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violetrainbow412-blog · 4 days ago

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Where Darkness Cradles the Light [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x Sorcerer!reader

wc: 13.1k

Summary: You land a full-time job at the Watchtower, and over time, you and Bob grow closer. But the shadows of your past soon resurface—and now it’s Bob who must help you find your way back to the light.

masterlist part 1

an: Okay, I took a LOT of creative liberties with this one. I really like the magical thread of the MCU, and I think it meshes nicely with the aura of Thunderbolts*. It's also a bit long, but it's divided into three sections, in case you want a quick read. I hope you like it, leave me a comment with your thoughts!

warnings!!: mentions of death, mental illness, nightmares, depression, guilt, some pretty graphic descriptions (dead bodies and stuff) Ameena is a non-canon character, Nimvath is a non-canon demon.

The watchtower was quiet. The first light of dawn filtered through the training wing's large windows, bathing the floor in warm hues, and Bob sat alone. Whenever he couldn't sleep, he ended up there. It was more serene than staying in his bed, and he often found the answers he needed in the silence of the room.

But that morning, curiously, he was there because he'd woken up feeling like he was in the mood. Not out of obligation, nor as an escape, but because he felt like being at peace. There was light in his gestures. Slowly, he'd learned to breathe without feeling like the world was collapsing with each inhalation. Even his eyes, once filled with storms, were now clear, though they still hid scars.

Everyone was pleased by the obvious improvement, but sometimes the only look he was truly interested in was yours; something he, until now, didn't know what to call. Sometimes it was as if you communicated in a strange telepathic way, when a gesture was enough for both of you to understand the message.

He'd started physical training a few weeks earlier, which his other friends took care of, and you took the opportunity to finally integrate into that dysfunctional work schedule. Valentina thought it was valuable for her team to be prepared for magical threats, and that's why she'd asked you to train with the rest. Your task was to unbalance them until they strengthened their spirits enough. The Ancient One did this frequently; she'd done it with Stephen, and she'd done it with you too, so it wasn't difficult to establish a rhythm.

To tell the truth, you still found it a bit difficult to live with them and adapt to their chaotic way of life. At Kamar-Taj, what made you strong as a community was the synergy produced by the members; each person trained to their full potential and then contributed to a greater cause. However, what you were experiencing was very different.

When you were with them, each person boasted or lacked certain aptitudes or skills, yet they managed to make everything work. You perceived them as a kind of puzzle, where each piece, although different in shape and size, had its place. That's why it was hard for you to adapt; it was too complicated to conceive of the idea that someone could be there for you if you fell. Even thinking that you were allowed to fall in the first place.

“Someone woke up early,” you muttered, as you entered the living room and noticed the man already there.

Your voice brought him out of his trance, and he smiled unconsciously when he saw you approaching. All this time, you were still wrapped in your ritual garments, as if you feared that removing them would evaporate the respect the others felt for you. That day, you wore an outfit in deep purple hues, with silver-threaded edges that seemed to shimmer faintly with every movement.

The fabric fell elegantly over your body, light yet imposing, like an enchanted second skin. The sleeves were full, but suddenly narrowed at the wrists, allowing you to move with precision while casting. Across your middle, a dark leather belt held small compartments where you kept ritual items, crystals, and a sealed amulet. Your Sling Ring was also there.

He'd learned the hard way that your temple slippers were always reinforced with charms for silence and stability. Around your neck, you wore a discreet pendant: a small moonstone, a gift from Wong, which sparkled whenever a dark presence came too close.

Bob thought that, even with all that mystique, there was something soft about your face that morning. He'd even say vulnerable or… fearful.

“I feel good today,” he announced enthusiastically from his position on the floor. “I wanted to come sooner.”

“Well, that means we'll be done soon. Before lunchtime.”

You sank onto the linoleum, stretching your limbs and reaching for your toes. It was a kind of preparation, probably to get your muscles as awake as your mind.

It was already a routine, but Bob noticed something different about you that day. You moved as if every stretch required a tremendous amount of effort, and he even saw you wince in pain a couple of times, accompanied by massages on what appeared to be your ankles. He thought it would eventually go away, but it didn't.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't recall you hurting yourself before, but judging by your expression and the heavy, frustrated energy you were emanating, he had to ask. Maybe you'd just slept badly.

“I'm fine. I just felt a muscle strain.”

He didn't believe you, but he nodded gently.

Another thing he'd learned was to pay attention to others, because of situations like these. Previously, he'd been locked away in his self-indulgence most of the time and had a hard time interpreting other people's feelings or noticing when something bad was happening, but he'd made the decision to show interest in his loved ones and reciprocate their affection; it meant working on that aspect.

You didn't say anything else, and he assumed you weren't in the mood to talk about it. Training went as smoothly as expected, and when it was over, he took the opportunity to approach you and talk. You must have noticed his obvious nervousness, since this time you were the one who asked him if something was wrong.

“I wanted to talk to you about something. I… huh, I want to start a treatment,” he said suddenly, playing with his fingers.

"Treatment?"

“Psychiatric,” he clarified, “Something to complement this.”

He was referring, of course, to his spiritual breakthroughs. Controlling his energy, breathing techniques, meditation, connecting with his core—all of it had helped him stay grounded. But there were still nights—though less frequent—when The Void whispered from the darkest corner of his mind. It spoke of fear, of ruin, of inevitable destruction. And Bob no longer wanted to give it any space.

“I've been thinking about it these past few weeks. I know he won't like it, but… I'm tired of him dictating what I can and can't do. I tried to do it years ago, but it didn't end well, I think now would be a good time because you're all here to support me, and if something happens, it would be easier to regulate myself. Well, that's what I think.”

Your eyes looked at him with a mixture of surprise and respect. You didn't interrupt him. You remained silent for several seconds, only nodding slightly. You knew how difficult this step was; you'd seen him resist before, justifying his connection to The Void as inevitable, as a curse beyond redemption.

“That’s brave of you,” you replied, finally.

“I don't know if I'm brave. I just know I want to keep moving forward. I want… I want to have a life.”

The last sentence hung in the air, as if he didn't quite know what it meant yet, but desperately wanted it. You understood. Because, even though he never said what he was building with you, you knew that this search for balance wasn't just for him. It was for you too.

“Then don’t be afraid. I’ll be here no matter what, okay?”

Bob smiled a little shyly, but also with relief. The hug he gave you took you by surprise, but you happily responded. The touch was gentle and comforting.

“Thank you for saying that. You're a great friend. Love you.”

You stood still for a few seconds longer than necessary when he pulled away. Not because you didn't like his words... but because you didn't know what to do with them.

Love you.

Two words that shouldn't have meant so much, but that ignited too many things in your mind at once. It was easier for you to interpret spells than feelings. And yet, there you were, standing in front of him, trying to sustain that sentence without something inside you trembling.

You looked at him and nodded with a soft smile, even though inside your heart was racing faster than ever.

You're a great friend.

Friend. The word was sure. Familiar. But it sounded incomplete in his voice, as if it hid something deeper than even he knew what it was.

You didn't want to dwell on it too much. Or let the illusion distract you. But you also couldn't deny what that connection was becoming: something warm, quiet, impossible to ignore.

“Love you too, Bob.”

A second later, he walked over to the window, letting the sunlight spill onto his face. The tranquility of his mind was reflected in his physical appearance, for there, for a moment, he seemed almost unperturbed. With a glance, he silently asked you to join him, and you granted him the pleasure. The two of you stood for a while, watching the city awaken, ready for another day of New York life.

