brysongallo

[brysongallo]

goodnight daddy

The sunlight spilled in soft, golden streaks through the sheer curtains, bathing the bedroom in a warm, early glow. It was the kind of morning that felt borrowed, too calm for people who worked the cases they did, too gentle for lives shadowed by crime scenes and loss.

Bryson stirred first, slowly waking to the distant hum of traffic outside and the comforting weight of Aria beside him. He turned on his side, watching her breathe. Her brown hair was a tangled mess across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her face, usually composed and sharp during interrogations and briefings, was now soft, almost childlike in sleep.

He reached over and gently brushed her hair from her face.

She squinted, groaned softly, and blinked herself awake. “You’re doing the creepy staring thing again,” she mumbled.

Bryson smirked. “I like watching you sleep. It’s the only time you’re not talking about autopsy reports or murder weapons.”

“Mmm,” she hummed as she scooted closer, resting her forehead against his chest. “You’d miss it if I stopped.”

“God help me, I would,” he admitted with a small laugh, wrapping his arms around her.

They stayed like that for a long, lazy moment. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds from last night, and rain lingered in the air from the storm that passed through hours before. It was quiet. Safe.

Aria’s voice broke the silence, soft and pensive. “Do you ever think about what we’d be doing… if we weren’t in the BAU?”

“All the time,” Bryson said without hesitation. “Like, if we’d met somewhere else. If we didn’t spend our lives chasing murderers.”

She tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “So? What does that look like for you?”

He hesitated for a beat, then smiled. “We’d have a little place out of the city. Big windows. A clean kitchen. You’d be barefoot in the mornings, yelling at me because I forgot to close the back door again.”

She laughed under her breath. “That sounds about right.”

“And we’d have kids,” he added, quieter now. “At least two. Maybe three if I can talk you into it.”

Aria blinked, the words surprising her, not because she hadn’t thought of it, but because hearing him say it made it real. “You think about that?” she asked, her voice caught somewhere between fragile and hopeful.

Bryson nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. All the time. A boy with your eyes and too much energy, and a girl who makes me pay for every smart-ass comment I’ve ever made.”

Aria smiled slowly, curling her hand around his. “What if they asked what we did for work? What we saw?”

“Then we’d tell them the truth,” he said. “But we’d also tell them what we did it for. That we spent our lives helping people. Stopping monsters. So they could grow up in a world that was a little bit safer.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him. His hazel eyes were tired but steady. Steady in the way she needed especially in the quiet hours between nightmares and case files.

“I’d want to be the kind of mom who’s home in time for dinner,” she whispered.

“You will be,” he said without flinching. “We’ll make that life. We’ll do our time in the field, and then we step away. We build something that’s just ours.”

Aria swallowed around the lump rising in her throat. “Do you really think that’s possible? After everything we’ve seen?”

Bryson reached out, brushing his fingers down her cheek. “I think it has to be. Otherwise, what are we doing any of this for?”

She leaned in and kissed him then slow, deep, and full of all the unspoken promises they’d been too scared to name until now.

Their work phones buzzed on the nightstand, interrupting the fragile moment.

Aria sighed. “There it is.”

“Back to the grind,” Bryson muttered, but his hand lingered on her waist for a second longer, grounding them both.

As they moved around the apartment, pulling on clothes and slinging their go-bags over their shoulders, the scent of fresh coffee mingled with the morning light.

The jet rumbled to life beneath them as they settled into their usual spots. Aria leaned back in the leather seat, nursing a cup of coffee far too bitter but too necessary to put down. Bryson sat beside her, their knees touching just barely. He glanced over, as if checking she was still with him not physically, but emotionally, mentally. She gave him a small nod, the kind that said I'm here. He nodded back.

Across from them, Ophelia sat cross-legged, tablet in her lap, eyes sharp and scanning. Her brown hair was braided loosely down her back, and her usual stoic focus was already in place. Florence was beside her, dressed like she stepped out of a fashion magazine, even for a field assignment, sleek black blazer, heels she could probably sprint in, blonde hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun.

“I don’t like the setup on this one,” Ophelia muttered, tapping her tablet.

“That’s because there isn’t a setup,” Florence added “Victims have no consistent connection. No signatures, no patterns, just a trail of chaos and missing persons spread across Tennessee backroads.”

“Seven victims in five weeks,” Aria said. “All taken within a 10-mile radius. Rural area, no surveillance, no witnesses.”

“Last victim was found two days ago,” Bryson added. “Dismembered, but carefully posed. Which means this guy wants attention now.”

Ophelia’s brows furrowed. “He was quiet before. Why the escalation?”

Florence flipped open her file, her tone measured but heavy. “Because he’s gaining confidence. Or losing control.”

The mood in the cabin shifted. That quiet weight that always came before a case like this. The kind where you knew, deep down, that what you’d find on the other end wouldn’t just be crime scenes and interviews it’d be grief, fear, families who would never be the same.

Aria glanced at Bryson, and for a moment, she saw their future flicker again the house, the kids, the morning coffees. And then she forced it back down, back into the box where hope stayed while they worked.

–

The crime scene was a clearing off a dirt road, drenched in heavy heat and the stale stench of death. A uniformed deputy was already losing his lunch behind a patrol car.

Florence pulled a face, flipping up her sunglasses. “Every time, I forget what heat and decay smells like.”

Aria crouched beside the tarp-covered body, her gloved hands steady. Bryson stood beside her, eyes scanning the woods, always protective, always watching more than what was in front of him. Ophelia was already snapping photos, quietly narrating her observations into a voice recorder.

“This one’s different,” Aria said softly. “He posed her like the last, but she’s younger. And there’s something else…”

Bryson knelt beside her, frowning. “No ligature marks. Maybe she wasn’t restrained. Maybe he convinced her to come willingly.”

Ophelia looked up from the ridge line. “We’re dealing with someone who blends. Who charms. Small town, big presence. Someone who moves through unnoticed but leaves behind a psychological footprint.”

Florence added, “The kind of guy who shops at the same market as you, waves to your kid, offers to fix your car.”

“And then cuts you open in the woods,” Bryson muttered.

Aria stood slowly, brushing her hands on her thighs. “He’s getting closer to what he really wants. This isn’t about power anymore—it’s about connection.”

They fell quiet again, the cicadas humming in the background. It was always like this: the echo of something dark in the air, heavier than just blood and violence.

Later, in the motel they were calling HQ, Aria sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the photos spread out in front of her. Bryson came in carrying takeout, the scent of greasy food filling the room.

“Did you eat anything today?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head, then looked up at him. “I keep thinking about what we said this morning.”

Bryson stilled, setting the food down. “What part?”

“About kids. About building a life. I keep wondering how we can even dream about that when this is our world. When he’s still out there, and there’s always another he waiting.”

He walked over, sitting beside her. “Exactly why we have to hold onto it. That future? It’s the only thing that keeps me sane in all of this. Knowing we’ll get there you and me.”

