“Some victories tell you who you are. Others show someone else who they might become.”

Éclair finally let him hit something on the ninth morning.

The little cheesecake had been waiting for this moment for what felt like half his life.

He stood in the chalk square.

Across from him hung a thick canvas sack packed with grain and suspended from an old ceiling beam.

Éclair stood several paces away.

“Go ahead.”

The little cheesecake raised his fists.

Then hesitated.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“No trick?”

“Probably.”

The little cheesecake narrowed his eyes.

“You said probably.”

“I did.”

He turned back toward the sack.

For days he had carried things.

Balanced things.

Swept things.

Dropped pudding.

Rested when told.

Stood in squares.

Been pushed out of squares.

Returned to squares.

Now, finally, he could punch something.

He planted his feet.

Pulled one fist back.

And swung as hard as he could.

The sack slammed backward.

Then swung directly into his face.

Whump.

The little cheesecake hit the floor.

Éclair looked down at him.

“There’s the trick.”

“You knew that would happen.”

“Yes.”

“That seems dishonest.”

“It was hanging on a rope.”

The cheesecake sat up.

“That doesn’t make it honest.”

Éclair pointed toward the sack.

“Again.”

The cheesecake stood.

This time he watched it.

He hit.

The sack moved.

He stepped aside when it returned.

Éclair said nothing.

The little cheesecake smiled.

He hit again.

Harder.

The sack swung.

He moved.

Again.

Soon a rhythm appeared.

Strike.

Move.

Brace.

Strike.

Move.

Brace.

Then Éclair spoke.

“Stop chasing it.”

The cheesecake stopped.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It keeps moving.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what happens when I hit it.”

“Very observant.”

The little cheesecake sighed.

Éclair walked toward the bag and stopped it with one hand.

“You keep trying to follow your own success.”

“What does that mean?”

“You land one good hit and immediately decide you deserve another.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“The point is to win.”

The cheesecake frowned.

“That sounds like the same thing.”

“It isn’t.”

Éclair stepped back.

“Hit it once.”

The cheesecake did.

The sack swung away.

“Now stay.”

He remained planted.

The sack returned.

At the last moment, he shifted half a step and let it pass his shoulder.

“Again.”

Strike.

Wait.

Return.

Move.

“Again.”

The little cheesecake began to understand.

The sack did not decide where he stood.

He did.

He hit again.

This time the warm pressure stirred beneath his crust.

Thum.

His stance lowered instinctively.

The strike landed.

The sack jerked backward so violently that the rope above it creaked.

Éclair’s eyes narrowed.

The little cheesecake stared at his fist.

“That felt different.”

“It was.”

“Good different?”

“Depends what you hit.”

The cheesecake looked toward the sack.

A small dent remained in the packed grain.

His eyes widened.

“I did that?”

“No. Very aggressive mice.”

The cheesecake grinned.

Éclair turned away before the grin became contagious.

“Enough.”

“What?”

“Enough.”

“I just figured it out.”

“That is usually when you become dangerous to yourself.”

“One more.”

“No.”

“One.”

Éclair looked over his shoulder.

The little cheesecake lowered his fists.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“When do I get to do it again?”

“Tomorrow.”

The cheesecake nodded.

That was easier now.

Tomorrow no longer felt like something he had to drag into existence.

It was simply coming.

The little cheesecake had begun spending more time aboveground.

At first, Éclair sent him out for practical reasons.

Bread.

Lamp oil.

Chalk.

Repair cord.

Once, inexplicably, twelve spoons.

“Why twelve?”

“Because eleven would be foolish.”

The little cheesecake stopped asking.

Then the errands became exercises.

Take the longer route.

Carry the sack.

Come back without using the main avenue.

Notice three exits from every square.

Count how many carts pass before the signal bell.

Walk slowly even when everyone else is rushing.

The little cheesecake had initially assumed this was more of Éclair’s nonsense.

Then he realized he was learning the city.

Not the Pastrypolis of grand buildings and warm windows.

The spaces between.

Delivery alleys.

Service stairs.

Rear courtyards.

Little bridges.

Old stone passages.

Ways through crowds.

Places where streets widened or narrowed.

The city no longer seemed like one enormous thing that had rejected him.

It was becoming a collection of smaller places.