What neither of them noticed was the imperceptible shadow that snaked from the far side of the room, like a fissure in reality, a stain on the harmony. He listened, he always did.

And this time he didn't like what he heard.

He understood, deep down, what the man's decision meant: it wasn't enough to contain him; now they wanted to lock him up. In his twisted, sinister logic, he needed to find someone to blame. And you were the perfect person to place that responsibility.

Without you knowing it, from that moment on, the darkness began to stir more actively. It didn't attack immediately—it wasn't stupid—but rather began to whisper in the crevices, in your dreams, in your subconscious. But this time it wasn't in Bob: it was in you. Before those days, you'd been having nightmares that disturbed your nighttime peace, and you assumed it was just a passing thing; unfortunately, all they did was get worse as the days passed.

The temple halls were in ruins. Fire licked at the sacred walls, and the sky, blackened by smoke, hid any hope of dawn. You ran through the rubble, barefoot, your tunic soaked in ash.

It wasn't a memory, but one of your fears. All around you, apprentices screamed, ran, others vanished. Wong appeared in the doorway—or was it Strange? Everything was blurred—reaching out with his hand. But when you reached for him, you noticed with horror that he had no face. Just a mute, empty mass of flesh that watched you silently as the ceiling collapsed on top of you.

You didn't understand where all that fire was coming from, but something made you believe it was your fault. As if you had unleashed something evil or dangerous and now the rest of your companions were paying the consequences.

Other nights, it was worse. You could feel all the pain in the memories that tormented you, and you woke up sweating, shaking... sometimes you cried. It was difficult to cope with the situation, but you tried to hold it together as steadily as possible.

Of course, Bob didn't know any of that. Yes, he noticed you were a little downcast, your eyelids tired, but he attributed it all to the excuses you gave him, like I didn't sleep well or I was up reading last night. You reasoned with yourself that he didn't need to know that something was chasing you in your sleep, because whoever you assumed was guilty had nothing to do with him. It was too long a story to explain, and painful enough to want to relive.

Your friend, on the other hand, was making considerable progress. Yelena and Bucky had taken it upon themselves to find him one of the best specialists who could provide him with the appropriate care. Sometimes you were with him as he filled out his medical logs, in which he had to write down how he'd felt, his physical reaction to the treatment, his mental state, among other things.

The psychiatrist had warned him that finding the right medication could take time, but he wasn't discouraged by it. And the support you all were giving him made him feel much better.

One afternoon, you were lying on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a warm cup in your hands. Outside, the city was beginning to turn orange and blue, but the atmosphere in the common room was cozy and quiet. You hadn't said much all day, and although the others had respected your silence, Bob had noticed that your gaze weighed more heavily than usual.

He entered quietly, carrying two bowls of ice cream—one vanilla with almond pieces, the other chocolate—and sat down next to you without asking permission, as was already customary between you.

“You skipped dinner today,” he said softly, handing you one of the bowls.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you muttered simply. You took the ice cream anyway.

Bob took a spoonful and, without looking at you, began to speak enthusiastically:

“Did you know that vanilla ice cream was one of the first flavors invented? It seems simple, but in ancient times it was a luxury only royalty could enjoy. Imagine having to wait days for ice to make this?”

You gave him a funny look.

“And how do you know that?”

“I saw it on Reddit”

That made you laugh, and he imitated you. Then you ate in silence. He didn't insist, didn't ask questions, didn't fill the air with unnecessary words. He just offered you his company with that naturalness he'd learned to cultivate with you, as if he already knew that forcing calm only drove it away.

Bob took another spoonful of ice cream and gave you a curious look, almost as if he wanted to break the silence without being too pushy.

“Did you meet the original Avengers?”

You shook your head softly, leaning a little further back into the couch as your eyes wandered a little towards the ceiling.

“No, I wasn't that lucky. But I did help Stephen Strange during the battle against Thanos. It was… overwhelming, to say the least. Seeing so many heroes fighting together, seeing the destruction, the sacrifice…”

Bob nodded, slowly chewing his ice cream, as if digesting those words as well.

"It must have been a life-changing experience. Not everyone can say they've been in the middle of something like that."

You sighed and looked down at the ice cream, as if searching for the right words.

“I never thought I would go through that, and honestly, if I had been given the choice, I would have walked away.”

"Why?"

“I don't know. It's just… I mean, I knew there were threats, but being there made me realize it's not just about casting spells or fighting hard. It's much more complicated.”

Bob watched you intently, as if each of your words showed him a new facet of this world he was just beginning to discover.

“What do you mean? Being a hero?”

“Do you think I’m a hero?”

“Don’t you?”

The question fell softly, without pressure. You smiled, but there was a certain hesitation in your expression.

"I don't think I'm that. Sometimes I feel like I'm just doing what I have to do, because otherwise, no one else would. But being a hero... sounds like something big, something I don't know if I deserve."

He shook his head, with a genuine smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

“But that's exactly what makes a hero, isn't it? Doing what needs to be done, even if you don't always want to or feel ready. I don't consider myself a hero anywhere near what I should be, but you... you have the strength to face things I can't even imagine.”

He slid a little further in your direction, as if he wanted to break through a physical, but also emotional, barrier.

“What you've been through, what you do, and how you keep going… that makes you a hero in my eyes. Not because of your battles or your powers, but because of your heart.”

The silence that followed was warm and meaningful. In that small space, without the need for grandiloquent words, both of you understood that there was more than just training and duty: there was a genuine bond, a connection that was growing with patience and respect.

Your hand reached out to cup his cheek, your fingers resting gently along the line of his jaw.

“What’s going on with you today?”

“Why?”

“You’re prettier than usual.”

Bob let out a soft chuckle, lowering his gaze, but didn’t pull away from your touch. His cheeks were warm, and when his eyes found yours again, they carried that gentle, trusting light he only showed when he felt safe with you.

“Don’t tell me things like that.”

"Why not?"

"It's bad for my health. I could get an arrhythmia or something."

You weren't expecting a joke like that, so you giggled as you pulled your hand away, letting it fall back onto the blanket. Silence returned, but this time it was different. Comfortable. Shared. The kind of silence that feels more like a wordless conversation.

Bob leaned back a little further on the couch, crossing his ankles, the now half-empty bowl resting on his abdomen.

“I was reading something this morning…” he began abruptly, “about how the mind clings most to moments where someone is simply there. Not to advise, not to solutions. Just… to presence. Sometimes I think that’s why I think about you so much.”

You raised your eyebrows curiously, tilting your face slightly.

"Yeah?"

“Yes. There are days when you don't say much, but you're there. I think that's enough to make your memory stick with me. Like a spell.”

You looked at him, not entirely surprised, but moved by his simple way of expressing himself. There were no grand speeches, no theatrical gestures. It was him, and that was always enough.

“What beautiful words”

Bob smiled, satisfied.

“It's not that big a deal. I'm just learning to express what's happening to me. The doctor says it's important, that verbalizing it helps get what's hurting out.”

“And does this hurt?”

“No,” he replied, after a second’s thought. “It’s the opposite, actually. Talking to you always makes me feel better.”

You smiled again. The cup you'd been drinking from was already cold, but the warmth surrounding you came from somewhere else. He asked if you wanted to watch some TV, one of those boring late-night shows, and you agreed, hoping to distract yourself a little.

Little by little, thanks to the comfortable armchair, the blanket, and the distant murmur of voices, you felt your body give in to the mental fatigue you were experiencing. It didn't take long for you to fall asleep, in a rather strange but genuinely comfortable position.

