A man walks in, dragging something—no, someone—by the arm.
Small. Human. A girl.
Aster's world narrows to a pinprick.
She can't be older than ten. Her clothes are ripped, her lip split, and she's crying silently—the kind of crying that doesn't ask for help anymore. Just endurance.
But that's not what holds Aster's focus. He can feel it.
That familiar, acid-coiled taste in the air.
The same crushing, coiling wrongness he's felt for as long as he can remember.
A Void Wyrm.
Matter once showed Aster how to see into the Astral Plane while still tethered, and he releases the sight now, viewing her without the Material Filter. The air around her warps like a dying star. Threads of karma coil and snap around her spirit like frayed wires.
Every wrong turn she's ever taken—he can feel it, woven into her. Her ending up here isn't a coincidence. This isn't bad luck.
It's engineering. The wyrm's influence threading through her fate like poison lace, pushing her down every wrong street, every dark corner, until she landed here. Like him.
The room blurs as tears fill his eyes.
Because he's looking at himself.
Ten years old. No shoes. Starving. Cold. Left behind in a world that didn't want him.
She has no Matter waiting in the wings, weaving karma into her fate until he can save her. No one to pull her out.
And Frikkie?
He barely even looks at her.
"New stock," he says, almost bored. "This one's got pedigree. Parents were pretty high up. But they went bankrupt, got unlucky, probably stepped on the wrong political toe. Now she's mine."
Aster can't breathe.
He has the money. He can walk out. Live. Train. Fulfil Matter's plans. Build his strength.
And leave her here to rot.
He looks at her again.
And something in him cracks.
All those years running, surviving, clawing for inches—and now, for once, he has a choice. Not between survival and death, but between surviving alone… and making sure someone else doesn't have to.
His hands shake.
No one's coming for her.
His throat clenches.
No Matter. No miracles.
His heart pounds.
But there's me.
The vow doesn't need words. It carves itself into him like a brand.
He cannot let her vanish. Even if it costs him everything. Even if it buries him in debt again. Even if it ruins every hope he has of peace. Because what's the point of being saved if he can't be someone else's reason to live?
He stands slowly.
Frikkie arches an eyebrow. "Finally found your voice?"
"I'll pay," Aster says, voice low, steady. "The R1.8 million. Now."
Frikkie smiles wide. "That's my boy."
Aster doesn't blink. "But I want the girl too."
The grin falters.
"You'll get R1.8 now. I'll give you R700 thousand for her. One week."
Frikkie tilts his head. "You want to buy her?"
"No. I want to unwrite her sentence."
Frikkie lets out a breathless chuckle. "You really are something else, kid."
He stands, walks over to the girl, and kneels beside her like a parody of empathy. "This one's special. You know that, right? Anathi's her name. Her parents? Good people." He chuckles to himself. "Or were, at least. Very high-up political figure. But too good. Made all the wrong enemies in their lives. Now that they're gone, I'm sure I could find one or two of those they crossed who'd want some revenge."
He looks back at Aster, expression sharpening. "I was gonna rent her out by the hour. First to the people who hated her family. Then… whoever. You know how it is. The city has needs."
Aster doesn't respond. His nails dig into his palm until he feels the skin break.
"The price for her is R1.2 million," Frikkie says flatly. "Non-negotiable."
Aster looks at the girl.
At the thing inside her.
Then back at Frikkie, face neutral, tone tense. "Okay. Let's talk numbers."
Frikkie's eyes narrow.
"I'll pay the R1.8 million," Aster says. "Now. Full amount. Bond transfers—I can do it over my phone. You walk us out that door. No goons. No bruises. No follow-up threats."
Frikkie grins like a man already planning a follow-up threat.
"Alright," he says slowly. "And what about the girl?"
Aster doesn't look at her. Not directly. "R1.2 million. One week. Same terms. But she walks with me now."
Frikkie lets out a low whistle, then leans back in his chair, fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk like he's weighing the beat of Aster's heartbeat against the weight of the potential payout.
The man sits in silence for another moment, then pushes back from the desk and stands.
He extends a hand. "One week. You miss the payment… I own both of you."
Aster rises, takes the hand, and shakes it once.
"Deal."
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Frikkie nods to the brute still holding the girl. "Let her go."
She stumbles as the grip around her collar vanishes, wide-eyed and trembling. Aster reaches for her before he thinks better of it and steadies her by the arm.
She doesn't flinch.
She doesn't cry.
She just stares up at him like he's broken the laws of physics.