Aria leaned into him, her voice small. “Do you think I’d make a good mom?”

He looked at her, eyes soft. “Aria… you already take care of people like it’s in your bones. You’d be the kind of mom who reads bedtime stories in voices and bakes cookies from scratch just because. And you’d love them like they hung the moon.”

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She just rested her head on his shoulder, letting herself believe him.

A knock came at the door. Ophelia peeked in. “Local PD just called. They’ve got another body. And this one’s fresh.”

The moment shattered. The real world crept back in like smoke.

Aria stood, the mask slipping back over her features. “Let’s go.”

Bryson caught her hand as she passed. Just a quick squeeze. A reminder. We will get there.

And with that, the four of them were out the door again chasing monsters in the dark, but holding onto the light they carried between them.

_

The overhead lights flickered faintly above the incident board—photos, maps, and case notes forming a chaotic mosaic of death. Aria stood in front of it, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to focus, to stay sharp, but her vision had been foggy since sundown. Her head ached. Her stomach churned again, a wave of nausea tightening in her gut. She swallowed against it, eyes darting to the profile sketches pinned beside the latest victim.

She barely heard Reggie enter behind her.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

Aria stiffened. “Yeah. Just tired. We’ve been running on fumes.”

Reggie, tall and broad-shouldered, eyes too observant for comfort, walked closer. “No offense, but you look like you’re about to pass out.”

She gave a short, dry laugh, turning away from the board. “Thanks.”

Reggie frowned. “Seriously. You’ve barely eaten. You flinched when Florence passed you her coffee earlier, and you ran out of the room when that body bag was unzipped. That’s not tired, Aria. That’s something else.”

She hesitated.

She hadn’t even admitted it to herself yet—hadn’t dared to say the word. It had crept in slowly, whispering behind headaches and late cycles, the nausea in the morning, the soreness that lingered, the exhaustion that clung no matter how much she slept. But now, here in the dead of night, under the pressure of a brutal case and the weight of her own uncertainty… she felt it crack open.

She looked up at Reggie, her voice barely a whisper.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinked. “You think?”

“I haven’t taken a test. I can’t—I didn’t want to confirm it while we’re in the middle of this mess. But… I know my body. And something’s different.”

Reggie was silent for a long beat. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Does Bryson know?”

Aria shook her head, eyes glassy. “No. I can’t tell him. Not here. Not now.”

Reggie tilted his head, watching her. “Why not?”

She looked away, toward the cluttered table of case files and bloody photos. “Because we’re hunting someone who kidnaps and mutilates women. Because I’m supposed to be focused. Because he’s talking about baby names and golden retrievers and a life we might have, and I don’t even know if I can survive this week, let alone—”

Her voice broke, and she sucked in a shaky breath.

Reggie reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “Okay. Okay. You don’t have to tell him now. But you’re not alone. I’m here. We’ll get through the case, and when you’re ready, you’ll tell him. You’ll figure out what’s next together.”

Aria swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks.”

_

The bathroom light buzzed softly above her, casting a pale yellow glow against the faded mirror. Aria stood frozen, her hands braced on the edge of the sink. The pregnancy test sat face-down on the counter.

She hadn’t turned it over yet.

Her heart was pounding. Not from fear, at least not the kind she was used to but from the overwhelming weight of possibility. A future she could no longer ignore. A reality that could change everything between her and Bryson. And maybe already had.

She reached for the test, fingers trembling.

But just as her hand brushed it—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

A frantic knock rattled the motel door.

“Aria!”

Ophelia’s voice cut through the silence like a siren. Urgent. Raw.

Aria’s stomach dropped. “One second!” she called, trying to steady her voice, grabbing the test and shoving it into the drawer without looking. But she knew.

The door flung open before she could step out. Ophelia was there out of breath, flushed, panic radiating off her like heat. Her brown eyes were wide, unblinking.

“It’s Bryson.”

Everything in Aria’s body went still.

Ophelia was already shaking her head, trying to get the words out. “He and Florence followed a lead, the cabin. The one we flagged earlier. It was a trap. He’s been shot. Aria...he’s in critical condition.”

Time fractured.

It felt like the walls were suddenly closing in, like the air had been sucked out of the room. All she could hear was the blood roaring in her ears. Her knees buckled, but Ophelia caught her.

“Where is he?” Aria gasped, already pushing past her. “Where is he, Ophelia?”

“Hospital. They airlifted him to Mercy General. Florence is with him. Reggie’s already on the way.”

Aria moved fast, her boots slamming against the floor, grabbing her badge, her gun, her go-bag. The drawer slammed shut behind her, the test still inside, face-down and forgotten for now.

She didn’t even register the tears on her face until she was halfway out the door.

The waiting room was cold and too quiet. Aria stood by the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest, still in her field clothes, dirt streaked across her sleeves.

Florence sat nearby, silent, hands clasped between her knees. Her blazer was missing, hair messy and eyes blank.

Reggie appeared down the hall moments later, eyes scanning until he found her.

“They’re still in surgery,” he said. “It hit just under the clavicle. Lost a lot of blood, but… he was conscious when they brought him in.”

Aria turned away, both hands gripping her face as she tried to breathe through the panic.

“I didn’t say goodbye,” she whispered. “I was right there. And I didn’t even know—he was bleeding out, and I was standing in a bathroom too scared to look at a goddamn test.”

Reggie stepped closer. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But I should have,” she snapped, then immediately softened. “I should’ve known something was wrong. I always know with him.”

Reggie lowered his voice. “You’ll get to tell him everything, Aria. Just hold on. He’s strong. You know that better than anyone.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, trying to push down the quake in her chest. “I should’ve told him. This morning, when he said we’d have kids...I should’ve said something.”

“You’ll have another morning,” Reggie said. “He’s not done fighting yet.”

_

The hallway outside the trauma bay was lined with silence, the kind of silence that suffocates hope slowly, deliberately. Aria sat forward on a plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers laced tightly together. She hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. Her eyes were fixed on the swinging doors where the surgeon had disappeared hours ago.

Reggie stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her.

Then the doors opened.

The surgeon stepped out. His face was drawn. Pale. He pulled down his mask slowly.

Aria stood. Her heart dropped into her stomach, a cold dread rising up her spine.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t have to.

Aria’s voice cracked. “No…”

The surgeon cleared his throat. “We tried everything. We did. But the damage was too extensive. The bleeding.. we couldn’t stop it.”

“No,” she whispered, backing up slightly as if the truth might be outrun. “No, no, you said he was stable. You said he made it—”

“He arrested twice during surgery,” the doctor said softly. “We brought him back once. The second time… I’m so sorry.”

The floor didn’t fall away. It didn’t need to.

Aria was already shattering.

Reggie moved to hold her, but she shook him off, covering her mouth with one trembling hand. The tears came like an ambush, swift and disorienting.

