"Sure."

He was quiet for a long moment, organizing his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was careful, like he was handling something fragile.

"I never had real friends. Growing up, I mean. Every person who got close to me wanted something. My father's influence. My power. Connection to the future hero. Everyone treated me like a resource to be exploited rather than a person."

"That sounds lonely."

"It was. Is. Even now, with my team, sometimes I wonder if they're loyal to me or to the idea of me. The hero. The SSS-rank prodigy. The protagonist." He stared into the fire. "Then the Council sent their Emissary and offered to replace me with a new hero. Said they'd kill me and transfer my power to someone more obedient. Like I'm interchangeable. Like Adrian Celestius doesn't matter, only the hero role matters."

"That's horrifying."

"It's clarifying. My whole life, I thought I was special. Chosen. Blessed by fate. But I'm not. I'm just a person filling a role, and if I step out of line, they'll find someone else." He looked up at me. "You know what the worst part is? I don't even know who I am without the hero role. It's been my identity for so long. If I cut that thread, sever that connection, what's left?"

The vulnerability in his voice was startling. This was Adrian Celestius, the golden boy, the blessed hero, the SSS-rank prodigy. Admitting he didn't know who he was beneath the labels.

"You're Adrian," I said simply. "Not the hero, not the role. Just Adrian. Whatever that means, whoever that turns out to be."

"But what if that's not enough? What if without the narrative weight, without the plot armor, I'm just... ordinary?"

"Then you're ordinary. So what?" I shifted position, getting more comfortable. "Adrian, half the reason we're doing this is to be people instead of roles. You can't hold onto the power and prestige of being the hero while also wanting freedom from the narrative. You either embrace being undefined or you stay in your cage."

"I know that logically, I know that." He rubbed his face. "But it's terrifying. I've been the hero my entire life. It's all I know how to be."

"Then you'll learn. Same as I'm learning to be something other than the villain they assigned me."

"Does it bother you? Not being the villain anymore?"

"No," I said, and realized I meant it. "Being the villain was never my choice. I took the label and owned it because refusing to engage just let them control me more. But I never wanted to be anyone's narrative function. I want to be Hadeon. Whatever that means."

Adrian was quiet, processing this. The fire burned lower, requiring more wood. I added a few branches, watching flames climb the new fuel.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Adrian said eventually.

"Seems to be that kind of night."

"What was your life like before? Before you started fighting the narrative. You've hinted that you realized things could change, that you could break the script. But you never talk about what made you realize that."

I'd been carefully avoiding this topic for months. The transmigration was my secret, known only to me and technically the system. Explaining it meant revealing things that would sound insane. But Adrian had just shared something deeply personal. Reciprocity felt right.

"My life before felt like reading a script," I said carefully. "Like every day was predetermined and I was just going through motions. Then one day I realized I don't have to follow this script. I can make different choices. Change outcomes. Write my own story."

"That's vague."

"It's complicated." I chose my words carefully. "Have you ever felt like you were watching your life happen rather than living it? Like you were a character in someone else's story?"

"Every day," Adrian said. "That's what being the hero feels like. Everyone expects certain things. React this way. Make that choice. Fight this battle. It's suffocating."

"That's what I felt. Suffocating. So I changed things. Made choices that weren't in the script. And suddenly everything shifted. I was living instead of just existing." I met his eyes across the fire. "That's when I realized the Council's control isn't absolute. They write the outline but we're the ones who have to perform it. And if we refuse to perform, if we improvise, we can break their narrative."

"Like jazz," Adrian said unexpectedly.

"What?"

"Jazz music. There's a structure, a basic framework. But the musicians improvise within it. They take the outline and make it their own." He smiled slightly. "My mother used to play jazz. Before my father decided it wasn't proper for the future hero's family. She'd say the beauty was in the improvisation, not the structure."

"Your mother sounds wise."

"She was. Is. I don't know. Father sent her away when I was twelve. Said she was a distraction from my training." His voice went flat. "I haven't seen her in six years."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault my father is a controlling bastard who sacrificed his family for the chance to be remembered as the hero's father." Adrian poked the fire viciously. "Sometimes I wonder if that's what the Council does. Corrupts families. Destroys relationships. All to maintain their precious narrative."

"It's possible. The Council benefits from isolated heroes. Easier to control someone who has nothing and no one they care about."

We sat in heavy silence for a while. The conversation had taken a darker turn than either of us intended. But there was something cathartic about it too. Speaking truths we usually kept buried.

"You asked if we're heroes or villains," I said eventually. "Earlier I said we're people. But I think it's more than that. I think we're people trying to become real in a world that wants us to be characters. That's what learning Fate's Severance means. Cutting the threads that define us as roles and accepting the uncertainty of being undefined."

"Philosophical."

"We're walking toward possible death. Philosophy seems appropriate."

Adrian laughed despite himself. "Fair point." He stood, stretching. "I'm taking first watch. You sleep. Tomorrow's a longer walk and we should arrive at the facility by evening."

"Wake me in four hours. We'll switch."

As I settled into my bedroll, I thought about the conversation. Adrian had shared more in one campfire talk than in all our previous interactions combined. The pressure of what we were attempting had stripped away pretense. We were just two scared people supporting each other through impossible circumstances.

Not friends yet, maybe. But something close to it.

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