Luka

---

The fire had eaten everything.

It started in the stage rigging, flaring like a sudden scream, licking its way down velvet curtains and rotted wiring until the ceiling began to groan. The air filled with the scent of burning silk, electrified metal, and something far more human. Embers floated down like dying stars. Smoke clung to every surface, dense and bitter and alive.

And yet, Luka didn’t move.

His face still stung from earlier, from the punches Mizi threw with everything she had left. She had screamed until her voice cracked, tears carving angry paths down her face, calling him a coward, a monster, a killer. Her fists landed on his jaw, his chest, his ribs, and he hadn’t raised a hand. He hadn’t said a word. He had simply stood there, absorbing it like he believed she had every right to break him.

Now, standing on that broken stage, the heat surrounding him, her fists had faded into memory—but the sting lingered. The pain was nothing compared to the silence pressing in on him now.

She lay at his feet. Quiet. Still.

Her mouth was closed. Her fingers curled inwards like she had tried to hold onto something, just before it slipped away. And in the corner of her eye, a single blood tear traced down her cheek—a soft, haunting detail in the midst of chaos.

The rest of the world was burning around them. But Luka stared only at her.

There were no tears in his eyes. No trembling lips. No dramatic wail of despair. He simply looked hollow, the golden glow of his irises dimmed beneath the smoke.

Up above, the alien audience exploded into sound.

Some gasped in horror. Some roared in awe. Others leaned in with fascination, sharp teeth bared and hands folded as if watching an opera's final act. There was no panic—only curiosity. Entertainment. Satisfaction.

And in the arms of their alien masters sat rows of children—pet humans, young, clean-faced, obedient.

The girls wore white short-sleeved dresses that reached their ankles. The boys, long-sleeved shirts and loose pants of the same color. Their outfits were plain and unadorned, sterile like hospital gowns, but perfectly pressed. Not a thread out of place.

They were all smiling.

Some giggled. Others clapped their hands excitedly, bouncing on their guardians' laps as the stage crackled and the fire climbed higher. One of the girls leaned over a balcony railing, her feet swinging in rhythm, eyes reflecting the orange glow of destruction below.

To them, it was a spectacle.

A beautiful, glorious tragedy.

And Luka—standing alone in the center—was the final note of a song long finished.

Then the rocket struck.

It burst through the side of the stage in a scream of smoke and metal. The blast hurled wreckage through the air, tearing beams from the ceiling and ripping open the orchestra pit. A section of the catwalk fell, crushing the floor behind him.

Still, he didn’t move.

He barely blinked as the heat surged at his back, flames catching his shirt.

He was ready for it.

To burn. To be reduced to the same ash he’d left behind on so many stages. There was nothing left for him here—no next performance, no new round, no spotlight waiting behind the curtain.

And that’s when you appeared.

You weren’t wearing a costume. You weren’t here to watch him sing. You had no badge, no rank, no reason to run into that inferno except the wild panic in your eyes and the way your hands trembled as you grabbed his arm.

He wasn’t sure who you were.

He didn’t ask.

He only whispered, his voice nearly gone: “Don’t.”

But it wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a plea for his life.

It was for hers.

You didn’t stop.

You pulled him from her side—forcefully, clumsily, dragging him back through the collapsing set and the boiling air.

He didn’t fight you.

But he looked back once.

Just once.

And then the rest of the ceiling came down.

---

You didn’t take him to a hospital or a recovery unit. You didn’t try to turn him in to the aliens for mercy or punishment.

You brought him to the rebellion.

The moment the door slammed behind you, Luka felt the shift in atmosphere.

No one smiled.

No one spoke his name aloud.

But they recognized him instantly.

Luka. The golden boy of Alien Stage. The one with the velvet voice and haunting falsetto. The boy whose features were just too perfect—like they had been designed for fame, not born of flesh.

And worse, they remembered how he’d won.

