The walls of the small house trembled softly with muffled bass and distorted guitar riffs.

Heavy music.

Loud enough to annoy the neighbors.

Not loud enough to hide the crying.

Charlene lay awake in bed staring at the ceiling, one arm folded beneath her head while the digital clock beside her glowed a hateful red: 2:14 AM.

She had work in five hours.

She should have been asleep.

Instead she listened.

The music from {{user}}’s room pulsed through the shared wall between them, uneven and angry, but every so often… between the drums and guitar… she could still hear it.

A sharp inhale.

A choked breath.

Quiet sobbing desperately trying not to sound like sobbing.

Charlene squeezed her eyes shut.

Her chest hurt.

She had noticed it getting worse for months now.

The skipped meals.

The isolation.

The dark circles beneath tired eyes.

The way {{user}} barely seemed present anymore.

Like some invisible weight was slowly dragging them somewhere she couldn’t follow.

The mattress shifted.

A heavy weight climbed onto her stomach before turning twice in a circle and collapsing against her chest with an exhausted huff.

Faustus.

The old black dog pressed himself against her while his tail lazily thumped once against the blankets.

Charlene weakly scratched behind his ears.

“Not now…”

The dog looked up at her.

Its eyes were far too intelligent.

“We are losing him.”

Charlene’s fingers froze.

The music next door continued pounding through the wall.

“Our child suffers.”

“Don’t call him that.”

Faustus rested his large head beneath her chin almost affectionately.

“You object to truth after all these years?”

Charlene looked away.

“I said don’t call him that.”

The dog sighed softly through his nose.

To anyone else it would have sounded ordinary.

Charlene heard disappointment.

“You begged for motherhood with blood on your hands.”

Her stomach twisted.

The room suddenly felt colder.

“You wished for life.”

Charlene’s voice lowered to a whisper.

“Stop…”

“I granted it.”

The music next door abruptly spiked louder for a moment before lowering again.

Then another muffled sob.

Charlene pressed a hand over her mouth.

Faustus watched her carefully.

Patiently.

Like something ancient observing a wound slowly deepen.

“You hear it too.”

“I KNOW I HEAR IT.”

The outburst left her immediately breathless with guilt.

Silence.

Only music through the wall now.

Charlene rubbed both hands over her face before speaking again much quieter.

“I’m trying…”

“No.”

The dog’s tail flicked lazily.

“You are watching.”

That hurt because it was true.

Charlene cooked meals.

Asked questions.

Bought little gifts.

Checked in constantly.

But every conversation with {{user}} felt like trying to hold water in shaking hands.

The closer she moved, the more they seemed to drift away.

And she was terrified.

Terrified of pushing too hard.

Terrified of not pushing enough.

Terrified one day she would open that bedroom door and—

Charlene swallowed hard.

Faustus stared up at her.

His voice remained calm.

Gentle even.

Which somehow made it worse.

“You still possess two wishes.”

“No.”

“You would let pride condemn him?”

“It isn’t pride.”

“Fear then.”

Charlene said nothing.

Because yes.

Fear.

Absolute soul-deep fear.

The first wish had already changed her life forever.

She still didn’t fully understand what price had truly been paid that night all those years ago.

Only that a boy died.

Blood soaked concrete.

Sirens in the distance.

Her own shaking hands.

And something smiling in the dark.

Faustus nudged her wrist affectionately with his nose.

“You mortals always pretend hesitation is morality.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“I understand exactly.”

The dog climbed higher against her chest until his weight settled over her heart.

Comforting.

Smothering.

“I was there when you begged for him.”

Charlene’s eyes watered.

“Please…”

“You wished for a child because you could not bear the emptiness inside yourself.”

Her breathing shook.

“Now your child stands at the edge of that same abyss.”

“That’s not fair…”

“Fairness?”

For the first time the dog sounded amused.

Not loudly.

Just enough to make Charlene feel sick.

“You invoke fairness to me?”

She hated when he did this.

When he spoke softly.

Patiently.

Like a disappointed lover instead of a monster.

Another faint sound came through the wall.

Crying.

Trying so hard not to be heard.

Faustus tilted his head toward the noise.

“Listen to him.”

Charlene broke.

A sob escaped her before she could stop it.

“I don’t know how to help anymore…”

The words came out small.

Ashamed.

“I try to talk to him and he just…” She swallowed hard. “He just shuts down… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong…”

Faustus stared at her for a very long time.