Her knees hit the floor.

It was cold. Too cold. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in the sterile, tiled silence. A single metal table sat in the centre of the room beneath a surgical lamp, and on it, covered with a sheet, was Bryson.

Aria stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping in.

Her boots echoed against the floor. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.

The technician gave her a gentle look. “Take all the time you need.”

And then she was alone.

She approached the table slowly, her hands clenched at her sides until they trembled. She reached for the edge of the sheet.

Her breath caught as she peeled it back.

There he was.

Bryson looked… still. Too still. His skin was pale, his lips tinged blue, but his face—his face was the same. Brown hair tousled like he might wake up at any second, hazel eyes closed gently as if he were dreaming of that morning. Of her.

She reached out and touched his cheek. It was ice.

She crumbled.

“Hey,” she whispered, kneeling beside him, her forehead pressing to his arm. “Hey. I’m here bubs. I’m right here, okay? I—I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.”

Her voice cracked. Her fingers curled around his.

“You weren’t supposed to die today. You were supposed to be annoying me for another forty years, and leaving your socks everywhere, and waking me up way too early just to talk about baby names and coffee machines.”

A sob clawed its way out of her throat.

“I didn’t tell you. I didn’t get to tell you…”

Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach. “I found out earlier. I didn’t even check the test before Ophelia came in. But I knew. I knew before I took it.”

Tears slid down her cheeks and onto the edge of the sheet.

“You were right, Bryson,” she whispered. “We were building something. You were already a father, and you didn’t even know it.”

She bent down and kissed his forehead—cold, still, final.

“I’ll tell them about you,” she whispered. “They’ll know you. Every day. They'll know their pa' they will know. I swear, Ill teach them to make gelato.. and take them to the aquarium ”

Her tears hit the metal table as she rested her hand on his one last time. Then she stood, slowly, wiping her face even though the tears kept falling.

She walked out of the morgue alone, but not empty.

Because part of him was still with her.

_

Sunlight filtered in through the kitchen window, casting soft golden patterns across the floor where tiny socked feet danced clumsily on worn tile. The radio played something low and jazzy, and the smell of pancakes drifted warmly through the house.

Aria stood at the stove in an oversized FBI Academy sweatshirt, hair tied in a loose bun. She flipped a pancake with one hand while her other rested absentmindedly on her hip.

Behind her, her daughter sat on the floor in the living room surrounded by crayons and half-finished drawings, her toy puppy tucked under one arm and her favourite stuffed bunny in the other. She was three and already clever, full of questions and opinions and enough stubbornness to rival both of her parents.

She’d inherited Aria’s cheekbones and Bryson’s hazel eyes — wide and wondering, always watching.

“Mama?” she piped up, not looking away from her drawing. “Who the man in the piture?”

Aria paused mid-motion, her heart catching.

She turned slowly to see the toddler pointing toward the framed photo that had sat on the bookshelf since before she was born. The one of Aria and Bryson, his arm slung around her, both of them smiling in a way they hadn’t since.

She walked over quietly and knelt beside her daughter.

The little girl looked up at her with the same eyes Aria had once kissed goodnight in a hospital morgue.

“That,” Aria said softly, “is your daddy.”

She blinked. “My daddy das in da stars?”

Aria nodded.

Her daughter frowned thoughtfully, the same way Bryson once did, then looked back at the photo. “He wooks nice.”

Aria let out a laugh that came out watery and cracked. “He was. The nicest. And funny. He used to make these silly faces when I was mad until I wasn’t mad anymore.”

“Did he like pan'akes?”

“He loved pancakes,” Aria said, smiling gently. “But he wasn’t very good at making them. They always turned out a little burnt.”

The toddler giggled. “Like 'ou yes'erday.”

Aria gasped. “I take offense to that.”

The girl snorted and pressed her face against Aria’s shoulder. “I wish he wah 'ere.”

The words were so soft, so innocent, that they knocked the air from Aria’s lungs.

She held her daughter tighter, her hand curling protectively around her back.

“Me too, baby,” she whispered. “Every single day.”

They sat like that for a moment, still and folded into each other.

“I used to talk to you about him, when you were in my tummy,” Aria said quietly. “I told you everything I could, about how brave he was. How he made people feel safe. He saved people. And he loved you before you were even born.”

“Did he holds me?”

Aria smiled through her tears. “No, sweetheart. But he held the idea of you. Every night. Every dream. And I held you for both of us.”

The little girl looked back at the photo, thoughtful.

“Can I have that one in my room?”

Aria kissed the crown of her daughter’s head. “Yeah. I think he’d like that.”

The soft hum of a lullaby played from the corner of the room, coming from a tiny white noise machine shaped like a bunny. The room glowed with the golden warmth of a nightlight tucked behind a curtain of fairy lights strung above the toddler bed. Crayon-drawn stars and flowers were taped across the walls. On her nightstand, in a small wooden frame painted with little yellow stickers, sat a photo of Bryson — grinning, alive, his arm wrapped around Aria, frozen in a moment that had lived long before their daughter ever opened her eyes.

Aria stood by the bed with her daughter nestled beneath a lavender blanket, her cheeks flushed with sleepiness, hair tousled and curling at the edges. Her stuffed animals were arranged around her like tiny sentries — Bunny, Puppy, Dinosaur, and the newest one: Detective Bear.

“Alright,” Aria whispered, tucking the blanket beneath her daughter’s chin. “Time to say goodnight.”

The toddler yawned and nodded, rubbing her eyes.

She reached out toward Bunny first, patting its head. “G'night, Bunny.”

Then to the floppy little puppy. “G'night, Puppy. No barkin' tonigh, otay?”

She reached for her toy dinosaur that Florence gave her, pulling it closer into her arms. “G'night, Roary. No stompin' in your sleep.”

Aria smiled, watching the little ritual unfold as it did every night. But tonight, she paused before turning to the nightstand.

Her eyes lingered on the photo of Bryson — on him.

She reached out with her small hand, brushing two fingers softly against the glass.

“G'night, Daddy.I wuv 'ou”

Aria’s breath hitched.

The girl looked up at her after, blinking sleepily. “Do 'ou think he hear me?”

Aria knelt down beside the bed, cupping her daughters cheek gently. “I think he will hear you every time, baby.”

The toddler smiled, her eyes fluttering closed as she snuggled deeper into the covers. “I think he watch me from the stars. Like da moon”

Aria pressed a kiss to her forehead. “He watches you from the brightest one.”

She stayed there for a moment longer, fingers brushing back the hair from the girls face, heart full and breaking all at once. The kind of ache that never went away — only softened when the girl smiled, when she said Daddy like it belonged to her, as if the world hadn’t stolen anything at all.

Aria stood and turned off the last light, the stars on the ceiling beginning to glow above them.

From the doorway, she whispered, “Goodnight, baby girl.”

