Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun over Robloxia never set the same way twice. Some days it burned gold against the jagged skyline of half-finished places; today it was pale, muted, struggling to pierce through the haze that hung above abandoned servers. The demolition zone was an entire plot flagged for removal after its owner’s sudden termination. The place was already dead when Taph arrived. They could see it in the hollow storefronts, in the jagged floorboards that were unanchored and no longer aligned, in the way corrupted neon signs spasmed with their last sparks of light. Fragments of scripts—broken loops and corrupted assets—ran in the background like dying heartbeats. Terminated-user places always carried a kind of emptiness that felt different from ruins of natural decay. This was forced. Someone had cut the cord, and the whole world withered in an instant.

In the middle of it all worked Taph.

Their figure cut a sharp, unsettling image against the ruin. A recruit in all black, as if they were attending a funeral rather than a demolition. Their hood was drawn low, shadowing most of their face, and a bandana veiled the lower half—erasing anything that might reveal who they truly were. In the choking dust, the fabric clung close, turning their presence into something faceless, unreadable. The black gloves matched, hiding even the smallest details of skin, and the boots left no sound when they moved across broken stone. To the recruits, they must have looked less like one of them and more like a specter folded into human shape. The only thing that stood out—what betrayed their humanity—was the precision in their hands. Every motion was purposeful, deliberate, almost reverent, as if even the rubble deserved respect in its final collapse.

They adjusted the pack on their shoulders, pulled out their demolition charges, and set to work. Their hands moved the way they always had—quick, certain, exact. Measure the frame. Step back three paces. Place the charge at the seam, not the center. Clear debris into neat piles so nothing strayed where it didn’t belong. Then signal for removal. Repeat. Their movements were so fluid they sometimes forgot anyone was watching.

But they always watched.

From the corner of their vision, the other recruits had slowed their own work to watch them. They didn’t need to look at them to know. Their stares pressed at their back, prickling like grit under their collar. Unease had a texture—it thickened the air, made every breath feel heavier than the dust choking the ruins. They had felt it before. Everywhere they went.

The silence was almost worse than the explosions. Silence was different. It lingered. It judged. They didn’t speak to the other recruits, didn’t nod in acknowledgement, didn’t even grunt with the strain of their work. When they finished setting a charge, they stepped back with ritualistic neatness, folding their hands behind their back like a soldier waiting for orders—though none ever came.

“Efficient,” one recruit said.
The scrape of a shovel paused, hesitant.
“Creepy, though.” they muttered afterwards.

“Has anyone spoken to them?” one asked curiously.

Silence answered them. A silence that confirmed what Taph already knew. Nobody spoke to them. Nobody knew them. They were a nobody.

Their whispers bled through the dust, but they let them slide past them. Routine steadied them, so they returned to it. Same pattern, same rhythm. The charge went off with a clean roar, collapsing the ruined café inward. Dust bloomed outward like a wave, and the other recruits flinched back, coughing, muttering, some shielding their faces. Taph only raised an arm to shield their face, calm, measured. Then they stepped into the rubble without hesitation.

Every detail mattered. Each splintered plank, each fractured brick, the angles of collapse. Their eyes traced them with the same deliberate care. Breaks where they should be. No shrapnel cutting farther than intended. No excess damage spreading. The building folded into itself like paper. Controlled. Perfect.

Most recruits destroyed blindly, swinging hammers for noise or setting charges for spectacle. But their work was careful. Practiced. They moved like someone who had rehearsed the destruction a thousand times, every gesture memorized, every pause purposeful.

Taph moved on to the next building, falling back into the rhythm of their work. But when they straightened from setting the charge, a prickle ran up their spine—someone was watching. They tried to ignore it, the way they always did, until the final charge was in place. As they signaled the detonation, their eyes flicked upward. For the first time all day, they found Dusekkar—their recruit group’s assigned supervisor for the day—watching from above.

On the upper ledge of a crumbling balcony stood Dusekkar. His arms were folded, his expression unreadable. Not disapproving, not amused, not skeptical like the recruits. Just intent.

Taph froze. For a moment, their routine faltered. They hadn’t expected to be seen this way—not really. They knew the eyes of recruits, wide with discomfort, quick to whisper when they thought they couldn’t hear. But this was different. When their gazes locked Taph felt caught, like the pumpkin had seen something beyond the work, into the rhythm that steadied them, into the silence they carried everywhere. Dusekkar’s gaze carried weight, sharp and steady, like he saw more than rubble being cleared away. It made their chest tighten in a way they couldn’t name. Unease, they diagnosed.

It was brief—just a second, maybe less—but there was a weight in it. A silent acknowledgement.

Taph held the look, then turned back to the charge. They stepped away with their same measured precision. The detonation cracked through the half-empty server like thunder, and the ground gave way beneath the ruins, folding down into the void. Dust and static rose together, erasing what had stood.

The recruits whispered again, but their voices blurred to nothing. All Taph heard was the static hum of code unraveling into silence.

When Taph turned back, Dusekkar was already making his way down the rubble. He didn’t glance at the others. Didn’t speak to them. Passing them as if they weren’t even there. He walked straight through the dust until he was standing beside Taph at the edge of the void where the place had once stood. Both of them facing the blank sky where the café had been.

Silence hung between them again. Heavy, but different this time. Not judgment. Recognition.

Then, without a word, Dusekkar extended a gloved hand.

Taph stared at it, a flicker of tension pulling at their chest. None of the recruits had ever offered that. Not once. They looked at Taph like they didn’t belong, like they weren’t one of them at all. But here, now, someone was offering acknowledgement.

They reached out. His grip was firm, steady, measured. And for the first time since they had set foot in HQ, the silence didn’t feel like it belonged to them alone.

When their hands broke apart, Dusekkar didn’t move right away. He lingered at Taph’s side, pumpkin catching the pale light of the void. The recruits in the distance had already started packing their tools, their chatter rising thin through the dust, but here at the edge there was only silence.

Taph shifted, uncertain. Supervisors didn’t linger. They gave orders, barked corrections, logged performance reports. But Dusekkar only stood there, arms crossed again, gaze still fixed on the ruin below as if reading some pattern in the wreckage.

Taph followed his stare, trying to see what he saw. The collapse was perfect—they knew that. Clean edges, no stray damage, no wasted material. But maybe it wasn’t the ruin that held Dusekkar’s attention. Maybe it was them.

The thought made something coil in Taph’s chest. Uncomfortable. Heavy.

The supervisor’s pumpkin-light flickered faintly in the settling dust, throwing long, uneven shadows across the broken ground. Taph kept their eyes forward, on the blank stretch of sky. But they felt the weight of Dusekkar’s gaze shift toward them. Measuring. Testing.

“You work with care, not flair,” Dusekkar said at last, voice even, the rhyme subtle but deliberate. “That sets you apart. It’s rare.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the static hum of the empty server. A rhythm in the words, strange but purposeful, like an equation spoken out loud.

Taph blinked, caught off guard. They weren’t used to being addressed directly. Their instinct was to lower their eyes, to stay silent. Words weren’t theirs—they had none to give. It was always like this. People spoke, filled silence with noise, and they had nothing to give back. Usually it was easier to let them drown in their own discomfort until they gave up. But Dusekkar didn’t move away. So they only dipped their head once, a short nod.

Dusekkar didn’t seem bothered by the lack of reply. If anything, he seemed to expect it. His gaze lingered a second longer before shifting back to the rubble. “Most recruits swing wild, to prove they’re strong. You don’t—you’re precise, where each strike belongs. Careful, too careful, for one so new… Makes me wonder what’s guiding you.”

They tried to understand what the words meant, what this man wanted from them. Nothing about Dusekkar’s stance suggested dismissal, though. His arms were folded still, but not in impatience. More like curiosity.

The weight in Taph’s chest grew tighter. Their fingers brushed unconsciously at the dust on their gloves, buying themself a moment. Did Dusekkar mean suspicion? Or recognition?

It wasn’t praise exactly. Not approval. But something about the tone—the lack of mockery, the fact that it was observation rather than accusation—pulled at Taph in a way that was unfamiliar. He kept his gaze fixed forward, but his pulse ticked faster in his throat.

The silence stretched again.

Dusekkar finally turned, boots crunching over shattered tiles, each step punctuating the silence that had settled over the ruin. Dust clung to his sleeves, and the faint glow of the setting sun caught the edges of his robes, giving him an almost spectral presence. He didn’t glance back as he spoke, voice steady, almost musical in its rhythm.

“HQ demands, it tests the strong and keen. Moderation’s hard, but demolition’s mean. Most recruits crumble, lost before they start. But I sense you’ve got the grit, the steady heart.”

Taph stayed frozen at the edge, hands still behind their back, feeling the weight of the words settle over them like the lingering haze of smoke from the detonations. They weren’t exactly praise, not quite encouragement—but they struck deeper than any approval they had ever been offered before. A shiver ran through them, though they did not move to acknowledge it. Still, there was caution embedded in the words, a warning more than comfort. Moderation in ever-growing Robloxia was demanding, relentless, and demolition work mirrored its overload of work yet lack of employees.

Most recruits avoided it, opting for safer, steadier tasks at HQ. The rare few who tried demolition quickly learned why it was considered brutal: the combination of risk, precision, and responsibility could crush anyone not built for it. HQ had tried to entice workers with higher pay and benefits, but it was rarely the reward that mattered—it was the mettle required to survive.

Taph followed after Dusekkar, boots crunching with rhythm, heading back toward the “safe zone” at the demolition site—the small fenced area where all recruits had left their belongings before starting. The others moved aside, whispers trailing after them like shadows. Taph barely heard them. The murmurs of the recruits seemed distant, drowned beneath the echo of Dusekkar’s words, which lingered sharper than any explosion.

Taph watched as the recruits prepared to leave the server, some casting quick glances before looking away when they noticed Taph was watching. Even as the site emptied, the hum of tension lingered in the air, thick and unshakable. Yet the words they’d heard from Dusekkar still settled over them, carrying a quiet weight that gave their solitude an unexpected sense of purpose.

Chapter Text

The morning began the same as the ones before.

That was what comforted Taph most—routine.

They woke before the alarm, dressed in black, and laced his boots tight. The mask and hood were always the last step. They paused in front of the mirror, not to check their reflection but to make sure no part of themself slipped through.

The small apartment given to new hires at Roblox HQ who needed one was plain and without warmth: a small bed pressed into the corner, a narrow desk with a lamp that flickered when it powered on, a single window looking out onto the endless digital skyline of Robloxia. They washed their face, then checked their toolbelt, even though they would not need it today. Their hands worked with the same precision as when setting charges: they tightened the buckle, every socket in their toolbelt checked twice. Always the second pocket first. Always. It wasn’t habit—it was compulsion. The day couldn’t start otherwise.

Breakfast was a protein bar and some bread taken in silence. They didn’t eat so much as refuel. By the time they stepped into the HQ’s wide halls, the clamor of keyboards and the low murmur of voices already pressed in against them. Taph kept their head low, walking past bulletin boards plastered with notices and project deadlines. They caught the murmur of other employees in the distance, voices too many, overlapping into static. The sound followed them until they reached the conference hall, where the real noise began. The closer they got to the designated meeting room, the heavier the atmosphere seemed to grow, as if expectation itself thickened the air.

Inside, the meeting room was alive in a way that rattled them. Shoes scuffed and echoed against tiled flooring; the low thrum of a projector filled the background with a constant, insect-like buzz; the air itself was close, thick with the warmth of too many bodies in too small a space. Their eyes adjusted to the dimmed light, catching flashes of faces they half-knew from demolition rotations—Sorcus seated in the middle left side of the long table chatting with Tarabyte. Dusekkar standing with his usual reserved posture, stationed like an anchor in the room’s corner. Builderman himself was already seated at the head of the table, his presence heavy without effort. And then there were the ones Taph had never stood so close to before: Doombringer’s sharp-eyed watch brooding in silence, ReeseMcblox with an air of calm authority, Brighteyes tapping notes onto a laptop, Stickmasterluke slouched as if bored, Clockwork adjusting the glinting rims of his glasses leaning back with an easy grin.

And then—Shedletsky.

The name meant nothing to them, yet the face pulled at something inside. It wasn’t recognition, exactly, but a sensation of a memory buried under layers of static. The man laughed too easily, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise, his presence oddly magnetic. Taph’s gaze lingered on him too long, searching, expecting something—recognition, perhaps. Instead, their thoughts struck nothing but blank space. Every attempt to remember snagged against a wall of emptiness, as if the past itself had been erased before they could reach it. The harder they pushed, the more it resisted, until their temples ached.

Builderman cleared his throat and began the session. His tone was even as he introduced the topic, but the words pressed heavy: The surge of new users. With that growth came chaos. Robloxia was growing faster than ever, and moderation was straining under the weight. More resources were needed. More demolition. More work for every employee sitting there. Taph listened, silent, every number and estimate burning into their mind. Charts flashed onto the projector screen—rows of numbers climbing higher, estimates of flagged accounts, the frequency of takedowns. The heat of the room seemed to rise with every statistic. When Builderman read out the quotas for each sector, the table shifted uncomfortably. Dozens of places scheduled for demolition per week, maybe more. It was impossible, and everyone knew it. But when Builderman’s eyes landed on Taph, his voice softened. Then came the question.

“You’re new. This would be your quota. Think you can handle it?”

The other admins looked on, curious. Sorcus’ brow furrowed. Brighteyes leaned forward to see Taph from where she sat. The silence pressed in, heavy. Taph met Builderman’s gaze with their usual stillness, then gave a small, firm nod.

It wasn’t bravado. It was loyalty—an instinctive, binding force. If the work was impossible, they would still attempt it until their hands gave out. They were new, and yet they already knew there was no other answer they could give. A few admins traded looks, some skeptical, others curious. Dusekkar, from across the table, watched without blinking. Builderman studied them for a long second before leaning back. 

“Good. Then we’ll keep you monitored for a few more days, but your performance speaks for itself. Less supervised demolitions than most recruits need.”

Relief didn’t come. The echo of the impossible task hung in Taph’s chest like an anchor, but so did the quiet satisfaction of being seen.

The meeting shifted after that. The talk loosened; papers shuffled; the weight of quotas gave way to lighter tones. Discussions sparked; plans for Roblox’s expansion, upcoming events, administrative adjustments. The tension softened into something more casual when Shedletsky leaned forward with a grin.

“Now, before we all drown in numbers—RDC is this week. Don’t forget your name tags.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Some sort of inside joke? Taph blinked. The words meant nothing to them. They tilted their head slightly, their silence obvious enough that Shedletsky caught it. They glanced around, searching for context, but only found Shedletsky’s amused stare. 

“You don’t know what that is?” Shedletsky said with mock shock, laughter curling around the words. 

The tone was playful, it caught the room’s attention. A few admins chuckled. Not cruel, but it stung all the same. They felt heat rising in their chest, the weight of eyes on them. But before the silence could stretch too long, ReeseMcBlox spoke. Her voice was steady, even. 

“They’re new, it’s not their fault they don't know it yet.”

The laughter softened, dissolving into the low thrum of side conversations. A few of the admins leaned toward one another, voices muted under the steady hum of the projector. Builderman, however, did not join them. He rose from his chair and moved deliberately across the room, boots clicking against the polished floor.

When he stopped at Taph’s side, it was as though the room itself quieted around them. He placed one hand lightly on the back of Taph’s chair, leaning just enough to make the words feel like they were meant only for them.

“It’s our biggest annual event, Taph,” Builderman said, his tone gentler now, free of the performative energy he carried when addressing the whole room. “RDC—Roblox Developer Conference. It’s where we step out from these walls and meet the community. Developers, creators, partners… people who shape what we build next. We present upcoming features, future goals, and share plans. It’s not just a conference—it’s where the future of Roblox starts taking shape.” A proud smile pressed into his face as he explained.

His gaze softened, and he added with a faint smile, “It’s important. You should go. I think you’ll find it’s less of discussions and more about belonging. And you’ve earned your place here. Even if you're new. It's a great way to meet new people.”

Taph’s eyes flicked upward, but they couldn’t hold the look for long. The weight of Shedletsky’s half-familiar grin still lingered in their peripheral vision, like a thorn at the edge of memory. The hum of the projector pressed against their ears, the scrape of a chair leg somewhere in the back grated sharp, and for a moment, the noise tangled inside them until they weren't sure where to look.

Their hand drifted down almost on its own. Fingers brushed once more against that same pocket on their toolbelt, checking that it was in place. Everything else shifted, blurred—but that detail stayed constant.

Only then, with Builderman’s words echoing against the static in their chest, could they breathe again.

The meeting wound down in fragments—papers shuffled, chairs scraped against the floor, laughter rose and fell like waves as people filtered out in groups. Clusters of admins gathered in twos and threes to keep their conversations going. Some drifted out the door, already absorbed in the next task. Others stayed behind, voices carrying low and sharp. Dusekkar gave Taph a passing nod before slipping into a quiet conversation with Sorcus and Tarabyte. Shedletsky stretched, yawning like the meeting had been more amusement than work, and called after Brighteyes about some inside joke that Taph couldn’t catch.

