Work Text:
Lin Ling exists in the quiet corners of TREEMAN.
Tea in hand. Notes in bag. Mouth shut.
He’s a grunt — one of the silent many who make the glittering shell of the TREEMAN family actually function. If the Sky is the sun, and the Guardians are the stars, then Lin Ling is the janitor in the observatory. Nobody looks at him. That’s how he likes it.
His job? Assist mid-level Capos. Inventory the daily supply runs. Manage guest lists. Sometimes get coffee. Sometimes clean up blood. Always wear a smile. Always be forgettable.
Then they assign him to Nice.
The exalted Sky of TREEMAN.
Nice is charisma wrapped in precision — silk suits, bright smiles, curated movements. To the outside world, he’s everything a Sky should be: composed, charismatic, magnetic. Inside TREEMAN, that image is sacred. Maintained. Enforced.
Lin Ling is placed near him as a “handler’s assistant.” Which just really means he runs errands for Miss J so she can focus on Nice. He doesn’t ask why.
He just watches.
Nice speaks like the sun shines out of his throat. Walks like he was born to lead. Treats everyone like they’re precious. And somehow, Lin Ling feels small and safe and insignificant all at once.
He tells himself it’s admiration. Reverence.
He also tells himself that’s all it will ever be.
He’s not someone a person like Nice would notice after all.
He’s flameless. Any test the family put him through always gave no results.
Not even a flicker. Not once. Not during training. Not even when they tried artificial life or death stimulation during a Mist-heavy battlefield drill.
“No flame affinity,” the test paper read. “Unfit for guardian role. Useful only in support roles.”
He believed it.
He made peace with it.
But peace built on silence is a fragile thing.
And sometimes, all it takes to shake it is a single misplaced file and a passing glance to shatter it.
By the time the halls were empty, Lin Ling was still at his desk — sleeves rolled up, posture hunched, sorting mission reports into neat stacks by color, date, and priority. The office lights hummed low above his head, and from the polished windowpanes, he could see the distant lights of the city blinking like stars that had gotten lost on their way home.
From across the room, the portrait of the TREEMAN family’s Sky stared down at him — Nice, with his crisp uniform and impossible poise, painted like a young king. Positioned high and flawless, like a reminder to the grunts of everything they'd never be allowed to touch
He wasn’t supposed to be here this late. Handler assistants didn’t normally work with mission data, especially not from upper-tier operatives. His only work should have been what Miss J assigned him. But TREEMAN was short-staffed this week, and Lin Ling always found it hard to tell his nicer coworkers no.
He had to work a bit of overtime to get both his and the extra data work done. No one had disturbed him, he had a knack for disappearing into useful silence. Nobody noticed him until something went missing — or until something broke.
He liked it that way, mostly.
He was on his way out the back office when he heard voices echo from the hallway behind the archive doors. He paused, his breath catching in his throat.
“—do you understand what a Sky is supposed to be?”
Shang De’s voice. Cold. Weighted with command. Lin Ling stiffened, the hairs on his neck rising.
“I know,” came Nice’s reply, low and tight.
“You know nothing,” Shang De spat. “You’re not a Mist, Nice. You’re the Sky. You’re the Sky. I felt a flicker of your mist flames today. Do you understand how fragile this illusion is?”
Lin Ling froze. Mist?
There was silence, then the rustle of cloth, like someone shifting in discomfort.
“It was subtle but that doesn’t mean someone skilled couldn’t have sensed it. And if you think you’ll survive another public crack in that perfect mask of yours—”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’re failing.”
Silence.
Then—
“Do not fail again.”
Lin Ling backed away quietly, heart hammering in his chest, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and guilt. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop — but the words wouldn’t stop replaying in his head. Mist. Not Sky. A lie?
He’s not a Sky, he realizes. He’s never been a Sky.
He quietly moves away and, when he feels he’s far enough to not be caught, he books it.
He goes home.
He tells no one.
But it lingers. The words. The tone. The weight.