And quieter still, her voice barely more than breath—

“Goodnight, Bryson. I love you bub.”

[brysongallo]

please don't leave me.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp, hesitant—like it didn’t want to be heard but needed to be. Bryson set down the book in his hands and crossed the room, brow furrowed. When he opened the door, his breath caught.

Aria stood there, soaked in moonlight and shadows, arms limp at her sides. She was trembling—not from the cold, but from something deeper, something buried and breaking. Tears shimmered in her eyes, not yet fallen, as if waiting for permission. Her lips parted, unsure. Bryson’s heart clenched.

“Aria?” he said, more a breath than a question.

She nodded stiffly and rushed her words, fumbling over them like they hurt to say. “Yeah—yeah, I’m home. I just—I didn’t tell you I was home the other night when you asked me to. And then I left again for the case, and I know that was shitty. I thought I should tell you now. That I’m here.”

Bryson stared at her, his mouth ajar. His voice was soft when it came. “Come in… it’s freezing.”

Aria stepped inside. The apartment smelled of new paint and quiet. Everything was white and unfamiliar, except for her. Bryson watched her closely. Her hair was pulled into a tired bun, her eyes ringed in red, dark circles underneath. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days—and didn’t know how to start again. She looked scared.

“Aria,” he said, voice low, careful. “Can I be completely honest with you right now? And you have to actually listen.”

She gulped and nodded, her posture rigid.

He exhaled. “You’re standing in front of me, shaking like you might fall apart if I so much as touch you. And I’m glad you’re here—I’ve missed you—but something’s wrong. Really wrong. You’ve got this storm in your chest and I can see it. If you don’t let it out, it’s going to destroy you. Maybe not today, but soon. So please. Just talk to me.”

Her arms crossed, a barrier born of fear. “Why are you talking to me like you know me so well?”

Bryson leaned against the counter, jaw tight. “Because I don’t. And I want to. And I think that terrifies you. Maybe that’s why you won’t let me in. But I’ll wait. I’ve been patient, and I’ll keep being patient. But you can’t keep shutting me out.”

Her lip quivered—so subtly no one else might have seen it. But Bryson did. He saw everything about her.

“It doesn’t terrify me,” she said, bitterly. “It’s because I know what’s real. What’s fact and what’s fiction. You don’t know me, Bryson. You think you want to, but you don’t. Not really. You don’t like messy.”

Bryson stood straighter, not threatening, just solid. “Don’t tell me what I want. It does terrify you—you told me it did, remember? That night I said how I felt. You froze. You pull back when things get too close, and then act like that distance is safety. But I see you, Aria. I always see you. And yes, seeing you like this, after that case, out there on your own, scares me too. Because you scare me. Because I care.”

That cracked something in her. The tears came, spilling as she began to hit his chest with small, exhausted fists.

“Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking you understand, for standing there like it’s easy. Like you can just see me and that makes it okay. You don’t get to break me open and pretend it’s noble. I hate this—I hate feeling whatever the hell it is you make me feel. I hate the way you look at me like I’m someone worth fixing, when I’m not. I’m not anything. You’re chasing a ghost, Bryson. And you don’t even know it. You’ll see the worst eventually—and then you’ll go.”

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just watched her fall apart, and stayed.

“Fuck me?” he said softly. “Fuck you, Aria. You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You carry so much—like the whole damn world is yours to bear. But there are other worlds. Other weights. Maybe I am chasing a ghost. Maybe you think you’re beyond saving. But I don’t. I see something else in you, something real. You hate what you feel because it’s unfamiliar. And yeah, I hate it too, sometimes. But I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of you.”

She crumbled fully then, the fight leaving her body as the sobs took over. Her voice cracked as she spoke, quieter now, raw.

“You deserve better. Someone who isn’t like this. Someone who doesn’t show up wrecked and uninvited. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came. I don’t know how to do this. I ruin things—I always ruin things. The one person who was supposed to love me told me so.”

A hollow laugh left her lips as she dropped her head into her hands. “I feel insane. I just… I want— I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Bryson moved toward her slowly, gently taking her hands from her face. He cradled her cheeks, his thumbs grazing the wetness beneath her eyes.

“A big, giant, fuck-you to your mother,” he whispered. “You don’t ruin anything. You never have. The room lights up when you walk in. You’re not insane. You’re overwhelmed. You’re hurting. But I’m here. So tell me, Aria. What do you want? Because I swear to god, if I can give it to you—I will.”

Her hands slid over his, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

“I just—I need to know something is real right now. I need to feel something that’s not falling apart. I want you to hold me. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to fix anything. I just want to feel something real.”

Bryson’s heart broke at the fragility in her voice.

“Then that’s what I’ll give you,” he said, gently. “Come on. My bed’s comfortable.”

She hesitated. “Your—I didn’t bring anything. I just… came.”

He smiled softly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “You can wear one of my sweatshirts. Or Bianca has some clothes here too.”

He thought he caught the ghost of a smile. She shrugged, looking down.

“You have a cozy sweatshirt, I suppose.”

“I do,” he said. “Pick whichever one you like. What’s mine is yours.”

He started to step away. “I’ll make you some tea whil—”

Her hand gripped his arm, small and desperate. “Don’t leave. Please. No tea.”

He nodded without hesitation and took her hand, leading her to his bedroom.

Later, she curled up in one of his hoodies, the sleeves covering her hands, her body fitting against his like it belonged there. One arm draped over his waist, the other tucked beneath her chin. Bryson lay beside her, fingers tangled in her hair, playing with the strands absently.

They talked quietly about nonsense—rugs and wall colors and lamps. Anything but the storm. And slowly, softly, Aria drifted off against him. Bryson didn’t dare move. Every so often, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent vow.

He was still here. He would always be here.

[brysongallo]

we are free

It had been at least two weeks. Two weeks of starvation, isolation, and a kind of torment that didn’t just bruise skin — it broke something deeper.

Bryson knew the only way out of that basement was through Leonardo’s death. He hadn’t told Aria. He couldn’t. She’d try to stop him, try to save him, when there was nothing left inside him to save. He’d died a long time ago — when he was seven, curled up in the corner of this very room, his mother lying motionless beside him, her blood soaking through his shirt.

Since then, he’d lived in fear. Until now. Now, it was going to end — for Aria, if not for himself.

He looked at her. She was shivering, pale, barely holding on. A tear slipped down her cheek. He shifted closer, voice low and firm, laced with quiet promise. “I’m gonna get you out of here. I swear to you.” Her nod was weak, but it was enough.

He’d been working the chain for days, grinding through metal and pain until he could finally slide his hand free. All he needed was one chance.

The stairs creaked. That familiar off-key humming drifted into the basement like poison. Leonardo. Bryson’s heart slowed. His mind sharpened.

Leonardo entered, tray in hand, careless as always. He glanced at Aria — weak, barely awake — then moved toward Bryson, wearing that twisted smile.