Taph stood slowly, their body tense from sitting too long, though the weight in their chest hadn’t lessened. They could’ve gone home—their day was over, technically. The scheduled meeting had cut their hours short and they had the whole afternoon off. But to leave now, to step into the silence of their room, felt like surrender. 

They wandered the halls without direction, letting the echo of their footsteps steady them after the long weight of the meeting. The stiffness in their legs unwound with each turn of the corridor, and for a while, walking became its own quiet rhythm—something mechanical, almost meditative, like gears turning in the back of their mind. A rhythm they could trust when their mind still felt tangled.

Time slipped away without them noticing. What felt like minutes stretched into something far longer; when they finally checked the wall clock at a passing junction, nearly an hour and a half had dissolved into the silence of wandering.

The halls weren’t empty, though. Faint traces of life carried through the building—laughter bouncing off walls, the rise and fall of half-muffled voices, the scrape of a chair somewhere ahead. Drawn by that current, they adjusted their course. The sounds grew clearer the closer they came, spilling warmth and energy into the otherwise sterile hall.

Taph followed it until they reached the breakroom door, where the hum of conversation and the clatter of cups announced a different kind of gathering altogether.

It was brighter here, noisier. The breakroom was less formal, more alive. It was their first time seeing them—admins, moderators, developers—without the rigidity of assignments or supervision. The room itself buzzed with casual chaos: half-empty coffee cups scattered across tables forgotten in the midst of a conversation, the faint smell of pizza crusts left in open boxes, the keystrokes of laptops blending with laughter and the low hum of vending machines.

Sorcus leaned against the counter, cracking jokes at Tarabyte, who swatted at him with a rolled-up napkin. Dued1 sat hunched over a small device, its wires spilling like veins across the table as he tinkered with quick, deft movements. Ultraw hovered nearby with a curious gaze. Stickmasterluke scribbled in a sketchpad, erasing, then re-drawing with a stubborn intensity. Loleris, Taymaster and Nikilis wandered in mid-argument, half-smiling, half-serious about some new feature update. 

Taph lingered near the door first, then eased further in. They didn’t know how to fit into it. Instead, they watched. Sorcus tapped the edge of his mug every time Tarabyte interrupted him. Dued1’s left foot bounced in restless sync with the ticking of his screwdriver. Stickmasterluke pressed the pen too hard, the paper creasing with every line. Each detail slotted into place like puzzle pieces Taph couldn’t yet see the full picture of.

They found themself in the corner of the room at an empty table. They sat quietly, as their eyes darted across the scene. The room buzzed around them, but their focus was tuned to smaller things—the way condensation slid down a glass, the way the air conditioner hummed and cut, hummed and cut. They could notice everything—textures, sounds, patterns—but none of it told them how to be.

Then someone from across the table—Merely, maybe, or Seranok, their voices blending in Taph’s head—looked up and asked casually, “You’re the one that breaks down buildings, right? So, Taph… where’d you work before here?”

The air shifted. Just slightly. A silence, quick but cutting, rippled through this half of the room. Eyes shifted. Nobody actually knew.

Taph froze. The question rang inside their skull like a struck bell. Their hand twitched as if they wanted to speak, but their throat was too dry to shape an answer. Instead, they reached for a nearby pen, scrawling something vague into the corner of a napkin: not sure.

The silence stretched, brittle, until someone laughed—a quick deflection, a joke about losing track of time working here too long. The tension thinned, the room warming back to its rhythm, but Taph felt it still. Like a knot pressing against their ribs.

They kept their head down, staring at the pen with barely any ink left as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Their thoughts screamed at them from embarrassment.

A weight sank into the chair beside them, pulling Taph out of the inward echo of embarrassment and forcing their focus sideways. Their hand drifted, almost automatically, to the pocket on their toolbelt, brushing over it as if to anchor themself. Shedletsky had plunked down next to them, grin broad and voice buoyant, tossing out a teasing remark that looped Taph back into the conversation with an easy flick of humor.

“You’re quiet, huh? Don’t worry, they’ll get used to it. You just need to loosen up.” 

His eyes sparkled as he leaned in, voice dropping into something between a joke and an analogy: “Breaking down houses all day—guess it makes sense you’re sturdier than the bricks. Only difference is, the bricks don’t fight back, so you’ve got it easy, right?”

Taph answered the way they always did—with absolute seriousness. They pulled the stray napkin back to themself to write again and replied as if it weren’t a joke at all—laying out some technical note about bricks collapsing depending on weight distribution and how some walls give more resistance than others.

The burst of laughter from Shedletsky was quick and genuine. Still, it left Taph blinking, stiff and uncertain, heat rising up the back of their neck as if they’d missed a step in a dance everyone else knew.

Before the moment stretched too far, Dusekkar’s voice cut in, calm and deliberate. 
“They’re sharper than you think, and steady as steel. Not every man needs a jest to reveal.” 
The words, half lesson and half shield, laced into a quiet rhyme that drew the attention away from Taph’s silence and onto Dusekkar himself. The cadence softened the laughter still lingering in the air, settling it into something more reflective. He offered Taph a glance—protective, grounding. The knot in Taph’s chest unwound just enough for them to breathe again. Their hand eased away from the socket at their belt, fingers uncurling from their anxious check. For the first time since stepping into the room, their shoulders slackened, the air around them a little less sharp.

Shedletsky caught the shift. He leaned back, tilting his chair dangerously as he glanced at Dusekkar nearby, “Alright, alright, I’ll behave.”

Shedletsky then turned back to Taph, and the grin softened. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice so only Taph caught it, “if you ever want to sit around, hang out, talk nonsense—door’s open.”

It was said lightly, tossed off with the same ease as his jokes. But Taph felt the offer land heavier than intended, like a small rope tossed across the gap between themself and the others. It wasn’t pity, though Taph wasn’t sure what it was either. But it was something. Enough to keep the knot in their chest from pulling tighter.

Taph nodded, not trusting their voice.

Shedletsky gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, then sprang up from his seat in one fluid motion. He caught the chair before it could topple backward, steadying it with a practiced flick of his hand, and made his way toward Dusekkar, who was waiting by the door. Before stepping out, both he and Dusekkar turned, lifting a hand in an easy wave to Taph as they left the breakroom.

The room continued to buzz around them, but they kept their eyes down, tracing the faint imprint of the words they’d written on the napkin: not sure.
They looked back at Taph like a scar they hadn’t realized they carried.

Chapter Text

The annual Roblox Developer Conference was nothing short of spectacle. Screens glowed with looping trailers of upcoming features, projectors cast shifting lights across banners that hung like flags of some digital kingdom, and the steady hum of conversation filled the vast hall. Developers clustered in circles, badges swinging from their necks; content creators filmed shaky clips for their fans; Roblox employees darted between booths, answering questions with rehearsed confidence.

It was the sort of environment designed to energize, to spark connection.

But Taph remained at the edges.

They lingered in the main hallway before the event began, half-shadowed against the wall where the light didn’t quite reach. Glass cases of Roblox merchandise caught the glow of the overhead fixtures, casting fractured reflections across the marble floor. Groups hurried past Taph, their conversations bubbling with excitement.

“Did you hear about the new studio tools?”
“I can’t wait to see the showcase this year.”
“They’re announcing something big, I know it.”
“I’m totally not ready for the game jam.”

Taph absorbed the voices like echoes in a cavern, but didn’t let them reach them. They shifted their weight against the wall, adjusting the sleeves of their long coat, drawing them further down over their hands. Their eyes never lingered on any one group for long. Every cheer or sudden laugh sent a twitch through their chest, an instinctive flinch at the sharpness of sound. The bright badges and lanyards swung like pendulums when people passed, catching glints from the overhead projectors; they kept their gaze lowered, trailing over the folds of their own clothing instead. Among the brightness and clamor, they seemed almost misplaced—draped in shadow where everyone else chased the light.

Taph didn’t belong to the whirl of handshakes and half-shouted greetings. They existed beside it, watching.

Taph’s presence was almost spectral compared to the neon polish around them. Where most employees wore crisp polos with Roblox logos, or business casual trimmed for networking, Taph’s attire was unmistakably their own: a long, black coat that hung past their knees, tailored enough to look formal but draped like a cloak. Beneath it, they wore dark slacks and polished boots, the shine dulled from use, and a high-collared shirt fastened tightly at the throat. They still wore their gloves, bandana, and hood, though cleaned of the dirty work that was demolition. No insignias, no patterns, nothing that caught the light. The layers gave them an air of formality, but also distance—shielding them from the brightness of the event.

As minutes ticked on, the flow of people thickened. A ripple of motion through the crowd pulled Taph’s attention. Excited chatter swelled as attendees began drifting toward the great double doors that opened into the main stage. People were funneling down the main corridor toward the convention hall, a wave that signaled the event was about to begin. Taph followed at the very end of it. Their coat swayed with each step, heavy enough that they felt grounded. They remained close to the wall until the stream carried them into the vast auditorium. 

The room was massive. Tiered seating rose in clean arcs, every row marked with neat white place cards for different groups—developers, partners, content creators, press. The air buzzed, electric with anticipation.

Taph veered to the far right edge, toward the seats reserved for employees. They were closer to the back, away from the stage. Perfect. They slid into the end seat, hands folded over their lap, the press of others only grazing them here at the margin. The front seats, they noticed, had already begun to fill with developers, partners, and content creators, chatting eagerly while adjusting cameras or straightening badges. Taph sat stiffly, folding their coat around them, eyes lifted toward the vast screens above the stage. From this vantage, they could see the sweeping stage framed by glowing blue panels, its center lit in anticipation.

As the seats filled, the lights dimmed. A hush fell across the room, broken only by the thrum of bass from the speakers.

A cheerful murmur spread through the audience as a spotlight cut across the stage.

Then—cheers erupted as a familiar figure stepped onto the stage. Builderman. 

The founder’s presence radiated warmth, dressed simply in his signature jacket, his smile wide and genuine. He waved as the applause rolled over him, pausing to let it crest before leaning toward the microphone.

“Welcome, everyone! It’s so good to see you all here—our developers, our creators, our community.” His voice carried an ease that filled the space. “This conference is about you. About celebrating what you’ve built, what you’ve imagined, and what’s coming next. Together, we’re shaping the future of Roblox.”

The crowd erupted again, whistles and claps rising like a wave. Cameras flashed. Phones lifted into the air to capture the moment.

Taph sat still. Their gaze didn’t linger on Builderman, not for long. Instead they studied the wash of light that fell across the stage. The shifting beams through the air drew attention to the faint motes of dust flickering in their glow. The colors shifted in soft gradients, spilling into the faces of the audience. They noted the shimmer of excitement on those around them: eyes wide, mouths open in cheer, shoulders leaning forward as if to drink in every word. Their reactions said more than the words on stage ever could.

The presentation was a tide carrying the room, but Taph stood on its shore. They absorbed the rhythm of the applause, the vibration in the floor beneath their boots, the way laughter rippled through the crowd when Builderman cracked a gentle joke.

But the words themselves—Taph let them drift past, half-heard.

What struck them more was the human storm around them, its energy threatening to drown them if they lost their grip on the quiet edges of their mind.

So they focused instead on the lights. The glow of the stage panels. The way the spotlights swept briefly across the audience, dazzling white beams fading back into blue shadow. Safe patterns, mechanical and predictable. Something they could hold onto, while the room swelled louder and louder with Builderman’s enthusiasm.

For Taph, the pressure was different. The noise was sharp, the clapping relentless. Their seat at the back edge of the employee rows gave them space, but not silence. Their eyes drifted from the stage to the way light fractured along the metal fixtures, how it spilled in pale ribbons across the floor tiles. When the audience erupted again at the promise of some new tool, Taph flinched before steadying themself, realizing too late that their gloves had balled into fists. The heat of attention, even when not directed at them, was unbearable.

After a while, Taph stood from their seat. No one noticed—too absorbed by the presentation. The aisle became a narrow escape route, their boots clicking against the tile in rhythm with their quickened breath. They didn’t look back, just followed the same path they took to get there until they reached the familiar grand double doors they had passed through not long ago.

Near the door stood Dusekkar, his pumpkin head tilted slightly, as though he had been waiting. His voice came low, deliberate, each word touched with its rhyming cadence.

“Alone you wander, shadows near. Tell me, friend, what brings you here?”

His voice carried calm curiosity, not judgment.

Taph froze. Their first instinct was to shake their head and retreat, but the steady, unhurried tone rooted them in place. They hesitated, shifting their weight, searching for words they couldn’t give. Taph opened their mouth, but as always, no sound followed. Their hands hovered at their sides, restless. Dusekkar, noticing the falter, reached into his cloak and produced a small notebook, holding it out like an offering. The familiarly same offer as the gentle handshake from when they first met. A pen was clipped to the cover of the notebook.

“If words won’t flow, don’t let them sink. Your voice can live in lines of ink.”

Tentatively, Taph took it. They opened the notebook carefully, finding small notes already written in it. They flipped a few pages down to find a blank page before writing a response.

The words scratched unevenly across the page: It’s too much noise.

Dusekkar leaned over, reading, then gave a low hum of understanding. 
His tone softened, “I see the crowd, its noise, its weight. Not all must join to celebrate.”

Taph blinked at him, unsure if it was comfort or simply poetry. Taph lowered the notebook, uncertain if they should write more. Then, with a flicker of curiosity, they scribbled another line and turned it back: Why aren’t you with them?

“The noise I’ve heard a hundred times, I helped script those practiced lines. But you sat still, apart, sincere, like silence carved against the cheer. So tell me, friend, what else to do, but trade the noise to sit with you?”

The words sat heavy between them, but not uncomfortable. Something stirred in Taph—confusion, curiosity, a strange kind of warmth. They weren't sure what to do with it. Their pen hovered before they scribbled, hesitant: I don’t know how to talk.

Before Dusekkar could reply, the stage thundered with another round of applause. The admin tilted his head toward the noise, the sound rolling like a wave through the walls, before turning back to Taph with a faint tilt of his head.

“Come on. Let’s get some air before we both suffocate.” 

Without waiting for argument, he pushed off the wall and started toward the doors. His long strides carried him confidently that made it hard not to follow. Taph lingered, clutching the notebook to their chest, as though the flimsy pages were a tether holding them still. But the swell of voices in the room made their ears ring, and before long they moved after Dusekkar, their steps quieter, hesitant.

Together they slipped through the main entrance doors, the roar of the conference fading into muffled echoes behind them. The hallway outside was dimmer, the hum of fluorescent lights and the sigh of vents replacing the chaos of clapping and chatter. There was a faint smell of old carpet, dust baked by heat, and the bitter edge of coffee carried from some nearby lounge.

Dusekkar walked with easy certainty, as though he had traversed these halls a hundred times. His voice floated back over his shoulder, rhythmic and warm:
“Noise like that can grind you down. A thousand voices make you drown. Better to walk where silence stays. Then choke inside that endless maze.”

At last, they reached the heavy glass doors. Beyond them lay the main entrance of the building. They stepped outside, and the atmosphere shifted.

The air was cooler, open, edged with the faint scent of pavement still warming in the late afternoon sun. Rows of benches stretched beneath tall glass windows, their shadows striping the stone in neat patterns. A handful of trees, evenly spaced and pruned into geometric order, lined the path that led toward the street. The roar of the conference was now just a ghostly murmur through the walls.

Dusekkar sat on a bench nearby, his hands folded neatly in his lap with practiced grace. “Better?”

Taph nodded once.

For a long stretch, their conversation unfolded slowly, traded in pen lines and easy replies. Taph wrote deliberately, carefully, almost as though the act of forming words gave shape to their thoughts.

“What’s the tallest thing you’ve torn down?” Dusekkar asked first, eyes glinting with curiosity.

Taph’s pen moved carefully, the letters precise: Five-story building. Concrete reinforced. It took three days by myself.

Dusekkar hummed softly.
“Three days to pull down stone and steel? Your hands must tire, your nerves must feel. I’ve watched walls crumble, floors give way, but nothing moves quite like your sway.”

Taph tilted their head slightly, reading the rhyme as if it were an equation. Then they wrote back about the delicate demolitions they’d handled; the timing, the weight calculations, the way they listened to the creak of beams as if they were alive. Taph’s sentences were tight, technical, almost clinical—but Dusekkar’s responses wove humor and metaphor through them, painting the numbers and procedures with color.

Afterwards, Taph asked about what Dusekkar had been working on.

The pumpkin looked up in thought for a moment before replying to the written question, “I’ve been working on the new update for players—mostly helping with moderation. But long before that, I crafted lobbies where gravity played tricks, built games with just a baseplate and a few gears to tinker with, and… you might not like this one, given what you’ve explained—but I also made skyscrapers that felt infinitely high when you tried to reach the top.”

Taph’s eyes flicked to the notebook, writing cautiously about the odd scripts they’d seen or participated in while demolishing builds, floating rooms, glitching staircases, walls that refused to fall unless handled in the exact right order. Taph described them with the same care they applied to a structural analysis. 

Then they added at the end: Large or tall builds, no matter how long it takes, it’s still an enjoyable process to me at least. Their destruction being the most satisfying.

“What of the conference, the sights and the sound? The banners, the lights, the voices all around. Tell me, my friend, what here makes you stare. What lingers with you, what’s caught in the air?” Dusekkar asked, tilting his head.

