Chapter 225: 225 | The Metaphorical Smoke
I processed this for a moment. The ceiling was still there, still white, still completely unhelpful. But somehow the room felt less oppressive than it had a few minutes ago.
"I think my instructor hates me."
"Does she hate you specifically or does she hate underperformance generally?"
"The second one, probably. But she’s definitely noticed that I’m not showing everything I can do."
"Good instructors notice. That’s what makes them good. The question is what she does with what she notices. If she pushes you harder, that’s a gift even if it doesn’t feel like one. If she writes you off, that’s useful information about her limitations."
"She said she’s going to push me harder than anyone else."
"Then she sees something worth pushing. Take the compliment, sugar."
I hadn’t thought about it that way. Steele’s confrontation had felt like a threat at the time. A warning that my carefully constructed facade was going to crack under professional scrutiny. But Diane was right. Steele had essentially told me that she thought I was worth the extra effort.
"What about the girls?"
"What about them?"
"Sloane and Felicity. The whole friendship negotiation thing. I don’t understand how that works."
Diane laughed. A warm, genuine sound that made me smile despite the confusion I was expressing.
"You’re not supposed to understand it, sugar. Female friendship operates on wavelengths that men are fundamentally incapable of receiving. Two women can meet for the first time, have a conversation that sounds like a polite threat exchange, and walk away as best friends without either of them being able to explain how it happened."
"That doesn’t help me."
"It’s not supposed to help you. It’s supposed to reassure you that the confusion you’re feeling is normal and that trying to understand it will only make things worse. Your job is to stay out of the way and not do anything stupid that makes either of them regret the arrangement they’ve come to."
"So do nothing."
"Do nothing that involves the situation between them. Continue doing normal things that involve each of them individually. Be a good boyfriend to Sloane. Be a good friend to Felicity. Let them sort out what their relationship with each other looks like without your input."
"And if they start fighting?"
"Run. Literally run. Find somewhere else to be and don’t come back until the smoke has cleared. Metaphorical smoke in most cases, but with Sloane I suppose it could be literal."
I snorted. "She wouldn’t actually set Felicity on fire."
"She wouldn’t set her on fire permanently. But a little singeing? A small warning flame to establish territorial boundaries? I wouldn’t rule it out. That girl runs hot in every sense of the word."
The conversation was winding down. I could feel it in the rhythm of Diane’s responses, the way her pauses had gotten slightly longer. She was probably tired too. Running an agency and managing clients and doing whatever mysterious things she did to keep the Fitzgerald empire functional.
"I should let you go."
"You should come visit soon. The house is too quiet without you and Sloane banging around and making messes I have to pretend to be upset about."
"It’s only been a few days."
"It feels longer. Time moves differently when your nest is empty."
The sentiment hit me harder than I expected. Diane wasn’t my mother. She’d never tried to be. But she’d been something close to it for years, and hearing the loneliness in her voice made me want to promise things I couldn’t deliver.
"I’ll come home when I can."
"I know you will. And when you do, we’re going to have a proper conversation about all these girls you’re suddenly surrounded by. I’ve been getting reports."
"Reports from who?"
"People who care about you and want to make sure you’re not making choices you’ll regret. Now go to dinner before Sloane thinks you forgot about her. That girl has a memory for slights that would put an elephant to shame."
"I love you, Diane."
The words came out easy. Natural in a way that had taken years to develop. I’d been calling her by her first name since I was eight, but somewhere along the line the emotional content had shifted into something that felt like family even if neither of us used the word.
"I love you too, sugar. Now get off the phone and go be a hero in training. Make me proud. Or at least make me not embarrassed when people ask how you’re doing."
"I’ll aim for not embarrassed."
"That’s my boy."
The line went dead.
I lay there for another minute, letting the silence settle around me. The room felt different now. Less oppressive. More like the temporary housing it was supposed to be rather than a cell I’d been assigned to.
My phone buzzed.
Sloane: You’re late.
I checked the time. She was right. I was four minutes past our agreed meeting time.
Me: Coming now. Got caught on a call.
Sloane: A call with who?
Me: Diane.
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Sloane: That’s acceptable. Hurry up anyway.
I pulled myself off the bed and grabbed my wallet from the nightstand. The new blue shirt was slightly wrinkled from lying down, but it still looked better than any of my hoodies would have. Felicity’s influence was already proving irritating in its effectiveness.
On my way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror by the door. The Demigod trait was still doing its work. My jaw looked slightly more defined than it had that morning. My shoulders filled out the shirt in a way that suggested athletic capability without screaming bodybuilder. My eyes had that specific quality of alertness that came from having supernatural reflexes running constantly in the background.
I looked like a hero.
Not a legendary one. Not a ranked professional with sponsorship deals and media coverage. But someone who belonged at Halloran Academy. Someone who might actually become something worth watching.
The thought was strange. Three months ago I’d been nothing. An Unmarked teenager with no Aspect and no prospects and a future that extended exactly as far as the next meal Diane put on the table. Now I had power. Real power. The kind that could change things if I was smart about how I used it.
And apparently a fifteen percent chance of making women forget I existed.
The Gacha really did have a sense of humor.