________________________________________
The drive home feels carved from glass—brittle, silent, one pothole away from shattering.
Aster sits in the passenger seat, jaw clenched. Frikkie drives one-handed, the other draped casually across the wheel. His smirk hasn't left since they pulled away from the warehouse.
In the back seat, Anathi sits small and still, her back pressed against the door, as if sheer physics could get her further from the men in front. She doesn't cry. Doesn't fidget. Just sits there with her hands clamped together in her lap, fingers twitching faintly—little spasms of terror she hasn't yet learned to suppress.
Aster risks a glance in the rearview mirror. Their eyes don't meet. She doesn't look up once. He doesn't blame her. He sure as hell doesn't look at Frikkie either.
They pull up to No. 7, Heart Lane, and Frikkie takes his sweet time cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, eyes hopping from Aster to the girl like he can't decide if Aster's gone noble or just completely off his meds.
Then, with a click of the locks, he says, "R1.2 million. End of the week."
Aster doesn't respond.
Frikkie leans across the console, lowering his voice. "And if you try to screw me, well…" His grin returns, cold and hollow. "She'll be earning her keep. You both will."
He pulls off with a roar of the engine, disappearing into the night like a migraine that promises to come back stronger.
Aster turns to find Anathi standing on the sidewalk, still as stone, looking at the house like it might bite her. Her posture screams run. But her feet don't budge.
He doesn't blame her.
Aster clears his throat. "This is, uh... home."
She flinches.
He winces. Right. Wrong choice of words.
"Not home home," he corrects, fumbling. "I mean—it's my place. Temporarily. Yours too, if you want. Or need. Or—" He stops himself before he can dig any deeper.
Anathi doesn't respond. She doesn't even look at him. Her hands are clenched at her sides, fingers white-knuckled. She's trying to keep her breathing quiet—the trained kind of quiet that sets off alarm bells.
"You're safe," Aster says gently. He takes a step back, giving her space. "No one's gonna hurt you here. Least of all me."
Her eyes flick between Aster and the house—every glance a calculation, every twitch a defence.
Aster pauses by the step. "No one's going to hurt you," he says softly. "Not anymore."
She doesn't answer.
He scratches the back of his neck, cursing himself. Too vague. Too generic. That's not how you talk to someone who's just been sold like livestock.
"Look, I know you don't know me. I don't expect you to trust me. Hell, if I were you, I'd be halfway to Durban by now. But I swear to you, on everything I have left, you're safe here."
Still nothing. She clutches her arms, shrinking into herself.
Aster steps toward the door and opens it, casting a rectangle of warm light across the pavement.
"I'm making tea," he adds. "Rooibos. With milk and a little honey. You don't have to talk. You don't even have to stay. But it's cold out here, and I'd feel better knowing you weren't freezing while trying to decide if I'm a psychopath."
That gets a reaction. Her eyes lift, uncertain, wary. But something in his voice—maybe the clumsy attempt at humour, or just the warmth of the light shining out the doorway—cracks the surface of her doubt. Her head twitches, barely perceptible. Not a nod. But not nothing.
Aster backs up a step, holding the door open with his foot, and walks inside. He doesn't look behind him. He just moves through the hallway into the kitchen, flicking on lights, filling the kettle, pulling out some tea with more ceremony than necessary.
When he hears the faint creak of the front door—then the softer sound of it closing—he exhales quietly and busies himself with pulling down two mugs.
She hovers near the threshold of the kitchen. Just standing there, arms still wrapped around herself, eyes darting to the corners.
Aster turns slowly, holding up a mug like it's some kind of peace treaty. "Here. No tricks. It's just tea. I put in honey, but I can make you another if it's too sweet."
She blinks at him. Her expression doesn't change. But she steps forward—small, deliberate—like each inch costs her something.
She takes the mug and backs up three steps before sitting on the edge of the dining chair like she expects it to vanish beneath her.
He tries not to look. Not too directly. Just let her sit. Let her breathe.
Aster returns to the stove, finishing their dinner—white, garlicky, some shredded chicken.
And then—finally—she speaks.
"Why did you buy me?"
Her voice is tiny. Like she's learned the hard way not to let too much of it out.
Aster freezes. Spoon in hand. Sauce halfway prepped. He turns, meeting her eyes.
"I didn't buy you," he says.
She doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just keeps her gaze locked on him, every inch of her body screaming that she doesn't believe him.
