Shadow Slave: Kindness

The sun was a little higher in the sky now, spilling light across the garden paths. Beads of sweat clung to the brows of three figures walking in step: Sunny, Nephis, and Cassie — who was now a bit more knowledgeable than she'd been just an hour ago. Knowledge about the past of one friend, and the mysterious arrival of someone who wasn't a stranger anymore. Someone Cassie knew, without a doubt, would become a friend too.

And those two?

Sunny and Nephis?

Cassie was sure of it — sometime far in the future, maybe after thousands of battles, after fights and moments they'd try to pretend didn't happen — they'd be more than friends.

Much more.

The story Nephis had begun to tell had just come to an abrupt stop. Sunny, realizing they were running dangerously close to the start of their class, had interrupted her before she could continue.

And, as expected…

Cassie was whining.

"No! No! Tell me more! Come on, Nephis — what happened after that? Did you chase Sunny down and beat him up? Or did he manage to squirm away and escape with his tail between his legs?"

Then she spun toward Sunny, eyes narrowed in mock judgment. "Wait a second! Sunny — you? You're so different now! Why would you treat her like that back then? She was helping you!"

Cassie took a breath, calming just slightly, and continued more softly, her voice dropping into teasing curiosity.

"Who would've thought… our kind and considerate Sunny was once a rude, feral little stray? And you, Nephis — you were angry? Actually angry enough to show it on your face? That's rare. You always look like even the gods couldn't move your expression…"

Nephis just tilted her head. Said nothing. Typical.

"Wait… put me down. Put me down this instant!"

Indeed, Sunny and Nephis had both picked her up by the arms like a child throwing a tantrum in the marketplace. Which, to be fair, she kind of was right now.

She was far too unwilling to go without hearing the rest of the story — demanding it like she was owed it. But Sunny knew better.

If they were late… Julius wouldn't just be mad. He'd be apocalyptic.

And so, to ease the coming storm, Sunny had a little offering in mind.

More of a bribe. Or a peace treaty.

He'd introduce Julius to a new potential student for Wilderness Survival — someone who might impress even the ice-hearted instructor.

Namely… Nephis.

But just before they could move, he stopped walking.

"Cassia."

That one word — her full name, not the familiar, easygoing "Cassie" — was enough to make her fall silent instantly.

Sunny gently put her down. Then looked at her with a strange seriousness in his eyes.

"I consider you a friend," he said, voice calm, low. "And I hope you consider me one as well. That's why I'm asking you now… don't push me to share something I'm not ready to talk about. It's because of that hope that i request you to not ask me something which i do not want to divulge simply because I currently do not want to. Not right now at least."

Cassie blinked up at him. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

Sunny sighed softly. His next words came slower. Gentler.

"Nephis might tell you. If she decides to. I can't stop that. But if you really want to know… then wait. I'll tell you. When I'm ready. Maybe tomorrow or maybe even years later, I will tell you when I decide it for myself."

A moment passed.

Then another.

"I hope you can understand that."

He meant it. And Cassie could see it.

What she didn't know — what Sunny hadn't told her — was that it hadn't been his idea to begin sharing any of this. It was Nephis who started, and luckily, she had started before Cassie had asked him directly. Because if she had, his flaw would've compelled him to answer — even if the answer would've torn him open.

So in a way, it was good.

But also… bad.

Because Nephis had started telling the story without asking him first. Without checking if it was okay.

Then again, from the way she'd spoken, it wasn't like she fully understood how this kind of thing worked. Nephis wasn't someone adept at social cues. She didn't realize that her words carried weight — that her story wasn't only hers to tell.

Sunny glanced sideways at Nephis, his voice low but firm. "You can't just share something like that without checking with the person it's about," he said quietly. "It's not just your memory, Nephis. I was there too."

Nephis paused for half a step, her gaze flickering downward. For a moment, her usual calm cracked, and a slight blush crept up her cheeks and then her lips parted once more— just enough for a soft, almost childlike voice to slip out.

"…Sorry."

Sunny sighed, but said nothing more. That was enough.

He had interrupted her with the excuse of needing to get to class.

