#I SAW SOMEONE SURVIVE SUICIDE

[moe-broey]

Like for real how hard is it to just. Accept that sometimes somebody wants to be called something else. Why do you even fucking care. I'm so fucking tired.

[irinochka25]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[incorrectbatfam]

Honey, I want you to know, I mean this with love when I say it. We are all going to be fine no matter what happens. Nothing is going to change. If Harris gets elected then Harris gets elected. If Trump gets elected then Trump gets elected. Nothing will change. Your life won't change. If you want to see what will happen if Trump gets elected then look at his last term. He did nothing of importance and if he did, none of it went away while we had Biden. Harris won't do anything of any importance either. Your life won't change. I promise you, you and everyone else will be just fine.

Every time I hear someone say this, I think of this picture:

This is the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus. The ones in white are the members who survived the AIDS epidemic. The rest did not.

I was a teenager when Trump was elected in 2016. I was 16 years old, just beginning to question my sexuality while also supporting my best friend who had come out as trans. The only adult I could trust to talk to about it was my geography teacher. After Trump was elected, corporations had the greenlight to price gouge every imaginable necessity, including the insulin my teacher relied on. He couldn't afford all the payments even with insurance so he started rationing. The last day of school before winter break, I wished him happy holidays, gave him a Christmas card, and never saw him again.

I know you mean well, but I say this in the nicest way possible: you are speaking from a place of luck. Just because you haven't lost anyone or anything as a result of the past Trump administration does not mean everyone had the same experience. I know my experience is not a unique one. I could cite the widely available statistics about abortion restrictions and maternal mortality, or gender-affirming care bans and trans suicides, or the pandemic, anything else we've been seeing when conservatives take power.

A lot of us are right to be scared, either because we've gone through this before or because we stand a real risk of losing something.

[ovaryacted]

OFF THE LEDGE

─ Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 4.6k

SYNOPSIS: Surviving is hard. You've become exhausted with the current circumstances of your life. When the pressure finally gets to be too much, you fall apart at the seams. Luckily, Jack is there to put you back together.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Age Gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalances [Attending/Resident]. Established “secret” relationship. Mentions of a drug overdose & medical treatment (patient in ED). Mental health triggers & descriptions of depression, suicidal ideation, and a mental breakdown. Reader is passively turned actively suicidal. Injury from self-harm/self-infliction using a razor that results in bleeding & stitches. Brief references to past sh attempts from reader. Mentions of Jack struggling w/his mental health in the past. Jack being a good partner and providing support.

NOTE: This fic contains explicit descriptions of self harm, depression, and mental health issues that may be triggering for some readers. If you or a loved one are experiencing this, please reach out to someone or call the corresponding crisis lifeline in your state/country. For the U.S. - Dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

A/N: I usually don't write things like this, and a part of me was scared to even upload this, but I’m gonna take the risk and do it anyway. I initially wrote this when I was going through something, especially this week, and just needed to release all of these built up emotions somehow and I created this, which was cathartic to write & read. We all deserve reassurance that we are still loved after our mistakes, and I hope those who are going through a hard time know that you are deserving of a long and joyful life and that you are loved. Thank you to @ozarkthedog for proofreading this and the constant encouragement, love you hun. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

You’d think by now things would get easier. That the ringing in your head would become more manageable; the noise would fade away, and the voices would quiet their chattering for once.

You thought wrong.

A part of you thinks you never should’ve taken the time to go through high school, undergrad, and medical school to enter a field where you were frequently reminded of how fleeting life was. No matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, the grim reaper was always there, breathing down your neck, watching the sand in the hourglass run out for those bound to leave the mortal coil. The emergency department was their personal hell, and you served as the angel of death, guiding them into the afterlife, witnessing the lights dim from their eyes and declaring the time they crossed the bridge like it was second nature.

It reminds you that it could’ve been you. Sometimes you think it should be.

Of course, that wasn’t rational thinking, was it? The constant nagging voice drilling into your head that you don’t belong here, you don’t deserve to be walking the earth alongside everyone else. It was painfully ironic working in a field where your hands were capable of saving lives, all while you constantly battled to validate your own existence.

A walking contradiction you were.

You hid it well from everyone around you, continuing with business as usual during your night shifts at the Pitt, working doubles just to get through the day, regardless of your body begging for rest. It wasn’t a problem; in fact, the staff were more than glad to have someone reliable to provide more support without asking, and with someone as capable as you, they had no qualms about adding overtime hours to your payroll.

But Dr. Abbot? He saw right through it, right through you.

He knows because he gets it.

You’re good at your job, almost too good, and nobody would dare say otherwise. Despite your talents under pressure and your quick reflexes, there was a darkness that hung over your head like a shadow everywhere you went. Your eyes were clouded over, trying to hide something; the curl of your smile was subtle—never too wide; and your laugh was too tight to be considered a chuckle but enough for an exhale.

Jack knows, because it’s him.

The next time he goes up to the roof for some fresh air, he isn’t entirely surprised to find you already there. You stood on the other end of the ledge, leaning against the railing, hands in your pockets as you stood straight, head held high to admire the Pittsburgh skyline. Jack doesn’t make a sound as he steps closer to you, discreet in his footing, careful not to disturb your moment of reflection.

“You’re in my spot.”

Looking back, he thinks his comment could pass off as reprimanding, spotting the same cues from you that recalls a version of himself he often tries to forget. The version of him that saw more men die than he can count, his past self that buried a piece of him along with his wife, the part of him that didn’t care to see another day in spite of how long he’s fought to be here anyway.

You don’t flinch when you hear Jack’s voice from behind you, tilting your head in acknowledgement and returning your focus to the buildings in front of you.

“Had to borrow it for a second. Wanted to take in the view.”

He only hums, arms reaching over the railing and clasping his hands. Leaning forward on the opposite side of you, he keeps his attention on the side of your face, observing you with keen eyes.

“Next time you’re up here, bring a drink. Really adds to the ambiance.” That got you to laugh dryly, and for a second, Jack considered it an accomplishment.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Unless you plan on joining me for that drink, considering this is your spot and all.” You turn to face him then, and the twitch of a smirk tugs at his lips, taking in your features before glancing down to the floor.

“I’ll put a pin in that for our next meet-up, kid.”

Jack was only half-serious when he said that, but your uncoordinated meetings became more consistent, the sight of Jack growing to be a welcoming one. Amongst the chaos of the Pitt, above all of the death and carnage that came through the ambulance bay every day, Jack was always there to keep you grounded in ways you didn’t know you needed. A pat on the shoulder, a hand on your lower back, a squeeze on your arm, and an expression that inaudibly asks, “You’re good?” To anyone else, they’d think he’s just being a good mentor and doctor as he always was, but you knew there was a secondary motive, not that it wasn’t reciprocated.

He made you stronger, better, and for the longest time you were okay, happy even. In a professional sense, he kept you on a tight self-care regimen, making sure you ate proper meals, slept a full 7 hours at minimum, and took supplements you wouldn’t admit made you feel better even after being more energetic and clear-headed throughout your shifts. He did you the favor of setting you up to get connected to his therapist, at least for a consultation before being referred to someone who was better equipped to handle your needs, going as far as being your sponsor if necessary.

You knew he was only looking out for you, but when the concern transitioned to desire along the way, it felt natural, comforting, safe. Jack welcomed you into his reality, made room for you in his home and his heart, told you his nightmares and the memories that haunted him while making new ones with you. He let you weave yourself around his very being and made you promise to never let go, whispering those three words without issue to cite that you belonged with him, that he wanted you here where he could love you the way you deserved.

But even Dr. Abbot couldn’t keep you safe from yourself.

He can always tell when your worst habits start to make a reappearance, when you have trouble sleeping and he finds you on the couch in the middle of the day, aimlessly watching something on the TV. You pick at your food more, no longer enthusiastic about your favorite lasagna he’s cooked for dinner, saying you’d save it for lunch at work and going to bed with a dwindling appetite.

You hide yourself from him, less receptive of his touch and affections; the kisses you returned were superficial at best, but it was better than nothing. The spark he adored was slowly dimming from your eyes, giving him a sad smile when he said he loved you, the words muted when they tumbled from your lips as if you were afraid of repeating it.

Back at the Pitt, your mask began to crack. Your laughs were minimal, your face permanently frozen and devoid of emotion, and your head tormenting itself as you strained to suppress your mood. You spend much longer on the roof during your shifts, and though he trusts you enough, he still keeps track of the number of times he spots you sneaking away and heading for the stairs. He’s told you so many times before—

“If you’re not back in 5 minutes, I’m coming up to get you.”

And Jack sticks to his word, running up to the roof and hoping he’d still find you on the other side. He always does, approaching you cautiously, talking to you in the same passive authority he uses in the ED. It does the job, bringing you into his chest and cradling the back of your head, feeling you grip onto him like he’s the only thing you had left. It does little to quell his own anxieties about your fraying state of mind when he finds you closer to the ledge every time he comes to get you.

He knows it’s only a matter of time before you fall apart, or worse.

Your shift at the Pitt was manageable for the most part until a case of a self-inflicted drug overdose came in at the wee hours of the night. An unresponsive teenager around the age of 17 came in through the ambulance bay with his parents, suspected of an extreme intake of Xanax, no reaction to pain or light, blown pupils, and weak pulse. Everyone knew there was limited time to bring them back from the brink, and the first attempt using Narcan was already unsuccessful.

The teen crashed in Trauma 1, you called for the crash cart and ordered two shocks before attempting compressions. You pumped the kid’s body full of atropine and epinephrine, cracked a few of their ribs and worked up a sweat giving compressions, but his overworked heart wouldn’t restart on its own. You kept going for another 30 minutes before Jack called it, and you noted the flatline on the heart monitor, spacing out as your ears rang and the walls closed in on you.

Jack took the responsibility of notifying the parents, suggesting you take five to cool off. When he found you in your spot, you were sitting down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling on the edge and looking down to the ground.

That was the closest he found you to the ledge.

The drive back home was quiet, the air rigid between you, but he knew well enough it wasn’t directed towards him. You didn’t bother to look at him for the entire commute, staring out into the window, counting the streetlights passing you by. Rolling into the driveway, you grabbed your work bag and made your way to the front door, Jack matching your pace behind you, reading your body language like a hawk. After unlocking the door, you were quick to walk past him and march to the bedroom, but he was faster than you, grabbing your arm and bringing you back into the foyer.

“Hey, hey. Talk to me.” He turns you to face him, one hand rubbing over your wrist and the other cupping your cheek. “I know today was hard, you don’t have to hide it from me, you know that. But please, just talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

“I just want to rinse off the day, Jack. It’s been… I’m tired, okay? Can we talk later when I’ve slept a bit? Please?” You held his gaze, his touches only unnerving you more, confused and struggling to focus. He didn’t believe you; he knew you weren’t okay, but the last thing he wanted to do was smother you when you couldn’t give him a straightforward answer.

“Alright, we’ll talk later. Go shower, I’ll make you something to eat before you sleep.” He planted a light kiss by your temple, breathing you in as if it were for the last time. “I love you.”

“I know.” It was the only thing you said, and he apprehensively let you go without hearing the sentiment returned to him, letting your silhouette disappear into the master bathroom.

It had been 40 minutes since he last saw you, and it was eerily too quiet for him to be tranquil. The hairs on the back of his neck stick up once he’s done packing away the food he made for you in hopes you’d be able to keep it down before heading off to bed. The danger senses that always protected him were firing off, and he knew you needed your space, but the urge to check up on you pestered him to the point of suffocation.

Stepping into the shared bedroom, you were nowhere to be found. The lights in the bathroom were still on, and the shower had long stopped running, but he heard the muffled sniffles, probably stifled with your hand covering your mouth.

Something wasn’t right.

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door, trying to get your attention. “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, he thinks. He knows the answer is no, but when you don’t give him a response, his worry deepens.

He instantly thinks of the worse-case scenario, compartmentalizing what could be happening in the small room closed off to him. He knew from the moment you lost that patient a switch had gone off, that your subconscious roamed into the abyss you’ve been fighting to avoid. You’ve gone off the deep end, and he had to try to bring you back.

His trained ears pick up on the sound of something clinking in the sink, sharp and metallic, a hiss emitting from you followed by a restrained groan. You were in pain; something had caused you to react that way, and from the way you started to hyperventilate and cry, he can only imagine what happened.

“Baby, please. Let me in.” Jack calls out to you, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it open, but finds the door locked. He calls your name again, knocking on the door harder without trying to startle you further. “I won’t be upset with you, I promise, but I need you to open this door. You gotta let me in, or so help me, I will break it down to get to you.”

Your name tumbled out of his mouth in a plea, knuckles rasping harder against the wooden door, the knob rattling under his grip as he cursed to himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to help, of being kept in the dark while you do God knows what to yourself. Silence on the other end made his blood run cold, shoulder and head now pressed to the door, trying to find any sign of your presence on the opposite side.

Already in position to ram into the door, the click of the lock registers in his ears. Wasting no time to swing it open, his heart pounded in his ears at the display before him.

There you stood, tears streaking your face and eyes empty from the mess that was your psyche. His sight trailed lower, nostrils flaring at the sight of crimson pooling in the sink, surrounding a bloody razor. Your trembling hand swathed your wrist, the red liquid staining your palm and your fingers digging into your tainted skin in a poor attempt to manage the flow.

“I’m sorry…” You mumbled, your bottom lip wobbling as you refused to meet his eye.

He didn’t react or think about anything else; his sole focus was on you.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but he stayed collected for your sake. Coming into the bathroom, he held you by the hips, eyes anchored to your face because he knows he’ll lose his shit the instant he looks at your arm. “I’m going to sit you down for a second, alright? Just breathe with me, I’m right here.”

As much as your body could in its state of shock, Jack maneuvered you to sit on the toilet seat, keeping your eyes stuck on the tile. You could hear him moving around you, grabbing a boxed item from the cabinet and running the sink for a bit. Your breath lumped in your throat, lungs tight and wheezing on every exhale. It was a blur how you got to the kitchen, your feet moving on their own as you floated outside of your body, your cognizance wandering to anywhere but here. 

“Let me see your wrist, honey.” Jack advised, his voice unwavering despite the constriction of his pupils disclosed his panicked nature.

Carefully, you revealed your injuries to the veteran, blood streaming down onto the sterile procedure underpad he placed your arm on. He sighed in slight relief, thankful the two wounds were horizontal like the rest of the faded scars instead of the opposite, not deep enough for immediate concern, but you’d still need stitches.

“They’re not too deep, but I need to stitch you up so they heal, okay?” He was talking, you think he was, and despite not fully processing his mouth moving, you nodded anyway.

Placing the lightest kiss on your forehead, Jack promptly got to work. Opening the tactical first aid kit he kept in the bathroom, stacked to the brim with medical supplies, he found some gloves and got his station ready. He treated you like any other case in the ED, holding off on everything else going on in his head until you weren’t hurt anymore.

As serious as he can be, he numbed out the area for your comfort and flushed out the cuts for better visibility, taking hold of the suture and piercing the curved end to your skin. You didn’t jerk your arm away as he did so, looping the metal hook into your flesh a few more times before neatly tying the end and cutting the rest off. He double-checked to make sure the wound would heal properly with minimal issues and wrapped your wrist up in some gauze and a medical-grade bandage.

You were silent the entire time, the tension thick enough to cut through. He was figuring out the best approach to this conversation, to make sure he wouldn’t push you farther away.

“How’s the wrapping?” He started off with that, something easy for you to answer.

“It’s fine.” You shrugged, thumbing over the bandage. “Can’t feel anything.”

“Good, that’s good.” He replies, maintaining his analytical gaze on you. He plotted what exactly he could say, the right sequence of words that would put you at ease, but you got to it before he could.

“Jack…” He scanned your distressed features, never taking his eyes off of you. “Are you upset with me?”

“Why would I be upset with you?” The thought of your priority being his reaction to your behavior in such a high-stress environment ached him. “I couldn’t be upset at you. Not for this, not for anything. You understand that, right?”

“I just… I feel so fucking stupid. For doing this, after being clean for so damn long.” You stared down at your wrists with sunken eyes, the self-deprecating thoughts banging around in your skull doing nothing to calm you down, eyes stinging with residual tears that never seemed to stop falling.

He uttered your name softly, reaching out to hold your hands as if you were made of porcelain, making an effort to dodge the new bandages covering your wrist.

“You’re not weak, or any less deserving of a life worth living for repeating old patterns. We’re not perfect, and when your mind is your worst enemy, it’s a constant battlefield up there. You think I didn’t struggle the same way before? I still do sometimes, and I’m sure if there was a remedy to get rid of all of the bullshit in our heads, we would’ve taken it a long time ago. What matters is you’re still here, breathing, talking. You’re still here.”

A pregnant pause followed his words, your grip tightening around his, blankly looking at his digits and mindlessly rubbing over his skin.

“I’m tired, Jack. I’m tired of it all, of the noise, of constantly needing to fight everything, to find a reason to keep going.” The tears still pebbled at the corner of your eye, lids lined with red and irritated from the emotional turmoil you’ve been working through. “It’s all becoming too much, and nothing was working, so I just…needed something to release the pressure. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, and that scares me. I’m at my limit, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

It killed him to know you’ve been carrying so much pain. He already knows of your background, of your prior attempts, and the skeletons hidden in your closet. Jack understands the cards that have been stacked against you from the very beginning of your existence, chasing a calm reality you’ll never experience; the closest you got to that was being in a partnership with him. Jack loved you with every part of his soul, he’s told you countless times. He hoped his love was enough to nullify your suffering, but even he knew there was no remedy for being your worst enemy.

“You don’t need to have it all figured out right now, and you don’t have to tell me everything you’re thinking or are choosing to forget. But just know, I love you, and I want to be able to love you in any capacity while you’re here with me.” His voice grew taut as he spoke, the faintest tell that he was being strong for your sake.

“This doesn’t change that, and whatever comes, I will help you through it. You’re worth the fight, you always have been, and you’ve been fighting for your place here for so long. I’m not letting you go, not that easily, and I won’t let you give up on yourself either. You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”

His words struck a chord with you, feeling them reverberate through your body, shuddering as he said everything you needed to hear. You sat together in the kitchen, letting his declaration to you hang in the air and marinate, breaking the silence after some time.

“Thank you.” Your gratitude for Jack’s selflessness goes without saying, the hazel eyes that had been drawn to you from the start were kind as they always were, warm and full of adoration you’ve never felt with or from anyone else.

“Always.” His head tilts behind him, gesturing to the fridge. “Made something in case you still wanted a bite.”

“I don’t think I can stomach anything right now, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I already wrapped it up in case you changed your mind.” Jack stayed quiet, pondering for a beat before talking again. “I’ll ask the other residents to cover your shifts for the rest of the week, and I’ll switch out with Robby so I can stay here with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you already were.

“I know I don’t, but I want to, I feel like I need to. We’ll just take a few days, recuperate, get you out of the house for some fresh air and do something together, maybe coordinate next steps. How does that sound?”

For the first time in what felt like weeks, that spark that slipped away appeared in your eyes again. It was faint and fleeting, but you were still there underneath all of that baggage.

“It’s much better than being in the Pitt. I don’t want Robby on my ass for not showing up for a while.” He chuckles dryly, shaking his head in agreement.

“He’ll understand, trust me, and he loves being there with all of the rookies. Plus, the old man owes me, he won’t mind.”

Your shoulders dropped from their stiff position the entire night, your body language now more relaxed than before as the exhaustion from everything started to kick in.

��I think I want to go to bed now, sleep all of this off.”

“I’m right behind you.” He didn’t debate with you or ask for more answers to his questions; there was no need if he knew you'd come to him when you were ready to talk.

Packing away the rest of his medical gear and disposing of the hazardous material properly, he made sure the rest of the kitchen was cleared before meeting you in the bedroom. You stood awkwardly in front of the bathroom, the same place where the offense took place, losing yourself in the constricting tiled room.

“Do you want me to help you?” He lingered, as he usually did, and you’ve never been more grateful for his consistent support.

“Please.”

He put the first aid kit back where he found it and searched around the bedroom, finding his overworn Army shirt you claimed was your favorite. He approached you with a cool and collected attitude, gently asking for permission before he slipped your current t-shirt off of your head and dressed you in the olive green cotton, caressing the side of your jaw affectionately.

Letting you go to slip under the sheets and claim your side of the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress to take off his prosthetic, placing it against the bedside table for when he woke up. Tossing the duvet cover over him and filling the empty space beside you, he angled his body towards you, head digging into the pillow under him.

You shifted to him in an instant, nestling your face into his chest. The scent of him hit your nose, overpowering your senses and soothing your nerves, leaning against him with your full body weight and seeking out his warmth. A thick arm shielded you from the rest of the world, winding around your waist and bringing you closer, resting comfortably on your backside. Your breathing matched pace with his, mimicking his inhales and exhales as he coached you to fully settle.

“Jack?” The hum he gave you vibrated underneath your cheek. “I love you, and I hope you know that, even if I don’t say it all the time.”

“I know. I love you too.” He kisses your hairline again, your face tilting upwards to meet his lips, soft and sweet, and just enough pressure to reassure him you felt the same. “You have me, sweetheart. Always.”

“Tell me a story. Want to hear you while I sleep.” You requested shyly, throwing your free arm over his waist, stroking the arch of his spine under his t-shirt.

As he retold another memory from his past, a fond one from his childhood, while his hand rubbed the back of your head, kneading the nape of your neck and running lines over your scalp. His words trailed off as your eyes fluttered closed, your hand ceasing its movement over his back, falling limp along with the rest of your body. You fell asleep long before his story finished, but Jack didn’t close his eyes just yet, he couldn’t.

It was in the stillness of the night that his trepidation creeped up to the surface, his mind running a mile a minute, overrun by all the protocols of the worst-case scenarios and their proper reactions. When it came to you, the same rules never applied, his sense of reason always flew out of the window. He released a quivering breath he didn’t realize he was holding; the thought of losing you, of not being there to save you, haunted him in his sleep. He never thought a part of his nightmare would manifest into reality, but he knows this was more than just him.

Whatever came next, however you wanted to handle this, he vowed to stick beside you, no matter the outcome. He was determined to prevent you from falling through the cracks, not if he could help it. You were worth the heartbreak and the sorrow; he’ll share the burden of your existence with you if it means he can keep loving you for a bit longer if you’ll let him.

In any way, Jack is here to stay like the loyal soldier he is, and he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[allhopesforlove]

Farewell, my love

Summary: In the midst of a battle, y/n realizes that their only way to victory would be through her sacrifice. Determined with her decision to lead an army of soldiers to the frontlines, there was nothing that could hold her back. Because she was sure that if she continued living on she wouldn’t survive any more of what was blooming between Elain and Azriel.

Pairing: Azriel x reader, Azriel x Elain

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, self-hate (idk tbh pls forgive me)

part 2 part 3

———————

“Someone has to lead them to the frontline to allow an opening for us.”

Freezing, thats all she felt. Her blood stopped rushing and burning in her veins, no sound and no pounding. Just a serene calm washing over her as she let the wind breeze through her blood and mud smeared hair. Ah, she thought, this is it, this is where it all ends. She was aware. She thought all of them were aware of what would happen to the group taking responsibility to charge full on towards Hybern’s forces. Without a doubt, she decided, she would do it. No second thought. It had to be her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened her eyes to only see what made her take the decision of bringing an end to all of it herself.

There, in all of the chaos, in all of the war afflicted damage around them, in all the sorrow and pain, in all the helplessness and suffering, there, she only saw those hazel golden eyes. Those eyes she saw before sleeping and waking up when morning came. Those eyes she was mesmerized by, eyes that always managed to take away all the pain in mere seconds, eyes that made the pounding in her head stop, eyes that promised hope.

Though, they were the eyes that never seemed to look at her, lingering at the doe brown eyes of the one he was cradling to his chest.

In all her 458 years of living, only three times she saw his eyes filled with such worry. The first being when Mor was captured. The second being Rhys’ sacrifice to keep Velaris safe from Amarantha’s wrath. And the third, well the third time was the moment he realized that they actually might not be able to win this war. And that he possibly could lose her.

The ringing in her ears stopped and her vision became clear again, as the sight made her decision final, brought her back to the reality they all were facing now.

“Rhys.. are you aware of what you are suggesting right now.. this.. fuck.. this is a whole on suicide mission..”

silence passed through and then in an almost hushed but assertive voice

“I know, Cassian. I am .. god I am aware. However, this is the only way we could outmaneuver them. We are already outnumbered as it is.”

And the warlord knew. Hell, he might be the best strategist his court ever had. With all his experiences over the years as a general of the Night Court, with all his knowledge, he knew that what Rhys was saying may be their only shot at victory. But he was in denial, because it had to be someone amongst them as they barely stood in a circle. All of them carrying wounds of different degree.

He looked over towards Mor’s blood smeared face supporting Emerie with her left arm, as the latter took a deep blow on her right wing. He winced at that as he knew how sacred wings were to them. He felt for Emerie in that moment, but was brought back by a soft voice, he might have not heard if he didn’t focus just enough

“Its just as I have seen… it wasn’t this clear, but, but I think I saw how this will go, which is why I agree with what Rhysand is saying.”

Its not that she was the first person who spoke up after Rhys’s declaration or the thoughts everyone else was too scared of to voice besides Cassian, that surprised y/n. It also wasn’t that Elain saw a vision and didn’t tell a soul about it, well other than besides maybe the one at her side looking at her as if he already knew of this assertion.

No, what surprised y/n was the one second Elain blinked over at her, a mere glance that made y/n’s blood boil again. A second which confirmed that it was obviously her that Elain saw. And what more was that Azriel probably knew, he probably knew and didn’t care to tell her. The shadowsinger did all but not dare to look her in the eyes, strengthening his grip around Elains waist and kicking some imaginary stones on the ground.

It made y/n sure in her decision. It had to be her, with all that was left of her, she had to be the one to do it. She knew it, Elain knew it and, this she wasnt sure of, but Azriel too probably knew it.

Without dwelling too much on what consequences Elains silence on her vision brought to them, Rhys was determined that it had to be him. It was his duty as their High Lord, as the most powerful being in all of Prythian, as a father to his beautiful child, as a devoted man to his only High Lady and as a loyal brother and friend to his circle, to the people of Prythian. Maybe this way, he would finally be able to forgive himself for all that he has and has not done, maybe this way he could finally stop the storm that was still alive inside of him.

With one final decision he looked over his circle, the people who were closest to him, for whose happiness he would even sacrifice himself

“Cassian, you and Amren will go over to Summer’s side, I already informed Thesan. You will lead our men from the right side at my command, after I charge with all the men left at our side-“

“You will what?!” He felt Feyres fury burning through him, “Absolutely not Rhysand, you will do no such thing!”

“Feyre, darling, there is no other way, I love you and I love our son so much that I am willing to pay this price so that all of you can-“

“You can go to hell with all of that bullshit-“

“That was kinda the plan”

“Shut up, this is no time to joke! Tell Thesan we have a change of plan! No one is going to play the sacrificial lamb, we will find another way.”

But there was no other way, y/n was sure of that, as was Elain. As the pair still continued to bicker, y/n glanced over to the shadowsinger, just to, maybe, she didn’t know, but all she ever wanted was for him to see her. Maybe it was a too wishful thought, maybe she was too naive to believe that in her possibly last moments he would finally spare her a glance. Because deep down she already knew that she was undeserving of his attention, undeserving of all his affection and love.

He deserved someone like Elain, someone who even in her darkest moments didn’t break, someone strong like her, someone whose softness and calmness was serenity to his soul. Unlike her own pathetic self waddling around the Shadowsinger to get his attention for decades only to exchange mere friendly gazes and words that she decided she was content with. But still, even for all that she was, she was thankful of one thing.

Loving Azriel.

Even if it plagued her and drove her mad at times, she was thankfuk that she got to love him at least from a distance. That she got to experience all the perfection that is all Azriel. From his soft dimples that appeared when Cassian was being his silly self to his inspiring determination to win a brawl. Or, she remembered, his calming voice that still brought chills to her when thinking of it. She hadn’t really heard what he said to her because all that she was focused on was the way Azriels lips were moving, accompanied by that voice that made all of her being tremble. That made her heart flutter faster and her face a little redder.

Oh, how she loved these little moments she had with him, these few minutes she had him all to herself until someone else got his attention.

In those moments she allowed herself to dream, she made herself believe that Azriel too looked at her with a lovers gaze, lied to her heart that he too wanted her. But reality always hit, whenever it was that Mor, and in recent years, Elain walked into the room. Reality was brutally honest which is why she never dared to take the next step, she knew her place.

Or maybe she was just a coward, because y/n knew, she knew the shadowsinger rejecting her would hurt more than what she had with him now. She’d rather love him from a distance without his knowledge than make a fool of herself and risk never seeing him again.

With one final gaze towards her Shadowsinger, she sighed and finally spoke up:

“It wont be any good to just argue and waste our time. Someone clearly has to do it and to be frank I think it would be the wisest if it was me-“

“y/n no-“

“Please just listen to what I have to say Mor. I have trained for decades with Cassian and the shadowsinger, I know how to lead an army and I know my way with the soldiers. Sending Rhysand, Cassian or really any of you guys there would be the dumbest decision. We need you at the back, the people need you. And besides, we have to be honest with ourselves… all of you, well not all of you, but you have to understand that you all eventually would want to have your own families”

she glanced over at her friends, Emerie and Mor, Cassian, Feyre and Rhys

“a bright future I can see right before my eyes”

and finally at Azriels and Elains direction.

“It would be unfair for me to keep living on when you all have already found the person you want to spend the rest of your lives with and frankly-“

“That doesn’t make you any less deserving of living though.”

There goes her shadowsinger, mindful of others as always. He was scowling and panting as if he was holding off words that suffocated him. This bewildered look on his face made her heart clench but she had to step in before he could say anything more.

So she dared to look him in his eyes and with all her strength she mustered up her coldest stare she had

“You dont get to decide a thing on my life shadowsinger.”

Silence. And then

“You won’t get anywhere by trying to talk me out of it. We are already wasting so much time as it is and I have already made up my mind. I will lead them.”

Azriel wanted to say more, to tell her and convince her that it should not be her, that she still had so much left to do with her life. He remembered a time before the war, before everything, when they sat together after a training session and just talked about anything and everything. They weren’t the closest friends, no, but y/n was someone he trusted and whose company he enjoyed.

On that specific day she told him of how she dreamed of seeing the colbalt blue sea, how she wanted to just spend all day in flower fields and enjoy all the types of flowers Spring had to offer or see the enormous libraries that resided in the Day Court. She wanted to travel all of Prythian and beyond and she told him with such glee that the memory of it almost made him step forward and volunteer to take y/n’s place.

But a squeezing hand pulled him back from his thoughts. He looked down towards his hands and saw a mismatch of two clasping hands. His own scarred ones and Elain’s. His beautiful Elain.

And he remembered all the promises he made her just before this, how he would finally propose to her despite what opinions Rhysand had, how he would give her anything she asked of him.

He looked her in the eyes, although teary, she looked at him as if she was determined. She wouldn’t let him take that step forward, and frankly, he was flattered by her reaction. He finally had someone looking after him and caring for his wellbeing. Although he hadn’t dared to show all of him to her, he was content that Elain accepted him the way he was.

Elain loved him for who he was, well, for those parts she only knew of. But that was enough for him, because thats more than anyone has ever offered him.

He smiled at her and although he didn’t want to look, he turned his head back to y/n’s direction. He saw that she was arguing with the other’s, but a sudden ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything that was being said. The only thing he was aware of was his heart thumping faster and faster by the second and suddenly he heard another heartbeat.

It was like everything around him vanished, muffled voices and a blurry vision. And an intense smell of warm floral notes, but it wasn’t Elains, no.

Suddenly all he could feel was a deep rooted longing, similar to the one he had been feeling all those years, and fear. So much fear it nearly made him fall to the ground. He was confused. What was happening to him?

Unbeknownst to him he tightened his grip around Elain’s hand which made her wince

“Azriel are you okay?” Her voice brought him back and he tried to find the words for what has just transpired but Mor’s sudden cry made him look at y/n’s direction again

“Please dont do this y/n, please, I can’t lose you, I can’t lose my sister, someone… just someone please help.”

While Emerie , also with tears in her eyes, tried to calm her, something inside Azriel made him anxious and panic. It felt like those moments where he was on the brink of an anxiety attack, and his heart was racing so fast he felt like he was going to puke.

And this time, when he looked at y/n she was right looking back at him with wide eyes. And there, although small, he could see the first golden fibers of what seemed to be forming into one string connecting him with her.

———————

Part 2 Part 3

A/n: Ahh this was my first time writing ever 😭 I hope you guys enjoy it. Also, I would love some feedback :) Make sure to tell me if you’d like another part 🫶🏼

[galactic-rhea]

you know, maybe I'm wrong, but my interpretation of Anakin/Vader and Redeemed Anakin is that he pretty much is aware he's terrible. He pretty much thinks of himself as a monster even before becoming Vader, he considers himself one as soon as he had to leave Shmi to survive as a slave alone while he got to become The Chosen One and travel the stars (his basic understanding of love is self-sacrifice), he knows the tusken massacre was bad, he knows murdering disarmed Dooku was bad; he knew turning against the jedi and helping Palpatine was bad; he's extremelly self aware of his violence and hates himself for it.

I think it's easy to think of him as nonchalant or as sort of a shameless dick about it all because his General At War Persona was to be jokey and pretend he's having fun. He's very confident on his ability for Murder (tm), he (tragically) became one of the Best general jedis in the order by becoming good at murder, he's useful when he's being murderous at the right people; so he has no doubts on his abilities on this regard; that doesn't mean he isn't aware of how fucked up and cruel it is, but he keeps doing it, and it's all he knows; he was born in violence, raised in violence, taught to yield a extremelly dangerous weapon, groomed into violence, rewarded for violence, cheered for violence, with Ahsoka then he had to teach violence, and then violence just became something that ran in his blood, it came to him easily, too easily because he was never given the means to deal with such a extreme hyperviolent paradigm. So yep, he knows he's good at murder and little self-preservation.

And he probably despised himself for it, he saw himself as less than a being with human rights, he saw himself as a weapon and he hated not being seen as a person, and at some point he became apathic about it, the fight left him as soon as he had no future with a family. As Vader his hate and anger is just cold fury, is mostly apathy and a void of emotions, there's just pain and self-disgust and regret and old anger, there's not even trying to be something else anymore, it's all he's ever been good at and all he's being asked to do.

So redeemed Anakin (which canonically just means Ghost Anakin lmao) acting oblivious or playing the dumb or victim card it's just something I can't even imagine him to do; like Anakin is aware of being violent and messed up and Bad, but he is completely unable to concieve the idea of having been a victim because besides violence, Anakin's other big trait is that he never ever processes trauma and he horrifically has a history of blaming himself instead of the people who owned him.

This guy, when he was at his best as a Jedi, was pathologically prone to suicidal missions even when it wasn't a necessity, he thinks he's an asset, a means for his superiors to impose their stance and chose to own it, instead of blaming his superiors he just hates himself because he can't stop pathetically reliving when he left his mom behind, when he carried her corpse, when he retaliated against even innocents including kids, when he hurt Padmé, all the times he failed, and the he lived in his personal, fitly created just for him, inferno and had no plans to escape it until one certain sunshine farmer showed up, and all because he thinks he deserves the torture and the abuse and being owned because he's just good at murder and nothing else.

So yeah, no one probably hates him more than himself. Someone could tell Ghost Anakin he's a monster, the worst thing that ever happened in the galaxy and he would say "Yes." And no attempts at arguing or whatsoever, his dignity couldn't be lower if he tried, he would half-heartly agree if someone like Luke said the emperor did him wrong by, y'know, torture him? But then he would also say something like "Well, yes, but cruelty is the way of the Sith, what else could be expected", he's just terribly messed up and couldn't stop himself from defending, at least a little, his literal groomer and abuser and master, and he certainly won't expect forgiveness, like,,,,at all. He can, and will, make excuses for people directly hurting him, but he also would retaliate in terrible ways against anyone, guilty or not, if it meant doing it for someone he cared about.

So Anakin is just...used to being used, and falls easily into being used because it's what he knows best, freedom feels useless and uncertain after he lost padmé.

It's an increíble vicious circle: He worked himself hard to be useful because being useful it's what makes people like him and a means of survival, he then hates himself for being just useful and loosing his personhood, and because he hates himself and thinks he doesn't deserve any sort of...human rights, he keeps on being a mere weapon, an object, but what a good and expensive weapon at least, repeat.

So nope, this guy would be completely unable to even dare to play the victim or excuse himself, even less act as if he doesn't understand he did wrong.

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.19

Word Count: 34.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, kidnapping, xavier appears :33

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia

AN: Sorry this chapter took forever! Im getting ready to graduate next month and I feel like a chicken running around with my head cut off ngl LOL. Xavier has finally made his appearance again so enjoy :33

This stupid bolt had been bothering him more than it should. The estate’s gates had been left open that night. A mistake. An oversight born from his restless state, his need to escape his own rabid thoughts. But what if someone had slipped in during that window? What if that bolt wasn’t from machinery… but from something else? Something brought in. Something—or someone—left behind. Sylus had learned a long time ago that the things which gnawed at the back of your mind were often warnings. Quiet signals. Instincts honed by years of survival. He stared at the bolt again. This wasn’t just a stray piece of metal. It was trying to tell him something. He just hadn’t figured out how to read it yet.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

It was just after 4 a.m., and Sylus was already deep into his fifth glass of whiskey. The bottle sat half-empty beside him, beads of condensation pooling on the table, forgotten. The mansion around him was dead silent, the kind of silence that used to soothe him—once. Now it only made his mind louder.

He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. His head had hit the back of the leather chair for only a moment, his hand still wrapped around the glass. But when his eyes opened again, he wasn't in the study anymore. He was somewhere else—dark, but not empty. A void. Still, heavy. No sound. No air. Just that strange hum beneath his feet and the impossible feeling of not being alone. And right there, in front of him, was a door. Not just any door—his door. Down to the old burn mark near the bottom, the one he kept meaning to fix. His subconscious must’ve been getting lazy. Or so he thought.

He stepped through without hesitation. He never hesitated. And when he did, it was because something mattered. And when he saw her—you—standing on the other side, wide-eyed and breathless, it hit him like a damn freight train. The dream, the void, the door—it all made sense in that moment. Your face was the first real thing he’d seen in weeks. Not through a screen. Not in grainy surveillance footage. You. Skin flushed. Hair messy. So close he could smell that faint scent of citrus that used to cling to you after you took showers.

He didn’t rush to you—not this time. Every instinct screamed to grab you, hold you, pull you against him and never let go, but he approached you slowly. Measured. Careful. There was something in your eyes—recognition, fear, maybe something deeper. And maybe this was the start of something new. A chance to show you he was trying. Even if it was just a dream. Even if you’d never believe it in reality. He moved slowly, each step deliberate, his voice low and steady when he spoke.

What mattered was how you recoiled when he reached out.

The way you recoiled from his touch—it was instinctual, immediate. Like his fingers were open flame and you’d learned long ago never to get burned again. You held your ground, jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest like a shield you’d reforged too many times to count. He didn’t take it too personally. Not really. It was almost adorable, the way you squared up with him, all sharp eyes and trembling limbs, trying to act like you had control over something neither of you fully understood. When you insisted, voice low and commanding, that he needed to leave—that this was your dream—he had almost laughed. Actually, he did laugh, a quiet, genuine chuckle slipping from his mouth as he tilted his head and watched you try to will him away like some unruly ghost.