Nice isn’t just a Sky. He’s a Sky without guardians.
No one talks about it — not directly. But everyone in TREEMAN knows what it means.
A Sky without Flame Guardians is a throne with no legs. All light, no defense. Beautiful, but brittle.
They cover for it, of course. Assign elite operatives. Shuffle ranks. Call it "strategic flexibility."
But behind the curated language, everyone knows the truth.
And everyone knows who really holds the power.
Sheng De.
The family’s advisor in name — but in reality, more like the spine of the entire operation.
It’s not just that he speaks and others fall in line. It’s that they’re used to doing so.
TREEMAN orbits around Nice, but it moves because of Sheng De.
Nobody says it aloud. But Lin Ling sees it. In the way people tense when Sheng De enters a room. In the way Nice listens — not like a leader, but like a subordinate.
He’s a Sky, propped up by a strategist who never raises his voice unless he wants something to bleed.
And Lin Ling...
Lin Ling is no one.
Flameless. Support-tier. Paper-pusher with clean hands and a quiet voice.
But now he knows something he shouldn’t.
Something dangerous.
And for the first time, he understands just how thin the ice beneath Nice really is.
It’s weeks later, after he’s settled into the rhythm of his new position—after looking at Nice no longer makes his heart feel like it might crack his ribs—that something shifts in a way Lin Ling never expected.
Lin Ling had to work late again.
A banquet runs long. He stays behind to manage cleanup. Nothing new.
Job done, he takes a shortcut home through a lesser-patrolled district — one of those back roads between safe zones that’s technically neutral territory. Quiet. Cold. Foggy.
The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the glow of neon. Lin Ling walked home with his collar turned up and a bag of his leftover lunch in his hand. It was nearly midnight, and the TREEMAN building behind him had long since gone dark.
He didn’t mind walking. The quiet gave him room to think, or not think — whichever came easier. Mostly, he just listened: tires hissing along the street, the buzz of city lamps, the occasional low thrum of blinking neon sign.
That’s why the footsteps behind him stood out.
He turned instinctively, but the alley was empty. Still, the feeling clung to him — that cold, crawling sense of being watched. Followed.
He was three blocks from home when it happened.
A figure stepped out from behind a parked bike, and another dropped from the fire escape with practiced ease. No warning. No words.
Just motion — fast and sharp.
The first strike nearly took him down. Lin Ling stumbled backward, his shoulder singing with pain as something sharp grazed him. He fell hard, catching himself against the concrete.
“You’re with TREEMAN, aren’t you?” one of them sneered. "Message for your pretty little boss."
His hands shook as he backed away, trying to breathe, trying to understand. Rival family? Why him?
He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t anyone. But maybe that’s exactly why. He wasn’t anyone strong enough to defend himself against an assault.
The second attacker raised a flame-coated baton, flickering with dull red — Storm flame, unstable and furious. Lin Ling barely managed to duck before it carved a crater into the pavement beside him.
He was going to die here.
Something inside him cracked — not from fear, not from pain, but from a deep, suffocating refusal. A voice within him, not loud but true, said:
Not like this.
He reached up — not in defense, but in defiance.
And the world shifted.
The air pulsed. The pressure in the alley warped like heat haze. A orange light flared from Lin Ling’s chest — soft, and then blinding.
The Storm flames fizzled mid-swing. The attacker staggered back, eyes wide. “What the hell—?!”
The light rippled outward like a heartbeat. Still not fire. Not anger. Just presence — immense and endless.
For the first time in his life, Lin Ling felt it: everything, all at once. The two assailants. The wet pavement. His fear. Their intent. The balance between it all — and how it was tipping.
He moved without thinking.
One reached for him again, and the golden flame shimmered around his outstretched hand. Not a weapon. Not a shield. Something more elemental — a refusal to break. Their flames reacted violently, the Storm flickering erratically before extinguishing altogether.
The brawl as surprisingly short.