But the real reason?

He didn't want to revisit that time. Not yet.

He didn't want Cassie — or anyone else he might come to care about — to know that part of his past. That specific one.

Because that part of his story wasn't just some struggle from his life in the outskirts.

It was darker.

Even darker than the hunger, the beatings, or the cruelty of those streets.

It was the day his path first crossed Nephis's…

…and it was the day he took a life for the first time.

His first kill.

A moment he hadn't wanted, hadn't been ready for. A moment that had carved something permanent into him, something heavy.

The burden of killing a fellow human being.

He didn't want Cassie — or anyone else — to look at him differently after hearing that.

So for now… silence would have to do.

With every word that came out of Sunny's mouth, Cassie's face slowly drained of color. Her lips parted slightly, as if to respond — but no sound came out. Her body had gone still, and her hands, which had been gently resting by her sides, tensed into quiet fists. Her jaw clenched, the line of her throat tightening. It was panic — raw and immediate — carved into every inch of her.

But Sunny didn't notice.

And Nephis… Nephis saw the reaction but didn't understand it. The expression meant nothing to her, not yet. She lacked the context, the subtle language of human emotion that one only learned through familiarity.

But Sunny — the boy known for sharp observation, for reading danger in a footstep and intent in a flicker of breath — didn't see it. And that was no accident.

Because Sunny had made a choice.

From the first time he met Cassie, ever since that moment in the corridor when they were assigned to train under Julius together, he had kept himself from looking. Not just glancing — truly looking. He kept his eyes averted during conversations, closed them when they walked alone, and trained himself to focus on the rhythm of her speech, the shape of her words, rather than her face or posture.

He didn't want to glean anything from her body language. Not her emotions, not her vulnerabilities. Nothing she wouldn't choose to share.

It was a matter of principle. A kind of respect.

Cassie couldn't see him. She couldn't read his expressions or catch the subtle tells he often used to mislead or distract. So Sunny, in his own strange, rigid sense of fairness, refused to see her.

It wasn't that he didn't care.

He cared enough not to cheat.

Because if anyone could read someone — see through lies, postures, micro-gestures — it was him. The boy who'd survived and seen through the games of Jack and Jill, who were rather adept at deception themselves. The street rat who had once known when a merchant was lying about the weight of rice by a twitch in their brow. The runaway who could dodge a knife because he saw it coming two heartbeats before it moved.

The Sunny who was a master of lies and deception.

He could've unraveled Cassie within days, understood every nervous pause, every hidden insecurity. She wasn't trained in deception like the predators of the outskirts were. She didn't mask herself the way his old enemies did — people who lied with smiles and killed with kindness.

She was earnest. Clear. Human.

And that was exactly why he refused to look.

Anyone watching from the outside — anyone who had only known Sunny since arriving at the Academy — might think he was in love. Head over heels, utterly taken by the sweet blind girl he always accompanied on morning walks and sparred with in training.

They'd see him waiting by the stairs, walking at her pace, gently teasing her in his dry tone, and assume he'd fallen for her.

But that wasn't it.

It wasn't love. At least, not yet.

It was choice.

Deliberate, methodical restraint.

Sunny followed what he saw on the communicator — those dumb articles on "how to treat a partner with disabilities" or "etiquette around blind peers." He took it seriously. Too seriously.

Because Sunny never let himself get carried away by emotions. He couldn't afford to.

He was kind, simply to be kind, nothing more nothing less.

He was kind, purely to be kind — because he knew how rare and precious it was.

Not with the kind of life he'd led. Not with the kind of people he'd survived.

That discipline — that detachment — was what kept him alive for years when the world would've chewed him up and left nothing but a smear on the pavement.

So now, standing in the sunlight, as Cassie's panic began to climb higher and her thoughts spiraled into a tangle of guilt and memories, Sunny missed it entirely.

Because the kindness he showed her wasn't emotional. It was a kindness he himself had never experienced.

And so he was unaware of the consequences such kindness had brought upon the fragile heart of Cassia.

And Sunny had never allowed himself to imagine what it might feel like if it wasn't.