Taph paused, fingers hovering over the page, then wrote slowly: The lights shift too fast. The noise is heavy. People move in patterns I don’t understand.

Dusekkar laughed softly, the sound warm, not mocking.
“Patterns, yes, like currents in the sea, each moving, weaving, all rushing past me. But even currents can guide a boat, sometimes you drift—sometimes you float.”

They lingered there, circling each other’s thoughts with words and pen scratches. Then Dusekkar shifted slightly, his tone gentling further.

“Beyond your work here, what’s your story?” he asked, phrased carefully. 

Taph froze. The pen hung over the page, hesitant. The weight of absence pressed against them, a hollow that no memory could fill. Every thought seemed to vanish before it could take form. Finally, they wrote, the letters cramped and tight: I don’t know.

The admission silenced them both. Dusekkar’s expression softened. 

He leaned back slightly, letting the words settle before speaking again. His voice carried the rhythmic warmth that always seemed to comfort Taph, a rhyme that made the hollow pause feel less sharp.

“No need to dig where answers hide, some doors are locked from the inside.”

Relieved, Taph changed the subject, finding the courage to scribble awkwardly: Why is your head a pumpkin?

Dusekkar barked out a laugh, the sound startling in the quiet air. 

“At last, the real questions!” His tone was light, teasing.

His eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned closer.

“Bold to ask, and I’ll not delay—but know the weight must match each way.”

Taph blinked, misunderstanding immediately. Their pulse quickened. They straightened instinctively, shoulders stiff, as though bracing for an interrogation. They gripped the notebook as if to anchor themself.

Dusekkar noticed the tension and softened his expression, tilting his head in quiet reassurance. “Relax, friend. It’s a joke.” He tapped his hollow pumpkin gently, a faint thump accompanying the gesture. “This is just me, from the very start. Never thought to change it, it’s part of my heart.”

He studied Taph with careful curiosity, voice lower now, more conversational. “So now I’ll ask, since it’s my turn. Where did you learn your style so stern?”

Taph blinked, caught off guard. They had expected something heavier, sharper, more personal. Their shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow. But the question was disarmingly simple.
Their pen scratched the paper slowly: I’ve always dressed this way. I like being covered.

Dusekkar’s lips curved into a gentle smile, the rhyme falling effortlessly from him, “Fair enough, cloak and glove. Armor worn is armor loved.”

The silence settled again, softer now, a gentle pause between the two of them. Time stretched, and neither seemed eager to break it. Taph sat still, the weight of the notebook loose in their hands, the pen resting idle across the page.

Around them, the muffled sound of the conference drifted faintly through the walls—distant laughter, bursts of chatter, the echo of hurried footsteps. But here, just outside the crowded halls, the noise was blurred, softened into something almost harmless. A draft of cool air whispered along the front entrance, carrying with it the faint smell of summer. It brushed against their hood and gloves, light enough to remind them that they were away from the press of bodies, that there was space here to breathe.

A quiet calm rooted itself in their chest, fragile but real.

Only then did Dusekkar move. He shifted his stance, slow and unhurried, before raising his gloved hands. His movements were deliberate and steady—a language in motion. First, he pointed to Taph. Then both hands rose, crossing in front of him before lowering slowly and spreading apart.

“You are quiet,” he said softly, voice low and calm, no rhyme, just observation.

Then he repeated the gestures, a steady echo, giving Taph time to notice, to process. The rhythm of the motions lingered in the air.

Taph’s eyes widened as the realization struck—it was sign language. Their hands twitched, unsure at first, mirroring Dusekkar’s shapes. Stiff and hesitant, they felt foreign in their gloved fingers. But Dusekkar’s smile—the warm fire light beneath the hollow pumpkin shell—softened the edge of his unease, easing the knot in their chest.

“Notebooks help, but signs can too. A language made for me and you.”

For the first time that day, Taph felt something like relief, a small anchor in the unfamiliar storm. They gave a tentative nod, their hood dipping low as they absorbed the moment. Beside them, Dusekkar stayed, patient and unhurried, as though there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Taph wrote in the book: Thank you.

When Dusekkar read it he smiled and raised a single hand in front of his mouth and brought it out. Taph, once again, copied the gesture. This time a bit more confident in the movement.

Dusekkar’s smile only widened as he responded with the same gesture, “You’re welcome.”

“The gesture for ‘thank you’ can also mean ‘you’re welcome,’” he explained. “Repeating it back to the person who signed it is like acknowledging it, returning the kindness.”

He lifted a hand, fingers enclosing all but the thumb and pinkie, moving it side to side with deliberate grace. “It’s the same.”

Taph nodded in understanding.

For the first time all evening, the noise of the conference seemed far away.

But it didn’t last. The doors down the corridor swung open with a sudden clap, spilling laughter and chatter into the hall. Groups of attendees trickled out in waves, their voices carrying the relief of an event finally finished. Some still clutched flyers, others half-empty cups of soda. Their footsteps echoed against the tile as they filed out the exit.

Taph lowered their head, letting the brim of their hood shield them. They watched the shifting light instead—the way the orange glow stretched across the floor, pulling long shadows of the departing crowd. The warmth of the fading day brushed their gloves and sleeves, and though the voices had returned, the storm inside them remained quiet. The silence they had found with Dusekkar still lingered, even if more fragile now.

It was broken when someone’s voice rang out, theatrical and familiar.
“There you are!”

Shedletsky stormed towards the bench, arms thrown wide in exaggerated complaint. “I was looking for you the whole time after the conference!” His voice rose above the others, brash and unashamed. “I can’t believe you missed Game Jam! Half the projects were disasters, the other half were brilliant! And you—” he jabbed a finger toward Dusekkar—“weren’t there to roast them with me. Do you have any idea how much I suffered alone?”

The words washed over Taph in half-heard fragments—something about missed panels, judges bickering, one entry involving a cursed physics engine that crashed the stage lighting. Shedletsky’s voice filled the space without pause, his rambling a steady current that Taph floated through without catching every word.

“—Why are you even out here?” Shedletsky finally ended his rant.

Dusekkar folded his arms, unbothered by the outburst. “The crowd wasn’t where I wished to be,” he said evenly, tilting his head toward Taph. “I’d found good company, as you can see.”

Shedletsky blinked, only now noticing Taph at Dusekkar’s side. “Oh. Uh—hey.” 

A beat passed, then he leaned in closer to Dusekkar with a mischievous smirk. “So this is why you vanished.”

Dusekkar deadpanned at Shedletsky, almost comically. 

Shedletsky only bursted out into more laughter.

Taph’s hand twitched while holding the pen against the notebook, though they didn’t bother to write. 

The sun had slipped further by the time the crowd outside thinned, dusk swallowing the colors of the sky.

Beside them, Dusekkar only stood with that same easy patience as if the noise no longer mattered.

At last, Shedletsky gestured dramatically toward the doors. “Come on, I’m dragging you back before they clear out the snack table. If I miss the last of the pizza rolls because of you, I swear—”

Dusekkar gave a final glance toward Taph. “I’ll see you again soon, friend.” he said simply, his tone unhurried even if Shedlteksy’s rush left no room for rhyme. Then he let himself be pulled along, Shedletsky still filling the air with exaggerated woes as they disappeared into the long entrance hall.

Taph remained seated in the sunset’s quiet, the echo of their exchange still resting with them. Though the voices of the departing crowd pressed in again, the weight of the moment lingered, steady as the fading light of the sun.

Chapter Text

Taph moved through the demolition list with the same steady rhythm as always. The buildings blurred together after a while—walls crumbling, dust rising, debris swept aside into piles that would soon vanish like they had never stood there at all. Taph was used to the silence of the work, the solitude, but today felt different. Today, Dusekkar had tagged along.

The pumpkin-headed figure leaned against a half-broken wall as if it were a casual seat, arms crossed, cloak hanging loosely around his frame. He claimed he was “checking progress,” though his tone made it sound more like an excuse than a genuine order. The demolitionist hadn’t received any messages prior to Dusekkar’s appearance which made it all the more suspicious. Taph kept expecting some kind of correction or supervision, but none came. The only thing Dusekkar seemed intent on was being there. Taph didn’t mind. They welcomed the company, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

Midway through clearing another structure, Dusekkar piped up.
“So, why return the notebook and pen?” His voice carried easily in the empty lot. “The secretary passed them back this morning again.”

Taph stiffened at the question, unsure how to explain. They simply shrugged, head dipping slightly, hands tightening on their gloves. In truth, they hadn’t thought of it as theirs. It felt borrowed—like something Dusekkar had lent them in a fleeting moment. They didn’t want to assume it was permanent.

Dusekkar’s hollow eyes glimmered faintly before he reached into his coat. From within, he produced a fresh set: a brand-new notebook, its cover unscuffed, and a pen heavy with ink. He extended them without hesitation.
“Then keep these,” he said. “No debt to be harrowed—They’re yours to hold, not merely borrowed.”

Taph hesitated for only a breath before taking them, their gloved fingers curling around the smooth cover. The clean pages felt like a promise.

After a moment, Dusekkar’s tone shifted. “Back at the conference… you didn’t speak. Was it the crowd, or something more bleak?” His words were gentle, without accusation, but they struck close enough to make Taph’s shoulders tighten.

Dusekkar tilted his head, pumpkin-shell reflecting the dim light of the fading day. “If you’d like, I could teach you sign. After hours, in your own time. Notebooks help, but hands speak faster. A quiet voice both sure and vaster.”

The idea caught Taph off guard, but the warmth behind it lit something small and eager inside them. Their nod was immediate, sharper than their usual slow replies. They wrote quickly in the new book: I’d like that.

“Good,” Dusekkar said, with a pleased note to his voice.

That night, Taph rushed through the last of their demolition assignments. The work came easily—walls fell at the swing of their arm, supports cracked and toppled without resistance. They worked with unusual speed, not because they wanted to be done, but because they didn’t want to keep Dusekkar waiting. Even though the pumpkin had said “anytime,” the thought of showing up late left them uneasy.

When they finally stepped into Dusekkar’s office, the difference struck them immediately. The space was nothing like the rest of the sterile, tiled admin floors. The cold glare of fluorescent lights was replaced by the glow of a tall standing lamp in the corner, its light golden and soft. A wide rug spread across the floor, muffling footsteps, and the walls were lined with shelves of books stacked high and uneven, their spines worn from use. There was even a faint scent of parchment and ink, a kind of warmth that clung to the room like it had been lived in for years.

Taph lingered at the entrance, notebook hugged against their chest, before stepping inside. It didn’t feel like entering an office—it felt like being welcomed into someone’s home. And for reasons they couldn’t fully put to words, that made their chest feel lighter.

Dusekkar straightened from where he’d been adjusting a stack of books on his desk. “Come in,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “Sit.” He gestured toward the pair of chairs set at the corner, angled toward one another rather than the desk, as though chosen for conversation rather than business.

Taph lowered themself into the seat, their notebook still clutched tight. They shifted, uncertain, until Dusekkar spoke again.

“There’s no need to be nervous, we’ll take it slow.” he assured them. “Signs speak with patience, and gently they flow.”

From the desk, he pulled a small slip of paper. “I made a list, for the tasks you face.” he explained, sliding it across the table for Taph to see. Words were neatly inked in an ordered column—short, simple, purposeful. “Signs to recall at a rapid pace.
No fumbling for pens, just steady grace.”

Taph leaned forward, notebook forgotten for a moment, their eyes tracing the tidy script. Each word was practical, useful—chosen with care. It struck them that Dusekkar hadn’t simply planned a lesson, he had thought ahead about what would make their work easier, about how to bridge the gap between silence and speech. A faint warmth rose in their chest, unfamiliar but steady.

The first lesson was simple, but it carried more weight than Taph expected. Dusekkar began with hello—a small wave, palm forward, his fingers loose and steady.

“Hello,” he said, repeating the word aloud before gesturing again. “You try.”

Taph lifted their hand, wavering slightly, and gave a hesitant wave back.

“Good, that one’s easy.” Dusekkar said.

Next, friend. Two hooked index fingers linking together, tugged gently as though binding. 

Taph imitated the gesture, fumbling at first, but managed. Their lips curved faintly under the mask.

“Better.”

Finish. Dusekkar lifted both hands, palms up, then flicked them outward, sharp and final. The motion had a clean precision, almost theatrical in its flourish.

Taph tried, but their wrists stiffened. The flick came out clumsy. They frowned at their hands.

“Relax,” Dusekkar said, voice softer. “It’s not force—it’s release.” He demonstrated again, slower this time, the movement like brushing dust from the air.

Help. One hand forming a fist with a thumb pointed up, the other lifting it upward like offering support. 

Stop. He raised a hand straight and vertical and struck firmly into the other, which was an open palm. 

Please. His open palm moved in a slow circle over his chest, a gesture oddly tender. 

Danger. Dusekkar lifted one hand to hover flat against his chest, steady and still. His other hand had his fingers enclosed except the thumb, circling above the first in a slow, deliberate motion. His hollow gaze lingered on Taph, making sure they saw every detail.

“This one is vital, never to be mistaken.” he said quietly. “A gesture of meaning, not lightly taken.”

Taph swallowed and tried to mimic him. They held one palm above their chest and lifted the other, fingers curled, but as they began the circling motion, their wrists twisted wrong. The circle collapsed into an awkward scrape of fingers against their own sleeve.

They tried again. Left hand flat, right hand circling. No—right flat, left circling. They couldn’t keep it straight. The motions blurred together, leaving their arms stiff with frustration.

A soundless breath escaped Dusekkar. Not quite a sigh—gentler. He shifted from his chair and moved to Taph’s side. For a moment, Taph thought he would demonstrate again. Instead, he extended his hands toward theirs.

“May I?” he asked.

Taph blinked, startled, but gave a hesitant nod.

His gloved fingers wrapped around theirs, light but unyielding, guiding them into the correct shape. He pressed one of Taph’s hands flat above their chest, holding it there until they felt the firmness of the gesture. With his other hand, he cupped theirs and eased it into the right clawed shape, drawing the slow circle in the air for them.

“Here,” Dusekkar murmured. 

Taph’s breath hitched. The moment his hands were enclosed in Dusekkar’s, their body froze. The warmth was dulled by leather, yet the pressure was undeniable. Their mind stuttered between focusing on the motion and the sudden closeness.

He then backed away. “Try again.”

They forced themselves to follow the circle, heart hammering loud enough they feared it might echo in the quiet office.

Dusekkar didn’t seem to notice. His grip was patient, steady, adjusting only when Taph’s fingers began to collapse. He let their hand move with his, repeating the shape until it smoothed into something more fluid. Only then did he release them.

“Better,” he said simply, returning to his seat.

Taph’s hands dropped into their lap, tingling faintly. They nodded quickly, though they weren’t sure if it was because they understood the sign—or because they needed to move, to breathe again.

Each sign had its own weight, its own tone—firm, decisive, careful, urgent. Dusekkar carried them like verses in a spell.

Taph followed as best they could, their movements stiff at first, gloved fingers not quite obeying. They stumbled on danger, hesitated at please, their circle uneven. But Dusekkar’s patience never faltered. His hollow gaze seemed softer, every correction gentle—guiding their wrists, repeating the motion until it sank in.

When Taph managed to string a few together—hello, friend, help—the pumpkin tilted his head slightly, and though his face gave nothing away, something about the silence between them felt approving.

When Taph managed to get a few right, Dusekkar taught them how to introduce themself. “My name is…” The words transformed into movement, and then, for the first time, Taph learned how to sign their own name. It was awkward at first, but seeing their identity shaped in their hands lit something warm in their chest.

The lesson expanded into the alphabet. Dusekkar demonstrated each letter slowly, his gloved hands steady and practiced. Taph tried to follow along, repeating the sequence, tripping somewhere around the middle, then starting again. Their memory caught on certain shapes, but others slipped through, refusing to stick. By the end of the evening, their notebook was filled with quick sketches of hands, awkward angles drawn in heavy pencil strokes. Yet there was a sense of accomplishment in the way they could at least stumble through half the alphabet without pause. Dusekkar didn’t rush them—he only reminded them that mastery came with practice, not speed.

—

The next morning, Taph found themself awake earlier than usual. They hadn’t meant to rise before dawn, but something about the lesson lingered with them, urging them back. Notebook tucked under their arm, they headed for Dusekkar’s office, walking the familiar hallways of the admin wing while the sun was only just climbing above the horizon. The air in the admin wing was still cool, the corridors echoing faintly with the shuffle of papers and low murmurs of voices. 

The wing was far from empty. Builderman was already stationed in his office, his low voice carrying through the cracked door as he spoke into a receiver. In the main hub of the wing, Shedletsky, Sorcus, and Brighteyes had gathered around the center table, cups of coffee and stacks of papers spread between them. Their chatter stilled when Taph entered.

Shedletsky spotted Taph first. “Well, look who’s up with the sun.” He leaned back against the desk he’d claimed as his perch, mug of coffee dangling from one hand.

Sorcus squinted, tilting his head. “What’s the rush, Taph? Work that exciting?”

Brighteyes glanced up from a folder, waving to Taph welcomingly.

Taph shook their head quickly, pulling their notebook free. They scribbled fast, then turned the page around: Meeting with Dusekkar. He’s teaching me sign language.