The men fled. One limped. The other cursed. Neither looked back.
Lin Ling dropped to his knees, panting, staring at the glow still coiling faintly around his fingers.
“…what,” he whispered, shaking. “What the hell was that?”
He didn’t go to the hospital. He just ran straight home.
And as he tore through the dark, cutting through alleys and shadowed streets, Lin Ling’s mind wasn’t on the attack.
It was on the color of the flame.
And what it meant.
As soon as Lin Ling makes it back to his dingy apartment, he loses it.
Panic hits hard and fast — the kind that makes your knees weak once the danger's passed. He paces. Curses. Tries to breathe. Then, shaky and sweating, he drags himself to the mirror.
There's blood on his shirt — not his. He remembers the satisfying crunch when he broke that guy’s nose. But aside from that, he’s untouched. No bruises. No burns. Just skin that hums faintly, like it’s remembering something it never should’ve known.
He doesn’t tell TREEMAN. Doesn’t tell anyone.
Because now he knows three things:
Nice is lying.
Lin Ling is a Sky.
And if he says a word, Nice’s carefully built illusion might shatter.
So he keeps his mouth shut.
But Nice notices.
Of course he does.
He’s sensitive to Sky flames — has to be, to mimic them so precisely. Lin Ling thought he was hiding it well. Apparently not. It only takes a day.
Nice spends most of it watching him, like he's trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know existed. And then — just once — he lingers a little too long beside Lin Ling during an offhand conversation.
They don’t talk much, usually. Nothing beyond the basics. A greeting, a nod. Sometimes a question in the middle of a mission. So when Nice speaks, Lin Ling tenses.
Very, very quietly, he says:
“You feel different lately.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just… warmer.”
Lin Ling forces a smile.
“Maybe I’m just sleeping more.”
Nice doesn't press. But he doesn’t walk away either.
And Lin Ling knows — knows Nice can probably feel it now, every time he steps into a room: something real, something warm, something he’s spent years pretending to be.
He doesn’t mention it again.
But he looks at Lin Ling longer now.
The upper floors of the Treeman building always felt cold, sterile, but today, the chill seeped deeper—as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Lin Ling’s footsteps echoed softly against the polished stone as he was summoned without explanation. The message Miss J had left him was blunt, leaving no room for argument: “Report to Hall A-7. Immediate compliance expected. Formal dress.”
He had worn his best shirt—clean, pressed, stiff with nerves that prickled beneath his skin. The elevator ride was slow, each ding of a passing floor hammering in his chest like a warning bell.
When the doors finally slid open, Lin Ling stepped out into a quiet corridor. Marble floors, soft lighting, and polished walls swallowed the sound of his footsteps as he made his way toward the executive office at the end of the hall. Every step felt too loud.
Nice was already there, seated with his back straight and face unreadable—posture perfect as always, the image of a composed Sky user. But Lin Ling’s eyes caught a small detail—his knuckles gripping the armrest were white, strained. It was the kind of subtle reveal that only those close enough to watch could see.
At the far end of the hall stood Advisor Shang De, his presence imposing yet calm, a man who never needed to raise his voice for command. His gaze flicked slowly between Lin Ling and Nice, cold and unyielding.
“It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” Shang De’s voice was low, measured. “A little assistant. A nobody. And yet... a Sky flame.”
Lin Ling’s throat tightened. He isn’t sure how he was caught. He’s sure Nice hadn’t said anything and he certainly hadn’t either. He scrambles to make any excuse. “Sir, I didn’t—”
“I don’t care how it happened, Lin Ling,” Shang De interrupted sharply. “I care what you’re going to do now that it has.”
His eyes swept the room again, lingering meaningfully on both young men.
“You’re going to cover for Nice.”
Lin Ling froze.
He blinked, once. Then again, too fast. “Cover… for him?”
His voice came out higher than intended. He coughed, tried to steady it, his face stiffening into what he hoped passed for confusion. He glanced at Nice too quickly, then looked away — too aware of his own reaction.
