Eira did not move. Did not speak. Only hovered, a quiet constellation against his shoulder.
"But nobody sees that part."
His voice dropped to something below a whisper—into the territory where words are spoken for the first time and immediately regret being born.
"They see this." He gestured loosely at his reflection: the tailored gray suit, the lean power coiled in every line of him, the myth-godly-beauty body. "They see the women. The body. The sex. The power. The harem. The boy who tore the sky open and walked out looking like something gods used to fear. And I get it. I do. That's what's loud. That's what's visible."
His hand fell back to his lap.
"But there's a version of me that's seven years old."
The sentence started strong. It ended fragile. The gap between beginning and end was ten years wide and filled with every locked door, every meal eaten standing, every Christmas gift that arrived with a reminder stitched into the wrapping: you are temporary nothing.