Bryson curled forward, groaning. “Papa… help me…” he whispered, each word tasting like acid. Leonardo chuckled, crouching close. “Still my boy,” he said, mockingly.

That was all Bryson needed.

As Leonardo leaned in, Bryson leaned in and bit his ear. He bit a chunk off, spitting it to the side with a sickening crunch. When Leonardo screeched in pain, Bryson hit him square in the face with the chains, the metal links wrapping around his father's head like a deadly noose. This only angered Leonardo more, as he pounced on Bryson, his fists flying in a flurry of punches and kicks. Bryson screeched out in agony, but continued on, fueled by his rage. Leonardo tried to reach for Aria, who was paralysed out in shock, but before he was able to move, Bryson was choking him with the chains, the metal digging into his throat like a vice.

Leonardo eventually managed to break free from the choke hold, throwing Bryson into the wall with a loud thud, the chains coming with him. He groaned, spitting out some blood that had accumulated in his mouth. Leonardo tried to crawl towards the open door, but Bryson was relentless, pulling him back and slamming him to the ground. At this point, he was covered in bruises and blood, his face a mess of cuts and welts. Aria watched in horror, her body frozen in place, unable to move or intervene.

Bryson got Leonardo on the ground, punching him across the face with a vicious intensity. When he laughed, his eyes locked onto Leonardo's, and he spat out a cruel phrase

 "You're just like me, son."

 That's when Bryson snapped, his anger boiling over. He landed another punch, this time with the chain, the metal links wrapping around Leonardo's head once more. "You've ruined my life!" he screamed, his voice hoarse from the blood in his throat. "You took my mama!" Another punch followed, and another, each blow landing with a sickening crunch

"You stole my childhood!" 

he yelled, throwing Leonardo to the ground again.

 "You made me live in fear! I can't sleep! I can't live! You ruined my life!"

At this point, if Bryson got up and left now, Leonardo would bleed to death, but that was not enough for him. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood that dripped from his nose and mouth.

 "You've ruined my life, I can't have normal relationships because as soon as I try to be happy, you kidnap the girl!"

 he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "I can't have a family!"

 Another punch landed, and another, each blow a declaration of his pain and suffering. Leonardo's face caved in, his eyes swelling shut, but Bryson didn't stop. Aria was now trying to get to them, tears streaming down her own face as she watched the brutal scene unfold. "Bryson, stop! Stop, please!" she sobbed, her voice cracking with despair.

But Bryson didn't stop, his rage and pain driving him on. He punched Leonardo again and again, the sound of his blows echoing through the room like a macabre drumbeat. Leonardo's body began to go limp, his movements slowing as the life drained from him. Aria's screams grew louder, her voice hoarse from the effort, but Bryson didn't hear her. He was lost in his own world of pain and anger, fueled by the memories of his past. “Bryson hes dead! Please stop!” Aria sobbed falling to the ground.

Finally, Leonardo's body went still, his face a grotesque, battered mess. Bryson stopped punching, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his eyes red and puffy from the tears. He looked up at Aria, seeing the girl's eyes wide with fear and horror, her face covered in dirt, blood, and tears, with a cut on her eyebrow and her lips bloody from biting on them. She looked smaller in his zip-up hoodie, her small frame trembling with fear. He stared back at her, his own eyes filled with a mix of pain and relief. "We are free," he whispered, his voice trembling as he undid her chains. She looked up at him, her gaze unblinking, as if she couldn't believe what had just happened.

The scene was eerily similar to how Bianca had found Bryson all those years ago, laying in a pool of his mother's blood, except now it was his father's blood, and he was the cause. Bryson's hands were trembling as he looked at Aria, his fingers trembling as he undid the chains that had bound her. He pulled her close, holding her tightly as the weight of what he had done began to sink in. The sound of her sobs filled the room, a haunting echo of the pain and suffering they had endured.

The air was thick with the scent of rust and rot, but for the first time in weeks, there was something else cutting through it—hope.

Bryson stood at the base of the stairs, barely upright, one arm looped tightly around Aria's waist to keep her steady, the other bracing against the wall for balance. Their bodies were wrecked—bruises bloomed across their skin like ink in water, blood crusted on their clothes, and every step sent pain screaming through their bones. But they were alive.

And they were leaving.

The basement door hung ajar above them, light spilling down like a sliver of heaven. It was soft and golden, the kind of light that almost looked too gentle to be real. Dust floated in it like ash. For so long, that door had been the barrier between nightmare and freedom. Now, it was open. Waiting.

Bryson took the first step.

It groaned under his weight, loud in the silence. He froze, heart pounding, half-expecting to hear the clink of chains, the scream of his father, the slam of the door—but there was nothing. Just silence. Real silence. The kind that doesn’t hide danger. Just the creak of wood and the sound of Aria’s breath, shaky and shallow.

Aria clutched his hoodie tighter, her fingers barely able to grip. Her legs were trembling under her, but she didn’t let go. She was with him. Step by step.

One stair. Then another.

Their breathing was ragged, every muscle begging them to stop, to lie down, to rest—but they knew if they stopped now, they might never move again.

Halfway up, Bryson faltered. His knee buckled, and he caught the wall, a sharp cry escaping him. Aria held him back, whispering through cracked lips, “We’re almost there. Just a little more.”

He nodded, swallowing the pain, the memory, the fear. Together, they pushed forward.

Step. Step. Step.

And then they reached the top.

Bryson’s hand hovered in the air for a second, shaking, before he pushed the basement door all the way open. The hinges screamed, but it didn’t matter. The air that hit them was cold and clean, and the light—it wasn’t a trick. It was real. They stepped into it.

The world above had moved on without them. The hallway was quiet, untouched, like the house hadn’t been hiding a hell beneath its floorboards. But everything felt different. Too open. Too bright. Bryson squinted, shielding his eyes, blinking back tears. Aria leaned into him, breathing in deep like she’d forgotten what fresh air even smelled like.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say in that moment. Their bodies spoke for them—leaning into each other, barely holding it together, but together nonetheless.

They were out.

Free.

And though the road ahead was long, and healing would not be easy—this moment, this first step into the world again, was theirs. Earned with blood, with pain, with everything they had left to give.

They had made it.

Alive.

And no one—no one—could take that from them now.

[brysongallo]

i dont know how to love people.

The basement was silent, except for the faint hum of the old generator and the constant, nerve-grating drip of a pipe above Aria’s head.

She sat strapped into the electric chair — again. Her body was trembling, not just from the cold, but from the aftershocks of the last time. Her shirt clung to her with sweat and blood, her hair matted, face pale and hollow.

Across the room, Bryson was chained to the rusted pipe along the wall. His mouth was torn up from yelling too much, his voice gone raw, his wrists bruised and bloodied from trying to tear himself free.