And some of those places were beginning to recognize him.

The spice merchant waved now.

The warehouse foreman had made him demonstrate that he could stand without leaning on anything, then told him to come back again in two days.

A baker near the river sometimes gave him the broken ends of breakfast rolls.

The little cheesecake had stopped arguing about whether they counted as charity.

Mostly.

He had even returned to the children’s home.

The matron had opened the door, looked at him for three seconds, and wrapped both arms around him before he could protest.

She had cried.

He had nearly cried.

Neither mentioned it.

He told her he had found somewhere temporary.

That part was true.

He did not tell her that “somewhere” was beneath a street with an elderly éclair who threw bread at his head for educational purposes.

Some things took explaining.

Today Éclair had sent him for lamp oil.

Simple.

No weighted sack.

No special route.

No pudding.

The little cheesecake almost felt suspicious.

He carried the small tin beneath one arm as he crossed a square near the edge of the Crust.

The square was busy enough to feel cheerful without being crowded.

A repair crew worked around an open drainage channel.

Children chased one another beside a fountain.

Two merchants argued over the price of rope.

Several laborers sat on a low wall eating their midday meal.

The little cheesecake moved through them.

Nobody stared.

That still felt new.

He passed a polished shop window and caught his reflection.

Strawberry straight.

Wrapping clean.

Crack still visible.

He stopped.

For a moment he considered adjusting his glaze.

Then didn’t.

The crack was not going anywhere.

He continued walking.

“Still carrying things for other people?”

The little cheesecake stopped.

The voice reached him before the memory did.

Then both arrived together.

Cobblestones.

Scattered papers.

His strawberry rolling away.

Stay down.

He turned.

The pumpkin slice stood across the square.

He looked almost exactly as he had that morning.

Dark orange filling.

Weathered crust.

The chipped edge.

Loose charcoal cloth around his shoulders.

But the little cheesecake saw him differently now.

Not smaller.

Slice was not smaller.

If anything, he looked more dangerous standing upright in the daylight.

The difference was that the little cheesecake no longer felt small simply because Slice was there.

Slice noticed that too.

His eyes traveled over him.

“You look better.”

The little cheesecake glanced at himself.

“I feel better.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know.”

Slice’s mouth tightened.

The little cheesecake waited.

That seemed to irritate him.

“What are you doing?”

“Buying lamp oil.”

“For who?”

“A friend.”

The word came naturally.

He did not realize what he had called Éclair until after he said it.

Somewhere underground, the retired éclair probably would have objected.

The little cheesecake decided not to tell him.

Slice stepped closer.

“You made friends quickly.”

“One.”

“That’s quick for you.”

The little cheesecake felt the old sting.

He breathed.

Didn’t move.

Slice noticed that too.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You used to get angry faster.”

“That was a few days ago.”

Slice gave a short laugh.

“You think a few days changes you?”

“Apparently.”

The little cheesecake began walking.

Slice stepped into his path.

The little cheesecake moved left.

Slice moved left.

Right.

Slice followed.

The little cheesecake stopped.

“I need to get back.”

“Then go.”

“You’re standing in the way.”

“Go around.”

“I tried.”

A few people nearby had begun watching.

Not many.

The argument over rope continued.

The repair crew kept working.

The little cheesecake lowered his voice.

“What do you want?”

Slice looked at him.

“I heard you were walking around.”

The cheesecake blinked.

“That’s what bothered you?”

“I heard you were training.”

Silence.

The little cheesecake adjusted the lamp-oil tin beneath his arm.

“Who told you that?”

“So it’s true.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Slice circled once.

Just as he had before.

The little cheesecake remembered hating it.

This time he turned slightly with him.

Not following.

Keeping him in sight.

Slice noticed.

“Someone taught you that.”

The little cheesecake said nothing.

Slice smiled.

There was very little humor in it.

“So you found somebody to choose you after all.”

The words landed.

The little cheesecake felt them.

Éclair had told him they would.

Pain did not disappear simply because you understood it.

He breathed.

Slice waited for something.

He got nothing.

His smile faded.

“I suppose he hasn’t seen the paper.”

The little cheesecake’s fingers tightened around the tin.

There it was.

Slice saw the reaction.

“Slightly imperfect.”

