#[ ch: whiskey. ] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollgxtz · 3 months ago

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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 the baby 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 the baby 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.

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