Corrupted Bonds
Chapter 112: The Shape of Peace

Chapter 112: Chapter 112: The Shape of Peace

The recursion gave Rowan everything. A life shaped not by duty, but by contentment. Mornings began with gentle quiet—the scent of brewed tea drifting through the corridor, the warmth of sunlight cascading across his bed like an embrace. He would wake to the murmur of laughter from the mess hall or the rhythmic cadence of sparring pairs in the gym.

Lucian was always near. Smiling, steady, grounding. They shared slow breakfasts, meandering walks between tasks, stolen kisses under the low amber light of simulated dusk.

The others were whole—untouched by war. Zora sparred for the thrill of it, not survival. Mira teased Quinn over analytics, their banter light and effortless. Sloane hummed during patrols. Juno was there too—smiling softly, her presence quiet but grounding. She laughed at Rowan’s journal jokes, offered him tea during evening shifts, and sometimes sat beside him just to watch the stars. Alexander ran logistics with a casual efficiency, always one step ahead, never overburdened. There were no field reports soaked in blood, no names carved into mourning stones—only voices that should have gone silent, still speaking as if they’d never left.

Rowan kept a journal. Not to process grief, but to capture beauty. An overheard joke. The way Ari curled up in a sunbeam like a cat. The quiet grace of Juno pouring tea like it was ritual. The glint of sweat on Lucian’s collarbone after a friendly match.

Mira laughed so hard today she snorted tea. I never knew how badly I needed to hear that sound until now.

Lucian slept with his head on my chest last night. I woke up afraid it was a dream. It wasn’t. I wrote it down just in case.

Juno helped me replant the herb box this morning. Her hands were stained with soil, and she hummed that old Terran folk song. I think I dreamed it once before—when she was already gone.

Quinn fixed my communicator, but added a soundboard to it as a prank. I hit ’ping’ and it meowed. I haven’t laughed that hard in months. Maybe years.

Days spun like golden thread—warm and unbroken. The team was thriving, radiant with life and unscarred by loss. Their voices carried easily across sun-drenched walkways. Juno and Alexander often joined Rowan and Lucian on evening strolls, laughter painting the air like old memories returning home. Meals were unhurried. Hugs were given freely.

Lucian loved him openly—in the way that left no room for doubt. A hand at the small of his back. A glance across a quiet room that said, I see you. I choose you.

And Rowan, for all his buried knowing, let himself believe this peace could be real. That maybe, just maybe, he’d earned this echo of joy.

Until the sky blinked.

It happened during a mission sim. A simple breach-and-clear drill, flawlessly executed. Mira gave the all-clear, the team regrouped, and Rowan looked up just in time to see the clouds overhead vanish for a full second. Not shift. Not roll.

Vanish.

When they returned, Lucian was standing beside him, hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Rowan nodded too quickly. "Just a flare. Must’ve blinked too hard."

But the doubt dug in deeper. The next day, he asked Haru if they had ever lost anyone during the war. Haru paused a beat too long.

Rowan tried to smile, but his voice faltered. "Juno... she was never supposed to be here. Right?"

Haru blinked, expression smoothing into something too measured. "She’s always been with us, Rowan."

Rowan nodded, said nothing. But his chest ached.

Because somewhere, faint and echoing, he remembered burying her. And no matter how much warmth she brought now—some part of him knew: she shouldn’t be.

Rowan said nothing. But something in him cracked.

Scene Shift — Zarek HQ

The command deck was heavy with tension. The lights dimmed low to accommodate the projection systems, but the atmosphere was bright with friction.

"This is reckless," Mira said sharply, pacing. "You’re talking about entering a living recursion stabilized by Rowan’s own emotional memory. One wrong move and Lucian could get trapped too."

"He’s the only one Rowan might respond to," Vespera countered. "If we wait any longer, we lose what fragments of identity Rowan still holds."