The little cheesecake closed his eyes for half a second.

Then opened them.

“Yeah.”

Slice blinked.

The answer had not been the one he expected.

“Yeah?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You used to hate hearing it.”

“I still do.”

Slice stared.

The little cheesecake shrugged.

“It doesn’t make it true.”

Something shifted behind Slice’s eyes.

“Seven employers thought so.”

“Eight.”

Slice frowned.

“One moved to Savarin.”

A laborer on the wall snorted.

The little cheesecake glanced over.

The laborer suddenly became very interested in lunch.

Slice’s face darkened.

“You think this is funny?”

“No.”

“You think because someone showed you how to stand differently, everything changed?”

“No.”

“Then what changed?”

The little cheesecake thought about it.

“Me.”

Slice moved before the last word had fully left his mouth.

The little cheesecake saw the shoulder turn.

He stepped aside.

Slice’s shove passed him.

Both froze.

The little cheesecake was more surprised than Slice.

Éclair’s voice appeared in his head.

Don’t admire yourself.

He reset his feet.

Slice turned.

“Again.”

“What?”

“Do it again.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

Slice’s eyes sharpened.

“You already did.”

He swung.

The little cheesecake blocked badly.

The impact drove his arm into his own chest.

Pain flashed through him.

He backed away.

Slice followed.

Another strike.

The little cheesecake slipped most of it.

A third caught his shoulder.

People were moving now.

Creating space.

The rope merchants stopped arguing.

The repair crew looked up.

Someone pulled two children away from the fountain.

The little cheesecake saw the growing circle.

His stomach tightened.

“I said I don’t want to fight.”

Slice spread his arms.

“Then stay down.”

The little cheesecake’s expression changed.

Slice saw it.

There.

The old wound.

He attacked.

The little cheesecake almost charged to meet him.

Almost.

Stop chasing it.

He planted.

Slice expected him to rush.

For the first time, Slice had to close the distance himself.

The little cheesecake waited.

One step.

Two.

Slice feinted left.

The cheesecake moved.

Too soon.

Slice changed direction and caught him across the side.

The little cheesecake stumbled.

Slice struck again.

He blocked.

Another.

He ducked.

The next caught the top of his crust.

He went down to one knee.

The crowd murmured.

Slice stepped back.

“Looks familiar.”

The little cheesecake breathed.

Pain.

Heat.

Cobblestone beneath one hand.

Slice waited.

The cheesecake stood.

“Of course.”

Slice laughed.

“You really learned nothing.”

The little cheesecake reset his stance.

“No.”

He wiped his mouth with one sleeve.

“I learned how to do it better.”

Slice’s smile vanished.

He attacked again.

This time the little cheesecake did not retreat in a straight line.

Éclair had taught him better.

Turn.

Angle.

Plant.

Slice was faster.

Still faster.

But speed was different when the other person knew where his feet were.

A strike passed the cheesecake’s shoulder.

He answered.

Slice avoided it.

Another exchange.

Slice clipped him.

The little cheesecake caught Slice’s arm but lost the grip.

They separated.

The crowd grew.

Someone shouted something the little cheesecake could not hear.

He no longer cared.

Slice circled.

The little cheesecake pivoted.

Slice’s brow furrowed.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Standing?”

Slice rushed him.

The little cheesecake braced.

Impact.

His feet slid half a pace.

But he did not fall.

Warmth moved beneath his glaze.

Thum.

Slice pushed harder.

The cheesecake lowered his weight.

The pressure gathered.

Slice’s eyes widened.

“What—”

The little cheesecake shoved.

Not wildly.

Not angrily.

From the floor upward.

Slice stumbled backward three full steps.

The crowd reacted.

A few cheers.

The little cheesecake heard them.

For one dangerous instant, pride surged.

He started forward.

Éclair’s voice again.

You land one good hit and immediately decide you deserve another.

The cheesecake stopped.

Slice saw him stop.

That seemed to frighten him more than the shove.

“You’re scared.”

“No.”

“Then come on.”

The little cheesecake stayed where he was.

Slice’s breathing changed.

“You think you’re better than me now?”

“No.”

“Then fight!”

“You came to me.”

The words struck somewhere deeper than fists.

Slice charged.

Too fast.

Too angry.

The little cheesecake saw it.

