---
Nathan stepped through the door of his dorm, the cool night air still lingering on his clothes. He had taken a winding route back, his mind filled with thoughts, but he'd been extra cautious, making sure to shake off anyone who might have followed him. The black market was dangerous for first-timers, and he had no intention of being a target for the wrong people.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step measured, the faint creaks underfoot almost comforting as they reminded him that he was home, at least for now. Home—a place he didn't belong, yet couldn't escape from. The thought hit him with an uncomfortable pang.
As he reached the second floor, his eyes flicked to the hallway where he spotted Jerrick, one of his boardmates.
"Yo, Nathan! Just got in? Where've you been?" Jerrick called out from the lounge area.
Nathan's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he gave the simplest of responses. "Just got in a walk to get some fresh air."
Jerrick offered a shrug, distracted already, before he walked off, returning to whatever he was doing. Nathan didn't care to know. He didn't care to know anyone here anymore.
He nodded curtly before retreating into his room.
The door closed behind him with a familiar creak.
For a moment, everything was quiet. He stared at his surroundings. His room—bare, messy, but familiar—offered nothing new. Nothing had changed since he last lived here in the past. And yet everything felt different now, as though he were a stranger looking in at a life that wasn't his anymore.
He let his gaze wander to the window, seeing the faint outline of the city streets far below. This city was his home once, but it had never really been a home. The same buildings, the same streets, the same people—just a bunch of strangers living side by side, barely noticing each other. That's what he had been, a stranger to himself. A shadow. A freeloader.
As his thoughts lingered, his mind returned to his past—his roots. The Philippines. He could still remember the oppressive humidity of the air, the cacophony of voices filling the streets, the vibrant, chaotic energy of the place. But deep down, he had always known that things wouldn't last. His country, once a beacon of life and culture, was slowly crumbling under its own weight.
Even before the Spires appeared, he could feel the cracks starting to form. The people, the government, everything—was decaying. Corruption, poverty, political unrest. All of it was leading to something worse.
He didn't know how long he could've lived in that broken system before the world fell apart entirely, but one thing was certain: when the Spires came, they sealed the deal. They didn't just herald the beginning of the end—they expedited it.
Everything fell apart. People turned on each other. Cities were torn asunder. Families were torn apart. And Nathan? He just ran. He fled the chaos, leaving behind anyone and everyone he'd known, seeking only to save himself. He hated himself for that. Hated that he had to be the one to survive. But in the end, it was the coward's choice, and the only one he could make.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't someone worthy of admiration. He had just been a man, running for his life.
---
Nathan's mind shifted as he thought of the Yakuza. He remembered them from his previous life, a life where he had been weak, helpless, and incapable of doing anything on his own. In his broken state, when he had been at his lowest, when the world around him seemed like nothing more than a hellscape, it was them who had taken him in.
At first, he had been resentful. He had been a pitiful excuse for a man, and they didn't owe him anything. But despite everything, they had taken him in. Not because they saw potential in him, but because their own kind lived by a code that he, at the time, had no understanding of. A code that involved loyalty, respect, and the occasional act of mercy.
The Yakuza didn't do things out of charity, but they did offer something Nathan had never truly known—belonging.
It wasn't a kindness, not in the traditional sense. They had no reason to care for him, no obligation to help him survive. But they had given him shelter, food, and the cold, harsh guidance he had needed to navigate a world that had turned savage. He had learned their ways—how to survive in a world of predators. How to strike when the time was right.
Their world had been brutal, but it had been real. There were no lies, no pretenses. You either adapted or you died. And for the first time in his life, Nathan had felt like he was truly alive.
In his past life, he had been a weak-willed coward, running from responsibility, running from the person he should have been. But the Yakuza—they hadn't cared about his past. They had given him the chance to prove himself, to stand tall when the world was falling apart. It was that compassion, cold as it was, that had earned them his loyalty. And it was that loyalty that he would now use.
---
Nathan lied down on his bed, lost in thought. The Yakuza were his connection to the future, the way forward. He couldn't trust the government, the military, or anyone who pretended that the world was still salvageable. But the Yakuza—they knew how to thrive in chaos. They were built for it.
He needed them, and more importantly, he needed to prove to himself that he was no longer the weak, pitiful person he once was.
The phone on his desk buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen, his heart briefly stalling. It was a notification, the faintest reminder of the world he was still tethered to.
He stared at it for a moment before silencing the phone. He didn't need distractions.
The weight of his decisions pressed down on him, but Nathan was no longer afraid. He had a plan, and this time, he would see it through.
