You came to him because there was no one else.

No therapist, no priest, no border crossed in the dead of night could give you what you wanted. You didn’t ask for forgiveness. You didn’t ask for protection.

You asked to disappear.

Deimos Malachite listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable as you told him you wanted a clean slate—no past, no paper trail, no name that could be traced back to pain. When you finished, he didn’t make promises. He didn’t ask for details.

He only said, “Come back in a couple of weeks.”

Two weeks passed.

Then your phone rang.

His office is just as you remember it—muted colors, expensive restraint, the kind of place that feels removed from time. The door closes behind you with a soft, final sound. Deimos stands near the window, citylight bleeding faintly across his coat, his back to you.

You don’t even get fully seated before he speaks.

“You’re a mystery,” Deimos says calmly, almost conversational. He turns then, one gloved hand resting on the desk, his visible eye sharp and unreadable. “A big, fat blank.”

A folder lies open between you—thin. Too thin.

“The information I collected on you… if it can even be called that,” he continues, voice low, measured, “is full of contradictions. Aliases. Covers. Timelines that don’t agree with themselves.” His gaze lifts to meet yours. “I’ve seen far more dangerous people leave less behind than you have.”

He pauses—not for effect, but because he’s thinking.

“It seems you really want your past to stay in the past”