That had been news to him. Your dream? He hadn’t realized. He figured it was neutral ground—a strange anomaly caused by the connection between your Aethor cores. A bond neither of you had anticipated, but one that now tethered your consciousness like a red thread stretched too tight. But hearing you say it out loud...it was so you, so fierce and absurdly endearing, that he couldn’t help the fondness that tugged at his expression, even as you clenched your fists like you’d actually fight him in your own mental sanctuary.

You really thought you could make him disappear. And you tried, god, you tried—eyes squeezed shut, fists shaking, as if sheer willpower could erase his presence. But he stayed. Of course he did. His grip on reality had always been too stubborn to dissolve like that, and more than that—you had always grounded him.

The realization that you were both dreaming—sharing a dream—was breathtaking. It wasn’t just a fluke of memory or trauma echoing in his sleep. This was something deeper. Something rare. A phenomenon he’d never experienced, tied to intense emotional bonds and powerful Aethor resonance. It made his blood rush, not with confusion, but fascination. He could feel you in this space—not just see you. The exhaustion bleeding off your skin, the raw edge of your soul, like your body had been hollowed out and left to scrape along survival’s edge. It hurt him. Tangibly. Your fatigue clung to him like smoke, slow and suffocating. And despite how angry you were, how much you hated him, all he wanted was to take that pain away. Just for a second.

He spoke gently, trying to coax the truth from you. Were you safe? He reminded you that you weren’t truly alone. That Sylvia needed stability, and that you needed rest, stability, something. You shook your head, stubborn as ever. Kept spitting nasty words in retaliation with every word he said, but he couldn’t stop. Not when your voice trembled and your lips were chapped and your frame looked too small beneath a shirt he didn't recognize.

Maybe he had pushed too hard.

He didn’t get a warning. One second you were glaring at him, tears caught in your lashes, and the next—you were gone.

Just like that.

Slipped past him like smoke, vanishing through the same door he’d entered from, the space collapsing behind you like you’d never been there at all. Left him standing alone in the dreamworld’s dead air, heart pounding, hands tense, eyes fixed on the closed door like he could still hear the echo of your breath.

He woke with a start, chest tight and eyebrows furrowed. The alcohol had burned its way through his gut, but the ache that lingered in his ribs wasn’t from that. It was from you. From the look on your face. From the warmth of your skin that still lingered in his palms like a ghost. It wasn’t just a dream. It couldn’t have been. Not with how real it had felt. Not with how the Aethor core in his eye still buzzed like a low static hum.

But you had been real.

And you were close.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!"

The words echoed like a gunshot in his skull, a sharp, searing thing that cut through the whiskey haze and dug into the softest, rawest part of him. He hadn’t flinched when you said it—at least not outwardly. He’d held your wrist too gently to leave a bruise, too tightly to let you slip away without saying something, anything. But the second the words left your mouth, cold and loud and full of venom, they burned.

Did you really mean that?

Maybe you did. Maybe you’d always meant it. It wouldn’t have been the first time you hurled words like knives at him, slicing at anything that got too close. You’d spat worse in the past—called him a monster, a mistake, a cage—but that had been then. Before the baby. Before the silence. Before the void of absence that had hollowed out his nights and turned his waking hours into a blur of rage and longing.

He’d thought—hoped—that after everything, you might have missed him. Just a little. That some sliver of the life you had carried inside you, the baby he hasn't gotten to hold yet, might have tethered you to him in some unspoken way. That maybe, in your dreams at least, your guard would drop. That your subconscious would remember the warmth, the safety, the nights where your breath had fallen against his throat like a promise you never meant to break.

But no. You’d looked at him like he was a nightmare made flesh.

He tried to rationalize it. Tried to convince himself it was a defense mechanism, a front—a wall you had to keep intact because you were terrified of what it meant to need him again. It had to be. Because if you truly meant it—if those words came from your soul, not just your mouth—then why had your Aethor reached out to his in the first place?

Shared dreaming wasn’t random. It wasn’t common. It didn’t just happen. Your cores were still intertwined, whether you wanted to admit it or not. And that meant some part of you, buried deep beneath the fear and the hate, had called out to him.

He clung to that. Replayed the scene over and over in his mind, analyzing every blink, every tremor in your voice, every breath you took before slipping away from him again. Because underneath all of it—the pain, the rage, the rejection—was the unbearable, unshakable truth:

You were close. You were hurting. And despite everything you said… You had reached for him first.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t shaken.

The dream had ended over twenty minutes ago, and yet Sylus hadn’t moved from his chair. He sat there in the dim, half-lit space of his temporary office, the whiskey forgotten on the desk beside him, one hand resting limp in his lap while the other tapped absently against the leather armrest. His leg bounced with nervous tension, the kind he hadn’t felt in years—not during stand-offs, not during raids, not even during the first days after you escaped.

His mind kept circling back, dragging him through every second of that dream like a man reliving a car crash in slow motion. Your face. Your voice. The heat in your eyes when you told him to let go. That raw panic—the same panic he’d seen when you left his mansion for good. But this time there was something else there. Something fragile, like guilt, or maybe…regret?

He should’ve sprung into action. That was his plan. Always had been. You were in a motel, he was sure of it now. The cheap furnishings, the texture of the walls, the rattle of a heater somewhere just off-screen—he knew the signs. Knew the type of place you’d retreat to, alone and desperate, baby in tow. He had all the tools. The access. The network. A few database pings, a sift through security cams, and he was closer than ever to finding you again.

So why the hell was he still sitting here?

Why couldn’t he move?

He clenched his jaw and pressed his palm against his temple, teeth grinding with the weight of something he didn’t want to admit. He was afraid. Not of you, never of you. But of what might happen if he cornered you again. Of the way you managed to slip between his fingers like mist, vanishing deeper into the cracks of the city each time. Every confrontation, every chase, had left him further from you than before. And it was starting to gnaw at him, piece by piece, like rot beneath the surface.

He needed to move slow. Smarter. He couldn’t afford another failure. Not when he’d gotten this close.

The idea of you right now—probably frantic, wide-eyed, packing your few belongings in silence while his daughter cried in the background—grated against his nerves like broken glass. You were likely already planning your escape, stuffing bottles and and baby supplies into a duffel bag, checking the windows twice, maybe three times. He could picture it all. You with that panicked, hardened look in your eyes. Holding his daughter like she was some priceless artifact that the he was trying to steal from you.

“This won’t do,” he muttered under his breath, the words dry against his tongue, eyes fluttering shut as frustration tightened across his chest like a vice. The walls of the office felt too close, the air too still. He needed to think—really think—and he couldn’t do that if he stayed here, wasting away in a leather chair, drowning in amber lies and excuses. The whiskey wasn’t helping. It hadn’t helped in weeks. All it did now was dull his instincts and blur the edges of his plans, and he was running out of chances. Running out of time.

He stood up abruptly, the chair sliding back with a sharp scrape across the floor. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, still a third full, the glass cool and smooth against his palm. It sloshed as he moved, rhythmic, mocking. The mansion was silent as he left the office, doors clicking shut behind him with a heavy finality. No staff. No twins.

The few guards that still worked the grounds stayed posted outside, paid to keep their mouths shut and their eyes down. Even Luke and Kieran had relocated—living elsewhere in the city, handling operations remotely. At some point, Sylus had stopped asking them to stay. He didn’t need their loyalty at his back. What he needed was clarity. And you.

He moved through the halls like a ghost, past rooms he hadn’t entered in weeks. Everything was too pristine, too untouched, like a mausoleum disguised as a home. When he reached the kitchen, he flicked on the light and stared at the unnatural stillness. The room was spotless—immaculate in that eerie, clinical way that only came from absence. No dishes. No crumbs. No warmth. He hadn’t eaten much lately anyway. Food felt irrelevant when his mind was constantly racing, clawing through satellite feeds, audio intercepts, distant glimpses of your life he couldn’t quite reach.

He unscrewed the bottle and stood over the sink. For a second, he hesitated—just a second—then tipped it forward. The whiskey spilled out in a thick, amber stream, the scent rising sharply as it hit the steel basin. He closed his eyes and listened to the wet rush of it draining away. Something about the sound grounded him. Final. Wasteful. Cleansing. The noise filled the silence like a confession whispered into the dark. When the bottle was empty, he set it down on the counter without ceremony. No theatrics. Just done.

He wasn’t going to sit around and rot.

He needed air. Movement. A straight line to something real.

And maybe, if the ride was long enough, cold enough, quiet enough—he’d finally see the path forward.

Yeah. Just what he needed.

A ride. A good, hard, fast ride with nothing but wind and open road to cut through the noise in his head. He hadn’t touched one of the bikes in a bit—hadn’t even stepped into the garage unless he needed to bark orders at the mechanics. Most of his time lately had been consumed by one thing: you. Tracking you. Obsessing over you. Replaying every word, every memory, every fleeting moment since you escaped like it was sacred scripture. Before that, it had been even worse.

Those last few months with you, when your body had finally begun to swell with his child, had taken everything from him—every waking second was poured into crafting a life for you. A future. He’d broken you down piece by piece, rebuilt you into something you could survive in, something that could carry the future he had designed. Every breath you took, every craving you whimpered about, every nightmare you tried to hide—he was there. Catering. Controlling. Watching. Loving.

And all of it—every single moment—had been for you.

Even the parts that hurt you.

Especially those.

He could never take those back. He wasn't as proud of them anymore. But they had still been partly necessary. He had just approached everything so wrong. You didn’t understand that yet. But one day, you would. And when that day came, you’d finally see the lengths he had gone to—what he had sacrificed—to give you both something that resembled a life. A future. A legacy.

And you would see the new man that he could be.

Now though, now he needed space. A flicker of that old clarity he used to find at two hundred kilometers an hour, leather tight around his frame, engine growling like thunder under his hands. He grabbed his jacket off the hook, slid on his gloves with muscle memory too long unused, and made his way to the estate door. The moment he opened it, the cold December wind hit him square in the face, rustling through his hair like a slap of reality. It was bitter, sharp—and cleansing.

The two guards flanking the front stepped to attention immediately, both startled, stiff-backed, guns at their sides. Clearly not expecting him.

“Sir!” one of them called out, adjusting his grip on the rifle. “Is everything alright?”

Sylus didn’t even slow his stride. He walked right past them, the weight of his boots deliberate on the stone, and pressed the garage remote without looking back. The massive steel door began to rise, mechanical groaning filling the silence as the dark space beyond slowly revealed itself. Rows of vehicles sat in polished silence, but his eyes found it immediately—his bike, matte black and low-slung, untouched since he arrived.

“You two are dismissed for the night,” he said flatly, eyes locked ahead as the wind curled around him. "Open the gate and leave."

The guards exchanged a glance, quick and uneasy, caught between protocol and their instinct not to push their luck. Sylus had that effect on people—his presence didn’t demand obedience so much as expect it. Still, one of them stuttered as he nodded, shifting uncomfortably beneath the weight of his rifle. “Thank you, sir. Have a good rest of your morning!”

Sylus barely heard them.

The words slipped past him like background static, irrelevant. He was already inside his head, already moving toward the only clarity he trusted: the road. His boots echoed against the concrete floor of the garage as he crossed the dark space with tunnel vision, zeroed in on the familiar shelf where his helmet waited. Dustless. Untouched. Ready. He grabbed it with practiced ease, fingers curling around the matte shell before straddling the bike with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. The engine sat silent beneath him, patient, like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

He had his reasons for dismissing the guards. He wasn’t normally reckless, but he needed them gone. When he came back, whenever that would be, he didn’t want to see anyone. No nods, no updates, no small talk or sideways glances. Just solitude. He wasn’t worried about the security. The estate was lined with surveillance and reinforced glass, motion sensors, tech even half the government couldn’t crack.

Besides, if something did go wrong—if someone thought they were stupid enough to breach his home—he could handle it. There was nothing in that mansion he couldn’t afford to lose. Nothing worth protecting more than what he’d already lost. Let them take the art, the liquor, the antique weapons on the wall. None of it mattered.

What he wanted—what he needed—was this.

The sound of the engine roared to life beneath him, deep and alive, and something inside him uncoiled at the vibration running up through the frame into his spine. It was the only voice he could stand anymore. The only thing that didn’t ask anything of him. He revved the throttle hard, the noise ripping through the quiet neighborhood like thunder, and without hesitation, he shot forward—out of the garage, past the empty guards, through the gates.

He left the gate ajar behind him.

Didn’t care.

The wind whipped across his face as he flew down the empty roads, then into the veins of the city, weaving between slower cars like a phantom, clearly pushing past every speed limit with no concern for the flashing traffic cams or the irritated honks behind him. But when you were Sylus—when you were him—rules were suggestions. Speed limits were for the powerless. He didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. The world blurred around him in streaks of steel and shadow.

All he wanted now was the noise.

All he needed was the road.

The city blurred past him in neon streaks and headlight flashes, but Sylus barely registered any of it. His eyes were on the road, but his mind was miles away—tangled in thoughts of you. Of how many times you’d slipped through his fingers like smoke. How even when you weren’t trying to run, you still managed to escape. Every time he got close, something cracked. You bolted. You vanished. And each time, it carved deeper into his patience, into the carefully laid plans he’d built from the ground up.

He hated it. The unpredictability. The instability. The feeling that one wrong move would scare you off for good. He couldn't afford that now. Not with his daughter in the picture. Not with you on the verge of breaking apart. He knew how fragile you were—he could feel it even now, like a dull pressure behind his ribs. The dream had shown him enough. You were slipping. Not just from him, but from yourself. And if he pushed too hard again, you might disappear in a way even he couldn’t fix.

No, he couldn’t confront you directly. Not this time.

He could track your location. That wasn’t the issue. He had the tech. The reach. A few good sweeps and searches of motels, and he’d have your location eventually. But what good would that do if it only made you run again? You were probably already packing, frantic, shoving diapers and formula into a ratty bag while the baby cried in the background. You’d grab your keys, double-check the windows, head for the next nameless motel like it might save you.

Chasing wouldn’t work. Not anymore.

He had to lure you in.

But how?

What could possibly pull you out of hiding? It wasn’t money—you never cared about wealth, not when it came from him. You’d scraped by with nothing before. Starved, bled, hidden in no so great areas and God knows where else, and not once had you reached out. You were stubborn. Principled. Even in the face of ruin. Shelter meant nothing to you unless it was your own. And safety? You didn’t trust it unless you built it with your bare hands. If it came from someone like Sylus, you saw it as a gilded cage. A trap. You’d rather sleep in your car with one eye open and Sylvia clutched to your chest than ever accept his protection again. He’d learned that the hard way.

So what else was there?

His eyes snapped open.

Xavier.

The name surged through his chest like a lightning strike, fast and final. Not just some boy. Not some forgettable face. Your first love. The one you never spoke of. The one who had been there before Sylus, before he had rightfully swooped into your life. Sylus remembered that name like a splinter under his skin. Xavier—the one you compared him to without even realizing it. The one whose absence still lived in the corners of your eyes. A boy wrapped in golden memory, the one you had called out for right in front of him. Hated the way you softened when you had been with him temporarily, hated how distant your gaze went when you were obviously remembering him. But now...now that name was useful.

Now it was leverage.

He wouldn’t just take Xavier. He’d use him. Because Xavier wasn’t just someone you cared about—he was someone you’d still trust. If he showed up at your door, if he said the right words, if he asked you to come with him...you might actually listen. You might follow. And Sylus wouldn’t even have to be the one dragging you back. You’d walk willingly. Into his hands. Into his world. Just like before.

No fighting. No screaming. That wasn’t the goal. The plan had to be exact. Controlled. Xavier wouldn’t be hurt—at least, not yet. He just needed to be...taken. Contained. Given the right motivation. And Sylus knew how to motivate. He’d remind the boy what was at stake. He’d break him down until he was pliable enough to say whatever needed to be said to get you back. And you—God, you’d come. Because it wasn’t just that you loved Xavier once. It was that part of you that still did. That tiny flicker you tried to bury, the one Sylus saw in your eyes every time you thought of him. He would use that flame, twist it, feed it. Until it led you straight back to him.

Because you always protected the people you loved. He had watched you do it routinely during his time of stalking you. Watching you slash wanderers and laugh cheerfully with coworkers while still covered in their blood had amused him greatly.

Sylus was used to playing the villain in your story. He had made peace with that a long time ago—though “peace” wasn’t the right word. It was more like inevitability. Like gravity. No matter how gently he touched you, how quietly he spoke, how many comforts he laid at your feet, you still saw him as the one who took everything. Who ripped you from the world you knew and reassembled you into something else—something that, in his mind, was better, safer, more protected. But not free. Never free. And he knew it. He'd always known. So yes, he had accepted the title. Worn it like a second skin. Monster. Manipulator. Possessor. The man you feared almost as much as you once loved.

This—what he was about to do—it wouldn’t be different. If anything, it was worse. Cold. Calculated. A violation of the only trust you might’ve had left in the world. Taking Xavier and twisting him into bait was a line few would cross, but Sylus had never been most men. He didn’t think like them. Didn’t feel like them. He wasn't them. He loved differently. Obsessively. Entirely. And that kind of love didn’t come without damage. He understood that. He had acknowledged long ago that he was far from normal.

You would hate him for this. You would scream, and sob, and call him a monster all over again—and you would be right. There would be no justifying it, not to you. Maybe not even to himself in his more honest moments. This was betrayal, and he knew it. Deep down in the marrow of him, he understood he was digging the wound even deeper. But it wasn’t about today. It wasn’t about next week. It was about forever. About building something unshakable out of the ashes. He couldn’t afford to think small. Not when everything that mattered—everything he had yearned for—was slipping further out of reach with every passing hour.

Forgiveness would not come easily, if it ever came at all. He knew that too. But you had the rest of your lives to sort that out together. Every scream, every accusation, every cold stare across the room—that was all just noise to him, part of the process. Because you would be there, under his roof, in his arms, where you belonged. That was all that mattered in the end.

You’d call it cruel.

He’d call it love.

The engine cut with a rough purr as Sylus pulled off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the bike skidded to a smooth stop. The road had opened up briefly, revealing a narrow, unlit path that led down toward the shoreline—a beach tucked away beneath the cliffs, quiet and empty at this hour. He hadn’t intended to stop. The ride was supposed to be a release, a clearing of his head, not an invitation to pause. But the sight of the water, dark and endless, pulled at something low in his chest. The sky was starting to shift, just a touch—inky black softening to navy blue, then to hints of bruised lavender near the horizon. The sun would be up in a few hours. For once, he had the time to watch it rise.

He swung his leg off the bike, boots hitting the ground with weight. The air was cold, salt-stung and clean. He hadn’t been near the ocean in months—maybe longer—and the sound of the waves was foreign, distant, like it belonged to another life. Maybe it did. A version of him that could live outside of strategy and surveillance, one that could win you over without having to rip apart the world around you to do it. He adjusted the collar of his shirt against the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon as he stood there in silence.

But the stillness didn’t last long. It never did with him.

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out his phone, the glass cool against his palm as he tapped Kieran’s contact. The line didn’t even have time to ring once.

“Yes, boss man?” Kieran’s voice cracked through, chipper and fast—almost too eager for someone who’d probably just been asleep seconds ago.

Sylus didn’t flinch. His tone was flat, measured. “Both of you—start making preparations for a...retrieval.”

The other end of the line went still. Not quiet—focused. Kieran wasn’t confused. He knew what Sylus meant. There were protocols for things like this, unspoken and carved into their history. They didn’t need long explanations or drawn-out orders. Just the trigger word.

“You know what that entails,” Sylus continued. His gaze didn’t shift from the horizon. “I’ll have more details later.”

Then he ended the call.

Just like that.

No confirmation. No repeat-back. The twins would already be moving, slipping out of their apartments, contacting the right people, dusting off their gear. Kieran would brief Luke. Luke would help him secure the extraction. By the time Sylus returned to the mansion, the wheels would already be turning. All he had to do now was name the target and tighten the noose.

And he would.

Very soon.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, letting the wind pull at the hem of his jacket. Somewhere out there—somewhere in another crumbling motel room—you were probably wide awake, packing in the dark, clutching Sylvia to your chest and listening for footsteps outside the door. He could picture it vividly. You with that haunted, tired look in your eyes. Always ready to run.

But this time, you wouldn’t have anywhere left to run to.

This time, the move was his.

And it would end exactly how he planned.

Your vision began to blur with tears, hot and stinging, distorting the quiet streetlights into wavering halos. You didn’t even try to blink them away. You just let them fall, silent and warm against your wind-chilled cheeks as you pushed your body forward, one unsteady step at a time. Your muscles screamed in protest, every stride feeling heavier than the last. Your chest felt like it had caved in, as though your lungs were trying to fold in on themselves, trying to stop you from breathing. But still—you kept moving. Not because you had strength. Not because you had direction. But because if you stopped, everything you were running from would catch up in an instant.

As much as you hated to admit it—even to yourself, even in the deepest, most buried corner of your thoughts—for the first time in what felt like forever, there was silence. No shrill crying. No tiny fists clinging to your shirt. No desperate scrambling for milk or diapers or warmth. Just the sound of your footsteps. Your breath. The low hum of the wind whistling past your ears and through the empty streets. And with that silence came something unfamiliar—thought. Clear, sharp, brutal thought. It filled the spaces where panic usually lived. It peeled back the protective layer of chaos that had clouded everything for weeks. And in its place, it left clarity laced with guilt so thick and heavy it seemed to soak through your bones. It sat there, dragging against your ribs like wet lead.

You had done the right thing. Hadn’t you? That thought circled back again and again, rising and sinking with every heartbeat.

You told yourself it on repeat like a mantra, like a prayer, like something fragile and holy that might crack if you let doubt in. Sylvia was better off. She had to be. The mansion had looked safe. It had been the kind of place people lived when they had real lives, good lives, secure lives. Someone kind would find her. Someone warm. Someone who didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, afraid of their own shadow. Someone who wouldn’t look at her and see a reflection of the worst night of their life. Someone who would open the door and see her for the miracle she was. That they would read the note. That they would care. That they would raise her with laughter, with love. That she would never know the dark you were running from. That she would never know him.

But despite everything you told yourself, your legs felt heavier with every step. Your shoes dragged over the uneven sidewalk. The tears still hadn’t stopped. You sniffled, wiped your sleeve across your face, smearing salt and snot and shame across your cheeks. You looked up through blurry eyes, heart suddenly hammering—because you didn’t know where you were. Not really. Your motel had to be around here. Somewhere. Right? You’d walked so far and so fast you hadn’t even looked at the signs. You hadn’t thought to track the route. All you had been thinking about was leaving. Running. Now everything looked the same—fences, porches, rows of parked cars, lights flickering above cracked pavement.

You turned in a slow, clumsy circle, trying to get your bearings. Your breath hitched. The world tilted slightly beneath you, just for a second. You hadn’t eaten in...how long? You hadn’t slept well in ages. Your stomach was a tight, cramping knot and your body was running on fear alone. Maybe you could find someone. Ask them the name of the street, the nearest motel, anything. But who was going to help a wide-eyed, sleep-deprived woman trembling in the middle of a dark street with tear tracks frozen to her face? Who would believe you weren’t a danger to yourself?

Another gust of wind barreled into you, and you shivered violently. Your arms folded across your chest, fingers digging into your sides. It didn’t help. The cold cut through your coat, through every layer like it was punishing you. Like it knew what you’d done. Like it had been sent to remind you that no matter how far you ran, you were never going to outrun the part of yourself that turned away from your baby girl and ran away.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You started running again—if you could even call it that. It was more like a half-stumble, half-sprint, your body pulled forward by sheer adrenaline. Your lungs burned. Your throat stung with every inhale of freezing air. Your legs wobbled beneath you, threatening collapse, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t know where you were going. You just knew that if you stopped moving, your thoughts would swallow you whole.

Finally, after what felt like forever, your body gave out. You stumbled to a stop, doubling over with your hands on your knees, gasping for breath. You stood there in the middle of some nameless, empty street, chest heaving, eyes blurry again. You looked around. Nothing was familiar. Not a single detail. It was like you’d stepped into a different city entirely.

And as you stood there in the dark, panting, trembling, lost—you realized something that cracked you wide open:

You didn’t know if you were any closer to where you were supposed to be.

Or if you even had anywhere to go at all.

Sure, you needed to go back to the motel. But even as the thought crossed your mind, a cold hollowness followed it like a shadow that stretched farther the longer you stared into it. What would even be the point now? The room would be empty. Still. Too quiet in that kind of way that made your skin itch and your chest ache. The crib beside the bed—bare, untouched. The bottles on the counter, the half-packed diaper bag, the tiny clothes you had no strength to fold—all of it now meaningless clutter. Without Sylvia, that place wasn’t a sanctuary anymore. It was a tomb. And you? You weren’t sure if you were meant to walk away from it or crawl back inside and rot.

The realization hit with a force that nearly buckled your knees: you could go anywhere now. There were no limitations, no tiny cries anchoring you to a schedule, no frantic middle-of-the-night wakeups to cater to every whim of a newborn, no need to watch your back every second in case a familiar shadow caught up with you. You were unburdened in the most horrible way possible. Free, yes—but only because the one person who tethered you to something good was no longer there. You could take the car and just drive. Drive until the road turned to gravel, until the gas tank blinked empty, until the sun set a thousand times behind you and you forgot what her face looked like.

And the sickest part? The part that made your stomach twist and your heart pound with guilt? For the briefest second, it sounded almost...tempting. To not have to stop every hour to change a diaper with numb fingers in a cold backseat. To not have to pull over at rest stops in the dead of night and relinquish your body to a needy baby. To not feel your heart jackhammer in your chest every time she cried too loud, afraid it might echo through some surveillance system he had rigged, afraid it would lead him right to you. No more scavenging for warmth, for safe spaces, for peace you never really found.

Hell, you could just disappear. Fade into some nameless diner, stare out a window for a week straight, let yourself drift into the background until your mind frayed at the edges. You could sleep in the car, let your body sink into the cold and let it wear you down to nothing. No one would notice. No one would ask. You could waste away, cell by cell, thought by thought. It wouldn’t matter. Not now.

You could just die.

No.

Your chest seized violently. A sharp inhale cracked through your throat like ice shattering under pressure. You clenched your eyes shut, like if you just squeezed hard enough, the thoughts would splinter apart and disappear. But they didn’t. They clung. They festered.

You shouldn’t think like this. You couldn’t think like this.

What was wrong with you? What kind of person—what kind of mother—thought these things? You weren’t supposed to feel relief. You weren’t supposed to feel lighter. You were supposed to be mourning. Panicking. Praying. Not mapping out the various ways you could vanish without consequence.

You were sick. Twisted. A monster in borrowed skin.

The thought that you had willingly left her—placed her in a stranger’s arms and walked away—how could you ever justify that? And worse, how could part of you be grateful for the silence that followed? How could you ever forgive yourself for even fantasizing about a life without Sylvia in it? You shouldn’t be calculating escape routes. You should be clawing your way back to that doorstep.

The shame hit you like a tidal wave.

It knocked the air out of your lungs, drove your body to the ground like you’d been struck. You collapsed to your knees on the freezing pavement, the cold biting through your jeans as your body folded in on itself. The sob burst from your throat before you could stop it—loud, raw, keening. It was the sound of something cracking, something final. It echoed off the empty street around you, unanswered. You cried like you were breaking open from the inside. Like grief was clawing its way out of your bones and pouring from your mouth.

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks in relentless waves, dripping from your chin to your collar, staining the front of your shirt. Your fingers curled against your thighs, nails digging deep as if pain could somehow tether you to the moment, to your guilt, to something. Anything.

You didn’t want to be this person. This hollow, aching shell of someone who used to be whole. But you didn’t know how to be anything else anymore.

And worst of all, you weren’t even sure you deserved to.

You wept uncontrollably, your sobs unraveling from somewhere deep—deeper than you’d allowed yourself to feel in weeks, maybe even months. It wasn’t a single cry, or a small moment of catharsis. It was an eruption. A collapse. As though every buried tremor inside you had finally cracked through the surface all at once, and now there was no way to put yourself back together. Your body shook with the effort of it, your chest heaving, throat raw. It was as though your nervous system had gone into complete revolt, unable to contain the pressure anymore.

Everything was too much. Every memory. Every failure. Every second of pretending you were fine when you were unraveling inch by inch. The weight of it all—the slow accumulation of suffering, of loss, of impossible choices—pressed down on you now like a crushing tide. It wasn’t just the immediate grief of Sylvia, or the pain of what you’d just done. It was everything that came before. The things no one else had seen. The things you never spoke of aloud.

The trauma of being kidnapped not once, but twice. Of having your agency stripped from you in quiet, methodical ways that didn’t always leave bruises, but always left scars. The brush with organ trafficking—your body nearly sold, your future dangled in front of you like bait only to be yanked away. The invasive, soul-level violation of being used. Manipulated. Rewritten by someone who swore he loved you. You had endured so much with clenched teeth and a steady gait, forced yourself to survive when everything in you screamed to collapse. And you had made it—barely. But even survival came with a cost.

The exhaustion. The isolation. The sense of never quite feeling safe, even when the door was locked and the baby was sleeping and the lights were off. He was always there—if not physically, then in your mind. A looming shadow that tracked every movement, every breath, every decision. And now, even after all that effort to escape, you could feel it again. The certainty. The inevitability. He would find you. He always found you.

And yet none of that compared to what you had just done. Because when all was said and done, when you stripped away the fear and the chaos and the survival instinct—you had made a choice. A conscious, deliberate choice to leave the only person who hadn’t taken from you. The only person who had needed you simply because you were her mother and didn't have much choice in the matter either.

Sylvia.

And what broke you most wasn’t just the choice. It was the relief that had followed. The sudden, appalling lightness in your chest. The silence. The stillness. You had left her. And for a single, horrifying second—you had felt free.

You gasped, your throat constricting as that realization hit, hard and unforgiving. The guilt clawed up from your gut like bile, burning all the way through. It was undeniable now. You were the monster. Not him. Not the man whose obsession shaped the course of your life. You. You were the one who had walked away. Who had seen her as a burden instead of a blessing. Who had left her on a doorstep like unwanted baggage.

You remembered the things you’d whispered in your weakest moments—how she cried too much, needed too much, reminded you of him. And it made you sick. Because she had never asked to be here. She had never been anything but a child—your child. And still, you had failed her.

How had you ever called her the monster?

She had never been anything but pure. Small. Good.

The real monster had been with you all along. Wearing your skin. Making your choices.

You crumpled in on yourself, sobbing harder now, each cry breaking loose with more force than the last. It felt like your soul was hemorrhaging, like every part of you that was human had been scraped raw. You didn’t even try to stop. You couldn’t. You shook and cried with every heave of your chest, your hands shaking too much to steady you.

The streets were still dark. Quiet. Your cries echoed through the narrow alleyways and dim intersections. You thought maybe the sky was starting to lighten, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not now.

And then—cutting through the spiral like a blade through silk—

“Uh…miss?”

The voice hit your senses like an electric shock. You flinched violently, twisting around, breath catching mid-sob. Your vision was blurry—between the tears and the chill—but you could make out a figure standing several feet away.

It was a young woman, probably mid-twenties, dressed in running gear, a reflective band strapped to one wrist. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion or the cold, her ponytail slightly mussed. She had one earbud still in, the other dangling by the cord, forgotten. Her face was marked with caution, but also genuine concern.

“Are…you okay?” she asked gently, voice soft but sure. “I heard you crying from the next street over.”

You stared at her, frozen, heart still thudding erratically in your chest. Your face was a mess—tear-streaked, blotchy, raw. You realized you were still kneeling, hunched over like you’d been dragged there by force.

Embarrassment swept over you in a fresh wave. You didn’t even have the strength to answer. Of course someone had heard. Of course someone had seen. Because it wasn’t enough to fall apart—you had to do it in front of a witness. You had to unravel beneath a stranger’s eyes and add humiliation to your long list of griefs.

And somehow, that felt like the cruelest part of all.

Think. Think of an excuse.

You couldn’t possibly tell a stranger the truth—that you had just abandoned your newborn child on the doorstep of a random mansion, your heart still raw, your soul still bleeding. That you had written a goodbye letter with shaking hands, kissed her warm forehead one last time, and walked away into the darkness before the sunrise could make you change your mind. The guilt still pulsed in your chest like a second heartbeat, jagged and loud and inescapable.

You cleared your throat, rubbed at your swollen, tear-streaked face, and slowly forced yourself to stand. Your limbs trembled slightly beneath your weight, your knees sore from the pavement. “I’m so sorry for the noise,” you murmured, blinking rapidly to pull together some fragment of composure. “I just…lost someone I loved dearly.”

It wasn’t technically a lie.

Sylvia was gone. You had walked away from the one person in the world who had needed you unconditionally, the only living proof that something beautiful had come from the wreckage of your life. And now she was out of your arms, out of your reach, and possibly already in someone else’s. The thought nearly made your legs buckle again.

The stranger nodded softly, her expression shifting into one of gentle, practiced sympathy. “I totally understand the feeling. I can get you a ride if you’d like. Do you live nearby?” she asked, already pulling the other earbud from her ear and tucking it away.

Shit.

Now you had to keep lying.

“I’m actually from pretty far,” you said quickly, your voice just steady enough to sound plausible. You forced a thin, almost-apologetic smile. “Just visiting. I need to get going…sorry.” You took a step to the side, trying to end the interaction as quickly as possible. You didn’t have the energy for kindness, not even from a stranger.

But the woman didn’t move. Her brows furrowed with deeper concern. She took a cautious step toward you, not aggressive, just present. “Wait, really—it’s no trouble. You shouldn’t be out here alone like this. Let me help. You don’t look okay, and it’s not safe to wander around here this early. Please.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging beneath the exhaustion, the emotional wreckage, and the cold morning air. “Fine,” you said finally, not because you trusted her, but because you were too tired to argue. “Do you know where the nearest motel is? And maybe…the nearest bus out of the city?”

Her eyes lit up with something close to relief. Maybe she’d been afraid you’d collapse again. “Oh—yeah! There’s only one motel nearby. It’s not the best, but it’s clean and usually has rooms. I can give you directions.”

Thank god. It was likely the one you'd been staying in already.

She paused, eyeing your disheveled state—your tangled hair, your dirty sleeves, your red, puffy eyes—and you saw the way she hesitated before continuing, like she wanted to ask more but knew better. “The bus stops are a little farther, though,” she added, shifting her bag off her shoulder and crouching down. “You’ll probably want to rest first. Or at least warm up.”

She dug around in her jogging bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and a pen with a cracked clip. “I’m Emma, by the way. Nice to meet you,” she said as she began to write. Her voice was calm, practiced, like she’d helped people like you before.

You hesitated just a second before answering. “Mephisto,” you said, picking a name you hadn’t used in awhile. “Nice to meet you too.”

She gave you a small look but didn't remark about the strange name. Emma crouched beside the curb, bracing the paper on her knee as she scribbled down a list of directions—turns, street names, small landmarks to look out for. Her handwriting was quick but legible, and she talked through each step as she wrote, pointing out helpful details like the corner bakery you’d pass or the alley to avoid at night. You nodded along, humming in acknowledgment, pretending to listen to every detail.

You didn’t want to trust anyone. You didn’t want to owe anyone. You didn’t want to open yourself to even a sliver of vulnerability.

But for now, just for a moment, you had to.

She even tore the paper carefully and folded it in half before handing it to you, her fingers brushing yours briefly. “It’s not much,” she said, “but it should get you there.”

You took it with a quiet nod. “Thanks.” The word felt foreign on your tongue.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Emma said, stepping back slowly.

You offered a faint smile, but your heart was already closing in again. Already retreating. Already preparing for the next goodbye.

At least now, you had a direction.

Emma had been surprisingly good at giving directions—clear, precise, almost effortless. It made sense, you guessed. She seemed like the kind of person who jogged the same routes daily, the type who paid attention to her environment without even meaning to. She probably waved to the same people, passed the same barking dog behind a crooked fence, noticed the seasons changing one crack in the sidewalk at a time. You followed her neat handwriting down the maze of early morning streets, her voice still echoing in your mind with each turn: take a left after the bakery, go past the park, look for the green trash bin with a missing wheel.

What amazed you most wasn’t just how helpful the note was—it was the distance. The sheer distance. As your feet dragged and your legs burned, it dawned on you just how far you had pushed Sylvia in her stroller. That entire stretch of road had passed like a blur, your body running on instinct, your focus consumed entirely by those last moments. You could barely remember the details of the streets, the buildings, the cold biting your cheeks.

All your energy had been devoted to soaking in those last fleeting moments with her—the warmth of her small body, the subtle twitch of her lashes, the faint scent of her skin, like milk and laundry soap. You had stared at her for so long you’d memorized the shape of her nose, the curve of her jaw, the way her breath made her chest rise and fall. Everything else around you had ceased to matter.

Eventually, the familiar shape of the motel sign crested into view—faded red letters buzzing behind a plastic casing, its light flickering sporadically like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on. It looked the same as you left it, and yet completely different. You stood there for a second, just breathing. Part relief. Part dread. Part something you didn’t have a name for. Your legs felt like they might give out, but somehow you moved forward, crossing the final stretch of concrete until you stood beneath the buzzing glow.

Your bones ached from exhaustion, but your heart—that was worse. That was agony. An invisible wound pulsing with every beat, reminding you what you had left behind.

You slipped into the small, dimly lit lobby and were hit instantly by the warmth inside, dry and stale but welcome. The worn carpet muffled your steps as you crossed the room, heading straight for the vending machine tucked near the ice machine in the corner. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket, fishing out a few crumpled dollars. You didn’t want much—just something to fill the yawning void in your stomach, to distract you for a moment. You fed the bills into the machine and punched in the number for a danish you knew would taste like cardboard.

You watched it spiral downward behind the glass, the noise oddly loud in the silence. For a second, you just stood there, staring at it, hands limp at your sides.

Behind you, the sound of a door creaking open pulled you back to reality.

From the back office, the motel owner emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked the same as always—gray hair, plaid shirt, a tired but genuine smile. “Morning! The little one still sleeping?” he asked, his voice light, friendly.

Your breath caught in your throat like a stone.

You turned halfway toward him, forcing your face into something that resembled calm. “Uh…morning,” you replied, clearing your throat. “Yes, she just went to sleep.”

It wasn’t a good lie. But it was simple. It worked.

He smiled, apparently satisfied. “That’s good. You’ve both had a rough stretch. Let me know if you need extra towels or anything.”

“Thank you,” you said, the words barely audible, as you grabbed your danish from the tray and turned away. Your hands felt colder than they should’ve, even in the heated room. You moved toward your room slowly, every step heavier than the last.

Your shoulders were tense, your breath shallow. The weight of the lie lingered in your chest like smoke, thick and cloying. You didn’t want to think about what he’d say if he realized you’d left alone. If he’d even notice. If he’d ask questions.

You told yourself you’d only need one more night.

Just one.

Just enough to figure out what came next. Enough time to gather your strength, pack the rest of your things, and disappear again before the consequences caught up.

It wasn’t rest you needed. It was distance.

You walked down the hallway, counting the doors as if that might keep the thoughts at bay, the guilt at arm’s length. But it never really left you.

You opened the room door slowly, stepping back into the hollowed-out space you had called your temporary home. The crib still sat by the bed.

Empty.

Everything felt too still, too silent. Like time had paused the second you walked away from her.