Éclair would have seen it sooner.

The shoulder.

The weight.

The commitment before the strike.

The little cheesecake stepped aside.

Slice corrected.

Good.

Fast.

Instinctive.

He turned the missed attack into another without stopping.

The little cheesecake barely avoided it.

A third came from low.

It landed.

The cheesecake staggered.

Slice pressed.

There was real skill there.

Messy skill.

Untaught skill.

Every mistake became another attack.

Every awkward angle became something dangerous.

The little cheesecake had never realized how good Slice was.

In Chapter 2, he had only known that Slice was better than him.

Now he could see the difference.

And he could see the gaps.

Slice struck whenever he felt an opening.

Even when the opening was false.

The little cheesecake began giving him one.

A shoulder too far forward.

A foot apparently misplaced.

Slice saw it.

Took it.

The little cheesecake shifted.

The strike missed.

He answered with one short blow to Slice’s side.

Not hard.

Enough.

Slice recoiled.

The cheesecake reset.

Slice stared at him.

Again.

Another false opening.

Slice hesitated this time.

Good.

Then attacked somewhere else.

Better.

The cheesecake blocked.

They traded.

Slice adapted quickly.

Very quickly.

From the edge of the gathering crowd, someone watched with increasing interest.

He wore a travel cloak in muted gray-green, fastened with a dark metal clasp whose design meant little to most of Pastrypolis.

A narrow pack rested against his back.

Dust marked his boots.

He had been on his way through the square when the fight began.

At first, he had watched because everyone else had.

Now his attention remained fixed on the pumpkin slice.

Not the cheesecake.

The traveler tilted his head.

Slice changed angles in the middle of an attack.

Recovered from a poor step without looking down.

Used the fountain edge to redirect himself.

Saw a gap before it fully opened.

Then ruined all of it by lunging in anger.

The traveler’s eyes narrowed.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Slice hit the little cheesecake hard across the chest.

The cheesecake went down.

The world blurred for half a second.

The crowd sounded farther away.

Slice stood over him.

“There.”

His breathing was ragged.

“This is what happens.”

The cheesecake rolled onto one elbow.

Slice pointed down.

“You can practice all you want.”

The cheesecake pushed onto one knee.

“You can find some old fool to tell you you’re special.”

The little cheesecake’s head snapped up.

Slice smiled.

“Hit something?”

He had guessed.

Or someone had told him more than the cheesecake thought.

It didn’t matter.

“You still end up there.”

The cheesecake stood.

Slice’s eyes burned.

“Why won’t you learn?”

The little cheesecake looked at him.

For the first time, he understood that Slice was not really asking about him.

He thought of the words from days earlier.

They didn’t choose me either.

The little cheesecake breathed.

“Maybe you learned the wrong thing.”

Slice went still.

“What?”

“You said yesterday taught me something.”

“That was days ago.”

“You know what I mean.”

The little cheesecake lowered his hands slightly.

“You said nobody wanted me. That I should stop trying to change their minds.”

Slice’s jaw tightened.

“You should.”

“What if I don’t need to?”

Silence.

“What if they were wrong?”

Slice’s eyes narrowed.

The little cheesecake looked directly at him.

“What if they were wrong about you too?”

That did it.

Slice attacked with everything he had.

The little cheesecake barely saw him move.

First strike.

Block.

Second.

Miss.

Third.

Pain.

Fourth—

The cheesecake gave ground.

Slice followed.

Faster.

Harder.

The crowd scattered farther back.

The little cheesecake reached the edge of the fountain.

Nowhere to retreat.

Slice saw it.

His expression changed.

Victory.

He lunged.

The little cheesecake planted both feet.

Éclair’s chalk square appeared in his mind.

Weight lower.

Don’t chase.

Don’t prove.

Hold together.

Know why.

The pressure beneath his crust gathered.

Not hot.

Not yet.

Dense.

His whole body seemed to settle downward.

Thum.

Slice came.

The little cheesecake turned.

Caught the attack.

And for one impossible instant, everything aligned.

Feet.

Crust.

Weight.

Pressure.

Fear.

Anger.

The memory of a loading alcove.

The children’s home.

Seven employers.

Three boarding houses.

A strawberry lying in the street.

A hand offered underground.

