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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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At about 12 we were both drained of energy and sleeping in the bed. At least this is what I think she thought I was doing. With my eyes barely open I see her get on the balcony, still naked. Normally I would just ignore it, but this was suspicious.
With great care, I make little sound and follow her to the door, peeking from inside.
She took a kind of patch that she was going to put on her arm. But she wasn't injured.
This could only mean one thing.
Stepping through the door before she can apply it, I took the patch from her hand and sneeze it.
"Didn't know you also did drugs."
"What? This-this isn't-" She tried to counter but there wasn't much to say.
" Don't joke with me. I know these kinds of things." She crossed her hands and gave me a sort of grumpy look. It seemed like her eyes. Glowed softly through the moon's light. Yes, said conditions only elevated their beauty.
"I-I need it." Her pout really made me chuckle.
"No, I need drugs. Your powers don't."
Now that I think about it, this was quite a strange exchange to have while naked and outside. Curiously, I didn't feel cold and there wasn't any adrenaline to explain it. Alice lives on the thirteenth floor so the wind could be felt quite harshly, but I didn't mind. I was too unfocused to care about it.
"Give it back." She jumped to get it, pressing her small body against mine.
"No" before I realized, we started flying away from the ledge. I couldn't really find any way to reverse the movement as I was in the air. If I think about it, this is the first time Alice made me float like this with her power. This didn't mean I was unaware that I would die if she let go, but I didn't give her the patch, even as we wrestled in the air.
Quite an interesting experience.
She squirmed around my arms, but at least in dexterity I was superior to Alice. Good thing she didn't want to hurt me because she could have forcefully taken the drug at any time. This is how I know she wasn't serious.
"I... Need it."
"Why? Tell me and I might let go of the patch."
She sat on my lap, or however you would do that suspended in the air and breathed in hard.
"Alright.... I think it's finally time I told you why I care so much about stopping Secundo Manus."
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Once upon a time, there was a girl whose father was a brilliant scientist. He was a leading bioengineer, known for his work on vaccines and medicines that changed lives. His talent was so remarkable that he caught the eye of a group of elite minds—scientists so advanced that few could truly comprehend the heights of their work.
Among them was Paradox Mundi, a man of eccentric genius, whose expertise lay in crafting intricate mechanisms and robotics. There was Biz, who harnessed the power of energy like no other, working on a fusion reactor that could, perhaps, light up the world, yet he also found time to work on prosthetics, giving new life to those who had lost limbs. Then there was Secundo Manus, the enigmatic disciple of Paradox, a man who delved deep into the mysteries of human biology.
And, of course, Doctor Minea Savo—a woman whose eyes held the secret of time itself. She dedicated herself to the study of time travel, daring to look beyond the constraints of ordinary science. And finally, there was a man—a shadowy figure, barely remembered by the team but known only as the great inventor, for his genius was unmistakable, even if his name was forgotten.
So, the girl's father joined this exceptional team, bound by a single, daunting purpose: to push humanity beyond its current limits, to evolve the human race itself. And with that invitation, his life—and perhaps the world's—would never be the same.
---
(Cold man's voice interjects)
"And did he not wonder what they meant by evolving the human race?"
(A Soft voice responds)
"He didn't, at least, not then. He only saw the possibilities—never the risks."
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At eight years old, the girl began to show signs that were unlike anything her father had seen in any human. Her eyes had a curious shape, like tiny crescent moons, and she displayed strength far beyond her small frame, able to lift objects that would challenge an adult. But the most astonishing confirmation came when her father lifted her in his arms, only for them both to start floating, as if gravity had lost its claim on them.
Troubled yet fascinated, her father brought her to his colleagues. They began to run tests, searching for answers to the mystery of her abilities. The team discussed legends of a rare human genome that, if awakened, could grant miraculous powers. One individual, a man known as UltraMan, was the only confirmed case of this genome, a figure famous for his heroic feats and revered for his choice to use his powers for good.
The little girl listened to stories of UltraMan with wide-eyed wonder, wishing that, someday, she could be like him—a hero who could inspire and protect.