“Yes,” Shang De said, tone clipped. “You’ll act as second cover. Nothing overt.”
Lin Ling shifted on his feet, posture tightening as he scrambled for something to say. “But—what… I mean—what exactly am I covering?”
He bit the inside of his cheek too late, already wincing at how unnatural that sounded.
Shang De didn’t seem to notice.
He fixed Lin Ling with a clinical stare, eyes sharp and unmoving.
“His Mist flame.”
Everything in the room seemed to narrow. The silence stretched too long.
Lin Ling swallowed. Too loudly. His shoulders jerked in a mimicry of shock, and he let his jaw go slack — a second too late. He forced his eyes toward Nice like he was just realizing it, but they didn’t stay there long.
“Mist?” he echoed.
Shang De nodded once, moving on. “It’s been managed. Faked convincingly for years but he’s been slipping lately. His Mist flame leaked in public, twice last week,” Shang De continued without raising his voice, but the threat in his tone was unmistakable. “Your readings are steady. Raw, but clean. Harmonious.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping further.
“So you'll be close — near enough that your Sky flame stabilizes his. Near enough that if he slips, you can use your flames to cover it.”
Lin Ling swallowed, disbelief and guilt warring inside him.
“No one needs to know,” Shang De said firmly. “Nothing much would change. You already work closely with Nice as Miss J’s assistant. You just have…extra duties now. Understand?”
Lin Ling’s gaze shifted to Nice once more.
Nice did not meet his eyes.
Instead, he stared down at his clenched fists, a quiet exhaustion radiating from him, silent and heavy.
“Yes, sir.”
Lin Ling didn’t sleep that night.
The silence of his small apartment pressed against his skin like a weight, but it was the sensation beneath it all that kept him wide awake—the strange, restless flutter of flame energy, buzzing behind his ribs. It felt alive, anxious, as if it knew it was being asked to carry something far heavier than it was prepared for.
He wasn’t ready.
Not by a long shot.
But then there was Nice.
He couldn’t shake the image of him in that cold office—the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, the tension tightening every muscle beneath that perfect, unreadable mask.
And Shang De’s words echoed in his mind, low and sharp as a blade:
“You will not tell anyone. Your value lies in silence.”
The weight of that command pressed on Lin Ling’s conscience like a chain, but he had no choice. He was already pulled into a new role. He can only hope that he and Nice made it out unscathed.
They began working more closely. Before he would just occasional run into Nice when he would meet Miss J about his tasks for the day. But now he sticks by Miss J’s and by proxy Nice’s side all day.
Nice spoke little—each word measured, each movement precise. He was always performing, every gesture calculated to maintain the illusion of control. It was exhausting to watch, like watching someone balance on a knife’s edge, every second a fight against falling.
It was only when they were alone, away from prying eyes and polished hallways, that Nice’s carefully constructed façade began to crack—not in a collapse, but in small, cautious fissures.
One evening, after a late meeting had drained the hall of everyone but them, they found themselves in a quiet corner of the TREEMAN offices. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting long shadows. Nice’s posture was impeccable, back straight, shoulders squared, but his voice carried a tired edge.
“You ever notice how those FOMO brats think they can waltz in and steal our territory? Loud mouths, no discipline. It’s exhausting,” he muttered, barely looking at Lin Ling.
Lin Ling stayed silent, watching the way Nice’s Mist flame flickered faintly—less controlled than usual, like a candle struggling against a draft.
“I’m tired,” Nice confessed quietly, as if testing the waters, “not just the fighting. The pretending. The act.”
His fingers clenched the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Shang De’s pressure is like a noose. Tightening every day. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
Lin Ling’s heart ached, seeing the man who seemed so untouchable show such raw weariness. He didn’t respond with platitudes. Instead, he let the silence fill the space between them, offering quiet solidarity.
Days later, when they were late trying to get all the paperwork in order in Nice’s office, Nice glanced up from how work, eyes tired but searching.