You felt like you'd barely blinked, and then you woke up again. But now Bob was gone.

The room was completely silent, with a chilly air filling the air, and it was completely dark. You thought he might have gone to his room to sleep a while ago. You were about to get up to follow his lead when, suddenly, a voice in the darkness startled you. At first, you thought it was just a misunderstanding. But the second time you listened, you realized it was someone calling your name: clearly and loudly.

“Yelena?” you asked blindly. It was a woman’s voice, it could only be her. “Hello…?”

They called your name again. Your blood ran cold as you recognized the whisper, a voice you thought you'd forgotten.

“Ameena?”

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔?

"What are you talking about?"

𝐼 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢, she continued, ignoring your question. You couldn't see anything, but you tried to walk in the direction the sound was leading you.

“Where are you?”

𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

“I can’t see you”

𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢, she replied, her tone soft. Her voice seemed to come from all around, like a piercing echo.

A dizziness settled in the back of your head, and when you felt like you were about to fall, someone caught you. That touch had no warmth or comfort. It was as if something was making sure you wouldn't run away.

The darkness around you began to pulse, almost breathing. And the air—if it could even be called air—became thick; dense. And then you heard it: your name, spoken clearly, from every corner at once.

“Ameena…”

The vision responded with a ragged whisper.

𝐻𝑜�� 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢?

The figure emerged from the darkness like a forcibly exhumed corpse. Her robes were torn, blackened by something heavier than ash. Her face was little more than a twisted mask: her lips cracked, the skin on her cheekbones sloughing off in gray threads, as if the flesh had rotted away, leaving no soul free.

But her eyes... the eyes were hers. Or so it seemed. They returned your gaze with a look so broken, so wounded, that it hurt to hold it.

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙?

She took a step, and the ground shook beneath her as if the plane itself refused to support her.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙 𝑖𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠… 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

“It wasn’t like that… I just wanted to save you…”

Your voice came out small, hoarse. You couldn't tell if you said it or meant it. It made no difference now.

Ameena raised a hand and showed you her arm: burned, corrupted by black marks that pulsed like maggots beneath the skin.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑒.

Her voice was no longer your friend's. It was that of someone caught between planes, a shrill vibration laden with resentment.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

The surroundings changed. It was no longer the room. Now it was Kamar-Taj burning again, distorted by a purple sky. You were at the center of the ritual. You could see yourself, younger, your hands trembling, your lips repeating a mantra you didn't remember writing. The invocation circle closed, and at its center, Ameena screamed. But not like someone hurt. She screamed like someone violently torn from the world, someone begging to be let go... and not heard.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝑂𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑. 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑠. 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠.

The air thickened. A dark liquid began to rise to your ankles as if the ground were melting into poison.

“T-That’s not true. The spell doesn’t do that…”

𝐴𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤? 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

“But I know it doesn’t. The spell didn’t work. Meena, I… I never meant to hurt you.”

Ameena stood before you now, but her features twisted like melted wax. Black threads hung from her mouth, falling onto your face.

𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑜. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢… 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡, 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠?

A pressure gripped your chest with an unnatural force. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. You knew she was talking about Bob, and the thought that someone might hurt him made you tremble.

That's when you felt Nimvath's presence. Not as a figure. But as an ancient will that forced its way through the emotional rift that had just been inflicted on you. She didn't speak to you, but her power slid like warm oil down your spine.

Ameena grabbed your arms with black nails that were no longer human. She leaned over you, her face distorted.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠.

A scream broke the silence.

You were back in the living room, where you were supposed to be resting, with the static of the television playing in the background. You had woken up—for real this time—and Bob was now beside you, apparently having fallen asleep just like it had you.

You felt like you were gasping for air, and when he lunged at you, holding you by the shoulders and constantly asking what was wrong, you knew that the scream you heard at the end had come from your chest.

You couldn't explain anything to him, because a second later—sweating and with a cold shiver running through your body—you writhed on the couch until you fell to your knees on the floor. Once there, you threw all the food you had in your stomach onto the floor.

The putrid smell still filled your nostrils and the sensation of dead flesh remained on your skin.

The rest of the tower's inhabitants were quick to appear, probably worried by the noise in the middle of the night, believing there was an emergency. They arrived in attack position, most of them in pajamas, their faces swollen and their hair disheveled. They didn't relax even when they realized you were crying, one hand outstretched as if rejecting the touch Bob was trying to give you. Your whole body was trembling, and your lungs felt like all the oxygen on Earth wasn't enough.

What followed was a bit of a blur. You vaguely remember Bucky and Alexei helping you back to your room while Yelena held your friend back, as he stubbornly tried to reach you. Some say it took you an hour to calm down. Others say the shock lasted twice as long.

What you were sure of was that you didn't sleep at all that night. You were afraid that when you closed your eyes, those horrible visions would return, or that perhaps worse ones would appear. You didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone, afraid of not being able to discern what was real and what wasn't.

A week soon passed. And no one ever spoke about it.

You'd simply said it had been a bad dream, and every time someone wanted to ask you a question, you completely evaded them. Not even Bob received answers beyond monosyllables or the same excuse, so repetitive it felt rehearsed.

On the third day, he gave up, trying to ignore the obvious barrier that now existed between you. A part of him felt guilty and fearful, as if your condition was a consequence of some of his actions. The more unbalanced he became, the more the evil within him manifested itself in your dreams.

One morning, you stood in the kitchen making tea, as if this mundane action could restore some peace of mind. The cups clinked in your cold hands. Your eyes remained sunken, beyond tiredness, beyond insomnia; beyond this plane.

Several members of the team were already awake, but only Bucky's presence accompanied you. You liked being with him because he rarely spoke, and the silence was just what you needed at that moment. You thought you could share a cup of tea with him, perhaps as a silent thank you.

Suddenly, without warning, the air was rent with the unmistakable sound of a portal opening. The echo of the incantation rattled every window, every molecule. You turned, worried, only to find that there was indeed the orange glow of dimensional rings burning in the middle of the kitchen. Your first impulse was to reach out to grasp your ring, ready for whatever was coming.

It was Wong who appeared, his robes barely stirred by the magical wind he carried with him. His eyes fell on you with something akin to urgency, but not surprise.

Your voice was barely audible when you asked him what he was doing there, interpreting his presence as an omen that nothing good was coming. First, he introduced himself—Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme—and then he walked toward you. He asked to speak privately, you agreed.

Once you were in the hallway, you were the first to speak:

“I guess you’re not just here to say hello, are you?”

He sensed the bitter tone in your voice. Neither of you seemed to like the position you were in.

“I need you to accompany me. There’s an imbalance north of the Valley of Sorrows. A rift has opened at the edges of a dormant reality… something that shouldn’t have awakened.”

“A demon?”

“Not just any one,” he replied, not looking at you. That wasn’t a good sign. “There are traces of primal magic. Traces of a force I recognized immediately. Yours. And something more.”

Your breathing stopped for a second.

“Nimvath?”

Wong nodded, though his expression remained impassive.

"If the seal has weakened, it's because someone else is forcing it from within. I need you to come. Not only because you have a connection to that entity, but because you're the only one who can withstand it without breaking completely."

“I’m not sure I’m up to that.”

He looked at you straight on, his features hard.

“That’s why. If you’re weakened… Nimvath knows.”

The metallic taste settled in your throat from the back. You felt like you were going to throw up again.