---
(Cold man's voice interjects)
"But surely she knew this wasn't normal, didn't she?"
(A Soft voice responds)
"She did, but she believed it was a gift, not a curse. She dreamed of greatness, not of the unknown dangers."
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Secundo Manus, Mundi's ambitious disciple, became captivated by the girl's powers. He saw in her a rare chance to achieve their team's lofty goal: elevating humanity itself. To him, the answer lay in unlocking and replicating her unique gene, believing it could bring them one step closer to creating a new kind of human. Her father, though uneasy, allowed the experiments, believing they would remain harmless and minimal.
Initially, they were simple—drawing a few drops of blood, gently encouraging her to test her powers, probing her limits. But soon, as the experiments continued, Secundo and Biz began to see her as something less than a child and more as a vital subject. Secundo's obsession with UltraMan grew; he wanted to wield powers like those he so admired. Biz, meanwhile, was driven by a different ambition: he longed to prove that technology could rival, if not surpass, these "flimsy powers" of biology.
The girl's father grew increasingly frustrated, feeling his authority and his bond with his daughter slipping away. But he was trapped by a sense of duty to the mission—and by the demands of his colleagues. By the time the girl turned twelve, the laboratory had become her home more than her own house, a sterile place of endless tests and relentless curiosity.
---
(Cold man's voice interjects)
"And no one thought to ask how she felt about this?"
(Soft voice responds)
"No… to them, her feelings were secondary to her potential."
|_
After the girl turned 13, a turning point arrived. Paradox Mundi, who had long grown uneasy with his disciple's methods, began openly questioning Secundo Manus's experiments. Mundi saw his disciple's work as harsh, even cruel, particularly for a child. Besides, the lack of results after five years convinced him that the gene they sought couldn't be replicated this way.
But to Secundo, Mundi's doubts felt like betrayal. He had believed that the girl was like family, thinking himself her brother-in-arms, even though she was much younger and unaware of his delusion. His commitment to their supposed "brotherhood" made his actions all the more twisted.
Then, one day, their tension reached a breaking point. During a fierce argument, Mundi's hand knocked over a vial of acid, which splashed across Secundo's face, scarring him irreversibly. Stunned and humiliated, Secundo fled, abandoning the lab and everything he had worked toward.
---
(Cold man's voice interjects)
"So, he claimed to be her family—and then tortured her for years?"
(A Soft voice responds)
"Sometimes, in his twisted mind, he truly believed it. But no one was sad to see him go."
|_
With Secundo Manus gone, things began to unravel swiftly. Dr. Minea Savo, eager to test her work, initiated her time machine. But something went terribly wrong—she was ripped apart, her body fragmented and lost between streams of time. Paradox Mundi, devastated and suspicious, began to wonder if someone had sabotaged her work.
Then came the grim revelation about Biz. Mundi and the girl's father uncovered that Biz had secretly been conducting inhumane experiments on people bought from slave traders. He replaced their limbs and organs with mechanical parts, all in the name of developing superior prosthetics. Horrified by the extremes Biz had reached, Mundi and the girl's father confronted him. But Biz, feeling betrayed and underappreciated, left the lab in anger.
As for the mysterious inventor, he simply disappeared without a trace, leaving his colleagues in silence and uncertainty. No one knew why he left or where he went.
---
*(Cold man's voice interjects)*
"And what did the girl think of these people she'd been so close to?"
*(Soft voice responds)*
"They were heroes in her eyes once. But slowly, even she saw how easily heroes could become villains."
|_
A month or so later, a certain night marked the beginning of a new chapter for the girl. While her father checked on her one last time, an assassin attacked. Explosions erupted around the lab, and only the girl's powers saved them, pressing the attacker to the ground until he fled.
Outside, chaos reigned. Secundo Manus, backed by mercenaries marked with the Balmundi syndicate's golden eagle, was overpowering Mundi. Though Mundi's prototype androids put up a fight, they were no match for the seasoned mercenaries who beat him down mercilessly. As the father and daughter faced impending doom, a brilliant figure descended: UltraMan.