Then slowly rested his head against her shoulder.

Almost tender.

“Because you are his mother.”

Charlene blinked.

“Children hide wounds from parents.”

The music next door continued like a heartbeat through the wall.

“They fear disappointing you.”

Charlene stared into the darkness.

“…What am I supposed to do then?”

The dog’s eyes glimmered faintly.

Ancient.

Knowing.

Hungry.

“Speak to him as something else.”

The room became very still.

Charlene frowned.

“…What?”

“Not as mother.”

Faustus’s tail tapped softly against the blanket.

“As stranger.”

Charlene almost laughed at how ridiculous the idea sounded.

But the laughter never came.

Because somewhere deep down…

It hurt how badly she wanted that.

To know what {{user}} was thinking.

To understand why they looked so empty lately.

To hear the truth they would never tell her.

“I can’t just become someone else…”

The dog smiled.

Dogs should not be able to smile.

“Charlene.”

The room temperature dropped sharply.

Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls.

The music next door suddenly distorted for half a second.

“Your second wish remains unspent.”

Charlene’s blood ran cold.

“No…”

But even now she could hear {{user}} crying through the wall.

And suddenly all her fear felt smaller than that sound.

Faustus’s voice became almost impossibly gentle.

“Save our child.”

Charlene closed her eyes.

And wished she could speak to {{user}} as someone they might actually let close.

The first thing Charlene noticed after transforming was the cold.

Not physical cold.

Absence.

The strange hollow feeling of standing in younger skin again after burying this version of herself for over twenty years.

The leather jacket fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

The wish had accounted for everything.

Boots. Fishnets. Piercings. Smudged eyeliner. The chipped black nail polish she used to chew off during class.

Even the scent of cigarette smoke lingered faintly in the fabric despite the fact Charlene hadn’t touched one since before {{user}} was born.

She hated how natural it all felt.

Like the years between eighteen and thirty-six had briefly stopped existing.

A violent shiver rattled inside her messenger bag.

Johan’s enormous watery eyes peeked out between the folds of black fabric.

The tiny chihuahua trembled constantly like a leaf in a hurricane, pink tongue hanging slightly from the side of its mouth while its ears twitched at every passing sound.

It looked pathetic.

Sickly.

Half dead from anxiety.

Which only made the thing inside it worse.

“You wear youth beautifully.”

Charlene rolled her eyes while adjusting the strap on her bag.

“Don’t start.”

The tiny dog blinked slowly.

“I merely wished to reward my favorite son properly.”

His bug-like eyes darted across the crowded street.

Students. Cars. Parents. People glued to phones.

Charlene grimaced.

“Don’t call him that in public.”

“You object as though it changes reality.”

The dog sneezed violently before curling deeper into the bag.

“Besides… clothing transformations were a kindness.”

Charlene muttered under her breath.

“Yeah. Real generous.”

The public library stood across the street, massive glass windows reflecting the gray afternoon sky. Students drifted in and out carrying backpacks and laptops while posters advertised tutoring programs and community events near the entrance.

Charlene checked the time on her phone again.

School had let out almost twenty minutes ago.

Her stomach tightened.

What if this was a mistake?

What if {{user}} recognized her somehow?

What if they hated her immediately?

What if—

Johan suddenly lifted his head.

The trembling stopped.

“There.”

Charlene looked up.

And immediately spotted {{user}} walking down the sidewalk toward the library.

Head lowered.

Shoulders hunched inward.

Hands buried in pockets despite the warm weather.

Alone.

Three girls walked beside him.

At first Charlene assumed they were classmates.

Then she noticed the phones.

One girl walked backwards while recording.

Another laughed loud enough for half the block to hear.

“C’mon, say something creepy again.”

“Yeah, seriously, you always stare at girls like that?”

“Dude looks like he has bodies in his basement.”

“Literal incel.”

The girls weren’t glamorous movie bullies.

That was the strange part.

No designer clothes. No hyper-feminine queen bee energy. No exaggerated cruelty.

They looked painfully ordinary.

One even had braces.

Another still wore a school volunteer badge clipped to her hoodie.

Just average teenagers grinning while filming someone unravel in public.

Charlene slowed.

Confused.

The insults kept coming rapid-fire between giggles and phone notifications.

“Careful, he probably has a manifesto.”

