A/N: I left the last part on a weird cliffhanger so we're gonna backtrack to it a little bit in the beginning of this one. Yes, I am repeating myself >:]

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    "Where do you even LIVE, man?! Can't you go back to where you came from? Don't they miss you there?"

   "NO I CAN'T! SHUT UP!"

   Nyx whacks the kid again, though not as hard as the first time, "Why not?!"

   "BECAUSE!" Emory screams vaguely, dodging the subject and the blows from the pillow.

   "If you're gonna stay here, I'm gonna put you in a hamster cage!"

   "I'M NOT A DAMN ANIMAL!"

   "Then stop acting like one! And quiet down! I don't want my neighbors to know about you." Nyx glares, administering one final swat of the pillow to the boy's face, leaving the kid mildly stunned and blinking. Before the kid can even open his mouth again, Nyx speaks, "Also I cannot, for the love of all things holy, keep you here! You're not supposed to be in my house! I'm surprised they haven't shown up to haul you away!"

   "That's cuz it's a farce," the boy growls, shrinking away from Nyx and the fearsome pillow. His eyes train past Nyx to watch the open front door, as if he doesn't actually believe the words that just came out of his own mouth. Tense silence falls thickly over the apartment as Nyx stares at the boy in contemplation, and the boy stares at the door in anticipation of an untimely demise.

   "Fine. You can sleep under my bed. But if I catch you chewing on the carpet or tearing anything up or even so much as touching my things, I'm turning you in. I may have been merciful to you once but that was before you decided to assault me."

   "I didn't assault you," Emory rolls his eyes. "That's an exaggeration."

   "Hardly. You pinned me to the ground and LAY ON TOP OF ME."

   "You're big enough! Fight back!" Emory snaps, his voice rising an octave too high.

   Nyx grumbles something under his breath before chucking the pillow at him and getting off the couch. "Just shut up and act grateful." And he departs to shut the front door and go to the kitchen.

   Now of course, he fully realizes the weight of his decisions. He understands that having this feral specimen under his roof is entirely illegal and could get both him and the boy arrested. Part of him feels that wouldn't be such a bad gig, if it were only the kid being arrested.

   That's still unjust, though, he muses, grabbing a pot and filling it with water. He sets it on the stovetop to boil and rummages through his pantry for one of those premade dehydrated soups that come in the plastic packages. They're cheap at the local food markets and easy to prepare. Not incredibly nutritious but you're better off eating an entire package of this stuff than even attempting to ingest the canned meat they're selling nowadays.

   Besides, that skinny boy looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks. And it occurs to Nyx that this may be the case, as he doesn't know if the kid has eaten since the day he was rescued from that gang and given food.

   Steam rises from the pot, accompanied by the sound of rolling water. It is boiling. Nyx tears the soup package open and dumps the dehydrated noodle brick into the water. He leaves the seasoning pouch on the counter, deciding to ask the boy how he feels about flavors before giving him something he won't eat anyway. He seemed to like the chicken fingers at the diner a couple weeks back, but that doesn't mean he'll like artificially chicken-flavored soup.

   Two minutes is all it takes to cook the noodles to perfection. Nyx removes them from the heat and as he turns with the intent of going to the living room, he's startled to see the boy already standing in the kitchen. How long has he been there?!

   "I uh...made you some food." Awkwardly, Nyx thumbs in the direction of the pot. The boy narrows his eyes.

   "I'm aware. I could smell it."

   Something about the boy's monotonous, confident indifference sends a chill through Nyx's body, and in effort to appear unfazed he grabs a bowl and fills it with a serving of noodle soup. He places it on the counter and the feral kid sniffs it.

   "No seasoning? Damn."