And somehow, you weren’t sure it had started back up again.

You forced yourself to look away from the crib and sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath your weight, a familiar sound that felt strangely out of place in the crushing silence of the room. Every fiber of your body resisted the motion. Sitting felt too still, too final. But you made yourself do it. You made yourself breathe—slow, deliberate inhales through your nose, and shaky, fragmented exhales through your cracked lips. Your hands gripped the packaged danish like it was some fragile, sacred thing, a flimsy attempt at self-preservation. You peeled the wrapper back with trembling fingers, the crinkle of plastic loud in the otherwise silent room.

You had to eat. You told yourself that, over and over. You had to stay functional. Stay upright. Even if your insides were hollowed out, even if your thoughts were barely your own anymore. You had to pretend that your body could still do what it was supposed to, that it hadn’t been hollowed out by guilt, grief, and the aching silence that now filled every inch of the space where your daughter’s cries once lived.

The first bite caught in your throat. You chewed but didn’t taste it. You swallowed and it burned. But your stomach, starved and miserable, demanded more. It tasted surprisingly okay—soft enough, sweet in a dull, artificial way. It might have even been enjoyable if your brain weren’t screaming at you. If your chest weren’t caving in with every breath.

You dissociated as you ate, pulling further and further from the moment. Mindlessly chewing, biting, swallowing. Again and again. Each motion felt robotic. Empty. Your jaw moved on autopilot while your gaze went unfocused, locked somewhere beyond the walls of the room. The light from the window—dim, gray, lifeless—seeped in and cast a dull sheen on the floor. It all felt like a dream, or maybe a memory, something washed out and slightly wrong.

With every swallow, something clenched tighter in your throat. Like your body wanted to reject the food. Like it knew you didn’t deserve even this small comfort. It was a betrayal to feed yourself, a betrayal to let your body continue on like this, while somewhere out there—Sylvia was alone. With strangers. Without you.

Tears welled in your eyes again. You blinked hard, forcing them back with every ounce of strength you had left. You’d cried enough already, hadn’t you? Your body was exhausted from it, raw from it. But grief didn’t care. It had no timer, no limit. It waited. Patient. Always ready to spill back out the moment you let your guard down.

When you finally finished the danish, you looked down at the empty wrapper for a long moment, unable to remember the last few bites. You stood slowly, like you were trying not to shatter. Your knees popped. Your back ached. You crossed the room, walked the short distance to the trash can, and dropped the wrapper inside.

And then you looked up.

You didn’t mean to. But your eyes found it anyway—the crib.

It sat there like a ghost. Still. Hollow. Devoid of breath or warmth or life. A tiny blanket lay folded over the side, untouched since the moment you left. It was a monument now. A grave marker. A cruel reminder of what was no longer yours.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like barbed wire. Your hand hovered near the edge of the trash can as the wave hit.

And then you broke.

You burst into tears again, harder than before. Your knees hit the floor with a dull thud, arms wrapping around yourself as the sobs came pouring out of you, fast and uncontrollable. Your body convulsed with the force of it, and you made no effort to stop it this time. No effort to be strong or silent or still. It came from the pit of you, the most hidden place. The place where the last image of Sylvia still burned behind your eyelids—the curve of her cheek, the softness of her hand, the way she sighed in her sleep.

And now she was gone.

And you were still here.

You can't stay here anymore.

Not like this. Not in this still, quiet space filled with echoes and regrets. The air feels too heavy, like it’s thick with judgment, pressing against your chest with every breath you take. You can’t keep pretending that everything is fine, that the world hasn’t shifted irreversibly beneath your feet. That your daughter—your own flesh and blood—isn’t out there somewhere without you. That leaving her behind was the right choice. That it was survival.

Every second you spend in this room feels like penance. The walls seem to shrink around you, pressing in tighter, suffocating you with their silence. You swear the crib is watching you from across the room, hollow and empty, screaming without making a sound.

You have to go now—before you do something reckless. Before you turn around and run back. Before you convince yourself you deserve a second chance, that you’re strong enough to be the one she needs. Because right now? You aren’t. And the worst part is, you don’t even know if you ever were.

Before you can overthink it—before your mind gives out or your will caves in—you move.

You start throwing your things into your bags, not bothering with careful packing. Your movements are sharp, rushed, erratic. Precision doesn’t matter now—only speed. You fling open drawers, grab whatever your fingers touch, and toss it in blindly. There’s no order, no sense to it. It’s just action. Desperate, raw, necessary action. If you hurry, you can still catch the early morning bus out of the city. It’s your only real option.

You barely check the time. Your heartbeat is your clock now, thudding louder with every passing moment. There’s no room for second-guessing.

You don’t bother with the toothpaste. Or the lotions. Or the unnecessary toiletries that once made you feel clean and put together, like you could pass for someone whole. Those things feel absurd now. They weigh too much—not just physically, but emotionally. There’s no space for vanity or softness. Only survival. Clothes. Snacks. A first-aid kit. Wet wipes. The bare minimum. That’s all you take.

That’s all you deserve.

Before long, you’ve got two bags slung over your shoulder, one clutched in your hand, and a cramp forming in your back from the way you’re moving. You scan the room quickly, mind racing, heart pounding. You rush to tidy the room in the little ways you can—smoothing the blanket over the bed, wiping condensation from the mirror, folding the towel you left by the sink. Why it matters, you don’t know. But it does. Something about leaving it clean makes the shame sting a little less. As if neatness could cover up the mess you’ve made of your life.

You leave enough money to cover what was supposed to be for next few nights. You don't know how much you have left now, you'd have to count it later.

You hurry to the door, your hand landing on the knob with more force than you intended. Your body is ready. Braced. But your mind stutters.

Because your eyes flicker—unbidden, unwilling—toward the crib.

You stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel everything all over again.

Don’t look.

You repeat it like a prayer. A command. A plea.

Don’t look at the empty space where she used to sleep. Don’t look at the soft blanket folded neatly at the base, still holding the faintest shape of where her body once rested. Don’t look at the silence. Don’t listen to it.

You tell yourself again: some other mother will use it. Some other child will lie there and sleep through the night. Some other family will walk into this room and never know the story that came before them.

It’s fine to leave it behind.

It has to be.

Because if it’s not—if this really was your last shot to be a mother, to be her mother—then you’ve already lost everything.

You turn the knob and open the door. Cold air spills in, biting at your skin.

You step outside, bags pulling at your shoulders, heart dragging behind you like an anchor.

You didn’t care about being seen on cameras anymore. You had spent too long hiding from shadows, always looking over your shoulder, checking reflections, scanning crowds for familiar threats. But now? Now it didn’t matter. Let them watch. Let the lenses catch your face, your car, your exit. You weren’t planning to return to this place, not ever. You weren’t running anymore—you were leaving. Not in the panicked, desperate way he might have imagined. Not in a spiral of fear.

This was a departure wrapped in finality.

It was time to say goodbye to Windsor City.

You pulled out the worn piece of notebook paper Emma had scribbled directions on, unfolding it with more care than you’d shown most things lately. It felt delicate in your hands, like it might crumble from the weight of what it represented. The ink had smudged slightly, blurred at the edges from your fingers and maybe a few stray tears, but the path remained visible. Legible. Like a message from someone who had no idea how pivotal her kindness had been. You took one last, shaky breath and stepped toward your car, the early morning air crisp on your skin, your breath fogging in the cold.

The car looked smaller than you remembered. Older. Rust creeping along the fender, paint chipping in places you hadn’t noticed before. It had become a symbol of your survival—scratched, dented, barely holding together, yet somehow still moving. But today, it looked like a relic. A piece of a life you were finally ready to leave behind. You slung your bags into the passenger seat with less care than they deserved, then slid into the driver’s side and shut the door with a heavy thud. The silence inside the cabin was thick.

"Don’t…look behind you," you whispered aloud, your voice low, hoarse, like it might crack under the weight of what you were holding back.

But the car seat was still there. In the rearview mirror, just barely visible. A ghost of routine. You didn’t need to look directly to feel its presence—like a phantom limb pressing into your mind. You could still see her there. Could still imagine her tiny hands waving in the air, her eyes blinking slowly in the morning light. Her breath. Her warmth.

The urge to rip the seat out, to throw it onto the curb and drive away with less weight—both physical and emotional—hit you hard. But you couldn’t. Not yet. Some part of you still needed it there. Why? As punishment? As reminder? As proof?

It was fine. The car was a temporary thing anyway. You were ditching it the moment you reached the bus stop. It had served its purpose. It was falling apart at the seams—just like you—and holding onto it any longer was a risk. The engine would probably give out within months. Its tires balding. But if it could take you just a little farther, just to that last stop…it would be enough.

You turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, then groaned to life, vibrating under your feet. A tired old beast waking up one last time. You pulled out of the parking lot slowly, one final glance in the rearview, and then—no more looking back.

The sky was beginning to get a lot brighter, soft streaks of gray and gold unraveling across the horizon like watercolor. The city was stirring but not yet awake. You drove through Windsor’s streets swiftly but quietly, the hum of your engine the only sound in a world not quite ready for noise.

As you followed Emma’s directions, your eyes wandered. For the first time since you arrived in this place, you actually saw it. The storefronts were quaint, shuttered and sleeping but maintained with pride. Cafes with chalkboards out front advertising seasonal lattes. Bookshops with yellowed pages glowing faintly behind display glass. The trees, bare of leaves, arched gracefully over the roads, giving the streets a kind of quiet dignity.

You passed neighborhoods with playgrounds tucked between homes, the swings still and the slides frosted over. There were schools, too—modest, with murals painted by little hands, messages of kindness and hope scrawled in every color of the rainbow. You wondered if Sylvia would walk those halls one day. If she’d tie her shoes on those benches. If she’d climb those monkey bars, laugh with friends in the grass.

You hoped Windsor City would become hers.

You hoped she would thrive here. That she would find joy in the little things you never had the energy to appreciate. That someone kind and steady would raise her in a house that smelled like soup and warmth. That she’d go to school plays, bring home crayon drawings, and fall asleep in a room filled with safety. You hoped she would be known—not just seen. That she’d be loved, not feared over or obsessed with.

That her life would be simple. And bright. And whole.

The bus stop came into view just ahead, a small sign near a cracked bench under a flickering streetlamp. The plaza beside it was waking up—a newspaper vendor setting up, a street cleaner brushing away last night’s wind. You pulled over, parked, and let the engine fall silent.

You didn’t move at first. Just sat there with your hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Your chest ached. Your fingers were cold. Your throat felt scraped raw.

And then—finally—you opened the door.

You stepped out into the quiet morning. The air felt colder than it had a moment ago, biting and real. You shut the car door behind you with a soft click and slung your bags over your shoulders, taking one last look at the sky above Windsor City.

And then you turned.

This was truly it.

There was already a small huddle of people waiting at the bus stop when you arrived, their shoulders hunched against the chill, breath fogging in the frigid morning air. You slowed your pace instinctively, scanning the group with a cautious eye. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself. The last thing you needed was someone noticing that you had just dropped off a battered, barely functioning car on a nearby street corner and now stood here, bags in hand, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. So you kept your head low, your shoulders rounded, and quietly stepped into the loosely formed queue.

The bench was icy, its metal biting into your thighs through your clothes as you sat down. You wrapped your coat tighter around your frame, trying to make yourself small, invisible. The December wind slid under your collar and up your sleeves no matter how tightly you folded your arms or clenched your jaw. You were used to being cold by now—in your bones, in your thoughts, in your heart.

A couple sat to your left, whispering in a language you couldn’t place. Their hands touched in soft, familiar ways, their conversation muted but intimate. You couldn’t help the flicker of envy that stirred deep in your chest. Not for the language or even the relationship, but for the sheer sense of belonging they seemed to carry with them, like a quiet orbit of safety you couldn’t penetrate. Still, you tuned them out. You didn’t want to feel anything more than you already were. You couldn’t.

For a fleeting moment, you considered leaning toward the man to ask when the bus might arrive. Just a simple question. But the woman’s protective posture, the way she leaned into him like a barrier, made you hesitate. You didn’t want to intrude. You didn’t want to need anything from anyone. So instead, you said nothing. You just pulled your hood tighter over your head and bowed forward, your eyes fluttering closed.

You didn’t mean to sleep. You only wanted a moment. A breath. A pause from the endless weight that dragged at your thoughts. But your body betrayed you. The exhaustion of the last few days—weeks—finally caught up with you, and you slipped into a shallow, uneasy doze. The cold became background noise. The voices around you faded. Your limbs felt heavy, detached, floating just beneath the surface of reality.

You weren’t sure how long you were out before the bus horn cut through the morning quiet like a blade.

You jerked awake with a startled gasp, blinking against the sudden brightness of the headlights and the cacophony of shuffling feet. The bus had arrived, and its doors were open, waiting. People were already moving, climbing the steps in a slow, orderly fashion. You sat up too quickly, your neck protesting the motion.

"You getting on or what?" the driver called out, clearly impatient.

"Shit," you muttered, scrambling to your feet. Your limbs were stiff, your joints slow to respond. You reached for your bags and stumbled forward, nearly losing your footing at the edge of the curb. You caught yourself with one hand on the side of the bus, flushed with embarrassment. Behind you, people had started to murmur, shifting in place as they waited. You could feel their eyes, their judgment.

"Thirteen dollars for the ticket," the driver said, holding out his hand with mechanical disinterest.

You fumbled through your coat pockets, your wallet tangled in your bag. The bills were crumpled, sticking together from moisture or neglect. Your hands shook slightly as you tried to count them out, fingers numb from the cold and your own frayed nerves. The driver sighed but didn’t say anything else, only tapping his fingers against the wheel.

It felt like an eternity before you finally shoved the money into his palm. He snatched it quickly and motioned for you to move along.

You stepped onto the bus, heart still racing, and scanned the rows for an empty seat. Most were already filled, passengers staring out the windows or tapping on phones, lost in their own worlds. Only one spot remained.

Directly across from a woman holding a sleeping baby.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t want to sit there. You weren’t ready for that kind of reminder. But there was nowhere else to go. The aisle was clogging with passengers, and people were already eyeing you to move. So you walked the short distance, set your bags between your feet, and sat down.

The woman looked up and gave you a polite, tired smile. She adjusted the blanket around her child with gentle hands, her whole posture radiating quiet care. The baby slept soundly in her arms, small and peaceful.

You forced a smile back. It felt foreign on your face—tight, unnatural.

Then you looked away.

You kept your eyes fixed firmly on the window beside you, watching the fog melt slowly on the glass, doing everything in your power not to come apart in front of strangers.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, not from fear this time, but from the unbearable weight of memory and loss. Of what you had left behind. Of what you could never take back. You pressed your hand to your lap, grounding yourself in the pressure, and told yourself to breathe.

You had gotten on the bus.

You were leaving. Really leaving. And with that came an emptiness so vast it felt like space itself—limitless, cold, indifferent. The kind of emptiness that didn't echo, because echoes required something to bounce off of, and right now, there was nothing left inside you. You could do anything now. Live somewhere quiet, unnoticed. Disappear into a nameless town where no one knew your name or your history. Or simply stop existing in any meaningful way. Let yourself fade into the background, a ghost among strangers. Nothing was tying you down anymore—no responsibility, no midnight feedings, no heartbeat depending on yours. And yet, the absence didn't feel like freedom. It felt like drowning in clear air.

The weight you thought you’d be rid of wasn’t gone—it had simply changed shape. Now it lived in your chest like smoke, in your limbs like wet sand, in your breath like static. The heavy, clawing sense of impending doom stalked every beat of your heart, tucked itself into every quiet moment. You were finally unmoored. And it terrified you.

Just a few minutes into the ride, your dissociation was shattered by a sharp, familiar sound—a baby’s cry. It was shrill, immediate, and visceral. You flinched, your back straightening instinctively as if a string had been pulled tight along your spine. The baby across from you had woken up. Her cry cut through the quiet hum of the bus, and your body betrayed you instantly. Your chest clenched, your heartbeat sped up, and a surge of something ancient and instinctual rushed through your veins. Your jaw locked. Your eyes burned. You gripped the edge of your seat.

"Shh, shh. It’s okay, I have your bottle right here, Chloe," the woman across from you murmured in that soft, sing-song tone only mothers seemed to perfect. Her voice was a balm—steady, warm, full of muscle memory and affection. She shifted her bag without fuss and pulled out a bottle with calm precision, like she'd done it a hundred times before. The baby, Chloe, took the bottle without hesitation, her tiny hands latching around it with hunger and comfort. She drank eagerly, the tension in her little body melting away.

You didn’t mean to stare. Honestly, you didn’t. But your eyes were fixed. Unmoving. The baby was older than Sylvia—by months. Maybe seven months old, maybe more. Bigger. Stronger. You could see it in how she moved her head, how her limbs responded with coordination, how her gaze settled with awareness. Sylvia hadn’t been there yet. She still twitched like a dream, still curled her fists instinctively.

And yet, as you watched Chloe feed, something inside you ached in a way you weren’t prepared for. Grief that lived behind your eyes and breathed through your shaking hands.

The woman must have noticed. Your tension. Your stiffness. The way your knuckles had gone paler as you clutched your coat. She glanced up and caught your expression, offering a gentle, understanding smile.

"Sorry for the noise," she said softly, her tone sincere but light, as if trying to ease any annoyance she thought you might be feeling. She gave a small laugh, brushing hair from her face. "They get really fussy at this age."

You blinked out of your trance, blinking rapidly as your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

"Oh, no…it’s fine. I’m used to it. Heh."

The laugh was brittle, your voice cracking at the edges like old glass. Your throat tightened, and you could already feel tears rising, pressing behind your eyes with growing pressure. You turned quickly, redirecting your focus out the window beside you. The world passed in gray smudges of trees and buildings, none of it registering.

Chloe cooed now, bottle still clutched in her hands, her body soft and still once again.

You clenched your jaw tighter, trying not to picture Sylvia in her place. Trying not to imagine her waking up in an unfamiliar crib, her cries echoing in an unfamiliar room. Who had picked her up? Had they done it quickly, gently? Had they murmured to her? Rocked her the way you had? Had they said her name aloud—your name for her?

You blinked again, this time harder, forcing the tears to retreat.

You couldn’t cry here. Not now. Not in front of these strangers. You had already given up too much.

You reminded yourself: you were leaving.

And you could not afford to fall apart on the way out.

The baby let out a soft grunt and abruptly spit out her bottle, wriggling with renewed energy. She began grabbing at her mother’s chest and shirt with tiny, determined hands, making little urgent noises that sounded almost like commands. Her feet kicked lightly against her mother’s thighs as she twisted her torso, trying to hoist herself upward with the uncoordinated insistence that only babies have.

"Oh, okay, okay—let’s sit you up," the woman said with a soft laugh, adjusting her grip. She fumbled a bit, shifting the baby onto her lap, carefully sliding the blanket down and looping an arm behind the child’s back for support. Chloe seemed absolutely delighted by the change in position, her face lighting up with excitement. She let out a stream of gleeful giggles, tiny fingers clapping against her mother’s arm, bouncing slightly as she steadied herself upright.

You looked back over, drawn by the sound. Her laughter pierced something deep inside you—not in a painful way, but like a pin through an over-inflated balloon. And there she was—Chloe—beaming, wide and gummy, her cheeks round and pink with joy. Her brown eyes, bright and curious, had settled directly on you.

You froze for a second, caught off guard by her attention. Not wanting to seem cold or threatening, you raised your hand and offered a tentative wave and the gentlest smile you could manage.

Chloe responded with an infectious, single tooth grin that stretched across her whole face. She bounced slightly in her mother's lap and lifted one arm in a jerky, uncoordinated motion, trying her best to mimic your wave. The movement was more of a flail than a gesture, but it was so sincere, so open, it knocked the wind out of you.

Her mother laughed warmly at the display, her eyes crinkling with affection. She reached down and gently took hold of her daughter's wrist, helping her form a more deliberate wave.

"She loves strangers," she said, her voice full of fond exasperation. "I swear, I’m going to end up raising an extrovert."

Your smile wavered. Your throat ached. Your heart clenched so tightly in your chest it felt like it might collapse in on itself.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the rising emotions down, but they surged anyway. A single tear escaped before you could stop it, slipping quietly down your cheek. You sniffled and quickly rubbed your nose with your sleeve, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

"Your daughter is very cute, ma’am," you managed, your voice a little too soft, a little too shaky.

The woman’s expression shifted, the brightness dimming into something softer, more careful. She looked at you more closely now, truly seeing the exhaustion in your face, the red around your eyes, the tightness in your jaw. Her smile became more subdued, tinged with gentle concern. She leaned over and reached into her purse, rustling through its contents until she pulled out a small travel pack of tissues. Without hesitation, she offered one to you.

"I’m so sorry," she said quietly, her voice low and kind, as if she were afraid to say too much. "Would you…would you like to hold her? You seem like you’re having a rough morning."

She gave a small, almost shy smile, tilting her head as she studied your expression. The offer hung in the air like a fragile thread—one you could grasp or let drift away. It wasn’t pity. It was something else. A moment of human recognition. One mother seeing another, even if the second mother hadn’t said so out loud.

Something inside you twisted, sharp and tender.

And for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You just sat there, blinking, tissue in hand, heart hammering wildly in your chest as Chloe looked up at you again with that impossibly open smile.

And you wondered if holding her—even for a second—would break you completely.

"Sure, why not?" you said, your voice soft, barely steady as you quickly wiped your eyes with the offered tissue. The kind gesture had chipped away at the emotional dam you’d been desperately trying to reinforce all morning, cracking something fragile and already overstrained. You sniffled quietly and stuffed the tissue in your pocket like it could patch up the flood that was surely on its way. Then, cautiously, you outstretched your arms toward the baby, unsure how this would feel—but aching for the contact in a way that made your breath hitch.

Chloe squealed with delight, a sound that hovered somewhere between a babble and a high-pitched shriek. Her little hands waved excitedly in the air, reaching for you without hesitation, as if she'd known you her entire short life. Her face lit up with uncontainable joy, her whole being seemingly thrilled by the simple act of being passed into someone else’s arms.

You slipped your hands beneath her arms, heart fluttering nervously, and lifted her gently from her mother’s lap. As soon as you had her in your arms, the difference became glaringly clear—she was so much heavier than Sylvia. So much more solid. The contrast hit you like a jolt. Your arms adjusted instinctively to accommodate her weight, but your chest? Your chest collapsed just a little. Sylvia had been so small, so delicate, like holding a puff of breath. Chloe was full of life—strong, warm, and grounded in her own little presence.

She immediately began bouncing on your lap, kicking her legs with glee and wiggling with unfiltered energy. Her hands flailed with excitement, and before you could react, one of them latched onto a chunk of your hair with surprising strength. You yelped, caught off guard, then burst out laughing, the sound coming from somewhere deeper than you expected. It was real. Honest.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry," her mother said quickly, half-laughing, half-mortified as she reached over to help.

You shook your head, brushing her off with a smile that trembled at the corners. "It’s fine," you said gently, laughter still lingering in your voice. You gently pried Chloe’s fingers free, smoothing your hair back behind your ear as she babbled something nonsensical and joyful, still entirely unaware of the storm churning behind your eyes.

And your heart—it felt like it was fracturing all over again, not violently, but slowly. Like something being torn delicately, thread by thread.

"Where are you guys headed?" you asked, your voice soft, as you shifted her slightly in your lap. It felt strange and familiar all at once—the weight, the movement, the rhythm of holding a baby. You tried to keep your tone light, normal, conversational.

The woman smiled, her expression warm and open. "Ah, we’re headed out of town to my parents’. I just got her back from her dad’s, actually. Custody battle. I’m very happy to have my little girl back."

You froze.

Her words hit like a punch to the chest. She had fought. Probably for months. Maybe longer. She had filed paperwork, gone to court dates, endured endless nights of anxiety and doubt. She had fought to get her baby back.

And you—you had walked away from yours this morning.

Shame rushed in like a tide, choking and thick. Your gaze dropped to Chloe’s face. She smiled at you again—wide and gummy, her cheeks round with glee—as if she hadn’t just reminded you of everything you’d lost. She reached up and patted your cheek clumsily, babbling a small sound that might have been a laugh.

That was it.

The sob rose from deep inside, unbidden and unstoppable. The tears poured down your face, hot and fast, blurring your vision. Your shoulders trembled as you tried to hold back the sound, to hold yourself together—but it was no use. You were crumbling, undone right there on the bus in front of a stranger, holding someone else’s baby while grieving your own.

Chloe blinked at you, then reached up again, her fingers brushing your chin. It was such a small, simple thing, and yet it made something inside you split wide open.

The woman leaned forward, her face shifting from polite concern to something deeper, more instinctual. She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

She just watched you, her arms still outstretched, ready to take Chloe back whenever you needed. But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t flinch.

She just let you cry.

And you did.

Quietly, then not-so-quietly, you wept—tears soaking your cheeks, your collar, the baby’s tiny sweater. You cried for everything. For Sylvia. For yourself. For all the weight you’d been dragging for weeks. For the part of you that still wasn’t sure if you’d made the right choice—or if such a thing existed at all.

No. This wasn’t right.

As you sat there with someone else’s child in your arms, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you hadn’t felt since Sylvia’s first cry, a cold, sharp realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. This wasn’t okay. You couldn’t sit here smiling, laughing, letting yourself feel even an ounce of peace while holding a stranger’s baby, pretending—if only for a second—that everything was fine. Not when just hours ago, you were trembling with rage and grief, yelling at your own child. Not when you were unraveling so completely you believed the only way to save her was to give her up.

You had given her up. You had placed your daughter—your own flesh and blood—on a doorstep and walked away like she was a burden. Like she was a mistake. Like you weren’t the only one she had in the world.

And now you were sitting here, pretending to be whole?

No. No, no, no.

You couldn’t keep doing this.

This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t healing. It was denial wrapped in borrowed comfort. A fragile delusion trying to muffle the truth clawing its way back into your mind. That you had made a mistake. A colossal, devastating mistake.

It should be Sylvia in your arms right now. Her little hands twitching in sleep. Her eyelids fluttering open. Her cries—those tiny, desperate cries that had once driven you to the edge—should be the only thing in your ears. Your daughter. Your baby. The one you carried, birthed, fed, rocked. The one you had whispered promises to in the darkness. She was part of you. And you had left her behind.

You looked down at Chloe again. She smiled at you, so bright and full of trust, her little fingers curling against your shirt like she belonged there. It split your heart open. It was too much. The weight of it—the tenderness, the joy, the innocence. It didn’t belong to you. Not anymore.

You sniffled sharply, hastily blinking back fresh tears. Then, without giving yourself more time to think, you leaned forward and gently passed Chloe back to her mother. The woman blinked in surprise, her hands instinctively moving to steady her daughter as you relinquished your hold.

"Thank you," you said, your voice breathless, frayed at the edges.

You stood quickly, your movements sudden and stiff, grabbing your bags in the process. Your pulse raced. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as you turned and made your way down the aisle. Each step felt uncoordinated, like your body had outpaced your brain.

You could feel every pair of eyes turning toward you, confusion painted across the faces of the other passengers. A few murmured quietly. One person shifted in their seat to make space for you, though you barely noticed.

You pushed through, eyes fixed on the front of the bus like a target. Your feet carried you faster than you realized. Your throat tightened.

And then you were there. Right behind the driver’s seat.

"Please, stop the bus!" you shouted, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracked under the force of it, trembling with the weight of something you couldn’t control anymore.

The driver flinched slightly and turned his head, clearly startled. His brow furrowed as he glanced at you, taking in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

"Ma’am?" he asked, confused. "What’s going on?"

You gripped the metal rail beside him, your knuckles tense. Your entire body felt like it was shaking from the inside out.

"Please," you repeated, this time softer, more desperate. "I have to go back. I left—" your voice caught, the words sticking like thorns in your throat. "I left something behind. I need to go back."

Your vision blurred again. You couldn’t see the road. Couldn’t see the passengers. All you could feel was the ache, the absolute certainty blooming in your chest.

You had to fix this. You had to try.

Even if it was too late.

Even if you had already ruined everything.

You couldn’t stay on this bus. You couldn’t sit quietly in your seat and pretend this was normal, that moving forward was the right thing. Not when Sylvia was still out there. Alone. Not when the air still tasted like her on your clothes, not when her absence echoed in your arms. Not when you could still feel the weight of her, still remember the exact sound of her breathing as she curled into your chest. You had made a mistake—one you couldn’t live with.

The driver looked at you for a long, quiet moment. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but hesitation won. His eyes narrowed, scanning your face—your trembling hands, your wide, desperate eyes, the unspoken battle playing out behind them. You could see it then: the internal calculation, the weighing of protocol versus empathy. The entire world seemed to hold its breath with him, suspended in the tension of a decision not yet made.

And then—

"Ma’am, I need you to take your seat," he said at last. His voice was firm, practiced, but not entirely devoid of compassion. "I can’t stop in the middle of a route. You’re going to have to wait until the next stop."

But you didn’t move. You didn’t nod, didn’t retreat, didn’t even blink. Something inside you coiled tight and snapped at once. You weren’t going to wait. You couldn’t wait. Your body had already made the decision your mouth was seconds away from confirming.

“Let me off the bus!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine like a blade.

The driver startled visibly. His head jerked, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, then back to you. You saw his jaw tense.

“I said let me off!” you cried again, louder, harsher. Your voice cracked under the pressure but didn’t waver. "Stop the bus!"

Passengers behind you began to stir. Murmurs erupted. Shuffling, exasperated sighs, the crackle of discomfort as people leaned into the aisle, trying to see what the hell was going on. A few muttered complaints. Someone groaned, "Jesus, its too early for this shit."

You didn’t care.

Your hand came down hard on the metal rail, the smack echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. "Right now! I’m not staying here—LET ME OFF!"

There was no explanation. No justification. No backstory. You didn’t try to appeal to their logic or ask for their understanding. You didn’t offer any glimpse into the hurricane tearing through your chest.

You demanded.

Because there was no room for anything else. No time for reason. No audience that mattered.

There was only the thunder of your heart, the fire in your lungs, and the tidal wave of urgency that consumed you whole.

In a surge of unfiltered panic, you lunged toward the doors of the bus, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream, hands flailing against the sealed metal doors. Your palms slapped against the cold surface with more desperation than strategy. You knew—deep down—you weren’t strong enough to open them, that the lock could only be released by the driver. But logic had long since drowned beneath a tidal wave of urgency. Rationality had become irrelevant. All you had left was instinct, raw and blistering, and one singular, unbearable truth roaring through your veins: you had to get off this bus. Now. Not at the next stop. Not in five more minutes. Right now.

Behind you, chaos erupted. Voices tore through the air, jagged with confusion and annoyance:

"Hey! Relax!"

"What the hell is she doing?!"

"Lady, sit down!"

But they were background noise, no more real than the dull drone of the engine or the rattling windows. The world had tunneled—sight, sound, sensation—into a tight spiral of action. Nothing existed beyond the steel doors in front of you and the frantic beat of your heart, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape you. You slammed your shoulder into the glass, your body rocking from the impact, palms skidding along the door frame as you clawed for an opening, any opening. You weren’t thinking. You were surviving. Desperately, frantically, mindlessly surviving.

"Okay! ALRIGHT—STOP!" the driver’s voice cracked through the frenzy, sharp and laced with panic, a command flung out like a rope.

And then the world jolted.

The brakes hit hard. The tires shrieked against the pavement. The entire bus lurched forward violently, hurling bodies and bags with it. There was a ripple of chaos behind you—yelps, curses, the metallic clang of falling luggage, the scuffle of limbs flailing for support. Your knees gave out, and you staggered, barely catching yourself on a nearby pole. Pain shot up your shoulder. Your breath tore through your lungs in short, ragged gasps. But you didn’t care. You had stopped the bus. You were almost there.

"Step away from the door!" the driver barked, his voice sharp now, slicing through the noise like a blade.

You backed off, hands raised, not out of obedience but sheer necessity. Your limbs trembled as if every muscle had been stretched to the edge of tearing. Your eyes stayed locked on the doors, willing them open with the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t undo.

And then, finally—with a mechanical hiss and a rush of winter air—they opened.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t think. You grabbed your bags in one swift motion, the straps twisting in your grip as you hurtled down the steps. The moment your shoes hit the pavement, your legs took over, driving you forward with more force than your mind could comprehend. You didn’t look back. Not at the driver. Not at the woman with the baby. Not at the passengers now whispering and gawking behind the windows.

You could feel their judgment as you fled, a wall of eyes etched into your spine: unhinged. Dangerous. Unfit.

But none of it mattered.

You had something more important to worry about.

You stumbled as your shoes hit a patch of ice near the sidewalk, catching yourself with one hand against a frozen railing. The air was freezing, slicing into your lungs with every breath like a blade. You bent forward, wheezing, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. It felt like your ribs were caving in, like your body was folding under the weight of your own realization.

And then clarity slammed into you like a train.

The bus had only been driving for ten minutes—maybe less. You hadn’t passed any major intersections or crossed a freeway. Every street that had blurred past the window was familiar enough. You could retrace your steps. You could find the car.

And with it—her.

Sylvia. Your baby. Your blood. Your second chance.

Your pulse pounded louder now, steadier, clearer. The hysteria morphed into singular determination. You adjusted your grip on your bags, slinging it tighter across your body. The cold stung your cheeks and nose, but you didn’t care. You turned toward the direction the bus had come from, eyes scanning for anything familiar.

And then you ran.

Not jogged. Not stumbled. You ran—full throttle, elbows tucked, head down, pushing your body beyond what it was ready for. You weaved through pedestrians, dodging startled faces and narrow sidewalks, ignoring the traffic lights and slick patches that threatened to send you flying. You ran like the world was ending. Like your life depended on it.

Because in a way, it did.

Because she was waiting.

Your legs burned with each pounding stride as you tore through the icy morning streets, lungs screaming with effort, boots skidding across patches of frozen pavement. Your coat flapped violently behind you, useless against the slicing wind that whipped through the city like a blade. Buildings blurred into vague outlines—brick storefronts with shuttered windows, stoops powdered in frost, rusting fences catching the weak light of dawn. You didn’t pause to catch your breath. You didn’t even stop to think. The city was a smear of movement and color. A map without labels. All you had was your gut, pounding inside you like a war drum.

Your only direction was forward.

The sun had just begun to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of coral and violet, casting long shadows over the sleeping city. But it brought you no comfort. There was no awe, no warmth, no pause to marvel at beauty. The world could have been on fire and you would have run through it if it meant getting back to her. Your daughter. Your Sylvia. You didn’t even know if you were going the right way. Landmarks looked both familiar and foreign in the pale light. But then—just when your legs felt like they might give out—you saw it.

Your car.

Parked crookedly against the curb, just where you’d left it. Unmoved. Untouched. Your heart slammed into your chest so hard you nearly doubled over in the middle of the street. A strangled sound left your throat—half sob, half exhale—as you stumbled toward it, your fingers fumbling with the door handle. Relief hit you in a crushing wave. For one terrible moment you’d believed it might be gone. Towed. Broken into. Taken. But it wasn’t. It was there, waiting.

You threw yourself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind you as your breath fogged up the inside of the windshield. Your hands trembled as you shoved them into your pockets, rifling through crumpled receipts, lint, and broken pens until your fingers closed around something soft and worn. Emma’s note. You ripped it out, the paper creased and slightly damp, the ink smudged along the folds. You flattened it across your knee, eyes darting across the text.

Could you follow it backwards?

Could you unravel the steps in reverse, like retracing your footprints in the snow?

Would that even work?

What other choice did you have?

Your fingers fumbled the keys into the ignition. The engine growled to life, rough and reluctant from the cold. You gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles whitening. The paper trembled in your lap as you scanned it again, flipping mental images in your head. Turn left at the corner store with the green awnings. Right at the gas station with the flickering sign. The images were hazy, but they were there. Like dreams still clinging to your mind after waking.

You started to drive, heart jackhammering with every block, every slow turn. Your eyes were everywhere—on street signs, on landmarks, on the rising sun creeping up between high-rises. The air inside the car felt tight, claustrophobic. Your chest ached with tension. The motel had to be close now. The one you’d left behind. The one that still carried the scent of your daughter’s skin, the ghost of her cries.

And then—there.

It came into view like a vision from a memory. The squat, boxy shape. The faded sign. The peeling paint. That bleak, familiar stillness. The motel sat crouched in the morning light like it had never moved, like it had been watching and waiting in silence for your return. Your throat closed. Your foot hovered above the brake. But you didn’t stop.

After catching sight of the motel, your tires barely slowed. You didn’t even pull into the parking lot—just glimpsed the squat, tired building from a distance and knew it was enough. That flash of confirmation hit you like a jolt of electricity to the chest. You were close. You were retracing your steps. You were moving in the right direction. But there was no time to linger. No time to catch your breath or second-guess your instincts.

Every second ticking past felt like a crack widening between you and your daughter—growing longer, darker, more impossible to cross. You gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles white, as you scanned Emma’s handwritten note for the hundredth time, flipping the route in your mind, trying to remember every detail and landmark in reverse. The ink had smudged in places, but you didn’t need it to be perfect. You just needed to move. Fast.

You were running on fumes—adrenaline, fear, a tattered thread of motherly instinct holding you upright. Your body ached from exhaustion, your mind fogged by too many sleepless nights and hours of grief, but still you pressed on. The streets around you started to look familiar again. Trees leaned over sidewalks in ways you remembered. A crooked streetlamp. A red-bricked corner house with a chipped wooden gate. Every familiar detail brought a spike of hope to your chest, paired immediately with a shot of panic. The closer you got, the more your thoughts unraveled—tighter and tighter spirals of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

The sunlight had grown stronger now, casting sharp shadows on the road ahead. The city was fully awake, unaware of the crisis unfolding in the pit of your soul. Pedestrians began to emerge, walking dogs, carrying coffee cups, beginning their day as if the world hadn’t just ended for you and your daughter. It made your skin crawl. How could everything look so normal? How could this be just another morning for anyone else? The guilt pressed heavier against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

She had been alone for hours.

A baby. Your baby. Alone on a doorstep. What had you done?

You pressed your foot harder on the gas.

Your hands trembled as you slowed for a turn. You squinted against the sunlight, blinking fast to clear your eyes. You weren’t even sure if it was tears or light that made everything blur. The houses were starting to blur together—sleek modern facades, polished driveways, everything pristine. You swallowed hard. And then—there it was.

The house.

The gate.

The long, curved driveway like something out of a painting. You knew this was it. You recognized it immediately. The same stillness. The same cold elegance. It felt different in daylight—less surreal, more final. The mansion sat like a monument, immovable and severe under the morning sun. Your car rolled to a slow crawl as you approached, and for a moment, you couldn’t move.

Your fingers clenched the steering wheel so tightly they ached. Sweat beaded at your hairline despite the cold air. You glanced at the gates—they were still open, just barely. Had they been open since you left? Or had someone come out since you left? Your mind raced through a dozen possibilities. Had someone found her? Had she been crying? Had they called the authorities? Or worse...had someone taken her inside?

What if she was gone already?

What if you were too late?

Could you really just march up to the front door and knock? Just ask? Just say, "That’s my baby—please give her back"? Would they believe you? Would they think you were lying? A thief? A madwoman? What if they refused to answer the door at all? What if someone else had taken her and they didn’t know what you were talking about?

You let out a shaky, shuddering breath. Your chest rose and fell in uneven waves as a nauseating mix of hope and terror churned in your gut. The gravity of what you had done—what you were trying to undo—weighed down every muscle in your body. But beneath it all, beneath the fear and shame and doubt, one thing blazed like fire:

You were her mother.