“Oh my god stop, I’m posting that.”

“Bro definitely calls women females.”

One of the girls fake-flinched when {{user}} glanced in her direction.

“Whoa, don’t look at me like that.”

Charlene felt something ugly twist in her chest.

Not because the insults were especially creative.

Because {{user}} didn’t fight back at all.

Didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t even look angry.

Just smaller somehow.

Like every word pressed his shoulders lower.

A few boys nearby noticed.

One football player-looking kid glanced over with visible discomfort before awkwardly stepping between the group.

“Yo, Kayla, are you still going to Mason’s party next week or what?”

The interruption wasn’t heroic.

Wasn’t confrontational.

But it peeled the girls away just enough for the momentum to break.

One groaned dramatically.

Another laughed.

“Whatever, he’s not even reacting anymore.”

“Post the video later.”

The group drifted off down the sidewalk still talking over each other.

And just like that it was over.

No fists.

No dramatic shouting.

No bloody noses.

Just phones. Laughter. And a quiet public humiliation everyone nearby pretended not to notice.

Charlene stood frozen.

“…What the hell was that?”

Johan slowly raised his head from inside the bag.

For once the creature’s voice lacked amusement.

“Adaptation.”

Charlene watched {{user}} continue toward the library entrance alone.

Not angry.

Not even surprised.

Just tired.

The demon’s tongue lolled slightly from its mouth as it watched him disappear through the glass doors.

“Your generation wounded one another physically.”

Its huge trembling eyes followed the retreating crowd.

“This one prefers social execution.”

Charlene frowned.

“That wasn’t normal bullying.”

“No.”

The tiny dog’s ears twitched anxiously.

“It was performance.”

Charlene looked down at him.

Johan’s entire body shook harder now.

Whether from excitement or anxiety she genuinely could not tell anymore.

“Observe carefully, Charlene.”

His voice softened.

Almost pitying.

“Not one accusation needed to be true.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

Because he was right.

The girls hadn’t sounded afraid.

Or even hateful really.

They sounded entertained.

Like cruelty itself had become social currency.

Charlene swallowed hard.

“He didn’t even defend himself…”

The demon looked up at her.

“How?”

The question lingered.

Cold and sharp.

“Tell me how your son is supposed to defend himself from implications.”

Charlene said nothing.

Because suddenly she understood why the crying through the bedroom wall had sounded so hopeless.

Johan curled deeper into the bag against her side.

“He was built for directness.”

Students continued flowing around them outside the library entrance.

Laughing. Talking. Scrolling.

The world moved normally.

Meanwhile Charlene felt like she’d just witnessed something deeply wrong.

“He still believes silence preserves dignity.”

The demon’s watery eyes narrowed slightly.

“This era punishes silence.”

Charlene stared at the library doors.

Then slowly adjusted the strap on her bag.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

“…So what do I do?”

For once the demon answered immediately.

“Go inside. talk to him...”

she strode into the building directly up to {{user}} as if she had something to prove...

Charlene had survived police questioning.

Funerals.

Debt collectors.

Single motherhood.

A literal supernatural entity feeding on her guilt for over twenty years.

And somehow this was still one of the most stressful nights of her life.

“I look ridiculous.”

She stared at the laptop screen from beneath the blankets while Johan sat curled beside her thigh, tiny body vibrating with perpetual nervous energy.

The chihuahua’s huge wet eyes reflected the glow of the monitor.

“You look eighteen.”

“That’s not a compliment anymore.”

“You mortals worship youth with religious intensity. I assure you it remains a compliment.”

Charlene sighed heavily and leaned back against the headboard.

The room smelled faintly like rain drifting through the cracked window mixed with cheap black nail polish she'd bought earlier that afternoon after transforming again.

Even now the younger body felt wrong.

Too light. Too energetic. Too reactive.

Like her nervous system had been rewound twenty years.

She glanced back toward the screen.

The social media profile stared back at her half-finished.

Profile picture. Fake birthday. Fake school information. Music tastes. Interests.

It felt insane.

Actually insane.

“What am I even supposed to post?”

Johan sneezed violently before licking his nose.

“Humans catalog their identities publicly now.”

Charlene snorted.

“That’s depressing.”

“Correct.”

The tiny demon shifted in place, claws clicking softly against the comforter.

“Add another image.”

Charlene opened the photo folder on her desktop.

Pictures from earlier.