A bowl of pudding on the ceiling.

Because you got up.

The little cheesecake drove forward.

There was no flash.

No explosion.

Only a sudden distortion in the air around his glaze and a deep, compact impact.

THOOM.

Slice left the ground.

Not far.

Far enough.

He struck the stone rim of the fountain behind him.

Crack.

The old masonry gave way.

One section of the basin split beneath the impact, and water burst outward in a glittering sheet.

Slice disappeared into the spray.

Broken pieces of carved stone struck the paving around him.

The entire square went silent.

The little cheesecake remained planted.

Heat shimmered faintly above his strawberry.

Water rushed across the cobblestones around his boots.

He stared at the broken fountain.

Then at Slice.

Then at his own hands.

“Oh.”

Somewhere in the crowd, somebody whispered:

“Did you see that?”

Another voice answered:

“He dropped him.”

The little cheesecake did not move.

Slice did.

One arm beneath him.

Then a knee.

He tried to stand.

Failed.

The little cheesecake’s first instinct was to rush him.

Éclair had trained that out.

Mostly.

He waited.

Slice tried again.

This time he made it upright.

Barely.

The little cheesecake raised his fists.

Slice stared at him.

Then charged.

No trick.

No angle.

No patience.

Just fury.

The little cheesecake saw everything.

He stepped aside.

Hooked Slice’s momentum.

Turned.

Slice hit the ground again.

Hard.

He did not rise immediately.

The little cheesecake stood over him.

The square was completely quiet.

This was the moment.

He knew it without understanding why.

Days earlier, Slice had stood exactly where he stood now.

The little cheesecake remembered the view from the ground.

The humiliation.

The helplessness.

The certainty in Slice’s voice.

Next time somebody puts you down… stay there.

The little cheesecake could say anything.

Everyone would hear it.

He could laugh.

Read the old words back to him.

Call him unwanted.

Point at the chipped crust.

Make the whole square understand who had won.

Slice looked up.

His face held anger.

But behind it—

something else.

He was waiting for it too.

The little cheesecake lowered his fists.

Then held out one hand.

Slice stared at it.

The crowd murmured.

The little cheesecake said:

“Get up.”

Slice’s eyes narrowed.

“You think this is funny?”

“No.”

“Keep your hand.”

The little cheesecake did not withdraw it.

Slice slapped it away.

“I said I don’t need you.”

The little cheesecake looked at him for another second.

Then nodded.

“All right.”

He stepped back.

Slice pushed himself upright alone.

He was unsteady.

The little cheesecake did not laugh.

That made it worse.

Slice looked around.

At the crowd.

At the faces.

At the cheesecake.

Then someone beside the broken fountain shouted:

“That’s the strawberry kid!”

Another voice:

“The little strawberry brawler!”

A laugh went through the crowd.

Not cruel.

Excited.

Someone repeated it.

“Strawberry brawler!”

Then a younger voice from somewhere behind the laborers shortened it:

“Strawbrawler!”

The sound caught.

“Strawbrawler!”

Another person laughed.

“That’s good.”

“Strawbrawler!”

The little cheesecake stared.

“What?”

More voices.

Not everyone.

Not even most.

But enough.

“Strawbrawler!”

He looked deeply embarrassed.

“I don’t think—”

Nobody heard him.

A worker clapped him on the shoulder.

The little cheesecake nearly swung out of reflex.

He caught himself.

“Easy, Strawbrawler.”

There it was again.

He looked around the square.

These people did not know him.

Not really.

Some might forget by tomorrow.

Maybe the name would disappear before sunset.

Still…

They were calling him something.

The little cheesecake swallowed.

Strawbrawler.

He looked at Slice.

Slice had heard it too.

Something unreadable passed across his face.

For a second, Strawbrawler wanted to say something.

He did not know what.

Slice turned away.

The crowd opened for him.

He walked through it alone.

No one stopped him.

The traveler in the gray-green cloak watched Slice leave the square.

Beside him, an older merchant shook his head.

“Bad loser.”

The traveler made no reply.

The merchant looked toward Strawbrawler.

“That little fellow surprised everyone.”

“Yes.”

The traveler’s gaze remained on the departing pumpkin slice.

The merchant noticed.

“You know him?”

“No.”

“Then why are you watching him?”