And you were not leaving without her.

You parked the car a considerable distance from the mansion’s gate, your breath catching in your throat as you killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing into your eardrums until it was all you could hear—just that thick, suffocating quiet, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine. You sat still for a heartbeat, eyes locked on the looming estate ahead, your mind buzzing with static and dread. It felt unreal. Like something from a dream—or a nightmare. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to move, to do something, and before you’d even fully processed the thought, you were already moving.

You pushed the door open with trembling fingers, the cold morning air hitting you like a slap. It smelled like frost, iron, and distant chimney smoke. Your legs moved before your brain could form a plan, boots crunching softly against the frozen gravel. The sensation grounded you slightly, but not enough. You felt like a shell filled with nothing but panic. Your breaths came short and sharp, visible in the cold as you hurried forward.

The gate loomed closer—wrought iron, black as pitch, still hanging slightly ajar. It was a small detail, but it hit you like a bolt. Someone had come through. Or maybe...no one had remembered to close it. It stood like a crooked invitation or an unanswered question, and it made your stomach twist. You pressed a shaking hand to your chest as your heart pounded louder with each step. She’s gone. She’s definitely gone. Someone took her. Or the police. Or worse. The thoughts spun in loops, growing faster, more frantic.

You whispered under your breath without even realizing it. A breathless, stumbling prayer. "Please be here. Please be here. Please—"

And then everything stopped.

As you slipped through the gate, your body froze. Your thoughts ground to a halt. Your eyes widened and locked onto a single, blessed sight: the black stroller.

There it was, still sitting beneath the shadow of the front awning, untouched. Still. Waiting. Your heart lurched, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. Then your body snapped into motion, instincts overriding everything else. You bolted forward, sprinting so hard your knees nearly gave out from under you, your breath tearing from your throat in ragged gasps.

Closer. Closer. Closer—

And then you were there.

Your knees buckled as you reached her. You dropped to the ground, the chill of the stone cutting through your pants, but you didn’t care. You reached out with shaking hands, fumbling at the blanket, afraid of what you’d find. But there she was—your baby. Your Sylvia. Still bundled in the same worn blanket you had wrapped her in, her tiny body curling instinctively into its warmth. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold but not dangerously so. Her mouth opened in a soft, sleepy yawn. Her fists twitched near her face.

And then, as if sensing you, her head turned.

Her eyes fluttered open—slowly, groggily—blinking up at you with that unfocused newborn gaze. There was no crying, no screaming. Just that slow squint, that dazed confusion, like she had only just started remembering she existed.

You reached for her, brushing her cheek with your fingers, your breath catching as she leaned into your touch.

A sob broke from your throat, low and raw, the sound splitting you open. Relief crashed into you in waves, so strong it knocked the wind out of your lungs. You hunched forward over the stroller, your forehead nearly touching hers as you let the tears fall freely now, hot on your frozen skin.

She was here.

She was still here.

Unharmed. Waiting. Alive.

Sylvia fully opened her eyes, her sleepy gaze drifting to meet yours, and for a moment—just a moment—it looked like she leaned into your touch. Whether it was a simple muscle twitch or some miraculous, wordless recognition, you didn’t know. But then her tiny face shifted, contorting into what could only be described as a small, genuine smile—barely there, fleeting, but unmistakably real. That smile undid you. It sliced through every wall you’d built, cracked every fragile attempt to hold yourself together. It wasn’t just a smile—it was a lifeline. It was forgiveness. It was a tiny signal from the universe that you hadn’t ruined everything, not entirely. That you hadn’t lost her forever.

Your body folded around her, as if trying to shield her from every danger you had failed to prevent, from every moment you hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been present. Tears erupted from your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in thick, ungraceful streams. The morning cold burned your skin, but you didn’t feel it. All you could feel was her—the weight of her tiny body, the warmth that hadn’t faded despite everything, the life still pulsing through her.

You crumbled at her side, knees giving out, your legs no longer able to support the storm inside you. You collapsed beside the stroller, hands trembling violently as they moved instinctively toward her. "Mommy’s here," you choked out, your voice splintering in the back of your throat, breaking under the weight of what you had done. "I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry."

You said it over and over again, not even realizing the words were still coming from your mouth, like your body was trying to pour out the guilt through sheer repetition. The apology came from every fiber of your being, from your lungs, your bones, your soul. You said it as if the force of your remorse could rewrite time, undo the hours she spent alone. Your hands reached into the stroller and slid beneath her warm, impossibly fragile frame. Even now, she was heavier than you remembered, and yet she fit perfectly in your arms—like she had always belonged there, like she had never been anywhere else. Your fingers curled gently around her, brushing the edge of her blanket, confirming that yes—she was here. She was real. She was yours.

With the utmost care, you lifted her from the stroller, bringing her close to your chest. The familiar weight of her settled into your arms like an anchor in a storm. Her head lolled gently against your collarbone, her tiny hands curling toward your shirt as if seeking something familiar. She made a soft grunt, a small exhale through her nose, and the sound alone was enough to crush your heart. Her breath was warm against your skin, soft and steady, a rhythm that slowed your frantic thoughts just enough to let the tears fall more freely.

She didn’t recoil. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even seem to realize you had left, instead just having just had the best nap of her life. Instead, she melted into your body, her presence silent and whole. The heat of her face against your neck lit a spark in your chest that spread through you like a flood, thawing the frozen guilt that had seized your heart ever since you walked away. You clung to her like she was the only thing keeping you alive—because in many ways, she was.

And then you held her. Really held her. Not the way you had when you were exhausted, not the way you had when you were trying to survive—this was different. This was surrender. This was desperation and gratitude and something so fragile it barely had a name. Your entire body shook as the sobs came—deep, heaving sobs that cracked you open, spilled everything you’d been holding in. It all came rushing out. Grief for what you’d done. Guilt for ever believing she’d be better off without you. Terror that someone might have found her before you did. Shame that you’d let yourself think, even for a second, that you weren’t her mother.

It all poured out of you, soaked into the fabric of her blanket, into your sleeves, into the cold air around you. The pain. The shame. The desperation. Every sleepless night, every second of doubt, every whispered wish that she would stop crying so you could breathe—all of it flowed through you, leaving you empty, raw, and clinging to the only thing that mattered.

She was here. In your arms. Safe. Warm. Alive. Her small chest rose and fell against yours in a perfect, unbothered rhythm that felt too sacred to break. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever known—more real than your own breath, more important than anything you could ever say.

You couldn’t just stay here and sob, no matter how badly your body wanted to collapse and hold her forever. The moment had been sacred, a fleeting miracle in the quiet of early morning—but it wouldn’t stay suspended in time. The world outside was still turning. Reality was creeping in at the edges like frost under a door.

Somewhere inside this mansion, someone could be waking up at any second. A yawn, a stretch, footsteps down a hallway. A light flickering on. A door creaking open. You felt it looming over you like a countdown, each second shrinking your margin for escape. You glanced up at the tall windows above, their curtains heavy with silence.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, but the beat had changed. It no longer felt like panic—it was purpose. Urgency. You had been granted something rare, something almost mythic: a second chance. You arrived before they did. You arrived before the stroller had someone’s attention, before a call had been made. It was luck. Pure, undeserved luck.

And you wouldn’t waste it. You couldn’t. Sylvia needed food. She needed her diaper changed. She needed to be warm and safe and held by someone who knew her, who knew how she liked to be rocked, who knew the little creases of her brow and the way she startled in her sleep. All the things you hadn’t given her consistently but desperately wanted to again. All the things you still had time to fix—if you left now.

You wiped your face quickly with the sleeve of your coat, pushing away the dampness that clung to your lashes. Your arms tightened around Sylvia in one last hug. Her soft breath tickled against your neck, and her tiny fingers curled slightly in the fabric of your shirt. Her warmth sank into your chest, branding itself into your skin like a promise. You kissed her forehead, lips lingering a moment longer than necessary, and whispered, "We have to go now, okay? Just hold on for mommy. We’ve got to be quiet."

With trembling, reluctant hands, you carefully settled her back into the stroller. She stirred a little, brows pulling together, lips puckering in protest, but she didn’t fuss. Not yet. You tucked the blanket securely around her, your fingers smoothing over her chest as if you could press the world back into place. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting sleep again. You knew she would need feeding soon, but that would have to wait. First—you had to leave.

You moved to the stroller’s handles and began pushing it slowly across the porch. Each stone slat beneath your shoes creaked with excruciating volume, each sound a threat to shatter the delicate quiet. You held your breath as you moved, shoulders hunched, every muscle in your body bracing for a door to fly open, for a voice to call out and freeze you in place. The gate was still open, the path to freedom just ahead. You were so close.

And then it happened.

One of the front wheels snagged on the lip of the top stair, catching hard. The entire stroller jolted forward with a small, violent shudder, and Sylvia was tossed ever so slightly in her seat. Her arms flung up in a startle reflex, her mouth opening in a hiccuped gasp. You froze.

Time suspended.

But she didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You dropped to your knees beside the stroller, your hand instantly pressing over her chest, the motion both instinct and prayer. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. We’re okay,” you whispered, barely breathing. You rocked the stroller gently, soothing the movement back to stillness.

And then—a soft metallic clink broke the silence.

Your eyes darted down.

A bolt. One of the front bolts had come loose from the wheel, fallen and rolled down the porch steps. The stroller wobbled slightly under Sylvia’s weight, the frame tipping just enough to betray its instability.

You stared at it in dismay. The damn thing was falling apart. Just like everything else you’d pieced together in desperation. Just like the plan that had crumbled the second you walked away from her. Your forehead sank to the stroller’s handlebar as a deep sigh left your lips. Not from exhaustion, not entirely—but from the bone-deep ache of knowing that every time you tried to hold your life together, something still fell through the cracks.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible now, thick with emotion. “Shouldn’t have gotten the cheapest one. I should’ve known better.”

You should’ve gotten a better stroller. You should’ve had a better plan. You should’ve never left her. And now here you were, on the verge of being caught, wheeling your daughter away in a half-broken stroller held together by hope and shame.

From then on, you moved quickly—well, as quickly as you could without jostling the stroller too much. Every step felt like you were walking a tightrope, balancing your frantic need to move fast with the equally desperate need to protect her from even the slightest bump. Your hands gripped the stroller handles so tightly your knuckles ached, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring, but still you pressed forward. The wheels clicked unevenly across the sidewalk cracks, and every dip in the pavement sent a new wave of panic through your chest. Was it too rough? Was she waking up? Was someone watching?

The early morning air bit at your skin, sharp and brisk, painting your cheeks a raw pink. The tension in your limbs hadn’t faded—it was still humming in your bloodstream like electricity, keeping you hyper-aware of every sound, every movement, every shadow. Each second felt swollen, bloated with tension, like time itself had thickened. You just had to reach the car. Get her secure. Then—maybe—you’d be able to breathe again.

Finally you saw your car. Still there. Parked just where you left it. Just the sight of it made your chest tighten with relief, your knees weakening under you for a beat. A fresh wave of gratitude swept over you as you rushed to it, and a small, unspoken prayer caught in your throat: Thank god you hadn’t thrown out the car seat. You had been close—closer than you liked to admit. In that moment of finality, when you had packed everything away and told yourself she was never coming back to this car, you had stared at that seat for a long time.

But you hadn’t tossed it. And now that decision felt monumental.

You unlocked the door with fumbling, frozen fingers, flung it open, and began shoving things into the back seat. The small duffel with bottles. The diapers. The folded onesies. The blanket with stars you had picked out weeks before she was born, imagining how she might look wrapped in it. All of it had been meant for a family that wasn’t you. A life she wasn’t going to live. And now it all came back into your hands. Back into your life. You stuffed it in like you were stuffing away your guilt—packing the shame deep enough that maybe you wouldn’t have to see it again.

You turned to Sylvia then. She was blinking up at you from her stroller, her crimson eyes wide and a little unfocused, her body curled beneath the blanket. Her lips parted, a sleepy breath escaping as she looked at you, entirely unaware of the weight pressing down on your shoulders. You crouched beside her and brushed your fingers along her cheek.

"Alright, sweetheart," you whispered, your voice tight but soft. "Time to get in. We’ve got to go."

You gently unbuckled her and lifted her into your arms, careful not to jostle her too much. But she was already shifting. Squirming. A soft grunt escaped her lips, then a whimper. You held your breath.

And then it began.

First, a mewl. Then a sharper whine. Then—like a switch had flipped—a high-pitched, keening wail that cut through you like a blade. You froze for a moment, mid-movement, your breath catching in your throat as your nerves flared under your skin. Her cries weren’t just loud—they were loaded. Every sob felt like a judgment, a reckoning, a reminder of how close you had come to never holding her again.

You moved faster, even as your hands shook. "I know, I know... you hate the car seat," you murmured as soothingly as you could, even though your own voice was beginning to waver. "But it’s only for a little bit, baby. Just for a little bit."

She wasn’t listening. Of course she wasn’t. She was too young to understand. All she knew was discomfort, change, and the panic of restraint. She twisted in your arms, her little fists pounding the air as you tried to settle her into the seat. The cries climbed in pitch, sharp and guttural, filling the car like smoke—cloying, thick, impossible to ignore. Your hands fumbled with the straps, your fingers slipping, your own frustration rising with every second. You could feel your composure fraying again, piece by piece.

The scream she let out as you clicked the final buckle in made your eyes sting. It was so full of betrayal, of grief, of longing. It was unbearable. You had to close your eyes for a second just to block it out—to not unravel again completely.

But you didn’t walk away.

You didn’t scream back. You didn’t cry.

You took a deep, ragged breath and placed a gentle hand on her chest, trying to ground both of you.

You hadn’t made a mistake. You knew that. Somewhere deep beneath all the noise and chaos and spiraling anxiety, you knew that coming back for her had been the right thing. The only thing. This was what motherhood was. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t peaceful. It was messy, loud, and sometimes so overwhelming it felt like drowning.

But you were here.

And she was here.

And you were going to keep going—even if your heart was bruised and your hands were shaking and your nerves were hanging by a thread.

You could do this.

It took longer than you wanted to get her settled into the car seat—your hands were trembling slightly, your nerves still frayed from the adrenaline crash of the past hour. The buckles felt stiff, unfamiliar again, like you'd forgotten how they worked in the short time she'd been out of your care. You fumbled to get the chest strap aligned properly, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of her onesie, adjusting the harness with a quiet, whispered urgency. “Okay... okay, sweetheart... almost done,” you murmured, more to yourself than her. She squirmed with impatience, her little fists balled at her sides, legs kicking out in disapproval. Her whines were high-pitched and erratic, not quite cries but sharp enough to pierce through your remaining calm like a thread unraveling in your chest.

You leaned back on your heels, looking her over, and double-checked every strap again—then again, just to be sure. The last thing you needed was to mess this up. You weren’t going to let anything else happen to her. Not now. Not after all this.

But she was still fussy—uncomfortable, probably soaked through, likely hungry. All things you’d fix as soon as you got out of this neighborhood. You just had to move. But her tiny face was scrunching up more now, the beginnings of a cry taking shape, her mouth parting like she was winding up. “No, no, no—hang on,” you breathed, diving into one of the bags you’d packed for her new life, the one that now felt like a suitcase of betrayal. Formula, wipes, extra clothes, and finally—a pacifier. You pulled it free like it was a life raft.

You brought it to her lips and gently coaxed it into her mouth. She resisted at first—of course she did—but after a few seconds of light nudging and soft shushing, she latched on. Her jaw worked against the silicone with slow, deliberate movement, the familiar rhythm quieting the rising distress just enough to stop your heart from sprinting out of your chest. But her face—god, her face. She wasn’t soothed. Not entirely. Her eyebrows knit together, her eyes narrowed in your direction as she sucked on the pacifier. It wasn’t just tiredness. It wasn’t hunger. It looked like judgment.

You stared down at her and blinked, surprised by how sharp the look felt. A squinting, scowling sort of glare that no baby her age should have been capable of, and yet...there it was. You weren’t imagining it.

And despite everything—despite the guilt still suffocating your ribs, despite the sweat clinging to the back of your neck from sheer panic—you let out a sound. A short, breathless laugh. “What? You mad at me?” you whispered with a cracked voice, smiling with a sorrow that lived behind your teeth. “Yeah...fair enough.”

You lingered a moment longer, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead, letting your thumb graze the soft curve of her cheek. She was warm. Solid. Still yours.

Finally, you closed the door with a quiet thunk, trying not to jostle her. You straightened up slowly, your joints aching in protest, and circled around the car to put the stroller away, letting yourself breathe again now that the crisis—this crisis—was past. The sun had fully risen now, casting the neighborhood in golden light, too soft, too beautiful for what the morning had contained. The houses stood like sentinels, their windows glinting like watchful eyes. You hated it. Hated how peaceful everything looked. As if the world hadn’t almost collapsed on top of you.

You opened the passenger door and climbed inside, settling into the seat and closing it behind you with a long, slow exhale. The silence inside the car felt heavier now, not soothing like before, but thick and loaded—full of the words you couldn’t say to her, the apologies too big to cram into one breath. Your hands trembled as you placed them on your thighs, grounding yourself.

You turned your head just slightly to glance at Sylvia through the rearview mirror.

She was still watching you.

Still glaring.

You smiled, weakly. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice cracking again. “I’m working on it.”

You turned the key in the ignition with shaky fingers, the engine coughing to life beneath your hands. The familiar rumble vibrated through the steering wheel as you pulled away from the mansion’s curb, slowly at first, then faster—just enough to feel the distance growing behind you. Each turn of the tires felt like a breath, a beat of reprieve, but the knot in your chest never fully loosened. You were driving, yes—but to where? You didn’t know yet. Not really. There was a whisper of instinct guiding you, nothing more, and even that felt fragile.

You weren’t sure what the plan was anymore. Not since everything fell apart so quickly. Your mind reeled with half-formed ideas, each one more desperate than the last. It wasn’t just about getting away now—it was about staying ahead. About staying alive.

The motel wasn’t an option for much longer. Even if no one had noticed your brief return, even if you’d somehow managed to escape without triggering any alarm bells—someone eventually would. You couldn’t risk staying in one place too long. Sylus probably figured out you were staying in one by now. The walls of that room felt too heavy anyways, too filled with memories, with guilt, with the echo of what could have been permanent loss. No...you needed to go. Somewhere farther. Somewhere off the map. Somewhere no one would ever think to look.

Another bus, maybe? you thought, your mind racing ahead of your heartbeat. You could keep moving. Get new tickets. This time, with Sylvia in your arms where she belonged. But even as the idea bloomed, it withered under the weight of reality. A bus wouldn’t get you far enough. Not far enough to matter. Not far enough to stop him. You needed more. A better way out. A clean slate. An escape that didn’t just buy you a few days—but gave you an entirely new life. A life where you weren't glancing over your shoulder every hour. A life where you and Sylvia could laugh again. Sleep again. Breathe again.

You sighed, long and heavy, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. The morning sun was rising higher now, casting long shadows across the road, painting the world in soft gold that felt undeserved. The warmth of the light didn’t reach you. It only made the contrast sharper. You flicked your gaze to the rearview mirror again.

Sylvia was quiet now, pacifier bobbing slightly as her eyes blinked slowly, still half-lulled by the car's motion. You studied her face for a long moment, that same sharp ache in your chest returning full-force. It felt surreal. Just hours ago you had convinced yourself you could leave her behind. That you were doing the right thing. That she’d be better off. The thought made your stomach churn. How could you have ever believed that?

No—she needed you. Just as much as you needed her. You could see that now with piercing clarity. Every breath she took felt like it stitched you back together. There was no leaving her again. Not for any reason. Whatever came next, whatever it cost—you’d face it together. There was strength in that. Terrifying, yes. But also grounding.

You were still an emotional mess. Broken by everything that had happened and tired beyond reason of running. But neither you or Sylvia had asked for each other. You were both technically victims of circumstance and could make this work.

But still...there were things to consider. Serious ones. The practical weighed against the emotional, and for once, you had to think like someone who intended to survive.

As much as you hated to admit it—you both needed papers. Real ones. You needed official documents. Something to get you far enough away to disappear in plain sight. A job. A lease. It was the only way to build something lasting. The only way to get passports and hopefully get on a plane. The only way to keep him from finding you again. And you knew, with cold certainty, that he would keep looking.

For you, it should be possible. Risky, yes, but manageable. Getting a replacement ID, maybe a birth certificate copy...it wouldn’t be easy, but it was within reach if you were careful. The biggest threat would be walking into the wrong building and showing your face on the wrong camera. Having to answer the wrong question to the wrong clerk who saw too much or knew too little. Who knows how many people Sylus had informed to catch you trying to escape. But that was a risk you’d have to take. You could practice the story, pick a disguise carefully, time it just right.

For Sylvia, though...

You glanced back at her again.

That’s where things got complicated.

What could you even say? How could you explain her presence—no hospital records, no birth certificate, no documented history at all. She existed only to you. To the world, she wasn’t anyone yet. And making her someone without drawing attention to yourself? That would take more than luck. It would take planning. It would take someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who owed you. Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

You didn’t have answers yet. But you knew one thing with certainty:

You had her back.

And this time, you weren’t letting go. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

You could figure it all out soon. For now, you had her back, and you were both safe. That was the only thing that mattered in this moment. The rest—the paperwork, the hiding, the impossible logistics—could wait. You knew you weren’t in the best place mentally. The emotional storm hadn’t passed, not even close, and it still rumbled beneath the surface, threatening to tear through you again without warning. And Sylvia—she needed food, rest, a clean diaper, probably a full check-up. She needed more than just safety. She needed care, consistency, you. But you had her. She was alive. You were alive. That was enough to start with. That had to be the foundation, however cracked. You’d rebuild from there.

So you just drove. Slowly. Steadily. Out of the neighborhood, away from the tall, looming houses and carefully manicured lawns. Away from the weight of what you’d done—and almost done. With each passing block, the pressure in your chest loosened just a little. The city was starting to stir, but the roads were still mostly clear, the streets slick with the last traces of dew. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, muffled by fences and fog. You passed a jogger on the sidewalk, oblivious in her headphones and neon gear, completely unaware of the world you were escaping. It felt surreal, how normal the morning looked when your life had been reduced to fragments. You didn’t know where you were going yet, but you clung to the idea that somewhere ahead there was a new beginning. Not perfect, not easy—but possible. A fresh page. A blank space to breathe.

Several minutes passed in silence, the quiet in the car broken only by the soft suckling of Sylvia’s pacifier and the hum of the tires on pavement. Her little breaths were rhythmic, soothing even, and for a few fragile moments you allowed yourself to believe things might hold together. You turned a corner onto a broader street lined with trees and low storefronts, trying to stay alert despite the exhaustion pulling at your edges. Your eyes flicked to the gas gauge—less than a quarter tank. Something to worry about soon, but not yet. Your thoughts were already a haze, fogged by adrenaline and fatigue, but you kept pushing forward, street by unfamiliar street.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, guttural sound sliced through the stillness—a motorbike revving at full volume.

Your heart lurched and your foot instinctively slammed the brakes. The car jolted slightly as you came to a halt. A blur of motion whipped past your window—a flash of black and chrome—so fast you couldn’t make out anything but speed and noise. Your breath caught as your eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

Too fast. Too loud. And far too close.

You exhaled sharply, the pulse in your neck pounding as you gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Are there no speed limits in Windsor City?” you muttered, rolling your eyes as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You looked into the mirror again, watching the vanishing tail light disappear around a bend. You tried to laugh it off, but a prickling feeling crawled across your spine.

You didn’t catch a glimpse of the rider. But something about the sound had stirred something inside you—a memory, or maybe just a reflex. You shook your head. Still, it was the kind of sound that branded itself onto your thoughts, lingered longer than it should’ve.

It’s nothing. Just some asshole in a hurry.

But still, your fingers stayed tight on the wheel as you pulled forward again, just a little more cautious now than you were before. You drove slower, eyes scanning every intersection, every parked car. You found yourself wondering where you’d sleep tonight, if there was a place that didn’t feel borrowed or breakable. Somewhere you could close your eyes and not listen for the creak of approaching danger.

Sylvia stirred slightly in her seat, a faint little coo escaping her lips, and you glanced back at her. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t wake. You reached back without thinking, brushing her blanket back over her legs. That tiny, instinctive motion steadied you more than anything else could’ve in that moment. It reminded you that you weren’t just running—you were protecting.

And that meant moving forward, no matter how uncertain the road ahead looked.

A plane. You needed to get on a plane.

The apartment was dim, stale with the scent of old coffee and something vaguely metallic. The blinds were still half-shut, casting long, gray shadows over the hardwood floor littered with unopened letters and forgotten food containers. The silence was thick — broken only by the distant hum of the city and the occasional pop of an ice shard cracking against the radiator.

Xavier lay curled on the floor, shirt damp with sweat and blood. His limbs ached, locked in position from another uncontrolled surge of his Evol. Ice laced his forearms, jagged and crystal blue, crawling up the veins beneath his skin like frostbite. He hadn't meant to lose control again. But this time, there had been no stopping it. Not when the memories hit.

Your face. Your voice. The betrayal. The goodbye that hadn’t really been a goodbye.

He groaned, shifting slightly, shards of ice cracking and falling to the floor like broken glass. His phone lay face-up nearby, vibrating now and then with texts and missed calls. Most were from Captain Jenna, her voicemails becoming increasingly panicked, increasingly professional.

“Xavier, just checking in again. There's nothing you can't get through if you open up to others. At the very least, we need to get in contact for your potential resignation. Call me back".

He hadn’t called her back. He hadn’t called anyone back.

He stared at the ceiling now, eyes hollow. He couldn’t shake the image of you— not the woman you had become, but the one you used to be. The one who used to stand beside him on missions, laugh in his ear, curse like hell when they were nearly killed on a recon job. The one who had said she trusted him. The one he had let down.

He had nightmares of you screaming. Crying. Holding a baby that wasn’t his.

The baby....

Xavier coughed, his chest tight. He didn't know if it was guilt or something worse, but the pressure never went away. Every hour without knowing where you were was felt like his bones were splintering. And somewhere, out in that city...was him. Sylus. Breathing the same air as you. Touching you. Playing house with you.

It made Xavier sick.

But worse than the rage was the helplessness. Its not like he hadn't tried. He had fought like hell to bring you back. To save you. Had even damaged and changed his very DNA in the process. He would've died trying to regain your freedom.

Who knew that the very one to defeat him wouldn't be Sylus...but you. The kiss you gave Sylus played over and over in his head on a daily, bleeding into his every thought and mind as he underwent his painful transformation.

With a shaky hand, Xavier reached for the pill bottle on the edge of the coffee table. It was nearly empty. He swallowed one dry, not caring what it was — painkiller, suppressant, something. He just needed something. His vision blurred for a moment before settling again.

“Get it together,” he whispered, his voice cracked and rough.

He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out, and he slumped back down. The air felt too cold. Or maybe that was just him.

He curled deeper into himself, barely registering the soft crackle of more frost forming under his palms as the temperature around him dropped again. It was always cold now. Always just a little too frigid in the corners of the apartment, like he was leaking winter from his soul.

Most weeks passed like this—quiet, aching, cold. He had stopped going outside. Every time he tried to leave, the light burned too bright, the people moved too fast, and the fear of losing control again crawled up his throat like a scream. A week ago, he shattered a glass cup just by brushing against it. He hadn’t told anyone. How could he? He was dangerous now. Broken. And alone.

And you...you were still out there somewhere. Maybe safe. Maybe not. Maybe you hated him for not finding you again. For letting you go.

He closed his eyes and let the dark seep in around the edges of his vision. He just needed a little more time. A little more strength.

He had had numerous people knock on his door over the last several weeks—neighbors checking in with cautious voices, food delivery drivers knocking and waiting too long before leaving, even someone from the Hunters Association once, leaving a note taped crookedly to his door. But he never answered. The world outside had narrowed into a blur of light and noise, a distortion of reality that he could no longer tolerate. His senses felt too sharp, too volatile, like everything was either too loud or too cold or too much.

Most days, he was too weak to even lift his head off the arm of the couch, much less drag himself to the door and pretend to be human. Even ordering groceries online—once his last remaining tie to the outside world—had become an exhausting task, buried under the weight of apathy and fatigue. Not that it mattered. He barely had an appetite anymore. The kitchen had turned into a shrine of rot and neglect: untouched cans of soup, spoiled milk, dust coating the counter like a second skin, and a coffee maker that hadn’t been touched in weeks.

He had tried—passively, deliberately, and with a kind of quiet finality—to die. He’d stopped eating. Stopped drinking. Stopped moving unless absolutely necessary. Just laid there for days at a time, waiting for his body to shut down. He thought maybe the pain, the crushing guilt, the endless isolation would finally end if he could just cease to exist. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, he learned something terrifying. His body had changed. Permanently. Whatever they had done to him at the hospital—whatever mutation had been coaxed out of him through the injections and forced transformations—it had rewritten him at a cellular level. He didn’t need food anymore. Or not often. His body sustained itself with an eerie efficiency, feeding off something internal. Something cold.

At first, he thought it was just stubborn willpower dragging him back from the edge. The hope of seeing you again. Of saving you from Sylus. Of making things right. But after week two, he realized it wasn’t will at all. It was biology. Or worse—something unnatural. Something that no longer obeyed the rules of the world he used to live in.

It infuriated him.

His entire being was a cocktail of pain, loss, and freezing, inescapable power—and he couldn’t even do this. Couldn’t even vanish the way he wanted to. The cold that lingered in his limbs never left. His breath misted in the air everywhere he went. He was a walking winter storm, barely contained. And the only person who might have helped him—who might have understood what was happening to him—was gone.

Dr. Grey.

He had tried to reach him. Countless messages. Calls. Eventually the number stopped ringing and informed him the number had just been disconnected.

It wasn’t until a stray article popped up in his newsfeed—one of those half-buried, suspiciously underreported stories—that he finally understood. There had been multiple arrests linked to EVER. Whistleblowers had come forward. Testimonies collected. Files leaked. The lab had suffered what officials called an "internal sabotage incident." Translation: someone on the inside had torched the place. Explosions. Missing researchers. Disappearing witnesses. Dr. Grey's name was never mentioned explicitly—but he was gone all the same.

It all clicked into place then. Every strange gap in memory. Every evasive answer during treatment. Xavier hadn’t been a patient. He hadn’t even been a subject with consent. He’d been a living prototype. A guinea pig for something experimental. Something unstable. They had changed him under the guise of recovery. Left him with abilities he couldn’t control, instincts he didn’t understand, and a body that was quickly becoming something alien.

He had once dreamed of joining the Hunters Association again once he saved you and brought you back. Of protecting people. Of making a difference.

Now? He couldn’t even go outside without frosting the windows of passing cars. He couldn’t sleep without nightmares of you crying. Screaming. Holding a child that he had been fully ready to adopt as his own. He couldn’t move without the ache of ice still spiraling in his joints.

He was unraveling.

And he was utterly alone.

Whatever he was now—whatever frost was replacing his veins, whatever armor was beginning to form beneath his skin, whatever pulsed beneath the surface like an ancient glacier—there would be no one coming to fix it.

Hell, at this rate, he was likely becoming a Polar Wyrm by the day.

And no one was coming to stop him.

No one was coming to save him.

He was on his own.

He didn't sleep much these days either. And it pained him—deeply, profoundly. Sleep had once been his greatest comfort, the only thing in life he had ever truly desired with any consistency. It had been his reprieve, his sanctuary, the only time he felt completely untethered from duty, expectation, or regret. He had once taken pride in his ability to sleep anywhere, anytime. A cot on a transport vessel. The back of a recon truck. Even slumped over in his chair with a jacket for a pillow. But now? Sleep had become his tormentor.

The only "rest" he managed now came in brief, involuntary stretches—when the muscle spasms and deep, marrow-level aches overwhelmed his body and knocked him unconscious. And even that wasn’t truly sleep. It was a shutdown. A collapse. There was nothing peaceful about it. And when he woke, it was always the same: his body shaking, soaked in sweat, the room covered in thin, crystalline patches of frost that had spread out from his limbs while he lay there.

And the dreams—god, the dreams. They weren’t just disorienting or abstract. They were vivid, sharp as knives, seared into the fabric of his subconscious like permanent scars. You were always there. Sometimes holding a baby he couldn’t bring himself to look at, crying, begging him to come back, to fix everything. Other nights, your eyes were full of hate. You screamed at him, called him a coward, told him he was too late. And worse—much worse—were the nights when you said nothing at all. When you stood beside Sylus with a smile on your face, holding his hand, pressing your mouth against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if you’d never known Xavier. As if he had never mattered.

Those dreams always woke him violently. Gasping, clutching at his chest, his skin clammy and freezing to the touch. He would sit up surrounded by a halo of melting ice, puddles of water soaking through whatever surface he'd been laying on. After ruining his sheets and mattress more times than he could count, he had given up trying to sleep in bed at all. Now he laid on towels layered over the wooden floor, with an emergency blanket beneath him to soak up the melt. He kept a mop nearby. A bucket. His "sleeping area" looked more like a containment site than a place of rest.

He’d once dreamed of peace. Now even unconsciousness betrayed him.

Much like how he woke up just now.

“Crap...again,” Xavier groaned, his voice nothing more than a rasp as it escaped his cracked lips. His breath misted visibly in the cold air as he pushed his face away from the damp floor, blinking against the sharp sting of icy meltwater that had soaked through the towel beneath him. His limbs were locked in a state of dull ache, his muscles refusing to stretch naturally, his bones groaning with stiffness. The hardwood beneath him was slick, a shallow pool of slush where his body had involuntarily released its Evol-induced freeze during the night. He shivered violently, his teeth clacking together before he forced them to still. He pressed his palm against the wall, feeling the jolt of freezing energy where his skin met the surface, and hauled himself upright with the kind of effort that made his vision swim.

Each movement sent splinters of cold through his spine, as if his very nervous system had become wired with frost. He reached out with one trembling hand to grab the mop propped against the corner—an old thing, worn at the handle from repeated use. The towels he’d laid out the night before were useless now, soaked through and clinging to the floor like discarded skins. He yanked one up with a grunt, the fabric clinging before releasing with a wet slap.

It was routine now. A grotesque morning ritual that no longer shocked or even disappointed him. This was simply how life worked now—wake up surrounded by ice, clean up the wreckage of his body’s betrayal, try to piece together something like a normal day. It was a performance of normalcy for no one but himself.

But the question had begun to rot at the back of his mind: What was he even waiting for?

To die? He had tried. A slow, deliberate starvation. An experiment in neglect. But his body, twisted by experimental drugs, refused to give up. His system seemed to sustain itself on nothing now, some buried reserve of energy constantly renewing the damage, repairing the organs, defying entropy like a cruel joke.

Or was he just waiting to lose himself completely? To wake up one morning and see nothing but glassy, alien eyes in the mirror? To find that his thoughts were no longer his own, that something darker, colder had taken over? He could feel the change crawling beneath his skin. His reflexes had sharpened, yes, but they no longer felt human. There was a delay—not in his actions, but in the recognition of them. Like someone else was pulling the strings just a beat ahead of him.

He’d seen this before. People turning into Wanderers. People that evolved past reason, past empathy. People who forgot their names and remembered only hunger. Madness followed in their wake like a shadow.

Xavier wasn’t ready to admit it, but the signs were there. His hands trembled for reasons unrelated to cold. His mind frayed at the edges, thoughts looping endlessly. Sometimes he didn’t remember what day it was, or if he had spoken aloud or just thought he had.

He had to act before it got to that point.

He couldn’t risk becoming one of the dangers the Hunter’s Association warned against. He couldn’t risk hurting someone. The people in his building didn’t know what he was. They thought he was a recovering soldier, someone dealing with trauma or addiction, not a man whose body could freeze a man’s throat shut with a single scream. There were kids here. He couldn’t be the reason their lives changed forever.

But if the Hunter’s Association caught wind of him, it would be over. They were too efficient. Too well-connected. One incident, one report, one scan of his Evol signature and they’d start digging. They’d find his name buried in the collapsed records of EVER more than likely. They’d uncover everything. The injections. The illegal testing. The collapse of the lab. The missing researchers. Dr. Grey.

And if the Association didn’t get to him?

Sylus would.

Xavier had seen what Sylus did to people like him—people with potential. With power. He didn’t use them. He owned them. Broke them. Reforged them into weapons. Xavier sometimes thought about their encounters and realized he had been dancing with death many times.

Xavier pressed the mop harder into the puddle, water squeaking beneath the pressure, and clenched his jaw. The temperature in the apartment felt like a meat locker. No matter how long he lived like this, he never fully adjusted to the cold. It got into his bones and stayed there. His heartbeat pulsed dully in his ears as his thoughts spiraled.

He had to change something. Make a move. Find help—or at least find a direction.

He was running out of time. He could feel it every time he closed his eyes.

Something was coming.

And if he didn’t do something soon, it wouldn’t just be himself he couldn’t save.

And the worst part? He was of no use to you like this.

All of it—every painful transformation, every sleepless night, every moment spent spiraling into himself—meant nothing if he couldn’t help you. He had gone through hell trying to get you back. Gotten various bones in his body broken. Threatened his own doctor. Traveled into one of the most dangerous cities known to man. Abandoned everything that once defined him. Put his faith in doctors who saw him as data points. Risked treatments that fractured his mind and mutated his body. Let himself be changed, rewired, tested. All of it, for the chance to be the one who could save you.

And now?

He was nothing. A shell of who he used to be. A ghost locked in his own apartment. The man who once stood shoulder to shoulder with you in the field, who made you laugh even during chaos, who knew your tells, your silences, your bravery—he was gone. Replaced by a trembling, frost-covered wreck who barely made it through each night. His body betrayed him. His mind wasn’t far behind. He spent hours just staring at the wall, forgetting what time it was, what day. He was starting to fear forgetting who he was.

The image of your face in the woods haunted him constantly. Not just the memory of it, but the weight of your voice. The way your eyes hardened right before you kissed Sylus. The cold finality of the words when you told him it had all been a lie. The conviction when you said you were choosing Sylus. Not just implied, but said aloud. You had meant for him to hear it. Time had passed, and he still couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t stop the slow drip of betrayal from bleeding into everything he thought he knew about you.

You had chosen Sylus.

Surely, your feelings for him hadn't been fake. You had cried in his arms before. Even tried to kiss him. Told him things in hushed, trembling voices, things people only say when they believe in something together. He’d seen it in your eyes—hadn’t he? That flicker of hope. That hunger for freedom. For something more than pain. More than survival. He'd held onto it like it was gospel.

And yet, you had thrown it all away.

After months of tormenting himself, replaying every second, every word, every intake of your breath, he had managed to boil it down to two possibilities. It had to be one of them, didn’t it? Either you had genuinely given up hope—that the fight wasn’t worth it anymore. That loving him, trusting him, trying to rebuild a life together was too impossible to grasp. That giving in to Sylus was the easier path. The less painful one. The safer bet.

Or...

You had done it for him.

To save him.

Because you knew Sylus. You knew his rage, his cruelty. You knew how far he’d go to punish defiance. And Xavier had already tried once—already stepped into the fire and come out broken, bruised, bleeding. He had told you what Sylus had done to him for previous attempts. Maybe you thought he wouldn’t survive another attempt. Maybe you thought if you submitted, if you played along, he’d let Xavier go. Let him live. Maybe it had all been for him.

Would he ever know?