“I need to break that bond, Wong. I can’t stand it anymore.”

"That's impossible. But you must learn to control it; you learned those lessons at Kamar-Taj."

“But I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“We all have to face the consequences of our choices. Even when we don't want to.”

You swore your knees were going to buckle at any moment and your body would end up on the floor, defeated. The worst part was that you knew he was right.

“Just let me get my things, okay? And then we can go.”

He nodded. You backed away.

When you reached your room, your entire body language exuded resignation; exhaustion. You pulled out a small, enchanted backpack, large enough inside to hold the items needed for a short war. Robes, protective artifacts, minor grimoires, crystals. Everything fit silently, in measured movements.

You didn't know when, but Bob appeared in the doorway. He was silhouetted against the light in the hallway. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you, watching you pack items he shouldn't recognize... but with a message he clearly understood.

“Are you leaving?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Bob,” you sighed, turning to look at him. He looked like he had just woken up, still with traces of sleep on his face and his hair in disarray. “Yeah, I'm leaving. Wong needs me.”

“Your Sorcerer Supreme? Where?” he stepped inside. “Where does he need you?”

You packed one last jar of golden seals without immediately responding. Then you slung your backpack over one shoulder.

“It’s not a place. It’s a fracture,” you murmured. “A rift between dimensions that’s… bleeding. And if we don’t stem it, something that should be dormant will come through.”

“And why you?”

“I have an aptitude for that.”

"Did you see anything bad? Is that what you were yelling about the other night?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your throat tightened at the thought of Ameena's voice whispering to you from beyond death. She was just a puppet, a trap to weaken you.

“Are you okay?” he asked then, softer, closer. “Are you going to be okay?”

The question caught your attention. It was honest. Vulnerable.

And that's why it's so dangerous.

“I don’t know,” you answered finally. “But I have to. It’s not optional.”

Bob looked down. He seemed to be struggling with the idea of offering help, but knew this time it wasn't his battle. He didn't even know how he could intervene.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“I hope so,” you sighed, a hint of sourness in your expression.

“And how will we know if you’re safe?”

You smiled, weakly, with a tired tenderness that wasn't affection, but felt like it.

You approached him. You didn't hug him. You didn't touch him. You just handed him a small, enchanted locket, the size of a coin, with a protective symbol inside. Something simple, subtle enough not to interfere with his… imbalance. Enough so he could tell if you were still alive.

“Take this. It’s like a mirror, it reflects my spirit. If this breaks…” you explained, “it’s because something broke in me.”

Bob took it carefully, his fingers trembling. He nodded without speaking.

"I have to go"

There were no hugs, no goodbyes. You just walked around the side and out into the hallway, not wanting to look back. Because that meant you were accepting the fact that you might not return; that you wanted to burn Bob's image into your mind in case it was the last time.

A week passed.

And with it, the warmth of your presence went too. The common room no longer smelled of incense or old books. The tower seemed emptier, quieter, as if your abandonment had absorbed all the energy that used to circulate through the halls. Bob came downstairs every morning hoping—or denying—to find you sitting there, legs crossed on the sofa, softly humming a tune while you flipped through one of your old texts or jotted something down in a notebook filled with symbols only you understood. But every morning it was the same. No one. Nothing.

Your favorite mug was still on the shelf, untouched. He'd washed it once, as a mechanical gesture, but then put it back there, waiting. He thought that if everything was just as you'd left it, maybe you'd feel less distant.

At first, he tried to convince the others—and himself—that you'd be back soon. That Wong just needed your help with an urgent ritual, or that a minor rift had emerged somewhere in the world that required your attention. You'd said it: I'll be back soon. He clung to those words like a mantra.

Three weeks passed.

And your voice began to live in his memory with a painful intensity. He remembered it guiding him through meditation sessions, when you taught him to breathe more slowly, to find a place of stillness in his mind where The Void couldn't reach him. Even without you, he continued the practice. He would sit in silence for hours, back straight, hands flat on his knees, waiting to hear your voice. Not his real one, but the one in his memory: steady, temperate, patient. That voice was the only thing that sustained him.

He became quieter. He ate less. He slept even less.

Sometimes he would sit motionless in the library, a book open in front of him without having turned a single page. Or he would pause in front of the window, staring up at the colorless sky, as if searching for signs.

Some days, he thought he heard you laughing in the kitchen. Other days, he heard your footsteps descending the stairs in that rhythm he'd learned to recognize. But when he went to check, no one was there.

The others in the tower noticed. Yelena tried to confront him once, asking if everything was okay, if he needed to talk. He only replied that he was meditating, that he felt calm, that he just needed time.

The month arrived when your absence haunted Bob.

It wasn't just nostalgia. It was a feeling that grew like a dark root deep in his chest. The Void, which had remained unusually still for some time, began to creep back into the edges of his mind. At first, in whispers. Then, in images that invaded his dreams: you, trapped in shadows, screaming his name, unable to reach you.

The balance he'd worked so hard to maintain was beginning to falter. And yet, he kept meditating. Every day. In every corner you'd been in, in every space where he could feel your trace. Because deep in his soul, he knew that if he stopped, if he allowed the silence to completely fill his mind, The Void would find him again.

The locket you had left for him rested on his nightstand like a sacred object.

He didn't dare hang it around his neck, as if afraid of breaking the last real bond that tied him to your presence. Every morning, upon awakening, he took it in his hands, delicately opened it, and examined the small symbols inscribed inside: a rune of protection, a seal of containment, and a barely visible trace of your energy. It emitted no light or heat, but it seemed to him that it still held your essence. Sometimes he took it with him to his meditation place, placing it in front of him as an anchor or amulet, and other times he simply held it until he fell asleep, hoping that your magic would protect him even from a distance. It was the only thing that hadn't failed him yet.

The night he dreamed of you again was different.

He didn't wake up screaming. He wasn't covered in sweat or with his hands shaking from a bloody nightmare. It was quieter. Colder.

In the dream, he walked down a corridor without walls. The floor beneath his feet seemed to float on an ocean of thick smoke, and the sky, if such a thing existed there, was tinged with a dirty gray, like wet paper. The silence wasn't peace; it was absence. Of sound, of time, of life.

And then, he saw you.

Not walking. Not standing in front of him with your usual poise and that confident gaze that used to calm everything. No. You were lying on a wooden bed in the center of the room, surrounded by threads of light suspended in the air. A white sheet covered your body up to your chest, and your arms rested motionless at your sides. Your hair spread like ink on the pillow, and your face had the cruel calm of an abandoned sculpture.

It was you. You were there.

Even though he knew he couldn't touch you, he took a step, then another. His gait became clumsy, slow, as if he were wading through thick water. No matter how hard he tried, the bed never seemed to get any closer. The world resisted him reaching you.

But you felt him.

You didn't open your eyes. You didn't turn your face. And yet, your chest moved more forcefully, as if his presence had touched a part of you that was still awake. Your lips didn't move, but he heard your voice clear inside his head, like a melody buried between the folds of memory.

Help me.

You didn't scream. You didn't beg. It was barely a wisp of air, thick with fatigue. It was your voice, but weaker, more broken. As if you'd been repeating that word for centuries without anyone being able to hear it.

He said your name.

He murmured it first. Then he shouted it. He reached out toward you, and then the bed was closer. So close, he could see a small crack above your collarbone, a symbol etched with ancient fire. Although it looked like blood, it wasn't, but magic. A mark he didn't understand, but one that emanated the energy of a warning.