That earned him three very different reactions. Sorcus and Shedletsky exchanged sharp looks, a grin tugging at both their mouths as if they telepathically spoke to each other. Brighteyes, on the other hand, just sighed through her nose and muttered something under her breath as if she’d caught the same thought but found it far less amusing.

Sorcus turned to face Taph with a grin. “Lessons, huh? With the mage? That’s cute.”

Shedletsky leaned forward, smirking. “Hiding with Dusekkar during RDC, now private lessons?” His tone carried mock suspicion, the grin on his face all too pleased.

Sorcus gasped and whipped his whole body to face Shedletsky dramatically. 

“What?! You didn’t tell me any of that!”

Shedletsky shrugged, “I had to keep my best friend’s secret—well I guess it’s not a secret anymore.”

Sorcus pretended to wipe a tear from his eye before turning back to Taph. 
“Secret meetings… sounds like more than just lessons.” His tone carried the same playful bite, words carefully chosen to prod without malice.

Taph tilted their head, confusion flickering across their face, not catching the subtext. They tapped the page again, wrote down another note, and held it up: We were just talking.

Sorcus elbowed Shedletsky, repeating with a grin, “Just talking.”

Brighteyes finally looked up, rolling her eyes. “You two sound like children.” Still, there was a faint laugh in her voice.

The teasing didn’t stop there. When Dusekkar finally emerged from his office, cloak trailing behind him, Sorcus and Shedletsky’s grins widened, sharpening like blades finding a target.

“Well, if it isn’t the mage himself,” Shedletsky said loudly. “There he is. Slipping out of his office at just the right time.”

“Or maybe sneaking,” Brighteyes added, her voice lilting with humor. “I heard he’s been visiting demolition sites, too. During work hours.”

Sorcus let out a long, dramatic “oooooo,” which Shedletsky eagerly echoed.

“First RDC, now this,” Shedletsky added, wagging his eyebrows. “Scandalous….”

Brighteyes was unable to contain a laugh at the sight.

Dusekkar exhaled, a sound somewhere between tired and unamused. His fire erupted from the teasing, flames leaking out his carved mouth as if threatening to shoot a fireball at Shedletsky. He didn’t dignify it with more than a sharp wave of his gloved hand. “Enough.” His tone cut through their noise, dry and clipped. “Children.” he muttered, brushing past them. Without sparing the others another glance, he reached for Taph’s shoulder and steered them toward the office.

He shut the door firmly behind them with a click that left the muffled laughter of the admins out in the hall where it belonged.

Inside, the room felt warm again, familiar, the golden glow waiting for them. Taph clutched their notebook closer, strangely grateful for the quiet. Dusekkar gave them a look—half amusement, half apology.

The lamplight pooled warmly across the desk, chasing away the shadows that clung to the corners of Dusekkar’s office. The air was still, softened by the rustle of papers and the faint creak of the leather chair whenever one of them shifted. Within that quiet, practice became less about memorization and more about presence—the closeness of two people sharing patience, rhythm, and movement.

Dusekkar guided Taph through new signs, his hands fluid and precise, each movement deliberate yet graceful.

See. he signed first, his fingers shaped in a "V", palm in, tip of middle finger in contact with the upper cheek, moving forward once.

Don’t. Hands hovered above each other. Then with a flick of the wrists, a gesture like sweeping something away. 

Want. Both hands held outwards as if grasping something and pulling it towards himself.

Need. A beckoning hook of the index finger, firm and insistent. 

Come. His hand drew inward, curling like an invitation.

Here. Both palm-up flat hands, held in lower space, then moved in a circular motion.

Taph repeated each one, clumsy at first, then steadier under Dusekkar’s attentive gaze.

After a few cycles, Dusekkar paused and let the silence settle, the warm lamp light casting long shadows across the office. Then, with a soft tilt of his pumpkin head, he shifted the lesson. “Practical words serve well,” he said slowly, eyes meeting Taph’s, “but feelings, emotions, have their own tale to tell.” 

He began again, letting his hands float with the weight of meaning. 

Fine. A single open hand, thumb tapping against his chest, swaying outward with the ease of a wave on calm water.

Good. Fingers touched the edge of his jaw, then drifted forward

Bad. The same hand turned sharp, a single hand starting palm-in touching the bottom of his carved mouth then swung downward, like casting aside something bitter.

Excited. Both hands hovered at his chest, middle fingers alternate in forward circular motion.

Happy. He swept his hand twice across his chest, an upward lift.

Sad. Both hands fell from his eyes like curtains being drawn shut, heavy, slow, a weight sinking in the air between them.

Taph leaned forward, studying each motion as though catching glimpses of unspoken thoughts. They mirrored him, halting at first, their hands stiff where his glided.

But Dusekkar only nodded. He paused for a moment, as if thinking about some more signs to teach. Then continued,

Frustrated. Palm facing forwards with thumb tucked in, his hand waved harsh but fluid.

Angry. Fingers curled into claws, surging upward across his chest as if rage itself clawed its way out.

Nervous. A trembling, uncertain rhythm—though intentional, fingertips jittering against the back of his other hand.

Sick. His middle finger pressed against his temple, tapping twice, the weight of illness implied in a subtle slump of his shoulders.

Tired. Both hands rested against his ribs and slid downward, drained, like the day itself was pouring out of him.

Confused. He pointed to his temple, then circled his clawed hands in the air before him, orbiting one another in disarray.

When Dusekkar finished, the silence of the lamplit office seemed to thrum with all those unsaid words now hanging between them. Each sign carried a rhythm of its own. Signs that were more than symbols—they were feelings made tangible, a language of closeness, of trust.

Dusekkar slowed then, meeting Taph’s eyes as his hands spoke: I’m happy you are here. 

His movements were deliberate, not just a lesson, but something that carried weight. “How are you?” he said out loud for translation alongside the gesture.

Taph hesitated. They replayed the signs in their mind, the motions heavy in their hands, before lifting them in reply. First, haltingly, Confused. Their brow furrowed as they tried to recall the exact shape. Then, after a pause, they added another: Nervous. Excited. The word came more easily, their hands moving with a bit more confidence. The honesty of the response made Dusekkar’s shoulders soften, the smallest flicker of a smile touching his eyes.

It had only been an hour and a half, yet to Taph it felt longer—time seemed to stretch in Dusekkar’s presence, each moment deliberate, unhurried. They were surprised at how much they’d absorbed, proud even, having learned far more than yesterday’s lesson, which had lasted longer but yielded less. And when they dared a glance upward, they found Dusekkar watching with something that almost looked like pride etched into his carved features.

Taph shifted under the weight of Dusekkar’s gaze, uncertain at first if they’d imagined the curve of pride in his posture. His expression was subtle—barely there, like the ghost of a smile carved into stone—but to Taph it carried a gravity that words could never capture. Was it approval? Gratitude? Or simply patience wearing a softer mask?

The thought made their chest tighten. They weren’t used to being seen this way, not as a nuisance to be corrected or a burden to be managed, but as someone worth teaching. The hollow gleam of Dusekkar’s eyes lingered, and Taph felt their throat constrict with a nervous warmth. A part of them wanted to look away, to hide in the comfort of their notebook—but another part clung to the rare spark of recognition, afraid it might vanish if they blinked.

They held onto that moment longer than they meant to, their fingers flexing unconsciously against the notebook as if trying to trap the memory of it between the pages. Whatever the look had been—pride, patience, something else—it left a warmth in their chest that stayed even as the lesson wound to its close.

Taph forced their gaze down, then away, finding the clock on the far wall. The hands had crept further than they’d realized. A small jolt of panic stirred in them. 

Dusekkar followed their glance, and though his face betrayed little, there was the faintest shift of his shoulders, a knowing acknowledgement. “Enough for today it seems.”

Taph nodded, clutching the notebook tighter. They rose carefully, reluctant to break the spell of the lamplight and steady gestures. Their gloves felt heavier than before, as if carrying the imprint of his guidance.

When at last Taph stepped out into the corridor, the quiet of the office gave way to the hum of the admin wing. They carried their notebook under their arm, but their hands still moved without them thinking, shaping letters in the air as they walked.

Builderman appeared from a side hall, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. He slowed when he saw Taph practicing the alphabet, his steps faltering just enough to watch the younger one’s fingers stumble through “H” and “I.” A faint smile crept across his face, more subdued than Shedletsky’s antics, but no less genuine.

“You’re learning fast,” Builderman said, his voice calm, steady. He shifted the papers to one hand, giving Taph a nod of quiet approval. “I’m glad Dusekkar’s taking the time to teach you.”

The words lingered as Builderman continued on his way, leaving Taph standing in the corridor, fingers still mid-motion, the faintest warmth in their chest as they thought of the lamplight and the mage’s patient hands.

Chapter Text

Morning came in the same rhythm as the last few days—mechanical, practiced, almost ritualistic. Taph rose, adjusted their mask, stretched the stiffness from their arms, and set about the routine of small tasks that kept them steady. They were halfway through tightening the straps on their boots when they noticed the blinking light on their inbox. That was unusual—most of their “orders” came through the main queue, sterile directives stripped of personality. But this one looked different.

The subject line wasn’t a mission number. It was a name.

From: Shedletsky
Message: Come by my office today. Let’s chat. Don’t worry—it’s not an interrogation. 😉

Taph’s hands lingered on the keyboard. They weren't sure if this was a command or something else entirely. An invitation? The idea unsettled them more than the strict orders they usually received. After a long pause, Taph logged off and headed to Roblox Headquarters.

—

Shedletsky’s office was a world apart from the rest of HQ. Where most rooms were sterile, blank, and humming with quiet machinery, this place was alive with chaos. Half-finished contraptions jutted from workbenches, gears spilling like guts across tabletops. Tangled cords dangled from ceiling hooks, sticky notes cluttered every surface—covered in scrawls so messy they looked like spells rather than notes. Swords hung on the walls, not as weapons, but as though they were pieces of art. Photographs cluttered around them, almost as if fighting for space on the walls. There were bookshelves, but books were scarce; most of the space was taken up by trophies, gears, strange prototypes, and small trinkets.

A faint smell of solder and stale coffee hung in the air.

“Come in, come in!” Shedletsky shouted, waving Taph inside with exaggerated flair like a ringmaster greeting a crowd. His grin carried mischief, his voice carrying more life than the entire building put together. “Since you’ve been spending so much time with Dusekkar, I figured I deserve a turn. Can’t let him hog all the fun, right?”

Taph hesitated in the doorway, scanning the clutter. It wasn’t just messy—it felt alive. Like every contraption might spring to life if Shedletsky only snapped his fingers. Taph stepped in carefully, their boots crunching on a stray washer.

Without missing a beat, Shedletsky reached under his desk and pulled out a rubber mallet. With mock seriousness, he leaned across the desk and tapped the top of Taph’s head. “Just checking for dents. Version upgrades can be unpredictable, y’know. Gotta make sure you didn’t come with factory defects.”

He made cartoonish “boink” sounds with each tap.

Taph tilted their head slightly, silent, unsure if this was supposed to be a test or some new form of interrogation… or maybe another poor joke. 

Shedletsky smirked. “See? That’s the problem. You’ve got this face like someone superglued you into ‘mission mode.’ Let’s fix that.”

Their mask gave nothing away, though they touched its edge, as if double-checking it was still there. Confused what Shedletsky could mean, since their face was hidden. Did he mean their body language?

Before Taph could respond, Shedletsky flicked a switch hidden beneath his desk. A loud BOOM! echoed through the room as smoke burst from a corner contraption. A spring-loaded device snapped open and flung a rubber chicken into the air with a sad squeal.

Taph froze, caught entirely off guard, their expression unreadable.

“That!” Shedletsky shouted, his grin widening. “That’s my patented Employee Morale Tester™. You passed—well, kind of. I think you’re supposed to laugh though.”

Taph signed quickly, sharp and short: Not funny.

“Harsh critic,” Shedletsky sighed, tossing the mallet aside. “Alright, guess I’ll have to bring out the heavy artillery.”

He dove into a drawer, rummaging past loose wires and snack wrappers, before pulling out something sleek but strange: a pair of gloves. The fabric was dark, stitched with mismatched wiring that hid faintly beneath the surface. A socketed crystal pulsed weakly on the wrist, flickering like it couldn’t decide on a color. Shedletsky held them up to Taph like a prize.

“Speaking of upgrades…” He held his eyebrows raised with a grin. “I’ve been working on something you might actually find useful. A translator.”

Taph tilted their head, suspicious.

“Not for me—well, kinda for me—but mostly for you.” Shedletsky slipped one glove on and flexed his fingers. 

“You’ve got your signs, your gestures, your… whatever that is.” He waved vaguely with his free hand. “But half the time, everyone’s just staring like you’re speaking alien. These little beauties parse your signing into glorious, public-friendly subtitles. Big, bold, right in the air. Everyone gets the message. Literally.”

He tossed the gloves across the desk. Taph caught them, feeling the faint vibration in their frame. They were lighter than expected, humming like they had a pulse. Was this thing safe to wear?

“It’s a prototype so I still got some stuff to iron out but it works just fine.” The admin leaned back in his chair casually before adding, “Most of the time.”

“Go on, try it,” Shedletsky urged, grinning.

Taph hesitated, then slid them on. They signed a short phrase awkwardly.

The gloves sparked, light stuttering—then projected a massive floating caption in midair:

function Translate(input) 
    local msg = parseSigns(input)
    if #msg > 128 then buffer:clear()
    return "[TRUNCATED]"
end

--DEBUG LOG
UserID: 13645-2
AccessLevel: ███
ERROR_███

The projection stuttered, static rippling across the words before they cut out entirely. Taph froze. The gloves had recognized their ID. What the hell.

For a long second, the office was silent except for the faint hum of Shedletsky’s desk fan.

Then the device rebooted, flickered, and scrolled new text across the air in perfect clarity:

You’re not funny. 😆❌😐

Shedletsky doubled over, laughing so hard he wheezed. “See?! It works! Brutally honest, and now I can’t even pretend I didn’t understand you. Revolutionary!”

Taph lowered their hands, staring at the fading words.

They moved their hands to form another phrase, hesitating on the last word they didn’t know in sign, and instead spelling it out. The gloves once again translated for them.

Why are there emojis? 🤔▶️😐

“Why not?” Shedletsky shot back between laughs. “I must’ve added that at three in the morning. Honestly I completely forgot that feature existed. Thought it’d be funny to have reaction memes or something.”

Taph sighed and tugged the gloves off, placing them firmly on the desk.

“Nonono—keep them!” Shedletsky pushed them back toward Taph. 

“C’mon they’re not completely broken! You can use it in the time being until I'm done with the final version. I'll remember to remove the emojis then, I promise. Besides, I’ve got versions to spare.”

Taph deadpanned. Then signed something without the gloves on.

You have multiple?

Shedletsky nodded, reaching into the same drawer that he pulled the gloves from. Pulling out 3 pairs of gloves and tossing them out onto the desk haphazardly. A single tape holding sharpie lettering labeled them. “V1”, “V2”, “V3”.

Taph leaned in closer, curious. Versions 1 and 2 were scorched at the fingertips. Which made Taph wonder how safe the ones they currently had were.

Shedletsky quickly moved on, tossing a V3 glove between his hands. “You know, you’re so precise with demolitions.” he said while tossing Taph a tool. 

“Almost like you were… I dunno, built for it.” He grinned and quickly changed the subject before Taph could react. 

His tone softened, just for a moment. But he quickly went back to his upbeat persona. “But hey, that’s the beauty of it. I build, you break. Two sides of the same coin. Together we keep Roblox spinning.”

The words lodged in Taph’s mind, stirring something they couldn’t name—a strange warmth, somewhere between confusion and belonging.

On the far table, something caught their eye. A screen flickered with lines of stubborn code that seemed to scroll endlessly. Next to it, a half-empty forgotten cold coffee cup paired with a scattered mess of scribbled notes.

Shedletsky followed Taph’s gaze. “Ah, yeah… that’s my current nightmare. Some server bug that thinks it’s smarter than me. It’s not, obviously, but it’s trying.”

For a fraction of a second, his grin faltered. His eyes lingered on the lines of code as if they carried an old weight. He muttered under his breath, “Should’ve locked it down years ago.”

Then, with an almost violent brightness, he shook it off. “Anyway! Debugging’s just like demolition. Patience, persistence—rush it, and the whole structure collapses. Want to help?”

Taph only shrugged in response.

Shedletsky sat down, motioning for Taph to join him. 

For the next hour, the workshop-like office became a strange sort of classroom. Shedletsky hunched over his desk, wires spilling across the surface like tangled veins, while Taph stood at his side, watching the jumble of code flicker on a grimy old monitor. What surprised Shedletsky most wasn’t that Taph was keeping up—it was that they were actually catching things. A missing bracket here, a redundant line there. Even fixing the long, unnecessary 20 lines of “if else” statements Shedletsky promised himself he would fix eventually, but never did. Taph pointed silently at the mistakes, and each time, Shedletsky leaned back with a grunt, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered after the fourth correction. “Didn’t peg you for the programming type. Thought you were just the ‘smash first, maybe ask questions never’ kind of demolitionist.”

Taph gave a small shrug, lips twitching almost imperceptibly. They didn’t sign a reply, but the faint spark of pride in their eyes was enough of an answer.