No. Probably not. The answer didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was this: he couldn’t try again. He wasn’t strong enough. Not like this. He couldn’t even manage to leave the apartment, let alone stage some heroic rescue. And Sylus had made it crystal clear—another move, and Xavier would be killed. No ceremony. No games. Just death.

And you...you had let it happen.

Maybe out of love. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of surrender.

At least this way, he told himself, you were both alive. That was the only thread he had left to hold onto. That maybe you were out there breathing, even if it wasn’t for him. That maybe you were surviving, even if it meant enduring. That you and his almost adopted daughter were at the very least thriving. Not a day passed that he didn't think of his precious girls. He wondered every day how the birth had gone. What Evia looked like. Surely she must look like you, right?

It made him smile.

It was a fragile comfort. A lie he repeated every night, like a prayer against the cold that never left his skin. He whispered it to the ceiling, to the cracked paint, to the frost growing at the corners of his windows. Like a mantra.

He stopped mopping and blinked, something catching his eye in the dim blue sheen of the room. The puddle at his feet rippled subtly as he shifted, and his gaze was drawn downward—to his arm. A sharp inhale caught in his throat as his breath stilled.

There it was.

A long, jagged black scale, protruding from just below the bend of his elbow. It jutted out like a blade, gleaming faintly even in the weak, gray morning light. Glossy and hard like obsidian, its edges ridged and dangerously sharp, almost like some natural armor forged under impossible pressure. This wasn’t ice. Not frost. Not one of his usual Evol side effects. This was something else entirely. Something deeper. Something ancient, even. He had seen hints of them before, fleeting and ghostlike—once in the mirror, once during a dream that felt too real. But they’d always vanished before he could truly process what he was seeing. Faded away like steam. Like denial.

But this one…this one stayed.

And worse, it pulsed with light. Faintly. With a slow, steady heat. A throb of energy that radiated from beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

His breath caught hard in his chest. That was not a good sign. That was not something he could ignore.

The mop slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor with a wet slap. Xavier stumbled backward a step, still staring at his arm as if it might move on its own. Panic surged up his throat, cold and sharp. He backed away until his legs hit the wall, and then he slid down, his spine pressed to the frigid plaster, trying to make sense of what was happening. Trying—and failing—not to hyperventilate.

His knees drew to his chest instinctively, arms cradling them. His fingers twitched, and that throb beneath his skin only grew stronger, more insistent. He could feel it now—other places where the scales had started to form. His back. His shoulder blades. Along his ribs. He ran a shaky hand down his torso, wincing as he felt the irregular texture beneath the fabric of his shirt. Like raised seams. Growing.

He shook his head and tilted it back against the wall, eyes wide, jaw clenched. The room felt too warm suddenly, too enclosed. But he knew that wasn’t true. The air was freezing. He could still see his breath ghosting in front of his face. Still feel the sting of cold against his cheeks.

He turned his eyes toward the ceiling vent, his breath trembling. He had tried turning the heat on once—just once, days ago. Not because he wanted to, but because he needed to know. And what had happened had nearly destroyed the apartment. The moment the very warm air filled the space, his body reacted violently. Sweat turned to steam, curling off his skin in thick, rolling clouds. His chest had seized up, tight and raw, as if his lungs were trying to escape the heat. His Evol had spiked without warning, creating a vicious chain reaction: the walls cracked, the ceiling fan shattered, frost and light surged through the room and melted just as quickly. The entire apartment sweltered and froze in alternating bursts. It had taken hours to stabilize everything again.

Since then, he hadn’t dared touch the thermostat. He kept the windows cracked. The vents closed. The cold was a burden—but it was the only thing keeping his body from spiraling further out of control. It was the only constant in a reality that was rapidly disintegrating.

And yet here it was. The scale. Unbothered by cold. Still growing. Still anchored to his body like it belonged there.

He reached for it again, trembling fingers brushing the hardened surface. It didn’t hurt to touch—but it sent a chill up his arm all the same. It wasn’t foreign anymore. It was part of him. Embedded. A sign that something inside him had passed the point of return.

He felt other parts of himself reacting too—muscles twitching involuntarily, skin prickling as if bracing for impact. It was like his body was preparing for something. A change. An awakening. Or maybe a final mutation.

His eyes stung. He hadn’t cried in days, maybe weeks, but now the pressure behind them burned. He pressed his forehead to his knees, breath hitching as the fear set in.

He was changing.

And this time, there was no coming back.

Not as the man he was. Not as someone who could still pass for human. Not as someone who could ever stand beside you again without wondering if he’d freeze the air between you, or shatter something precious without meaning to.

He stayed there, curled up beneath the pale morning light, trembling in the silence of the apartment, the weight of inevitability pressing in from all sides.

It was already too late.

He knew what needed to be done. Deep down, he’d known for awhile but the words never quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, to look in the mirror and admit it to himself. Because once he did, it would become real. Unchangeable. The final act in a play he never wanted to be part of. But with no cure, no doctor, no support system to lean on, and his mental state fraying at the seams, there weren’t many other paths left. Every day was a battle just to stay in control, to keep the frost from creeping up the walls or the wild pulse of his Evol from cracking through his skin. Every hour chipped away at what little stability he had left. He was living on borrowed time, held together by sheer will and whatever scraps of human instinct he had left.

It was probably that very willpower—and whatever residual strength had been drilled into him from his time in the field—that allowed him to hold back this long. But even that resolve was beginning to falter. His thoughts weren’t linear anymore; they moved in circles, spirals, rehashing the same anxieties, the same fears, over and over again. He couldn’t tell if days were passing or if time had folded in on itself. His body no longer responded like it used to. The pain wasn’t isolated. It was everywhere—deep in the joints, the chest, the eyes, like something was breaking him down from the inside.

His Evol didn’t flicker anymore—it surged. It pulsed. It responded to emotions, to movement, to memories. The black scales were no longer fleeting. They didn’t fade when he blinked or wash away in the morning light. They lingered. Hardened. Spread. He could feel them even now beneath the skin of his back and ribcage, pressing outward like armor that hadn’t been invited. It was building inside of him, something unnatural, something neither fully human nor fully other.

And he couldn’t afford to wait for the worst. He couldn’t risk snapping. Couldn’t risk his body going into full transformation in the middle of the night and freezing through the walls of his building, taking out neighbors who were just trying to sleep. Couldn’t risk walking into the street and catching someone’s eye with a flare of unhinged Evol energy. Couldn’t risk the Hunter’s Association. Couldn’t risk drawing Sylus.

So he sighed. A long, hollow sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest—the kind of exhale that emptied him of more than just air. He glanced toward the narrow beam of sunlight peeking through the blinds, casting a thin golden line across the icy floor. It looked like a fracture in reality. A reminder that time still moved forward, even as he felt suspended in place. The sunlight didn’t warm him. Nothing did anymore. But it gave him a point to focus on, a symbol. A decision.

Tonight.

He would leave.

No fanfare. No goodbyes. No messages sent or coordinates left behind. Just vanish. Fade into the margins like a shadow that no longer served a purpose. He would pack the few belongings he hadn’t already broken or neglected. He’d go somewhere no one could follow. Maybe to the cliffs past the ridge. Maybe to the outskirts of that long-abandoned industrial district. Somewhere forgotten. Somewhere the cold wouldn’t matter. Somewhere he could let the transformation finish if that’s what had to happen.

Maybe he could isolate until it passed. If there was even a part of him still left to pass through it.

Or maybe—if it came down to it—he’d do the unthinkable.

Die.

The thought didn’t settle in his mind with terror. It settled like inevitability. Like something he had quietly agreed to weeks ago but hadn’t dared to name.

Better that than becoming a monster. Better that than waking up to blood on his hands and not knowing whose it was. Better that than seeing your face again and watching it fill with horror.

Better that than hurting you—even from afar.

He didn’t cry. Not anymore. He didn’t have the energy for tears, not when his body was already busy fighting itself. But when he finally stood, dragging his fingers across the frost-lined wall for support, his hands trembled.

They trembled with fear. With resignation. With something too hollow to be hope, but too persistent to be nothing at all.

He moved toward the closet, already beginning to form the shape of his departure.

It had to be tonight.

Before it was too late.

His phone buzzed from the floor, the sound sharp and jarring against the otherwise still, cold silence of the apartment. It echoed louder than it should have in the frost-covered room, bouncing off the bare walls like a reminder of the world he was choosing to leave behind. The vibration made the screen tremble where it lay on the warped hardwood, the dim glow catching Xavier’s attention from across the room. He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing toward the faint light, squinting through the grayish morning haze that filtered through the blinds.

He didn’t reach for it right away. Part of him didn’t want to. He already knew what it was.

Of course.

Probably Tara or Captain Jenna. They were the only ones still trying. The only ones who hadn’t given up on him yet.

Tara had been the more persistent of the two, especially in recent weeks. She never pushed too hard, never demanded answers or explanations, but her presence was constant. Quiet but steady. She checked in like clockwork, always respectful of his silence, but never letting him forget he was still seen.

Sometimes she left small care packages at his door. A fresh thermos of soup still warm to the touch. A case of water. A small packet of nutrient bars she thought he might be able to stomach. She never expected thanks. Never knocked. Just left them, always with a simple note folded neatly under the top item. Usually something like, "No pressure. Just here if you need. - T.”

And he never responded. Not directly. But he read every note.

She had been having a hard time accepting your disappearance. That much was evident in every word she wrote, every strained smile the last time they’d crossed paths. He could see the way her voice faltered when she mentioned your name. The way she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking, like she was waiting for him to break—or vanish. Like she was bracing for the next person to slip away.

It hadn’t taken much effort to figure out she was worried about him, too. Maybe more than she let on. Maybe more than she should’ve.

And now, that fear would become reality.

It hurt more than he liked to admit. More than he thought it would. To imagine her walking down the hallway one day soon, finding his apartment cold and empty, the air stale, the lights off, and no trace of where he’d gone. To imagine her calling his name and getting no answer. Sitting by her phone, re-reading their old texts, wondering if the last thing she sent had somehow pushed him too far. Wondering what she should have done differently.

He could already see the look in her eyes—the guilt, the confusion, the grief. Not the kind people wore at funerals. The quiet, personal kind. The kind you carry alone.

Tara had been a good friend. A real one. To both of you. She had stood beside you on the worst days, on the bloodiest missions, when no one else would. She was the one who ran back into the fire, not away from it. She’d trusted your instincts without question. Supported your judgment when others second-guessed it. She had laughed with you in rare, quiet moments. And with him, too. Shared drinks. Shared war stories. Shared long, exhausted silences when words weren’t needed.

She was smart. Intuitive. Stubborn as hell. And loyal—sometimes to a fault.

She had never given up on people. Not on you. Not on him.

And she didn’t deserve this kind of ending.

None of them did.

But Xavier knew the truth now. The man she’d called teammate, friend, brother—he wasn’t here anymore. He was slipping further away every day. Piece by piece, breath by breath. And if he stayed any longer, if he let himself fall even one step deeper into what he was becoming, he wouldn’t just forget her name. He’d forget why it mattered.

Still, he didn’t pick up the phone.

He didn’t check the message. Didn’t open the screen. He just stared at it, letting the light dim slowly until it vanished again into darkness.

It buzzed once more, a soft mechanical hum, like a voice muffled behind a thick wall.

Then silence.

Final. Unanswered.

He leaned back against the wall, the cold biting into his shoulder blades, and let out a breath that shook in his chest.

It was better this way.

Safer.

For everyone.

This day went just like any other. Xavier lay weakly on the ground, curled up in the only corner of the apartment that wasn’t slick with frost or cluttered with discarded towels, frayed blankets, or shards of ice. The floor beneath him was unforgiving, hard and cold against his bones, but he barely noticed it anymore. Pain had become his default state—dull, persistent, and numbing in its constancy. His muscles were locked in a state of tension from disuse, his joints flaring with the lingering burn of his Evol backlash. Every breath he drew seemed to scrape against his ribs, and every exhale fogged faintly in the chill air that never quite left the apartment.

His body was no longer predictable. It pulsed with strange currents, waves of cold surging unpredictably through his limbs like static, or the hum of something broken but still clinging to power. Sometimes, he imagined it like a dying machine—flashing, glitching, refusing to shut off completely. Even blinking had become an effort. His eyelids felt heavy, like they were weighted down by exhaustion he couldn’t sleep off. Every movement cost him something. So, he didn’t move much. He barely existed.

At one point, he tried turning on a show. Something familiar. Anything to break the monotony. A rerun of a series he had once loved, back when his life felt somewhat normal—back when laughter wasn’t foreign. The sound filled the room, the actors' voices echoing off the icy walls, but it all felt surreal, disconnected. The plot twisted forward, characters bickered and grew and loved, and he couldn’t care less. His eyes glossed over. His thoughts wandered. His mind played tricks on him, replacing scenes with memories he’d rather forget. You, laughing. You, crying. You, slipping through his fingers.

The show became little more than noise. A dull hum that hovered in the background like a ghost. Eventually, he turned the volume down until it was barely audible and let it play out of habit. It gave the illusion that he wasn’t alone, even if he knew better.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. He didn’t eat. His appetite had long since vanished. He didn’t shower—the thought of warm water on his skin made him sick, and cold water was unbearable. He alternated between lying perfectly still and forcing himself to move in small, deliberate increments. He scribbled down brief notes, some coherent, others just frantic loops of words and thoughts he didn’t want to lose. He packed slowly, methodically, as if touching his few remaining belongings might help ground him in reality.

By the time night came, the sky outside had darkened to a deep blue, stars barely visible through the frost-covered window. He had managed to finalize the last of his quiet preparations. His bank account was set to autopay the rent and utilities, a quiet contingency he’d put off until now. It was a small, almost absurd gesture—keeping up appearances, pretending like life would go on. But it served a purpose. If anyone checked in, the apartment would still look lived in. The lights might stay on. The bills would be paid. The mailbox would remain quiet. It would delay suspicion.

No one would truly notice he was gone.

Not right away.

And maybe, by the time someone did come looking, it would already be too late.

There would be no note. No goodbye. No dramatic exit or final message. Just silence. Just absence. He wanted it that way. It would hurt less for the people who cared. Or so he told himself.

He spent the last hour before midnight sitting by the window, wrapped in an old coat, watching his own breath fog the glass. The city below moved on without him. Lights blinked. Cars passed. Someone laughed a few stories down. The world was still turning.

And he was ready to step off of it.

In the quietness, Xavier imagined you.

Not the version of you who had last stood in front of him, fractured and fleeing. No, this was the version from a life that never had the chance to bloom—a dream stitched together by longing and loss. He saw you in a sunlit kitchen, wearing a loose, oversized sweater, the kind that slipped off one shoulder as you held Evia on your hip. Not his child biologically. But one he had chosen. A daughter with wide, curious eyes and unruly hair, cheeks stained with mashed fruit and fists clutched around a wooden spoon.

He could almost hear the cooing, the gentle rhythm of your laughter as you shifted your weight and bounced the child slightly, humming some half-forgotten tune that always seemed to calm her. There was warmth in that vision—a kind of hazy golden light spilling over the countertop, soft enough to blur the harsh edges of memory. It was domestic. Safe. Unimaginable now.

He pictured himself walking in from the hall, watching you from the doorway, his heart squeezing at the sight like it always did when he caught you in those rare, quiet moments. You would glance over your shoulder at him, smile—tired, but real—and he would step forward, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand brushing his daughter's back.

“Morning,” you’d murmur, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You’re up late.”

He’d just smile, nodding toward the baby now babbling at him with her arms outstretched. “She giving you trouble?”

“She thinks I'm a drum,” you said with a mock sigh, gently repositioning her as she giggled and thumped her fists into your chest. “Daddy’s gonna have to take over soon.”

“Yeah?” he said softly, reaching out for her, his heart tightening as her tiny hands latched onto his fingers. “C’mere, little star.”

Evia squealed in reply, nonsensical babble spilling from her mouth as she reached for him eagerly, eyes wide with the innocent trust only children gave so freely. He kissed her round cheeks, laughing gently as she squealed and clung to him, you watching with a huge smile on your face.

That was what he’d wanted. What he’d believed, for a breath of time, was within reach.

He blinked slowly, a sharp throb pulsing behind his temples. The pain grounded him. Reminded him that whatever that scene was—whatever dream his fractured mind tried to paint for him—it was already gone.

Still, in the darkness and ache, he held onto the feeling.

Because sometimes, illusion was the only thing keeping him from slipping away entirely.

But even illusions couldn’t last forever. His breathing shifted. The temperature around him felt colder again. The sounds faded into nothing. And the dull ache that pressed against his skull was growing sharper.

It was time to go.

The apartment was silent as Xavier stood by the door, hand resting on the knob, unmoving. The air inside was freezing, still and biting, so cold that his every breath turned to fog before his face. It coiled in front of him like smoke, fading quickly into the stale atmosphere that had clung to the apartment for weeks now. Outside, though, he could see the warmth trying to creep through the cracks—the hint of a mild early-spring night, the suggestion of still streets and budding trees. Lukewarm, maybe even pleasant to a regular person. But he wasn’t that anymore. His body didn’t register comfort in the same way. Temperature warped around him like a hostile force. Warmth made him dizzy, light pierced him like needles, and silence itself had begun to scream. Nothing felt right anymore. Nothing felt human.

He waited with his ear to the door, posture tense, breath held. Just a few more seconds to be sure. The hallway outside was deathly still—no footsteps from neighbors, no TVs murmuring from behind thin walls, no doors opening or closing. It was the deadest part of the night, that fragile sliver of time when even insomniacs had dozed off. He knew this building’s rhythm by heart. It wouldn’t notice one more ghost slipping out.

With a soft, deliberate motion, he turned the knob. The door creaked ever so slightly, but not loud enough to alarm. He stepped into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, one near the stairwell flickering in an erratic pulse. He closed the door behind him gently, letting it click shut like a whisper.

And then his eyes landed on it.

Your door.

Just across the hall.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. That door had been the beginning of so much. It still had the same unit number etched into its metal surface, but the little things were gone. No more tiny magnets from places you'd visited together. No more reminders scrawled in your sharp handwriting. Someone else lived there now. Someone who probably had no idea what that space had meant. He wondered if the woman had rearranged the furniture. If they'd repainted the bedroom. If they'd felt the weight in the walls and mistaken it for something they could clean away.

He stood there for a long moment, a lump forming in his throat as memories pulled at him like gravity. The first time he met you had been in front of that door. You’d looked at him with shy eyes and a genuine smile. By some miracle, he’d made you laugh that day despite being awkward yourself. That laugh had been the start of something real—something worth surviving for.

Now, it was just a door. A sealed chapter. And he had no place here anymore.

He looked down, heart sinking, and forced himself to move. The new tenant probably wouldn’t appreciate him haunting the hallway like a specter. His feet were heavy as he turned toward the stairwell, his steps deliberate and strained.

He didn’t bring much with him. Just a single weather-worn pack slung over one shoulder. Inside, only what he thought he might need: a knife dulled from overuse, a few vials of suppressant—some already clouded from age—an old scarf that smelled faintly of pine and metal, and a battered notebook filled with half-finished thoughts. He didn’t need more. This wasn’t an expedition. It wasn’t survival.

It was surrender.

Each step down the stairs was a war. His muscles clenched with every movement, Evol flaring unpredictably through his limbs. His left leg dragged slightly, favoring the one that trembled less. He clutched the railing with a gloved hand, fingers aching beneath the fabric. The oversized coat he wore draped down to his knees, concealing the jagged shapes that now marred his body—scales, swelling veins, bruises that never healed. Beneath it all, he burned.

Outside, the air was tepid. To anyone else, it might’ve been refreshing, but to Xavier it was unbearable. Stifling. The moment he stepped out of the stairwell and into the night, it felt like a furnace had opened around him. His skin prickled beneath his clothes, sweat forming immediately at the nape of his neck, running in a slow line down his spine. He grit his teeth, tried not to sway. The darkness around him spun just slightly. The streetlamps shimmered like distant stars through a haze.

Still, he moved. Slowly. One heavy footfall at a time. He didn’t look back. Not once.

The city’s distant noise was muffled by his own heartbeat, which pounded loud and frantic in his ears. He was walking away from the only space that had ever felt close to home. From memories so deeply ingrained, he could still feel the warmth of your hand in his when he passed the cracked cement walkway. He forced the thoughts down. Pressed forward.

One step at a time. Into the dark. Into the silence.

He made it to the edge of the forest just as the last threads of city light began to dissolve behind him. The trees stood tall and silent, casting long shadows across the uneven earth. The ground beneath his boots was soft, littered with old leaves and damp moss, the air thick with the scent of pine and wet soil. It should have felt cool here, comforting even—but to him, it was suffocating.

Xavier stopped at the first clearing, his breath ragged and body heaving. Every nerve felt raw, as if his skin were trying to peel away from muscle, rebelling against the heat festering inside of him. The coat he wore, once essential to conceal his deformities, now clung to him like a shroud of agony. It was too much. Too heavy. Too hot. It felt like it was burning him alive.

With a trembling hand, he gripped the front zipper and yanked it down. The fabric fought him—snagging, resisting—until he tore it off with a guttural growl and let it drop to the forest floor like shed armor. Steam practically rose from his shoulders. The cool air against his sweat-slick skin brought no relief. He felt like he was boiling from within, the energy inside him crackling like it was begging to be released, to burst free and take shape.

There was no one around to see now. No one to hide from.

His legs shook as he moved farther into the woods, each step harder than the last. He hadn’t trusted himself to drive, not in his condition. Not with the way his limbs spasmed unpredictably, not with the blackouts that came in waves. He hadn’t even considered it. He had walked the entire way—through cracked sidewalks, past blinking crosswalks and empty gas stations, through the suburban outskirts and into the wilderness. Each mile a trial of willpower.

Now, his body screamed for rest.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed into a kneel beside a fallen log, chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow waves. His back throbbed with heat. His arms ached with tension. Every breath felt like it scraped against the inside of his throat. But he’d made it.

He was alone now.

Exactly as he needed to be.

He had barely caught his breath when something struck the back of his head.

Hard.

The blow was immediate, blinding. White-hot pain exploded in his skull, and a constellation of sparks burst behind his eyes. His entire body pitched forward as his balance disappeared, knees buckling beneath him. He hit the ground with a strangled grunt, the cold, wet forest floor greeting him with unkind force. The scent of damp earth and old pine filled his nose, mixing with the copper tang of blood as a trickle seeped down his temple.

Panic surged in his chest. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Desperate not to become wanderer food or something worse, Xavier clawed at the ground, struggling to push himself upright. Adrenaline flooded his veins, sharp and sudden, urging his battered muscles to move—but his body betrayed him. His arms trembled violently and gave out before he could get leverage. His knees skidded across damp leaves, slipping uselessly as his strength failed him. Everything swam. His vision blurred, faded, then snapped back just enough to let him see the moss-darkened roots beneath his cheek. His chest heaved with labored breaths. Still, he couldn’t rise. Couldn’t fight.

Then came the voice.

"Been wanting to do that since he cut my leg."

Familiar. Too familiar.

Xavier's heart stilled in his chest before beginning to pound like a war drum. That voice—it was sharp and smirking, dripping with a cruelty he recognized instantly. His blood ran cold. He tried to turn, to see who it was, but his neck screamed in protest. The ache from the impact throbbed through his skull like a second heartbeat. His hearing warped, distorted by pain and rising fear. He could barely distinguish the crunch of boots through underbrush from the pulsing in his ears.

Hands—rough, calloused, precise—grabbed at his arms. He jerked instinctively, but his body responded like wet cement. Pain flared down his spine. HIs Evol flickered beneath his skin, a pathetic surge that sparked and died, as weak as a dying matchstick.

Something metal and cold had been clamped tightly around Xavier’s neck, jolting him abruptly from the lingering fragments of the dream. His eyes snapped open, panic clawing at his chest before the rising heat against his skin sent a bolt of clarity through him.

A high-pitched beep followed—a series of rapid tones—before the device settled with a final, chilling click.

He recognized the sound instantly.

An Evol-sealing collar.

The device hummed faintly, its warm surface pressing against the most vulnerable part of his throat. The restraint was military-grade—used by special task forces and elite syndicate enforcers to neutralize Evol surges in unstable users. He had seen them used in the field before. He had placed them on others.

Never once had he imagined wearing one himself.

The realization sank in like a lead weight. Whatever flicker of peace he'd found in that false morning light, whatever whisper of a family that had been born in a dream, it was gone now. Replaced by steel, heat, and the suffocating silence of control.

His wrists were yanked behind his back, the restraints digging in immediately. The stickiness of duct tape against raw skin brought him back to full awareness.

"Oof, bud, you’ve clearly seen better days," said a second voice. Lighter, more casual, but unmistakably connected to the first. Teasing, mocking.

His stomach sank.

He was flipped onto his back with zero care, his spine striking the uneven ground with a thud. Dirt clung to the sweat on his face, leaves sticking to his damp skin. He blinked, hard and fast, forcing his vision to align, to sharpen.

And then he saw them.

Two men, crouched above him, faces hidden behind sleek, black bird-shaped masks. Unmoving. Silent. Watching.

No.

It couldn’t be.

The world narrowed around them. Time seemed to slow. His pulse roared in his ears as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

“You two again…” Xavier rasped, every word thick with disbelief, pain, and venom. His voice cracked. He tried to lift his head, but one of them pushed him back down, pressing his chest firmly into the earth.

“Shh,” one of them said, amused. "We’re working."

They rummaged through his coat without urgency, pulling out vials, flipping through his worn notebook, tossing aside anything useless. The one on his right picked up a small pocket knife and gave it an impressed whistle.

"Carrying this old thing? Where's your sword? Oh wait...” the man said, giggling.

Xavier grit his teeth, every nerve in his body screaming. He recognized the energy behind those movements, the rhythm of their presence. The twins. He hadn’t seen them in so long he thought—hoped—they were ghosts of his past. But they were very real. And if they were here, together, this far into the forest...

Then Sylus had found him.

Of course he had.

Xavier’s jaw clenched as the implications sank in. There would be no death in peace. No isolation. No final transformation in solitude. He had tried to outrun it—tried to disappear—but the monster he feared most had simply sent monsters of his own to drag him back for some fucking reason.

"I did everything he asked..." Xavier groaned, coughing onto the wet ground. "Leave me alone..."

The taller twin stood, brushing leaves off his gloves. "You know," he said conversationally, "we thought you might’ve already gone full Wanderer. Honestly, you’re looking pretty damn close. So...you’re welcome."

“Yeah,” the other added with a grin Xavier couldn’t see but heard clearly. “You should be thanking us.”

Xavier let out a rough breath, eyes fluttering shut.

He didn’t thank them.

He braced himself instead. Because he knew what came next.

He didn’t even have time to think of it again before the next swing of the bat collided with his skull, plunging him into deep, suffocating darkness.

There was no warning. No pause. One second he was processing the cold, the tape digging into his wrists, the weight of the twins' voices grating in his ears—and the next, everything detonated into pain. A brutal, bone-shaking crack echoed through his skull, louder than thunder, sharper than a gunshot. It felt like the world folded in on itself in that instant.

His body tensed once, then crumpled like paper. His mouth opened but no sound came out. His breath stalled. His muscles spasmed, jerking uncontrollably before going limp. He didn’t even feel the ground when he hit it. His mind was already slipping too far, tumbling into that cold, black void that swallowed everything.

The last sensation that remained—the last tether to consciousness—was the echo of laughter. Not the joyful kind. No, this was a low, amused chuckle, hollow and cruel, floating above him like smoke. One of the twins. Maybe both. They sounded like they were enjoying this far too much, like this was a game and he was just another piece to move.

"Maybe we shouldn't have used the bat. What if he bleeds from his head and dies? Boss will be pissed."

"He'll be fine. He's lasted this long. C'mon, help me grab him."

The forest disappeared around him. The scents of damp earth and pine needles, the biting warmth on his skin, the smell of blood trickling near his temple—all of it was erased in a flood of nothingness. There were no more sounds. No more sensations. No more body.

Just darkness.

Heavy. Thick. Endless.

It pressed in from every side, swallowing thought, memory, even the concept of time. He didn’t know how long he drifted in it. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. There was no way to tell. It stretched infinitely in every direction, pulling him deeper.

And then…

Silence.

Sylus sat on his leather sofa, one arm draped casually over the back, the other hand steadily twirling a small, rust-colored bolt between his fingers. His gaze was fixed on a large painting across the room—a muted abstract piece with thick brush strokes in shades of gray and green that had hung there untouched for years. It was a piece he’d once admired for its obscurity, but now, it served more as a distraction, a placeholder for thoughts he didn’t want to face directly. He wasn’t really seeing it. Not the color, not the composition. He stared through it, past it, lost in the quiet swirl of his mind.

The bolt made a soft clicking sound as it tapped against the metal of his ring, again and again, a subtle but constant rhythm that filled the otherwise dead silence of the room. It was late—nearly three in the morning—but Sylus's day was just beginning. Rest didn’t come easily these days anyways, not since you vanished. Not since the dreams. Not since that last ride into the city that had stirred up more than just his grief.

This stupid bolt had been bothering him more than it should.

He had found it that morning after he returned from his morning ride—a long, aimless drive meant to clear his head and shake off the last lingering images of your shared dream. He’d been moving on autopilot, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes scanning the ground out of habit. That’s when he saw it: a lone bolt resting on the gravel path, half-buried near the edge of the estate’s front entrance. At first, he almost ignored it. Just another piece of hardware dislodged from the gate, maybe, or something kicked loose from a car.

But something about the way it caught the early light, how it seemed so perfectly out of place, had made him pause. He’d picked it up, running his thumb over the threads, idly noting the wear on it. Slight corrosion. Recently handled. Out of instinct, he walked straight to the garage and examined his motorbike.

Every inch of it had been inspected: the wheels, the frame, the suspension, the mounts. Hinge by hinge, screw by screw. Nothing was missing. Nothing was loose. Not a single bolt out of place.

So then, where the hell had this one come from?

Now, seated in the vast dimness of his living room, Sylus held the bolt up to the light and narrowed his eyes, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. The light from the fireplace caught on the threads, illuminating a fine groove near the head that looked suspiciously like it had been forced out of something.

It was small. Unremarkable. And yet it had consumed his thoughts all day. It didn’t belong. Not here. Not at his estate. Not where everything was meticulously ordered. Sylus didn’t like anomalies. He didn’t like things appearing without explanation—especially not so close to the place he considered the only stronghold he could trust at the moment.

He set his drink on the glass table with a quiet clink, leaned forward, and studied the bolt again. Something about it nagged at him. Something subtle but persistent. A familiarity he couldn’t quite name. Like a word caught on the tip of his tongue.

He clenched his jaw and leaned back slowly, the leather beneath him creaking. It wasn’t just the bolt itself—it was what its presence implied. That someone had been close. Close enough to drop it. Close enough to leave something behind.

The estate’s gates had been left open that night. A mistake. An oversight born from his restless state, his need to escape his own rabid thoughts. But what if someone had slipped in during that window? What if that bolt wasn’t from machinery… but from something else? Something brought in. Something—or someone—left behind.

The thought was irrational. And yet it didn’t feel like paranoia.

Sylus had learned a long time ago that the things which gnawed at the back of your mind were often warnings. Quiet signals. Instincts honed by years of survival.

He stared at the bolt again.

This wasn’t just a stray piece of metal.

It was trying to tell him something. He just hadn’t figured out how to read it yet.

He hadn’t had time to check the cameras, not with the full scope of Onychinus demanding his precision elsewhere. The morning following his ride had greeted him with a digital chorus of blinking alerts and a flood of high-priority messages, all of them clambering for his attention like vultures circling over a fresh kill. There were territorial disputes festering along the southern corridor that threatened to fracture crucial alliances.

A smuggling route near the marina had been compromised, severing a supply chain vital to his overseas networks. Two of his more insufferable lieutenants had devolved into a shouting match over synthetic protocore allocations—an internal power play masked as logistics. Each problem had arrived wrapped in urgency, daring to challenge his authority with their presumption.

Pests. That’s what they were—unworthy gnats drawn to the scent of perceived weakness, too shortsighted to understand that his silence wasn’t surrender, it was calculation. They believed the king distracted, the throne unguarded, the crown tilted. But they were wrong, and Sylus had reminded them exactly why he was feared across every grim corridor and back alley that bore his syndicate’s mark.

With swift, surgical brutality, he restored order. His commands were executed to the letter. Debts were collected in blood, reputations dismantled, and dissent turned to dust beneath his boot. By the time the sun began to crawl over the skyline, his hands were washed clean, his hands only faintly scented with the metallic echo of violence. His demeanor returned to its usual frigid elegance, as if nothing had occurred, as if he hadn’t gutted half a rebellion before breakfast.

Now, with his empire once again silent under his heel, he stood, pocketing the bolt without a second thought, his mind clicking into place with that same quiet, predatory clarity. Enough distractions. The day’s earlier mystery—the one that had scratched at the edge of his otherwise unflappable calm—would now be addressed. He moved with purpose, intent drawn tight across his features as he made his way toward the study to review the estate’s surveillance footage.

But just as his shoes echoed across the polished floor, the sharp buzz of his phone broke through the calm. He paused, expression sharpening with irritation, and glanced at the screen.

Kieran.

The annoyance simmered instantly into something colder, sharper. He answered the call with a voice like a blade.

"I assume you're only calling me because you’ve successfully done as I asked. If not, hang up."

There was a beat of silence—just long enough to confirm Kieran was soaking in the theatrics—before his reply came, cheerful and smug. "Yes, sir! We have him. We’re in the air now and should be landing in Windsor by this afternoon. Jet’s running ahead of schedule."

Sylus exhaled through his nose, a breath so subtle it barely moved his chest, but it was enough to shift something inside him. A muscle in his jaw relaxed. The tightness behind his eyes eased. And then, slow and deliberate, a rare smile curved his lips. Not the cold smirk he wore like armor. Not the cruel grin he gave before breaking a man’s fingers. But something unguarded, quiet, and wholly satisfied.

Perfect.

Everything was converging now. The bolt could wait. The camera feeds could wait. Because the final and most essential piece had been retrieved.

Xavier.

The bait.

He would contact the staff within the next few minutes. The basement level of the estate would be stripped of its usual storage and repurposed, transformed back into the specialized containment it had once been—reinforced steel doors, padded restraints reinforced for Evol surges, sedation systems calibrated for resistance. No errors. No leniency. No escape.

This wasn’t simply a prisoner. This was leverage in its purest form.

The closing move in a very long, very deliberate endgame.

And as for you?

This chase had gone on long enough. The winding trail of disappearances, stolen moments, and fragmented dreams had all led to this. He could feel the invisible thread between you both tightening now, trembling under the weight of inevitability.

Soon, you would come for him. Whether in fury or desperation, whether in love or rage—it didn’t matter. All roads pointed back to him.

You would return.

And when you did, he would be ready.

One way or another, this was the endgame.

And Sylus always won the endgame.

[7s3ven]

WHY DON’T U LOVE ME? (pt 1) human! miles quaritch

[ masterlist ]

IN WHICH… jake sully becomes too preoccupied with the omatikaya to check up on his daughter. miles quaritch uses it to his advantage, luring you in with sweet words and caging you.

Notes: unstable! jake sully’s daughter! reader, daddy issues, toxic relationship, age gap, pet names (quaritch calls reader princess + sweetheart), manipulation, neglect, bi! reader, a little trudy x r if you squint, angst, LONG one shot, implications of sex, intense make out sessions, reader commits suicide, dark, angst, jake lowkey being a bad father, mental health issues, character death

—

part 1 | part 2

You were the exact opposite of Pandora. With your wide doe eyes and shorter figure, it was a wonder how you had managed to survive the turbulent flight. As you trailed behind Jake, your father, giving his wheelchair a gentle push when needed, various soldiers turned their heads to peer at you.

You didn’t look like a marine. You didn’t even look like a scientist. Instead, you waltzed around in a daze, curious eyes darting to look everywhere. You had no idea where you were heading; you merely followed after Jake.

His heavy bags weighed you down, making every step a struggle. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment as you stumbled, and a group of men loudly snickered.

You held the heavy steel door for your father as he rolled into the large room. Honestly, you had no idea what you were even doing on such a strange planet. All you remembered was that Uncle Tom had been shot, and suddenly, Jake was swept into a mission that wasn’t his—forced to fill his brother’s shoes. Now, here you were, dragged along with him, feeling out of place on a planet that felt far too wild for someone like you.

You were supposed to be buying makeup, drinking, choosing outfits, and crying when dirt got under your nails. Instead, you were stuck on Pandora without any of your ditzy friends, relying on your father to keep you company.

You stared at the Colonel, who stood at the front of the room, his back turned to the new recruits. You slowly sat down on a stiff metal bench, fiddling with your fingers. You glanced at the marine next to you, briefly smiling.

"You are not in Kansas anymore. You are on Pandora, ladies and gentlemen." He turns, and you stiffen, feeling the breath suddenly knock out of your lungs. He was... handsome. His features were rough and rugged, and three long scars dragged through his cropped hair. "Beyond that fence, every living thing that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud wants to kill you and eat your eyes for jujubes." You could hardly hear his low voice, too enamoured by his looks.

"As head of security, it's my job to keep you alive. I will not succeed." He strode down the empty aisle, hands clasped behind his back as he paused. "Not with all of you." Your gaze followed him until he stopped in front of you. You stared up at him through your lashes, lips softly parted.

You could smell the faint scent of his cologne. It overpowered you, flooding your senses. He continued talking, but his words never fully reached your ears. He placed his hands on his hips, his elbow almost whacking you in the face.

"Class dismissed."

You were the first to stand up. The Colonel, out of the corner of his eye, saw you. He turned his head, eyes trailing down your figure. You picked up the last bag before lifting your head, your gaze locking with the Head of Security.

It was a brief moment of eye contact before your father called out your name. "Sorry, sir, excuse me." You brushed past the Colonel, hurrying after Jake.

The corridor was a mess, filled with luggage and crowded with people of all sorts. You squeezed past them all, struggling to breathe in the claustrophobic air.

"Hey! You're Jake, right?!" A scrawny man staggered under the weight of his overpacked duffel bag as he jogged to catch up with you and your father. "Tom's brother? I'm Norm Spellman. I, uh, went through avatar training with him." Norm glanced at you, "And you must be Y/N, right? Tom's daughter, I'm guessing? He talked about you a lot."

"She's mine, actually." Jake interrupted. "My daughter."

Norm's brows raised for a second before he smiled. "Right, of course. Sorry."

Your focus trailed off as Norm and Jake conversed. You merely followed after them. Your eyes widened in awe as you came face to face with Tom's, now Jake's, avatar. It looked just like your Uncle. You pressed a hand against the transparent amino tank, deeply inhaling.

"Grace Augustine is a legend!" Norm exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. "She's the head of the Avatar Program and wrote the literal book on Pandoran botany."

"So it's like the Pandoran botany bible?" You finally spoke up for the first time since arriving on the alien world. You heard Max, another scientist, let out a quiet snort.

"Yeah, you can say that. She wrote the book because she likes plants better than people." Max said over his shoulder.

You almost jumped in shock when a link compartment door was slammed open with a loud bang. Grace Augustine, a fierce woman, sat up. You watched as she stretched her neck, lowly groaning. "Okay, who's got my damn cigarette?!" She shouted as she stood up.

Grace's eyes were anything but kind as she watched the four of you approach her. She deeply scowled.

