Chapter 655: [Nyrel Loyster] [Flashback] [10]

"How is your life, Nyrel Loyster?"

Nyrel, slouched in the leather armchair across from Marcel’s polished desk, didn’t hesitate with his reply. "Was fine. Until now."

His voice was dry. Not angry, not sarcastic—just tired. He didn’t even bother to meet the man’s eyes.

Marcel offered a patient, if slightly worn-out smile. The lines around his eyes had deepened over the past few years. He leaned back slightly in his chair, pen resting idle between his fingers. "I suppose I walked into that one."

It had been four years—four long, drawn-out years—since Nyrel first started seeing Marcel. Technically, Marcel was his psychological evaluator, a government-assigned handler tasked with ’ensuring mental stability following trauma’. In simpler words: he made sure Nyrel wasn’t going to break down or become a threat after witnessing the brutal murder of his parents—and after shooting the man who did it.

Four years. An eternity for what was supposed to be temporary supervision.

The number of appointments had dwindled with time—monthly, then quarterly—but Nyrel still found himself sitting in this same bland office, surrounded by bookshelves filled with unread titles and motivational posters curling at the corners. If he were being honest, he didn’t understand why he was still here. He hadn’t shown signs of violence since the incident or from his point of view he hadn’t committed any crimes—or at least, none they could pin on him. Not dangerous enough to jail. Not broken enough to discharge.

So why was he still under watch?

Marcel sighed gently, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. "It’s been four years, Nyrel. Four years of conversations like this. And still, you keep everything locked up. You won’t let me in."

"Who are you, my girlfriend?"

Marcel chuckled, a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Thankfully not. I’d have filed for divorce by now."

Nyrel moved to stand, but Marcel lifted a hand to stop him. "Wait. There’s one more thing."

"Do it fast."

"I heard about the death of your classmate. Shayna, I believe her name was." Marcel’s voice lowered carefully. "You two were close, weren’t you? I wanted to ask how you’re feeling about her death."

"..."

For the first time in the session, Nyrel’s expression changed. The subtle narrowing of his eyes was all Marcel needed to see to know he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Don’t look at me like that," Marcel said, keeping his voice cool. "You’re still under our care, Nyrel. This is still considered rehabilitation."

Nyrel scoffed. "Rehabilitation? For four years? I’ve heard of murderers getting out faster than this."

"You’re a victim, yes," Marcel admitted, "but you also shot someone. With a handgun. A man is dead, Nyrel."

"A drunk bastard who killed my family in front of me. You think I care? I’d do it again. Hell, I’d do it twice just to make sure he stayed dead."

Marcel sighed slowly and clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced. "And that... that right there is the problem."

"You see, over the years, I’ve watched you. The first couple of years, you wore a mask. You smiled, said the right things, played the quiet, grieving boy. But now?" Marcel’s tone grew heavier. "Now you don’t even bother pretending. You’re not just angry, Nyrel. You’re comfortable with that anger. You live in it. And that’s dangerous."

Nyrel stared at him.

"Am I wrong?" Marcel asked.

Nyrel’s answer came without pause. "You are."

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Then prove me right. Shayna—one of your closest friends—is dead. Some say it was suicide. Others think she might’ve been murdered. You were there. She died in your arms, Nyrel. What were your first thoughts when it happened?"

Nyrel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed Marcel with a dead-eyed stare. "An agent whose entire job is helping people cope with trauma... asking a trauma survivor to dissect the moment their friend died in their arms? That doesn’t sound like therapy to me."

He leaned in further without any warmth on his face . "Tell me something, Marcel. Where exactly did you get your degree? Flea market? Back alley of a nightclub? Or was it a cereal box prize?"

Marcel didn’t react beyond a faint smile. "That will be all for today."

"Yeah. Better be," Nyrel muttered as he stood up, grabbing his black bag from the floor. His jacket hung loosely on his frame, barely zipped. He hadn’t bothered much this morning—too early, too cold, too pointless. He had a lecture to attend, though that felt increasingly optional these days.

As he turned to leave, Marcel spoke again.

"Mr. Nyrel Loyster."

Nyrel paused, hand already on the doorknob. He glanced over his shoulder.

"What do you know about your uncle?"

The question made Nyrel still. A brief silence lingered before he replied. "...Why?"

"Alexander Rickward," Marcel added, as if needing to be specific would stir something. "From what I’ve found, he’s your only known living relative."