“Do you think I’m weak?” he asked, voice low.
Lin Ling looked him in the eye. “No.”
“You should,” Nice said with a humorless laugh. “Even when I pretend I’m not.”
The Mist around Nice pulsed with an honesty that wasn’t there in the grand halls or public meetings. It was real. Vulnerable.
And in those moments, Lin Ling’s Sky flame responded—steadying, soothing, a silent promise.
These small confessions, this gentle flame dance between them, became their unspoken language. Not friendship. Not yet. Something quieter, stronger.
A fragile trust, forged in whispered complaints and shared exhaustion.
They both knew the act couldn’t last forever. But for now, it was enough.
Enough to keep them moving. Enough to stay close, even in the lie.
And over time, something shifted.
It didn’t happen all at once. No grand explosion of power, no sudden epiphany. Instead, it crept in between the cracks of their days—soft, almost imperceptible.
Lin Ling found himself instinctively watching Nice’s movements, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes darted just slightly too quickly when something was wrong. Nice, for his part, began to linger a little longer near Lin Ling’s side, a quiet presence that didn’t need words.
At first, their flames brushed against each other in fleeting moments—like tentative touches in the dark. Lin Ling’s Sky flame hummed beneath his skin, steady but unfamiliar, still raw and untrained. Nice’s Mist flame, once erratic and prone to leaking past it’s sky flame disguise, at the worst times, no longer wavered when Lin Ling was close. It was as if his Mist could sense Lin Ling’s calming sky, and in response, it paused—rested.
The corridors of TREEMAN felt less suffocating when they walked together. The cold chill in the air softened, replaced by something fragile but real: a shared warmth.
The bond between Nice and Lin Ling was strengthening, but Lin Ling’s awakening was also starting to draw attention—more than either of them expected.
Skies were rare. Few tried to hide it, knowing all the benefits it could bring. Skies were highly sought after. Lin Ling’s flame had been reeled by Treeman’s tight control, meant to remain a secret, buried beneath layers of duty and fear.
But not everyone was so easily fooled.
Moon burst into their world like a flash of lightning—energetic, bold, and unapologetically herself. Her sharp eyes caught on to things others missed, especially the subtle pull of Lin Ling’s flame.
Lin Ling had only met her a handful of times before — always in passing, always when she was temporarily assigned to work with Nice on joint missions. She was everything her flame suggested: loud, brilliant, impossible to ignore. If he weren’t so terrified of what her noticing might mean, he might’ve been impressed. But Moon noticing things had the potential to make people’s lives very complicated, very fast, depending on what she does with the knowledge.
One afternoon, as Lin Ling was making his way back to Nice after running an errand, Moon cornered him with her usual brash confidence.
“You know,” she said, grinning wide, “I don’t usually bother with assistants. But there’s something about you. The way you carry yourself... and that little spark you try so hard to hide.”
Lin Ling blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or wary.
“Your flame,” Moon said quietly, leaning in. “It’s not just any flame. It’s Sky.”
Lin Ling’s heart raced. He’d always been careful, but Moon’s insight was undeniable. How had she figured it out?
“Skies are... special,” she continued, eyes gleaming. “Rare as hell these days. And you? You’re hiding in plain sight.”
He swallowed, caught between admiration and anxiety.
Moon’s voice softened. “You’d think someone like you would be front and center, not buried in the shadows. But maybe you’re just waiting for the right moment.”
Lin Ling could almost believe that—if only he weren’t tied down by everything Treeman demanded.
Before Lin Ling could respond, Nice appeared beside him, expression unreadable but posture perfect as always—calm, controlled, but unmistakably alert. His presence shifted the air— calm but undeniably intense.
“Moon,” Nice said coolly, his voice silk-wrapped steel. “Step back.”
Moon raised a brow, then gave Lin Ling a sidelong glance. “Is this how TREEMAN treats their rising stars? With chaperones?”
Nice didn’t flinch. “Don’t test me.”