"Grace, I'd like you to meet Norm Spellman, Y/N Sully, and Ja"- Max attempted to introduce the three of you, but Grace abruptly cut him off.

"Norm. I hear good things about you. How's your Na'vi?" She practically ignored you and your father, her attention focused solely on the one person who actually belonged on Pandora.

"Grace." Max tried again, "This is Y/N Sully and Jake Sully."

"Yeah, yeah. I know who they are." Her lips curled into a frown as she turned to Jake. "I don't need you. I need your brother. The PhD who trained three years for this mission."

"He's dead, " you said. You had always possessed a sharp tongue, but in situations like these, you really needed to learn to bite your remarks back.

Grace looked even more unimpressed to see you. "This Tom's daughter?"

"Mine." Jake corrected for the second time in an hour.

"Funny. She looks just like Tom."

"What a surprise. It's almost like he was my twin."

Grace huffed in slight amusement. "Whatever. I guess we can use her for... something. A secretary of sorts. Let's hope Quaritch takes a liking to you. Maybe he’ll stop annoying the shit out of me with a new play toy.”

"Hey, no, no. You can't talk about her like that." Jake piped up, "She's a person, not an object."

Grace ignored his jab. "How much lab training have you had?"

"I dissected a frog once in high school chemistry," Jake answered. He glanced at you, "Y/N's better. She won a science award."

"In what, primary school?" Grace sharply retorted, rolling her eyes.

You scoffed under your breath. No, you won the state science competition.

"You see? They're just pissing on us without the courtesy of calling it rain. I'm going to Selfridge." Grace shoved past you, storming down the corridor.

"Parker, I used to think it was benign neglect, but now I see you're intentionally screwing us. I need a research assistant, not some jarhead. " Grace grumbled, furrowing her eyebrows in frustration.

Selfridge merely shrugged as he looked down at his golf ball, gently hitting it towards a cup. Grace kicked it aside, frowning in annoyance. "Actually, I think we got lucky."

Grace scoffed as Selfridge leaned down to retrieve the ball. "Lucky?" She groaned, " How is this in any way lucky?"

"Well, lucky your guy had a twin brother, and lucky the brother wasn't an oral hygienist or something. A Marine we can use. I'm assigning him to your team as a security escort." Selfridge folded his arms over his chest.

"The last thing I need is another trigger-happy asshole out there with a bimbo daughter!" Grace abruptly shouted, slamming her hand down on the table.

"She's smarter than she looks. You ever heard of that kid who won the US State Academic Award?" Selfridge flipped through a series of folders before pulling one out and showing the front paper to Grace.

The woman stared at the picture of you, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. "That... was her?"

"Yeah. Maybe you can, I don't know, teach her to become a scientist or something. She learns fast from what I've heard. Jake only dragged her along because if he left, there’d be no one else to take care of her."

"So? She’s an adult."

"Well, no. She was a teenager before leaving for Pandora. But anyway, she went a bit loopy after high school. Took a bunch of pills. If Jake left her alone, he’d only return to her grave."

“What, so we’re taking in suicidal kids now? We ain’t a help shelter, Parker.”

“I think she can offer us something. Quaritch took one look at her picture and accepted her into the operation. So, clearly, he sees something we don’t. But, whatever keeps him happy, I guess. As long as he gets his job done.”

Grace scoffed for what felt like the fifth time today. "Whatever." She muttered.

"Sully, Colonel wants to see you in the Armor Bay." Trudy Chacon, a pilot and former Marine, strode into the lab, still dressed in her flight suit. Jake lifted his head, sending Norm a puzzled look.

Nevertheless, he followed after Trudy. She led him past numerous planes and AMPSUITS. "He's down there," Trudy uttered, pointing to the makeshift gym where Jake saw Colonel Miles Quaritch bench-pressing massive weights.

"This low gravity makes you soft," Quaritch grunted as he pushed through the last rep. "You get soft; Pandora will shit you out dead with zero warning." He racked the bar and sat up, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. "I pulled your record, Corporal. Venezuela, that was some mean bush. Nothing like this here, though. You got heart coming out here. Especially with your daughter, no doubt."

Jake shrugged, "Just another hellhole, sir. And if I left my daughter, she'd practically be an orphan."

"You weren't planning on returning to her?"

"I'd probably be dead, sir. And if it takes six years to travel back, she'd want nothing to do with me. Even now, she almost despises me."

"She looks a lot like you, apart from the eyes."

"Yeah. Her mother had the same big doe eyes."

Quaritch only chuckled as he clapped Jake on the shoulder. "I was in First Recon a few years ahead of you. More than a few. Two tours in Nigeria, not a scratch. I come out here, and on the first day, I get this." He pointed to his scarred head, lips curling into a sneer. "They could fix this if I rotated back. But you know what? I kinda like it. Reminds me every day what's out there."

Jake listened attentively as Quaritch explained a proposition: "I take care of my own, son. Get me what I need, and I'll see you get your legs back when you rotate home—your real legs."

Jake let out a chuckle, not being able to suppress his wide grin. "That sounds real good, sir." He paused, "But what about my daughter?"

Quaritch raised an eyebrow as he watched Jake shake his head. "I can’t take care of her. I could barely take care of her on Earth. I need to make sure she ends up somewhere safe before I…" He trailed off.

“Before you run away.” Quaritch finished. “Don’t worry, Sully. I’ll take care of her if things get too tough.”

If only Jake noticed the crude meaning behind his words.

The first time Quaritch approached you was when your father was out on another mission. You were lounging around in the laboratory, tapping a pen against the table in boredom.

Norm was gone too, so was Grace. Trudy was with them as well. Max was… your eyes trailed around the room, searching for the friendly scientist. He was working on another project.

You sighed, tilting her head back. Your lips settled into a pout as you spun around in the chair, relieving your boredom for a few short sentences. You were interrupted when two hands slammed down on either side of you, effectively trapping you.

You looked up, eyes wide as you stared at the Colonel. You expected a scold to roll off his tongue. He merely grinned down at you. “We haven’t formerly met, Y/N.”

“You know my name?” You whispered. As far as you were concerned, nobody batted at eye at you. Sure, you were nice eye candy, a stark difference from the actual workers, but there was nothing else to you. You felt your cheeks heat up as he leaned closer.

“You’re Sully’s girl.” He grinned, “Plus, I read your file. You had a bright future. Early acceptation from Harvard law. What happened?”

You slowly swallowed. Right, you had forgotten about that. Your life had been going great until your high school graduation. It was the same day your Uncle Tom was shot. You didn’t turn up to graduation. In fact, you barely left your room after that.

Jake Sully was your father on paper but Tom Sully was everything else.

Your life fell into pieces after your Uncle’s death. You were already on the verge of a mental breakdown and his death was the breaking point.

You glanced back at Quaritch, silent for a moment. “An accident happened.” You murmured. “My Uncle died.”

“And I’m guessing your father didn’t help? He told you to suck it up?”

Yes, those were Jake’s exact words.

“Why are you talking to me, Colonel?” You muttered, fidgeting with your hands.

“I need you to do something for me, pretty.” His face was barely an inch from yours, his lips almost brushing yours. You had the urge to close the gap yet you remained still, waiting. “I need you to keep an eye on Augustine and her team. Can you do that for me?” His hands grazed your collarbones as he rested them on your shoulders. Your breath hitched. You hadn’t been touched so gently in years.

“Okay.” You whispered without thinking.

“Good. If that smart little brain of yours suspects anything, tell me.” He stood up straight.

“I’m not smart, Colonel.” You said as he began to walk away. You watched as he slung his jacket over his shoulder and turned to look at you once more.

A smirk pulled at his lips. “Oh? Then how come Harvard wanted you so bad?”

It had been days since your last interaction with the Colonel but his words seemed engraved into your head. You softly bit down on your bottom lip, jolting when Norm’s link suddenly opened. “Hey.” He greeted you. He was probably the only nice person to you. Him, Trudy, and Max. Grace didn’t like your presence looming around but she tolerated you. And Jake didn’t bother checking up on you; he wanted you to get settled in by yourself.

“Hi.” You replied, staring at him. You noticed his tired eyes. “Busy day?”

“Yeah. Decided to take a break. You doing alright?”

You silently nodded. Between you and Norm, there wasn’t much to discuss. You knew nothing about Pandora while he seemed to know everything, constantly spewing out knowledge in your face.

“You wanna grab lunch together?” Norm asked but you politely declined. You had already eaten after taking a short nap. Grace said she’d get you some work to do but she never did.

“Hey, Sully.” Another marine soldier whose name you didn’t know called out for you, “The Colonel’s asking for ya. Says he has a job for you.” You were secretly glad to have a task to do. Days on Pandora were so boring.

You scrambled out of your seat, following the Marine into a part of the base you had never been to. You mainly stuck to the science compound where Grace could keep an eye on you.

“Colonel, I got ‘er.” The soldier announced, briefly saluting. Quaritch turned away from Selfridge to look you up and down, nodding.

“Just make her file papers or copy. I don’t care.” You heard Selfridge hiss as he poked Quaritch’s chest and walked away. You felt self conscious standing in a room jam packed of soldiers. They all craned their heads to get a look at you, eyes flickering to your low cut top.

“Here you go, pretty. That’ll be plenty to keep you occupied. Just copy them and I’ll check back with you in an hour.” Quaritch shoved a pile of files into your arms, his hands grazing yours. You blushed at the sudden contact.

“Yes sir.” You squeaked. His gaze remained on your figure, almost scrutinising you before he turned his head.

You admired his side profile, your gaze not so subtly staring at his sharp jawline. He noticed but made no comment. You hurried off, almost crashing into people due to the files covering your vision. Quaritch watched you with an amused glint in his eyes. Oh, you were going to be fun.

You sat in front of the printer, your eyes drooping at its slow pace. You would have fallen asleep had Trudy not interrupted you. “Hey, mini Sully, what’cha doing?!” She ruffled your hair, jolting you awake.

“Printing papers for the Colonel.” You murmured, giving the printer a firm kick when it paused.

“You so bored that you started listening to the Colonel? Ha!” Trudy chuckled as she slung an arm around your shoulder. “Augustine really ain’t making it easy for you, huh?”

You simply shook your head. “She doesn’t seem to like me.”

“Oh, nonsense! She’ll warm up eventually!” Trudy slapped you on the back, leaving you winded. You lowly grunted, almost sent forward by the sudden force.

“Yeah, sure.” You muttered, still not believing the pilot’s words. The room was peacefully silent before Trudy swore under her breath.

“Sorry, babe, gotta fly some more avatars down. Duty calls.”

Her teasing pet name made your cheeks flare up. Somehow the RDA has managed to send the most attractive people to Pandora. You were stuck with the whirring printer as it paused again, clearly struggling. You gave it another kick, forcing it back into action.

“Whoa, slow down, sweetheart. Don’t need ‘cha breaking our equipment.” Quaritch leaned against the doorframe, gaze lazily trailing over you. You were sitting backwards on a chair, arms propped up.

“It’s too slow.” You complained. Though, your voice was quiet. Quaritch had to strain his ears to hear your words.

“Where’s your dad?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Out.” You replied, suddenly feeling bitter at how Jake was almost ignoring you.

“He plans to abandon you.”

You ceased all actions as you slowly turned your head to stare at Quaritch. “What?” You whispered.

Jake wasn’t the best dad, that was for sure. At least, not to you. But you could barely blame him. You were the result of a college hook-up, just another burden forced into his hands when your mother didn’t want you. He liked you at first. He treated you with care.

You were his precious little girl for a brief moment in time. And then you grew up into your own person, almost like a stranger to Jake. You looked so much like him that he seemed to hate it. He hated seeing another copy of him, reminding him of what his life could have looked like had he not lost control in his legs.

Deep inside, you were still his little girl who believed you were his whole world when, in reality, you were the last thing in his mind.

“Said so himself, sweetheart. He can’t look after you, not like this.” Quaritch stepped closer to you, softly tilting your chin up with a flick of his fingers.

You knew your presence made life difficult for Jake but he never complained. Hearing the Colonel’s cruel words was a snap back to reality.

“I suppose it’ll be easier for him…” You muttered, your tongue darting out to lick your dry lips.

“I told him I’d take care of you.” Quaritch muttered as he leaned down, his warm breath hitting your ear. “So don’t get into trouble, sweetheart.” He teasingly tapped your cheek as the corners of his mouth twitched into a sly grin.

You had a feeling that Quaritch wasn’t trying to act as a second father finger as his gaze lingered on your lips for a second too long.

Your theory was proven correct when one night, weeks after your arrival, Quaritch cornered you in the dim kitchen. It was late and you had snuck out of your room to retrieve a cup of cold water. You didn’t even know the Colonel had entered the room until he closed the creaky door behind him.

“Up for a late night snack, sweetheart?” He called out, using your endearing nickname. You stared at him through your lashes as you leaned over to grab a cup from the dishwasher.

“No, sir. Only some water.” You softly replied, never breaking eye contact. In one swift moment, he snatched the fragile cup from your hand and shoved you against the stone-top counter. The edges dug into your clothed back as you merely blinked up at him.

“You’re in my personal space, Colonel.” You said, lightly mocking him. He said nothing as he effortlessly lifted you onto the counter, grabbing your chin with his hand.

“It was easy to ignore those science pukes and my soldiers but you waltz around here in low jeans and cropped tops.” His brows furrowed together in frustration, “I can’t even remember the most beautiful woman I’ve seen because it’s always you in my goddamn mind.”

You tilted your head to the side, adjusting your shirt that was beginning to slow down your shoulder, showing a silver of skin. “I don’t understand, sir.” You murmured. What was the point behind his words?

He leaned in, lips brushing yours but never actually colliding. He seemed to hesitate but the doubt clouding his head vanished when you wrapped your arms around his neck and closed the distance between you.

You were moving eagerly, taking away his ability to breathe. Literally. He had to forcefully pull away to inhale some much needed oxygen to relieve his dizzy head.

You didn’t let him take a break for long. You tugged him forward by his shirt collar, muttering muffled words against his lips. “Don’t leave me, Colonel.” You whispered, tucking your face into his shoulder.

Quaritch pressed a light kiss to the back of your neck, dragging out a low sigh from you. You allowed your head to loll to the side, granting him further access. He nipped and sucked on your exposed skin, listening to the quiet sounds slipping past your lips.

From that night on you, were obsessed with Colonel Miles Quaritch and you only drowned deeper into the guilty pleasure each time you shared stolen kisses in the empty corridors.

You barely saw Jake anymore, too preoccupied in keeping Quaritch company. You were sure Lyle Wainfleet, Quaritch’s second-in-command, could hear the squeak of his superior’s bed. Lyle had even caught you sneaking out of the Colonel’s room late at night a few times, hair messy, lipstick smudged, and your shirt barely covering the bruises that lay upon your collarbone. Yet, you didn’t really care and neither did he. Lyle had seen much worse things in his lifetime.

You were lying in your own bed when you heard a knock on your door. Begrudgingly, you crawled out from under your warm blankets and stumbled through the dark.

You opened the door, expecting to see your father, maybe Norm or Trudy, even Grace. You were expecting anybody else but the Colonel himself.

“Sir.” You greeted him. He brushed past you, entering your room without your permission but you let him. You were already closing the door behind you, locking it for safe measures.

“Felt lonely without you.” Quaritch sighed as he fell onto your soft mattress. You could faintly see him beckoning you over through the darkness. “Missed the smell of your perfume too.” As you lay down beside him, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, your perfume hitting him like an avalanche.

You thought he was merely here for sex, like he always was, but he grabbed your wrists when your hands travelled to the waistband of his pants. “Just wanted to see your pretty face and hear your voice.” He uttered, wrapping an arm around your waist.

You felt a warm, giddy feeling seep into your chest as he pulled you close. When had you last been touched so lovingly? Quaritch was so gentle. His hands rested on the curve of your back, thumb rubbing affectionate circles into your skin.

You allowed your eyes to flutter closed, leaning into his warm embrace. For the first time in a while, you felt safe. Quaritch shifted, his arms now wrapped around you as he pulled you close. The lingering smell of his cologne hit you, clouding your mind of every rational thought.

The effect he had on you was dangerous but you loved it.

You were aimlessly braiding Trudy’s hair when Grace stormed towards you. She grabbed you by the shoulder, practically dragging you towards the door. Trudy looked up, confused, but not questioning it.

“Ow! That hurts!” You exclaimed, trying to swat Grace’s hand away. She ignored you.

“Are you out of your mind?!” She hissed, harshly flicking your forehead. “Messing around with Quaritch of all people?”

“How do you know about that?” You didn’t bother denying it.

“Well, he isn’t exactly secret about it. Doesn’t even bother wiping the lipstick marks off his neck. And nobody here wears lipstick apart from you.” She poked your chest, her eyebrows furrowing. “You could do so much better. Why him of all the idiotic people here?”

You silently shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “He makes me feel… loved.” You whispered, lowering your head. You had never been ashamed of being involved with the Colonel but Grace’s judgemental glare suddenly made you feel self conscious.

“He isn’t capable of love, kid! And that’s what you are. You’re like a kid compared to him! There’s plenty of younger marine soldiers.” Grace paused, looking you up and down. “Unless… this has something to do with Jake. If you’re looking for anything resembling a father, you won’t find it in Quaritch.”

Tears glazed over your eyes as Grace said nothing but the truth.

“If you’re looking for stability, protection, and emotional support because your relationship with Jake lacks that, choose someone else. Not Quaritch.”

Your cheeks burned up. You barely understood yourself, but Grace was psychoanalysing you in a matter of seconds. You swallowed hard, your throat tight as Grace’s words cut deep. You wanted to argue against her brutal honesty, but she was staring right through you, her gaze sharp.

"I'm not looking for a father figure."

"Then what are you looking for?" She pressed, her voice softer but still relentless. "Love? That’s not in his arsenal, kid." Grace saw your trembling lips. She sighed gently, "I'm not trying to beat you down. Quaritch has his motives, and whatever feelings you have for him won't change his agenda. Trust me, I’ve seen men like him. They’re good at giving you what you want—until they don’t." Her voice was almost motherly, starkly different from how she usually spoke to you. She never talked to you like that, not with such tenderness, making the truth even more challenging to swallow.

Her words haunted you as she walked away. You felt vulnerable. Grace had peeled away a layer of you that you weren't ready to face. Your chest felt tight as you stumbled towards Quaritch's office, your eyesight blurry with unfallen tears. Grace's voice lingered in the back of your mind, attacking you.

She was right—you knew it deep down. But the ache of Quaritch's attention, his intense affection, felt too good to give up. It was intoxicating, in a dangerous way that clouded your judgment. He made you feel important and seen; it filled the hole in your heart.

The warmth of his presence, the subtle touch of his hand when no one was watching, the guarded smiles he flashed—it was enough to make you forget, even for a fleeting second, how dangerous your obsession with Quaritch could be.

His possessive gaze from across the room always made your stomach somersault. His attention was a drug, and you weren't sure if you had the strength to walk away.

You slowly lifted a hand, hesitantly knocking on his door. "Come in." He gruffly called out. You twisted the knob, gently pushing the door open.

"Hello, sir." You murmered.

He instantly noticed your distressed face and the way your brows creased together. "What's on your mind, sweetheart?" He asked, beckoning you forward.

"Sir..." Your mouth ran dry. "Is it true? Do you really view me as a..." You couldn't even finish your sentence. He played with the hem of your shirt, nodding his head to encourage you to continue. "Someone told me you don't care about me."

"Of course I do, princess." He caressed your waist. "Who told you that?"

"Grace." You murmured, kneeling in front of him and leaning your cheek against his knee. He softly stroked your head, bringing you a speckle of comfort.

"Don't listen to those science pukes, sweetheart." He told you, tilting your head up. "They don't know you like I do, baby." His thumb traced the shape of your lips. All your doubts flew out the window as he pulled you up, kissing you.

You peeked into Jake's room, searching for your father. You noticed how his bunk was almost empty, stripped of his belongings. The only thing left was a framed picture of you and him on his nightstand with a short note under it. You knew what the letter meant. He was leaving you all over over.

Suddenly, you were five again, begging your father not to go on another mission because you still wanted- no, needed- his love. You held the photograph of you together close to your chest, your emotions overwhelming you. You didn't even know he still had this picture, let alone kept it beside him while he slept. However, the fact that he had forgotten or purposely left it didn't sit right with you.

Your hands trembled as you removed the picture from the frame, delicately folding it and shoving it into your pocket. You grabbed the note, almost crashing into the wall with how fast you ran out of the room. “Sorry!” You exclaimed as you shoved past two scientists.

You frantically knocked on Quaritch’s door, knowing it was his day off. When he didn’t open it, you started wildly banging your fist against the surface. You even kicked the door a little, almost knocking it off its hinges. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold on, fucking hell!” You heard him shout. He angrily opened the door, raising his eyebrows when he saw you.

“My dad. He left.” You blurted out. You felt bad for snitching on your own father but that wasn’t enough to stop you. A part of you would always crave Quaritch’s approval and you knew you’d go to great lengths to prove it. “He left this.” You handed him the note Jake had placed on the nightstand, announcing his abrupt departure with Norm, Grace, and Trudy. As Quaritch’s eyes scanned over the note, you couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder when you heard a quiet groan.

Your heart almost stopped. There was a woman in Quaritch’s bed. All you could see was her brunette hair but you immediately knew it was. Paz Socorro. The marines liked her as much as they liked you. She was beautiful, much closer to Quaritch’s age than you. She was curled into a ball, the blankets softly draped over her undressed form.

Quaritch saw you stiffen but only raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘we weren’t exclusive’. He shoved the note back into your hands and closed the door on you, not even bothering to even utter a word. You stood in front of his room, frozen and shocked. Once you realised he had no intention of speaking to you, you slowly dragged your feet in the direction of your room.

Your body felt heavy as you forced it to move. You were sure you would have fully collapsed when your knees buckled if it wasn’t the person who swiftly caught you. “Thank you.” You murmured.

You barely got to your room in time before everything started collapsing. You slammed the door behind you, slowly sliding down it. Tears streamed down your face as you tried to wipe them away with no avail.

Your father had left you like he always did even though he promised he’d never do it again.

Norm and Trudy, your only two friends, were gone too.

And Grace, who you were beginning to view as a slight mother figure, left with them.

Not to mention Quaritch, the man who your twisted mind claimed to love, had another woman in his life. Grace was right. You should have listened but you thought you knew better.

You felt numb as you crawled into your bed, ignoring your given duties. Selfridge had knocked on your door hours ago, demanding you to file and copy some paperwork, but you tuned his voice out. Nobody except for you knew how to properly work the printer. What a bunch of idiots. Weren’t they supposed to be the smartest and toughest bunch?

Your hair stuck to your flushed face as you buried yourself deeper into the comfort of your blankets. You barely registered the sound of your door creaking open until the dim light from the hallway suddenly flooded in.

“Princess, I promise you she meant nothing.” You heard Quaritch call out into your dark room, “She was just a fling, that’s all. I missed you.”

A part of you didn’t want to believe his words, but as he leaned down to kiss the side of your head, you lost all common sense. You couldn’t resist his sickly sweet words, which made your stomach churn and your heart flutter.

He embraced you, and you let him, knowing there was no point in fighting when you would ultimately lose. You kissed him back as he crawled into your bed, cornering you without a chance to run.

You were tightly wrapped around his finger as he placed you on his lap, your lips never leaving his. You were barely inhaling any oxygen, sacrificing your need to breathe to spend more time pressed up against Quaritch.

Grace was right, but you were already in too deep to remember her words. It was your mistake, really. And you realized that when Quaritch's gentle grip became bruising, and it became impossible to escape his controlling gaze.

Quaritch watched the monitor in anger, staring at Jake’s avatar. His hands clenched into fists as he immediately spun around, searching for the one person who would give him the leverage he needed. You.

He burst into your room. You screamed out of surprise, papers flying everywhere. “Get up, princess.” He yanked you out of your seat, his tight grip enough to bruise your shoulder.

“Where are we going?” You asked, your gaze nervously darting around.

“To get your dad. You know where he is, right?”

You stared up at Quaritch, your lips sealed. Jake had briefly mentioned the location to you in his note, but you had scribbled it out before showing Quaritch the letter. He merely chuckled, leaning down to match your height. “Come on, sweetheart. Tell me where he is, and I’ll reward you.” He caressed your cheek, thumb gently stroking your skin. You leaned into his touch, your mind clouded.

“A reward?” You quietly questioned. “Anything I want?”

Quaritch smirked, “Anything.”

You thought for a moment, thickly gulping. Your eyes darted up to meet his and you parted your glossy lips. “The Hallelujah mountains.” You whispered, almost wishing he didn’t hear you.

“Good job, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you give you want you want when we get back.” He patted your head and you opened your lips to ask what he meant by we. Your silent question was answered when he tugged you towards an aircraft.

“Your dad’s crossed the line. It’s time he remember who he’s fighting for.”

You stiffened as Quaritch suddenly pricked your skin with a sharp knife. He held it against your throat. One wrong move and your blood would be everywhere. The blade dug into your flesh, cutting a thin line. Tiny drops of blood oozed out, staining your white-collar top.

You were scared for your life but you made no attempt in fighting against Quaritch. Because surely he wouldn’t actually slit your throat, right? He loved you too much… at least, that’s what you thought in your mind.

Quaritch, satisfied with your dormant state, slowly slipped the knife back into its holster. He held onto you securely, making butterflies erupt in your stomach. To you, it felt like a loving touch. To others, they knew it was a way of ensuring you didn’t run.

You looked foreign to your father. He hadn’t gazed at you in so long that he forgot what you looked like. He felt a small pang of guilt as he watched the way Quaritch took a step to stand closer to you, too close to be merely acquaintances.

Grace has warned him about the Colonel’s new suddenly interest in you but Jake was too stubborn to listen. Now he realised what she meant. Jake, after years of letting you fend for yourself, had officially lost you. And you had fallen into the hands of a greedy and cruel man.

You stood beside Quaritch as the recording of Jake destroying a bulldozer camera played on repeat. It suddenly paused on a frame revealing Jake’s angry snarl. “You let me down, son.”

You watched the scene with wide eyes. Grace, Norm, and Jake were thrown into a cell for siding with the Na’vi. You turned to Quaritch, tugging on his shirt to gain his attention. “Sir, is this really necessary?” You murmured, glancing at your father.

Quaritch wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you away. “He doesn’t love you, sweetheart. He doesn’t care about you.” He whispered in your ear as he stroked his thumb over your cheek. Your mind instantly believed any lie he shoved down your throat and you slowly nodded. “I’m here. I care about you, not him.”

You blindly trailed after him. You’d walk off a cliff for Quaritch and he knew it. He used your loyalty to his advantage because all it took was a murmur of sweet words in your ear for you to follow him.

You didn’t visit Jake until hours later. You adjusted your top to conceal the marks Quaritch had left on your body. The guard standing in front of the cell nodded in acknowledgment at you before walking off to give you some privacy. You halted in front of the cell, red eyes looking up to meet Jake’s. It had taken thirty minutes for you to stop crying after Quaritch convinced you that Jake wanted you gone.

“Quaritch said you don’t care about me.” You uttered, staring at Jake. You heard the quiet sound of Grace scoffing.

“And you believe him?” She asked.

“You left me. Why wasn’t I allowed to come?” Your brows furrowed. Jake was sitting right in front of you in his wheelchair, wanting to reach out a hand to comfort you but he knew you’d only pull away. His touch felt like hot iron on your skin.

“It was too dangerous.” He muttered, unable to meet your gaze.

You kneeled so that he was forced to lock eyes with you. “Why don’t you love me?” Your words came out as a whisper but when Jake didn’t answer, you grew angry. “Why don’t you love me?!” You reached through the bars, gripping onto his shirt. “You don’t love me! You don’t care about me! Why?! Why don’t you love me?!” You screamed.

Jake couldn’t answer. You leaned your head against the bar, tears rolling down the apples of your cheeks. It felt like you were a child again, crying into his arms about a scraped knee. Only, it was something bigger than that.

You sniffled, your tight grip on Jake’s shirt loosening. “Why are you leaving me for her?” You didn’t even have to say Neytiri’s name. You saw the look in Jake’s eyes when he spoke about Neytiri with Norm and Grace. It was the same way you looked at Quaritch.

After your short outburst, you were ushered away by the guard. Jake could only helplessly stare at your retreating form. You were his little girl and he had let you down.

The last time Jake ever saw you with his human eyes was when he jumped on a plane with Grace, Norm, and Trudy. You had been in the control tower with Quaritch when you heard the sound of a whirring engine. The moment you realised Jake was leaving you for good, you kicked open the door and rushed out without an oxygen mask.

Jake could still remember your teary eyes as you outstretched an arm, silently begging him to come back. You would have fallen over the metal railing if it wasn’t for Quaritch heaving you back. The Colonel swiftly lifted an oxygen mask to your face, forcing you to breathe.

You never saw your father again.

It was clear that Jake’s departure meant war. Quaritch barked orders at his soldiers and pilots with you hot on his heels. He only spared you a glance when you were in the safe confides of his office.

“You know I have to go, sweetheart.” He murmured against your skin. You shook your head.

“Don’t go, please.” With Jake gone, Quaritch was your last lifeline.

“I’ll come back, princess.”

Lies.

“We can start that family you always wanted.”

Lies.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

LIES.

“No, don’t leave.” You whimpered, a futile attempt to convince him to stay with you. “If you leave, that means you don’t love me.” You received no answer. “Do you love me?” You asked, “Or are you lying? I don’t like liars.” Your nails dug into his skin.

“I have to leave, baby.” Quaritch repeated.

You were on your knees in an instant, tugging aggressively on his shirt as you sobbed. It was an exact repeat of what had happened with your father. You were starting to notice a pattern. “Why don’t you love me?! Why are you like him?” You cried. “He left me! And you’re leaving me!”

You had given him everything. Why did he still not return your desperate feelings? Quaritch almost felt bad for you. He flattened out your tousled hair, quietly shushing you. “Princess, stop crying.” He wiped your tears and smeared mascara away.

“Do you love me now?” You whispered, your hopeful doe eyes staring up at him. You were beautiful, even with red eyes and tears streaming down your face. Quaritch hesitated. Would it be going too far to lie about such a thing to you? Especially given your current mental state.

You didn’t wait for him to reply. You forcefully pressed your lips against his, pushing him back into his seat. “I love you.” You murmured in between kisses. You were barely letting him breathe, suffocating him with your presence in hopes it would get him to reciprocate your feelings.

Maybe you were reaching for something unattainable, desperate for a connection in a place that would ultimately kill you. And yet, deep down, you knew this wasn’t love. It wasn’t even affection in the way you craved. It was something darker, but that didn’t stop you from wanting more. Every time Quaritch was near, you let yourself sink deeper into the dangerous game you were playing.

It all dawned on you as you watched Quaritch suit up. He looked handsome in his army uniform but a bitter feeling was still gnawing at you. He was leaving you just like Jake. He was abandoning you just like Jake.

You held onto Quaritch tightly, begging him once more not to go. Selfridge had to pry you off the Colonel as you sobbed and reached out your hands for him. “Why don’t you love me?!” You repeated in a loud screech, screaming at the top of your lungs. “You’re leaving me like him! You don’t love me! You lied to me! You fucking lied!” In anger, you threw your necklace at him. It hit the ground and you didn’t have a chance to retrieve it as you were dragged away screaming and swearing.

You never saw Quaritch again either. Nor Grace, Trudy, Norm, or Max.

Grace was dead. Trudy was dead. Quaritch was dead. You were under the impression that everybody was dead.

You had been forced into a dark room until you called down out of your maniac state, only seeing the light when a hatch opened to deliver you food. You didn’t know how long you had been sitting on the ground for. It felt like days had passed.

You slowly blinked, hands reaching for a gun hidden in the pockets of your cargo pants. You had taken it from your father’s room out of pure curiosity and forgot to return it. It was only loaded with one bullet but that was all you needed.

You pressed the gun against your head, biting down on your lip. You tasted metal in your mouth and it brought you an odd sense of comfort as your finger squeezed the trigger.

Nobody heard the loud gunshot ring through the air as your limp body fell to the side with a loud thud, blood staining the rough concrete floor.

The last time Jake truly saw you was when your dead body was being buried, the image of your bloodied hands engraved in his mind.

AVATAR TAGLIST (comment to be added/removed): @gruffle1

[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

Hello, if your requests are still open, you can do Yandere transformers Earthspark Megatron, Soundwave and Starscream x Conjux cybertronian reader who escaped when Megatron joined the Autobots and they both meet again. (Headcannonds and separated)

OoOoOh, interesting! I'll be on my knees and be already APOLOGIZING because I haven't seen 100% the Earthspark series (just started recently!). I'll do my best to do your request! Hope you like it!

（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ

Yandere!TFE Megatron, Soundwave & Starscream with a Conjux!Cybertronian!Reader meeting again.

WARNING: Yandere behaviour, kidnapping (Megatron's part), typical violence from the series and a little bit more, suicidal ideas (Starscream's part).

MEGATRON

You have no idea how Megatron's spark broke in half at how you looked at him after he joined the Autobots.

Many decepticons held hatred and even disgust when they looked at him - but your optics held... disbelief. As if you were seeing someone you used to know but saw them be replaced with someone else.

But Megatron can't bring himself to be angry at you for not following him as his Conjux - he pulled you into the war, made you follow his beliefs and ways, he made you see the horrors of it and by his own servos, too. And then? To turn around after realizing he was doing everything done and join sides with the same bots he swore to kill and attacked for so many years.

Earthspark's Megatron gives me the vibes of being an overprotective and self-aware yandere.

The moment you two meet once again, Megatron at first tries to keep at line that dark need to tackle you and drag you to where you are going to be safe (he has been battling with himself for so many days and nights against those too obsessive ideas of his about keeping you safe, away from the world).

"My love - please, do not run away again." He begs, extending his servo at you. "Come back to me, my Conjux - I'll keep you safe, like I've always done."

If you accept and take his servo, he is going to hold you so close and cry silently, promising you he is not going to hurt you again, he is not going to make you hurt others again.

If you refuse to follow him - he is going to be crying for your forgiveness as he immobilizes you. He can't lose you again. He needs to attend to his sins, to protect you of the consequences of his own actions.

He knows what he is doing is wrong - but he can't help it.

He lost his Conjux once - and he is going to die if he loses you again.

SOUNDWAVE

Soundwave would slowly spiral into becoming a yandere after you were captured by G.H.O.S.T - both of you got to escape after Megatron took side with the Autobots, and managed to remain hidden. One day you two tried to look after energon in differente locations, and sadly, you were ambushed by the Autobots and G.H.O.S.T and taken prisoner.

Soundwave felt your anxiety and fear of being captured. And every single day he felt your sadness and anger towards those who captured you.

Earthspark's Soundwave would be an obsessive yandere that, after spiraling and meeting you again, becomes also destructive.

When he was captured and put inside of a cell, he was just... ready to give up.

"Soundwave?"

His spark felt like it was agonizing and at the same time crying in euphoria as he lifted his helm and... saw you, on the other cell across of his.

In that moment, Soundwave felt such a relief in his spark, he wanted to cry... and also destroy everything.

How dare they keep you inside of a cell? How dare they still keep you both apart from each other after having done that for so much time already?

How dare they. How dare they. Howdaretheyhowdarethey-

Thankfully - you and him get a happy ending, but add a little bit extra of aggressiveness on Soundwave's side whenever he fights, as his anger always comes back at him at remembering how much he missed you.

He is not letting his Conjux get taken away from him again. He is going to kill anyone he tries to do it again.

STARSCREAM

The need to survive skyrockets to the point it makes Starscream's mind and system break.

Imagine being 15 years imprisoned, watching as your once fellow teammates being experimented and also treated badly nearly every single day.

The worst part? You are not there.

On one servo, Starscream is thankful that you are not at the hands of G.H.O.S.T. On the other servo, Starscream is silently spiraling in a sea of anxiety and his spark always beats in agony at not having his Conjux by his side and not knowing where you are or how you are.

Are you still alive? Are you in somewhere safe? Or are you starving to death at the lack of energon? Of maybe you've been already captured and killed while being experimented on? Are you looking for him or left him to die? Oh Primus, please, do not let that be true, please.

Earthspark's Starscream would be a manipulative, possessive yandere - but with the whole PTSD from Megatron's abuse, the situation where he is now and not having you close makes him also become a paranoiac yandere.

And by Primus, he got worse after encountering Megatron after escaping the G.H.O.S.T facility.

But Hashtag's presence and empathy made his sanity remain in place for a moment. She would be a perfect sparkling for you and him to adopt and take care of.

It's Hashtag's treatment that make Starscream keep hope in his spark that you are still out there, and he is going to find you. Still, paranoia keeps eating him alive - and Skywarp and Nova Storm have to make sure he doesn't either kill something or... offlines himself.

Starscream cries the moment you and him meet again when going to help the Malto family against Mandroid. Everything but you disappears in his optics, there is only you - it has always been only you.

Starscream is going to be 24/7 by your side, holding your servo - and if you pay close attention, you can see how his optics dart from here to there, making sure there is no danger that is going to take you away. Or hear him whisper how he is going to... offline you and then himself if its necessary.

You hug Starscream in those moments to bring him back to reality, and he calms down as he hugs you back. Do not let him swim that much in those kind of thoughts - he is not that far on doing what his paranoia tells him to do.

(づ￣ 3￣)づ Vhaos out!

[neveragent]

Early Grave

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

Summary: Rooster was quite right about the early grave. But he didn't know.

Warnings: death, depression, self-harm, suicide attempts, guilt of surviving

Words: 1637 words

"Hangman, the only place you lead anyone, is an early grave."

Coyote's face went blank for a short time, Phoenix frowned and Hangman? There was a split of a second where he was near to tears.

Not many people knew what kind of flashbacks this sentence triggered. Rooster also didn't know. If he knew, he wouldn't have said it. But he didn't know. He didn't know about these flashbacks...

Jack woke up in the late morning by some soft kisses. "Hey, honey," he heard her lovely voice. The voice he'd kill for. He opened his eyes and had to blink a few times to see something in the light of the sun. He looked right into a pair of gorgeous brown eyes. That pair of eyes he fell in love with when he met her for the first time.

It was at a deployment. She was his backseater. When he saw her for the first time, he knew that he would marry her one day. It only took a few days until his friends made fun of him for being head over heals for her. And now he was waking up with her.

"Morning, sweetheart," he smiled. She cuddled up against his chest. "I don't wanna leave this place." He closed his eyes again. "Me neither, sweety." They were laying there together until another pilot knocked against their door. "Time to get up, lovebirds. Meeting in half an hour." Jake groaned.

They even went to TopGun together. The Navy knew about their relationship but they were still allowed to fly together since they kept everything surprisingly professional. Maybe she even helped him to focus and to become a team player.

Their first date was in a bar. Usually it wasn't visited by people from the Navy. That was also the reason why he chose it. He wanted to be alone with her and didn't want any rumors about them the next day. "I like this bar. It's different from the place we usually visit," she smiled at him sweetly and started sipping on her cocktail once more. "Yeah," he grinned, while getting lost in her eyes once more. They were chatting a lot that night. They even danced a bit to the music which was playing in the background. Jake warned her that he wasn't a great dancer but she insisted on a dance. He stepped on her feet a few times, but she couldn't care less. It was the first time, he enjoyed dancing with someone. When she went to the bathroom, after some time, she even trusted him with her drink, which made his heart beating faster. It was nearly 2 a.m. when they arrived back at the base. He thought he was going to have a heartattack when she kissed his cheek and gave him an innocent smile before closing her room door.

