Group housing is Aetherion’s idea of charity.
It’s a controlled living block near the Ward Wing—a corridor of rooms built to keep high-value assets close while pretending it’s for comfort.
They call it recovery accommodation.
It feels like a leash dressed up in soft lighting.
Theron is in the common area when I arrive, bare feet on the floor, shirt half-buttoned like he got dressed and then forgot why. His stormfield is caged so tight it makes the air taste like rain held back behind glass.
Cassian is sitting on the edge of the table with a slate in his hands, jaw clenched, silver eyes bright and hollow at the same time—like he’s been awake for three days and refuses to acknowledge the concept of consequences.
Theron looks up the second I enter.
His gaze rakes over me.
“Still stand
