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It had been a week since Cloud, Noir, and Kyi arrived on Mars.
The red planet wasn't what they'd expected. No rusted battlegrounds or desolate wastelands. Instead, Mars stretched wide like an open canvas painted in muted amber and soft copper, dotted with vast city-constructs—floating trains, translucent towers, gardens housed in biospheres, and redstone streets that glowed faintly at night.
They had settled into a modest glass-roofed apartment on the second floor of a low residential block in the Ardan District. It wasn't extravagant, but the sunlight pierced through the crimson-tinted sky each morning, and the air was clean, filtered through layers of Martian tech. There was a calmness here. One so heavy, it had begun to slow them down.
Every day, without fail, they trained together. Hand-to-hand combat was the choice for now.
Cloud led each session. Not with the domineering air of a master, but with an ease that made even the most brutal techniques feel like an art form. He was patient—always adjusting, always observing.
Noir, on the other hand, absorbed every movement like a starving man at a feast.
His limbs remembered what his mind had forgotten. He dodged, blocked, rolled, and struck, echoing Cloud's movements until they felt like his own. His lean frame adapted quickly, powered by discipline more than strength.
It was on the seventh day of training, after a particularly long session, that Cloud excused himself with a smile and wandered off toward the outskirts of the city. Kyi didn't follow, and Noir, too tired to care, dropped into the shaded grass beside the apartment and stared up at the copper-tinged sky.
Cloud was planning something.
He hadn't told either of them, but he had seen something in Eptor's memories—scattered like broken files, but intact enough. A birthdate.
Noir's.
Three weeks from their arrival—still two weeks away.
So Cloud prepared. In the calm, he rented a large abandoned warehouse on the quiet edge of the southern dome. It overlooked one of the lesser-known Martian waterfalls, an artificial cascade created by diverted vapor towers. He kept the place hidden beneath cloaking tech. If there was to be peace, Cloud would let it flourish.
But beneath the surface, he stayed alert.
Because peace was often where danger burrowed deepest.
---
Two weeks passed.
Now, it was one week until Noir's birthday.
Noir had finally mastered hand-to-hand combat. Every movement was sharp. Intentional. Even Cloud admitted, "You're ready," after a final sparring session.
But something had changed in Noir.
The flame that once burned inside him—the flicker of purpose, that otherworldly spark that made his blood roar during battle—it had gone quiet.
It hadn't come back since Venus.
Not a flicker.
Not a whisper.
It should have alarmed him. But instead, it brought an odd sense of rest.
Maybe it was the quiet streets. Or the way the Martians smiled without fear. Maybe it was the warmth of synthetic sunlight on his face, the softness of the grass where he lay in the afternoons.
Or maybe, deep down, Noir wondered if this was what peace looked like.
Maybe this was the end of the line.
He could live here. Forever. Quiet. Whole.
---
Kyi had changed the least.
She didn't speak much, except during training. She rarely smiled, and though she had adapted well physically, her eyes remained distant. There were moments—short, fleeting—where her expression would harden, and she'd stare off into nothing.
She hadn't spoken about Syris. Or about what happened on Venus.
But sometimes, when Noir or Cloud returned home early, they'd find her staring at her own reflection, lips moving silently, as if in conversation with something no one else could hear.
She trained every day. Ate what was needed. Slept when exhausted.
But inside, the battle continued.
---
Now, on the final day of the second week, the apartment felt more like a home.
Noir stood on the balcony, hands in his pockets, watching the distant shimmer of Martian lights beneath the veil of night. Red moons drifted slowly overhead. In the reflection of the glass, his white hair caught the light like silver threads.
Cloud sat behind him at the kitchen island, typing softly into a tablet—the final bookings for food delivery, lighting, and basic décor for the surprise party. The old warehouse would be transformed into something worthy of a birthday. Even if Noir didn't ask for it.
Kyi sat by the window, her chin resting on her knees.
She wasn't looking at anything in particular.
Just listening.
Noir didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
Because for the first time in a long time, everything felt… still.
No sudden attacks. No monsters. No government forces. No hidden assassins.
Noir exhaled, and for once, it wasn't from exhaustion or tension.
It was relief.
Cloud closed the tablet and looked out at the city.
"All's well," he said quietly.
Neither Noir nor Kyi replied, but both of them felt it too.
The stillness.
The strange peace.
The kind that feels too perfect.
The kind that, if held too long, begins to feel like the silence before a storm.
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