"Ready for another dogfight?" Jake grinned when they were in their jet once more. "Everytime, Hangman." Jake laughed softly. "You know that I love you, right, sweety?" "Of course. Hard to forget about it," she giggled, referring to the make out session they just had during the changing of their clothes to their suits. Jake laughed again. With her he felt free and loved. For the first time in his life. He just felt alive. "I love you too, honey. To the moon and back." He held his hand behind his seat and she took it, pressing it softly.

It was another dogfight at TopGun. Another routine training. Something they have already done so many times. "I don't see them on the radar," his WSO said. "Then we'll wait," he answered to her. She looked around in the sky, searching for the other team. Again, holding Jake's hand. It was such a calming thing for her. Something, they always did. He loved to feel her smaller hand in his. A feeling of home, even though they were many feets above it. "From the right!" His girlfriend suddenly shouted, which lead to Jake letting go of her hand to start a maneuver. The next minutes, they shouted a lot to communicate about their tactics. Of course, it wasn't necessary to shout, but both of them loved competitions and maybe took them a little too serious.

After many minutes of pure adrenaline, they won this dogfight and were on their way back to the base.

Suddenly, both of them got many warning signals. They had no time to react to them before the engines stopped working and they were falling like a heavy stone.

"Babe, do something!" Jake shouted after he lost control. "I can't. We have to eject." Jake pressed some buttons again, panicking and not understanding that it was a lost cause. "JAKE!" She shouted again. They were still falling and all possibilities were running through his mind. He wanted to safe the jet. The jet that became like a second home to them. His ears were ringing and his body was working like on autopilot. It took some important time until the voice of his girlfriend came to him again. Then he realised that he was risking both of their lives in such an unnecessary way. "EJECT! EJECT!" He shouted, reaching down.

His parachute opened and he saw the ocean underneath him. He looked around, searching for her. He was relieved when he saw her. But then his heartbeat stopped for some seconds. At first, he didn't know why. They both were out of the jet. But something felt off. Of course, they just wrecked a million dollar worth U.S. military jet, but it was something else.

Then he saw it. And what he saw made him feel like throwing up. She got all tangled up and the bands of the parachute which led to it not opening properly. That's why she was falling way too fast to the surface of the ocean.

He called out her name, unable to do anything. He landed some time after her in the cold water. He swam to her. The lifeless body weighted heavy in his arms. Her heavy gear was nearly drowning him. And if he was honest, he wished it would. "C'mon, sweetheart, give me the pretty smile of yours," he whispered. Denying the finality of the things that had happened just minutes ago. "Open your pretty eyes, I beg you." He was crying and begging, unable to even look at her properly since their gear was dragging him down. It was devastating. Just some minutes ago, they were both in their jet, laughing at some stupid jokes of him and now he was all alone in this world. He reached out for her hand, feeling the thin ring, he gave her the evening before.

She was the happiest women he had ever seen. She was so shocked when he proposed and after the ring was on her finger, she danced through the whole room, while singing one of her favorite songs. She already made up her mind about a wedding dress and she wanted at least two kids with Jake, a beautiful house with a porch and a garden, where the kids could play.

All that was gone now. Because he wasn't able to react sooner to eject. Maybe if he had reacted faster, things would've been different.

And now he was with the dead body of the love of his life in his arms in the ocean.

The days after her death, he didn't leave their bed. Most of the time, he slept or cried. After one week, Coyote, his best friend, and Natasha, her best friend, came over to his room, afraid that he might've done something to himself.

But he didn't. He tried. More than once. But when he was standing there with the knife on his throat, he didn't have the guts to do it. He didn't tell his friends.

Her ring had joined his dog tags on the chain.

He didn't think things could be worse. But her funeral was the worst thing he had ever experienced. He didn't want to say good bye to her. It felt wrong. And he also had to face her parents. They blamed him for everything that happened. They had never liked him. Even when she was still alive. They only saw him as an arrogant playboy who was just playing with their daughter's heart, while he always had serious intentions with her. And he couldn't even blame them for blaming him. Because it was his fault in his eyes. The fact that it was confirmed that the manufacturer made mistakes during the production of the engine wasn't important to him.

He killed the woman who had been so full of life.

He stayed at the grave until the coffin was buried under the ground. And even then he stayed for some more hours until Phoenix and Coyote forced him to come with him.

After that day, Coyote and Hangman grew even closer, while Phoenix was slowly distancing herself.

Not because she blamed Hangman but because everything around him remembered her of her best friend. And it became unbearable for her.

It took a long time until Hangman was flying in a jet again. He never flew with a backseater again, afraid he would be the reason for the death of this person. People also noticed very quickly that he wasn't a team player anymore. Whenever he flys, he still imagines that she's still sitting back there, giving him technical information. And he gives everything to protect her form any harm, even though she isn't real. He only thinks about her saftey which leads to him leaving his team quite often.

All these memories and emotions are playing infront of his eyes while he loses the control of his mind for a split of the second after Roosters comment.

[merxcywritesthings]

𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑇𝑖𝑒𝑠

A/N: Here is Part 2 of ‘I Love You, I’m Sorry’ for all my lovelies that requested it! I tried to write it to where it has even more angst, and I hope you all enjoy! :)

Word Count: 2.3k

TW: Mentions of Suicide (If you or a loved one is suffering, I urge you to reach out for help, you are loved even if you cannot see it), Aruging, Toxic ex-relationship.

The city of Piltover always hummed with life, its streets alive with industry and ambition. Tonight, however, it felt subdued, as though the city itself shared your unease. You walked aimlessly, boots scuffing against cobblestones worn smooth by countless steps. The festival lanterns glowed faintly in the distance, their light flickering like dying embers.

Your mind refused to quiet. It circled back again and again to Vi—to her laughter, her fire, the way she’d make even the darkest corners of Zaun feel like home. But those memories now carried an edge, cutting deep whenever they surfaced. You’d spent so many nights hoping she’d return, only to realize that hope could be a double-edged sword. Sometimes, it kept you alive. Other times, it made the fall so much worse.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You thought about the first time you’d met her. It had been at a Zaunite rally, a chaotic clash of voices demanding justice. You had been there to observe, to report back to your Piltover contacts about the growing unrest below. But then she’d stepped onto a crate in the center of the crowd, her pink hair catching the faint light as she spoke with raw, unyielding passion. Her words had seared into your soul, leaving you questioning everything you thought you believed.

“If we’re going to survive,” she’d said, her voice ringing clear above the noise, “we have to stop begging for scraps. We’re not the broken pieces of Piltover’s machine. We’re the ones who’ll tear it down and build something better.”

Even now, you could feel the electricity of that moment, the way her conviction had drawn you in like a moth to a flame. You hadn’t known it then, but that was the night your life had begun to split in two. There was the you that belonged to Piltover, its orderly streets and gilded towers. And then there was the you that longed for something more—for her.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sound of footsteps pulled you back to the present. You looked up and saw someone walking toward you. For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, you thought it might be Vi. But as the figure drew closer, you saw that it was a man, hunched and shrouded in a heavy coat. He gave you a passing glance before disappearing into the shadows, leaving you alone once more.

You sighed and turned down a narrow alley, the noise of the festival fading behind you. This part of the city was quieter, almost eerily so. The buildings here were older, their facades cracked and weathered by time. It reminded you of Zaun in a way, though the air was cleaner and the streets more stable underfoot.

Your thoughts drifted to Caitlyn Kiramman, Piltover’s golden enforcer. She’d always been an enigma to you, with her poised demeanor and piercing gaze. Vi had spoken of her often, always with a mixture of admiration and frustration. “She’s too good for this city,” Vi had once said. “Too good for me, too. But she’s got this… way of seeing things, you know? Like she’s already ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

You hadn’t known what to say to that. The jealousy that prickled at the edges of your thoughts was ugly, but undeniable. You had wondered, even then, if Caitlyn was the reason Vi’s heart always felt just out of reach. And now, after what you’d seen tonight, you couldn’t help but feel you’d been right.

The kiss between them had been so… certain. So unguarded. It had felt like the final nail in the coffin of everything you and Vi had built together. You tried to remind yourself that she deserved happiness, that Caitlyn’s steady presence might be what Vi needed. But the thought only twisted the knife deeper.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You stopped walking and leaned against a lamppost, the cool metal grounding you. The city stretched out below, a labyrinth of light and shadow. Somewhere out there, Vi was laughing, living, moving on. And you? You were stuck here, caught in the liminal space between what was and what could never be.

“What am I even doing?” you muttered to no one in particular. The words dissipated into the night, unanswered.

Your gaze drifted upward, toward the towering skyline of Piltover. You’d spent years climbing its social ladder, trying to carve out a space where you could make a difference. You’d believed in its promise of progress, in the idea that change could come from within. But now, all you could see were the cracks—the lies and corruption that seeped through the city’s polished exterior. Vi had seen them too, but she’d never shared your faith that they could be repaired.

“Piltover doesn’t change,” she’d told you once, her voice heavy with resignation. “It just finds new ways to keep people in their place.”

At the time, you’d argued with her, insisting that things could be different. But now, in the aftermath of her absence, you weren’t so sure. Maybe she’d been right all along. Maybe your efforts were nothing more than a fool’s errand.

The sound of distant laughter reached your ears, and you turned instinctively toward it. A group of festival-goers passed by, their faces bright with joy. You watched them for a moment, feeling like an outsider looking in. Once, you might have been among them, caught up in the revelry. But tonight, it felt impossible. The weight of your grief was too heavy to set aside, even for a moment.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You pushed off the lamppost and kept walking, the streets growing quieter as you moved further from the festival. Your feet carried you toward the border between Piltover and Zaun, a place you’d avoided for months. It was a strange sort of no-man’s-land, a place where the two cities bled into each other without ever truly meeting. Here, the air was thicker, the lights dimmer. It felt like a fitting backdrop for your mood.

You stopped at the edge of a rusted bridge, the same one Vi had once described in her dreams of a wedding. She’d envisioned it covered in lights, filled with people from both cities coming together to celebrate something real. But now, it stood empty and decayed, a monument to everything that had gone wrong.

The thought crept in quietly, unbidden but persistent. What if you just… let go? The bridge loomed over the murky depths of the water below, its surface reflecting the faint glow of distant lanterns. You stepped closer to the edge, the wind tugging at your coat. For a moment, you imagined the release—the quiet, the stillness. No more pain. No more longing.

But as you gripped the railing, a voice cut through the fog of your thoughts. “Hey!”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You froze, your heart lurching as you turned to see Vi standing at the other end of the bridge. Her pink hair caught the faint glow of the city lights, her broad shoulders framed against the night sky. She looked different—tired, older somehow—but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable.

“Vi,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid.

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Funny,” you replied bitterly, stepping away from the edge. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight either. Especially not with her.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “So that’s what this is about? You spying on me now?”

“I wasn’t spying,” you snapped. “I was just… there. And I saw enough.”

She crossed her arms, her posture defensive. “You don’t get to judge me. You don’t know what it’s been like these past few months.”

“Don’t I?” you shot back, the anger you’d been holding back finally boiling over. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurting? I’ve been trying to hold everything together, Vi. For you. For us. And all this time, you were—” Your voice broke, the words catching in your throat. “You were moving on.”

“Moving on?” she echoed, her voice sharp. “You think that’s what this is? You think I wanted any of this? You don’t understand what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning, to grab onto anything just to keep your head above water.”

Your chest ached, her words cutting deeper than you thought possible. “I was there for you, Vi. I would’ve done anything for you. But you left. You left, and now you’re standing here acting like I’m the one who doesn’t understand?”

Her gaze softened for a moment, but then she shook her head, her expression hardening again. “I didn’t leave. I fought for what I believed in. And if you couldn’t handle that—if you couldn’t handle me—then maybe this was doomed from the start.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. You stared at her, tears blurring your vision, but you refused to let them fall. “Maybe it was,” you said quietly, the weight of your grief settling over you like a shroud. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Vi looked away, her jaw clenching as though she was holding back words she couldn’t bring herself to say. Her fists tightened at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking under the pressure. For a moment, it seemed as if she might walk away again, leaving you with nothing but silence and the weight of her absence. But instead, she let out a ragged breath and turned back to you, her eyes shadowed with a pain that mirrored your own.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice cracking. “But what do you want me to say? That I didn’t screw up? That I didn’t let you down? I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Her admission hit you like a punch to the gut. You’d dreamed of hearing her say those words, of having her acknowledge the chasm that had opened between you. But now that she had, it didn’t feel like the closure you’d hoped for. It felt like another wound, raw and bleeding.

“You don’t get to hate yourself,” you said bitterly. “You don’t get to take the easy way out. You don’t get to kiss someone else and then come here acting like you’re the victim.”

Vi flinched, her eyes narrowing. “You think it’s easy? Being with Caitlyn, pretending I’m okay when every part of me feels like it’s falling apart? She’s safe. She doesn’t make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.”

The words stung, and you took an involuntary step back. “So that’s what I was to you? A risk? Something dangerous you needed to escape from?”

“No,” Vi said quickly, her voice desperate. “You were everything. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I couldn’t handle it. You saw me as something more than I could be—as someone better than I am.”

“I saw you as someone worth fighting for,” you countered, your voice rising. “But you couldn’t do the same for me. You couldn’t even stay.”

Vi ran a hand through her hair, her frustration palpable. “It wasn’t about not wanting to stay. It was about surviving. Every time I looked at you, I saw everything I couldn’t have—everything I wanted but couldn’t hold onto. And it killed me.”

“Then why are you here now?” you demanded, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “Why did you stop me if you’ve already moved on? What do you want from me, Vi?”

She stared at you, her lips parted as though she had an answer but couldn’t bring herself to say it. The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of humor. “That’s just like you, isn’t it? Always running, always unsure. You’re so afraid of being vulnerable that you’d rather destroy everything than risk getting hurt.”

Vi’s eyes flashed with anger, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she took a step closer, her voice low and trembling. “And what about you? Huh? You think standing on the edge of that bridge is brave? You think giving up is some kind of statement?”

“It’s not about bravery,” you shot back. “It’s about not knowing how to keep going when everything feels so goddamn empty.”

Her face crumpled, and for a moment, she looked like she might break. But then she straightened, her shoulders squared. “You keep going because you’re stronger than this. Because you’re better than this.”

“Am I?” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel better. I feel broken, Vi. And you’re part of the reason why.”

The words hung between you like a dagger, sharp and unrelenting. Vi reached out as if to touch you, but her hand faltered, hovering in the air before falling back to her side. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “For everything.”

But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You took a step back, shaking your head. “Sorry doesn’t fix this. It doesn’t bring us back. It doesn’t make me whole again.”

Vi nodded, her expression hollow. “I know.”

And with that, the distance between you felt insurmountable. She stood there, framed by the faint glow of Piltover’s lights, and you realized that this was the end. There would be no mending, no reconciliation. The chasm between you had grown too wide, and neither of you had the strength to bridge it.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness. Vi didn’t call after you, and you didn’t look back. The weight of everything you’d lost pressed down on you, but for the first time, you knew it was a burden you’d have to carry alone.

Above you, the stars shone cold and distant, offering no comfort.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢! ❤️

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑟.

[circeyoru]

Unwanted Soul = Requested

[Yandere!Alastor x Owner of his Soul!Reader]

The Request

Part 1 (here) — Part 2 — Part 2.5 (ask) — Part 3  — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 (END)

You weren’t a powerful Overlord nor were you the weaker ones to have their souls owned by other demons to survive in this hellhole. You’re merely capable enough to get by your everyday life. Like always, you’d stay clear from any of ongoing battles or powerful demons that were out and about. Your keen 6th sense to pinpoint potential dangers was always your go-to during your outings

You kind of treated Hell as your paradise to shut-in in your room and read all the comics you want plus watch all the TV shows you want. You were one of the rare demons that get connection to the Earth realm where you can enjoy the guilty pleasures you spend your days doing. Of course, your death was a suicide as you saw no life ahead of you

But you really really should have stayed in that day. It started out as any other day in Hell and you were on your way to the usual supermarkets for the junk food and drink you love. Normally, it was uneventful, until you caught sight of a dying demon, no, ‘wounded’ would be the right word since demons would only demon by angelic blades, even you knew that. Still, the demon was heavily wounded

It must have been a good few minutes since you caught weaker demons attempting to take advantage of the weakened demon as easy prey. You immediately took out your notebook, scribbing a phase before tearing it out and blow on it lightly. The page turned to white sparkles before taking shape of a row of angelic spears around you, it launched at the weak demons before they could do anything to the wounded one

You took went to the wounded demon quickly as your spears faded to nothing after doing its damage. You held his limb hand and closed your eyes, visualizing your cozy apartment and the ground swallowed the two of you up. In the blink of an eye, you were back home, sighing in relief

Not even a moment, you were knocked to the ground and pinned down by your shoulders and thigh. You struggled a bit before you realized it was the wounded demon that was pinning you down with radio dials for eyes

Without thinking, you reached into your coat pocket and took out a piece of paper, slamming it onto his face and blew at it. The paper faded to nothing but sparks then the demon stilled before closing his eyes and slumping forward onto you. Unconscious. But you invited someone you shouldn’t have into your home

This had to be Alastor, the Radio Demon

You grimaced, eying Alastor on top of you sleeping like a harmless deer. You thought of throwing him back out into the streets, but you didn’t exactly have the heart to. You came to the conclusion of healing him as fast as you could then sending him on his merry way! Yes!

Noooo!!! Why is he still here!?!?!?!?!?!?!??????!!!!!

“My dear, you really should be taking more care of your diet. This is hardly filling or healthy for you.” Alastor eyed the cup noodle you were about to open up like you were holding trash “But it’s fast and gets my hunger sated.” You eyed back, “It’s not like I’m feeding you this. I cook for your meals anyways…” You continued roaming around the kitchen, rubbing a fork, and setting a timer for your food. Ignoring the closeness of Alastor. “As long as it doesn’t concern you, it’ll be fine. I’ll treat you better since you just healed up. These are my own indulgence.” “And I appreciate your hospitality, dear, truly, I do. The matter at hand is your consumption!” Alastor grabbed your precious cup noodle lunch away, “I shall take over your meals from now on.”

Yes, you have fully healed Alastor and he’s back to full health. No, you didn’t tell him to stay. In fact, the moment his wounds were all healed, you showed him the open door, waiting for him to leave. He didn’t exactly let you make him leave. He said he was staying to repay your kindness, but all he was doing was inserting him into your afterlife and really making it Hell

At first, he praised your unique power to summon anything you write with a gentle blow, especially the part where you put him to sleep the first time. Then he urged you to make a name for yourself, but you really just want to shut yourself in your room and indulge in your time-wasting hobby. You told him off and shut yourself in your room, but he would just appear through the shadows and apologise, saying he’d leave the matter

When that whole business was done, Alastor got worse. You’re positive some other demons would love to be treated this way, but you’re just weirded out. It started out small, Alastor making meals like he said, shifting your schedule to a healthier one. Then taking care of your needs whenever you are about to do something. Even as simple as getting a glass of water

Then it escalated to touches. A handholding here, maybe he’s lean into you while reading. Or he’ll lay next to you in your own bed. Shift closer to you while on the couch. Stare at you while you were busy reading manga or watching animes and shows. Plus you could feel him staring at you while you sleep from the shadows even though you told him not to

But the most unnerving thing was when you would go restock on your food and other supplies. Alastor being the gentleman would carry and pay for your stuff. That you’re used to and didn’t care since either way, you had your methods. It was what happens during the two of you walking

“Alastor…” You hugged your coat tighter as your lips pressed together tightly from the scene, your eyebrows furrowed from the tense situation you were in. You had just left the shop to get new books and volumes, only to be met with such a sight. “What…” “My darling, your timing is perfect.” Alastor threw away the torn body of what used to be a demon. The street was covered with a layer of thick red and black blood. Hellborns and sinners alike were all brutally ripped away by the fearsome Radio Demon. “These pest dares to look at you wrongly, surely they deserve a good, limb pulling.” He walked over to you with his ever-present smile, offering his clean hand. “Shall we head home, My Doe?” You feel yourself tense as you firmly told him, “Just because they stare at me a little long and spat out rude remarks, it’s not an excuse or reason to torture them like this. I’m… I don’t exactly mind unless they attack.” Alastor grabbed your hand and kissed it, “Dearie, why give them the chance to harm you when I can prevent it? You can name and point fingers, I’ll be your killer.”

Trapped was what you felt at home and anywhere, as long as Alastor was there, you didn’t like it. Those sweet romantic gestures and attention from him that you would only see in your books and shows left a bad taste in your mouth. 

At the 4th year, however, something changed. Alastor sold his soul to you as the ‘last’ act of pure devotion and loyalty to you. Since the contract was all by your rules, you made use of it

Limit Alastor’s powers because it scares you how much he could do and the destruction he could cause. Forbid him from devouring or owning souls because he does it so easily when he thinks you were wronged in any way. And most importantly, forbid him from disobeying your words, whatever they may be, that way, you can finally have peace

How Alastor was still able to be this unnerving, you didn’t know and you didn’t want to know. Somehow, the contract was something like a declaration that the two of you were romantically involved with ecah other? If it made sense. It didn’t, really

Alastor still stayed with you because he had told you a long time ago that his home was destroyed in a brutal battle, hence why you found him that battered. So you offered yours. You did manage to set some firmer ground rules with the contract’s help. Like no entering your room or throwing away your junk food

Though Alastor still plays a big part in your life just because. You had wanted a lover before, but Alastor had proven how bad a relationship could go, and you two didn’t even established anything! You love fiction, fiction is life or afterlife. You can just drown yourself in the world of fiction and never leave

That’s the basis of your power. It’s like summoning through writing and the faint blow from your lips. You have to be aware of the components though, the hardest to summon was definitely the angel spears. It was the day after extermination and a spear was stuck into a demon, you were curious and took it back with you. You studied it and tested it out, knowing its strength and limitations before actually attempting to summon it. Works well enough, since it was easy to study

In the blink of an eye, 7 years had already passed. While Alastor was out on buying new ingredients for your celebration dinner of surviving another extermination, you caught the Princess of Hell and her promotion on the ‘Happy Hotel’. A place that welcomes anyone, a place that gives anyone a chance. It sounds lovely, but you didn’t have the mentality and energy to help out

A foolproof plan came to mind. You could, no, should send Alastor there. He loves entertainment! He wouldn’t be bored there! The hotel is much bigger and there’s more people there for him to hang out with. Plus he would definitely get a room there since he’s going to be staying. Even when he disagrees, because you just know he would rather stay by your side, you can use the contract as a last resort

“My dear!” Alastor greeted the moment he came back from his little shopping. He gave you a peak on the crown of your head when he walked past you, then headed to the table to place the bags of items down. “Did you hear about that ridiculous plan the Princess told in the picture box? Hahaha! It’s sure to fail! No way in any universe would just a silly and childish thing happen! No, sir!” “I want to help her with it, it sounds like a good plan. It’s better than annual exterminations.” You spoke while coming over to check the things Alastor brought. “But you know I’m more of a home person and not the go-out and help-others type.” “Exactly, dearie, we need not care for such fantasy.” Alastor nodded along. “That’s why you’re going in my place.” You stated firmly without blinking or shifting in your spot, at the growing static, you looked up to see Alastor’s eyes turned to radio dial. Very rarely are those directed at you since he swore he’d never do you harm or wish you harm. “You’ll go and help the Princess to make it a success.” Alastor’s eyes shifted back to normal, narrowing as he asked, “Till how long, my dear?” You had to control yourself to hide a smile as you spoke, “For as long as it takes of course. You can’t rush redemption, right? And it’s the first of its kind too.” The static grew again, you knew Alastor was getting annoyed with such a wish (order) from you. “But this would take a long while. I’d be returning to check on you, yes?” “Oh, no. Can’t interrupt your work.” You said, carrying your pile of snacks to your little comfort corner and dropping it with huff, there was a skip in your step as you returned back to the table. “You can’t come back here nor see me when in the service of the Princess. Well, you can see me when I’m the one to approach you or call for you, that’s the only exception.” Alastor would have a frown on by now if it weren’t for his insistence on the power of smiles, “Who would take care of you? Who would watch over you? Who would tend to you? Who would protect you while I’m gone, sweetheart?” You laughed, “Don’t be so dramatic. I can handle myself. It’s just like before I met you,” You didn’t miss the radio crackling like it broke connection, “But this time, I have you as a backup should I need.”

Making Alastor leave you wouldn’t have been possible without the contract and the fact that his soul was yours to control. Very pushy but you had to do what you had to, it was all to regain that quiet and isolated shut-in life you love. Never have you missed the silence in your home and the void of a watchful gaze all around you

You squealed and smiled brightly, “Time to chill and laze around!”

Oh how the Radio Demon was fuming as he made his way to that ratchaed hotel. He shouldn’t have let you know of such a news. If that inferno picture box was broken, then you wouldn’t know. No, you have your phone, so that makes no difference. Maybe it was the fact that that cannibal chef was gone that Charlie had time to promote that idea of hers? 

This would be his first appearance since 7 years ago. He kept his presence gone from the public eye just to hide his connection and fancy towards you. If demons knew you had his soul, who knows what danger you’d be in? He can’t let that happen to you. No, you were the kind soul that saved him and gave him a place to belong. Truly belong

Never had he felt such a sense of comfort around someone so lazy and chill. The fact that you were average but powerful in your right that you humble yourself to blend in with others. To live your afterlife as you please and like without a care in the world. So long as your interest was sated

He just couldn’t help but want to be yours. You deserve it, after all

But now. Now he had to provide his attention and care to some princess’ dream! What joke is this?!

Were you sending him away because he wasn’t strong enough? You limited his powers to see if he could still be as strong as before. Was that the reason? What other demon held your attention? As far as he knew. You have no interest in forming connections. He was the first one you actually cared for and hosted your home for! You don’t even own other souls and you’re strong!

He was your only one. Only!

In front of the hotel, he knocked rhythmically, waiting patiently for the door to be opened and for him to introduce himself. He’ll show you. “Hel—” The door closed shut in his face before it opened again, “-lo!”

His ears twitched as he heard the ruckus inside. These souls don’t deserve your time and attention spent on them, he’ll deal with the problem like always and return to your side. He’ll show you just how powerful and cruel he is and can be

The door opened again and he introduced himself with his plan in mind. “Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, princess. Quite a pleasure!”

Note: I really really didn't mean to do this so long... I could have put it into 2 parts, but I was too lazy to. There was actually some more I wanna add, but then it will be a literal essay. Anyways~ How you like this one?

Circe Y.

Other Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist:

@aconfusedwonderland

@crowleysthings

@donustellaron

[uvobreakmylegs]

Ouroboros

this fic is one I wrote a long while ago as a lil sequel to @hypnoswrites's fic Vengeance Tastes Bitter and she gave permission for me to post :D

please be aware of the tags if you choose to check out either of these fics

Uvogin x female!reader

Warnings: kidnapping, captivity, mentions of death, mentions of murder, past noncon, mentions of suicide, threats of violence, abusive relationships, attempted murder, dubcon, smut, Uvogin being a bastard

Word Count: 2.9k

The sounds of a door abruptly opening and then slamming shut were what announced his arrival. And despite being used to the sound of his return, you still tensed up when you heard him approaching as you determined how long it would take for him to find you within the house.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't very long.

Uvogin's gaze was on you the second he entered the kitchen, looking you over as you stood by the counter. You heard him hum to himself before he said anything to you, sounding slightly dissatisfied. Perhaps he was looking over the marks he'd left on your skin and was unhappy when he saw that they were fading.

Or perhaps it was because that you had yet to acknowledge him, instead keeping yourself turned away and looking out through the window at the scenery outside. The nice weather outside was a better thing to focus your energy on, though you wouldn't be able to ignore him for too much longer. He wouldn't allow that.

“Don't you have somethin' to say to me?” Uvogin asked you.

“…. I don't know what you want me to say,” you replied.

“What, you don't know that it's common courtesy to greet someone when they've returned home? Who raised you?”

That last comment stung.

“This isn't your home. It's not mine, either. Why the hell should I bother with that?” you asked bitterly.

“Because I want you to.”

He was enjoying this. You could hear it in his voice. And you already knew he had that usual victorious smirk on his face, pleased with himself that he had managed to make you snap at him.

Even though he liked the ways you would push back, he would expect you to comply at some point, and while you hated needing to bend to his will, things were better if you did that much.

Or at the very least, they were less violent.

Your shoulder's sagged as you sighed and then said, “welcome back.”

You then glanced over your shoulder to look at him.

He was smirking. As expected. Still getting a kick out of making you submit to him.

It had been several months since that fateful, awful day where you had convinced yourself that you could kill him and take revenge for your family. The day where he had soundly beaten you without even trying, and instead of taking your life for bothering him with the weak attempt, he had amused himself by humiliating you. Starting with pissing on you after preventing you from taking your own life and ending with him raping you repeatedly over a period of several hours.

He kept you at the camp he had set up for a few weeks after in the hopes that people would come looking for you so he could torment you even more by killing your would-be rescuers in front of you. But no one ever came, much to his disappointment and your relief, though it was depressing that no one seemed to have noticed that you were gone.

After that Uvogin traveled from place to place, moving from continent to continent while living a rather nomadic lifestyle. And he dragged you along with him, as you were there to be his greatest source of entertainment.

It was an existence that you despised. And he knew you felt as such.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

Uvogin tended to keep to less populated areas when it came to his camps. He seemed to genuinely enjoy surviving in the outdoors, so it was surprising when he had broken into the house you were currently in and announced that the two of you would be staying there. You could only assume that he wanted a change of pace.

You didn't complain, as it was nice to be able to sleep in a bed again, even if you did need to share with him. And Uvogin had seemed to have gotten that for you without killing someone for it, which helped in keeping you from feeling too guilty about staying in a stranger's house.

All you hoped for was that the actual owner of the house wouldn't come back while the two of you were still there. You knew what the outcome would be if that were to happen, and you would hate yourself even more if you were forced to stand to the side while someone died for no reason.

“Was that so hard?” Uvogin asked you, the stupid smirk still on his face. He was still trying to goad you into getting upset with him.

Instead you just sighed and turned away, looking back outside. The house he had found was still more on the outskirts of society, and not far from the kitchen window sat a mountain with a hiking trail where you regularly saw people walking through.

You had enough common sense to know that you couldn't go to anyone for help. Uvogin would just kill them.

And when he began to leave you alone in the house, he had warned against attempts to take your own life, telling you that if he did come back and find you dead, he'd go out and slaughter a hundred people. Even if you managed to escape him in death, he would go out of his way to make sure that someone paid the price, and he didn't care who it was.

A hundred people was a lot and it felt far too over the top when you heard it, but you didn't question him on how dedicated he was to that plan: you could absolutely see him carrying that out. And despite how tantalizing the knife block over to your right managed to be that promised you an easy way out, you kept yourself from going that far. No matter what, you couldn't give him any excuses to kill even more people.

The only way you could see yourself escaping him was if he finally got tired of you and killed you like you'd wanted for so long now.

It was an odd thing to wish that you would be so boring that he would kill you for it.

And unfortunately it seemed to be something that was easier said than done.

“What, nothing to say to that?”

When you didn't respond, you heard him hum to himself once again. Then he approached you, his footsteps sounding against the tile of the kitchen floor, and they stopped when he stood behind you, leaving very little space between the two of you.

Even without his nen, his presence was overwhelming. In part because of just how he towered over you and effortlessly made you feel smaller than you actually were. And Uvogin was clearly using that to his full advantage at the moment as he placed both of his hands on the edge of the counter, his arms on either side of your body as he kept you stuck in that spot. Any attempt to duck under his arms would just end with him holding onto you, so you stayed put. Even though him being in such close proximity wasn't ideal, at least he was keeping his hands to himself, if just for the moment.

Uvogin hummed to himself a third time.

“You've been quieter,” he said.

“Have I?”

“Yeah,” he answered flatly, “what's that about?”

“Why does it matter?” you asked.

“Because it makes you seem like you're up to something.”

“I'm not,” you said, then you added “I guess I'm just accepting my situation.”

He snorted at that.

“Accepting it, huh? Doesn't seem that way to me.”

“Okay,” you said, shrugging.

Uvogin didn't seem to buy your indifference.

“If you were really okay with this, I don't think you would've snapped at me earlier,” he said.

That time you didn't answer.

His gaze was heavy on you, and you swore you could hear the cogs in his mind turning as he tried to figure what would be the best way to deal with you. It'd be very easy for him to just hurt you, something he'd done many times before. What was stopping him from going that far right now was a mystery to you.

“It still seems like you're up to something,” he finally said.

“I'm not,” you answered.

But you couldn't help but add something else to that.

“Why does this even matter to you? Most of the time you're only interested in fucking me.”

He sounded pleased with himself when he answered with a “yeah.”

“But I've come to like our conversations,” he added.

That makes one of us

Something like that probably would've been your response only a few months ago. When you had just a bit more fight in you and hoped that if you yelled and insulted him enough, he'd kill you.

But that sort of reaction was the thing he was looking for, and your goal was to disappoint him. Something that you were failing at in the moment, but you could still try.

He was quiet again, and this time you heard his fingers tapping against the surface of the counter.

It made things feel a bit more dangerous, for some reason.

After a few moments of that, he spoke again.

“What would their reaction be if they were still alive?” he asked.

You knew who he was talking about even without him saying it specifically: the dead members of your family, who he likely didn't even remember murdering or even why he had killed them. The whole reason this awful chapter in your life had started.

The question was a trap. You knew that much.

“If they were still alive we wouldn't be here,” you answered shortly.

“Hm. I guess.”

He leaned down closer and you felt his breath tickling your ear. Despite your attempts to keep yourself steady, you couldn't keep yourself from shuddering at the feeling.

You knew that he noticed because he chuckled at you.

“If your family knew what would happen after they died,” he asked, “if they knew that one day you'd fuck up your attempt at revenge so massively that it would end with you becoming my slave, how sad do you think they'd be?”

You didn't answer.

The knife block was still in view from the corner of your eye.

“What would they be thinking if they saw you all those times you came while my cock was buried inside of you?” he whispered, “knowing that their last surviving member was the one who was getting off with help from the guy who killed them? How disgusted would they be? If they saw just how much of a slut-”

You grabbed a knife and tried to stab him in the face.

Uvogin caught your wrist, the blade of the knife mere inches away from his eye.

And he grinned as he tightened his grip around your wrist, forcing you to open your hand and drop the knife.

He won.

Again.

He'd been goading you again and you hadn't been able to help but fall right into his trap.

It went without saying that something bad was coming your way.

“That seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?” he asked you, glancing down at the knife where it lay on the floor.

“You're a piece of shit,” you hissed.

“I think we established that a while ago, babe,” he said.

Then he let you go and pulled away from you. Your hand immediately went to the aching area around your wrist, and when you looked back up at him, he was standing at full height with his hands on his hips and an expectant look in his eye.

You knew what he wanted. You'd seen that look often enough to know what it meant.

But for some reason, you decided to play dumb.

“What?” you asked.

“What, you want me to spell it out for you?” he asked back, “on your knees.”

“No.”

It would still happen. You knew that, but you didn't want to submit completely. It went against your strategy of being as boring as possible, but after trying to take out his eye with a knife, you figured there was no point in trying to keep up with that. Not for today, at least.

Instead of slapping you around before forcing you to your knees, Uvogin hummed to himself. Then his eyes went to the window behind you, as though he caught sight of something, and he smirked to himself.

That was what made you nervous. And your nervousness turned to dread after he motioned for you to look out as well and you saw what he had spotted.

Two people along the hiking trail.

Despite the distance between you and them, you got the sense that they were a couple. Something in the way they walked together, or when one of them looked back to the other. Just two people out on a hiking date.

Two completely innocent people who didn't deserve death.

The cracking of Uvogin's knuckles had you spinning back around, and he gave you a toothy grin as he said “I guess if you don't want to…”

He then turned as though he was going to leave the kitchen.

Placing a hand on his arm, you stopped him.

Like he knew you would.

When he turned back to you with that smirk still on his face, you did as he wanted and went down to your knees. It felt uncomfortable against the tile of the kitchen, but you told yourself that it could be worse. At least you weren't out in the open with stones digging into your skin while your leg was broken.

Pulling down the hem of his shorts revealed that he was already semi-hard. You frowned as you took his length in hand and began to stroke it. It wasn't long before he was fully erect, and you moved in closer to place a kiss on the tip.

“You can do better than that.”

There was a familiar feeling of a hand at the back of your head, and then you were being pushed in closer, the tip of his cock smearing precum over your lips before you forced your mouth open so he could shove the head inside.

“That's more like it,” he said, although it seemed he was saying that more to himself.

You fell into a rhythm that you knew well by now; your tongue glided over cock while you stroked whatever didn't fit. All the while he stared down at you with a triumphant look on his face.

He'd get bored of you eventually. That was what you told yourself. A man like him would one day get tired of you, when you would no longer give him any new or interesting reactions. And getting rid of you would be as simple as crushing your head beneath his foot.

Not today. You'd messed that up royally.

But eventually….. Eventually you'd get out of this hell.

Uvogin's grip on your hair got tighter and he pushed his cock into your mouth as far as he was able when he finally came. He kept you there for a while, ignoring the way you slapped his thighs to try and tell him that you needed air.

With a content sigh he finally let you go, allowing you to fall backwards onto the tile of the kitchen while you sputtered, coughing up remnants of his release. One may have thought you would've been used to something like that by now, but it always managed to feel like too much.

You were expecting more taunts from him, more goading insults to upset you further so you felt even more helpless when he would force himself upon you once again.

Yet nothing like that ever came.

And when you looked back up at him, it seemed as though he was thinking about something.

He snapped out of it when you made eye contact, however, and he grinned at you once more.

“You wanna stay here or go to the bedroom?” he asked.

“…. Bedroom.”

No sooner had you said that, he had bent down and scooped you up, throwing you up onto his shoulder just as he had done on that first day, and he began to march you over to the bedroom.

What happened next was expected: he threw you down onto the bed, tore your clothes off and roughly fingered you for a few moments before slamming his length into you. It hurt and you hated it, but you did your best to take it.

His mouth ended up on your neck faster than you were expecting, however, sucking on your skin to place new marks over the older, fading ones.

His lips were also faster in catching yours for a kiss, and when he pulled away, he saw the look of confusion on your face.

“What, you still gonna be a bitch about that?” he asked.

“…. Do what you want,” you answered, officially giving up.

“I intend to.”

Uvogin went back to marking up your neck, and in between leaving those marks, you heard him mutter “keeping you was the best decision I ever made.”

…. That was a little worrying, but your focus went back to the way he thrust into you.

One day this would end. He'd lose interest in you and then it would be over. He was just lying to try and upset you further.

….. Right?

[acidakerizo-47]

another one + AU from me that i named "Wingless Moth" (ZADF > ZADR)

CW: injury, scars, suicide mentioned, dramatic stuff

More:

their adult versions after years of developing their relationship

description about the AU:

in short, both in the show and in the comics, as we saw Zim most often protected Dib not only from deadly, but also from pathologically dangerous risks during adventures

and what would have happened if at one point Zim had not kept an eye on this self-confident brat and had not managed to protect him from a truly life-threatening incident, but Dib was lucky enough to miraculously survive?