   "I wasn't sure if you wanted any," Nyx mutters, opening the pouch and dumping it into the bowl, stirring to create a broth. Emory watches every movement keenly before sitting down on one of the stools beside the counter. Nyx slides him a pair of chopsticks as well as a fork, in case  the boy has a preference. Emory looks at the utensils with a dull expression, then proceeds to stick his long fingers in the bowl. He gives the broth a thorough stir, then pinches a sizable amount of noodles. Leaning over the bowl, he shovels the food into his mouth as if it's not intensely hot.

    Nyx stands there, blinking. The lack of etiquette is foreign to him; even the regular street cretins seem to have a better grasp on manners than this gremlin.

   "Do you not know how to use utensils, mate?" the words slip out before Nyx can weigh them.

   Emory glares over the rim of the bowl, not answering. He makes quick work of the soup and glances cautiously at the pot as if hinting for more but too afraid to ask.

   Nyx gives it to him without a word. He figures that if he can keep the boy at relative ease, it will be easier to kick the kid out of the apartment. It will also weigh lighter on his conscience to know the boy has at least been fed.

   With the noodles eaten down to the last scrap, all that remains is the broth which Emory seems to have no interest in. He pushes the bowl away with fearful eyes, as if expecting Nyx to scream at him for not finishing.

   Nyx doesn't scream. He simply takes the bowl and sets it outside for the local stray cats to enjoy. As long as he sanitizes the bowl afterwards, there's nothing wrong with making sure those little creatures get some nutrients too. He stands in the doorway watching the strays lap up the chicken-flavored water, glancing over his shoulder momentarily to keep an eye on the wild kid within his apartment. Emory has moved from the kitchen back to the living room, and is huddled once again beneath a blanket.

   Seeing him like this reminds Nyx of the first time he dealt with the boy, and he holds to this memory in order to maintain a mindset of compassion. Clearly this kid needs help and has some problems; screaming at him and fighting with him likely will only make things worse. But...it's still illegal to keep him here. He should have been hauled off by now. His tracking bracelet should have notified at least some level of authority that he is out of bounds, and yet, here he is, with seemingly no one on his tail, hidden beneath a blanket on Nyx's living room floor. This entire situation screams prison for both Nyx and the kid.

   Nyx doesn't want to go to prison for having a feral boy break into his apartment. He doesn't want jail time because he gave some kid a bowl of soup. And he doesn't really want the kid to go to prison either; it would probably make the kid more insane than he already is.

   A fierce downpour disperses the strays from the broth bowl, and Nyx picks it up with a sigh. Closing the door, he brings the bowl back to the kitchen and pours its remains down the sink before giving it a good wash with sanitizing soap. Leaving it to soak, he moves to the living room to check on the boy. He hasn't moved, the only sign of life being a slight heaving motion of his back as he breathes.

   Despite his concerns of being locked away for something that's partially out of his control, Nyx makes a rash decision.

   Giving the boy a gentle nudge with his foot, he mutters, "You can stay the night. But no shenanigans, or I leave you out in the rain. Understood?"

   A pale hand snakes out of the blanket, forming a fist to knock on Nyx's foot with. It then retreats, the boy remaining quite still in complete silence. Nyx stares down at him, confused as to what that knock even meant, then shrugs it off, his only hope at this point that the boy isn't destroying the carpet.

   There's nothing left to do now except feed himself and get a light workout in before bed, but the silence in his apartment is too eerie. He doesn't feel comfortable engaging in his nightly routine with this strange kid huddled on his floor, but he also doesn't want to be that weirdo who just sits there staring awkwardly. So he grabs some leftovers from his fridge, nukes them in the reheater, and plunks down on the couch. Using one hand to eat, he picks up the TV remote with the other, considering turning a show on and foregoing his usual workout for an evening of binging.

   Then he remembers how terrified Emory had been in regards to the television. With an aggravated huff, he nudges the kid again, and to his surprise Emory actually pokes his head out.

   "What."

   "Alright if I turn the TV on mate? I'll keep the volume low."

   Emory swivels his head to stare at that flat screened thing in contemplation, no doubt in total opposition to the idea. He remains quite still while staring at it for a few beats before giving a hesitant nod and shrinking back under the blanket.

