The light from the fissure swirled around them, a chaotic storm of colors and raw energy. Amara, Lumumba, and Jon stood at its edge, ready to step through, but something felt off. The air around them crackled with tension, as if the very fabric of space was tightening.
"Let's go," Amara said, signaling for them to enter the fissure.
But as soon as they moved forward, Lumumba felt an invisible force wrap around him. In an instant, it yanked him from his companions, pulling him deeper into the vortex. Amara and Jon were thrown backward, landing hard on the ground, unable to follow him.
"Lumumba!" Jon screamed, eyes wide with panic.
Amara tried to push forward again, but the fissure rejected them, an unseen barrier blocking their every attempt to enter. Before they could react, Lumumba disappeared into the swirling void, leaving his companions helpless on the other side.
Lumumba was falling. The sensation was familiar but somehow different from the countless times he had fallen in the other world. This wasn't some distorted, twisted reality. This was just… a fall. Fast and brutal, followed by a hard impact against something cold, smooth, and solid.
He gasped for breath as his eyes snapped open. The air was crisp, sterile. The smells of burning wood and magic that lingered in the other world were gone. Instead, the faint antiseptic scent of disinfectant and cleaner filled his nose.
A hospital.
He blinked, confused. No longer surrounded by the strange landscapes of the fantasy world, Lumumba found himself lying in a hospital bed, staring up at the white, sterile ceiling. A harsh halogen light above him flickered slightly, humming with a faint electric buzz. He turned his head and saw a bedside table with a glass of water, a wilting vase of flowers, and a folded letter.
His mind spun. Was this an illusion, another trick by Raven? Some elaborate trap designed to make him question his reality? But no, this felt too real. The gravity, the air, even the faint sounds from outside the window—everything screamed familiarity.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, dizziness washing over him for a moment. His body felt fine. His regeneration was still working, even here. But how was that possible? Why were his powers still intact?
His gaze drifted back to the letter on the table. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached for it. His name was written on the front in handwriting he immediately recognized. Leïla.
His chest tightened.
Leïla. The only person who had ever been kind to him when everyone else had either ignored him or made his life hell. She had been the one bright spot in an otherwise dark and hostile world.
****
He remembered himself as a child, sitting alone at a cafeteria table, isolated. The other kids stared at him from afar, whispering, snickering. Back then, he wasn't Ubuntu, the confident, sarcastic anti-hero. He was just Lumumba, a black kid in a foreign school, without friends or allies.
The teasing had started almost immediately. Racist taunts, cruel jokes, and subtle exclusions had become his daily reality. Even the teachers, who should have protected him, turned a blind eye. It was like he didn't exist, except when he became a target.
But then there was Leïla. A quiet girl with wavy brown hair and a shy but genuine smile. She had sat down next to him one day without saying a word, just sharing her lunch with him. It wasn't much, but it was the first time someone had treated him like he wasn't invisible.
Over time, they became closer. Leïla never pressured him to talk about the bullying. She just sat with him, ate with him, and gave him a place to feel… normal. Her presence was his only comfort, a reminder that maybe not everyone in the world was awful.
The months dragged on, and the cruelty of his peers only grew. The insults, the constant pressure, the eventual betrayal. Even those who had pretended to be his friends turned on him. Then there were his parents, absent in every way that mattered. They weren't there to support him when he needed them most.
His father, always traveling for work, was more of a phantom than a parent. When he did come home, it was as if a stranger had entered the house. His mother was physically present but emotionally absent, consumed by her own battles that Lumumba never fully understood. Their detachment left him drowning in loneliness and anger.
And in the midst of all that, Leïla remained. She didn't judge him, didn't walk away when others did.
Until the last day.
Back in the present, Lumumba stared at the letter, still clutched in his hand. He couldn't bring himself to open it just yet. The flood of memories was too strong, too raw. He hadn't cried in years—not since he had learned to bury his pain beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference.
But today, here in this hospital room, with only the ghosts of his past and this letter as an anchor to reality, the walls he had built around himself began to crack.
A tear slid down his cheek, followed by another, until he could no longer hold them back. He buried his face in his hands, the flood of emotions overwhelming him in a way they hadn't for so long.
For the first time in years... Lumumba cried.