It had been five days since Silas's death, and Malvin was back on duty, ignoring the advice of everyone who told him he needed more time to recover. Only four days remained until the end of the year—and the fight to the death against Philip Crude. The days leading up to it had been tense, a suffocating mixture of dread and detachment, both at work and at home. Noemi hadn't spoken a single word to him since their argument, her silence more cutting than anything she could have said. His parents tried desperately to mend the widening chasm between themselves and their son, but Malvin rebuffed every attempt. He told himself it was for their sake. The less attached they were to him, the less they would hurt when he inevitably died. To Malvin, they deserved better than a son like him.
Work wasn't much better. If anything, it was worse. He moved through his patrols like a ghost, his thoughts distant, his focus scattered. Tasks he had once done with ease became clumsy and careless.
"We're done for the day," his partner's voice broke through his haze. It sounded muffled, distorted, like it was coming from the other side of a wall—his partner's blank face and monotone voice blending into the haze Malvin used to distance himself from everyone around him.
"Okay," Malvin muttered, his voice hollow. "I'm going home. Do the report for me." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving his partner standing there. The other man didn't argue, didn't call after him. He just nodded, used to Malvin's growing apathy.
When Malvin got home, he didn't greet his parents. He didn't even glance in their direction. He trudged to his room, closed the door behind him, and began to train—mindlessly, obsessively. Punches, kicks, shadowboxing against an invisible opponent that he knew he couldn't beat. Philip Crude was a monster, and Malvin knew the outcome of their fight before it even began. Still, the training felt like a necessary ritual, a meaningless gesture to convince himself that he wasn't walking into the fight just to die. But deep down, he knew that wasn't true. All the anger, the rage, the fiery determination he'd felt in the immediate aftermath of Silas's death had long since burned out. All that was left now was cold, quiet acceptance. Death wasn't a possibility—it was inevitable. And it had a name: Philip Crude.
Six days later, with only three days left until the fight, Malvin found himself patrolling the streets again with his partner. The routine was dull and lifeless, the city's crime rate kept in check by the ever-present sentinels. But that day, something unusual happened. A thief struck in broad daylight, snatching a necklace right off a woman's neck. For a moment, there was a spark of urgency—a reflex to chase after the culprit. But as Malvin's partner surged forward in pursuit, Malvin's body refused to move. His feet stayed rooted to the ground, his mind fogged with apathy.
The thief got away.
Malvin and his partner regrouped near an alley, the tension hanging heavy in the air.
"He got away, but at least we saw his face," his partner said, his tone neutral.
Malvin leaned against the brick wall, staring blankly at the ground. "I agree," he said, his voice barely audible, just parroting words for the sake of saying something.
There was a pause, then his partner's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "He got away because of you."
Malvin nodded without looking up. "You're right," he said. Another admission, another reason for someone to dislike him. He welcomed it.
"That's what you want to hear, isn't it?"
Malvin finally looked up, his hollow eyes meeting the other man's, but he said nothing. He didn't need to. The look on his face was answer enough. His partner stepped closer, standing directly in front of him, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore as he asked, "Do you want to die, Malvin?"
The words bounced around Malvin's mind, reverberating in a hollow space he hadn't realized existed until now. He turned to leave, but his partner's voice stopped him. "I've been trying to talk to you, but it doesn't seem to be working," came the even, calm tone. Malvin froze mid-step. Had he? Had his partner been trying to talk to him? He honestly couldn't remember. Everything over the past few days was a blur—a fog of disconnection and exhaustion. Even now, the realization struck him like an afterthought: *Since when did he start calling me by my name?*
Before he could process it further, a sudden yank on his arm threw him off balance. His back hit the cold brick wall, his partner's elbow pressing into his chest. The motion was quick, fluid, and deliberate. "Looks like force is the only way to talk to you," his partner said, his voice still maddeningly calm.