   Nyx wakes the TV and turns the volume down as low as possible while still being able to hear it. He settles in to watch a rerun of some action movie from decades past. The screenwriting is laughable, and the acting not much better. Nyx can only tolerate a few minutes of it before switching channels in search of something else. He's distracted enough that he doesn't notice Emory timidly climbing onto the opposite end of the couch, sitting criss-cross and remaining wrapped in the blanket.

   Nyx settles on the music channel, as one of his favorite bands is playing. Drummer that he is, he can't resist tapping along on the armrest. Emory gives him the side eye, judging and observing everything in cold silence. Needless to say, every bit of his presence is uncomfortable and Nyx finds it hard to unwind.

   When there's a long commercial break, Nyx gets up to make some tea for the boy, recalling from their previous meeting how it seemed to aid in relaxing the kid. He finds one bag of the chamomile stuff at the bottom of the tin, leftover from the stash Mia tends to keep here for when she visits. Nyx heats some water and pours it over the tea bag into a large mug; once steeped, he carries it out to the living room and offers it to the tense youth on the couch.

   "Tea, mate."

   Emory raises his left eyebrow, which has a decent-sized slit dividing it at the center. Regarding the tea apprehensively, he puts Nyx's hands at risk of burning from holding the mug too long. Shifting it to one hand, Nyx tugs a coaster from a haphazard stack on the side table, slapping it down and setting the mug on it. It's easily in the boy's reach, and no longer burning Nyx's hands.

   Nyx reassumes his place on the couch, disappointed to find the commercials continue to rage on. What is the point of paying for cable service when all you get are these dumb ads?

   Through the corner of his eye, he watches to see what Emory will do. The kid leans over the mug, sniffing the steaming liquid. Obviously checking it for contamination. For a venomous person, he certainly is cautious of being poisoned by others.

   Nyx can't help feeling like he scored a point or two as the feral kid decides to pick up the mug and have a sip. And just like the last time, he remains very still, rolling the flavors in his mouth, determining if he wishes to consume anymore liquid. It is quickly apparent that he does, and he settles into the corner of the couch, slightly more relaxed than before, with his little upturned nose in the mug as he takes careful sips.

   Nyx tries not to stare. After all, there's nothing particularly fascinating about this kid. It's just his odd behavior that's interesting. At times, he seems quite normal–even for a non-Wit–and at others, he is the epitome of a cross between a rabid animal, and a scared child.

   But what does he have to be afraid of? The Authorities? If they haven't shown their faces now, it's likely they won't. If his tracking bracelet isn't to let Authorities know he's entered an unauthorized place, what purpose does it serve? Nyx is frustrated to conclude that he has no clue about this sort of thing. He has never encountered one of them before.

   What even is this kid?

   The tea seems to be working its magic, easing the boy into a relaxed state, such that his breathing is no longer hitched and frantic, and his limbs are comfortably loose. Even his clear terror of the Television seems repressed as his interest is piqued by a melancholy little number, performed by an ukulele-strumming ginger who goes by the name Melody. All dolled up like a marionette puppet, the freckled girl sings a haunting lullaby.

   Nyx shivers and moves to switch channels, glancing at the feral boy as he does so. The minute the channel changes, a look of longing and loss begins to saturate the kid's expression. Nyx feels a pressing amount of guilt and hesitates over the remote's buttons.

   "Should I put the puppet girl back on?"

   Emory nods.

   "She's kinda creepy. You into that or somethin'?"

   "She has a unique voice." Not wishing to speak anymore than he has to, the kid snuggles deeper into the couch and the blanket, sipping his tea. Nyx grimaces before giving in, and putting the music channel back on.

   There is something so peculiarly macabre about the girl's performance, but it also seems as if she is quite literally detached from everything surrounding her–the props, the dancers, the lilting background harmonizers. There is a subtle emptiness to her sapphire eyes as she sings about sleeping in the woods.

