Corrupted Bonds
Chapter 113: Lucid Threshold

Chapter 113: Chapter 113: Lucid Threshold

Lucian had never felt more alone inside a crowd.

The illusion thrived on repetition—its rhythm steady, its colors warm, its people always at peace. Around him, Havenfield shimmered with quiet perfection. The courtyard tiles gleamed under morning light. Tree branches swayed in sync with a breeze that never chilled. The scent of baked citrus and pine oils clung faintly to the air.

Mira laughed somewhere near the mess hall, dodging a floating datapad Ari had launched as a joke. Zora and Sloane debated footwork near the sparring deck, while Juno hummed softly beside an herb patch Rowan had planted. No one bled. No one raised their voice.

And Rowan—Rowan moved through it like sunlight, untouched and complete.

Lucian, registered by the recursion as a newly transferred operations recruit from an offsite post, existed only in the periphery of the illusion. The recursion had crafted an entire identity for him—fabricated service records, a specialty in surveillance systems, a history too bland to provoke memory. His badge bore the number 7421-K, and his assigned quarters were tucked behind an auxiliary server room with a flickering light and no listed occupants.

He walked the halls like a ghost in a city of warmth. People nodded, smiled, exchanged shallow pleasantries. Then they forgot him—mid-sentence, mid-glance. The recursion made him unremarkable by design, invisible enough to observe, irrelevant enough not to be questioned.

Only Rowan’s eyes lingered, now and then. Not recognition. Just... hesitation. A pause that felt like the start of something once remembered.

Except one.

The fake Lucian.

He was everywhere Rowan was—an extension of the world, too perfect in how he touched Rowan’s shoulder, how he anticipated every word, how he filled every quiet with comfort. He laughed too easily, complimented Rowan with just the right timing, leaned in too close during meetings as if proximity itself could secure devotion. He told stories about missions they’d never lived, memories that had never happened, and Rowan smiled through them—never questioning, always accepting.

Lucian wanted to scream. Every brush of the imposter’s fingers felt like a stolen moment. Every sideways glance, every faux-intimate smile curled his gut into knots.

The fake Lucian would glance at him sometimes too—brief, sharp flickers like knives behind a smirk. As if to say: You’re too late.

It wasn’t arrogance. Not fully. There was something underneath it—calculated nervousness, like a performer too aware of an audience. And Rowan was the stage.

Lucian clenched his fists behind his back.

But he didn’t confront. Not yet.

Instead, he waited for a fracture. Not a confrontation.

Later that day, Lucian stood at the edge of the perimeter gardens where the perimeter met sky. The colors were too soft. The clouds never moved. The horizon never bent. His pulse stuttered as he gripped the rail, as if bracing against something too perfect to be real.

"You wrote everything down, Rowan," he whispered. "Even when you forgot what mattered. You wrote me. Please remember that."

Footsteps.

Lucian turned slowly. Rowan approached, alone, sketchbook under one arm, a slight squint against the artificial sun. His hair was wind-tossed, lips parted as though he’d just been humming.

"You’re the new field tech, right?" Rowan asked, voice light, teasing. "You’re always out here. Sketching? Or brooding?"

Lucian swallowed. "Watching."

Rowan chuckled and sat beside him. "Well, you picked a good spot. The light here never changes. It’s like the sky’s stuck on golden hour."

Lucian tilted his head, studying him. "Do you like that?"

Rowan hesitated, then smiled. "Yeah. I think I do."

He flipped open his sketchbook, but his pencil hovered without moving. His eyes kept flicking toward Lucian—brief, uncertain glances like echoes of a memory that wouldn’t quite surface.

"You remind me of someone," Rowan said absently.

Lucian’s breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Weird. Just a feeling."

A voice called from a distance—Lucian, that voice. Too cheerful, too polished.

The fake one was approaching. Lucian could see his silhouette framed by the curve of the courtyard path, casual and confident, walking like he owned the place. Like he owned Rowan.

Rowan perked up reflexively. "That’s Lucian. He’s been waiting for me."

Lucian’s voice was raw when he replied, "Has he?"