Between these stretches of debugging, Shedletsky couldn’t help slipping into stories. His words came quick, half brag and half confession. He talked about the early chaos of Roblox’s beginnings—the nights spent running on too much caffeine, duct-taping servers together, begging them not to crash under the weight of just a hundred players. He laughed as he described the clunky engines that buckled if you sneezed too hard, and how every day felt like both a miracle and a catastrophe.

But then there were the quieter moments. His tone would shift, his voice lowering as though speaking too loudly might conjure something best left buried.

“Back then,” he said once, fingers drumming restlessly against the desk, “we were experimenting with all kinds of things. Pushing limits. Physics, rendering—hell, we even toyed with procedural identities.” His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Some ideas… didn’t stay where they were supposed to.”

The glow of the monitor caught the edges of his face, making him look far older than his usual manic energy allowed. He didn’t elaborate, but the way he said it carried weight—like a warning wrapped in nostalgia.

“That’s the price of creation, though,” he continued, sharper now, almost defensive. “You never know which experiment turns into a masterpiece… or a monster.”

For a moment, Taph almost asked. Almost signed the questions itching at their hands: What do you mean? What do you know about me? But the words stuck in their throat, despite having no voice.

Taph never quite spoke up about it, but there was an undercurrent in Shedletsky’s words—a familiarity that felt too close. Like he had been there for Taph’s first steps, watching from a distance, even if Taph themself had no memory of it.

By the end of it, Shedletsky pushed back from his chair, stretching his arms with a loud crack of joints. He gave Taph a crooked grin, all bravado again.

“Not bad, kid. Guess you’re good for more than just blowing stuff up.”

Taph rolled their eyes, but the warmth in their chest lingered even after they left the workshop. It stayed with them on the walk back, quiet and stubborn. Yet behind it was another feeling—a small, nagging chill that refused to fade. Something in Shedletsky’s words had rooted itself in their mind, like a shadow they couldn’t quite shake.

Chapter Text

The sky outside Roblox HQ had long since dimmed into violet shadows when Taph finally finished their work. They shut down their terminal with a long, weary exhale, fingers flexing stiffly inside the translator gloves before peeling them off one at a time. Their hands ached from constant movement, knuckles popping as they stretched them out. The terminal’s screen winked into darkness, leaving only the faint blue hum of standby monitors across the office. 

The building already felt strangely familiar to them. Taph had fallen into their duties faster than expected, as though their hands had memorized the rhythms before their mind could catch up—flagging reports, running diagnostics, handling cleanup after large-scale incidents. But the workload was relentless. The stacks never dwindled. Every day brought more flagged accounts, more threads of trouble, more late-night reports begging for attention. Even so, they had forced themselves through the endless tide, unwilling to be the one who slipped behind.

By the time Taph clocked out, the offices were empty. The cheerful chatter of coworkers, the steady clatter of keyboards—all of it had drained away, replaced by an oppressive silence. The only sound left was the low hum of fluorescent lights and ventilation overhead. No voices, no footsteps, just the empty stretch of halls. A few monitors glowed in the dark, casting patches of pale ghost-light across rows of vacant desks. 

Taph stood alone in the hall, the silence wrapping around them. The HQ at night felt… different. Quieter. More like the way they preferred the world: subdued, empty of distractions, of expectations. A place where they could breathe. They should have gone home. They knew that. But instead, the quiet stirred something else inside them. A restless curiosity. A desire to see what the HQ was like without anyone watching.

They walked slowly, their shoes clicking softly against the tile. Empty conference rooms lined the halls, glass walls reflecting their solitary figure. The cafeteria, dark and still, smelled faintly of coffee grounds and bread from the morning rush. They passed bulletin boards crowded with old notices, photos of past events no one seemed to care about anymore.

Their wandering brought them to a place they hadn’t truly noticed before: the library. Tucked away on the far side of the building. Taph hadn’t thought much of it when they’d first gotten a tour during recruitment orientation—an odd feature for a place devoted to moderators and developers rather than for archivists.

The doors creaked softly as they pushed them open. The sight that greeted them was far grander than they remembered. The shelves stretched far into shadow, a maze of wood and paper. A lingering relic from an earlier age when Roblox wasn’t as digitalized, when paper records and guides were still essential.

The lights near the entrance glowed with a soft amber hue, casting long shadows along the aisles. Someone must have left them on. Or perhaps… someone was still here.

Taph stepped inside, quiet as they could, and let their fingers trail along the spines as they walked. Titles read faintly under their touch: development manuals, histories of updates, records of policies long since replaced. Their hand paused on one in particular—A Beginner’s Guide to Sign Language. The cover was worn at the edges, pages softened from use. Taph flipped through it quickly, their eyes catching on familiar signs. Warmth bloomed in their chest at the thought of practicing, of maybe surprising Dusekkar during one of their lessons. Without thinking twice, they held the book against their chest and continued deeper.

The further they walked, the darker the shelves became. Light struggled to reach the far aisles, and the polished order of the first rows gave way to dust and neglect. The dry smell of parchment lingered in the air. Tomes grew heavier, bound in cracked leather with markings Taph didn’t recognize—symbols, runes, scripts belonging to languages long abandoned. The shelves sagged under their weight, whole sections of text rendered unreadable to them.

Unease prickled at the back of their neck.

A flicker of light between the shelves caught their attention.

Taph froze. It was faint, steady, like the flame of a candle. Their pulse quickened. Instinct urged them to retreat, to slip back into the shadows before whoever it was noticed. They edged a step backward.

“Don’t be afraid.”

The voice was calm, low, unmistakably familiar. 

The glow shifted. They realized it wasn’t a candle at all. It was fire—contained within the carved face on a pumpkin.

Dusekkar.

The mage’s towering form hovered between the shelves, his head glowing with gentle firelight that threw eerie shadows across the books. Taph startled, clutching the sign language book tighter to their chest. Out of habit, their hands stammered into an apology they hadn’t fully thought through.

But Dusekkar tilted his head, the flame inside his carved face flickering like a steady heartbeat. “No need,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “You’re not trespassing here. This place welcomes the quiet, calm, and sincere.”

The tension in Taph’s shoulders eased just slightly.

The mage descended until his shoes touched the ground. His hands held his staff with casual ease. “What brings you here so late, Taph? Lost in the night, or caught in its trap?”

Taph hesitated before lifting their hands. Finished work. Wanted to walk.

For a brief moment, Dusekkar’s flame dimmed, his carved expression shifting to something closer to concern. “They’ve given you too much, far more than is due. A mountain of burdens, especially for one new.”

Taph quickly shook their head, hands moving firmly. It’s fine.

Dusekkar studied them, then tilted his head with a faint smile. “Then stronger you are than many who stay. For most would falter or turn away.”

Not wanting the focus on them, Taph gestured back. What are you doing here?

“Me? I come here to clear my mind, and leave the day’s long weight behind.
Sometimes to recall what I can’t let fade. Memories lingering, choices made.” 

His gaze flicked toward the book in Taph’s arms. “That book’s a good choice, a solid progression. Tell me, getting ahead in your lessons?” He grinned.

Taph’s face warmed. Maybe, they signed, before adding quickly, Just curious.

“Curiosity,” Dusekkar said, his flame brightening, “is the best reason to read.”

Encouraged, Taph asked: Do you come here often?

Dusekkar chuckled. “Often enough, I’ll admit my vice—to have read each book not once, but twice.” His tone was joking, but something in the evenness of his voice made it sound less like a jest.

Taph’s eyes shifted toward the shelves filled with runes and symbols. Do you understand? They pointed to the strange symbols on the spines of the books.

The mage followed their gaze. His expression softened into something almost wistful. “Old runes, very old, their secrets untold. Few remember, fewer still read what they hold. I… tend this part of the library’s lore. No one else bothers with it anymore.” He added shyly, “Forgive the state of it. I was in the middle of reorganizing.”

He reached for the cart of books standing nearby—an old metal push-shelf stacked high. Half the spines were covered in familiar lettering, half in the strange runes that filled these aisles. Dust clung to their edges despite Dusekkar’s attempts to keep them neat.

Taph stared at the spines, eyes darting between the unreadable symbols and the titles that were legible: Myth Hunters’ Interview Log 2009, Catalog of Myths 2006-2018, History of Myths 2006-2020. Their gaze lingered a little too long.

Dusekkar noticed their stare. His tone dropped lower, cautious. “Curious, are you?”

Taph nodded before they could stop themself.

The mage’s hand brushed over the stack, fingertips resting lightly on one book’s spine. He paused, as though weighing how much to say. “Do you know what a myth is?” he asked. “Not the dictionary definition. A Roblox myth.”

Taph froze. Their mind searched, but nothing surfaced. They shook their head slowly.

Dusekkar brushed a layer of dust from one of the tomes. His tone shifted, the warmth narrowing into focus. “Strange figures, gathered groups—soft whispers first, then tales unfold; Whispers swell to stories, stories swell to legends that are bold. Some forgotten—best left buried, locked away and left to rot; Some linger on Roblox’s edge—well-known or hidden, left uncaught. Some are gentle, harmless ghosts, soft echoes in the night. But others wear a sharper tooth—mind them well, and mind their bite.”

Taph stared, captivated by the weight in his voice. For a moment they forgot themself, caught between fear and the strange allure of the idea. Myths. People who didn’t quite belong.

They caught themself staring too long. With a jolt, they signed quickly: I should go. It’s late. 
A weak excuse, but it was all they had.

Dusekkar studied them with that patient stillness, then nodded. “As you wish.” No protest, no demand—only a lingering look, as though he had seen more in them than they wanted him to.

Taph clutched the book tightly and turned away. The glow of the pumpkin head dimmed behind them as they left the library, footsteps quick against the hall. They signed out the book at the terminal, hands trembling faintly.

The silence outside felt different now—heavier, pressing down as they walked home.

Chapter Text

The afternoon at Roblox HQ carried a rare stillness, the kind that felt almost staged. The halls were quieter than usual—no bug alerts flashing on the monitors, no frantic demolition requests crackling through the comms. Even the hum of the servers seemed subdued, like the whole building had stopped to breathe. Taph, who had come to rely on the rhythm of constant directives, found the silence oddly unnerving.

Taph had stuck themselves in the open workshop in HQ. Available to devs, testers, and demolitionists. The sound filled the unusual silence of the headquarters halls and offices and the environment gave them something to do. 

Until Shedletsky appeared in the workshop doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He carried that same mischievous grin that made it impossible to guess if he was about to reveal something brilliant or pull a poor prank.

“Field trip,” he announced at Taph’s table, jerking his head toward the door. “C’mon. Builder’s waiting.”

Taph rose without a word, falling into step beside him. The steady rhythm of their boots against the floor was broken when Shedletsky glanced down and noticed the gloves strapped neatly to Taph’s hands.

“Oh hey, you’re actually wearing them!” he exclaimed with a certain sparkle in his eye and his voice lifting with genuine delight. His smile was different this time—less of the playful glint he used casually or for pranks, more of a quiet pride, like a craftsman seeing his creation put to use.

Taph nodded once, flexing their fingers slightly.

“Not giving ya any problems, I hope?”

Taph shook their head, signing a response to prove it.

Works well. ⚙️👍✅

Shedletsky lit up. “Perfect! Stop by my office anytime if it starts to bug. I’ll patch it up.” His words were casual, but his smile lingered a moment longer than usual, as if the sight meant more to him than he’d admit.

Builderman was waiting near the glass elevator, hands buried in his pockets, a half-smile tugging at his face. He gave them a small nod that conveyed both patience and expectation, as though he already knew how this little venture would unfold. Together, the three stepped into the elevator, which hummed softly as it descended past familiar floors and into shadowed levels absent from any visitor’s map.

The lights dimmed with each floor they passed, the glass walls opening to reveal dim corridors lit by buzzing old bulbs. The air carried a faint metallic tang, and the polished chrome of the upper levels gave way to older, rougher construction. However, more colourful, simply dull from age.

“We’re doing the grand tour,” Shedletsky declared as though this were a theme park attraction. He gestured grandly to his companions. 

“I’ll handle the funny commentary, Builderman will bore you with historical accuracy, and you—” he poked Taph lightly on the shoulder, “—will be our silent, mysterious presence. The perfect trio.”

Taph gave no response, flexing their fingers and testing the new gloves Shedletsky had given them. Sleek, black, with a faintly glowing small panel on the back, they weren’t just protective for their job—they were a translator of sorts, capable of parsing their signs into text or emoji for others to see. Small glitches sometimes flickered across the lights, throwing up random emojis from Shedletsky’s sense of humor. Taph had been instructed to use them lightly.

The deeper halls were narrower, almost claustrophobic. Old, dull, lightbulbs buzzed faintly, illuminating the new atmosphere. Cameras dotted the ceilings, some patched with fresh plates of metal, most so old it didn’t seem to capture anything through the mountain of dust collected, others hanging at crooked angles as though forcibly removed and hastily reattached. 

They wandered through archive rooms where relics of early Roblox lay preserved in neat rows, the air tinged with the faint smell of dust and solder. Builderman pointed out odd relics—the first iteration of the catalog, prototypes of the first building tools, obsolete moderation dashboards that looked more like toys than an admin system, even fragments of half-built games frozen in mid-creation. Dust clung stubbornly to everything despite the hum of ventilation.

Builderman finally broke the silence, his voice measured, almost like a lecture. “This wing was part of the original HQ before we expanded. Every mark in here has a story. That crack in the wall—first physics test gone wrong. Those scuffs? The Great Chair Racing Incident of ’07.”

Shedletsky jumped in, rolling his eyes. “Dusekkar won that one, but only because he cheated with magic and ended up blasting himself halfway through the wall. Still worth it.”

He perks up when he sees a door that sparks another memory, “And this—” he pointed to a closet door— “is where I once trapped Erik Cassel for a full hour with nothing but a sticky note that said ‘Out of Order’. Classic.”

Taph’s mask betrayed nothing, and their expression didn’t change much. The gloves responded instantly to the smallest twitch at the corner of their mouth. A faint ripple of light sparking across the fingertips, as though translating their amusement into energy. Shedletsky caught it at once and grinned like a man who had just won a wager.

They stepped out of the archive room, the heavy metal door groaning shut behind them, leaving the scent of dust and solder clinging faintly to their clothes. The hallway beyond felt wider than the cramped archives, though the lighting was still dim, buzzing bulbs humming overhead like restless insects. Their footsteps echoed against the old tile floor, rhythmic in the otherwise quiet stretch of corridor.

It wasn’t empty for long. The sound of quick footsteps against tile preceded a figure rounding the corner—a flash of purple hair and purple sweater to match. Bighteyes appeared with the energy of someone who belonged to a brighter floor than this one, her cheer cutting clean through the gloom.

She raised a hand and waved as though greeting old friends. “Well, well, what’s this? Shedletsky on babysitting duty?”

Her smile widened at Taph, warm but teasing. “I didn’t know we offered guided tours now. Should I be booking a ticket too?”

Before Taph could respond, Shedletsky groaned dramatically, throwing his arms wide. “It’s not babysitting, it’s enrichment. Like when you give a zoo animal a ball to play with.”

Taph’s gloves pulsed faintly, a flicker of light translating into a brief caption in front of them despite their hands not moving from their sides:
🙄

Bighteyes laughed, a clear, ringing sound in the dim corridor. “I like them already.”

Before Shedletsky could fire back, another figure slipped into view from the opposite end of the hall. ReeseMcBlox balanced a precarious tower of papers in her arms, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and confusion as she spotted the group.

Her gaze lingered on Taph longer than expected, curiosity clear even behind the tired pinch at the corners of her eyes. “You three look like trouble.”

“Correction,” Shedletsky said, striding backward just to make a point. “Two look like trouble. One looks like a saint suffering in silence.” He jabbed a thumb toward Taph. “Guess which one.”

Taph signed a quick phrase, and the gloves flared:
Not wrong.

That earned another small laugh from Bighteyes, who leaned toward Reese and whispered just loud enough for the words to carry. “He’s been waiting years for someone who can actually talk back.”

Reese shook her head, shifting the papers in her arms before continuing down the hall. “Well, don’t break anything important on your ‘field trip.’ I’ve got enough forms to process already.”

Shedletsky saluted mockingly, and the group pressed on. The echo of Bighteyes’ laughter and Reese’s fading footsteps followed them as the corridor curved deeper into the hidden levels of HQ.

The hallway stretched into a gallery of framed photographs. Each snapshot captured a moment from Roblox’s shifting eras: celebrations, experiments, strange office antics immortalized in glossy print. Some faces were instantly familiar, others blurred by time and fading ink.

Builderman appeared in nearly every photo, looking exactly the same, still wearing the same hat and outfit he had on today. Doombringer appeared unchanged as well, save for his bucket hat, purple in the photo instead of the red he favored now. Dusekkar was instantly recognizable too—still with his blue pumpkin head—but here his form was less obscured. Through the faint firelight you could almost make out a face, and instead of his usual gray robes, he wore a plain white shirt marked with a flower’s sketch.

ReeseMcBlox’s portrait showed her mid-laugh, her hair a bright pink instead of blonde, and her shirt reading: “Minions… do my bidding!” A sash across her chest on top read “Her Highness.”