"What the fuck are you doing? Let me go!" Malvin snapped, shoving against the restraining arm. His partner didn't budge.
"Make me, Malvin," he replied evenly, his words a clear challenge.
Malvin's frustration boiled over. He shoved harder and threw a punch, but the strike didn't land. His partner deftly caught his arm and, with a practiced movement, used Malvin's own momentum to flip him over his shoulder. Malvin hit the ground hard, the breath momentarily knocked out of him.
"That was sloppy," his partner remarked, his tone unchanged. "Nothing like what I expected from the greatest Ironguard of our generation."
"Shut up!" Malvin snarled, scrambling to his feet and throwing a wild uppercut. His partner backstepped with ease, the punch missing by a mile.
"What do you know about me?!" Malvin roared, his voice cracking with raw frustration. He launched a flurry of punches, each as uncoordinated and reckless as the last. His partner parried and deflected every blow with practiced precision, his movements measured and unyielding.
"Not much," his partner replied, stepping aside to avoid another clumsy swing. "Just what I read about you in your file."
The words cut deeper than they should have, but Malvin barely noticed, too consumed by his anger. He threw another punch, but his partner sidestepped again and shoved him back against the wall with a single, deliberate hand.
"You never told me anything personal," his partner continued, his calm tone only fueling Malvin's frustration. "But I know you cared about Officer Silas." He dodged another swing as if it were nothing. "I know you have parents who care about you." Another miss. "A younger sister who didn't leave your side even once while you were unconscious."
The next swing was met with a sharp counter. His partner grabbed him, used the force of the strike to twist him around, and slammed him to the ground again. Malvin groaned, the impact rattling through his body, but he refused to give up. He lashed out with a sweeping kick, aiming to catch his partner off guard, but the man simply hopped over it.
"You're stubborn," his partner said as he landed lightly, moving with a control Malvin couldn't match in his state. "You don't care about your own life as much as you should. You want to do everything alone."
Malvin gritted his teeth and surged to his feet, only to be shoved back down. His partner moved quickly, pinning him with ease. Straddling him, he grabbed Malvin by the collar and pulled him close, their faces inches apart.
"Someone who wants to shoulder all of his burdens by himself so that only you suffer and no one else," his partner said, his voice unwavering. "Am I right, Malvin?"
Panting, Malvin struggled against his grip, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. "Fuck… what are you doing?" he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you doing this? We barely know each other."
"Because I'm an Ironguard. And your partner," Danial replied without hesitation, his tone never breaking its steady cadence.
The words hit Malvin harder than any punch could have. He felt the tightness in his throat worsen, his chest constricting with emotions he didn't know how to process.
"We're not just meant to help civilians," Danial continued, his tone softer now but no less firm. "Or at least, that's how I see it. You may be a Guard, but you're still a person. A person who needs help—help against whatever's going on in your head and whatever you're going to face."
Malvin could feel Danial's grip tightening, pulling him even closer. "A man should always stand on his own two feet for as long as he can," Danial said, his voice unwavering. "But as soon as his knees start to buckle, he should have a shoulder to lean on. Those are the words I live by. So, Malvin, let me be that shoulder for you."
The world around Malvin seemed to shift. The blurriness in Danial's face began to fade. For the first time, he could see him clearly—his black hair, slightly messy but somehow intentional.
"Let me properly be your partner," Danial said, the words piercing through every wall Malvin had built around himself. Malvin could now see Danial's dark brown eyes, steady and focused, filled with unwavering resolve.
"Tell me what you're going through, and I promise to help you however I can," Danial added. His voice was unwavering, but his expression was clear—he meant every word.
Malvin felt his chest tighten again, a burning sensation rising in his throat. His vision blurred, but this time, it wasn't from exhaustion or apathy. It was something else. Something raw. Something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. Was he crying? Crying over the words of a man he'd neglected? A man he'd ignored?
Was he really that pathetic?
The answer?
Yes. Yes, he was.