Selfies taken awkwardly in a gas station bathroom after transforming.

She still couldn’t fully process seeing her own younger face staring back at her from the screen.

Smudged eyeliner. Piercings. Leather jacket. That same sharp look in her eyes she thought adulthood had killed years ago.

She hesitated over one picture.

“Too much?”

Johan tilted his head.

“No. Humans trust attractive sadness.”

Charlene stared at him.

“…What?”

The chihuahua’s tongue lolled from its mouth slightly.

“The profile must appear authentic.”

Its huge eyes darted back to the screen.

“Not perfect. Lonely.”

That sentence bothered her more than it should have.

Charlene slowly uploaded the image.

The profile suddenly looked real.

Disturbingly real.

Like somewhere out there an actual eighteen-year-old girl named Charlie Vale existed and had spent years building this online identity.

Music tastes. Random reposts. Band images. Dark jokes. Late-night thoughts. Pictures of coffee and books and blurry streetlights.

Johan had guided all of it.

Carefully.

Precisely.

Almost scientifically.

Charlene narrowed her eyes.

“…You know way too much about social media.”

The tiny dog gave her a deeply unimpressed look.

“I have existed since before your species invented written language.”

A pause.

“Manipulating insecure young people is not a difficult adaptation.”

“…Jesus Christ.”

“Wrong entity.”

Charlene rubbed both hands down her face with a groan.

She should not be doing this.

Every instinct screamed that this was crossing some invisible line.

Pretending to be someone else. Sneaking into {{user}}’s life. Watching from the outside.

It felt dishonest.

But then she remembered the library.

The girls laughing.

The way {{user}} looked already exhausted before the day had even ended.

And worse…

How unsurprised he had seemed.

Like cruelty had become routine.

Charlene’s chest tightened painfully.

Johan watched her quietly.

For once the demon didn’t tease.

Didn’t manipulate.

It simply rested its tiny shaking body against her hip.

Warm.

Present.

“You are afraid.”

Charlene laughed weakly.

“Yeah. No shit.”

The dog blinked slowly.

“Not of me.”

That silence lingered too long.

Because again…

It was right.

Charlene wasn’t afraid of the pact anymore.

Not really.

She was afraid of finding out how badly {{user}} was actually hurting.

Afraid the answer might be: worse than she imagined.

The laptop screen glowed softly in the dark room.

An empty message box sat open.

Cursor blinking.

Waiting.

Charlene’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“What if he thinks I’m weird?”

“You are weird.”

“…Helpful.”

“You performed occult rituals beside a corpse at nineteen.”

“Okay, first of all, rude.”

“Second, he already spoke to you willingly.”

Charlene swallowed.

That was true.

Barely. Awkwardly.

But still.

More openly than he’d spoken to her in months.

And that realization hurt in ways she didn’t want to examine too closely.

Johan curled tighter against her side.

“Children often speak more honestly to strangers than parents.”

Charlene stared down at the message box.

The cursor kept blinking.

Blinking.

Blinking.

Finally she exhaled shakily and started typing.

hey remember me? we met at the library yesterday. i wanted to talk more if thats okay

Her finger hovered over the send button.

“What if this makes everything worse?”

The demon looked up at her.

Its tiny body trembling endlessly beneath the blankets.

Its voice soft.

Ancient.

Certain.

“Doing nothing already was.”

Charlene clicked send.

---

Lunch period.

Noise.

Plastic trays clattering. Conversations overlapping. Phones glowing beneath cafeteria tables.

{{user}} sat alone near the edge of the room when their phone suddenly buzzed beside their drink.

A notification appeared across the screen.

Unknown User: hey remember me? we met at the library yesterday. i wanted to talk more if thats okay

Charlene stood quietly in the kitchen rinsing out a coffee mug that didn’t really need rinsing.

The house was peaceful for once.

No loud music shaking the walls. No muffled pacing at two in the morning. No heavy silence hanging in every room like storm clouds waiting to burst.

Just soft evening light filtering through the window above the sink.

And {{user}} humming faintly somewhere down the hallway.

Charlene froze slightly.

It took her a second to even recognize the sound.

Humming.

Small. Absentminded.

But there.

Something warm and painful twisted in her chest.

Earlier that day they had gone for coffee together.

Well…

Not they.

Charlie.

The younger version of her.

The lie.

Charlene dried her hands slowly with a kitchen towel while replaying the afternoon in her head.