Moon tilted her head, clearly amused. “But I love pushing your buttons?”
Nice’s posture remained perfect, but Lin Ling felt the pulse of Mist in the air — tighter, defensive, barely kept in check. Lin Ling touched his sleeve, a silent signal. Not here.
Moon sensed the tension, but misunderstood it entirely.
“Tch. You Skies and your ego.” She rolled her eyes, flipping her hair back. “Fine. Keep your little assistant. But Lin Ling — when you're tired of being babysat, come find me. We Lightning types are way more fun.”
With that, she spun and walked off, her exit as flashy as her entrance.
“Skies like you,” Nice said low, voice steady but edged with something unspoken, “don’t go unnoticed for long.”
Lin Ling met his gaze, conflicted. There was a strange pull between Moon’s fiery spirit and Nice’s protective steadiness.
“I’m trying my best. I don’t know how else to keep it all in,” Lin Ling whispered.
Nice’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing more.
They don’t really talk about it until later that day when they meet in Nice’s office.
Lin Ling closes the door gently behind him.
Nice is already inside, standing near the window, posture flawless even in private. But there's something sharp in the air — residual Mist, still lingering like steam after a fight.
Lin Ling clears his throat. “You let some of your Mist leak out. Earlier. With Moon.”
Nice doesn’t turn. “She was too close.”
“To what?” Lin Ling presses, stepping further in. “To your secret…or to me?”
The question hangs heavy between them.
Nice’s hands tighten at his sides. “Does it matter?”
“It does,” Lin Ling says. His voice is softer than he wants it to be. “It does to me.”
Silence. Then, a quiet, bitter laugh from Nice — almost a scoff.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” he says. “The way people are starting to watch you. Even if they don’t know what you are, they feel it. You’re a Sky.”
He turns then, eyes shadowed under perfect bangs. “And I’m just the one wearing the crown.”
Lin Ling’s mouth opens, then closes. His throat feels dry. He doesn’t know the right thing to say — isn’t sure there is a right thing — so he just steps forward.
“I know you don’t really trust me,” he says, voice low. “And I’m not saying you should. But... we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“I trust you,” Nice says, suddenly. Too quickly. “Probably more than I should, since you can end my career with just a few words.”
Another beat. Then, Nice finally moves — stepping forward, slowly, deliberately, like a soldier surrendering armor piece by piece.
The practiced tension drains from his shoulders.
The perfectly measured steps falter.
And his flame follows — shifting from sharp static tension to something... thinner. Frayed at the edges. Mist, still clinging, but now it curls differently: not defensive. Not masked. Just… tired. Ache made visible.
“I hate it,” Nice whispers. “Waking up every day to wear someone else’s legacy. I hate Shang De. I hate the elders. I hate that I have to be this.”
His hands clench.
“I don’t even know who I am anymore. I only know I’m not the Sky.”
Lin Ling watches him carefully — watches the way his voice shakes even when his body doesn’t. Then, before he can second-guess himself, he steps forward — careful, unsure — and lays a hand just over Nice’s heart.
He doesn’t expect anything to happen. Not really.
But something does.
A pulse rises beneath his palm — not from Nice, but from him.
Sky flame. Warm. Steady. Real.
And the Mist — Nice’s Mist — shifts.
Not away.
Toward.
Like mist drawn to heat. Like cloud curling into light.
It coils around his flame, not defensively, not with the usual restraint, but with something that feels almost like relief.
Lin Ling goes still.
He’s never felt anything like this.
No test, no simulation, no artificial ignition had ever come close. Not even during those forced drills in the rain-soaked fields, where they’d tried to beat a flame out of him like it was something mechanical.
This is different. This is… alive.
His flame doesn’t rise in dominance. It reaches.
And Nice’s responds like it’s been waiting — waiting for something to orbit, to lean on, to trust.
The harmonization settles into place with no ceremony. Just quiet awe.
Not forced. Not faked.
