Chapter LVI: The Brofist Protrusion
The morning light bleeds slowly through the narrow windows of the café, spilling golden hues across the wooden tables and the soft hum of the espresso machine. Outside, London awakens beneath a pale sky — fog curling around lampposts like whispers of what the night tried to forget.
Nathaniel Cross sits by the window, a steaming cup of black coffee untouched before him. His reflection on the glass seems almost alive — the faint crimson tint in his eyes catching the morning light. His hair, messy and dark, falls over his face like a shadow refusing to leave.
Theo slides into the seat opposite him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You look like you fought God last night and somehow made it out alive."
Nathaniel glances at him, lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Close. Just danced with something pretending to be divine."
Pauline arrives next, the tiny bell over the café door chiming softly as she enters. She carries the warmth of the morning in her smile, though her eyes are tired. Edison and Kingsley follow, both looking like survivors of an apocalypse wrapped in scarves and caffeine deprivation.
"Oi," Kingsley mutters, setting his bag down with a thud. "If anyone suggests midnight hunts again, I'm retiring."
Theo grins. "You said that last time, mate."
"And I meant it last time," Kingsley shoots back.
Pauline takes a sip of her tea and exhales softly, her gaze flicking to Nathaniel. "You sure you're alright?"
He nods, though the slight twitch in his jaw says otherwise. "Fine. Just... processing."
Edison leans forward, lowering his voice. "That mimic... it wasn't random, was it? The way she spoke, the way she moved — she knew things about you, Nathaniel. Things she couldn't possibly know."
A silence lingers. The clinking of spoons and soft chatter from other tables seem to fade.
Nathaniel stares into his coffee as if searching for answers at the bottom of the cup. "She knew Eris's song. She mimicked her voice. But that doesn't mean it was her."
Pauline frowns. "Then what was it?"
Nathaniel's eyes narrow, the crimson glint catching the light. "Something left behind. A memory that refused to die."
Theo crosses his arms. "Still doesn't explain why she targeted you. Unless..." He pauses, realizing what he's implying.
"Unless she was looking for her creator," Edison finishes.
The table grows still.
Nathaniel's fingers tighten around the cup handle. "We don't know that yet."
Pauline tilts her head slightly. "Then what do you think it was?"
He exhales, watching the steam swirl upward. "Something unfinished. Something waiting."
For a moment, no one speaks. Outside, a red double-decker bus rolls past, blurring through the window's reflection — like time itself refusing to stop for anyone's grief.
Then Kingsley breaks the tension. "Alright, enough of this cryptic nonsense. We're not starting our morning with existential dread. We're students, for God's sake. We've got better things to do, like losing at the arcade."
Theo laughs. "Agreed."
Edison shakes his head, but a smile creeps onto his face. "Fine. Let's waste our coinage like civilized idiots."
Pauline stands, finishing her tea. "Nathaniel?"
He looks up — then finally smiles, faint but real. "Yeah. Let's go."
By noon, the city feels alive again. The gray skies brighten slightly, casting the world in soft silver instead of gloom. The group walks through the crowded streets, their laughter echoing off the brick walls and glass fronts.
The arcade looms ahead — a neon sanctuary of noise and color, tucked between a record shop and a bookstore. Inside, the air smells like old carpet and electricity. Screens flash, coins clink, digital chimes ring in overlapping symphonies.
Theo immediately darts to the racing simulators. "I call the red one!"
"You always crash by the second lap," Edison calls out.
"That's called flair," Theo retorts, already putting on the VR headset.
Pauline and Kingsley head toward the claw machines, arguing about which plushie looks the most cursed. Nathaniel lingers by the rhythm game section — rows of glowing panels and scrolling arrows, beats pulsing through the floor.
He watches the screen light up — the song? Clair de Lune, remixed into electronic perfection. A modern heartbeat for an ancient ghost.
Something twists in his chest, but he steps forward anyway.
He slides a coin into the slot.
The machine beeps.
The song begins.
His movements flow instinctively — step, slide, tap, spin — every motion guided not by rhythm, but by memory. The notes cascade like rain, the melody rising through the static. It's as if he's dueling with her ghost again — but this time, he leads.
By the time the final note hits, his chest rises and falls like he's been running for miles. The crowd behind him — strangers, mostly — clap softly.
Theo whistles. "And here I thought your only talent was punching vampires."
Nathaniel laughs breathlessly. "Multi-talented, apparently."
Before anyone can reply, a familiar voice echoes through the arcade.
"Brofist?"
They all turn — and freeze.
Standing there, casually holding an iced latte, wearing a beanie and a grin that could light up the Thames, is none other than PewDiePie.
Theo's mouth drops. "No freaking way."
Edison blinks. "That's... that's actually him."
Kingsley stammers, "Are we hallucinating? Did someone drug our coffee?"
