Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Neither twin spoke.
Neither twin moved.
They just stood there, side by side, looking at me with identical expressions of devastation that made my chest ache.
Fuck. I should have kept my mouth closed.
Yuki's jaw worked, but no sound came out.
Aki looked away first, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then, he touched that scar.
Whenever they had gotten these scars, it had been a long, long time ago. Probably when they were kids. Maybe even some fucked up abusive parent.
Horrific shit if true.
Because that meant that when they were kids. . .Aki had taken a blade—or something worse—and carved himself to match his brother's trauma. Not to heal Yuki, but to make himself equally damaged.
So Yuki would never have to carry that scar alone.
"Nyomi." Hiro's voice cut through the tension like a blade, firm but not unkind. He stepped slightly between me and the twins, his body language shifting to protective—of them, not me. "We should keep moving."
I opened my mouth to say something—an apology, an explanation, anything—but Hiro's expression stopped me.
Not angry.
Just. . .careful.
Like I'd just touched an old wound that hadn't fully healed and probably never would.
"Yes." I swallowed. "Of course."
Hiro gestured down the hallway, and we started walking again.
The twins fell into step behind us, silent as ghosts and moving in perfect rhythm. And for the first time since I'd met them, their synchronization didn't feel like a blessing.
It felt like survival.
I didn't look back again.
But I could feel the weight of what I'd just said pressing against my shoulders like a physical thing—heavy, wrong, and impossible to take back.
Damn it. I should have kept my mouth shut.
Chapter thirty-three
Soul Shadows
Nyomi
Great job, Nyomi. Real smooth.
I swallowed hard.
I didn't mean to hurt them.
But intention didn't erase consequence.
The corridor narrowed as we walked on. The walls got closer. The lights slightly lowered. The air shifted—colder, quieter, as if the hallway itself were absorbing our heightened emotions.
Behind me, the twins moved in perfect silence.
My stomach twisted with the kind of nausea that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with knowing I'd broken something I couldn't fix.
I wanted to turn around.
Wanted to say, I'm sorry or I didn't mean it like that or please don't hate me.
But every possible apology felt worse than saying nothing at all.
I shouldn’t have told them what I thought.
It was the story I'd built around my reasoning that truly hurt them.
The one where a child took a blade and carved himself open to match his brother's trauma. Where their love was also shared mutilation. Where being identical meant no one had to carry their pain alone.
God, what kind of childhood leaves scars like that?
My throat burned.
I should have kept my mouth closed.
But my stubborn ass wanted to know if I was right.
Are you happy now?
I kept my eyes forward, following Hiro's steady pace, but my mind was stuck back in that moment—the way Yuki's jaw had worked without sound, the way Aki had looked away first, fingers touching that scar like it still hurt after all these years.
My chest felt too tight. I focused on breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth—trying to steady the sick churn in my stomach.
There was no more fun conversation about Scooby-Doo or anything else. The twins remained silent and guarded while Hiro kept my pace with a strained expression—probably doing damage control in his head, figuring out how to manage the Tiger who'd just emotionally gut-punched his brothers and most loyal killers.
I’ll have to make this right somehow.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
I wouldn't apologize right now because anything I said right now would sound like an excuse, and they didn't deserve that. They deserved space. Time. The dignity of processing what I'd said without me hovering over them like some guilty, hand-wringing mess.
So I kept walking.
Kept my mouth shut.
Kept hoping that somehow, eventually, they'd understand I hadn't meant to weaponize their trauma.
I'd just been too honest about what I saw.
Alright. I’ll fix this later.
We turned the corner—and my guilt was immediately replaced by something else entirely.
When I saw the first massive painting on the wall, I stopped dead.
Horror shot through my chest.
This hallway wasn’t like the others. No modern prints. No minimalist frames. These walls were lined with ancient paintings, each one encased in carved dark wood lacquered to a mirror-shine.
The glass was museum-grade, the kind used to protect priceless artifacts from humidity and heat. The gold leaf edging around each frame glowed under the warm overhead light, catching on the brushstrokes like tiny sparks.
Wealth.
Power.
Lineage.
People filled the canvases—women in ceremonial robes, warriors in armor, children kneeling beside low tables, men fishing at dawn.
But none of that was what caught me.
It was the animal-shaped shadows behind the people.
What the fuck? Can this day get any crazier?
This wasn’t stylized inkwork either. Some of the people in the painting had winged shadows. Others had horned shadows. One had a shadow with a feline body and a tail.