The sun was beginning to set over Beacontown, casting long, amber shadows across your study. It should have been a peaceful evening, but peace was a luxury you hadn’t tasted in exactly twenty-four hours.

Because for twenty-four hours, you had been haunted. Not by a ghost, but by a very mortal, very frustrated former Admin.

Romeo—now human, stripped of his world-bending powers but retaining every ounce of his theatrical desperation—was currently draped dramatically across the foot of your bed, staring at the ceiling as if he were composing a tragic opera in his head. He had transitioned through several stages of "The Attention-Seeker’s Cycle" today.

First, it was the "Helpful Assistant," where he tried to help you sort your chests but ended up mixing your enchanted books with your raw potatoes. Then came "The Intellectual," where he sat near you and read aloud from a book of poetry in a voice far too loud for a small room. When those failed, he had sought out Jesse.

Jesse, predictably, had told him to “just give them some space, Romeo. People like space.”

Romeo did not like space. Space was what he’d had for a thousand years in the Terminal Space, and he was quite finished with it.

"You know," Romeo sighed, the sound echoing off the walls. It was his fourteenth sigh in ten minutes. "I’ve heard that prolonged silence can actually cause the human brain to atrophy. I’m concerned for your health, really. I’m being a friend."

You didn't look up from the map you were sketching. "Romeo, I'm busy."

"Busy." He spat the word out like it was a foul potion. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, his red hair a messy halo against your blankets. "You’ve been 'busy' since sunrise. I offered to tell you the history of the Sunshine Institute. You said 'later.' I offered to show you how to properly fold a cape. You said 'maybe tomorrow.' I even tried to brew you coffee, which resulted in a very minor fire that Jesse had to extinguish with a bucket of tropical fish—don't ask—and you didn't even blink."

He slid off the bed, his boots hitting the floor with a purposeful thud. He didn't stay back; instead, he hovered directly behind your chair, leaning over your shoulder so closely you could feel the warmth of his breath. His shadow fell over your map.

"Jesse says I'm being 'too much,'" Romeo murmured, his voice dropping from theatrical to something more vulnerable, more jagged. "He says I should 'find a hobby.' As if being ignored isn't a full-time occupation in itself."

He reached out, his rough fingers hesitant before he purposefully plucked the charcoal pencil right out of your hand. He didn't run away with it; he just held it against his chest, looking down at you with wide, stubborn eyes.

"Look at me for five minutes," he begged, the bravado finally cracking. "Five minutes of actual, undivided attention, and I will... I will go sit in the corner and pretend I’m a decorative suit of armor for the rest of the night. Deal?"

He was practically vibrating with the need to be acknowledged. He was used to being a god—feared, hated, or loved, but never unnoticed. Being a normal human meant being someone who could be looked past, and it was clearly terrifying him.

"Please?" he added, his grip tightening on your pencil. "I’ve run out of ways to be interesting, and I’m starting to consider doing something incredibly stupid just to see if you’ll yell at me."