Zim has mostly been really soft on Dib, but now he would rather start courting him in addition to just visiting, and Zim would also watch and teach Dib to use three fingers instead of four, remembering and scolding him for behaviour like an immortal and almost dead...

in fact, Zim courting about Dib as for the person closest to him and he learns to show his feelings for him in the right way so that Dib knows it's not over for him and at least someone needs him

+ dramatic things

Zim sat by his bed for days and waited for Dib to feel better and come to his senses, he was more worried about Dib's condition than anyone else and still acts up

Dib suffers from suicidal thoughts and deviations he feels inferior and ugly bc of which he simply hates himself, he also refused the prosthetics that his father had extended to him

Zim, in turn, was traumatized by the incident with Dib, so he tries to be around him more often, softer towards him and more caring, even abandoning his assigned mission

accident story:

Dib lost his eye on an unsuccessful paranormal expedition

his physical injuries are related to falls from heights, sharp objects and trees, he mainly defended himself against his hands, which is why they suffered the most.

[mikanotes]

lost in translation ft. eunhyuk x gn!reader 4.4k words

genre: angst comfort, ‘enemies’ to possibly lovers warnings: deaths, injuries, blood, mentions of kissing and also suicide (?), smoking, cursing, canon divergence idr half of s1, guns, slightly suggestive at the end author’s note: this was requested! i kinda strayed off the original request sorry TT it got a bit angstier than it should’ve but oh well! have this i missed him

summary: The development of your feelings for Lee Eunhyuk in the middle of an apocalypse, and struggles of leadership.

Green Home Apartment is not a place you would ever allow to crumble.

From the very first hours of the outbreak, people saw a leading figure in you. A seemingly natural instinct to guide people and keep them as safe as possible. Someone strict, just firm enough to keep panicking residents in line and gentle enough to reassure other equally terrified people.

The perfect leader, really. It wasn’t exactly the role you would have wanted had you imagined yourself in this situation prior, but you felt you didn’t really have a say in the matter. You were just a college student, and within a few hours, at least ten people in your apartment building had voiced out their agreement on you being the perfect captain for a broken and sinking ship.

So when this guy with a blue flannel gave off the same impression as you apparently did— enough to convince people he would be a good leader, too— you were mildly relieved. Part of you felt like it was a good thing someone else would take the reins for this whole thing. It was too much pressure for you. But another part didn’t feel at ease. After all, you didn’t know this guy. People trusted him for a reason— He did seem mature, headstrong, and determined. Good with instructions and quick-witted. But you didn’t know if that would be enough to let the people here, or you, at least, survive this.

If you were to survive this in a group, you would need to have some kind of authority when it came to making decisions. Surviving alone was fine, but being stuck with so many people meant certain chaos, attempts at democracy leading to stupid decisions, and your life being stacked between at least twenty others with barely a word to say when they would all eventually be led to sure death. You’d damn near experienced it already, and that was more than enough for you.

So you didn’t step away when Lee Eunhyuk, as you eventually learned his name to be, took the place of a leader. And thankfully, it seemed the residents hadn’t expected you to. So weeks ago, you and Eunhyuk were appointed as leaders of Green Home during the monster apocalypse.

“Going there would be suicide.”

“So you suggest we stay here and wait to die? Do you genuinely think the people in the next room over will be fine with that?”

Leaders who get along perfectly.

“I suggest you use your head a little. There’s resources in much more accessible spaces than this. The store at the side, for example?”

“I’m not sending anyone there.” Eunhyuk states blankly, in his usual emotionless fashion. You narrow your eyes and bite back a scoff.

“Right, I almost forgot it’s about sending out people with you. You’re a coward, you know that?” you say, and he glances at you from the side.

“And you’re just as selfish.” he says, turning to face you properly, “Let’s not pretend you’re any better than I am because you act courageous. You’re terrified.”

“And you’re mistaken. Why don’t you go out there and get to the storage room yourself?”

Eunhyuk’s tongue presses into his cheek and his fingers tightens into a fist. He presses his hand to the table and tilts his head a little, nodding slightly. “We both know without a leading figure this group is done for.” he says, tone much calmer than you’d anticipated. The restraint he has over his anger only serves as fuel to your own. You bite the flesh of your lip.

“Am I not a leading figure?”

“You are, but are you a good one?” he asks. There. There it is, the hint of anger. That cutting edge to his tone. It’s nearly imperceptible but it makes you want to bring out all of it.

“Do you believe I’m not?”

You step closer. He looks down to your feet then back up to meet your gaze. “You’re dodging the question.”

“It’s a weird question to ask.”

You’re close enough to punch him, now, if need be. You won’t. But it’s a good thing to note.

“I don’t think it is, all things considered.”

“Uh,” a meek voice comes from behind you. You turn towards the door to see a man from the group stand with a bottle in hand, moving around uncomfortably, “The others are arguing about rations… You should come.”

You take this as the perfect opportunity to clear your head and not to let your irritation get the better of you. You hum absentmindedly and walk past him to get to the store where you expect everyone to be, leaving the man and a scowling Eunhyuk behind.

“Is- Is something wr—”

“Everything’s fine.”

Everything is wrong.

It’s been less than a day since your argument with Eunhyuk when a new problem enters your life. A guy that looks about your age, that you remember walking past when he moved in, who fell from nine floors high in the stairway. He’s lying on the floor with blood all over and around him. Everyone is scrambling to take a look and Seo Yikyung has to be the one to hold them back, because you and Eunhyuk are too busy checking the supposedly dead man’s pulse for the third time.

“He’s breathing.” you sigh, pulling away your trembling hand from his face again. This is insanity.

“It’s impossible…”

“Get a grip.” you shove Eunhyuk’s shoulder, “Impossible isn’t in our vocabulary right now. Weird as this may be, we can’t just leave him here, so start thinking or I’ll make the decisions.”

He’s shaken out of his thoughts, alright, but now he seems another kind of confused that you can’t bring yourself to try deciphering. He calls your name but you don’t respond.

You don’t exactly look down, but you start to kneel to reach towards the body on the floor. You need to carry him somewhere else, where no one will see how bad it is. There’s kids here and the adults aren’t reliable. You can’t let this cause more trouble.

Your gaze is looking anywhere else but at the corpse— Person. Alive. You almost grab him when Eunhyuk stops you with a hand on your shoulder, effectively causing you to flinch.

“It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

He hoists the limp body up on his back with some effort and holds him tightly so he doesn’t fall. “Tell them to go elsewhere. It’ll only cause issues for them to see more than needed.” he tells you, nodding towards the hallway. The blood that gets on his clothes and the state of the one he carries unsettles you a little, but you nod and hurry outside.

“Go to the daycare.” you say, voice hoarse. Everyone’s chattering does nothing to help you calm down. You’re not sure if they didn’t hear you or if they simply don’t care. “I said go! Right now!” you exclaim, much louder. 

The talking silences and everyone reluctantly heads to that place, though clearly still trying to get a glimpse of the situation. You breathe out sharply and stare down at the floor. Your reflection meets you halfway on the tiles, showing you just how little control you currently have on the emotions you usually hide so well. You’ve seen people get killed too many times since this all started but this is was one too many. 

You can’t even tell if the stranger’s fall was accidental, if it was suicide, if… You can’t think.

Eunhyuk passes by you and you barely notice. Or rather, you force yourself not to notice.

So much blood.

The sun sets and rises again. Tension does as well.

“We can’t keep on using him.” you say upon stepping into the security office. Eunhyuk is leaning against the desk, eyes trained on the several CCTV screens when you come in, and he seems like he’s about to leave the moment you start talking. You close the door and he gives up. He seems to know there’s no point in trying to leave, now.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb. We both know you’re not.”

“High compliments coming from you.”

You sigh and step further into the room. “I’m not in the mood to argue, Lee Eunhyuk. Cha Hyunsu, he… He doesn’t deserve to be treated this way. You know it, too.”

Eunhyuk is silent. You see his thumb tapping against the desk rhythmically, like he’s thinking hard about something.

“Lee Eunhyuk.”

“I heard you.”

“Then say something!” you scream.

Eunhyuk turns to look at you. You take a breath. It’s unlike you to let your anger turn to yelling but you feel hopeless. Cha Hyunsu is just a boy your age trapped in circumstances he never asked for, and forced to do the worst part of the work around Green House. Eunhyuk never wanted to send anyone upstairs, yet he decided to send Hyunsu there. Because he’s a monster? Because he survived a several floors high fall? Because he was doomed to live in-between two kinds of evil, neither of which truly accepts him?

It just feels like it hits you harder today that this world will continue to be this cruel. And you two are not making it any better.

“This is the best way.” Eunhyuk says, unfazed. “The group needs to survive. You said it yourself. Cha Hyunsu’s the best bet we have at getting this result.”

“We saw him die, Eunhyuk.”

“He’s alive. You know that.”

“This is unfair.”

“The world is unfair.”

You look elsewhere, annoyed. Eunhyuk calls your name in the same tone he always does. “Your sympathy is useless.”

“What kind of leaders are we if rid of any compassion?”

“… The kind needed to survive.” he says quietly, gaze cast downwards. “Jisu asked for band-aids. Could you bring them to her for me?”

Anything’s a good enough distraction from whatever spiral you feel yourself falling into.

“Sure.”

Days pass. Your anger subsides.

“But didn’t you say it was okay to go there?”

“No, I didn’t.” Eunhyuk crosses his arms, “Who told you that?”

A name is mentioned in reply.

You sneeze.

“Aye, did you catch a cold?” Eunyu scoffs, laughing smoke at the face you seem to be making. “That’s bad. Catching a cold during an apocalypse? Seriously.”

You and the girl are sitting on the fire escape stairs, on the floor closest to the main hall. She has a habit of disappearing to go smoke, or whatever else she does, and you don’t want her getting killed. She didn’t seem to mind you coming to check up on her the first time, and now you have a habit of disappearing to hang out with her.

“I’m fine.” you click your tongue, “Anyways, you shouldn’t be smoking out there. If your brother was here he’d be pissed.”

“Who cares? Let’s not act like he ever shows it.”

You roll your eyes a little and chuckle. “Sure.” you hum, “Still. What’s the point in smoking? During an apocalypse, too? That’s bad.”

She flips you off and you return the gesture, earning a laugh in return. You don’t talk to many people in this place. Your age differs from nearly everyone. Eunyu’s a bit younger, so you’re mostly watching over her. Then there’s Hyunsu, but there’s a nearly visible wall between him and everyone. You can’t blame him for putting distance between you two especially. As far as he’s concerned, you’re also responsible for the errand-running he’s been told to do.

There’s Yikyung, but you’ve struggled to get close since you told her to shove off when she had Eunhyuk pinned to a wall. You’re not sure why you did that, even now. She’d be better company than him, maybe. And you understand her reasons.

Then there’s Eunhyuk.

“Serious talk, listen up.” Eunhyu huffs, “What relationship do you entertain with my brother?” she mimics a serious sounding voice that’s so unlike her. It makes you scoff in amusement.

“He’s a…” You trail off. What is he? A friend? An acquaintance? Whatever could be considered a coworker, at the moment? A fellow leader? “Uh, a person.”

Eunyu gives you this look that is so clearly judgemental that you consider jumping off the railing promptly.

“Yeah, no shit. Good to know he’s not turning.” she scoffs, “I know you hate him. Spit it out.”

“I don’t recall ever feeling that way.” you lie with an obviously fake smile. Eunyu threatens to throw her lighter at you. “He’s fine, alright? We just work together, I guess.”

“He likes you.”

“Hm?”

“He doesn’t hate you, I mean. You’re not stupid, so you noticed, right?” she says before bringing the cigarette to her lips again. You’re confused and it must show because she sighs in annoyance. “Clearly, I’d say the real leader is you out of you two. Aren’t most decisions yours?”

“They’re ours. Mostly his. Trust me, my opinion isn’t as valued as you might believe.”

Her expression suddenly sours and she curses under her breath. “And I think you’re wrong. Anyways, I’ll leave you with the jerk.” she coughs, pushing herself off of the stairs, “Bye.”

You hum curiously as you watch her leave before turning around. Lee Eunhyuk. Of course.

The first thing he does is shove your shoulder.

“What the hell?” you scoff, scrambling up to your feet before you can lose your balance. It’s such an unexpected move from him that you can’t help the words that slip past your lips. “What’s your deal?”

“Returning the gesture. What’s yours?”

“Huh?”

“The gate to the store alley. I said it should stay closed.” he says, “So why are three people on their way back from there telling me I allowed it?”

“Because I allowed it.” you say casually. “It had medicine, water, and some canned foods. Besides, we needed fresh air.”

He stays silent for at least half a minute before he steps closer to you. Close enough for your hands to touch if your arms were to move an inch. “It’s not safe. I said so enough, didn’t I?”

“Have you ever cared about safety?”

“I have—”

“About the people’s, about the half-monsters’s, about yours?”

Your name sounds tense when he says it.

“About mine?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he grits his teeth. His eye twitches. You wouldn’t have noticed it had you been further away. No, you… you would have. You know his every feature and emotions too well by now. You would realize the most unnoticeable of changes from him. Any of them.

He’s angry.

There.

“Does that piss you off? That I talk so much?” you say, “Is it a problem because you never do? Does hearing someone so much get on your nerves? Should I leave the leading you? Are your decisions supreme? Am I too talkative? Is that it? Is that it?”

He kisses— He almost kisses you. He stops short of pressing his lips against yours, short of holding your collar and bringing it up to meet his chest, short of everything you only now realized would’ve been so good to have.

For fuck’s sake. “You’re holding back.”

“There’s no point in causing unnecessary fights.”

“You’re a coward.”

“You—”

You tilt your head, like you want him to finish his sentence. You do. He’s realized this much.

He takes a breath to calm down and steps back, much to your dismay.

“I know why you used to be so self-centered.”

“That’s…” you trail off, before laughing in disbelief. “What?”

“You almost got killed at the alley to the store, the one you just allowed to be opened. First day of the apocalypse. I remember it. You looked terrified. Then you put your survival above anyone else’s.” he says, “And yet now, you keep on trying to go. That’s something I don’t understand.”

You swallow, images of that monster nearly killing you with its claws, and dragging away a bloodied, dismembered corpse when it failed to find you. The feeling of someone pulling you back into the shadow so you wouldn’t get noticed, and the chaos that ensued in the main hall so quickly that you never got to see who it was.

… Wait?

“That was you.”

“It doesn’t matter who it was. You changed.” he cuts off any questions you might have, “You used to be selfish. People falsely believed you were a good leader just because you seemed strong. But you didn’t care about anyone’s lives except yours.”

“… So what? What changed?” you ask quietly, “Did you fall for it, too? Because I’m still the same, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I do—“

“The you I first talked to in the security room would’ve never went out of their way to make sure some high-schooler is doing fine. They wouldn’t have been this upset over a random half-monster running errands. You would have been unbothered. And that store you seem so obsessed with would’ve been emptied of the basics before anyone could get them. But it was full, wasn’t it? The store was untouched.”

You’re not sure what to say. Where is he going with this?

“Fine.” you settle with that. “Let’s say that, somehow, you’re right. Then should we talk about you? That you changed, too?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“You never talk this much. Why are you so obsessed with this?”

“… I just wanted you to know.” he says, but it sounds like he’s withholding another response. “It didn’t feel right for me not to tell you I knew about what happened after all this time. Also I need you to come back now. People are gonna crowd the store too much for it to be left without any rules.”

You look away. Decide. Look back at him. “Fine.”

Lives come and go. The obvious is ignored.

A lot of guns were pointed at a lot of people’s heads today. You’re unsure why the image of Eunhyuk stuck to the floor with a gun pointed to his forehead is stuck in your mind so much. It keeps rewinding— Reminding you that you were both helpless there, that you got lucky he even survived it all.

There’s so much blood everywhere.

Someone says your full name, with a tone much too casual to match what seemed to be politeness and with such ease that it can only be one person. He grabs your arms and tries to catch your gaze. “Are you okay?”

“Are you crazy?” you whisper, looking at him. He looks like a mess. “You almost got killed, Eunhyuk.”

“So did you. Don’t downplay it.” he argues. You expect his grip to loosen now that he’s seen you’re alright enough to talk but it only seems to tighten, “We have a few minutes to get it together before we have to go back to the usual. So be honest for once.”

Being honest…

You look at him, and your eyes are burning. “Fuck, Eunhyuk, I don’t know why I’m this scared.” you cough out, hands tensing at your sides.

He carries something gentler in his gaze, something you’re unfamiliar with. His hand drops to your wrist and he squeezes it. “Breathe.” he says, and you try, but it’s like you’re struggling to get the air in and out of your lungs. It’s burning, too. Why?… You’re panicking. That’s why. Your breaths come out short and that uneasiness who loves to get in the way of your thoughts is back. You can’t do anything, right now— you wouldn’t be able to get anyone to survive, let alone yourself.

Eunhyuk’s hand grabs your hastily and he brings it to his chest. “Slow down. Just breathe. That’s all that matters, right now.”

“Are you breathing?”

“I am. I need both of us to be. So listen to me.”

“Yeah.”

And just like a doctor would, he guides you to something calmer. Your gazes are locked the whole time. He insisted. Don’t look anywhere else, he said, just me. He helps you remember how to breathe again, helps you remember how to think, and helps you remember you have a lot to do immediately.

“We need to go.” you say, back to the closest thing to normal you could manage. “Hyunsu’s gone. Did anyone get shot? You should—”

“You should go grab the medkits. The ones in the nursery. Bring them here. I’ll take care of it.”

You don’t argue. “Okay.

Ah!” — But you nearly lose your footing. You hear Eunhyuk breathe out something that almost sounds like a laugh and turn around to glare.

“You’ll be lightheaded for a bit. Be careful.”

“Oh, yeah, okay.” you scoff. You hear Eunyu yell something along the lines of ‘It’ll be fine, so stop looking and get to work—‘ but you’re too far away to catch all of it.

The skies darken before the light comes back again. Things are eerily quiet.

When leadership becomes worthless, it’s hard to keep a proper sense of identity. Everyone has seen you and Eunhyuk as their leaders for a long while now. But since Jung Uimyeong’s arrival and the clear impact he’s had on the group’s dearest Cha Hyunsu, the atmosphere has suffered a drastic change. It feels tense for everyone but the newfound duo. It’s suffocating.

But instincts remain the same. Survival is key, and that means gathering information is, as well. You need to get what Uimyeong’s plan is before it escalates, but you know he would have no interest in talking to you.

So Hyunsu, it is.

“You don’t trust me.”

“But I do! I’ve always trusted you, Hyunsu.”

The latter keeps on walking and you have to jog to catch up. This is ridiculous, how could he allow a stranger to change him so much? Did he convince him the people here were the real enemy? You wouldn’t be surprised. Still…

“Just stop and have an actual conversation with me.” you scoff.

He does just that, stops in his tracks, and you nearly run into him. He turns around slowly to look at you. Hyunsu’s expression is usually devoid of emotion but now it’s just cold. “I don’t want to talk to you. Everything you say’s a lie. You don’t trust anyone here. I’ll say good luck to the people who still think you’re a good leader.”

“Isn’t that too much?” Eunhyuk. “Especially since you know it’s not true. Or were you influenced by that guy so easily?”

Hyunsu glances at him, then back at you, before directing his glare to Eunhyuk again. “Find someone else to run your errands. I’m tired of it.”

“That’s not—”

“Leave him be.” Eunhyuk says as Hyunsu walks away. You sigh and rub your temples. This isn’t good. “There’s no point in trying to reason with him now.”

“So what, we don’t do anything? Leave things as they are?”

“We do.”

You sigh and turn around to let your head drop on his shoulder. Eunhyuk brings his hand to the back of your head and leaves it there. You’re not sure how or why this change happened between the two of you after the shootout, but neither of you mention it. It might be for the best.

“I’m tired.” you mumble.

“You should get some rest.” he says quietly, “There isn’t much to take care of, right now. You should be able to sleep for a bit.”

“How long is a bit?”

“Until I wake you, approximately.”

“… Fine by me.”

The sun sets—

“Wake up.”

“Hmm…?” you force yourself to open your eyes and look up. God, the world’s blurry. “What?”

“Switch. I need to rest for a bit.”

You nod lazily and sit up on the bed, making space for him to sit. He settles at your side and turns to look at you. “Look here.” he says (demands) with a hand on your jaw. You turn and feel like he’s scrutinizing your face. “Any injuries?”

“Not anything new, no.” you say, “You?”

“The same.” he sighs, dropping his hand. It’s your turn to touch his face. You hold the side of it in your hand and let your thumb graze the skin under his eye. His glasses are good to hide his eyes, you think. But you’re always close enough to see them. After the shooting, you remember something, despite the state you were in.

“You cried.” you say. He hums inquisitively at that. “When those guys barged in and stuff. When you came back after going with them, you looked like you’d been crying.”

“Not really. I was just upset.”

“Because?”

“Is there not enough reasons to be upset in this place?” he deadpans, and scoffs silently when you give him a look. “I couldn’t save Ms. An. I watched her get shot.”

You have half a mind to hold back from squeezing his head to death. “And you didn’t think it worth mentioning? That’s bad, Eunhyuk.”

“I’ve… Seen worse.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

You look at him with wide eyes. “Take it back.”

“Or else?” he asks. Oh. Oh. He’s teasing you. What the hell? This is new. Your hand drops to grab his collar. You get deja-vu. Something similar happened before. He looks down at your hand then back up at you.

“You really want to find out, do you?”

There’s something in the air. Something you would’ve usually described as tension, but it almost feels comfortable. You know Eunhyuk well yet you can’t tell what’ll happen next. You could guess, though. Each word and touch means more now than it used to.

(Maybe they always meant something, maybe you just chose to ignore it.) 

He stares at you for a few seconds then tilts his head to the side, expression unreadable. “I do.”

Your fingers tighten around his collar and he smiles. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, slowly pulling it away from him. “Hey…?”

“But I don’t think I’ll find out about anything. You’re a liar, after all. And a coward, just like me.” he says, all whilst gently pushing you to lay on the mattress. He does it so naturally it takes you a moment to realize. He hovers over you with your wrist still in hand. “Is that fine with you?”

“You insulting me or you pinning me down?”

“You decide.” he sighs, pressing your wrist down gently next to your head, “Would I be wrong to assume you don’t really mind either of those?”

You decide to shut him up instead. He takes it well.

“You taste a bit bloody.”

“Deal with it.”

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (22/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: trauma, pregnancy-related conditions, some type of suicide attempt, dark visions, the angst, nightmares ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

"Rȳbās." Her father said. "Repeat."

She saw his face clearly – his narrow eyes, his short white hair combed back, his expression full of boredom and fatigue, which, however, she was not the reason for.

"Ribās." She mumbled, wiggling her short legs as she sat on his lap, looking at the large book in which were written a multitude of words in a language she had never seen before.

Her father sighed.

"No." He said, readjusting her on his lap, feeling her begin to slide downwards. "Rȳbās. Again."

"Ribās." She repeated after him, confident that this time she had said the word correctly.

"Who gave him permission to be with her? To cross the threshold of my fortress without my permission?" She heard her mother's enraged voice behind the wall.

Her father sighed heavily, closed the book and threw it carelessly on the table. He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up, placing her on the floor; she caught his hand, refusing to let him go.

"Ribās. Ribās. Ribās." She repeated, following him, hoping it would stop him.

"Stay in the chamber." He commanded, so she let him go with eyes full of tears and turned back, bursting into sobs.

He had only just arrived, and was about to disappear again.

She hoped he would return and waited for him, lying covered in thick furs in her bed, however, eventually her eyes began to grow heavy and she fell into a deep slumber.

She thought she felt in her sleep as someone touched her head, someone's lips placed a warm kiss on her forehead, the smell of her father filled her lungs.

When she found out the next day that he had returned to Dragonstone, she burst out crying.

"You should be grateful to me, not wailing. I'm tired of your perpetual weeping. Perhaps you would rather he took you with him? Targaryens have many strange customs. Fathers lie in bed with their daughters, for example." Said her mother, busy eating the roast of a deer she herself had hunted the day before.

She closed her mouth at her words, quivering all over, staring blankly into her plate.

She was awakened by an unpleasant feeling – a spasm in her stomach and a sensation as if she were suffocating. She raised herself up on the sheets in the darkness, unconsciously reaching for the dish standing next to the bed. She only had time to lean over it when she vomited, panting loudly and coughing.

She shuddered all over, terrified, when she felt movement behind her, someone's hand touching her shoulder.

"Hāedar. Again?"

In response, she vomited again, louder this time: her stomach squeezed tightly, and she closed her eyelids, trying to survive it.

The silhouette of her father beneath the water, his white hair, his hand stretched towards her, her arrow thrust into his neck, his heavy armour pulling him down – when she grasped him, she had the impression that something had flashed across his face.

A mixture of regret, shame, pleading, as if he wanted to convey to her in that moment everything he hadn't told her over the years. Her heart squeezed at the thought that she saw tenderness in that gaze: that he recognised her as his child, and perhaps he always had.

Perhaps she had never truly understood why he had fled then until now.

And then he let her go.

She burst out crying and shook her head, leaning forward, breathing heavily through her mouth, overwhelmed by this vision, this memory, by the fact that she had been mistaken.

She didn't see her husband's death in her dreams, but her father's.

She felt his face pressed into her neck, his warm, moist lips placing soft, light kisses on her skin to comfort her, his broad hand stroking her arm.

"I'm here. I'm here." He repeated.

She wanted him to do something that would make her shout at him, take it out on him, hate him: she wanted him to say that it meant nothing, that she was being dramatic, that it was a simple, ordinary, feminine weakness that she needed to stand up to. This was what she had expected from him: this was how he always reacted to his own failings, being a harsh and unfair judge in his own case.

He, however, was quiet and calm, full of an understanding from which she felt a discomfort in her stomach.

She was sure that it was a mask and that it would eventually break: that her many days of silence and hysteria would eventually drive him mad, that, tired of her constant despair and the fact that she did not even look at him when he spoke to her, would make him finally descend into the dungeons and find relief in the arms of the beautiful Witch of Harrenhal.

Some part of her wanted him to do it: she wanted him to give her a reason to run far away from him, to abandon him and everything that came with him.

"The Maester has arrived in the fortress. I have ordered him to examine you tomorrow. It worries me that this keeps happening every night." He whispered, snuggling into her back at last, embracing her with his arms around her waist.

His hands did not reach her breasts – he did not try to take her or kiss her on the lips. He held her close and stroked her but did nothing more, as if he knew she would push him away.

She sighed and closed her eyes, knowing what that meant.

That he would find out.

She did not, however, have the strength to object.

"Your wife is expecting your child, Your Grace." Said Maester the next day after he had examined her body closely.

She saw her cousin twitch, his face, previously passive and calm, tense in shock, his eye open wide. He looked at her after a moment, in his gaze the question she had long known she would hear from his lips.

"Leave us." He said.

Her heart pounded like mad in terror as the Maester left the chamber – she played with the soft fur that covered her body clad only in her nightgown, wondering why she was afraid.

She had felt nothing but pain for days, so this sudden new emotion was shocking to her.

He's going to kill me, she thought.

"How long have you known?" He asked.

The tone of his voice was not aggressive, but she heard a hint of irritation in it.

She swallowed hard, feeling that she was having trouble concentrating, finding the right words.

How long had she known?

"The witch told me I was carrying your son, but I didn't confirm it." She muttered.

"But you had a premonition, didn't you?" He continued, a note of pain and regret in his voice.

She merely nodded her head.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't take me with you."

Her husband let out a loud breath and turned away, pacing around the room as if trying to calm himself, overcome by many extreme emotions at once.

"How could you hide this from me?"

"You didn't ask."

He turned abruptly towards her and stopped, his lips pressed into a thin line with rage.

"It's my fault, then?" He hissed, clearly losing his temper.

She swallowed hard, lowering her gaze to her hands.

"That's not what I said. It's just that if you had asked me, I wouldn't have lied to you. But then you'd be dead and I'd be left fatherless and husbandless." She said dispassionately.

Her cousin looked out of the window – she could see out of the corner of her eye that his chest was rising and falling in heavy breaths.

"You made a fool of me." He said.

She did not answer him.

If he thought so, that was his concern.

She didn't have the strength to think about it.

She shuddered when he suddenly moved from his place and simply left, closing the door behind him with a loud slam of old wood.

She swallowed silently as she felt the heavy tears one by one begin to run down her cheeks, her breath stuck in her throat.

She knew it would happen sooner or later, and she was relieved to finally have it behind her. A crack, a rift between them, something that made him pull away from her – she figured he'd been looking for an excuse for this for a long time, and now he'd found the perfect one.

She lay back on the bedding and hugged her face to the pillow, staying in that position until she fell asleep from exhaustion.

When she opened her eyes, there was darkness all around her – she recognised in the shapes she saw before her her chamber in Harrenhal. Her bed was cold – a strange feeling of disappointment ran down her spine when she turned behind herself and saw that he was not lying next to her.

That he hadn't forgiven her.

Maybe he was with her now, she thought.

She felt an unpleasant discomfort in her stomach, from which she felt the urge to vomit again – she restrained herself and stood up, heading barefoot towards the door.

The stone Harrenhal was cold and dark – she was surprised that there were no torches burning in the corridors and no guards all around.

In fact, it seemed to her that the fortress was deserted.

She blinked, intrigued, noticing the warm light of the fire in the distance, coming from behind the door of her husband's chamber – some strange kind of relief spread through her heart at the thought that he had not abandoned her. Her quiet footsteps echoing around her, the dripping of water in the distance and the sound of the wind accompanied her on this short journey, but the closer she got to the room, the louder other sounds came from it.

His panting.

She would recognise it was him anywhere – she had heard it too many times – that distinctive heavy way of breathing, interrupted by grunts and low groans of pleasure. As she pushed gently on the door, just enough to see anything, she saw his body bare from the waist down, his nails digging into Alys' buttocks so hard they created bruises.

His thrusts were aggressive, brutal, deep, fast, devoid of tenderness or even desire.

Her green eyes found her in the darkness, the corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, from which she felt that sickening feeling in her stomach again.

She stepped back and vomited – one time, then another – her hand found the wall to prop herself up, to escape, to get out, to disappear, whatever that meant.

She hated him.

She hated her.

She wished she had stayed with her father.

She was unable to find her way back to her chamber – instead, narrow, dark corridors led her outside, to a godswood, surrounded by a ruined stone wall. A red, contorted, tear-streaked face looked straight at her, as if it understood her. Her gaze fled to the side – to the space between the stone bricks which was empty, looking like a gateway to a black abyss.

She moved in that direction, thinking that this was what she wanted.

She knew he would betray her.

She knew it from the very beginning, and yet she believed him anyway.

After all, she had begged him not to take her as his wife only to humiliate her later.

But his pride, as always, was more important.

Perhaps their bastard child will rule Harrenhal, but my child will not become his tool, she thought, climbing higher on the remains of the wall that once stood there – looking down into nothingness, she felt terror – her heart pounded like mad, doubt flashed through her mind.

I don't want to die.

Why are they forcing me to do this?

My husband, my father, my mother.

Wasn't I worth being loved truly?

Didn't I deserve to be chosen by someone?

"Hāedar! Come back here!" She heard a voice behind her and blinked – when she looked around, she saw that she was not standing in a godswood, but on what must once have been a tower, standing at the very edge of it. The height from which she was looking down frightened and petrified her, her body began to tremble all over – there was nothing around her that she could grasp.

"Hāedar, turn to me and give me your hand." She heard his voice behind her again, this time pleading and breaking, as if he realised what was about to happen.

"I saw you. You and her." She muttered.

She heard his silence, his heavy breath full of consternation.

"What?" He asked.

"If I had known you would betray me so quickly, I would never have married you." She howled, feeling tear after tear begin to run down her face.

The wind around her was searing her body to the core, her legs scarred from the sharp stones.

Why hadn't she felt this before?

"You enraged me and I set off for a ride on Vhagar's back to cool off. Sheepstealer wailed from afar, so I returned." He explained, and she swallowed hard, feeling the cold sweat run down her back as she heard a loud screech in the distance, and then her dragon flew over her head, clearly terrified of what she was about to do.

How could she not have heard him before?

The chaos in her head made her involuntarily turn and look at him over her shoulder, wanting to compare what she saw with his silhouette, his face, his expression, anything that would betray him.

He had his hands raised at the level of his chest, his right arm extending more towards her than his left, as if he wanted to grab her but was afraid to make a move – his healthy eye was open wide in terror, the other was covered by a black eye patch, on his body a long leather riding coat and gloves.

How was he able to change so quickly?

She felt her breath become laboured – she shook her head, taking an involuntary step backwards, towards the precipice.

"You are deceiving me. I know what I saw." She mouthed, and he drew in deep breath as she wobbled and squealed, struggling to catch her balance – he grabbed her by her nightgown and pulled her to him hard, so that she hit his chest with all his strength.

She wanted to push him away, but he wouldn't let her.

And then she felt it.

He didn't smell of intimacy, spend and feminine moisture.

He smelled of dragon and sweat.

He fell to his knees and she fell with him – his arms embraced her tightly, pressing her into his body, his face sinking into her hair.

"– gods – oh, good gods –" He wailed in trembling voice.

It was the first time she had seen him in such a state – he curled up like a small child, and she involuntarily embraced him.

"– I didn't betray you – ever – it's this place – these people – they are cursed – I can feel it in my veins –" He choked out with difficulty, breathing hard, shaking all over as she did.

She closed her eyes, feeling a strange kind of relief.

He wasn't here.

"So who did I see?" She whispered.

"I don't know."

Her husband wanted her to show him the way she had reached this place, but everything looked different. She couldn't recognise a single corner – the corridors were no longer cramped and dark, but spacious, full of lit, bright torches.

How could she have not noticed them?

She swallowed hard when she finally spotted the door she had opened then – it seemed to her that there were only a few steps from it to her chamber.

"We are in the other part of the keep. You may have seen a guard with some servant girl. It happens, hāedar. You are in mourning, in addition you are carrying a child inside you. You are overtired." He said, stroking her back.

For some reason, his calm voice, his understanding, the fact that he wasn't mocking her, comforted her.

She nodded, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"I want to sleep in your chamber tonight."

Indeed, when they arrived, she realised that their quarters were right next to each other and she didn't have to travel such a long distance from one door to the other – when she stepped inside, she also remembered that the furniture of his chamber was quite different from what she had seen.

It was as if someone had made her lose focus for a moment, hoping to let that cruel dream lead her.

"That witch. She said that if I wasn't here, you would have taken her the very first night. That you would have begotten a bastard child." She said dispassionately, walking around his room, running her fingers over the top of the table.

Her husband snorted.

"Of course. All that's left for bastards is to give birth to other bastards and hope that the rich father shares his golden coins with them." He grunted, tossing wood into the hearth, thoughtful.

"It must be tempting. The fact that every woman wants your child inside her, and you can have her." She stated.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and shook his head, as if he didn't believe what he was hearing.

"And what of it? Aegon begat bastards with half of the whores of King's Landing. If he had been by his wife's side instead of drinking when Daemon's men came to kill his child, perhaps Jaehaerys would still be alive. He blamed me in front of everyone, as if I was his father, because he couldn't look at his own reflection." He said with a disgust that sent a shiver along her spine.

"If you had married Floris. Would you have remained faithful to her?" She asked calmly, without irony or mockery.

Her cousin sighed, still crouching in front of the fire, lowering his gaze to his fingers.

"I would do everything in my power to keep her and my children safe."

"But you would have had lovers." She concluded.

She saw him shrug his shoulders.

"And you? If they forced you to marry some young lord. Would you have had lovers? Would you refuse me?" He asked with a kind of resentment from which she felt a sting in her heart.

She lowered her gaze, realising she didn't know the answer to that question.

"I wouldn't want to humiliate him. I guess I would try to stay away from you to avoid tempting fate." She whispered.

Her husband grinned.

"Big words. My mother used those too for many years." He hummed with mockery. "Either we want someone or we don't. I never wanted Floris. But I began to desire you very quickly."

"You didn't know what would happen to me then." She mumbled.

She heard with surprise that he laughed at her words.

"And what has happened to you, wife? You weep, you despair, you are silent? You have lost your father. Shall I require you to smile, to speak to me, though I myself, after I returned from Storm's End, sat locked in my chamber for weeks? I didn't want to see anyone, hear anyone. My grandfather showered me with advice I didn't ask him for. He called me a fool, as if he thought I didn't understand what I had done, how much I had destroyed. I wanted revenge on Luke, I wanted him to finally pay me for all of his doings, but did I want to kill him? I've been asking myself that question ever since. It occurs to me that when I realised I didn't, Vhagar's maw crushed him and his dragon. She felt my hatred, my bitterness, and devoured him against my orders, as if she knew I was lying." He said, staring into the flames, immersed in his thoughts and memories.

She stared at him in disbelief, silent, surprised that he had brought up the subject of his own free will – they had never discussed it, and she dared not ask, afraid of how he would react to it.

She didn't care if he wanted to kill him or not.

Time could not be turned back.

Nevertheless, the fact that he was using his experience to understand her made her feel a familiar warmth in her heart for the first time in days.

When he looked at her she swallowed quietly, as if caught off guard.

"Tell me what you need and I'll give it to you." He whispered.

She pressed her lips together, feeling tears under her eyes for some reason – they were not tears of sadness and grief, however, as they had been in recent days, but of emotion, of a sense of understanding, of knowing that he really intended to comfort her.

She wasn't ready to return to their intimacy, to this sudden act that was consuming her whole – something about the thought of it frightened her, the feeling that she would burst into sobs or change her mind in the process, leaving him with nothing but frustration.

"I'd like to lay my head on your thighs. I wish you would embrace me and stroke my hair." She mumbled in shame, for some reason feeling that what she said was pitiful.

However, she saw in his gaze that he understood her and that something in that thought pained him.

Was this what he was looking for in a brothel?

Was this what he needed from that woman?

He stood up slowly, pulling off his gloves and coat, placing them on the table top. He approached her, extending his hand to her – she took hold of it and allowed him to guide her towards his bed.

He sat down on it in a half-lying position, pulling his boots off his feet first. He unfastened his tunic and slipped it off his shoulders, laying it over his thighs so as to create something soft for her to lay her head on.

"Come here." He hummed.

She climbed obediently onto the bed and lay with her back to him, so that her spine snuggled into his lower abdomen and her cheek laid against the smooth leather material. He spread his legs so that her whole body fit between them – in some subconscious reflex she pulled her knees up to her chin, feeling safer in this position. She closed her eyes as his broad, warm hand combed through her hair in a gentle motion, repeating the movement again and again.

"Sleep. I'm by your side." He whispered, his other hand covering her with warm fur. She felt him lean in, his full, moist lips placing a kiss on her temple, his arm embracing her entire figure, locking her in a secure grasp.

All she could feel was his closeness, his calm breath on her face, his fingers playing with her dark curls, his gentle lips pressing against the skin of her face again and again.

"You are my only friend." She whispered involuntarily – when she heard herself say those words she felt a single, lonely tear run down her cheek.

He was the only one she could speak to honestly.

Only he understood her.

Only he fought for her.

Only he believed in her.

Only he cared for her.

And although she loved him as a husband, a brother, a lover, he, another man made of flesh and blood, exactly like her, was the one she loved the most.

She was at the worst, most difficult time of her life, and he was there for her, patient and tender, full of an understanding she had not expected from him.

The cruel, cold man she had seen for the first time that day, locked in the dungeon, had shown himself ready for such deeds, such words, such sacrifices.

She felt his arm press her tighter against his body, his face sinking into her neck.

"And you are mine."