   Emory's not exactly watching. More like listening. His keen ears have moved in such a way that he can absorb sound in the best way possible, and his eyes keep falling closed as if the girl's voice is lulling him to sleep. It's either that, or the massive mug of chamomile he's been given.

   Nyx appreciates the artistry of the performance, but he's not fond of it. It's too foreboding, almost damning. Not punk rock. And definitely not truly suitable for Melody's skillset. He shakes his head, this is what musicians get for working with a record label. If everyone would just go independent and think for themselves, music could be what it used to be in millenia past: original, truly organic, truly free. Mind, heart, soul. As it should be. But no. Take it to a label and have them slap a gimmick and a price on your act, just so you can make it in this hellscape of a scene.

   Nyx, for one, is not going to play that game.

   A couple more bands and another commercial break later, Nyx switches the channel again. Emory remains where he's been for the past hour, huddled in the blanket but no longer nursing the mug of tea. He has consumed every drop; very relaxed, almost sleepy.

   Nyx decides he's had enough TV for the night and turns it off, getting up in the dark to gather dishes and put them in the sink. He'll wash them in the morning, once he sends this kid away. Hopefully it won't be as rainy tomorrow, but who can even dare to hope that? It's almost always raining here. How the town hasn't just flooded and floated away, is anyone's guess.

   "I'm boutta turn in for the night," Nyx states, standing awkwardly near the couch. "You can sleep here if you want or under the bed, I don't really care."

   The boy doesn't answer, and it's too dark to see what his expression is. Nyx turns on his heel, heading down an equally dark hall to his bedroom. He'd turn on the lights, but a storm has been raging outside, and in such conditions everyone is advised to use as little electricity as possible to avoid shorting out the generators.

   Electricity. Another thing you pay good money for, just to get the bare minimum.

   Nyx pulls off his cargos and replaces them with a pair of softer pants, removes his shirt and crawls under the covers. His body aches in exhaustion from his long day, and his mind is a garbled cacophony of concerns over various priorities. Grabbing his worn rosary beads from the table beside his bed, he figures the best he can do at this time is pray. It will help keep him grounded and ease him into a more peaceful sleep.

As he prays, he relaxes, but at one point a sneaky thought distracts him and makes him chuckle: suppose this would get that gremlin out of his living room?

It appears to do the opposite, for suddenly the boy is standing beside the bed staring down at Nyx. The sight is so unsettling, Nyx jerks back in shock.

"What the heck, man?! How'd you even get in here?!"

"Uh. Walked?" Emory shrugs.

"I meant how did you walk in here without turning on a light or me showing you where to go?" He'd never given this kid an apartment tour. He wasn't a guest exactly.

Emory ignores every word coming from Nyx's mouth, reaching forward to expertly sneak the beads from Nyx's hands. "What's this?"

"Rosary."

"Like for praying?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Emory is silent a few beats before sitting on the floor, crossing his legs and handing the beads back. "Whatcha prayin' for?"

"Peace. Clarity of mind, I guess. Lots of things."

Again it seems the kid isn't listening, as he doesn't respond to these words. He remains seated on the floor, staring at Nyx with his big brown eyes. Even in the darkness, Nyx can feel the intensity of the kid's gaze.

"Dude, can you not stare? It's kinda impolite."

"I don't care about politeness."

"So I've noticed," Nyx mutters. He considers turning his back, but doesn't trust the boy enough to do that. After all, what if he's planning to spring an attack? Better to be facing the threat than to have it at your back.

A soft shuffling sound implies movement across the floor, and suddenly Emory is nowhere in the room. Nyx fumbles for the emergency flashlight he keeps in his nightstand, clicking it on and swiveling it around the room for a quick inspection. Even a thorough search of the closet and under the bed yield zero results.

"The heck," Nyx shakes his head, clicking the light off and lying down to resume his prayers.