Not even something he meant to do.
Just a Sky. And a Mist.
Aligned.
Lin Ling draws in a breath like it’s the first one that’s ever filled his lungs properly. His heart pounds with something between terror and wonder.
“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he whispers, half to himself.
Nice inhales sharply — his posture trembling slightly under the weight of it — eyes wide, flame open and unguarded for the first time.
“You—” he starts, but his voice cracks.
Lin Ling steps closer, voice shaking now too. “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to hold it up with me.”
And in that small, impossible moment — stripped of names, of roles, of lies — they find it.
Not just power.
Not just alignment.
But recognition.
Nice is his Mist Guardian.
Lin Ling is his Sky.
And for the first time, the world feels like it’s in the right shape.
And neither of them is alone anymore.
TREEMAN’s annual gala is a spectacle — glittering marble halls, velvet banners embroidered with old familiar crests, and the powerful parading beneath chandeliers shaped like blooming Vongola rings. Every major family has sent someone. Alliances are brokered in champagne and subtle nods.
Lin Ling stands near the edge of the ballroom, dressed better than usual but still invisible in the crowd. Just another assistant, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning for threats
He knows where the exits are. Where the security blind spots are. Who’s armed. Which family are here.
He knows where Nice is.
The golden heir of TREEMAN stands across the room — on a raised dais, spine straight, chin tilted just so. White and gold suit like armor, smile like currency. Every angle of him sculpted to project calm, control, power.
And for a moment, Lin Ling believes it too.
Nice speaks with delegates, answering with polish, maneuvering with practiced grace. A Sky flame in perfect balance — radiant but untouchable.
Lin Ling stands off to the side, quiet, shadowed. Invisible, or trying to be.
That’s when the first comment lands.
From a Mighty Glory delegate — a Sun user, broad and smiling with the easy cruelty of someone used to being heard.
“Didn’t realize TREEMAN let pet projects attend. The pretty assistant, right? Shouldn’t he be fetching drinks?”
There’s a flicker of laughter. Edged. Gleeful.
Nice doesn’t respond right away.
His smile holds — just barely. Only Lin Ling notices the small tension in his jaw, the micro-delay before his next sentence. The Sky flame around him falters for the briefest second — a tremor, quickly suppressed.
He’s still in control.
Lin Ling exhales quietly. Keeps his gaze down.
But then — the man doesn’t stop.
He turns — full attention now on Lin Ling — and steps closer. Not enough to break protocol. But enough to be felt.
“You speak, assistant? Or just stand there and look decorative?”
He reaches out — not threatening, not officially. Just a casual brush of fingers toward Lin Ling’s hair. A joke. A dominance display.
Too familiar.
Too close.
Something snaps.
Nice doesn’t yell. Doesn’t shove. Doesn’t even move, at first.
But the air around him tears.
His illusion breaks like a dropped plate — the golden Sky flame shattering outward in shards of light that evaporate instantly, revealing the thing underneath.
Mist surges from him in a sudden, violent pulse — thick, cold, wrong. It rushes outward across the floor, warping perception. Guests flinch back, hands raised. Some cry out. Some stagger.
Visions spiral in the corners of their vision — melting faces, twitching shadows, flashes of teeth and red and too much silence. A Sun user recoils as his aura sparks in reflex.
Lin Ling doesn’t move.
The Mist doesn’t touch him.
Nice is at the center, standing now — not calm, not composed. Barely breathing. The delegate is frozen, eyes wide, arm half-extended like he doesn’t remember what he was reaching for.
Then Nice realizes.
What he’s let out.
What they’ve seen.
Panic slams into him like a crashing tide. He blinks, trying to reassert control, to wrap himself back in the golden light — but it flickers and stutters, the mask not yet rebuilt.
And that’s when Shang De arrives.
Descending the grand staircase with flawless grace. No haste, no surprise — just presence. Judgment carved from marble.
Storm flame coils around his shoulders like a mantle. Crimson. Commanding.