He wanted to touch you, wanted to shake you and tell you he was already there, that you weren't alone. But when his fingers almost touched your cheek, something strange seemed to stop him. He didn't need to look back to realize he was there, a heavy shadow preventing him from moving, though this time it felt like he came with company.

Near you, hovering around your bed, it felt as if a new presence were tormenting you. It couldn't be The Void; it was a heavier energy... more powerful, no doubt.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through his head, the sound piercing his ears painfully, and a vision appeared:

177A Bleecker Street.

He glanced at you, and then everything began to unravel, the ground shaking beneath his feet and a strange smoke rising. The lights went out one by one, and you slowly began to sink into the bed, as if the mattress was silently absorbing you. He screamed, he ran, but he couldn't touch you.

Bob woke with a dry spasm, his lungs empty and his heart like a frantic drum. He realized he was holding the locket in his hand. He had squeezed it so tightly that his fingers were numb, and one of the runes had been etched into his palm. The line still burned. He didn't know if it was from magic or memory, but it burned.

He sat up quickly and grabbed a notebook he'd forgotten on his nightstand, writing down the address still fresh in his memory in uneven strokes. It must have had some meaning if it had appeared in his dream; he was almost certain the vision of your lifeless body had rested there.

Why had you asked for help? Were you in danger? Maybe that's why you hadn't returned, because something had you captured in its clutches.

He wanted to think that if something had happened to you, Wong would have gone and informed him. But he believed more that in that case, he would have known. He would have felt it.

He couldn't sleep a wink for the next few hours, no matter how hard he tried. So first thing in the morning, he was already clean and dressed, ready to leave the Watchtower until he could find you. Without exaggerating, if he went another day without hearing from you, he felt like he was going to go crazy.

The Sanctum Sanctorum looked imposing, just as Bob imagined a building dedicated to safeguarding so many mystical objects would look. Above it was a symbol, which, although he didn't understand, let him know he was in the right place.

Bob knocked on the door. A young man dressed in clothes similar to the one you were wearing greeted him, and when he asked to see the Sorcerer Supreme, he was told to wait in a sitting room.

After a few minutes Wong appeared and, for some reason, he didn't seem surprised by the visit.

“Robert, right?”

“Hello, Miste–Master Wong,” he stood up.

There wasn't much small talk, but he got straight to the point. He told him about the dream, omitting details, simply stating that he thought you might be in danger.

Again, the expression that appeared on the sorcerer's face made him think that this was not new information to him.

“I had a feeling.”

“A feeling about what?”

The sigh that preceded that question worried Bob more than he would have liked.

“Follow me, please.”

The brunette walked through a maze of corridors, trying to keep up with the shorter man. Suddenly, a door opened, untouched, and Bob gasped at the sight before him.

You were lying in bed, just as he'd dreamed. You looked pale, lifeless, almost like a corpse adorned in a pretty white dress. All around you were still those magical inscriptions, and you seemed trapped in a bubble made of hundreds of floating crystals.

Bob wanted to take a step into the room, but Wong stopped him.

“What’s wrong with her?”

His voice came out more broken than he had expected. The situation didn't seem very hopeful.

“It’s a long story. You have to come with me.”

With no other choice, he followed his host once again. They both sat down on the armchair in a room that seemed to function as an office.

Wong inhaled deeply before speaking:

“She hasn’t told you the whole truth. Many years ago when I first met her, she was just a teenager. Seventeen, with a hollowness in her eyes that didn’t befit someone so young. She came alone, with no belongings, the Ancient One having picked her up from the streets where she’d been spending her time. Perhaps she felt sorry for her or wanted to do an act of charity, I… honestly don’t know. When she took her to Kamar-Taj, she responded to the spells with a fluidity that took others months, years, to achieve. The Ancient One said there was fire and fog on her path. That her soul shone, but not without shadows.”

He paused. The light in the room flickered a little with the crackling of the fire.

“The first time I heard her full story, it was during a night when no one could sleep. The energy of a storm was falling on the Himalayas, and most of the students were too restless to rest. She sat next to me, cross-legged, staring into the embers, and began to speak as if narrating something that no longer belonged to her.

»She told me about her mother, an extremely perceptive woman who was constantly paranoid. She described her as mentally ill, but I think she simply had a natural gift for connecting with the occult that she never knew how to use.

Instead of walking away, she somehow wanted to understand. To understand why her mother spoke to people who weren't there, or what those symbols she constantly drew meant. Once she was with us, she turned her mourning into study. She learned dead languages without a teacher, and after a few months she could reproduce energy-containment formulas without tools. A year later, she was drawing summoning circles flawlessly. With those skills, anyone would have thought she was the ideal candidate to become the master guarding a shrine, or even the Ancient One successor as Sorcerer Supreme. She was brilliant, yes, but also intense. She couldn't stand injustice in training and had a sense of duty that sometimes bordered on the reckless. But when she met Ameena, she softened a little. Or rather... she found something that gave her balance.

Wong finally looked at him, with the same seriousness as at the beginning.

“They were both apprentices, and soon they became inseparable. They formed a bond that went beyond friendship, as if they had become a single soul divided into two bodies. She was fine for a while, and Ameena kept her on the straight and narrow. Until one day, we were attacked. And Ameena was seriously injured. Once again, she had lost the only thing she thought she had for sure.”

»I always knew there was a crack in his spirit ever since his mother's accident, but what we never imagined was that the crack would widen so much.

She sought so fervently to reverse the loss that she became susceptible to the oldest temptations, to doors that must not be opened.

"What are you talking about?"

“She wanted to bring Ameena back from the dead. Those spells are dark, advanced magic, but above all, very dangerous and forbidden. Trying to do that corrupts anyone and allows evil entities to take over the caster. We knew what she wanted to do because we found her, with the circle still fresh and her body barely standing. Master Mordo wanted to exile her immediately, but the Ancient One insisted we not do so, or else the entity she had contacted could cause problems in the future.”

»She wasn't the same after that. She had to work hard for many years to deal with what was now trying to possess her, because a bond like that isn't easily broken. And she had been coping well until…"

“Until I showed up”

Bob felt his stomach churn. When he thought he could finally be with someone who wouldn't hurt him, someone who understood him, it turned out it was all a lie.

“It’s not entirely your fault. Nimveth has spent years trying to reach her, just waiting for her guard down to take advantage.”

“And all this has to do with that energy rift, right? The one you were supposed to seal. The mission you asked for her help with.”

Although he didn't mean to, the words came out with a reproachful tone. It was as if he wanted to find someone to blame for your unfortunate situation.

“She's the only one who could manipulate that kind of portal, if anyone else had tried she would probably have died.”

“And she’s not on edge right now?”

There was anger. He didn't know if it was because of how powerless he felt in the face of everything, because you had kept such a catastrophic secret, or because of the possibility that your proximity to The Void was the cause of your condition.

“She's in a spiritual coma. She's fighting an internal battle that she must overcome alone, or else Nimveth will continue to torment her until she gives herself up to death. I'd like to do more, but I can't. No one can.”

“Of course you can! She needs help.”

“It’s not something that I have to offer you.”

"So? You're just going to leave her locked up there until she decides to get up? How long will that take?"

“She could wake up tomorrow. It could be decades. That's not up to me.”

Bob felt like he might cry. You'd helped him out of the hole he'd dug himself so many times that he felt he had to do the same for you. He owed it to you.

There was no further discussion, what had to be said had already been said.