His father stood by the switch, watching her with that same calm, unreadable look that made her skin crawl. Like a scientist testing lab rats. No joy. No rage. Just calculation.

“Tell him,” he said, voice like gravel. “Or I flip the switch again. And this time, it won’t be a second or two. I’ll leave it on until smoke comes out of her ears.”

Bryson pulled at the chains again. “Stop! Please, you don't have to do this! You’re insane!”

The man didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on Aria.

“You know what I want, girl. Tell him the truth. Something real. Something raw. You say you care about him? Then prove it. Otherwise…” He flipped the breaker halfway — a small warning shock hissed through the wires.

Aria cried out, her body jolting in the chair. Tears streamed down her face, not from the pain — not just the pain — but the terror. The humiliation. The rage.

“Aria!” Bryson’s voice cracked, desperate. “Don’t—don’t let him win—”

But she knew. She didn’t have a choice.

She looked at him, breathing like she’d just run a marathon, heart pounding against the inside of her chest like it was trying to escape. Her lips were trembling, bloodied from biting them shut too long.

“I can’t…” she whispered.

Bryson shook his head. “You can. Whatever it is — just say it. Please, Aria. Please.”

She stared at him like she was looking off the edge of a cliff.

Then her voice cracked open.

“I don’t know how to love people.”

The words came out hollow and flat, like a confession wrung out of her soul.

“I pretend like I do. I pretend like it’s easy, like I’m normal. But I’m not. I push everyone away. I ghost people. I ruin shit before it can get too close. Because if I let people in, they leave. Or they die. Or they change their mind and look at me like I’m broken.”

Her jaw clenched. She couldn’t stop now. Not if she wanted to live.

“I’ve been this way since I was a kid. Since my mom walked out. Since I had to learn how to soothe my own panic attacks because no one else gave a shit. I’m cold. I’m guarded. I joke when I should cry. I shut down when I should open up. And I’ve never told anyone that. Not my friends. Not even Emily. No one.”

Her eyes found Bryson’s, dark and wild and locked onto her like he was drowning.

“And I like you,” she said, voice shaking. “I’ve liked you for so long it physically hurts. But I never said anything because I knew I’d fuck it up. I always do.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. The chair creaked beneath her. She felt like she’d been carved open, heart bleeding out into the room.

Then—click.

The switch was lowered back into place.

No electricity.

Just silence.

His father stepped away from the panel, a small, twisted smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“Now that’s more honest,” he muttered, before disappearing into the shadows.

Bryson didn’t speak for a long time.

He couldn’t.

He just stared at her, wrecked and wide-eyed, his chains clinking softly as he strained to move closer.

“Aria,” he finally said, voice barely a whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

—

The basement was quieter now.

Not peaceful — never peaceful — but still.

The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, casting a dull, flickering glow over the concrete floor. Aria was no longer strapped into the chair. Bryson had managed to work her out of the restraints with trembling hands once his father vanished deeper into the underground labyrinth. Her body was crumpled against the floor now, her back propped against the wall, her face pale and drenched in sweat.

Bryson knelt beside her, knees raw against the stone, his hands hovering helplessly. He wanted to pull her into him, to hold her, to take it all away — but she looked like she might break if he even breathed too hard.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Still here?”

He nodded. “Still here.”

She gave a breathless, bitter little smile. “Thought maybe you'd run. After everything I said.”

“I should’ve said something sooner,” he said, voice soft and uneven. “Back when things were… normal.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Normal. I barely remember what that felt like.”

He looked at her for a long time.

Then he spoke, low and steady.

“I don’t care that you’re guarded. Or that you shut down, or push people away. I’ve seen you scared, I’ve seen you pissed off, I’ve seen you bleeding, Aria — and none of it made me want to leave.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“I meant what I said in that chair,” she whispered. “Every word.”

“I know. And it wasn’t too much. It wasn’t too late.” He leaned in, just enough for her to see the crack in his own armor. “I like you, too. More than like, if I’m honest. I think I have for a while.”

She blinked. “Then why didn’t you—?”

“Because I thought I’d mess it up,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “Because you were always so hard to read, and I didn’t want to scare you off. I didn’t want to be another person who pushed too hard.”

Her bottom lip trembled. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

So Bryson closed the last inch between them and took her hand, gently, like she was made of glass.

“I’m not afraid of your damage,” he said. “I just want the chance to love you through it.”

Aria stared at him, wide-eyed and raw.

And for the first time since they’d been dragged into this hell — she let herself believe she might actually survive it.

[brysongallo]

he has them both.

Bianca Gallo sat stiffly on Bryson’s couch, her back straight despite the fatigue gnawing at her spine. The digital clock on the wall blinked 6:30 AM in harsh red digits. Jet lag clung to her like a second skin, pulling at her thoughts, but she hadn't slept—not even for a moment. Instead, she’d spent the early hours curled up in a blanket, thumbing through a novel she hadn’t really read, waiting for her baby brother to wake up.

Then her phone rang. Sharp. Jarring. Like a scream in the silence.

She snatched it up without hesitation. “Hello? Who is this?” Her voice cracked slightly, dry from disuse.

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then—a knock at the door.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze darted toward the entrance. Her chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to run. With trembling hands, she stood, feet leaden as she crossed the room. To the left of the door—Bryson’s glasses. Neatly folded. Beneath them, a slip of paper with an address scrawled across it.

Fuck.

Her pulse spiked as she bolted for his bedroom. The bed was untouched. Empty. The window—open. Curtains fluttered in the breeze like fingers beckoning her toward something awful.

Double fuck.

She barely had time to think. Shoes jammed on, pajamas still clinging to her, she was already out the door, thumbing a cab with shaking hands and dread blooming in her chest like black mold.

Across the city, Emily Prentiss jolted awake to the shrill ring of her phone. She blinked against the dark, heart already pounding. She didn’t even think before answering.

“This is Agent Prentiss. Who is this?”

Again—nothing. Just silence. Cold and absolute.

Then—a knock.

She moved before she could process, Glock already in hand, navigating through shadows toward the door. She swung it open.

No one.

Only a soft bundle left on the ground—Aria’s blankie. Her baby sisters most treasured thing, now stained slightly at the edges by time. A note attached, barely fluttering in the breeze.

An address.

Fuck.

Emily didn’t stop to think. Keys. Jacket. She was in the car, tires squealing as she sped into the pre-dawn dark.

The address led to a desolate parking lot, still and eerie in the morning gloom. Streetlights flickered weakly overhead. As Emily pulled in, her headlights caught on a figure pacing frantically, a slip of paper clenched in her hands. The woman was younger than Emily, muttering in frantic Italian, voice trembling and incoherent.

When she spotted Emily’s car, she ran straight for it.

“Bryson? Bryson—do you have Bryson? Where is he?”

It clicked. Emily’s heart dropped into her stomach.

Something had happened to them. Both of them.