Brighteyes wore a whole different style. She wore cat ears, dull jeans, and a pink shirt with a stencil heart spray painted on.

Two others Taph pieced together from their outfits: Clockwork, whose head was replaced with a teapot and whose shirt proudly displayed “HQ,” and Stickmasterluke, crowned with antlers though face revealed by lacking a dominus hood he always wore nowadays, dressed in the same green he still wore today.

Erik Cassel’s photo drew Taph’s eyes next. The co-founder stood in simple blue pants and an orange shirt holding a beige box stamped with a bold letter “E.” A straw sun hat shaded his kind smile, warm and welcoming even through the glass.

There were faces Taph didn’t know. A figure with a gold crown and a blue shirt printed with a black cogwheel and the old Roblox “R.” Another in a zebra-print shirt, weighed down with gaudy jewelry, topped by a black fedora and bunny ears. And—was that a noob? The yellow skin, blue shirt, and green pants gave it away, though the colors were softer, paler than the neon-bright versions Taph saw in games today.

Taph’s steps slowed when their gaze caught on a photograph near the end of the wall. A young man smirked beneath brown curls spilling from under a hood, cloak embroidered with runes like Dusekkar’s but dyed in shadowed black. Below him was a ring of fire and in his hand was a sharpened blade, as if in some sort of arena. What truly held Taph’s breath, though, was the faint shimmer of wings stretching from beneath the cloak—dark brown feathers tipped with gold, frozen in mid-spread.

The sight tugged at something deep within Taph, a strange, uncanny familiarity that made their chest tighten though no memory followed.

“You look like you know him,” Shedletsky said casually, noting the way Taph lingered. He gave no time for an answer before adding with a flourish, “That’s me. Back when I was cooler. They called me Telamon then. Whole different era.”

Taph blinked, their eyes darting between Shedletsky and the photo. The resemblance was there, but subtle, almost uncanny.

Shedletsky’s grin lingered, but beneath it flickered something else: nostalgia, yes, but tempered with weight. His hands slipped into his pockets, and he turned from the photo wall with deliberate nonchalance.

Builderman chuckled softly. “You haven’t changed as much as you think.”

“And you,” Shedletsky leaned towards Builderman, “haven’t changed at all.”

The two exchanged a look—familiar, sharp, softened by years neither seemed willing to put into words.

Taph’s gaze drifted further down the line of framed memories until something caught their eye—a photograph that didn’t belong. Unlike the others, it wasn’t displayed in a polished frame or printed on glossy paper. Instead, it was a cheap, grainy printout, taped crookedly to the wall, its edges curling from age and neglect. Clearly a snapshot that someone had clearly stuck there as a joke.

The image itself was chaotic. Dusekkar was jammed awkwardly half-wedged into a jagged crack in the plaster wall, his staff clutched tightly in both hands as though he’d been caught mid-defense rather than mid-crash. His carved pumpkin head tilted at an awkward angle, frozen in a posture that looked equal parts furious and embarrassed.

Off to the side, a battered office chair lay toppled on its side, one wheel snapped loose, a dark streak burned into the tile behind it. The scuff marks traced a wild path straight into the wall, evidence of the reckless momentum that had launched Dusekkar into it. A single plastic bright orange safety cone leaned in the corner as if someone had attempted to cordon off the disaster afterward, though it did little to soften the ridiculousness of the scene.

Taph leaned closer, almost disbelieving. This must have been the infamous Chair Racing Incident that Builderman and Shedletsky had joked about earlier—the “victory” that ended with half a wall shattered. Seeing it in grainy, physical evidence was stranger than hearing the story. The legendary, enigmatic admin Dusekkar—so often cloaked in mystery, his name tied to whispers of power and secrecy—reduced to a moment of slapstick disaster taped on the wall like an inside joke.

It was jarring, almost humanizing.

Shedletsky noticed Taph staring and immediately barked a laugh. “Oh man, it’s still up? Absolute classic. Best photo in HQ” He jabbed a finger at the skewed photo, his grin wide with pride. “Builderman nearly had to put in a requisition form for a new wall. I begged him not to. Dusekkar should really stick to abstract art because the wall always strikes an emotion in me whenever I see it.”

Builderman only sighed, though the faint twitch of his mouth betrayed a suppressed smile. “I told him not to use his staff.”

“Correction,” Shedletsky shot back, “you told him not to cheat. I said magic was fair game.”

Shedletsky turned back to the photo with a nostalgic grin, “The guy is too powerful for his own good…” then he laughed again, “He was stuck for an hour.”

Taph glanced back at the image one last time, the absurdity of it still clashing in their head with the quiet, shadowed figure they knew of Dusekkar today. The tape edges fluttered slightly in the recycled air, as though even the building itself was still laughing at the memory.

When Shedletsky calmed down from his laughter, Builderman spoke up, “Anyway,” he said lightly, “tour’s not over yet.”

They moved deeper into the building—away from the framed memories and polished corridors—into stranger spaces.

They passed a small arcade room alive with the bleeps and whirs of old cabinets, where Sorcus, Clockwork, and Stickmasterluke were locked in a high-stakes high-score battle. Sorcus hammered at the controls with the focus of a general at war, Clockwork leaned so far forward it looked like he might vanish into the screen, and Stickmasterluke cursed under his breath as the machine spat out the mocking words Game Over. The trio barely noticed the visitors, though Shedletsky called out a mocking, “Clockwork’s cheating again!” just to stir chaos.

The noise faded as they slipped into the next hall—a short maintenance corridor, narrower and colder, lined with exposed pipes that clanked and rattled like bones. The overhead lights flickered in irregular bursts, throwing shadows that stretched and shrank across the walls that made the corridor feel more like a tunnel than an office passage. The air smelled faintly of rust and old water. Their steps echoed against concrete.

Taph kept quiet, though the occasional flicker of their gloves betrayed their unease. Even Builderman’s stride slowed here, his gaze sharp, scanning the walls like he was counting how many times they’d been patched.

Finally, they emerged into what looked like a dead end—until Shedletsky pushed aside a half-broken vending machine with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

“Secret door,” he announced proudly, giving it a sharp shove. The machine screeched against the floor, revealing a narrow opening that led into a dimly lit lounge.

Taph paused in the doorway. The room was nothing like the bustling HQ above—low ceiling, the faint hum of an unused refrigerator, and a scatter of mismatched furniture that looked like it had been rescued from office storage years ago. A couch sagged with age, a beanbag slouched against the wall, one of those foldable plastic tables. The air carried the faint scent of soda syrup and dust.

“Welcome to the VIP suite,” Shedletsky said, collapsing into the beanbag like he belonged there. He leaned forward, popped open the cooler, and pulled out a BloxyCola like he’d been here a thousand times before. The hiss of carbonation filled the silence as he took a long sip.

Builderman stayed standing, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking briefly toward Taph’s gloves before settling on their hidden face.

“So,” Builderman said casually, though his tone carried more weight than the words suggested, “Dusekkar’s been teaching you some sign, right?”

Taph’s gaze shifted, uncertain if it was a question, a statement, or something else entirely.

“What’s the last thing you learned?” Shedletsky chimed in, “Bet it’s something useful, like ‘Explosions are cool’.”

Taph almost smiled. Instead, they raised both hands, one slightly above the other moving a bit forward before closing in unison. A single deliberate word—trust.

The gloves translated it, projecting the faint text in the air for the others to see.

Builderman nodded once. His expression didn’t change much, but something flickered behind his eyes. “Good word,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Let’s try something.”

He reached over to a low table and began setting down a few stray objects: some paper cups, a stack of paper clips, a pen. Each clink against the table seemed deliberate, a puzzle laid out piece by piece.

“You strike me as someone with… precision,” Builderman said, his tone still light but his gaze sharp. “Think you can build me something—anything—from this? Just for fun.”

It was framed like a game, but Taph caught the way Builderman watched—not the objects, not the result, but their hands, their process. Even Shedletsky leaned in, one brow raised, catching the test for what it was.

Taph hesitated, then picked up the paper clips. Their fingers moved carefully, bending metal, linking pieces, balancing the pen across the cup. What emerged wasn’t elegant, but it had structure—angles aligned, weight balanced, a strange kind of symmetry that made sense in its own quiet logic.

Builderman’s expression softened. “Huh. You think in structures.”

Before Taph could react, the lounge door swung open. A tall figure stepped inside, trench coat brushing the floor, eyes sharp beneath his hat. Doombringer.

His gaze flicked across the room—the table, the makeshift sculpture, then Taph himself. “You’re far from your post,” he said, voice flat, but edged with something heavier.

Shedletsky leaned back into the beanbag, utterly unfazed. “Field trip,” he replied. “Team bonding. Very official. …You know, morale building.”

Doombringer’s stare lingered on Taph a moment longer, unreadable, before he turned and slipped out as quietly as he’d entered. The door clicked shut, leaving a silence that seemed to weigh more than the noise had.

The air in the lounge felt denser after his exit. Builderman said nothing, eyes still on the little makeshift structure. Shedletsky cracked open another joke to cut through the tension, but it hung thinner than usual.

When they finally rose to leave, Builderman didn’t mention the “game” again. But there was a faint curve to his mouth, the kind of almost-smile reserved for when something quietly confirmed what you’d hoped to see.

Chapter Text

Taph woke to the faint buzz of their terminal. The room was still dim, curtains drawn against the early morning sun, when they rolled over and squinted at the notification. A message from Dusekkar blinked on the screen.

“Apologies. I won’t be available today. Reschedule when convenient.”

Short. Formal. No explanation.

For a long moment, Taph just stared at it, groggy thoughts tangling with unease. Dusekkar almost never canceled their meetings. If he did, he always explained why. This time, nothing. Just a hollow line of text and the silence of their quarters.

They sat up, rubbing their face, and winced at a dull ache across their shoulders. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Dusekkar was simply busy. Still, the unease lingered as they went through their morning routine and made their way into HQ.

The halls of Roblox HQ buzzed faintly with the morning crowd—keyboards clattering, muted chatter between coworkers, the occasional burst of laughter from a group passing by. On the surface, it was normal. But Taph’s ears caught on the undertone, whispers just below the surface.

Screens along the hall cycled through routine announcements—maintenance notices, update logs, patch delays—before one headline flickered longer than the rest:

UNCONFIRMED: CLOAKED AVATAR SIGHTINGS IN EMPTY SERVERS.
The caption scrolled by in a hurry, too fast to linger on. A stock screenshot blurred with compression, just enough to show a tall figure standing alone in an abandoned lobby before the feed cut back to weather reports and daily metrics.

Taph slowed, unsettled. Their back twinged sharply when they shifted, the ache pulling like a warning they couldn’t ignore.

Near the vending machines, a pair of moderators spoke in quick, low voices.

“They say it appears in empty games. Just… standing there. Watching. Then gone the moment you approach.”

Taph slowed, listening without turning their head.

Another group passed by, carrying consoles tucked tight under their arms, voices hushed. “Disconnects are spiking again. Not just crashes—whole accounts wiped.”

One of them glanced over their shoulder before adding, “Even the player forum boards are covering it. Survivor claimed some skeletal thing cut his friend down before the profile wiped clean. Like it never even existed.”

The words trailed after them like smoke.

By the time Taph reached the upper admin floors to receive their daily assignments, the whispers had coiled into a knot inside their stomach, pressing uncomfortably against the dull burn in their back. They tried to focus, tried to bury themself in the familiar rhythm of reports and diagnostics, but fragments slipped through from every corner of the office. 

Doombringer was the loudest voice from the nearby conference room, dismissing the entire thing as a hoax, nothing more than “player conspiracy nonsense.” His confidence rang sharp, practiced—yet Taph noticed how many avoided his eye, unconvinced.

The silence said more than words.

Taph filed the observations away, but forced themself to continue working. If the others carried on as normal, so would they. The assignments wouldn’t finish themselves, and distraction was dangerous.

By evening, their last task brought them to the city’s outer edge. They checked the file again on their terminal before setting out: a demolition site, flagged for inspection. A small house, now crumbling from abandonment, soon to be scrubbed from Robloxia entirely.

The trek felt routine—log the state of the ruins, confirm the clearout, record anomalies if there were any. Just another item on the list. Taph adjusted their gloves, tightened their jacket against the chill, and crossed the cracked walkway to the sagging porch. They pressed a palm into their lower back, as though pressure might soothe the dull fire beneath their skin. It didn’t.

Inside, the air hit them first. Dust-heavy, carrying the faint tang of rotting wood. The wallpaper had peeled in curling strips, and the floorboards bent under their weight, groaning as though they remembered what they once were. A broken chair leaned against a wall, its legs warped; an old lamp, shattered at its base, scattered glass like teeth across the rug. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs.

It should have been simple. Just a report. Nothing unusual.

And yet, unease prickled in the back of Taph’s mind as they walked room to room—an echo of the whispers from HQ, words that clung to them. Figures in empty games. Deaths unaccounted for. A skeletal thing with blades. The stress of the eerie rumors making their back tense into a constant ache digging deeper into their spine. Conspiracy or not, the silence here pressed too hard against those thoughts.

The house was silent in the way abandoned places always were. The wind hissed faintly through cracked windows, tugging at the curtains until they whispered against the walls. Every sound was magnified in the hollow space: the crunch of plaster under Taph’s boots, the groan of warped wood, the faint hum of corrupted data hanging in the air like static.

And then—movement.

At first it was subtle, just a flicker at the edge of vision. A creak in the next room, too steady for the wind. Taph stopped, every muscle tightening, listening. 

The hall had sounded alive a moment ago—creaking like old wood—but this was different. Deliberate.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness.

It stepped forward slowly, with a walk that was too measured, too certain, as though it already knew Taph would be here. The cape around its shoulders was black, its fabric shredded into jagged strips that fluttered as though scorched. It clung to its frame one moment, then trailed unnaturally the next, like it couldn’t decide whether it was cloth or smoke. Black jeans gripped a body far too thin, skeletal, almost fragile—except the torso glowed faintly green, transparent enough for the black bones inside to be visible with every shifting step. The crown came into view next. A green domino crown, faintly gleaming despite the absence of light, its edges chipped like something dug out of a grave.

And then its eye.

One eye, blazing red, ignited like a spotlight. It cut through the gloom and locked on Taph, burning into them as though the rest of the world had been erased. The ruined house melted away into nothing but that eye pinning them in place, cold and merciless, yet hot enough to sear through their chest.

But it wasn’t the gaze that froze their blood.

It was the weapons.

Two blades hung at its sides. Venomshanks. Unmistakable in their shape, but all wrong. Their green steel should have glimmered with crystalline clarity—prized relics of Roblox’s oldest era. Instead, these looked diseased. Corroded. The edges gleamed faintly, darkness crawling along them like writhing veins of corrupted script. They were less swords than broken gear—things that should not exist, things the system should have purged long ago.

Taph’s breath caught in their throat. The world tilted around them. Their instincts screamed the only word they could understand.

Run.

They spun, boots skidding across the warped boards, and bolted.

The house erupted as though the world itself conspired to slow them down. Planks split beneath their weight, collapsing into splinters. Items that sat on shelves fell from their place. 

And behind them—always behind them—the figure followed. Not sprinting. Not rushing. Just moving with steady, inevitable persistence. Its footsteps heavy, the sound of them echoed in the house. Its swords dragged along the walls as it passed, spitting sparks that didn’t sound like metal striking wood but like static tearing through speakers. Every step it took pressed heavier into Taph’s ears, until it was all they could hear.

They stumbled, caught themself, pushed harder. Their lungs burned, each breath ragged and loud in their throat. The platforms collapsed behind them in dominoes, shattering into fragments of rubble and code, as though the creature’s presence alone was unraveling the site.

And then—they broke through.

Taph vaulted the last barricade of debris and burst out of the demolition zone, the open streets swallowing them whole. The night air struck cold, burning their throat as they ran. Their shoes pounded against the pavement, echoing down the deserted blocks. Lights from half-finished towers flickered faintly above, throwing long, jagged shadows across the street as though even the city itself were splintering.

They kept running.

Only when their chest felt like it might split did they risk a glance over their shoulder.

Nothing.

The demolition site loomed far in the distance. No flicker of a cape. No burning red eye. No sparks scraping off the concrete floor. The streets behind them stretched empty, as though they had imagined the chase entirely.

Their heart hammered against their ribs. Doubt pressed in, heavy and insistent. Had they really seen it? Or had the rumors at HQ—the whispered sightings, the hushed stories of in-game deaths—sunk too deep into their mind? Was this all just paranoia clawing its way into the quiet of the night?

And yet—Taph froze, breath shallow.

The sensation lingered. That same oppressive weight. The feeling of being watched.

Even though the street was empty, they couldn’t shake it.

The red eye might have vanished into the dark, but its heat still burned against their skin.

Real or not, it had followed them out of those ruins.

And they knew they wouldn’t forget it.

No one came. No admin, no moderator, no system message. It was as though the figure’s presence had been invisible, undetected. That thought chilled them even more than the encounter itself.

Builderman, Taph thought. They should go to Builderman. Builderman would know what to do—he always did. But their legs carried them elsewhere, driven by instinct more than reason. Past the silent offices, past the darkened halls. Their breath still came in uneven bursts, chest raw from running. And then, before they could second-guess themself, they were standing in front of Dusekkar’s door.