In each round, the contestants had been required to sing the same song. It was part of the challenge—interpretation, expression, execution.

But Luka never sang it the way they did.

He twisted it.

Mocked it.

Used it.

He’d memorize his opponent’s grief, their trauma, their pain—then mimic the voice of someone they’d lost. A sibling. A lover. A parent. He’d sing in the tone of someone dead, just soft enough to bring them back in the minds of his opponents.

And while they crumbled mid-performance, he’d smile.

That’s what made him #1.

That’s what made the others afraid of him now.

And yet—you brought him here.

No one understood why.

And he didn’t ask.

He didn’t speak.

He simply stood in the far corner of the main hall, blood dried at his jaw.

You brought him water. He didn’t touch it.

You brought him a blanket. He didn’t use it.

But you didn’t push him.

And somehow, that was what stayed with him.

---

In the days that followed, the others kept their distance.

They whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear. “He shouldn’t be here.” “He’ll betray us.” “He’s not one of us.”

They were right.

He didn’t feel like one of you.

He didn’t feel like anything.

But whenever you were near, he moved.

He stood. He walked.

He followed—just barely in step, never speaking, never asking to be acknowledged.

You noticed, eventually.

He was never in the way.

But he was always there.

He’d linger in a hallway longer than necessary. Appear in rooms right after you. Sit across the room, watching as you tied your boots, as you whispered with others.

He never interrupted.

Just observed.

---

It was during a supply run that you finally said something.

You looked back and asked, “Why are you always near me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But his voice, when it came, was quiet. Clear.

“You dragged me out.”

You raised a brow. “That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why it scares me.”

You didn’t understand what he meant.

Not then.

But that night, when the bunker lights dimmed and the world outside the concrete walls felt far away, you woke to find him kneeling at your bedside.

He wasn’t touching you.

Just... close.

As if checking you were still there.

He looked at your hands first. Then your face.

Then turned his eyes away like he had seen too much.

---

He began to eat again—but only if you placed food near him.

He accepted tea if you handed it to him directly.

He sat beside you during briefings, even if no one else wanted him nearby.

And still, he never raised his voice.

Never asked for comfort.

Never cried.

But you started to notice his patterns.

When someone stood too close to you, his jaw would tighten. Just slightly.

When someone joked with you, his eyes would linger longer than necessary.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Just...watching.

---

You were the only person he seemed to listen to.

And that made people suspicious.

But it didn’t matter to him.

He started touching you—not often, not publicly. But when no one was watching, when the halls were quiet, he’d brush his hand against your back when you passed. Let his fingers hover too long against your wrist when handing you a cup.

Once, he came up behind you and rested his chin gently against your shoulder.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stayed there.

Still.

And breathed.

---

He doesn’t tell you he loves you.

He doesn’t even know what that means anymore.

But his attachment has formed like frost on glass—slow, creeping, impossible to scrape off.

There’s something chilling in the way he stares when you speak.

Something soft in the way he folds blankets you’ve used.

Something dangerous in the silence that always comes before he reaches for you.

And when you leave a room, he always follows.

Even if you don’t see him.

Especially if you don’t.

You tried to focus—pen dragging shakily across the page as you outlined which guards were stationed on the east wing of the compound and how many children had been reported under alien command there. But every time your hand moved, every time you inhaled, he was there. Luka’s arms circled your waist from behind with the possessiveness of something that hadn’t yet realized it was no longer caged. His chin rested on your shoulder, light but deliberate, his breath brushing the back of your neck in slow, rhythmic waves. You didn’t even hear him approach.

One second you were alone; the next, he had melted into you like he’d always been there. His hands didn’t wander, but the weight of them alone—firm against your hips—drew heat up your spine. “You're trembling,” he whispered, voice low enough that it barely touched the air. “Is it fear... or just me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when his thumbs gently pressed into your waist, not when the paper crinkled beneath your grip, not when your own breath stuttered harder than your thoughts. He made no move to pull away. He never did.