Rowan didn’t hear the edge.

He stood, brushing dust from his knee. "See you around, Watcher."

Lucian watched him walk away, heart roaring in his chest, fury and grief braided in silence.

Still, he didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Because now Rowan had felt something. A thread. A pull.

And Lucian would be there when that thread started to fray.

Rowan’s second mistake?

That night, Rowan sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, sketchbook forgotten on the nightstand, fingers nervously pulling at the hem of his shirt. The quarters were dim, bathed in golden glow from the wall lights, filtered to mimic candlelight. Soft music hummed low from the panel.

The fake Lucian leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.

"You’re quiet tonight," he said.

Rowan glanced up, expression unreadable. "I saw someone today. He looked... familiar. But I couldn’t place him."

Lucian—the illusion—walked forward with smooth grace, lowering himself beside Rowan. "We see new people all the time. Maybe someone from logistics?"

Rowan didn’t respond right away. His voice, when it came, was low. "It didn’t feel like that. It felt... important. Like I’d known him in another life."

A flicker of worry crossed the imposter’s face. He cupped Rowan’s cheek gently, his voice dipping into something more intimate and firm. "Rowan, sometimes dreams bleed into waking life. Memories misfire. Emotions fill in blanks that aren’t there. But this—us—this is real."

Rowan closed his eyes, pressing into the touch. "Then why does it feel like I’ve lost something?"

Fake Lucian leaned in, forehead resting against Rowan’s. "You haven’t lost anything. You found peace. You found me."

Their breaths mingled. The world around them fell into hush. The illusion, responsive as ever, dimmed the lights further. Softened the air.

"I’m here. I’ve always been here," the imposter murmured, thumb brushing over Rowan’s lower lip.

Rowan didn’t pull away.

He kissed him.

His lips brushing against Rowan’s ear as he pressed him into the bed. His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was a sharp edge to it—a warning, or maybe a challenge. "You’re thinking about it again."

Rowan’s breath hitched, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him. The weight of Lucian’s body pinned him down, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of their clothes. "I—I’m trying not to... But something feels wrong," he stammered.

Lucian chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of Rowan’s neck. "Pay attention to me." His hand slid down Rowan’s chest, fingers splaying over his stomach before dipping lower, teasing the waistband of his pants. "You’ve been distracted... Ever since you saw that new recruit."

Rowan’s heart raced, his body betraying him as he arched into Lucian’s touch. "It’s nothing," he whispered, though the words felt hollow even to him. "Just... déjà vu."

"Déjà vu," Lucian repeated. He nipped at Rowan’s collarbone, his hand slipping beneath the fabric to wrap around him, already hard and aching.

Rowan gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily as Lucian’s fingers tightened around him. "Lucian—"

"Shh," Lucian interrupted, his voice a silken purr. "Don’t think about him. Don’t think about anyone but me." His thumb swiped over the tip of Rowan’s cock, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there. "You’re mine, Rowan. Now and always."

The words sent a shiver down Rowan’s spine, but they also stirred something deep within him—something he couldn’t quite name. A memory? A feeling? It was there, just out of reach, like a shadow in the corner of his mind.

But then Lucian’s mouth was on his, swallowing any protest or thought that might have formed. The kiss was hungry, possessive, and Rowan couldn’t help but respond, his hands tangling in Lucian’s hair as he pulled him closer.

Lucian broke the kiss only to trail his lips down Rowan’s jaw, his neck, his chest. He paused to flick his tongue over a nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from Rowan, before continuing his descent. When he reached the waistband of Rowan’s pants, he didn’t hesitate, pulling them down in one swift motion.

Rowan’s cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and Lucian wasted no time taking him into his mouth. The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through Rowan’s body. He moaned, his head falling back against the pillows as Lucian’s tongue swirled around him, teasing and tasting.

"Fuck," Rowan breathed, his fingers tightening in Lucian’s hair. "Lucian, please—"

Lucian hummed around him, the vibrations making Rowan’s toes curl. He took him deeper, his throat relaxing to accommodate him, and Rowan couldn’t hold back the cry that escaped his lips.