The traveler considered the question.

“Instinct.”

The merchant laughed.

“Didn’t do him much good.”

The traveler finally looked at him.

“His instincts are excellent.”

The merchant frowned.

“He lost.”

“Yes.”

The traveler looked back toward the street where Slice had disappeared.

“His discipline is terrible.”

Then he walked away.

Not after Slice.

Not immediately.

He stopped first at one of the repair crews and asked for directions toward the northwestern road offices.

His accent was slight.

His travel clasp was not.

One of the workers recognized its angular mountain pattern.

“Varkos?”

The traveler glanced down at the clasp.

“Yes.”

“Long way from home.”

“Not especially.”

He thanked the worker for the directions.

Then continued toward the street.

Only after several minutes did he take a different turn.

The same turn Slice had taken.

By the time Strawbrawler escaped the square, he had heard the name twenty-three times.

He knew because he counted.

He hurried through the streets with the lamp oil tucked beneath his arm.

His face still felt hot.

Not resonance-hot.

Embarrassment-hot.

He reached the underground entrance.

Lifted the grate.

Descended.

Éclair was sitting at the workbench.

Strawbrawler placed the lamp oil beside him.

Éclair looked at the tin.

Then at Strawbrawler.

One side of his wrapping was torn.

His glaze was scuffed.

There was dirt on his crust.

Éclair sighed.

“You fought something.”

“No.”

Éclair stared.

Strawbrawler reconsidered.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A pumpkin pie.”

Éclair closed his eyes.

“Of course.”

“He started it.”

“They always do.”

“I tried to leave.”

Éclair opened one eye.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Strawbrawler waited.

Éclair looked at his bruises.

“Did you win?”

Strawbrawler hesitated.

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“There were people.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“They started shouting.”

Éclair leaned back.

“What were they shouting?”

Strawbrawler became very interested in the lamp oil.

“Nothing.”

Éclair’s eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“Nothing important.”

Éclair waited.

Strawbrawler sighed.

“They called me something.”

“What?”

Silence.

Éclair’s eyebrows rose.

Strawbrawler muttered:

“Strawbrawler.”

Éclair stared at him.

Strawbrawler waited for laughter.

None came.

Éclair repeated it.

“Strawbrawler.”

“It’s stupid.”

Éclair considered him.

The strawberry.

The battered little body.

The crack.

The bruises.

The stance that was already subtly different from the dessert who had first fallen on his stairs.

“No.”

Strawbrawler looked up.

Éclair returned to his work.

“I’ve heard worse.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good.”

“No.”

Éclair picked up a tool.

“But it fits.”

Strawbrawler stood very still.

“Really?”

“Don’t become sentimental.”

Strawbrawler smiled.

Éclair pointed the tool toward him.

“Also, if you broke anything in that square, you’re repairing it.”

Strawbrawler glanced down.

His clothes had survived the fight.

Technically.

One sleeve had torn farther along the seam. The cloth around his middle had been patched twice already, and the wrapping around his right wrist had come loose enough that he had tied it back with a piece of string.

Éclair followed his gaze.

“You planning to keep those?”

Strawbrawler looked up.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing.”

Éclair reached over and tugged lightly at the frayed edge hanging from Strawbrawler’s side.

It separated another inch.

Strawbrawler stared at it.

Éclair let go.

“Almost nothing.”

“They still work.”

“So does that chair.”

Strawbrawler looked toward the corner.

One of Éclair’s old chairs leaned against the wall.

One leg was shorter than the others.

The back had been repaired with twine.

Nobody had sat in it since Strawbrawler arrived.

“Barely.”

“Exactly.”

Éclair crossed the chamber.

Near the back wall stood a narrow wooden cabinet Strawbrawler had assumed contained training equipment.

Éclair opened it.

It did.

Just not the kind Strawbrawler expected.

Old cloth wraps.

Protective padding.

Several pairs of compact boots.

Training gloves.

Lengths of reinforced fabric in faded browns, cream, dark green, blue—

and red.

Nothing matched.

Some pieces were newer than others.

Most had clearly belonged to someone before.

Strawbrawler looked at Éclair.

“What is all this?”

“Things people left.”

“Why?”

“Outgrew them. Replaced them. Forgot them.”