With ease, he repelled the mercenaries, walked through bullets, shook off explosives, and even resisted Secundo's forbidden bio-bomb. To the girl, he was everything she'd dreamed of. When she finally gathered the courage to ask if she could be a hero like him, he simply chuckled, gave a thumbs-up, and said, "It's possible."
From that night on, her life was never the same.
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"Right." Quite an overly dramatic story is you ask me, but I am surprised she even is half as coherent as she is considering how her brain developed. Yes, personality issues are more than expected. Of course, I wouldn't say she had it worse than me, but there isn't a competition for such things.
Also, Wasn't the professor part of the Balmundi family? I need to ask him to confirm that. In any case, I hope Alice doesn't hate them too much, wouldn't be good to let her know I was one of them. At the same time, that was years ago so it probably shouldn't matter. Wait... 15 years ago... She didn't specify the time, but I can guess it was the year 55 after the coronation. The same year I was deployed to that desert. Quite a coincidence.
But there are even more questions. Forget that time lady, who is the Mysterious inventor? Could he be the one that made Emily? I don't think so, the timeline isn't exactly right. And why doesn't the professor remember him if so?
Haaah.
What was important was that this girl was comfortable enough to share such personal stories with me. I don't think she lied. She really only had fairy tales to distract her mind from what was happening. She didn't go into detail, but I am sure the experiment were painful.
At that revelation, the least I could do was kiss her forehead.
"I get it. So let me be your strength, the one you lean on. Not these substances..."
She looks at me, teary eyed, before pulling me for a kiss.
In the end we have another round of sex, now in the air. I must say it was a totally different experience, one I don't want to repeat.
Not because we could have been seen.
Nor that we could have died.
Simply that I don't have neither of those kinks.
When I finally got into the bed and closed my eyes, I found myself back into the void.
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DATE:6th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The dry, suffocating heat of the desert wrapped around me, pressing down like a shroud. Even though this was just a dream, every breath I took filled my lungs with the same gritty, stifling air I remembered. The insurgent camp stood in disarray before us, lit by the unforgiving blaze of fire that consumed everything in its path. The acrid stench of burning flesh and fabric clawed at my nostrils, a smell that was etched into my memory, an odor that time couldn't fade.
Barryvard's voice, sharp and detached, echoed through the chaos: "End it all." The flames surged higher as if obeying his words, dancing wildly and consuming the cages of the hostages. They screamed, their voices joining with the roar of the fire—a chorus of agony that seemed to go on forever. Even in this twisted dreamscape, the sight was the same: the bright, relentless glow of death and despair.
I glanced down, wrists bound tightly in front of me, rope digging into my skin as if the memory itself wanted to make sure I couldn't escape. Emily stood tied beside me, her wide eyes flickering with reflections of the fire, mirroring my own helplessness. Time stretched, each second dripping like molten tar. The burning didn't stop; it never did. The bodies writhed, caught between life and death, their suffering trapped in a loop that kept them in perpetual torment.
It was like I never left that desert, like all these years were just moments between nightmares. The sweat on my brow, the sand beneath my feet—it all felt the same. The helplessness knotted my gut, and I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, deafening against the endless screams.
Suddenly, Emily shifted. Her wrists, previously bound, slipped free as if the rope had decided to let her go. She turned to me, her eyes softening with an understanding that cut deeper than any blade. The reflection of the fire dimmed as she knelt in front of me, placing her hands gently on my shoulders.
"It's alright," she whispered, her voice breaking through the infernal roar, grounding me in the here and now. "I'm here now. You're not alone in this."
The world seemed to pause as her touch pulled me away from the flames. It didn't erase them, didn't stop the sounds or the heat, but it dulled the edge of the memory's power. Her eyes, filled with a love that felt almost tangible, anchored me.
"I love you," she said, her voice trembling yet resolute, cutting through the chaos. The flames flickered and hissed, but their grasp loosened, the endless loop wavering as I focused on her words, the way they made the desert heat just a little less suffocating. The pain, the guilt—it was all still there, but her presence made it bearable, even if just for a moment.