But just as quickly as it began, Lucian pulled away, leaving Rowan gasping and desperate. He looked up at Rowan with a smirk, his lips glistening. "You want more?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

Rowan nodded frantically, his chest heaving. "Yes. Please."

Lucian’s smirk widened as he stood, stripping off his own clothes with deliberate slowness. Rowan’s eyes roamed over his body, taking in every inch of taut muscle and battle scar. When Lucian finally climbed back onto the bed, he positioned himself between Rowan’s legs, his cock pressing against Rowan’s entrance.

"Tell me you want this," Lucian demanded, his voice rough.

"I want this," Rowan whispered, his voice trembling with need. "I want you."

That was all the encouragement Lucian needed. He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, filling Rowan completely. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but it was exactly what Rowan needed. He cried out, his nails digging into Lucian’s back as he adjusted to the sensation.

Lucian didn’t give him time to adjust fully. He began to move, setting a relentless pace that had Rowan seeing stars. Each thrust hit that spot inside him that made his entire body light up with pleasure, and soon he was meeting Lucian thrust for thrust, their bodies moving together in perfect sync.

"That’s it," Lucian growled, his hands gripping Rowan’s hips tightly. "Take it. Take all of me."

Rowan could only moan in response, his mind blank except for the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him. He wrapped his legs around Lucian’s waist, pulling him deeper, needing more.

Lucian leaned down to capture Rowan’s lips in a searing kiss, their tongues tangling as they moved together. When he broke the kiss, he whispered against Rowan’s lips, "You’re mine. Say it."

"I’m yours," Rowan gasped, the words spilling from his lips without thought. "Only yours."

Lucian groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his climax. With a cry, Rowan came, his release spilling between them as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Lucian followed soon after, burying himself deep inside Rowan as he found his own release.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies pressed together as they caught their breath. Then Lucian pulled out, collapsing beside Rowan and pulling him into his arms.

Rowan nestled against him, his mind still hazy with pleasure. But even as he drifted off to sleep, that nagging feeling lingered in the back of his mind—the feeling that something was missing.

And when he closed his eyes, he saw him again—the man from earlier. The one who had looked so familiar.

The one who had stirred something deep within him.

But as Lucian’s arms tightened around him, Rowan pushed the thought away. He was here now. This was real.

Wasn’t it?

The recursion, aching to preserve its hold, tightened its hold on Rowan.

But deep inside, a fracture held.

And Lucian—the real one—felt it tremble.

Lucian

He jolted upright in his cot, cold sweat clinging to his back. The recursion never let him dream, but tonight it had slipped—a ripple in the perfect stillness, like a whisper through glass.

Lucian pressed a hand over his chest, where the tether once pulsed with clarity. Now it twisted—erratic, fierce. Rowan was close. Closer than he’d ever dared hope.

He rose and crossed the sterile quarters in three quick steps, flinging open the narrow utility door that led to the observation deck. The air was still. Havenfield shimmered below—bathed in artificial dusk, flawless and false, like a dream locked behind glass.

Lucian braced himself against the railing, breath ragged. He couldn’t tell if he was shivering from cold or from the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

His thoughts spiraled, unraveling. He could still feel the echo of that kiss—not through the recursion’s sensory bleed, but through the resonance bond he still refused to sever. Rowan had felt something. He had to.

He whispered, voice hoarse with emotion, "Don’t let him fall deeper. Don’t let this world win. Please, Rowan. I’m still here."

He closed his eyes. Let the memories take him. The first time Rowan had flinched under his touch, then relaxed. The way his voice softened in rare moments of vulnerability. The last time he had smiled, not for duty—but for him.

"I’m real," Lucian murmured, pain threading through every word. "And you’re still mine. You know you are."

The air shifted. Faint, like a breath drawn through a sealed vault.

A thread snapped taut in his mind. Not severed.

Connected.

For a breathless instant, Lucian felt it—Rowan’s doubt, raw and trembling.

He pressed a palm to the glass, gaze fixed on the still, distant lights.

He was close.

And if Rowan was breaking, even a little...

Lucian would be there to catch him.