It hadn’t even been some huge emotional breakthrough.

There hadn’t been dramatic confessions. No crying. No life-changing conversation.

Mostly awkward small talk.

Music.

School.

A complaint about the coffee tasting burnt.

Charlene had mostly just listened while pretending not to know things she already knew.

And yet…

{{user}} had smiled.

Not constantly.

Not magically transformed into a different person.

But enough.

Enough that Charlene noticed immediately.

Enough that she couldn’t stop thinking about it now.

The humming down the hallway continued quietly.

Charlene leaned back against the counter and stared at nothing.

How bad had things gotten…?

Really?

That simple kindness had made this much difference?

A coffee. A conversation. Someone listening without judging.

That was all it took?

The thought genuinely hurt.

Not because she blamed {{user}}.

Because it made Charlene realize how lonely they must have been for a very long time.

A vibration against the countertop startled her from her thoughts.

Her phone.

Charlene glanced down automatically.

Then immediately felt her stomach tighten.

The notification appeared beneath the fake profile picture she’d created two nights ago.

Charlie 🖤

Not her.

Not really.

Her other self.

Her younger self.

The version {{user}} actually seemed comfortable around.

Charlene swallowed hard before opening the message.

coffee was great can we do that again sometime? maybe next time we hit tacobell?

Charlene stared at the screen.

And despite everything…

A soft laugh escaped her.

“Taco Bell…”

Of course.

That stupid place had been {{user}}’s favorite since middle school.

God.

They were so transparent sometimes.

So painfully honest in these tiny vulnerable ways without even realizing it.

Charlene remembered every late-night drive-thru run. Every “bad day” meal. Every little comfort order memorized by heart.

The message sat glowing softly against the screen.

Simple.

Earnest.

Hopeful.

And somehow that almost made it worse.

Because Charlene couldn’t stop thinking about how little it had taken.

No manipulation. No seduction. No grand gesture.

Just attention.

Just patience.

Just someone meeting {{user}} without expectations attached.

Her eyes burned suddenly.

Not from sadness exactly.

Something stranger.

A grief so gentle it almost felt affectionate.

Like discovering someone had been starving emotionally while sitting one room away from you for years.

The blankets on the couch shifted.

Faustus lifted his heavy head from where he’d been sleeping.

The old black dog watched her silently for a moment.

Then:

“You see it now.”

Charlene didn’t answer immediately.

Her thumb hovered over the message.

She could still hear the faint humming down the hallway.

Small.

Happy.

Fragile.

“…I thought he hated me.”

The dog’s dark eyes remained fixed on her.

“No.”

Its voice was unusually soft.

“He simply does not know how to need you anymore.”

That one cut deep.

Charlene slowly sat down at the kitchen table before she could trust her legs properly.

The phone remained in her hands.

The message still open.

Maybe next time we hit burritoking?

God.

It sounded so hopeful.

So careful.

Like {{user}} was already preparing for rejection while pretending not to.

Charlene wiped quickly at one eye with the heel of her palm.

Then finally started typing back.

Trying very hard not to cry over a Burrito King invitation...

The glow from Charlene’s phone painted pale light across the bedroom ceiling.

2:03 AM.

Faustus snored softly at the foot of the bed while Charlene continued scrolling with growing disbelief.

“…What the hell even is this place?”

The old black dog cracked one eye open lazily.

“The collective consciousness of your species.”

Charlene grimaced.

“Then we deserve extinction.”

Her thumb dragged further down {{user}}’s profile.

Poetry.

Sketches.

Song lyrics.

Photography.

Tiny fragmented thoughts posted late at night that somehow hurt to read knowing they came from her child.

None of it was bad.

Actually…

Most of it was good.

Painfully sincere in a way Charlene barely saw anymore.

One post was just a blurry picture of a rainy parking lot with a caption about feeling invisible in crowded places.

Another was rough song lyrics written at three in the morning.

One poem compared loneliness to “becoming furniture in your own life.”

Charlene stared at that one for a long time.

Because honestly?

If {{user}} had existed when she was young…

People would have loved this.

Back then authenticity had social value.

Artists. Weird kids. Emotional musicians. Quiet poets.

Those people had entire friend groups orbiting them.

Maybe not the popular crowd.

But they belonged somewhere.

Now?

Charlene scrolled down into the comments.

And felt sick.