Pauline giggles nervously. "I think the internet just manifested."
PewDiePie chuckles, adjusting his cap. "Heard you guys had a bit of a fight last night. Pretty epic."
Nathaniel, still half in disbelief, manages, "Uh... yeah. Something like that."
Pewds raises his fist. "Respect, my dude. Stay awesome."
Nathaniel hesitates for only a moment — then grins and brofists him. "You too."
The YouTuber winks, waves, and disappears into the London crowd as if he were never there.
Theo stares after him. "We just brofisted PewDiePie."
Kingsley nods solemnly. "This day cannot be topped."
Edison mutters, "Unless Markiplier shows up next."
Pauline rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Come on, before you start invoking the rest of the internet."
By late afternoon, the group wanders through quieter streets — the adrenaline fading, replaced by something calmer. The sunlight softens into gold, casting long shadows along the cobblestone paths.
They pass through an older district — rows of black iron fences and stone angels standing watch over an ancient cemetery.
Nathaniel slows his pace.
The air feels different here — heavier, colder, like the fog has been waiting.
He stops by the gate, fingers brushing against the cold metal.
Pauline turns. "Nate?"
He doesn't answer at first. He's staring past the fence, where the graves stretch like broken piano keys across the earth. Something calls to him — not in words, but in weight.
Theo frowns. "What's wrong?"
Nathaniel tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Edison asks.
He steps closer, scanning the cemetery. The world feels muted — no birds, no wind, no city noise. Just silence.
Then — a flicker.
Something moves near one of the older tombstones. A hand. Pale. Reaching from the soil, fingers trembling like they're grasping for air.
Nathaniel freezes.
Pauline gasps softly. "Nathaniel—"
He blinks — and it's gone.
The grave is still. The ground untouched. The mist curls as if laughing.
"Probably just my eyes," he mutters, stepping back.
But the unease doesn't fade. It sits in his chest like a heartbeat gone wrong.
Kingsley pats his shoulder. "We've had enough horror for a week. Let's not add haunted cemeteries to the list."
Theo laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, next thing you know, we'll get attacked by zombie baristas."
They start walking again — the laughter returning, slowly, but Nathaniel keeps glancing over his shoulder.
The cemetery fades behind them, but not the feeling.
Because as the wind shifts, he swears he hears a faint whisper.
"Still waiting..."
He stops — turns back — nothing. Just the rustle of trees and the sigh of the city.
By evening, the friends part ways near the old bridge by the Thames. The city glimmers in reflection — lamps and river lights blending into amber ribbons across the dark water.
Theo and Edison head toward the bus stop, Kingsley and Pauline linger to talk. Nathaniel leans against the railing, watching the current move.
The cold air bites his skin, but he doesn't mind.
For the first time in weeks, the night feels quiet — not empty, but patient.
He pulls out the pocket mirror again, the same one that once trembled with unseen resonance. It's still cracked at the edge from the last fight. The surface reflects his face — and for a heartbeat, he swears there's another reflection beside him.
A woman's outline.
Eyes like scarlet glass.
A faint smile.
Eris.
Nathaniel's hand tightens around the mirror, but when he blinks — she's gone.
Only his reflection remains.
Only him.
He exhales, voice low. "You're gone. But not gone enough."
Somewhere behind the clouds, thunder murmurs faintly — distant, restrained. The kind that promises rain, not wrath.
He tucks the mirror away and pushes off the railing. The air carries the faint scent of coffee, rain, and the ghosts of conversations left unfinished.
That night, Nathaniel dreams again.
He stands in an empty ballroom — marble floors cracked and covered in mist. The chandeliers sway with invisible wind. Music echoes faintly — Clair de Lune, again, but softer now, fragile.
A figure dances in the fog — graceful, pale, wearing crimson.
Eris.
She turns to him, her smile both haunting and beautiful. "You're still chasing shadows, Nathaniel."
He steps closer. "You're the one who left them behind."
She tilts her head. "Or maybe... I left them for you."
The music swells — violins crying through the fog.
Nathaniel whispers, "Why me?"
Eris walks closer until the air between them hums with tension. "Because you were the only one who could still love the monster."
Then, she fades — the melody collapsing into silence.
Nathaniel wakes in a cold sweat, the echo of her words still ringing.
He sits up, staring at the faint light seeping through his curtains. The dawn outside is gray, uncertain.
And on his wrist — just below the sleeve — a mark.
Circular. Pale. Like a burn, or a seal.
He touches it — it burns faintly beneath his skin.
Nathaniel exhales, voice trembling but firm. "So it begins again."
Outside, the first raindrop hits the window.
And far away — beyond the city's edge, beyond the reach of light — something stirs beneath the cemetery soil.
A hand.
Fingers moving.
And eyes that open for the first time in centuries.
The quiet after the storm never lasts long.