CHAPTER 274: THE REBIRTH OF MR. DUST

By the time I entered the room, the sun had traveled halfway across its path. Mid-afternoon rays seeped through the tall windows, gentle blurring the edges of the apartment into a cozy haze. It was peaceful, not in a stressful way, but the gentle buzz of a home when no one was observing.

Sienna and Alexis weren’t around. Evelyn, too, probably off walking the perimeter or brooding on the balcony. Which left me with exactly one guess about the lump curled up under the velvet throw in the master bedroom.

Camille.

I softly opened the door. Sure enough, she remained asleep—turned toward the window, her hair partially entangled in the pillow, and one arm hanging off the bed as if she had surrendered to gravity’s pull around midday. Most likely earlier. Her breaths were slow and steady, a subtle rise and fall beneath the covers.

I stepped inside, boots silent against the carpet. She didn’t stir.

"Sleeping beauty," I murmured.

Still nothing.

I crouched beside the bed and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. Her skin twitched slightly—then she wrinkled her nose and groaned softly.

"You know," I said, "even for someone who used to call me dramatic, you’ve been hitting record levels of nap time lately."

Her eyes fluttered half-open. A tiny smirk curved one corner of her lips. "I’m not dramatic. I’m energy efficient."

"Camille."

"Mmm?"

"It’s two in the afternoon."

She blinked once. Twice. Then groaned again and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

"You say that like it’s a crime."

"It’s just unusual, that’s all. You used to wake up at ten."

"Yeah. And back then, I wasn’t carrying an entire job title in my cells."

That gave me pause.

I sat back on my heels. "You think it’s your title?"

She shifted slowly onto her back, sighing. "My job’s based on output, Reynard. Not in constant, efficient usage like yours or Alexis’s, but one big burst of energy. My cells probably hoard energy like it’s fabric. And the more I train, the more I need to restock. I haven’t used the full title in a while, but it’s... there. Always humming. Like it’s waiting."

I nodded, letting that sink in. It made sense. Camille’s job and job title were both showy no matter how you look at it and when she activated all of her skills at once, it reshaped more than just outfits—it rewrote the room.

"Hey," I said, lowering my voice. "I was wondering..."

Her eyes flicked toward me again. Sharp. Curious.

"...do you still have the old Mr. Dust mask?"

That got her attention.

She propped herself up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down to her waist. "Why?"

I hesitated. Then shrugged.

"Nostalgia. Also, your work... it lasts, even in old disguises. The skills you stitched into those masks, they linger. Identity Concealment. Camouflage Weave. Even the way they feel changes how I move. I want it back."

She didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at me.

Then, with a slow grin creeping across her face, she flopped onto her back again and stretched her arms above her head.

"You want the old version?"

"I mean is there even another version?"

"There will be." She yawned. "You’re getting an upgrade."

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

Camille rolled over and sat up fully, tousled but alert now. "You’re not going out there with some dusty trench coat and memory mask. Not when I have a job title that lets me max out every single skill."

I raised an eyebrow. "You sure? That takes energy. You were just telling me how tired you are."

She smiled, eyes glinting.

"Exactly. I’ve been saving up."

"Camille..."

"Sit down. You’re getting a makeover, Mr. Dust."

I didn’t argue.

You didn’t argue with Camille when she had that look. That spark of vision and momentum, when her whole brain shifted into designer mode and everything else faded away. I’d seen it before—on runways, in back alleys, even mid-escape when she stitched a disguise out of tarp and curtain string. It was her domain.

And right now, I was the canvas.

She stood, stretched once more, and padded barefoot across the room to her office, grabbing a robe along the way. Just before she closed the door behind her, she turned back to me.

"It’ll take a few hours. Make yourself comfortable."

I nodded, stepping out of the room.

By the time I settled in the living room, the apartment had grown quieter again. The lights dimmed to a soft afternoon glow. I made tea. Checked the windows. Thought of Grant, and the posters, and the way my instincts had lit up in the street earlier.

There was a storm coming.

I could feel it.

And I couldn’t face it as Reynard Vale.

Not entirely.

There were masks I wore for politics, for crowds, for survival. Mr. Angel had been one of those. Mr. Fox, another. But Mr. Dust? He was something different. A mask not of flair or power—but of silence. Of observation. Of truths found in shadows. He didn’t act until he had to. But when he did, it was decisive. That’s the persona that he was.

That was who I needed now.

I leaned back on the couch, eyes half-closed, waiting.

Minutes passed. Then hours. The sound of Camille’s sewing machine came and went, replaced by the scratch of chalk, the hum of a heat-setter, the sharp snap of reinforced thread.

Then—

"Close your eyes!" she called.

I smiled and obeyed.

I heard the door open, the gentle shuffle of her feet, the rustle of carefully folded fabric.

Then something was placed in my hands.

"Okay. Open."

I did.

The mask looked the same at first glance—smooth surface, quiet color gradients—but as I turned it in the light, I saw what had changed. The shadows were deeper now. Not painted, but embedded—woven in like a second layer of thought. The surface shimmered faintly with threads that adjusted depending on the angle, like memories slipping just out of reach.

I turned it over in my hands, letting the light catch the patterns: sunset fading into shadow, secrets stitched in every thread.

The rebirth of a Dust Mask.

Then I unfolded the coat. It was heavier than before—not in weight, but in presence. The stitching reinforced. The cuffs lined with microscopic sensor fibers. No visible armor, but I could feel the resistance in the material, like it had been designed to move with danger, not against it.

Camille, for all her humor and style, had built something serious.

"You used your title," I said quietly.

She was already halfway to the couch, wobbling slightly. "Of course I did. You don’t ask a Fashion Designer for nostalgia and get a museum piece."

I set the coat aside and caught her just before she collapsed fully onto the cushions.

Her head landed on my lap.

I looked down.

"Camille."

She closed her eyes, murmuring, "Shhh. Artist recovering."

I smiled faintly. Brushed a hand through her hair.

Outside, the sun dipped closer to the horizon.

And inside, with the past in my hands and the future still unfolding, I let the silence hold us both.

Tomorrow, the mask would move again.

But tonight, we rest.