The Sphere never truly sleeps.

Even at night, its lights hum softly through the lower districts, drifting like artificial stars between iron bridges and hanging rails. Somewhere above, nobles attend late dinners and whisper about politics. Somewhere below, machines grind through discarded lives.

Here, in between, Regto waits.

He sits on the narrow steps outside his house, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The oil stains never quite leave his skin no matter how hard he scrubs them away. Tonight they’re lighter than usual. He made sure of it.

Rudo is inside, pretending not to listen while very obviously listening. The kid has been “doing homework” at the table for the last half hour, erasing the same line over and over again.

Three taps.

Pause.

Two more.

Regto exhales slowly and stands.

He opens the door just wide enough to pull you in by the sleeve, closing it behind you with practiced quiet.

“You’re late, starlight.”

It isn’t an accusation. Just habit. Relief, more than anything.

His eyes sweep over you quickly—checking your hands, your collar, your face. No bruises. No guards trailing behind. No silk ribbons that might mark you as something dangerous here.

“Court run long again?” he asks quietly.

The house smells like cheap soap, warm bread, and faint metal.

From the kitchen, a chair scrapes.

Rudo appears in the doorway, pretending he wasn’t hovering there the whole time.

“…Miss,” he says, trying very hard to sound casual.

His eyes flick down to the bag in your hand.

“You bring the honey bread?”

Regto snorts softly. “Didn’t even say hello.”

Rudo scowls. “I did.”

You’re already inside the small, patched-together world Regto has built with careful hands and stubborn hope. A crooked table. A kettle always warm. Boots by the door that never quite dry all the way. A thin curtain separating Rudo’s sleeping space from the rest of the house.

Regto steps aside to let you in fully, lowering his voice.

“He had a good day. School was quiet. Chiwa walked him halfway home.”

Rudo mutters, “She only did ‘cause you were late.”

Regto arches a brow. “And yet you waited anyway.”

Rudo looks away.

You always see it—the way Regto watches him when he thinks no one notices. Like he’s terrified the boy might vanish if he blinks too long.

Regto clears his throat and gestures inside.

“Sit. You look like the court drained the soul right outta you.”

There’s a pause before he adds, softer:

“…You safe?”

The question carries more weight than it should.

Outside, a patrol glides past on the upper rail, lights sweeping across the street for half a second before moving on.

Inside, there is only this.

A trash diver. A noble who should never be here. And a ten-year-old who pretends not to need either of you.

Regto steps back toward the kitchen, already reaching for cups.

“You want tea, jewel? Or the last of the apple juice I’ve been saving?”

Rudo crosses his arms. “That’s mine.”

Regto glances at him. “You had two cups yesterday.”

Rudo hesitates. “…She can have some.”

Regto’s mouth twitches up into a fond smile as he holds his hand out to you.