Ren stood beside the console, eyes distant and calculating. "It’s not just a recursion. We’ve confirmed it’s a temporal off-branch—an emotionally stabilized false continuity. Think of it as a living simulation built from Rowan’s deepest desires, but sustained by temporal feedback. The more he accepts it, the stronger it gets. It adapts."

"Meaning what?" Zora folded his arms. "He goes in and what—starts hallucinating, too?"

"No," Ren said. "Worse. The recursion could rewrite him. If Lucian connects too deeply, it won’t eject him—it’ll integrate him. Reassign his identity. His memories."

Mira’s eyes narrowed. "So he’d forget us?"

"Possibly. Or think he’s always been part of that version of reality. And that we’re the illusion."

Lucian looked up from where he was seated in the cradle. "Then I’ll hold myself together."

Elias pushed off the wall. "You might not get that choice. If the recursion identifies you as a threat, it could mutate the environment—turn you into something Rowan won’t trust. Or worse, it stabilizes around you and traps you both."

"You could come back... wrong," Quinn added softly. "Or not at all."

Lucian nodded, slow but firm. "If that’s the cost of reaching him, I accept it."

"You always say that like you get to choose," Mira snapped, her voice sharp. "But you’re not the only one we stand to lose."

"I do choose," Lucian said quietly. "Because no one else can reach him like I can. No one else matters to him the same way."

The silence after that was thunderous.

Vespera finally stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Lucian’s arm. "Then we do everything we can to anchor him. And you."

Ren pulled up the chrono-thread schematic. "Once you’re inside, the recursion might not let you appear as yourself. It could try to disguise you—embed you as someone Rowan already accepts. If that happens, your only weapon will be memory and emotion. Anchor moments."

Lucian exhaled slowly. "Then I’ll make him see me anyway."

"Injecting the anchor," Ren said, hands flying over the interface. "Lucian, when you see it, don’t speak first. Let him find you."

Lucian’s body tensed inside the projection cradle, resonance field flickering like lightning under his skin. Every nerve buzzed, not just with resonance pressure, but dread. He wasn’t afraid of going in.

He was afraid of what he might find.

"Confirmed entry vector," Vespera announced. "We’re latching into the stabilized thread of Rowan’s emotional core. It’s going to pull you in gently at first. Stay grounded."

Mira whispered, "You only get one clean strike before the recursion adjusts."

Zora crossed his arms, watching the cradle through narrowed eyes. "If he doesn’t recognize you...?"

Lucian’s lips barely moved. "Then I’ll remind him. Even if it breaks me."

Ren inhaled slowly, focus narrowing. He extended one hand over the control core and summoned his chrono-thread—a spiraling current of suspended temporal flow. The interface shuddered as Ren bent the moment, elongating the present by fractions of perceived time. "Stabilizing the bridge. I’m holding the window open," he murmured, voice tight with strain.

The projection room buzzed with layered frequencies as Ren’s temporal manipulation created a stillpoint, a single fragile instant stretched wide enough for Lucian to pass through.

Ren keyed the final sequence. "Brace for impact... now."

Lucian exhaled.

The room spun. His body convulsed with heat and cold, light and darkness crashing over his senses. Thoughts fragmented, then reassembled through Rowan’s memories—not as visions, but emotions.

And the world swallowed him whole.

The fall

The descent hit Lucian like drowning in someone else’s heartbeat.

He didn’t fall into the recursion—he was pulled. Not by force, but by familiarity. The warmth. The sound. The scent of a place crafted from longing. For a breathless moment, he forgot he had a body to return to.

Then, air.

Sunlight.

Laughter.

He opened his eyes inside a memory.

It wasn’t his.

It was Rowan’s.

Lucian stood at the edge of a courtyard, sunlight spilling across warm stone tiles, the air tinged with honeysuckle and fresh tea leaves. Laughter floated like music through the air, woven with the rustle of trees and the soft clatter of ceramic cups.