When he was back home, Yelena realized almost immediately that something was wrong with him. The man allowed himself to cry in his best friend's arms as he told her everything, feeling that with each word things became more real; more terrifying. It was too much to handle, especially for a couple of people who didn't even grasp the mystical predicament you were in.

Your words asking for help echoed in his head all the time, a knife twisting deep inside that wanted to bleed him dry.

He wasn't going to give up so easily, because he knew what it was like to find himself in that position. It wasn't until then that, somehow, he realized that Yelena truly understood him when she risked seeking him out in The Void, so many months ago that it seemed like another lifetime. The balance he had now was his merit, but he would never have known how to achieve it without your unconditional support.

A goal was set in his mind. He was going to do everything possible to bring you back from unconsciousness safe and sound.

That night, before going to sleep, he hung your locket around his neck, like an amulet to guarantee the success of his mission. Then he took a deep breath, drank the entire contents of a teapot of meditative herbs, and closed his eyes, hoping to find the path that would lead him to you.

Even if it meant facing his own demons to rescue you from yours.

It took him days to be energetically prepared enough to establish a connection that would last long enough to make a change. It wasn't an easy task, but he didn't stop trying. Until he succeeded.

That space you inhabited—your mind? A prison? He wasn't sure—wasn't at all what he'd imagined.

It was a peaceful place, seemingly a forest, filled with cherry trees whose blossoms fell with every gust of wind. A delicious smell rose from inside a building, something very similar to a ryokan—Bob had read about them on an internet site—and lights flickered as a sign of human presence.

He tried to adjust to the sensation of his body in that dream. When he was more stable, he soon walked to the door, where he knocked a couple of times, perhaps sounding a little too desperate. Someone answered the knock, but a second later his face twisted into a confused grimace.

It wasn't you standing in front of him, but a young woman with Asian features who wore her long black hair in a braid. Judging by her expression, she wasn't too pleased with what she was witnessing either.

“Get out of here. Now.”

“Who are you? Where is she?”

Neither of them could say another word because, almost immediately, a third voice appeared.

“Who is it, Ameena?”

Bob managed to recognize two things: first, the name of your dead friend, and then that it was you speaking from inside. He took a hasty step forward, wanting to see you as quickly as possible, but she prevented him from moving.

“Meena?” you exclaimed again. The girl’s eyes had darkened as she looked at Bob. “Hey, what’s up with…?”

Your words were cut off when you reached them. His heart raced when you finally locked eyes and he spoke your name so softly it sounded almost like a prayer.

“Bob…”

“Found you,” he exclaimed reverently, pushing aside the other girl to lunge at you.

His arms wrapped around you below your shoulders and he spun you around in the air, listening to you laugh in his ear. You were soft, fragrant, and your skin felt fresh.

“Bob! How did you get here? Did Ameena invite you?”

He turned to the aforementioned woman, looking at her. His expression had changed to a less threatening one.

“I knew you’d love some extra company.”

When you looked at him, beaming with joy, you seemed like a different person. Your whole appearance had changed, your skin was glowing again, and your smile was priceless; you were beautiful, to say the least. Nothing even seemed to be troubling you. There was only peace in your features.

“Oh, so wonderful. Come, I have so many things to show you. You’ll see how beautiful everything is here!”

Bob let himself be pulled by you as you held his hand, leading him inside the house. Even with his back to you, he could feel your friend's heavy gaze, as if his presence was disrupting something in the environment and she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

The whole place seemed like a fantasy world, too perfect to be real. It was strange, but definitely better than the shame housing Bob used to wander through when The Void took over. He supposed everyone expressed trauma differently.

Soon you led him to a room, which he assumed was yours. Once there, he realized that, just like your body in the sanctuary, you were wearing white clothing; too light and with delicate embroidery in strategic places that made you look like an ethereal being.

"What is this?"

“It’s my bedroom, don’t you like it?” you asked innocently. It wasn’t anything like your room at the Watchtower—this one was cleaner and tidier. “I have everything I ever wanted. A big window, silk sheets, sunlight, all these plants, warm nights in the winter and cool nights in the summer.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Not much. But Meena says it is, she's lived here longer.”

For a second, Bob wondered if what he was witnessing was the afterlife. That thing after death, where your dead friend must be. But you hadn't died, and neither had he, so it could only be an illusion.

“Is that your friend’s name?”

“Oh, yeah! I’m a fool, sorry. I didn’t introduce you.”

You began to tell him a story, about how you'd met her and how close you two were. But the story was distorted because you'd never been together at Kamar-Taj, and the tiny detail of her death was missing from your timeline.

You were perfectly still in front of him, no cuts, bruises, or pain on your face; but it didn't feel right to Bob. There was something macabre behind it all, and he would have to find out.

He became your guest, and for the next few hours, you devoted yourself to him with the sweetness of someone longing to redeem lost time. Your smile seemed freshly woven by the same sun that bathed the cherry trees, and you frequently offered him a hot drink in a hand-carved cup. Every so often, you drew a sigh from him with your fingers tangled in his.

The forest paths, covered in petals that fell with a serene rhythm, became a space of peace. The flowers never withered. The sky was a constant canvas, neither too bright nor too gloomy, as if the world breathed according to your emotions. You taught her to identify the healing buds, the vines that sang if you got close enough, and the translucent dragonflies that flew in perfect spirals over the ponds.

As evening fell, you walked to a lake so still it reflected even your unspoken thoughts. Fireflies, like joyful souls, danced on the surface with golden sparkles, and you laughed as he tried to catch them, only to have them dissolve like vapor in his hands. In a clearing hidden among the trees, you explained about infusions with herbs that only grew there: leaves of moonlight, petals of memory, roots of silence. Bob couldn't remember the last time someone had guided him with such care, such attention, such contained love.

And yet, he didn’t let his guard down.

Because Ameena was always there, like a shadow of conscience. Her gait was silent, her eyes like bottomless pits. She watched you. Always watched.

You tried to bring the two of them closer so they could find something in common. You invited her several times to sit with you under the ryokan's eaves, where wind chimes made of seashells hung and rang out sweet notes. You offered her space, but she rarely said anything. And when she did, it was like throwing a stone into still water:

“This place wasn’t created to hold doubters,” she once told him, as Bob watched you watch a waterfall of liquid light descending soundlessly. You probably didn’t hear, “The balance is fragile. Don’t break it.”

Bob didn't respond. He just looked at her, suspiciously. Something about her felt wrong, like a familiar face seen in a fevered dream. He didn't believe her calm, her warnings, her permanence. And sometimes, he wondered if you didn't believe her real either.

But you carried on as if you didn't notice the crack, or as if you were trying hard not to notice it. You shone like the first time he saw you. Your laughter became the only reliable constant. And when you brushed his hair or ran your fingers down his arm, he felt his resistance weaken. That maybe, just maybe, there could be peace there.

That night, as the artificial sun sank behind the overly symmetrical mountains, you invited him to dinner with you. The scene looked like something out of a painting suspended in time: soft lights from floating lanterns, a delicately laid tatami mat, silk cushions under a polished wooden table. You had cooked with care that touched on the sacred: aromatic rice infused with jasmine, vegetables covered in a golden sauce, sweets made with candied cherry blossoms, and warm sake that glowed like amber.

You moved with the same grace with which the rain fell in ancient tales, a translucent fabric glided over your skin, subtly outlining your figure, and your hair fell loose, barely held back by a purple ribbon.

He was enthralled with you and constantly had to remind himself that he was there to find a way to free you, to return you to the real world where you lay inert.