People part for him without thinking.
He approaches Nice.
“I should have known. Even with all the time and effort I put into you, you still manage to mess it up.” he says — not yelling, just... seething.
“Do you realize what you've done? What I built? What you ruined?”
Nice starts to speak — to apologize, maybe — but Shang De’s flame flares before he can finish.
Mist slams outward from Nice again — defensive panic born into Dying Will.
The chandelier overhead shatters.
A TREEMAN flame user shields their face.
The room explodes into chaos.
And Lin Ling doesn’t think.
He just moves.
Cuts through the crowd, pushes past stumbling elites, and reaches him.
Nice is crouched now. Eyes wild. Barely breathing.
“Hey,” Lin Ling says, kneeling. “Hey. I’m here.”
He lifts his hand.
And the Sky flames ignites.
Golden Orange. Honest. Calm.
It floods the space in a wave — soft, but absolute. The kind of light that doesn’t blind, but reveals.
Nice’s Mist settles.
For the first time in weeks, it doesn't fight him.
And then a ripple of silence falls. Eyes turn. Whispers start again.
“That’s Sky flame—”
“From the assistant?”
“They’ve been hiding him?”
Shang De’s voice cuts the air like a knife.
“You disloyal little traitor.”
He steps forward.
But so does someone else.
A figure in a black suit — with warm brown eyes and gravity in his step.
Sawada Tsunayoshi.
“That’s enough.”
Behind him — Yamato. Gokudera, arms crossed. The Vongola Decimo Family delegation.
Shang De’s eyes narrow. “This is TREEMAN’s affair.”
“But this is a very public place with a room full of people. Doesn’t seem like just a TREEMAN affair now.” Tsunayoshi replies quietly. “Let them go.”
“You’re protecting them?”
“No. I’m giving them a chance.”
Nice is shaking beside Lin Ling.
Lin Ling reaches for him — and Nice takes his hand without hesitation.
“We’re leaving,” Lin Ling says, not to Shang De, not to Tsunayoshi — just to the room.
No one stops them.
They flee to neutral ground — a disused train station beneath the old outskirts. It smells like dust and old wood. The lights flicker, but it’s warm.
Nice sits slumped on the floor, crinkled now, still breathing like each inhale is a question.
Lin Ling’s coat is burned at the hem.
Neither of them speaks for a long while.
Then Nice asks, voice raw, “Was it worth it?”
Lin Ling doesn’t answer right away. He kneels beside him. Watches the way Nice’s Mist moves — soft now. Steady. Drawn toward his own flame, like always.
“I don’t know if it was smart,” Lin Ling admits. “But... I wanted to help you.”
Nice finally looks at him. And this time, he doesn’t look away.
Something between them clicks into place again — like their harmonization from before, only deeper now. Earned.
Lin Ling exhales. “I’m not going to hide again.” His voice wavers, but he pushes through it. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”
Nice laughs — hollow but honest.
“Good. Because I think I want out too.” Nice is silent for a moment before he adds quieter now. “So what do we do?”
Lin Ling hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then back at Nice.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “This might sound... kind of dumb, but — we should start our own family.”
“That’s dangerous. We’d have no backing.”
Lin Ling shrugs, small but stubborn. “We’d have each other.”
Silence.
The between one blink and the next Nice’s eyes — for the first time — is filled real resolve. “We’ll need more than that.”
Lin Ling nods, heart pounding now. “There are others. People like me — like us. Civilians. Minor bloodlines. Untested, unnoticed, unwanted. But with real flames.”
A breath.
“And real potential. They just need someone to believe in them.”
Another pause. Then:
“We could find them. Make a family that’s not about power or pedigree. Just... trust. Just people choosing each other.”
Nice exhales.
It’s almost a laugh. “You’re starting to sound like a Sky.”
“I’m trying.”
They sit there, side by side, as the sun starts to rise through the dusty window.
They’re hunted.
They’re exposed.
But for the first time, they are free.