer, that’s a poem.”
She met his gaze.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
His throat worked, words dying there.
He lowered his head to her chest, ear over her heart as if checking the math.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, felt the faint scar where a glaive had kissed his skull years ago.
Outside, a neon sign across the alley flickered cyan, painting their skin electric.
Neither moved to close the blinds.
Time passed; the rain eased into mist.
Kael’s breathing evened, but she knew he wasn’t asleep—his thumb kept tracing the same rib, back and forth, a Morse code without translation.
She spoke into the dim.
“If I don’t come back, sell the ceramic blade. Buy something that doesn’t remember me.”
His reply came muffled against her skin.
“Blades don’t forget. People do.”
She had no answer for that.
The room held them, two worn weapons resting edge to edge, while the city woke in a growl of engines and sirens.

When the clock ticked 05:59, Kael rose.
He moved like someone who’d decided something in the dark.
At the dresser he loaded the last flechette magazine, each dart clicking home with a lover’s patience.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
The sound was clean, irrevocable.
Deeprd watched from the bed, throat raw.
He slapped the mag into the sidearm, racked the slide, set the safety.
Metal on polymer, the language of certainty.
Without turning he said, “Breakfast at Riko’s after you’re back. I’ll order the bitter noodles.”
She pushed upright, winced, smiled anyway.
“Make it extra spice.”
He clipped the pistol under his coat, blade sliding into the boot sheath.
At the door he paused, hand on the jamb, silhouetted by the corridor’s dying bulb.
“Watch the colour, Deeprd. Then come home.”
She saluted with two fingers to her brow, cobalt smear and all.
He left without looking back, boots fading down the stairwell.
The door clicked shut.
Deeprd sat alone, listening to the city inhale, exhale, ready to swallow her again.
On the bedside table the tungsten slug caught the first true ray of sunrise and held it, a tiny star burning itself cold.

Elf's Warrior Lover — The 04:17 Protocol: Memories of Mnemosyne

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