Father rose from the pile of bodies, emerging with a grotesque fluidity as if the corpses themselves had birthed him back into existence. His twisted smile stretched unnaturally across his face, eyes gleaming with a dark mirth that chilled my blood. He held a metal mace, its spiked head dripping with a thick, tar-like substance that hissed as it touched the sand.
"Did you actually think you killed me?" His voice was a mockery, smooth and unbothered. "Should have confirmed the deed."
I pushed myself up from the ground, feeling the grit of sand sticking to the dried blood on my skin. My mercenary uniform was shredded, still marked by the night's torture, fabric clinging uncomfortably to every bruise and cut. Despite the grotesque scene playing out in front of me, a strange apathy dulled my reaction. This was just another repeat, another shadow from the past clawing at me.
I looked down, my hand already moving to the Beretta holstered at my side. The weight of it was familiar, and without hesitation, I raised it and squeezed the trigger. The shots cracked through the air, one after another, until the magazine clicked empty. Each bullet hit its mark, piercing Father's chest and head, leaving behind black, smoking holes. But he didn't flinch, didn't even blink. He stood tall, the same sardonic grin painted across his face, as if the bullets were nothing more than whispers in the wind.
"Pathetic," he said, stepping closer, dragging the mace through the sand behind him, carving a dark trail. The weight of the weapon left impressions that seemed to pulse, shadows seeping from them like veins.
My heart drummed an erratic beat, not from fear, but from the weight of inevitability. Emily reached out, grabbing my arm, eyes wide with a mix of defiance and concern. Her touch grounded me, pulling me out of the numbness just enough to feel the tension in her fingers. Yet, even as she stood by my side, I couldn't shake the hollow certainty—this confrontation was beyond any weapon or fight we could muster.
Before I could react, Emily surged forward in a blur, a speed I couldn't even register until she was right in front of Father. The impact of her fist connected with his jaw, a metallic clang ringing out like steel meeting steel. For a moment, I thought she had managed to push him back—maybe even hurt him—but then I saw his expression shift. His smirk widened, eyes darkening with a sinister glee.
He moved faster than I'd seen him move before, grabbing her arm mid-air with a grip that could crush bone. Emily's face twisted in surprise as he swung her with brutal strength, slamming her into the iron bars of the cages that lined the camp. The metal creaked under the force, nearly bending, but somehow held. Emily's body crumpled against the bars, her head lolling for a moment before she pushed herself up, unbroken, eyes still fierce.
A pang of confusion hit me. She should have been hurt, should have crumpled like paper under that kind of impact. But she was still moving, still fighting. It didn't add up. That's when the realization came back like a whisper in my mind: This was a dream. This surreal, hellish scene wasn't bound by reality's rules.
Father's eyes flicked to me, his smile still frozen, but now there was something more—recognition. He knew I'd figured it out. The dream's edges wavered, the world growing more unstable as the fire hissed and the shadows deepened. My pulse quickened, an unsettling mixture of dread and defiance. If this was a dream, I could fight back, but Father's gaze told me he was waiting for just that.
Father's footsteps echoed in my chest, each step pounding like a drumbeat of inevitable doom. My hands scrambled over the dirt, searching for anything I could use. They found the handle of a machine gun half-buried under a fallen body, still warm from the desert heat. I grabbed it and lifted the barrel, aiming straight at Father as he advanced.
I pulled the trigger, unleashing a desperate hail of bullets. The rounds struck true, tearing into his chest and shoulders, punching holes that should have sent him staggering back. But he didn't slow; the bullet holes oozed dark, viscous liquid, but his grin only widened, unfazed, unstoppable.
"Is that all, boy?" His voice was low, almost amused.
Before I could react, the mace swung up in a blur of motion, catching me square in the chest. The world exploded in pain as I flew backward, the impact shattering my ribcage and leaving me gasping for air as I crumpled to the ground. Every breath was agony, each second punctuated by the fire spreading through my ribs.