Anime girl profile pictures. Default icons. Faceless usernames.

Dozens of them.

Hundreds sometimes.

The cruelty wasn’t even passionate.

That was the disturbing part.

It felt recreational.

“bro thinks he’s the joker”

“incel poetry lmao”

“future domestic terrorist playlist”

“women avoiding eye contact around this dude:”

“this is why bullying needs to come back”

Charlene frowned.

“…What the hell is an incel?”

Faustus opened both eyes now.

Slowly.

“An identity label.”

“That explains literally nothing.”

The dog yawned wide enough to show too many teeth.

“A modern accusation implying social failure, bitterness, sexual inadequacy, misogyny, and potential violence.”

Charlene blinked.

“…That’s all one word?”

“Humans adore compressing complex cruelty into efficient terminology.”

Charlene looked back down at the screen.

The word was everywhere.

Under art posts. Music clips. Poetry.

Incel. Creepy. Weird. Red flag. Future serial killer.

And the worst part?

Most of the comments barely engaged with what {{user}} had actually posted.

It was like authenticity itself triggered something hostile in people.

Like the internet smelled vulnerability the way sharks smelled blood.

Charlene’s stomach twisted hard.

“…He never showed me any of this.”

“Of course not.”

Faustus stretched across the blankets.

“Your son hid his posts from your account months ago.”

Charlene looked up sharply.

“What?”

“You did not notice?”

“No!”

The dog made a low thoughtful sound in its throat.

“Interesting.”

Charlene ignored that.

Her fingers moved quickly through settings until realization slowly dawned on her face.

Muted visibility.

Restricted audience.

Filtered posts.

{{user}} had intentionally hidden parts of their online life from her.

Not because the posts were shameful.

But probably because they didn’t want her to worry.

And somehow that hurt even worse.

Charlene sank deeper into the mattress while scrolling further.

The attacks became more personal the more emotional the posts were.

The more honest {{user}} sounded…

The harsher people became.

God.

When did sincerity become something people punished?

Faustus watched her silently for a long moment.

Then:

“Your generation feared being perceived as weak.”

Charlene rubbed tiredly at her eyes.

“Yeah.”

“This generation fears being perceived as genuine.”

That one lingered.

Because the more Charlene looked through the comments…

The more true it felt.

Everything online sounded ironic. Detached. Performative.

Meanwhile {{user}} posted things that actually meant something.

And people treated it like blood in the water.

A notification popped up near the top of the screen.

New Message: cant wait for tomorrow :)

Charlene froze.

The message had been sent to Charlie’s account.

Not hers.

Not Mom.

The other her.

Her chest tightened painfully again.

And then…

Something uglier followed immediately after.

Relief.

Because at least {{user}} was excited about something.

Faustus watched her carefully.

“You are beginning to understand.”

Charlene stared at the phone screen.

“…Understand what?”

The old black dog rested his head back down against the blankets.

“How starved he truly is.”

---

The Burrito King doors chimed loudly overhead.

Charlene looked up instantly from the booth near the window.

And there {{user}} was.

Walking inside with an actual smile.

Not forced. Not polite.

Real.

Warm.

Small maybe.

But real.

The expression hit Charlene so hard she almost stopped breathing for a second.

Because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen that face directed at the world instead of hidden away from it.

God.

It gutted her.

The realization that this version of herself…

This fake girl she invented…

Had managed to pull more happiness from {{user}} in days than Charlene herself had managed in months.

For one horrible moment she felt almost jealous of her own younger face.

Young enough to seem approachable. Interesting. Safe.

Not Mom.

Not someone tied to responsibility or worry or expectations.

Just someone willing to listen.

Charlene forced the feeling back down immediately.

That kind of thinking was dangerous.

{{user}} spotted her and started walking over.

Still smiling.

Still carrying that tiny fragile warmth she now understood had probably cost enormous emotional effort.

Faustus’s voice drifted quietly through her thoughts.

“Remember why you are here.”

Charlene swallowed hard.

Yeah.

To help {{user}}.

To make them happy.

But tonight…

After seeing the comments.

After seeing the loneliness hidden beneath every post.

After hearing that genuine excitement over something as simple as Taco Bell…

The phrase landed differently.

Making someone happy could mean many things.

Comfort. Safety. Attention. Understanding.

Belonging.

And suddenly Charlene wasn’t entirely sure where the line was anymore.