"I mean, yes, I paid to get you out of there," he continues, turning the heat down so the sauce won't scorch. "But not because I wanted something from you. I saw what was happening—what they were going to do—and I couldn't let it happen."
She stares at him for a long beat.
"You spent R1.2 million."
"I did."
Her jaw tightens. "No one spends that much for nothing."
Aster sighs. "Yeah. That's fair."
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms.
Anathi lowers her eyes again.
"I don't want to be a debt."
"You're not."
She doesn't answer, but her fingers curl tighter around the mug.
Aster tries to explain. "I didn't buy you because I wanted something from you. I bought you because I've been where you are. Not exactly, but close enough. And... someone stepped in when I didn't think anyone would. He gave up everything for me when I didn't think I deserved it. I guess I'm trying to pay that forward."
Finally, her voice comes—small, barely audible over the bubbling water.
"But why me?"
He pauses.
"I don't know," he admits. "Felt like the universe threw us into the same nightmare, and I couldn't walk away from that. Not this time."
Her head tilts slightly, cautious curiosity flickering beneath the fear. "This time?"
Aster smiles bitterly. "Let's just say I've got a long history of running. But lately, I've been trying this new thing. It's called... not doing that."
A silence settles between them—gentler now.
"You said..." Her fingers flex on the mug. "That you've been where I am. Is that true? Or is that just something people say?"
He turns toward her, more serious now.
"It's true," he says. "There's something about me. I called it a curse. It's made everything in my life go sideways. Like no matter what I try to do, the worst version of things finds me. It warps the path. Makes bad luck look like fate."
He sees something flicker in her eyes—a flash of mirrored understanding. She wouldn't call it the same thing, but she knows it. The Wyrm.
Aster nods slowly. "I think they might be the same thing... We just call it different names."
Anathi looks down again, breathing a little faster.
"I'm not going to try and explain it all tonight," Aster adds quickly. "Honestly, I'm still figuring it out myself. But I know someone—someone smarter than me, and a lot less... broken. She can help, if you want to talk to her."
Anathi doesn't respond. But she takes another sip of tea. And this time, she doesn't flinch when he walks past her to grab two plates.
Aster sets a bowl of pasta in front of her and takes the seat across the table—not too close, not too far.
They eat mostly in silence. Like two strangers sharing the same shelter during a storm, both pretending the thunder outside isn't real.
Anathi picks at her pasta at first, eyes flicking to him between each bite, as if trying to guess the angle of this kindness. But hunger eventually wins over suspicion. She doesn't say much, but she cleans the plate with quiet efficiency.
Aster doesn't press her. He's seen that look before. He's worn it. The first hot meal after a long stretch of fear always makes you feel like it comes with strings, even if no one's pulling them.
When she finishes, she mumbles something that might be a thank-you. Or maybe just a sound to fill the space. Either way, he takes it.
He nods toward the living room. "TV's all yours if you want to veg out a bit. I'll do the dishes."
She hesitates in the kitchen doorway, glancing down the hall like it might disappear if she moves wrong. Then, without a word, she pads toward the couch and sits on the farthest cushion, grabs the remote, and scrolls through the channels until something stupid and brightly coloured flickers to life—arms hugged around her knees.
Aster wipes his hands dry and follows a few minutes later, glancing at what she's watching.
It's some ridiculous show—loud characters with even louder hair arguing about food while fighting in a dimension made entirely of soup.
"Cartoons," he comments. "The universal sedative."
She stares at him as if she's expecting him to grow horns.
"I'll be upstairs. I need to..." He coughs. "Umm, do taxes. Grown-up things. You don't need to stay. But I'd prefer if you do—you're safe here."
She watches him for a moment, as if waiting for the lie to fall out of his mouth. When it doesn't, she simply nods.
Not thanks. Not forgiveness.
Just a small, cautious nod.
"You can have whichever room you want," he says. "Except the attic. That's my weird little magic box."
She looks up, blinking. "Magic?"
He gives her a tired smile. "Long story."
She nods, returning to her cartoons.
He leaves her in front of the TV, staring into the equivalent of ADHD and high philosophy, hoping she'll be okay by herself.
He pauses at the bottom step, glancing back once—not at her, but at the moment. At the stillness he's built from the scraps of what he has left. It's not much. It won't last.
But it has weight. And for now, she has that.
With the day's weight and its consequences settling on his shoulders, Aster climbs the stairs to the brass circle that will pull him back into the Astral Plane. He feels it—
He hasn't saved her.
Not yet.
But he's bought her one more quiet night.
And sometimes, that's enough to start with.