Their knuckles hovered, trembling, before finally knocking.

The door creaked open a moment later. The mage stood there, his carved expression caught between surprise and worry. Firelight flickered faintly within his hollow grin, dimmer than usual. Bewilderment flickered across his features at seeing Taph so late, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He could read the unease in the set of Taph’s shoulders, the shallow rise and fall of their chest.

Without hesitation, Dusekkar stepped aside and guided them in. His movements were calm, deliberate, the kind that quieted panic just by existing.

Taph sank into the nearest chair, their body stiff and rigid. They tried to sign, tried to shape the story with their hands, but their mind was blank—every gesture slipping away the second they thought of it. Their hands shook too much to hold the shapes steady anyway.

So they pulled the notebook Dusekkar had given them from their cloak pocket. Pen scratching, frantic.

The words tumbled out in jagged lines: Caped figure. Red eye. Domino crown. Skeleton. Two swords—Venomshanks. Darker. Rotten. Wrong. Chase. Almost caught. 

The writing barely held together, letters blurred and uneven. Their hand dragged across the page, smearing the ink, but they didn’t stop.

Dusekkar stood nearby, silent but steady, his presence grounding. Every now and then, he murmured a low reassurance, voice even and unhurried. “Easy now. Breathe. You’re safe here.” His words were like an anchor thrown into a storm.

But still—the images clung to Taph’s mind. The weight of the creature’s gaze, the rotten glow bleeding along the venomshanks’ edges, the way the red eye burned through the night as though it had seared itself into their skin. Even now, in the warmth of Dusekkar’s office, they could still feel it pressing against their chest.

The pen slipped from their fingers. Taph pressed their palms flat to the page, breathing hard, staring at the words as though they might burn through the paper or come to life.

Dusekkar leaned forward slightly, his flame dimming to a steady pulse. “I believe you.”

The words didn’t erase the fear, but they steadied something deep inside Taph, just enough to stop them from breaking apart.

The rest blurred. One moment, they were sitting in the hush of Dusekkar’s office, breathing raggedly. The next, they were standing in front of their apartment door, fumbling with their key, unsure how they had gotten there.

Inside, the dim room greeted them with silence, heavy and unmoving. Taph shut the door behind them, the click echoing too loud in the stillness. Their quarters felt smaller than usual, the air stale, pressing against their chest. Their gaze wandered—and snagged on the mirror above the dresser.

They rarely looked at it, only in the mornings when they would check if they were covered. It was plain, a simple rectangle with a thin black frame, something they often ignored. But tonight it seemed to look back at them. Its surface caught what little light lingered in the room, gleaming faintly, waiting.

Their breath hitched. They lurched forward, palms slamming onto the dresser, knuckles whitening against the wood.

The pressure built. A tearing pull deep inside their back, as if their own bones were trying to split them open. Their chest heaved. A gasp clawed its way out of their throat, raw and thin. Their vision blurred at the edges as the pain spiked—then broke.

Something ruptured.

Wet, splitting pain. Flesh tearing. Heat rushing down their spine.

And then—shadows.

They poured out of them in a violent rush, spilling from the wounds in their back. Dark stems writhed and lashed, coiling in unnatural arcs. Their body convulsed with each surge, the sound of tearing meat filling their ears. Their cloak split down the back, threads popping one by one as the shadows forced their way out.

They staggered back from the dresser, eyes wide with horror as the shapes twisted, gathered, and solidified. They weren’t formless. They weren’t random.

Feathers.

Taph’s hands trembled as they stared in the mirror. 

No.

No, no, no…

Nononononono—

Long, jagged feathers, slick with shadow, unfurling like blades. Wings. Half-formed, malformed, trembling as they forced themselves into existence. Each new quill punched free from their back with a sting that made their teeth grit, nerves screaming as if they were being flayed alive from the inside.

Their chest heaved. Panic clawed at their throat. They stumbled until their back hit the wall, shoulders striking painfully against plaster, wings dragging heavy and alien at their sides. Yet when they dared to look again in the mirror, their terror faltered.

The wings weren’t monstrous. Wrong, yes. Terrifying, yes. But grotesque? No. Dark feathers shimmered in the moonlight striking from the window. Shadows curled along them, but their edges gleamed faintly with a silver sheen. A brighter colour reflecting the light with a weak glimmer under a dark liquid that covered the wings.

When Taph breathed, they rose and fell with them, syncing as if they had always belonged.

Their shaking slowed, confusion replacing panic. Slowly—hesitantly—they lifted a hand. Fingers hovered, then brushed the edge of one feather. Warm. Real. And wet.

When they looked down at their fingers, they realized it was blood. Which would have made them vomit at the sight, but they felt too numb, fog edged the border of their sight, and their head felt light.

They finally tuned into the unsettling silence in the room and looked back to the mirror.

Why me?

Not to Dusekkar, not to Shedletsky, not to the mirror. To no one. To everything.

The room seemed to hold its breath with them. The wings shifted in the silence, stretching wide until their tips nearly brushed the walls, then folding close again. Shadows curling in around the faint threads of light.

They were theirs. They had always been theirs. Hidden, buried, waiting.

And as they stood before the mirror—their reflection reshaped, remade—Taph felt something colder than fear slide into their chest. Not dread. Not wonder. A truth. A sharp, inescapable truth pressing in on all sides.

A truth that had always been there, lurking in the shadows.

Waiting for them to see it.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were a blur.

Taph woke each morning with the same ache in their back and the same phantom memory of the house—the collapsing floors, the red eye, the weight of fear that had followed them all the way to Dusekkar’s door. They still didn’t know what they’d seen. A ghost. A glitch. A dream. But the world hadn’t gone back to normal. Something had shifted, and everyone seemed to feel it. Reports at HQ only seem to grow alongside the rumours. Journalists appeared more often than normal at the entrance to the building, sometimes even stopping Taph with the flash of a camera. They would always just tug their hood down and walk faster, thankfully the reporters never followed for long.

Dusekkar most of all seemed to be affected.

He was everywhere now. Waiting outside buildings before Taph arrived, appearing without sound in doorways, his presence quiet but inescapable. The first time, Taph thought it was a coincidence—maybe their assignments just happened to align. But after the third, then the fourth, it was impossible to ignore.

Today began like all the others.

Taph woke with the dull ache burning between their shoulders, the weight of something that shouldn’t be there pressing against their skin. The wings stirred faintly beneath the blanket—strange, foreign, wrong—and the sight of their own reflection made them shiver.

Their morning routine had grown longer since the change. Every movement had to be careful now: adjusting the cloak, layering fabric, checking twice in the mirror to make sure nothing showed. The figure staring back no longer felt like them. The wings distorted the outline, reshaped what they thought they knew.

They told themself it was just a phase of adjustment—an inconvenience, nothing more. A thing to hide until it stopped feeling so strange. Of course, they knew they couldn’t hide it forever.

Some mornings, when frustration bled into desperation, they thought about finding a way to hold them down—to make them still. Once, they even tried. Taped the wings tight beneath their clothes until the pain built so sharp it felt like their bones might splinter.

The ache stayed for days after. A reminder that pretending something wasn’t there didn’t make it go away. So they simply stuck to hiding under layers how they always had.

They left for their work early. The streets were quiet, washed in a cold autumn dawn haze. By the time they reached the fenced area, someone was already there.

Dusekkar.

He stood at the fence of another demolition site, coat tugged by the wind, eyes fixed on the empty house ahead. The mist hung low across the demolished foundation, swallowing his boots. He didn’t turn until Taph approached.

Hello 👋, Taph signed. Their hands trembled from the chill but the gloves Shedletsky had given them still managed.

“You’re early,” Dusekkar said, voice low. He glanced at the old structure again before stepping aside, letting Taph through the gate. “I didn’t think you’d come alone.”

The remark landed strangely. Taph hesitated before replying.
I had to. Reports won’t wait 📋❌.

“Reports can wait,” he said, too quickly.

For a moment, his expression softened, like he wanted to say more. Then he looked away. “Next time, don’t come out here by yourself.”

Something about the tone—clipped, uncertain, without rhyme—made Taph’s stomach twist.
…Is this about that night?

Dusekkar only nodded and exhaled slowly, the air fogging in the cold. But even as he did this, his hand tightened around the head of his staff until the wood creaked.

They worked in silence for the next hour. Dusekkar paced the perimeter while Taph moved through the house, scanning for anomalies, documenting corrupted walls and flickering textures. Before blowing it to bits as always. The air was heavy, saturated with the faint buzz of glitched data. It reminded Taph too much of that night—the static in their ears, the code fracturing beneath their feet.

Every time they turned a corner, they caught Dusekkar’s reflection in broken glass. Watching. Always watching.

When Taph finally closed their terminal, he was already at the doorway, waiting.

“You look cold,” Dusekkar said. “You should rest.”

Taph turned, startled by how soft the mage’s voice sounded—or maybe how strained. Probably misheard.

I’m fine.
Taph waved their hands dismissively. But in reality their hands wanted to fidget, to sign something truer. But they didn’t. The memory still burned too sharp, and they didn’t want to sound mad. Not when even they couldn’t tell if it had been real.

“Don’t go anywhere alone,” Dusekkar said again, this time quieter. “Promise me.”

Taph didn’t answer. The silence between them felt heavier than the warning itself.

—

The pattern didn’t stop after that.

At HQ, Dusekkar became a constant shadow—never intruding, but never far. He’d appear beside the elevators just as Taph arrived, or hover in the hall outside their workstation, offering quick questions that sounded more like check-ins than conversation.
“Are you heading out tonight?”
“Which sector?”
“Anyone going with you?”

Every answer Taph gave seemed to weigh on him. He’d nod once and then vanish again into the maze of offices.

By the third day, his fatigue showed. His cloak appeared unkept, his boots tracked in mud, and his eyes seemed more hollow with his fire dimmed. His desk had become a fortress of scattered reports and worn manuals, papers spilling onto the floor. When Taph dropped by, the only light came from the glow of his terminal — rows of corrupted log files scrolling endlessly down the screen.

Builderman gave you more cleanup work?
Taph wrote in their journal and handed it gently for him to read.

Dusekkar didn’t answer. He rubbed his temples, staring through the lines of data as though trying to read something between them.
“Just… revisiting old haunts,” he murmured finally.

Something cold crept into Taph’s stomach.

His voice was so full of exhaustion, there was no faint smile, no attempt to downplay it. Just weariness—and something else. Fear.

Taph wanted to ask, but their back tensed sharply, a flare of pain cutting through the thought. They straightened too quickly, masking it with a shrug.

Taph didn’t press him. They couldn’t. They had their own secret.

Each morning, the ache in their back grew worse. The wings strained to unfurl when they dressed, feathers pushing faintly against fabric. At night, when they finally stripped away the layers, the wings would unfold in the dim light, trembling as though gasping for air.

Sometimes, he traced the edges, half in awe, half in dread.

They were beautiful.
And they terrified him.

They’d tell someone eventually, they told themself. Maybe Dusekkar. When they were ready. When the ache stopped.

But the ache never stopped.

And lately, Dusekkar’s gaze lingered longer than it used to. Not suspicion—not exactly—but the careful, searching kind of look that made Taph’s chest tighten. Like he saw something moving beneath the surface and couldn’t quite name it.

Each time their eyes met, Taph’s pulse hammered faster, a silent plea looping in their mind: Don’t see. Don’t notice. Not yet.

That night, the air in their dorm feels too heavy to breathe. The hum of the vent claws at the silence. Taph lies awake, staring at the faint reflection of their own silhouette in the window—the way their nightgown rises ever so slightly from their back, the ghost of the wings beneath. They shift, wincing at the dull ache running along their spine, the phantom pull of feathers that want to exist when they shouldn’t.

They sit up. Their sheets are tangled. The clock blinks 02:47 in pale blue light.

You won’t sleep anyway. They thought.

They grab their cloak and leave, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the long, dim corridors of HQ. The halls stretch endlessly this late—a maze of quiet offices and glass panels reflecting slivers of movement that aren’t there.

Taph passes the stairwell, where the echo of their own steps returns like a stranger following too close. The vending machines hum in unison, a soft electric drone. Somewhere above, a door closes. They freeze—but nothing else moves.

When they reach the junction near the archives, a soft glow spills from the library ahead. Not the white light of overheads—something gentler, flickering.

They edge closer, peering through the crack in the door.

Inside, Dusekkar sits alone, surrounded by towers of old server backup discs stacked haphazardly on the long tables. Some are shattered, others labeled in handwriting that’s faded to ghosts of words. The air smells of ozone and burnt plastic, the faint hum of an overworked terminal breaking the silence.

The screen in front of him flickers, lines of corrupted data running down it like rain.

Dusekkar’s shoulders slump under the weak light. His coat has slipped off one arm; his gloves lie forgotten beside the keyboard. When he reaches for a nearby folder, his hand trembles. The motion is precise but frantic—as though he’s racing against something unseen.

Taph steps inside quietly, careful not to startle him, but the floor betrays them with a creak.

Dusekkar flinches, snapping his head up. The shadows under his eyes look carved in.

“Taph?” His voice is raw, too rough to sound like him.

He doesn’t stand. He just stares, chest rising unevenly. For a moment, Taph thinks he doesn’t recognize them.

They sign hesitantly: Why?

Dusekkar blinks, gaze flicking to the window. Outside, the night presses against the glass, thick and unmoving. When he speaks, his voice drops to a murmur.
“There are things buried in the backups. Patterns. Things that shouldn’t be there.”

Taph frowns. Patterns? Like corrupted files?

But before they could ask any more questions, Dusekkar waves his hand sharply—a movement too sudden, too panicked. “Go back to your quarters,” he says. “You don’t need to see this.”

Taph stays still. Their eyes drift to the mess on the table. Between the piles of discs sits a stack of books—the same “myths and anomalies” volumes recognizable from before during their first encounter in the library. Now their pages are ripped and marked in furious scrawl, entire passages underlined three, four times over. Strings of code are scribbled in the margins, tied together by frantic lines and arrows.

The terminal clicks. A new directory opens. A half-loaded image flickers to life — an old demolition record. Then another, and another, each one flashing for a fraction of a second before collapsing into static. Faces, locations, admin tags, gone in bursts of corrupted light.

Dusekkar presses his palms to his temples. “It’s rewriting itself,” he mutters, not to Taph, but to the air. “Even when the servers are disconnected.”

Taph takes a step back, the hum of the drives growing louder, filling the room with a low, thrumming pulse.

“Go,” Dusekkar says again. This time, softer. “Please.”

There’s no anger—just exhaustion. With a hint of fear.

Taph obeys, slipping out as quietly as they came.

—

By morning, HQ stirs back to life. The tension of the night feels distant, almost imagined, swallowed by the usual clatter of keyboards and the chatter of passing moderators. Taph tries to follow the routine—check terminals, log updates, sort demolition reports—but the image of Dusekkar hunched in the glow refuses to leave their mind.

When the shift ends, they go to his office. The door is open. The chair is empty. The monitors are off.

A pit in their stomach deepens.

They retrace their steps to the library.

There, in the far corner, they find him. Dusekkar sits slumped against the wall, fast asleep, surrounded by the same towers of discs. His notebook lies open beside him, filled with jagged handwriting and strange sketches.

Taph crouches beside it. Pages of tangled lines connect servers and usernames like constellations. Strings of text repeat down the margins—names crossed out, replaced with symbols that look like runes.

They flip to another page. A rough sketch of the map of Robloxia—the central hub circled, branching lines drawn toward old, demolished coordinates. At the end of one line: a single question mark.

Taph looks back at Dusekkar. His breathing is uneven. His hands twitch faintly in sleep, as if still typing.

The sight leaves a hollow ache in Taph’s chest.

The man who once seemed unshakable now looks breakable—frayed and small beneath the weight of something unseen.

For a long moment, Taph just watches him, feeling the faint pulse of their wings beneath their cloak, mirroring the same restless tension.

Then they quietly close the notebook.

For the first time, Taph wonders if what attacked him at the demolition site wasn’t the only thing haunting Robloxia.

Chapter Text

Autumn had already started to lean over the neighborhood—the maples lining the block were a riot of orange and red, a dry papery smell riding every gust. 

The new place Builderman had quietly arranged for Taph—a low, single-story house tucked into a sleepy block of townhomes—wore the season well. The house smelled faintly of dust and old wood and that particular sweetness that comes from a house emptied of other people and waiting to be made into someone’s home.

Taph stood on the porch for a long moment before they turned the key in the lock—the cold settling in their shoulders, the ache between their shoulder blades humming like a reminder. The wings were tucked so tightly into their back the muscles felt bruised. They kept their shoulders hunched under their coat as if posture alone could keep them from forcing expression. They told themself, again, that it was practical, that it was temporary. The truth was simpler and harder: they were afraid.

When the door opened and they stepped inside, the place felt smaller and kinder than the pictures Builderman had sent. The light through the narrow windows was soft and amber with autumn, dust motes swirling lazily in the beams. The living room was simple but warm: a shallow bay window overlooking a row of copper-leaved trees, a couch wrapped in protective plastic, the faint scent of lemon polish clinging to the air. Someone had cleaned for them—thoroughly, carefully—leaving behind a faint trace of sweetness that reminded Taph of those early days at HQ, when everything still felt new and untouched.

