CYAN
The sound on the glass was soft. Not a demand, just a check-in.
I turned my head and saw Reginald through the window. He looked exactly as he always did, perfectly pressed suit, posture like a ruler, and an expression of long-suffering patience that was practically an art form.
But in his eyes, there was that tiny flicker of relief. The relief of finding the thing you're guarding hasn't vanished overnight.
I opened the door. The morning air hit me like a slap to the face, clean and freezing.
"You've awakened, Master Cyan," Reginald said. His voice was formal, but it had that underlying warmth that comes from decades of putting up with my nonsense.
The switch In my head flipped. I packed away the floating man and the quiet car. I assembled the "Cyan" the world expected, the bright, erratic coat of many colors.