She unlocked the door. “SSA Emily Prentiss. Ari’s sister… you must be Bianca. Please, get in—it’s freezing.”

Bianca slid into the seat, lips trembling, her expression shifting as understanding began to crash down in waves.

Emily didn’t speak again. Just turned the car toward the BAU.

At the BAU, Ophelia sat alone, the first in as usual. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the soft steam curling from her coffee—everything about the morning felt normal. Safe. She took a sip and opened her laptop, mentally preparing for the day.

Then—a commotion.

Two women burst through the glass doors.

One was Emily.

The other—strangely familiar. Eyes sharp and brown like Bryson’s, the same slope of the nose, the same heavy bangs that framed her face.

Bianca.

Ophelia’s heart skipped, then thudded—hard. A pressure began to build in her chest, each breath shallower than the last. Something was wrong. The way they moved, the panic in their eyes—raw, unfiltered dread.

Ophelia stood slowly, her mug forgotten. She walked toward the round table room, feet dragging as if through molasses. Emily and Bianca stood inside, mid-conversation.

She entered just in time to hear Bianca whisper, voice flat and broken:

“My father took them. He’s a serial killer.”

The words hit Ophelia like a punch to the chest.

Her vision narrowed.

The world suddenly tilted.

And all she could think was—

No. No. No.

[brysongallo]

you dont scare me.

Bryson leaned back against the wall, dragging in a shaky breath. The cold of the cement seeped through his shirt, but he welcomed it—it kept him grounded, kept him from slipping into panic.

“We need to think,” he said, more to himself than Aria. “There’s always a way. There has to be.”

Aria shifted onto her knees, wincing as the metal bit into her skin. Her gaze roamed the room, flicking from the door to the corners, to the shadows lurking just beyond the reach of the flickering light.

“I don’t suppose your dad got less psychotic over the years?” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

Bryson gave a bitter laugh. “No. If anything, he’s perfected the art of breaking people.”

Aria swallowed hard. “Cool. Awesome. That’s comforting.”

They lapsed into silence again, each of them scanning for anything—anything—that could be used. A loose bolt, a rusted pipe, even a splintered piece of wood. But the room was barren, deliberately so. Leonardo hadn’t just trapped them—he’d prepared for them.

“He’s watching us,” Bryson muttered, eyes narrowing on the ceiling. “He always watches.”

Aria followed his gaze and spotted the small black eye of a camera nestled in one corner, barely visible in the dim light. The red light pulsed faintly.

“Let him watch,” she said, voice low but steady. “He wants to see us panic. We’re not giving him that.”

Bryson looked at her, really looked at her—for the first time since waking up. Her hair was matted, there was a cut above her eyebrow that had dried dark red, and her wrists were already raw. But her eyes burned. Defiant. Sharp. Alive.

It lit something in him. A spark. The same one that had drawn him to her in the first place.

“We’ll make a plan,” she said. “You’ve been here before. You know this place.”

“I was a kid,” he said. “He didn’t let me see much. But I remember sounds. Patterns.”

“Then we listen,” she said, determination setting her jaw. “And we wait. We’re not dying down here.”

A creak echoed above them—floorboards groaning under someone’s weight.

Both of them froze, heads tilted upward. Heavy boots. Slow steps. Closer.

Aria’s hand instinctively reached for Bryson’s. He moved closer to her, their chains clinking faintly.

“Stay close,” he whispered. “Whatever happens… don’t let him see you’re afraid.”

The footsteps stopped. A heavy bolt slid open above them. The door groaned on its hinges as it began to open.

Light spilled down the staircase, casting long shadows across the basement floor.

And then the silhouette appeared. Broad-shouldered. Tall. Still as death.

Leonardo.

A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth—slow, serpentine.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth and amused, “isn’t this touching?”

Bryson stood, chains rattling as he did.

“Let her go.”

Leonardo tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think you’re in a position to make demands, son?”

Bryson didn’t flinch. “You wanted my attention. You’ve got it. You don’t need her.”

Leonardo descended the stairs one step at a time, deliberately slow, enjoying every heartbeat of tension.

“Oh, but I do,” he said. “Because she’s the one thing you care about. And that makes her… fun.”

He stopped at the bottom, just a few feet from them. His eyes locked onto Aria, and for a second, just a second, Bryson saw red.

“I swear to god—” Bryson started.

But Aria cut in, voice cold as ice. “You don’t scare me.”

Leonardo blinked. Then he smiled wider.

“We’ll see about that.”

Leonardo circled them like a predator sizing up prey, hands clasped behind his back, gaze flicking between Bryson and Aria with casual amusement.

“You know,” he began, voice calm and eerily pleasant, “I always found it fascinating… what people will do when you strip away comfort. When you take away light, hope, time. You see the truth of them.”

He stopped beside the old mattress, nudging it with his boot.

“Down here,” he gestured, “people stop pretending. They get honest. And honesty, well—that’s where the fun begins.”

Bryson clenched his fists, the chains biting tighter.

Leonardo crouched beside Aria, too close for comfort, his eyes studying her like a specimen under glass.

“I’ve watched you for a while now, Aria,” he said. “You’re clever. Strong. I imagine that’s what drew him to you.” He glanced toward Bryson. “He never did inherit my taste in… well, anything. But I’ll admit—he has good instincts.”

Aria didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him, hatred carved into every inch of her face.

Leonardo smiled again, standing.

“Here’s how this works,” he said, pacing toward a control panel set into the wall. “Every day, I’ll ask one question. Just one. If you answer honestly, I’ll reward you. A blanket. A real meal. Maybe even a key.” He turned slightly, grinning over his shoulder. “If you lie—or refuse—you lose something. Water. Light. Time.”

Bryson’s stomach turned.

“You sick bastard—”

Leonardo raised a finger. “Ah-ah. That’s strike one, Bryson. You’re supposed to listen. You don’t want to earn three.”

He pressed a button on the panel. A small, mechanical clunk echoed through the room. A second later, a hatch in the far wall slid open, revealing a narrow passage and what looked like… a steel chair bolted to the floor.

Straps. Electrodes. A rusted tray of tools.

Leonardo gestured to it like a game show host. “The Confession Booth. One of you will visit it each day. Just for a chat. We’ll keep it civil—at first.”

Aria’s breath caught.

Bryson stepped forward without hesitation. “Take me.”

Leonardo arched a brow. “You volunteering? On the first day? How noble.”

“I said take me.” Bryson’s voice was stone.

Leonardo tilted his head, then gave a mock bow. “As you wish.”

Leonardo undid Brysons chains pushing him towards the chair.

He didn’t resist. His eyes never left Aria’s.

“Bryson—” she started, but he was already gone, dragged into the  chair. He was chained down with leather, metal cage over his chest with a final, echoing clang.

Leonardo walked back to Aria. “Now that he’s gone, maybe we can have a real conversation.”

He crouched again, eyes gleaming.