Nyrel nodded. "Last time I saw him was at the funeral. He left right after that."

Then he was gone. No phone calls. No emails. Not even a condolence card. And honestly? Nyrel hadn’t given a damn. Not then. Not now.

He turned fully to face Marcel. "Why are you asking me about him?"

Marcel leaned back in his chair. "Nothing urgent. The hospital he worked at said he resigned shortly after your parents’ funeral. I figured maybe you’d stayed in contact."

"I didn’t," Nyrel said plainly.

And with that, he left the room without another glance.

The cold hit him the moment he stepped outside.

Snow was falling—thin, silent flakes drifting from a pale grey sky. It had snowed a little overnight, just enough to blanket the streets and coat the parked cars with a light dusting of white. Nyrel paused for a moment just outside the building, head tilted slightly up.

He let the snow land on his hair, his cheeks, the back of his hands—he hadn’t bothered with gloves.

After a few moments of stillness, he made his way toward the bus stop. His breath misted in front of him, vanishing just as quickly as it formed. The bus arrived with a mechanical groan, and he boarded it silently, sinking into a seat near the back. The ride was uneventful. A few other passengers sat quietly, bundled in scarves and headphones, lost in their own morning routines.

He got off near campus and stared up at the college building. Classes had already started. Technically, he was late. Not that it mattered.

Nyrel stood still for a few seconds, then turned away from the main doors.

Screw it.

He wasn’t in the right headspace to sit through lectures about politics or dead philosophers today. His mind was elsewhere.

Instead of going to class, he wandered toward the courtyard. The snow here was untouched, save for a few scattered footprints. A bench sat near a leafless tree, its surface coated in snow. Nyrel brushed it off with his sleeve and sat down, letting the cold wood press against him.

It was freezing. His hands were already going numb. Snowflakes landed softly on his black hair, on his shoulders, melting slowly against the heat of his skin. He didn’t bother brushing them off.

He stared ahead, but his eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. Not the buildings. Not the tree. Not the sky.

Just... the nothing.

And for a while, he simply sat there.

Surprisingly, despite the biting cold and the steadily falling snow blanketing his coat and hair, Nyrel felt his eyelids growing heavy. The kind of heaviness that came not just from exhaustion, but from numbness—the kind that sinks deep into your bones when you’ve been sitting still for too long with too much on your mind and too little reason to move.

He let himself drift, not quite asleep, not fully awake.

Just... suspended.

Then, something warm.

A soft hand, gently pressing against his forehead.

Nyrel’s eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused at first. Above him stood a familiar figure—Ephera. Her brows were furrowed in concern, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Snowflakes clung to her dark long lashes, melting into tiny pearls of water.

"What are you doing out here alone, Nyr?" She asked, worried. "You’re freezing..."

She leaned closer, gently brushing snow from his hair and shoulders.

"Classes ended," Nyrel muttered quietly.

"That’s not an answer to my question." She narrowed her eyes. Then, grimacing slightly, she touched his cheek. "Whoa—so cold! Nyr, seriously, do you have a death wish or something?"

He didn’t answer.

Seeing he wasn’t going to answer, Ephera sighed. There was pain in her eyes—soft and quiet, but real. She looked at him for a long second, then, without saying anything more, swept snow from the bench beside him and sat down.

She rubbed her hands together for warmth, then glanced sideways at him. After a moment’s hesitation, she unwound the scarf from around her neck and carefully wrapped it around both of them—looping it so it connected them, shoulder to shoulder.

Nyrel didn’t resist.

"Do you have any plans for Christmas, Nyr?" She asked suddenly.

"No," he said.

"Lucy suggested we all go out together—just the group, nothing big. You want to come?" She asked.

"No."

Ephera sighed softly, then reached down and gently took Nyrel’s hand in hers. Her fingers were warm—surprisingly warm. She laced them through his, holding tight as if to anchor him to the present.

"Please," she said quietly.

Nyrel glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"For me," she added.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. Instead, he looked forward again and exhaled a long, visible breath.

Ephera smiled. A quiet, relieved kind of smile. Then she leaned gently against his shoulder, letting her head rest there while her boots absentmindedly tapped at the snow beneath their feet.

They sat like that for a while—wrapped in a shared scarf, surrounded by falling snow and silence. But slowly, that smile on her lips faded.

"I want you to meet my father, Nyrel."