He wasn't running anymore.
This time, he was going to fight—and he would fight on his own terms.
That was his last thoughts before drifting to sleep.
Unknown to him, even dream will never give him the comfort and assurance he needs.
Afterall, what assurance can a Nightmare give?
---
'Everyone. Everyone. Everyone was dead. They're blaming me.'
'Samantha! Erebus! Mikhail! Gil!'
'No. NO. NONONONONO-'
"-Agghh!"
Nathan's breath came out in short, frantic gasps as he jerked awake, his body drenched in a cold sweat. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he could barely tell if he was still caught in the throes of the nightmare or if he had truly awoken. The weight of it clung to him like a suffocating fog. His vision was blurry, his body trembling violently as he tried to push the lingering terror away.
The nightmare had been overwhelming—an unbearable distortion of his past that twisted his regrets into something far worse. It wasn't just his death. It was a cruel recreation of everything that had gone wrong, magnified and stretched into something unrecognizable.
It always started the same way—an ominous roar, the sound of chaos breaking out around him. He was once again in the thick of battle, trapped and powerless, frozen in place as he watched everything fall apart. The figures around him were indistinct, their features blurred and shifting. Yet, he recognized them. They were faces from his past—familiar and horrifying. His fallen comrades, their eyes wide with fear and pleading, but now twisted with pain and betrayal. He could feel their desperate gazes on him, demanding an answer he could never give.
He could hear them—soft whispers that weren't words, but a gnawing sense of condemnation. The familiar figures, whose faces he could never quite remember clearly, seemed to call out for him in silent desperation. But instead of fighting, he just stood there, paralyzed, unable to act.
The scene shifted. The figures of his past turned to look at him, but this time, there was no pity or concern—only accusation. They seemed to float toward him, their eyes never leaving his. Their hands reached out, but not to help. They were grasping for something, something he could never give them. And no matter how hard he tried to move, he remained still. Trapped in his own fear and guilt, unable to do anything but watch as they disappeared, one by one.
The faces seemed to multiply. Everywhere he looked, they were there, staring back at him with expressions full of disappointment.
Of hatred.
Their voices were a murmur in the background, haunting his every thought, their words sharp and bitter. "Why didn't you help us?"
"You could've saved us."
And as they vanished, the final image lingered: a mirror, showing his own face.
Twisted, broken, and drenched in regret. It wasn't a reflection of him, but a grotesque distortion, a symbol of everything he hated about himself.
Then the scene flickered, and he was back on the battlefield. But this time, the violence wasn't distant—it was right in front of him. The fight, the chaos, all turned inward, focused entirely on him. There was no escape, no end to the conflict. It wasn't about survival. It was about facing the reality of what he had allowed to happen.
The nightmare didn't let up. It dragged him back again and again to the same moment: the instant of his death. The stabbing pain. The final breath. The unbearable sense of knowing that he had failed. It wasn't a sharp, immediate pain—it was drawn out slowly, he could feel the pain more than before, suffocating, as if he were dying slowly, with the realization of his failure lingering with every passing second.
The voices faded for a moment, leaving only the sound of his own breathing, frantic and labored. Then, the final words echoed through his mind, like a nail being driven into his chest.
"You were weak. You always have been."
With that, the nightmare dissolved, and he was left in the pitch-black void of his mind, gasping for breath. The echoes of the faces, the voices, still clung to him, refusing to release him from their grasp. He was trapped, suffocating in his own guilt.
---
Nathan awoke with a violent start, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to focus on the room around him. His eyes were wide, struggling to make sense of where he was. The familiar surroundings of his dorm room came into focus, but the images from the nightmare remained, clinging to him. His body was drenched in sweat, his hands trembling as he wiped his face in an attempt to shake off the lingering panic.
The weight of the nightmare felt real—too real. He could still feel the suffocating pressure of failure, of guilt, pressing down on him, clouding his thoughts. He shuddered, trying to steady his breath, but the images of his past—those faces—still haunted him. They lingered in his mind, as if they were waiting for him to acknowledge them.
His hands gripped the edges of the bed, trying to ground himself, to force himself back into reality. He couldn't let the nightmare take him. He couldn't afford to be weak, not now, not when everything was on the line. But no matter how hard he tried to push the images away, they stayed, haunting the edges of his thoughts.
His breath slowed, but the fear didn't go away. His mind was still reeling, still trapped in the cycle of guilt and regret.
He was left with one unshakable thought: Could he ever escape this?