My vision swam, spots dancing across the flickering firelight and the twisted, half-dead faces of the camp. Emily's voice rang out, sharp and strained, as she pushed herself up, but I couldn't make out the words. The world had become a fog of hurt and desperation.
I felt a surge of desperation as Father's smile widened and he started to advance, the spiked mace dragging behind him like a harbinger of violence. My mind raced, scrambling for an answer, a weapon, anything that could tilt the odds in my favor. Then it hit me—the Ventium-infused revolver. The captain had handed it to me once, a weapon of last resort, said to pierce anything.
My eyes darted to the spot where I remembered it last lay, glinting under the weak glow of the campfire. Without a second thought, I broke into a sprint, sand kicking up behind me as Father's steps quickened, his hulking frame closing the distance faster than I'd expected. The ground trembled slightly under each of his strides, the weight of his presence suffocating.
Emily saw my move and something clicked in her eyes. She pushed herself up, shaking off the remnants of the cage's dented bars, and lunged at Father's side in a desperate attempt to slow him down. Her voice, filled with determination, cut through the chaos. "You won't touch him."
Father barely spared her a glance as he brushed her aside, his massive arm swiping her away like she was nothing more than a nuisance. She crashed to the ground, and he looked down with that same mocking smile. "You've become boring, little shadow," he muttered, the sound sharp and dismissive.
My heart clenched, but I didn't stop. I reached the revolver and gripped its handle, the cool metal thrumming with the raw energy of the Ventium. I turned just as Father was only steps away, his dark, glowing eyes locked onto mine with a look that promised pain. But this time, I was ready.
Father's laughter rolled over the camp, deep and echoing, taunting even in the face of his battered form. I pushed myself forward, breath ragged, each step a battle against the agony in my chest. The revolver—I needed that revolver. My eyes locked onto the crate where it last lay, but what I saw stopped me cold.
The captain's corpse stood there, impossibly upright, one hand clenched around the revolver. His chest was blown wide open, a grotesque testament to the battle that had ended him, yet he remained, as if defying death itself. It was uncanny, wrong, but I couldn't afford hesitation. I snatched the revolver from his lifeless fingers, feeling its power buzz up my arm like a living thing.
Father noticed the shift, and his smile faltered for just a moment. I squeezed the trigger, and the Ventium-infused round left the barrel with a crack that seemed to split the air itself. The impact hit him squarely in the chest, creating a gaping, golf ball-sized hole that made him stumble backward. His face twisted into a snarl as he roared, launching himself at me.
I aimed again, this time for his heart. I fired twice, but Father moved with unnatural speed, shielding his vital spot with his arm. The bullets pierced it, blood spraying in thin arcs, but it was enough to divert them from their mark. His arm hung limp, wounded but not useless.
He swung the mace with his other hand, an arc of lethal metal aimed to crush me. Before it connected, Emily dove in, intercepting the strike. The blow sent her hurtling across the camp, but her sacrifice bought me precious seconds. I threw myself behind the crate, the captain's corpse looming above me like a silent guardian.
Father advanced, eyes blazing with fury. He kicked at the crate to send me flying, but the dead captain's arm lifted, blocking the move. Both Father and I stared, disbelief halting us in place. The captain's body did nothing else, but that moment of hesitation was all I needed.
I aimed at Father's elbow and fired, the shot biting into bone and sinew. He recoiled, his arm spasming uselessly, leaving his chest exposed. He growled, abandoning the mace to shield his heart with his remaining arm. The fight in his eyes flared, desperate and unyielding.
In a blur, Emily appeared, grabbing hold of his free arm with a strength I didn't expect. "Now!" she shouted, her voice a lifeline in the chaos.
I aimed, heart pounding as I squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit, embedding itself in his heart but stopping just short of tearing through. His eyes met mine, wide with realization. "Stop!" he spat, as if commanding me would halt my resolve.
I fired once more. The round tore through his chest, shattering his heart and carrying on out the other side. His body shuddered, eyes still locked on mine as the red glow in them dimmed. Father staggered, blood pooling from the wound as he collapsed, the camp plunging into silence.