Éclair shrugged.

“Sometimes they didn’t come back.”

Strawbrawler looked inside again.

That answer carried more weight than Éclair gave it.

“Take what fits.”

Strawbrawler hesitated.

“Which ones?”

Éclair started walking away.

Strawbrawler frowned.

“You’re not going to help?”

“You’re the one wearing it.”

“That isn’t help.”

“It is excellent help.”

Strawbrawler looked back into the cabinet.

He picked up a brown wrap.

Put it down.

A dark green one.

Too long.

Blue.

He held it against himself for a moment.

Then his hand found the red.

The material was worn but strong.

Not bright.

Not fancy.

A deep, warm red that looked like it had survived being used.

He pulled it free.

Éclair glanced back.

“Red?”

Strawbrawler looked at him.

“Problem?”

“No.”

Éclair considered him for another moment.

“Hard to lose.”

Strawbrawler looked at the cloth.

Then at Éclair.

“Good.”

He took it to the training floor.

The first arrangement was terrible.

Éclair said nothing.

Strawbrawler tried wrapping it straight around his middle.

It caught when he turned.

He untied it.

Tried again.

One length went diagonally across his body and over one shoulder.

Better.

It stayed clear of his arms.

A second piece wrapped securely around his waist.

He tested his stance.

Shifted his weight.

Threw a slow punch.

The shoulder wrap moved but did not bind.

He adjusted it.

Again.

Éclair finally spoke.

“You dressing or solving an engineering problem?”

“Both.”

“Good.”

Strawbrawler found two shorter strips and wrapped his wrists.

That felt familiar.

Useful.

Then he searched the bottom of the cabinet.

Most of the boots were wrong.

Too large.

Too narrow.

One pair almost fit, but pinched against his crust.

Another had a split sole.

He set them aside.

Éclair watched.

“No point wearing something because it looks right if you can’t stand in it.”

Strawbrawler nodded.

That sounded like something Éclair would say about almost everything.

So for now, he kept his old boots.

He tightened them.

Retied the laces.

Then stood.

Red across the shoulder.

Red around the waist.

Wrapped wrists.

Same battered boots.

Same uneven crust.

Same small cracks.

Nothing about him had disappeared.

Strawbrawler walked toward an old polished metal panel near the wall.

It had once been part of some machine.

Now it reflected just well enough.

He stopped in front of it.

For a moment, he did not recognize what had changed.

Then he realized.

Nothing important had.

The cracks were still there.

His crust was still uneven.

His strawberry still tilted slightly to one side.

He reached up.

Straightened it.

Then let it tilt back.

Éclair had stopped behind him.

“Well?”

Strawbrawler looked at the reflection.

The little cheesecake staring back at him did not look perfect.

He did not look important.

He did not look like the heroes painted on old city posters.

He looked like himself.

Only more deliberately.

Strawbrawler touched the red wrap across his chest.

“Feels like me.”

Éclair nodded once.

“Then stop staring at it.”

He turned toward the training floor.

Strawbrawler smiled.

“You could say something nice.”

“I did.”

“When?”

Éclair picked up a training pad.

“I let you keep the red.”

Strawbrawler followed him.

“You said I could take whatever fit.”

“And yet you still have it.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Éclair raised the pad.

“Are you going to argue about clothes all evening?”

Strawbrawler planted his feet.

“No.”

“Good.”

Éclair braced.

“Strawbrawler.”

He paused.

It was the first time Éclair had used the name as though it simply belonged to him.

Strawbrawler looked up.

Éclair gave him the smallest nod.

“Again.”

Strawbrawler raised his fists.

He planted his feet.

Red crossed his shoulder.

Éclair held the pad steady.

Strawbrawler stepped forward.

Later, when he walked toward his blanket beneath the old stone arches, he was no longer the nameless little cheesecake who had entered through the wrong grate.

Above them, Pastrypolis carried on.

A broken fountain spilled water across the square.

A few citizens were already repeating an exaggerated version of the fight.

And somewhere several streets away, a pumpkin-pie slice realized that losing was not the thing bothering him most.

The hand was.

Get up.

Slice pulled his charcoal cloth tighter around his shoulders and kept walking.

Behind him, far enough away not to be obvious, a traveler from Varkos turned the same corner.