“Now that you’re staying…” you said softly as you poured the sake, “everything will be better. I promise.”

Bob took the glass. He held it in his hands for a second, then set it down on the table. He looked at you, and in his eyes there was no anger, but an unshakeable truth.

“I don’t plan on staying,” he said in a firm voice, almost as if he regretted it.

Your hands remained still, still on the tray. A heavy pause stretched in the air, and for a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

"Why not?"

Your steps were slow, your eyes pleading.

“Because this is not my place”

“But this world is calmer, kinder, don’t you think?” you insisted. Then you took a step toward him, smiling.

You sat down with feline slowness on his legs, so close that the air between you seemed to thicken. Your arms wrapped around his neck with deceptive softness, like a silken bow that doesn't suffocate, but doesn't allow escape either. You looked at him from so close that Bob felt his chest tighten and his heart race. He had to clear his throat to speak:

“It certainly is. But you know it’s too good to be true, don’t you?”

You didn't respond immediately. Instead, you decided to focus on his lips, which your hand had already slid over to caress with your thumb. If he hadn't been so busy reminding himself of his purpose, he would have been able to better appreciate the softness of your touch.

“You’re so cute, have I told you that before? You’re kind, handsome, smart… you’re gorgeous.”

Your lips approached his with exasperating slowness, as if you wanted every millimeter to be etched into his memory. Bob resisted the sensation of your hot breath against his with a willpower that would have surprised anyone. You didn't care and leaned in to kiss him anyway.

There was no rush or hunger in the contact. It was a silent, yet devastating kiss. A touch that didn't seek desire, but something more dangerous: belonging. Bob felt his blood run cold. Every second of contact with your mouth was an invisible cord tangling around his throat. Because it wasn't just a kiss. You were giving yourself away, yes, but you were also asking him to stay; to surrender.

Your fingers moved to the back of his neck, gently burying themselves in his hair, and your forehead rested against his. The warmth of your skin was a promise. The subtle tremor of your breath, a plea that reached beyond his body.

“We could be happy here, Bob. You and me. No reminders of pain. No need to fight. Just who we are… without the world around us. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

Bob took you by the waist and then closed his eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it: a motionless future among eternal cherry trees, your kisses every morning, your voice whispering that everything was okay. No one else. Nothing else. Just that garden, your laughter, your warmth against his chest.

But then he remembered the echo, Wong, the crack through which The Void whispered in his mind even now, even in this illusory paradise. And then he remembered something else: the real you. The one who didn't run away, the one who didn't need to hide in a perfect dream, and the one he considered a hero.

His forehead was still against yours, he could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Stay with me, baby. Please, I want you to. I need you here, with me.”

“This isn’t real,” he murmured sadly, finally working up the courage. “And even if it were… you wouldn’t be here. You’re not like that.”

Your eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly, but Bob felt it: an invisible fracture running through your aura. Your breathing became shallower and your lips trembled. You didn't respond.

"You're one of those who fight, who face life with your strengths and weaknesses. You do what you have to do, remember? Because that's what helps others."

“I’m trying to help you, Bob. I offer you happiness, and you despise me.”

“I'm not looking down on you, no. This is an illusion. We'll never be truly happy if we stay hidden in this. I want you to come back with me, please. This false utopia is the work of something evil. We can't stay. Please, I need my heroine to come home.”

You didn't say anything, but he felt everything around you falter. It was as if his words had affected you more than you expected, perhaps making you reconsider for a brief second.

Bob looked up, and deep inside the ryokan, from the threshold of the shadowy corridor, Ameena slowly turned her head. Her eyes were like two dead moons. She said nothing, but there was something cold in her gaze. Something that announced that the veil was beginning to fall.

He, in an attempt to help you reason, leaned down again to join your lips. This time there was pleading in his gesture, an impatient caress that wanted to consume you completely, as if with that he could transport you back home.

"Please"

“Bob”

“Come back with me, okay? I'm the one who needs you…”

Your lips barely touched his again, but they were no longer warm. They were cold like stagnant water.

And your eyes… they were no longer pleading. They were watching him.

𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙?

The voice that emerged from your mouth was not yours.

Bob opened his eyes with a start. You were still on his lap, but your body had gone inert, as if pulled by invisible strings. The entire ryokan vibrated, as if the building were truly alive.

A sweet, familiar, but horrifying laugh filled the air.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒, Nimvath said, sounding all around mocking. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝. 𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒.

Bob gritted his teeth, holding you by the back with a mixture of fury and desperation. Your body felt like a doll's, one he would defend at all costs.

“Where is she?”

𝑆ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑠��𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, Nimvath replied with false sweetness. 𝐷𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝑆𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝐹𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤? 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛… 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑠.

Bob shook his head, his throat tight.

“She would never have asked me. Not like this.”

𝑂ℎ, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒. 𝐼 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒. 𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦. 𝐴𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑠, 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛… 𝐼 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒. 𝐴 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐼𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠? 𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛?

Nimvath then materialized. Tall, slender, with a figure that seemed human until you looked closely: her arms were too long, her movements too smooth, as if she were floating more than walking. Her skin was pearly gray, cracked like broken porcelain, and through those cracks filtered a violet light that pulsed, alive.

Her face was beautiful, but not the kind of beauty that comforts, but the kind that unsettles. Completely black eyes, shining like obsidian, and a smile that opened wider than natural, perfect and sharp. Her hair floated around her like smoke tinged with purple and blue.

She began to walk around Bob, like a lover planning her last deception.

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑜𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐿𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑒, 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

Bob stood up, carrying you in his arms. His voice came out firmer than he'd ever intended:

"No"

𝑁𝑜?

“No. You’re going to leave her alone. And me too, do you understand?”

𝑂ℎ, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑒? 𝑌𝑜𝑢?

Nimvath's voice grew harsher, deeper. Around them, the illusion trembled. The floating lanterns flickered with agonizing light, and the ryokan began to crack, like wet paint tearing from its center. Bob didn't take his gaze off you. He held you to his chest, still inert, like an incarnate oath.

“Yes,” he replied in a firm voice, “Me.”

But then, a dark laugh cut through the air, slicing through it like a blade. It wasn't coming from Nimvath. It was coming from within him.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐁𝐨𝐛? 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢��𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲?The Void’s voice emerged from the deepest corner of his consciousness. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫.

Bob gritted his teeth. The pressure in his chest increased. One more second, and The Void would break the surface. Nimvath smiled, her lips stained with black magic.

𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚? 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑜. 𝐻𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒.

“Shut up,” he growled.

Nimvath raised his hands. Shards of the illusion began to spin like sharp crystals, pointing toward him. Forbidden magic surrounded his body like a hungry gale. There was no trace of humanity left in his eyes.

𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦, 𝐵𝑜𝑏. 𝐿𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦. 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑠.

Bob fell to his knees, feeling the pull of the abyss. The Void's voice echoed in his mind, urging him on, pleading. Everything inside him cried out for surrender.

And then, he heard it. Not with his ears, but with his soul. A clear, golden voice; familiar.

ɢᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ.

The light exploded inside him like a pent-up sun. It wasn't fire, it wasn't rage. It was strength, compassion, courage. It was Sentry.

Bob's eyes shone like liquid gold. He stood up, still in your arms, and for the first time, The Void retreated. Not because it had been defeated, but because it had been eclipsed.

“She doesn’t hide,” Bob said. “She fights. And so do I.”

He extended a hand. Golden energy surged from his fingers, pure, incandescent. It wasn't a destructive beam, but a wave that shattered the illusion like smoke in the wind. Every false corner of the world Nimvath created shattered. The cherry trees vanished. The tatami mats turned to earth. The shadows fled.