On the narrow hall table sat a vase with warm coloured flowers stuck in it. Leaning against it, a small postcard waited, its corners bent from handling. Builderman’s handwriting slanted across the back in bold, blocky letters:

Welcome home. You’ve earned it. Rest well. —Builderman

The card was as straightforward and practical as the man himself, but the ink warmed Taph for reasons that had nothing to do with the words. They smiled in a way they did not mean for anyone to notice. They slid the small note into their pocket before continuing their adventure around the house.

Taph then entered the bedroom next. On the bare mattress laid folded with neat precision, a cloak. The fabric was deep charcoal, lined with purple embroidery along the hem that shimmered when it caught the light—an intricate weave of geometric patterns, subtle and tasteful. It was heavier than their old one, soft to the touch, the kind of warmth meant for long nights and colder days. A small tag hung from the inner seam, handwritten again:

For the winter. Consider it an early Christmas gift. —B.

For a long moment, Taph didn’t move. The house had already been more than enough—a gesture of faith, of protection. This was… something gentler. Something that almost felt like care.

They lifted the cloak carefully, the weight of it comforting across their hands. When they draped it over their shoulders, the inner lining brushed against the faint outline of their wings, hidden but restless beneath their shirt. It was longer than the cloak they currently had, the back cape dropping to their ankles as if to shield them from harsher winds. They took it off and laid it gently back down on the mattress, feeling the soft inside of the cloak.

They didn’t realize they were smiling until the window’s glass reflected it for them to see.

—

Brighteyes arrived with more energy than the weather allowed. She greeted Taph with cheerful pride before rushing back to the truck to retrieve some of the boxes Taph had packed. 

Dusekkar came quieter, sleeves rolled, his pumpkin head dimly lit in the dull light. He positioned himself at the doorway for a while, watching Taph with the same steady gaze that had kept him from falling apart over the past days. He took in the house with a single measured look, then stayed close without saying much. He offered to carry the heavier boxes and stayed very close whenever Taph reached for something on a high shelf, as if proximity could ward off whatever had chased them out of that house.

They worked with an easy rhythm: the two helpers taking turns hauling boxes, Taph unpacking, the empty cardboard becoming smaller and smaller piles that hid the floor. Brighteyes chattered about paint colors and plants and the exact angle you should hang a picture to reduce wobble. The group turned an empty house into a place that might hold someone. Brighteyes organized the kitchen like a storm, piling mugs in a crooked row, deciding which shelf would work best to store hidden goods. Dusekkar stacked books in neat tiers, muttering about good light for reading. Taph unfolded themselves into tasks smaller than demolitions: carrying a stack of plates, puzzling a lamp into place, coaxing a stubborn curtain track into working.

Domesticity arrived in small, specific things—the smell of dust mixing with cardboard, a stray spider that Brighteyes scooped out with exaggerated ceremony, the faint ping of a kettle as Brighteyes put it on. At one point, Taph found themselves wiping the railing on the porch until the wood shone, fingers tracing the grain as if memorizing the feel through the gloves they wore. When a damp smear appeared on the floor, Dusekkar was immediately there with a towel and the calm insistence of someone who would not let broken things stay broken.

Between hauling boxes and arguing over where things should go, they talked. Mostly small talk.

“You found a place!” She slapped Taph’s shoulder with a grin that felt like sunlight. “It suits you. Look at these windows—won't be as dark as the apartment.” She said it with the light teasing she used for everyone, but her eyes were bright and kind on Taph.

Taph tried to ask about Shedletsky indirectly—a casual, poorly veiled inquiry about the missing laugh that used to ripple down HQ corridors.

Brighteyes stilled. She frowned, a crease that shut the conversation down.

Dusekkar’s fingers, which had been aligning plates, paused. He didn’t meet Taph’s eyes right away. When he did, his voice was a small thing that tried to be neutral and broke. “He hasn’t been feeling well,” Dusekkar said, voice low but steady. Then, as if instinct took over, his tone slipped into rhyme, weary but deliberate:

“He’s taken to rest, withdrawn from the fray—the laughter sleeps, for now, away.”

He paused after, eyes flicking toward the window as if regretting the habit, the rhyme hanging between them like a ghost of his old self.

Hearing Dusekkar rhyme again for the first time in the past week made Taph freeze.

Brighteyes did not give the usual joke or laugh that typically followed such a situation.

Taph’s wings suddenly slipped into their awareness as they felt them shift. The unease that was left from the short interaction was enough to make their feathers puff up under their cloak. Taph only nodded in understanding before walking back to the truck outside to continue moving in whatever was left. They needed to get out of there before they slipped up and ruined everything.

Moving boxes was oddly strenuous; a small, ever-present ache at the base of their ribs flared whenever they twisted. Their shoulders hunched automatically. Their fingers itched, wanting to tug the coat tighter, to press the wings flat until they hurt—as if pain could be a substitute for visibility. When they carried the heavier boxes up the stairs, they felt the wings beneath the fabric, a dull press that made them breathe shallowly to avoid making it obvious. Once, while bending to pick up something from in a box, a feather brushed free under the hem and landed by their feet. They froze. Brighteyes laughed at nothing, and Dusekkar offered a steadying hand on their elbow that steadied more than the body.

They did not say anything. They did not want to make the present more complicated—not with Dusekkar’s exhaustion and Brighteyes’ half-masked worry and Builderman’s quiet benevolence threaded through the whole gift.

By late afternoon the main rooms looked lived-in. Taph stood in the doorway and let the small domestic chaos wash over them; it felt like an island. Even the radiator’s soft clank sounded like company.

Dusekkar adjusted the locks on the windows with an emergent, meticulous care; Brighteyes stashed an emergency kit under the sink and left a stack of her extra blankets in a closet. They both moved like people who wanted to leave a home stronger than they found it.

When the sun was beginning to fall, Brighteyes left with a loud, cheerful hug and a promise of “I’ll bring the good plates next time.” Dusekkar stayed, moving through the house slowly, sweeping crumbs into a dustpan, checking the locks. He lingered as if unsure whether to mention something and then simply said, “If you need anything in the night, message me.” It was both an offer and command. Protective.

Night arrived with its normal, thin anxieties. Though there was a new quiet that was calm. Taph sat at the kitchen table, a cup of something hot in hand, watching the window where streetlights painted a soft band on the floor. They had checked the lock on the front door twice, once for habit and another because the memory of being watched at the demolition site sat like a stone in their gut. The house had settled into itself: soft, domestic, the kind of place that could erase the edges of the day if you let it.

But the silence invited attention. It offered the space for memory to replay.

They told themself every reasonable thing: Builderman had given them this place because it was safe; Dusekkar and Brighteyes were nearby; the encounter had been a fluke. Still, the memory of the red eye and the rotten gleam along the blades surfaced with every small noise. 

When the demolition site’s red eye ignited behind their lids, Taph’s breath shortened. The image was a hot, fierce thing at the back of the throat. They had been running across broken boards and collapsing platforms, and the way that light had pinned them—it lingered.

Taph told themselves they were safe. Builderman had given them this place. Dusekkar had stayed late to help. Brighteyes had laughed until the house sounded less empty.

They tried to breathe with the radiator, to let the small domestic sounds stitch them back together. They washed the last of the unwashed plates and stacked them, hands moving deliberately. The pattern enough to calm them for bed. 

Around midnight a wind picked up outside and leaves could be heard scraping pavement outside. The porch light hummed and then sputtered once. Taph’s stomach tightened. They forced their hands to stillness on their knees. The ache in their back buzzed like an old radio.

They checked the windows again, and felt the tremor of the wings even when they were pressed flat. Once, when the wind did a particular, terrible thing in the eaves, they mistook it for a breath at the threshold and froze until it passed. They imagined a red gleam cutting across the yard. They pictured the cape dragging, the swords that had seemed to eat light. Their breath came short and shallow.

They went to the door, and opened it just enough to look out. The night air washed in, cool and sharp, a smell of wet earth and distant traffic. The porch was empty, rimed in shadow. 

They locked the door again.

They would try to get some sleep.

But as they lay back down and pulled the blanket up to their chin, the unease returned, sharpened into a single, spiteful point. A feeling, as precise as a thorn, that someone—something—was watching.

Sleep came in fits, haunted by flashes: the demolition site replaying like a film with snapped frames, the green crown, a dream where half-formed feathers turned into shards and cut through the sky. Each time they startled awake, their throat raw from silent gasps.

—

Morning light pooled across a tidy kitchen as they set the kettle to boil. They opened one of the plain drawers by the front door and took out two spare keys Builderman had given before they had started packing, “for emergencies”. The new environment, while granting a sense of security, also kept Taph on edge. It was as if the house had shown them two faces: one of ordinary safety and one that could be inhabited by something else at any hour. The ache between their shoulders had become part of their morning—not a symptom but a companion. 

They dressed slowly, fingers moving with a care that bordered on ritual. The wings pressed against their spine like a secret too large to carry.

Dusekkar arrived before Taph could dress properly—as if he had not slept, his knock came steady, distinct, the same measured rhythm he always used at HQ, unhurried but urgent. 

Taph hesitated before opening the door, tugging the hood of their cloak over their head and tightening the bandana across the lower half of their face. They didn’t bother with their gloves or anything else—just mismatched socks on wood and sweatpants clinging at the ankles.

When they pulled the door open, Dusekkar stood there, in the morning chill. His coat was unevenly buttoned, and he didn’t seem fully awake yet himself.

He blinked. Once. Then again.

“Taph,” he said finally, voice low, as if testing that it was really them. His eyes lingered—not where their face would be under their hood, but on their bare hands, the soft lines of their clothes, the way their shoulders curved inward under the half-fastened cloak. “You’re—” he started, then stopped himself, the word never forming.

They shifted under his gaze. 
Sorry, Taph brought a fist to their chest and moved it in a circular motion to sign the word. Then tugged the cloak tighter. 
I wasn’t expecting anyone this early.

“No—no need to apologize,” Dusekkar said quickly, taking a step back. His composure faltered just enough for it to show. “I should’ve sent word. I…” He looked down at the wood beneath, then back up again, flame soft but tired. “You only moved in last night. So I came to see you’re safe and right.” The rhyme slipped out naturally, unbidden—a cover for the worry he couldn’t quite hide. He glanced aside, pretending to study the floor, as if embarrassed by the gentleness in his own words.

Taph’s hand tightened around the edge of the door, a small smile trying to find its place. They nodded in response.

Dusekkar gave a quiet hum that might have been a laugh. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

The words were strange—half joke, half fear—and they hung between them too long.

I’m here, Taph signed with a gentle hand. 
Promise.

Something in Dusekkar’s shoulders eased at that, though the exhaustion didn’t leave him. His eyes drifted again, unbidden, to Taph’s uncovered hands. Without the gloves, the faint shimmer along the veins was visible in the morning light—barely, but enough for someone who knew what to look for.

He noticed. Taph knew he did.

But all he said was, “It’s cold out. You should wear the rest of that cloak.”

Taph only shrugged in response.

He tilted his head, that same old flicker of humor sparking—just a little, before the worry returned.

Taph stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. 
Come in before the neighbors think I’m being interrogated.

Dusekkar hesitated at the threshold, eyes flicking once toward the quiet street, then back to them. “Wouldn’t be the strangest rumor this week,” he murmured, but he stepped in anyway.

The air between them held something unspoken—half concern, half familiarity, threaded through with the lingering dread of things neither could name.

Inside, the place still smelled faintly of dust and fresh paint. Boxes crowded the walls, half-opened, labeled in Taph’s narrow scrawl. A rolled carpet leaned against the far corner. Dusekkar looked around in silence, gaze settling on the half-assembled table by the window, the empty shelves, the faint shimmer of morning light breaking through the blinds.

I didn’t finish putting everything away last night. Still settling in. 
Taph signed.

“Looks good so far, it suits you true. Fits just right, like it was made for you.” Dusekkar replied, and though his tone was kind, there was a thin strain behind it—as if he was forcing himself to say something normal.

Taph gave a faint nod, then excused themself. Let me… finish getting ready. Won’t take long.

Dusekkar gave a slight nod and moved toward the table, where a collection of maps and rolled-up reports were scattered. As Taph disappeared into the other room, he let out a long breath, rubbing a thumb along the carved edge of his staff.

They slipped into the small bedroom, closing the door softly behind them. Inside, the quiet pressed close. Taph adjusted their new cloak, still stiff from being freshly issued. The faint ache in their back returned as they reached for the collar, the wings pressing softly against the fabric. They pulled on the rest of their cloak, tugging the fabric lower to disguise the faint shape shifting beneath it. The mirror on the far wall caught their reflection: the edge of a feather glinting silver before fading into the shadow of their cloak.

They swallowed hard and reached into their sweatpants pocket. Two spare keys glinted in their palm, still cold from the morning air.

Maybe it was foolish—but part of them wanted to believe that if someone else could reach this door, the silence wouldn’t swallow them whole again.

When they finished changing clothes and returned to the living room, Dusekkar had settled by the window, arms crossed, eyes distant. The light caught on the thin line of exhaustion carved beneath them.

Taph’s footsteps alerted him of their return, and when he turned around to see them, they signed, Did you eat yet? 🍎
The translator glove projected the caption above their hand.

He blinked, dragged back from thought. “Yes. Before I came.”

Taph hesitated, then pulled the spare key from their pocket and held it out. Their hands didn’t shake as much as the night before; the ache still hummed at the base of their ribs. 
I… I want you and Builderman to have one 🙏, they added simply. 

“What for?” He asked quickly.

Just in case, they signed. 
If anything happens. Or if— they paused, searching for the right words, —if I don’t show up for a few days. Maybe just… check in.

The key glinted faintly in their hand, trembling slightly from the unspoken tension.

Dusekkar studied them for a long time before reaching out and taking it, fingers closing around the item with a grip that was both gentle and possessive. His fingers brushed Taph’s briefly, the touch warm and steady. “All right,” he said finally, sliding the key into his pocket. “Just promise me you’ll contact me if anything is wrong. Instead of ‘not showing up for a few days’.”

I will 👍, Taph responded, they weren’t sure they believed it, though they knew for a fact Dusekkar was by default who they’d go to.

They left together soon after. The air outside bit cold against their faces, the streets layered with fallen leaves that clung stubbornly to gutters and whispered beneath their steps. The city hummed faintly in the distance—quiet enough that Taph could hear the soft tap of Dusekkar’s boots beside them, his presence both reassuring and heavy. Neither spoke much as they walked; their silence had long become its own language. When they reached the front steps of HQ, Dusekkar stopped first, looking toward the tall glass doors gleaming in the morning light.

“If you don’t have to go to any sites today. Stay in the main wings,” he said. “Please.”

Taph nodded, and they parted ways—Dusekkar toward the east corridor, Taph toward Builderman’s offices.

Inside, the HQ buzzed faintly with the usual routine. Screens glowed, voices echoed down hallways, but Taph felt the world tilt just slightly out of rhythm. The building felt different now—too bright, too polished after the night’s quiet.

Builderman’s door was half-open when Taph arrived. He looked up from a holographic display as they came within the doorframe’s view, his broad features softening. “Taph! Mornin’. How’s the new place?”

Taph managed a small smile. Still unpacking. It’s good to have somewhere that’s mine. 📦🏠👍

“That’s what I like to hear,” Builderman said, rising from behind his desk. His tone had that practiced steadiness of someone used to putting others at ease—but there was warmth there too, genuine and grounding. “You earned it, after what happened.”

The mention made something flicker behind Taph’s eyes. They hesitated, then reached into their pocket and pulled out the second spare key. 
Actually… I wanted to give you this. Just in case. I’m still a bit— they struggled for the words once again, —on edge. After the attack.

Builderman took the key gently, closing his fingers around it. “That’s understandable,” he said. “You went through something most wouldn’t survive.” His gaze softened. “I’m proud of how you’ve handled it. But don’t carry it alone, all right? That’s what we’re here for.”

Taph nodded, their throat tight. The office light gleamed faintly on Builderman’s badge, catching the edge of the key in his palm before he tucked it into his vest pocket.

“Get some real rest when you can,” he added. “And if the nightmares come back—just knock. Someone will always answer.”

Taph managed to sign a Thank you before leaving the room.

As they walked down the corridor, the sound of distant construction echoed faintly through the walls—a reminder of the city’s endless rebuilding. Outside, autumn light spilled across the glass floors, soft and fleeting.

For a moment, Taph let themself breathe in that fragile calm.

But beneath the calm, a tension remained. A whisper at the edge of thought, reminding them that safety—like everything else in Robloxia—was something that could vanish in an instant.

They kept their shoulders tucked, the cloak buttoned tight, the wings folded as tight as they could manage. The ache in their back whispered with every step.

They had a place to go home to now. And people who’d promised to be there if they needed them.

But as the office settled into its daily noise and monitors flickered to life, a thin thread of worry hummed under everything: the red eye had been real; no admin had arrived at the ruins; and the sudden relocation suggested Builderman and Dusekkar already expected—and planned for—the next time something tried to find them.

They slid into their chair and thumbed through the reports, hands steadying into routine.