Chapter 193: Bright Colorful Nothing

CYAN

I’m so bored.

So, so, so bored.

I said it out loud, my voice drifting off the balcony in a light, sing-song lilt that sounded almost like a nursery rhyme. It was a beautiful sound, musical, airy, perfectly pleasant. If you were standing on the beach below, you’d think I was just another rich boy sighing over which vintage of champagne to open next.

The reality was a bit more… jagged. This wasn’t the kind of boredom you get on a rainy Sunday afternoon. This was the heavy kind. The kind that feels like lead in your veins and static in your brain. This was the kind of boredom that makes you want to see what color your insides are, just for a change of pace.

I was at the beach house. One of many properties scattered across the coast like discarded toys, all courtesy of Dad’s bottomless pockets. It was a masterpiece of architecture, glass, white stone, and sweeping curves. The balcony was enormous, overlooking an ocean that was currently doing its best impression of a postcard.

The day was disgusting. Sunny, bright, and perfect. The kind of day people in gray cities dream about while they’re stuck in traffic. The water was a glistening, mocking blue, waves rolling gently toward the shore with a peaceful rhythm that made me want to scream. It was idyllic. It was a goddamn nightmare.

I was sprawled in a hammock made of some designer silk that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, swaying slightly in the breeze. I looked the part, certainly. I had my oversized, lavender-tinted sunglasses on, a wide-brimmed floppy hat shielding my face, and a pair of emerald silk loungewear that caught the light whenever I moved.

In my right hand, the good one, I held a tropical juice concoction. It was bright pink, garnished with a tiny yellow umbrella and a slice of starfruit. It matched my aesthetic perfectly.

My left hand was a different story. It rested carefully at my side, a thick, white block of bandages and gauze. It was still healing from the “accident”.

It was a hideous accessory. It limited my movement. It was a constant, throbbing reminder of a time that had actually been interesting, and now it was the very thing keeping me stuck in this sunshine-flavored purgatory.

Everything outside was perfect. Everything inside was wrong.

My mind was screaming, a high-pitched frequency of restlessness, while my face remained a mask of tranquil leisure. I wanted to claw my way out of my own skin. I wanted to do something. Anything. I wanted to feel a sharp edge or a sudden drop.

The worst part wasn’t the hand. It was the absence.

Cassian was gone. He’d retreated back into his own life, back to the shadows of the city, back to Noah. He’d left me here to “recover,” which was really just a polite way of saying “stay out of the way while I handle the real business.”

So, I was back to this. Spending my days doing frivolous, empty things. Spending my father’s money on useless pursuits. Shopping for clothes I’d wear once, partying with people whose names I’d forget by morning, drinking until the world blurred, and fucking until the static went quiet for twenty minutes. Repeat.

I played the role well. The rich boy enjoying the high life. But inside? Hollow. A big, echoing cave of nothing.

When I was around Cassian, I wasn’t bored. I wasn’t useless. There was purpose. There was a direction to the chaos. With him, things mattered. Life was dangerous, and loud, and real. Without him, it was just… this. A perfect view of a blue horizon that never changed.

The thoughts were getting loud. The bad ones.

I’ve always had them. They’re like old friends who overstay their welcome and start breaking the furniture.

They’re dark, and they whisper suggestions that would make a therapist reach for their heavy-duty prescription pad.

I’m used to them, but that doesn’t make them any less exhausting. When I’m alone and bored, they start demanding attention. They start asking why I’m still breathing this air when I could be doing something much more… permanent.

I know I’m strange. I’ve known it since I was five and realized other children didn’t think about the structural integrity of their playmates’ ribcages. I think differently. I feel differently. I react to things in ways that people call “inappropriate” or “disturbing.”

There are labels for what I am. Personality disorders, various neurodivergent tags, multiple “somethings” that doctors tried to pin on me when I was young.

My family tried to fix it, for a while.

They tried to mold me into a proper Devereaux. Then they gave up. I gave up, too. I got tired of trying to fit my jagged edges into their round holes.

I’m just existing now. Strange, cuckoo, and colorful. An outcast in my own bloodline. So why bother trying to be anything else?

But even my own strangeness was boring me today.

Cassian’s orders were clear: Hold the investigation. Stand by. The Vincenti and Lorenzo families were alert after the incident with that bastard Alex.

He wanted me to wait. I was obeying, only because it was him, but the inaction was a slow-acting poison. Digging into their secrets, finding the cracks in their armor, the thrill of the hunt… that was life. This was just waiting to die.

Even my boutique, my “awfully successful” little creation, didn’t help. It made money, it got praise in magazines, it was everything I thought I wanted. Now, it was just another thing that didn’t fill the void. Nothing was enough lately.

I sat up slowly, my silk robe whispering against the hammock. The bandaged hand throbbed in protest. I set my drink down on the marble side table and snatched off my sunglasses. The sun was too bright. The ocean was too blue. I hated it. I needed to move.

“Reggie!” I called out. My voice was loud, carrying across the terrace in a fake-cheerful, sing-song shout.

A moment later, the glass doors slid open.

Reginald, or “Reggie,” as only I was allowed to call him, stepped out. He was the picture of a proper butler. Perfectly pressed suit, graying hair, a face that had seen every one of my meltdowns and remained as calm as a stone wall. He’d been my charge since I was a child, the only person who had stayed when the rest of the family looked away.

“Yes, Master Cyan?” his voice was formal, but the tone was patient.

I stood up and stretched dramatically, throwing my good arm wide. “I need to get out of here, Reggie. This paradise is starting to feel like a very expensive prison. Prepare the car. We’re going out.”

Reginald tilted his head slightly. “Where to, sir?”

I spun around on one heel, a wide, genuine grin finally breaking across my face. It was the first real expression I’d worn all day. “Wherever the wind takes us, Reggie! Let’s go find something that isn’t blue!”

Reggie gave me a long-suffering, fond look. “Very well, sir.”

He was used to this. He was the only one who didn’t try to “fix” the strange boy.

“Reggie,” I said, leaning in as we walked toward the house. “Do you think I’m completely insane?”

“I think you are uniquely yourself, Master Cyan,” he replied without missing a beat.

“And do you think everything is boring?”

“Perhaps the point is finding what isn’t,” he murmured.

He was my anchor. And right now, I needed to pull that anchor up and sail into a storm.

We reached the garage, a cavernous space filled with the scent of oil and expensive rubber. Reginald headed toward a sleek, matte-black supercar, the kind of machine that looked like it was designed to break sound barriers and hearts in equal measure. He reached for the driver’s side door, his keys already in hand.

“I’ll drive, Reggie,” I said.

It wasn’t a request. I stated it with the simple, airy confidence of someone announcing that the sky was up.

Reginald paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He looked at my left hand, the thick, clumsy nest of white bandages. “The doctor was quite specific about the steering, sir. And your medications, ”

“It’s the left one, Reggie,” I interrupted, holding it up like a trophy. I examined it with a tilted head, as if seeing it for the first time. “I mostly use my right for the fun stuff anyway. Besides, I feel a very strong need to be in control of something that moves fast.”

I didn’t wait for his permission. I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather smelling of newness and power.

Reginald stood there for a long beat. It was the expression of a man who had fought this exact battle in a hundred different theaters over twenty years and knew that “loss” was the only possible outcome. He sighed, a soft, resigned sound, and walked around to the passenger side. He got in and buckled his seatbelt with a very deliberate, clicking finality. He said nothing.

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