Like a noble steed, my bike had already made it's way back to Shadowtask HQ, parked outside, waiting for me. I headed out to greet it, instructing my helmet to follow the location coordinates provided moments ago. I set off, nervous and uneasy, unsure of what this encounter may bring. I pulled up Outside the diner. It's one of those places you’d only notice if you were looking for it. Quiet. Unassuming. The kind of spot that seems to hold its breath, forgotten on the edges of a restless city. The flickering neon sign outside spills a faint pink glow onto the wet pavement, and the faint hum of conversation from within filters into the night.
I step inside, and the smell of coffee and grease wraps around me like a blanket—warm, familiar, but distant, like a memory from a life that wasn’t mine. My eyes scan the room, and there he is. Alice’s son, sitting in a booth near the back. He looks small, barely thirteen or fourteen, his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the vinyl seat. His wide eyes catch mine for a second before darting away, but not before I see the flicker of something I recognize: nervous curiosity.
“You actually came,” he says as I slide into the seat across from him. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s still not sure if this was a mistake.
“Yeah,” I say. “I wanted to talk to you”
He nods, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a napkin. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The tension hangs there, fragile and heavy, like we’re both afraid to break it.
We start talking. It’s slow at first, like pulling threads from a knotted rope. He talks about the bike, my leathers, the helmet—everything that feels like it should belong to me but doesn’t. He tells me they were his dad’s. Leon Clarke. A mechanic. A scientist. A man who loved to build things. His words are weighted, like each one carries more than he can hold on his own. He doesn’t mention Arketeq, but the bitterness in his voice whenever he talks about his dad’s work makes it clear: he and his mom don’t have much love for the company.
After a while, I ask him the question that’s been clawing at the back of my mind. “Why does the tech respond to me?”
He hesitates. His fingers stop fidgeting and grip the napkin instead, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. “It shouldn’t work at all,” he finally says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Unless…”
Before he can finish, a waitress appears at our table. She’s holding a notepad, her smile polite but tired.
“Can I get you two something to drink?” she asks.
The boy opens his mouth. “Uh, I’ll have a lem—”
“Lemonade,” I say at the exact same time, cutting him off. The word slips out like it’s been waiting there all along. As soon as I say it, my stomach drops.
The boy freezes. His mouth is still half-open, his eyes wide, staring at me like I just read his mind. “Uh… yeah,” he says slowly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Lemonade. That’s what I was gonna say.”
The waitress nods, jots it down, and walks away, oblivious to the sudden tension that’s rippled through the air.
I keep my gaze fixed on the table, my mind spinning. How did I know? I don’t even like lemonade. Hell, I don’t even know if I used to like lemonade.
“Do you… remember that?” he asks quietly, his voice cautious, like he’s afraid of what my answer might be.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, shaking my head. The words feel hollow. “It just… came out.”
He doesn’t reply, but his eyes stay locked on me, filled with something I can’t quite read. Confusion. Curiosity. Fear, maybe. And I don’t blame him. How could I have known?
Then again, how could I have known Alice’s name before she told me? Or the shape of her face before I ever saw her? This is just one more thread in a mess I can’t seem to untangle. It feels true, but it doesn’t feel mine.
Eventually, he looks away, fidgeting with the napkin again. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, until I clear my throat. “What were you gonna say before the waitress came over?”
He hesitates again, then finally looks up. “I was gonna say… it shouldn’t work unless you were my dad.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My mind struggles to catch up, to make sense of what he’s saying. How could that even be possible?
I try to change the subject, offering him something in return. I tell him about the memories—about the blue-iced birthday cake, the candles, the laughter. His expression changes as I speak, his eyes welling with tears.
“It was Dad’s birthday,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “The night he was kill…” He doesn’t finish. His hand shoots up to cover his mouth, and he looks down, his shoulders trembling.
I reach out, resting my hand gently on the table between us. “It’s okay,” I say softly, though the knot in my chest makes the words feel like a lie. His dad disappeared? What happened to him? The questions burn in my throat, but now’s not the time to ask.
He wipes his eyes quickly, clearing his throat. “My dad loved building things,” he says, his voice steadier now. “If the stuff he built works for you, it’s because he wanted it to. I don’t know how, but…”
The waitress sets the lemonade down in front of him, breaking the moment. He mutters a quick “Thanks” before she walks off again.
We both glance at the clock. 11:37 p.m.
“I need to get home,” he says, shifting awkwardly. “If my mom notices I’m not there, she’s gonna freak out.”
I pause for a second, unsure if it’s a good idea. “You need a ride?” The words slip out before I can stop them, but something about the way his face lights up makes me glad I said it.
“Mom would kill me,” he says, but there’s a flicker of excitement in his voice. He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
We step outside, and his eyes lock on the bike. His face lights up. “Gelert!” he exclaims, his voice cracking as he runs toward it.
His hands glide over the frame like he’s touching something sacred. “I can’t believe it,” he whispers. “I used to spend hours watching my dad work on this thing. He was obsessed. Said it was his masterpiece.”
“Gelert?” I ask, the name feeling heavy, like it carries more weight than the boy realizes. I wonder if Leon thought of it that way too—or if it’s just one more connection I’ll never fully understand.
The boy nods. “That’s what my dad called it. It’s from an old folk tale he used to tell me.”
I hand him my helmet. It’s too big for his head, but he pulls it on anyway, grinning like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I swing my leg over the bike and kick it into gear. He climbs on behind me, gripping the back of my jacket tightly.
As we speed through the streets, something shifts. The wind cuts through us, carrying the hum of the city, but none of it matters. His laughter behind me is pure, unfiltered joy, and for a fleeting moment, the weight in my chest lifts. I’m not a man chasing shadows anymore. I’m just someone sharing a moment that feels real.
We pull up a little way from his house. He hops off the bike, dragging the helmet off his head with a grin. “That was amazing,” he says, handing it back to me. “My dad always said he’d take me out for a ride when I was old enough. I guess this is close enough.”
As he turns to leave, he hesitates. “What’s your name?”
I pause. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve gotten used to PYLOT, thanks to the patch on your dad’s jacket.”
He smiles faintly, his fingers brushing the edge of the jacket. “That was my nickname for him. The jacket… it was his birthday gift, from me and Mom.”
His voice falters slightly, and for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hangs between us. Then, without another word, he turns and begins walking toward his home, the dim glow of the streetlights casting his small figure in long, fragile shadows.
“Hey!” I call after him, my voice muffled beneath the helmet. “What about yours? Your name.”
He stops mid-step, his shoulders stiffening for just a second before he turns back to face me. His face is faintly illuminated, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Jake,” he says softly. “I’m Jake.”
I nod, watching as he turns again and disappears into the night, his steps slow but sure. For a long moment, I stay there, the low hum of my bike is the only sound breaking the silence.
A child without a father. A man without a past.