Father's eyes flared with an unnatural black light that spiraled skyward, cutting through the night and staining the heavens with an ominous glow. The stars above dimmed, their gentle light replaced by an eerie red that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. A low rumble rose in the distance as a sandstorm whipped up with ferocious speed, tightening its chaotic grip around Emily and me until only a narrow, fifteen-meter circle of clarity remained.
The wind howled, carrying with it distorted voices and guttural echoes. But beneath the cacophony, distinct words rose like accusations hurled from the shadows.
"Murderer.
Killer.
Dog of War.
Monster.
Impostor."
The chorus of voices overlapped, seeping into my mind like a venom I couldn't shake. Each word sliced deeper than any wound I'd ever taken, a reflection of my fractured life and the blood-stained paths I'd walked.
Murderer—when I ended my parents' lives in a fit of rage and terror, a memory I kept locked away but that still gnawed at me in the dead of night.
Killer—when I trained under the merciless Balmundi Syndicate, each lesson forged in violence, leaving bodies as evidence of my growth.
Dog of War—when I was deployed internationally, a tool in the hands of those with more power and even fewer morals.
Monster—when I walked the world as a freelance assassin, detached, cold, and precise, erasing lives without a second thought.
Impostor—now, infiltrated among the so-called heroes, wearing a mask that hid the blood-soaked past and hollow guilt beneath.
The whispers turned into an uproar as the wind shifted, taking on new shapes. I could make out figures emerging from the swirling sand, grotesque outlines of people I'd known only through the terror in their eyes before their deaths. Their skin flaked like ash in the storm, eyes hollow and accusing.
Emily stepped closer to me, her presence warm despite the icy dread closing in. "We're not alone," she whispered, her voice laced with determination but trembling at the edges.
But as I scanned the storm, my chest constricted with a suffocating weight. The voices no longer came from outside—I could hear them crawling inside my head, each whisper dripping with guilt and the truth I'd tried to bury.
I knew them. Each face, every contorted expression. The hostages Barryvard set aflame, the soldiers whose throats I slit, the countless innocent lives that had gotten tangled in the web of war, deceit, and shadow. And now, they'd come to claim their justice.
The ground felt unstable, as if it too rejected me, shaking beneath my feet. Father stood at the heart of it all, towering and monstrous, a grotesque guardian of my sins. The black light from his eyes painted the faces of the dead in crimson hues, making their silent screams all the more haunting.
I clenched the revolver in my hand, fingers slick with sweat and blood. It felt heavier now, as if absorbing the weight of every life I had taken.
The suppressed memories clawed their way up from the depths, unrelenting, like hands reaching out from the grave. Faces, moments, gasps of pain—all of it slammed into me like a tsunami. I could almost feel the blood drying on my hands, the weight of the knife as it carved out lives, each one heavier than the last. My chest tightened, the storm within me matching the storm outside, surging with the bitter taste of reality I had tried so hard to ignore.
I had always told myself it was a mistake—that first life taken in a moment of uncontrolled rage. Then came the rationalizations. *There was nothing I could do*, I'd whispered to my shattered reflection night after night, my voice hollow. At Balmundi, when bodies fell one after the other, when death became routine, I'd numbed myself with those simple, poisonous words: *This is just life*.
But now, with the wind howling around me and Father's monstrous form standing amid the storm, the truth pierced through like a blade. Taking a life—taking *all* those lives—wasn't normal. It never had been. It was a madness I had willingly stepped into, a bottomless pit I'd allowed myself to sink into with open arms. I might not have taken joy in it, like the bloodthirsty men around me, but I had embraced it, pushed my conscience aside and buried it under layers of suffering and silence. The numbness I mistook for survival was only a different form of death.
Father's voice cut through the sandstorm, booming, reverberating like it came from within my own skull. "You like what you see?" His words echoed horribly, each syllable vibrating in my bones. The grin on his face was a grotesque mask, stretching impossibly wide, his eyes alight with a sickening, knowing glint.
