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Jules is mid-hack. Mira is watching over his shoulder, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a bowl of noodles steaming in her lap. The room smells like soy sauce and solder. It’s past midnight – Jules does his best work then.

Jules tapped a few final keys, the blue glow of his terminal lighting up the darkened loft like bioluminescence.

The command line blinked, patient.

He exhaled through his nose, almost meditative, then typed:

python3 luciensBackdoor.py

The cursor blinked.

Then:

[*] Exploit initialized...

[*] Privilege escalation successful.

[+ Access granted: admin@lexcorp.mainframe

“So…” Mira drawled from the couch, peering over her bowl as a buffer bar flickered across the screen,

“you really named this exploit Lucien’s Backdoor?”

Jules didn’t flinch. “It’s accurate,” he said, tone flat as a monotone AI. “He gave me the access keys. Admin-level.”

He paused.

“And yeah, he’s aware.”

Mira leaned back, an eyebrow rising like it was on a string. She pointed her chopsticks at the screen like a gavel.

“He’s aware you named a digital backdoor after his literal backdoor?”

Jules sighed and slowly turned to face her, face deadpan and posture theatrical, like he was about to deliver a monologue to a bored committee.

“Lucien is a top,” he said.

“There is no backdoor access.”

He paused. Then replied slower and more dramatic.

“He’s the server. I’m the hacker.”

Mira dropped her chopsticks into the bowl with a loud clink and clutched her chest in mock offense, laughter curling at the edges of her voice.

“Oh, honey. You think that makes it better?”

“I know it makes it hotter.”

She jabbed a noodle at him like she was holding court. “I’m just saying – if you ever disappear, I’m telling your future biographers everything. Especially this.”

Jules grinned now, the first real smile he’d shown all night. “You’ll be my El Roi,” he said,

“with receipts.”

Mira snorted, nearly choking on a noodle. “Saint Mira, patron of spicy metaphors and compromised firewalls.”

With a smirk and zero remorse, Jules hit Enter

[+] Payload deployed.

Childhood Memory – Age 12

The bathroom still smelled like Mira’s older brother’s soap — cheap, sharp, and a little too strong after his shower. Steam clung to the mirror in foggy patches, and the tiled floor was damp and cool under their bare feet. A single towel hung crooked on the rack, and the air felt heavy with leftover humidity.

Jules sat on the closed toilet lid, hoodie pulled up tight around his neck, shoulders hunched small. The bruises were lower this time, just below the collarbone where the hoodie’s neckline would usually hide them, but today the fabric had slipped.

Mira stood in front of him, barefoot on the wet tile. She had pulled out the small pink plastic makeup case she kept hidden under the sink — the one with the half-used concealer, bright eyeshadows, and a tiny brush that came with it. It was toy makeup, the kind little girls played with, but tonight it was serious business.

She squeezed a small dot of the thick, waxy concealer onto her fingertip and began dabbing it gently over the dark marks on Jules’ neck. Her touch was careful, almost reverent.

After a long silence, Mira asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jules’ eyes filled with tears. He blinked hard, trying to hold them back, jaw tight. His voice came out small and cracked.

“No… I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mira nodded, not pressing, not pulling away. She kept blending the concealer with slow, steady circles.

“You don’t have to,” she said quietly. “Whatever it is… I believe you.”

Jules’ breath hitched. A single tear slipped free, but he didn’t wipe it away. Mira continued working, layering the cheap makeup as best she could. It didn’t really hide the bruises — the color still showed through in places — but Jules watched in the foggy mirror and gave a small, shaky nod when she finished.

“I just don’t want anyone to see,” he whispered.

Mira capped the concealer and set it aside.

“I just don’t want anyone to know.”, Jules whispered.

They sat there together in the quiet bathroom — two twelve-year-olds surrounded by the faint smell of soap and steam, using the only tools they had: a pink plastic makeup case and the simple, fierce promise of belief.

Mira reached out and drew a tiny, wobbly eye on the inside of Jules’ wrist with the black eyeliner pencil.

“El Roi,” she murmured. “The One Who Sees.”

Jules pulled his hood back up over his head, the fabric soft and familiar. The bruises were still there underneath, but for now they felt a little more bearable.

They stayed like that for a long time — just sitting in the quiet, damp bathroom, two children using the tools of children to help Jules survive the horrors that no one should experience.