Nimvath screamed, trying to channel more power, but the golden energy engulfed her. It wasn't destroying her: it was expelling her. Then Bob stepped forward. His shadow was no longer that of The Void. It was another, taller, more luminous. It was Sentry, shining behind him, like a guardian.

The entity writhed, screamed, and struggled to regain control. But it was useless; even it was no match for the energy it faced. One last, thunderous scream was heard before it was sucked into the rift that opened beneath its feet. The false plane collapsed in a crash. Only reality remained.

Bob was back in his room, sweaty, hugging something he thought was your body at first; it was actually a pillow he was holding tightly to his chest.

For the first second, he couldn't think of anything logical, but instead worried at the thought that all his efforts had been for nothing and that you, merely a product of his delirium, had been left behind. That you were probably still bedridden, your vitality seeping through your fingers and your face pale.

But then he felt a stinging sensation in his chest. It was a strange sensation, as if someone were pouring hot metal against his skin. He rummaged through his pajamas until he found the object responsible, the one hanging around his neck.

The man was mesmerized by the dazzling amber color that had flooded your locket, one that illuminated the engravings and revealed a certainty: you were fine. Your connection had escalated to an indescribable astral level, so he trusted it was the truth, because he could feel it. He could feel you.

Bob put on his shoes almost immediately. He didn't even mind going out in his pajamas; he only bothered to throw a jacket over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold. He didn't know if the superhero pack came with an enhanced immune system, but he didn't want to risk finding out.

He felt particularly anxious the entire walk to the Sanctum Sanctorum, which seemed longer than he remembered. Maybe it was just because he was so nervous about finally seeing you, or perhaps because of the unusual schedule. Only a few people were milling about in the streets, most of them homeless or drunk.

When he knocked on the door, there was no immediate answer. He assumed that not many people visited in the middle of the night, so he waited patiently.

No one answered. He knocked again. That second time, someone answered his call.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello. I want to see the Sorcerer Supreme.”

"Who?"

“The… huh, the sorcerer,” he repeated, suddenly more self-conscious at the man’s imposing presence. “Master Wong.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Robert”

It wasn't the man who answered, but a deeper voice from inside the Sanctum. Wong had appeared over the shoulder of the stranger who had greeted him.

“Let him in”

The door opened slightly, and Bob felt an immediate sense of relief. He crossed the threshold without waiting for another signal. Everything still smelled the same: of incense, scroll, and something older he couldn't name.

“Sorry for the late hour. I’m so sorry to burst in like this, but…” Bob rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words, “I thought something had happened. I couldn’t just keep it to myself.”

“Did you intervene?” Wong asked suddenly, without looking at him. “In the last few days? In dreams, or through meditation?”

“No,” Bob replied quickly. His tone was soft, almost guilty. Anyone would have doubted he was lying.

“Well, she woke up.”

Bob stopped dead in his tracks. His heart leapt.

“Is she awake? Is she okay? Can I see her?”

Wong looked at him with a hard-to-read expression. It wasn't stern, but it wasn't compassionate either. There was something else: a concern he didn't dare show entirely.

“I can’t promise you’ll see the same person you remember,” he replied calmly. “But she’s alive. That, in itself, is more than we expected.”

Bob swallowed. He wanted to say so many things, but it all came down to one plea.

“Please. I just want to see her. I won't say anything. I won't do anything… I just need to know she's okay.”

Suddenly he looked at him, this time with a more human expression. Then he nodded once.

“Follow me”

They walked down a corridor further from the main hall, where the walls seemed to pulse with a suppressed energy. In the end, they entered an upper chamber, where floating candles formed protective circles and the temperature was lower than in the rest of the Sanctum.

You were asleep, or something close to it. Your breathing was slow, your face calm. Bob took a step forward, his heart in his throat.

“Don’t come any closer,” someone ordered firmly, barely raising his hand.

Bob stopped. In front of him stood a handsome man with green eyes and a serious expression. Gray hairs seemed to be sprouting from his temples, neatly combed, gradually extending to the area of his goatee. A burgundy cape hung from his back.

He guessed who it was from the stories you'd told him before. He confirmed it when Wong spoke:

“Stephen”

“She’s stable,” Strange said. “But in a delicate transition. Don’t touch her. Don’t talk to her. Just watch”

Bob took a deep breath, his soul straining.

“What happened to her?”

Strange shook his head, very slightly.

“We're still evaluating it. But it's not physical. Wong asked me to come because this is beyond anything he or I have ever faced with her before. It's not just about healing… it's about containing.”

Bob turned his attention back to you. He wanted to get closer, touch you, reassure you that he was there.

“And is she going to recover?”

Strange watched him for a few seconds, pondering each word.

“Keep fighting. It's the only certainty we have.”

The silence became thick.

“Can I stay here for a moment? Please,” Bob said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t need anything else.”

Strange exchanged a glance with Wong. The master nodded slowly.

“Stay,” he conceded. “But if anything changes… if she reacts, or if the energy shifts, you need to get out.”

Bob didn't respond. He just nodded, his eyes on you.

Wong and Strange left the room silently, without explanation. The doors closed with an almost respectful whisper, leaving behind a strange, delicate peace. The candles remained floating in place, casting soft shadows on the walls.

He stayed beside you for a long moment. He didn't know if he should speak, if he should breathe more quietly, if the slightest movement would break the fragile thread that kept you anchored to that room. Suddenly, he blushed when he remembered you, in his arms, kissing him fervently while you promised him an ideal world.

Disobeying the masters' instructions, he reached out to smooth your hair, lightly stroking your cheek. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, you blinked.

Your eyelashes fluttered and your eyes opened slowly, as if the light in the room was still foreign to you. When you focused your gaze, it was filled with something between surprise, relief, and a quiet tenderness.

“Bob?”

Your voice was barely an echo, but it was enough to make him lean closer, a soft smile on his lips.

“Yes, it’s me”

You looked back up at the ceiling, disoriented, as if you had just noticed the texture of the air around you.

"Where am I?"

“Safe,” he replied firmly.

There was a brief, lukewarm silence, and then you looked at him again.

“I saw you… in my dreams”

Bob lowered his head a little.

"I know"

“Were you there?” you asked, not with doubt, but with curiosity.

He hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Maybe"

Your lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile. You closed your eyes for a second, as if searching within yourself for something that still hurt.

“I know what you did,” you finally said, your voice weak, but clear. “Thank you.”

Bob let out a small sigh, shaking his head humbly.

“You would have done the same for me,” he murmured. “Someone already did it for me, actually. I just did what had to be done.”

You half-opened your eyes and looked at him with a spark of gentle humor, tired, but alive.

“You already sound like a hero.”

Then you slowly extended your hand toward him, a simple gesture, but full of meaning. Bob took it in both hands, with a tenderness that felt both old and new. He held it for a moment, brought it to his lips, and placed a slow kiss on your knuckles, as if sealing a silent oath.

You swallowed, and although you were still weak, your words came through clearly.

“Can you stay with me? Please.”

Bob didn't answer right away. He just squeezed your hand a little tighter, resting his forehead on it with his eyes closed. You were asking him to stay again, and he smiled, realizing it was real now.

“Of course I’m staying,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so he stayed. Sitting next to you, like a wordless vigil, like an anchor protecting you from the invisible waves that still dragged you down inside. Outside, the night continued. But inside, for the first time in a long time, the world felt calm.

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