Rowan sat nearby, sketching lazily in a notebook, legs tucked beneath him, head tilted in concentration. The lines on the page were soft, not tactical. Not war maps. Just light and shadow and peace.

Around him, the others lounged in groups—Juno and Quinn bickering over card games, Ari and Zora balancing teacups on their foreheads. The world breathed in harmony.

Lucian moved forward, heart thudding hard.

Rowan looked up.

And smiled.

But it was the smile reserved for a stranger.

"Hey," Rowan said brightly. "You new to this branch?"

Lucian froze. The sound of his voice—so familiar, so open—was a dagger.

"I..." he started, but the words tangled in his throat.

And then Rowan’s expression shifted. Just slightly. A faint flicker behind his eyes, like a thread caught on something deeper.

The laughter around them dulled.

A chill slid up Rowan’s spine. He blinked, the smile still on his lips but faltering at the corners. "Wait... do I know you?"

Lucian didn’t dare move.

Rowan’s gaze lingered on him longer than it should have—too searching, too unsure. The soundscape around them resumed, but softer now, blurred like a dream starting to fray.

A presence had entered the illusion.

Something inside Rowan had felt it.

He wasn’t awake.

But he was listening.

Then the warmth returned. Someone called his name.

"Rowan."

The voice—familiar, beloved—cut through the haze like balm. Lucian stepped into view, his Lucian—grinning, hair tousled, sleeves rolled up. The one he recognized.

Rowan blinked the unease away and chuckled faintly. "Sorry, I... thought I zoned out for a second. Must be the sun."

Timeline Lucian stepped closer and draped an arm casually over Rowan’s shoulders. "You overheat faster than anyone else here. Come on, let’s get you inside before you melt."

Rowan leaned into him without thinking, that moment of uncertainty dissolving like a ripple in still water. The illusion responded—smoothing itself over again, sunlight sharpening, voices brightening, the moment contained.

As Rowan was led away, nestled comfortably beneath the familiar arm of the illusion, the other Lucian paused.

For a moment, he looked back across the courtyard—his gaze locking, unblinking, with Lucian’s.

Recognition.

His smile didn’t falter. But it changed—just slightly. Tightened.

Measured.

There was no confusion in his eyes. He knew exactly who Lucian was.

And in that moment, the air between them charged like the stillness before a storm.

Jealousy flared—subtle but sharp—as the fake Lucian’s fingers tensed briefly on Rowan’s shoulder. He pulled Rowan closer with casual possessiveness, angling his body slightly between them like a shield. A performance perfected.

Lucian remained perfectly still, his expression unreadable.

The recursion had given Rowan everything he wanted. Including him. A fabricated Lucian shaped to be comforting, consistent, unflawed.

But now, with the real Lucian present, the illusion was no longer seamless. The fake felt the competition in the code. And despite the confidence etched into his features, a thread of uncertainty frayed beneath the surface.

He gave Lucian a smile—thin, almost polite—and then turned, walking Rowan away without another glance.

But the tension lingered.

Lucian—the real Lucian—watched from the edge of the courtyard, a ghost in his own memory, jaw tight and pulse steadying through sheer will. Every detail of the illusion was intoxicating in its perfection. Rowan was relaxed. Safe. Laughing, even. Surrounded by people who should have been lost and yet breathed again here.

Lucian’s heart ached—not with jealousy, but with a strange grief. This place was everything Rowan had longed for. Everything Lucian had failed to protect.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, the dissonance crawling over his skin. The recursion was aware of him now. He could feel it flexing in subtle waves, smoothing the edges of his presence like a wound healing over a splinter. It would try to consume him next—make him fit.

He couldn’t force his way through, not yet.

Any misstep could send Rowan deeper.

So he stayed close, carefully weaving himself into the background—a new recruit, a passing figure in Rowan’s perfect world.

And he watched.

Every smile.

Every hesitation.

Waiting for the moment the truth would find its way through the seams Rowan hadn’t yet realized were there.