“Let’s start simple. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Aria didn’t flinch as Leonardo crouched again, his face now inches from hers. His breath was stale, laced with the metallic scent of old blood and cigarettes.

“You don’t want to play this game with me,” she said flatly.

Leonardo chuckled, low and amused. “On the contrary, I’ve been dying to see what makes you tick.”

He reached out slowly, deliberately, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. She jerked her head away.

“That’s good,” he murmured. “Fight. It’s always more interesting when they fight.”

Aria’s jaw tightened. “You said you wanted honesty? Fine. You’re pathetic. You think this little dungeon makes you powerful, but all it does is prove how weak you are. You can’t control the world up there, so you play god down here.”

Leonardo’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of something passed through his eyes. Not anger—interest.

“You know what I like about you?” he said softly. “You pretend not to be scared. You pretend you're in control. But underneath all that fire, you’re trembling. Your heart’s pounding. I can see it.”

“Good,” she shot back. “That means I’m alive.”

Leonardo stood, slow and theatrical. “For now.”

He began to circle her again, hands clasped behind his back.

“You know, I’ve seen it all,” he continued, voice almost nostalgic. “The silent ones. The screamers. The ones who beg. They all break eventually. Time eats away at them. One day they’re themselves, the next, they’ll do anything for a sip of water or a minute of light.”

Aria’s voice was like steel. “I’m not them.”

Leonardo stopped. “You will be.”

He stared down at her for a long moment, then tapped his fingers together, as if making a mental note.

“We’ll give you some time to think. Tomorrow, you go in the chair.”

He turned toward the chair where bryson sat, but paused at the start of the hall.

“Oh, and Aria?” he called without looking back. “If you survive this—and that’s a very big if—you should ask Bryson what he did down here. What he really did.”

Then he was gone. The door to the hall shut.

Aria sat frozen, her breath shallow. She replayed his words, his tone, the last thing he said.

What he really did.

She shook her head hard, trying to chase the seed of doubt he’d planted—but it was already there, festering.

She pressed her back against the wall and closed her eyes, listening for any sound beyond the silence.

Time passed strangely in the basement. Minutes stretched into hours, or maybe hours collapsed into minutes. It was impossible to tell. There were no windows, no clocks—just the flicker of that failing light and the oppressive silence pressing in on all sides.

Aria sat against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, her fingers tracing the edges of the cold, iron cuffs around her wrists. Her skin throbbed beneath them, rubbed raw. But the ache was nothing compared to the knot twisting tighter and tighter in her chest.

She hadn’t heard a sound since Bryson disappeared into that passage.

Until now.

A soft click came from the wall across from her. A panel– the small hall opened again and sat in the middle– Bryson.

Strapped into the steel chair. Arms bound, chest bare, electrodes clinging to his skin like leeches. His head was tilted down, dark hair hiding most of his face. He looked… still. But not broken. Not yet.

Leonardo stepped into view beside him, smiling faintly at her like this was some kind of performance.

"Good evening, Aria," he said, as if hosting a dinner party. "Thought you'd want a front-row seat."

Aria surged forward, only to be yanked back by the short length of her chains. "You bastard—"

"Shhh," Leonardo cooed, raising a finger. 

He turned back to Bryson, walking a slow, deliberate circle around him.

“I’ll start easy,” Leonardo said. “What was her name? The first one.”

Bryson lifted his head slightly. “Go to hell.”

Leonardo chuckled, tapping a metal rod lightly against the chair’s arm.

“We’re already there, son.”

He pressed a button.

Bryson’s body jolted, sharp and sudden, as the current surged through the wires. His teeth clenched, jaw locking as his muscles spasmed.

Aria gasped, hands flying to her mouth. She wanted to look away—but she couldn’t. Every part of her screamed to move, to break the chains, to do something—but there was nothing.

Bryson sagged forward, breathing hard.

“I’ll ask again,” Leonardo said, voice still maddeningly calm. “The first one. The first person you left down here.”

Aria froze. Left?

[brysongallo]

aria.. aria im so sorry.

Bryson's eyes fluttered open, his head pounding and vision swimming in a haze of drowsiness. Instinctively, he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes—but his hands wouldn’t move. Cold metal dug into his wrists. Chains.

Fuck.

He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus. The dim light flickered above him like a dying heartbeat, casting eerie shadows across the room. That’s when he saw her.

Aria.

She was lying on her side just a few feet away, her body curled tightly into itself, wrists bound the same way his were. Her breathing was shallow, her limbs unmoving—either unconscious or too far gone to register her surroundings.

Bryson pushed himself into a sitting position, his arms heavy, movements sluggish. A creeping dread settled into his bones as he scanned the room. It was all too familiar.

The cracked cement floor. The rusted iron door, now scarred with scratch marks and what looked like etched tally marks—scores left behind by others who had once been trapped here, counting down the days– victims.

A single mattress lay abandoned in the corner, stained with god knows what, the stench of mildew and old blood lingering in the air. A crude makeshift toilet sat nearby, complete with a roll of tissue resting on a cinder block.

This was his father’s basement.

The memory came crashing down like a tidal wave—he had been here before. He was seven the first time Leonardo dragged him into this hellhole. And nothing had changed. Not even the pile of bones still haphazardly stacked in the corner.

A low, broken whimper cut through the silence.

Bryson's head snapped toward Aria, who stirred slightly, her chains clinking softly as she shifted. Panic surged in his chest. He struggled forward, dragging his chained limbs across the cold floor until he was close enough to reach her.

“Aria…” His voice cracked. “Aria, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The weight in his voice was thick, choked with guilt and fear—a tone Aria had never heard from him before.

Slowly, she lifted her head, blinking at the dim surroundings as realization began to dawn on her. Her arms moved, the rattle of chains confirming what she already feared. She looked up at Bryson, her expression dazed, voice barely above a whisper

“What’s going on? Why.. who did this?” 

Bryson couldn’t meet her eyes. He stared at the ground, at the walls—anywhere but at her.

“My da– Leo.” The name tasted like poison. “He must’ve found out what you mean to me. And now, this—” he gestured around them—“this is his idea of a sick fucking joke. A punishment. I swear to you, I’ll get you out of here. You didn’t deserve this, Aria. I’m sorry.”

Another first.

Bryson never cursed. Never raised his voice. Never broke.

Aria stared at him, wide-eyed, her breath catching in her throat. She shook her head, adamantly.

“No. No, Bryson, this isn’t your fault. We just have to… we’ll find a way out, right? We have to.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “Wait—what do you mean, what I mean to you?”

Then she shook her head again, more forcefully this time.

“Never mind. That doesn’t matter. Not right now.”

But it did matter. She knew exactly what he meant. She just wasn’t ready to say it—not here, not now. Not in the dark, in a basement soaked in death and memory, with a madman looming somewhere above.

They didn’t need a confession. They needed a way out.