"You like who you are?" His questions were arrows, each one finding its mark with cruel precision.
"This is the truth you run away from, making me pursue you…" His voice lowered into a growl, dark and relentless. "You wanted to face it. Here it is!"
I clenched my fists, feeling my knuckles crack against the pressure. The figures in the sandstorm pressed closer, their accusing whispers turning into a cacophony. Every victim, every wronged soul, they all stared at me with hollow eyes, their silence speaking volumes.
Emily's touch on my arm grounded me, her presence a thin thread in the chaos. But even she couldn't stem the flood of realization. She looked up at me, eyes searching for something—maybe an answer, maybe redemption. But I didn't have it.
Father took a step forward, his silhouette radiating power and madness. The ground beneath me quaked as the storm's red glow reflected in his warped smile. My pulse raced, not from fear of him, but from the paralyzing weight of the truth I'd spent so long evading. The guilt I'd buried had finally clawed its way free, and there was no hiding from it anymore.
Up from the sky descended *her*—the woman I had possibly hurt the most. My... 'Was to have been' wife. Clad in a flowing white wedding dress, she glided down like a specter of my past, an embodiment of everything I had lost. An almost ethereal glow radiated from her skin, a sharp contrast to the rugged, tormented phantoms swirling in the sandstorm around us. In my mind, she was preserved in a perfect memory, unmarred by time or sorrow, unlike the faded and grotesque apparitions that encircled us.
"So you did stop running…" Her voice floated through the air, soft and almost angelic, wrapping around me like a balm. But beneath that sweetness, I sensed something dark—a strange glint, an unsettling frequency that felt mechanical, as if her very essence had been distorted by the torment of my choices.
As she approached, Emily sprang forward, determined to shield me from this haunting vision. But the ghost raised her hand with a calmness that sent chills down my spine, and suddenly, Emily was thrown to the ground, clutching her head and screaming. Her pain echoed around us, but it barely registered in the weight of my own guilt and fear.
I could hardly breathe as the figure before me continued to advance, her expression a mix of disappointment and something colder, sharper. "I never though you would bother to do that?" The words dripped with a blend of sadness and accusation, sending a ripple of despair through me.
"Why are you here?" I managed to whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of her gaze. I was caught in her stare, a captive to the memories flooding back—the laughter, the plans we'd made, and the crushing silence that followed my decisions.
She stopped just in front of me, her eyes searching mine for answers. "Are you happy?" she asked, the words hanging in the air, pregnant with meaning. "Are you happy to be the only one living? Evermore?"
A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to scream, to deny the truth of her question, but I found myself paralyzed, the silence stretching painfully between us. I thought I had buried these thoughts deep within, yet here they were, clawing their way back to the surface.
"Are you happy?" she pressed again, her voice rising, sharp like glass. It felt like a demand, a reckoning that I was wholly unprepared to face.
"What is there to say?" I finally managed to utter, my voice barely more than a whisper, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I felt shame flood through me, the weight of my inaction a heavy chain around my heart.
Her expression twisted, and suddenly, I saw it—a flash of anger igniting in her eyes. The calm facade shattered, and she reached out, grabbing me by the throat with an unsettling strength. I was lifted effortlessly off the ground, her fingers squeezing tightly as I struggled to meet her gaze.
"Look at me!" The command boomed in my ears, drowning out the howls of the storm surrounding us. I felt my fear coiling tighter, the numbness I had wrapped around myself fraying under her scrutiny.
"Look at what you've become!" she continued, her voice now a chaotic blend of fury and sorrow. "You wanted to face the truth, and here it is!"
I was terrified, exposed for all that I had done, for all that I had avoided. "You… you can't blame me for this!" I stammered, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me.
But her expression remained unchanged, a harbinger of the judgment I knew I deserved. "You will have to ask yourself someday for what purpose you still live." Her voice softened, almost pitying, but the anger simmered just below the surface. "It is clear that today is too early for you."
With those final words, I felt the world around me fade into darkness, and I was left hanging in a void of guilt and regret, utterly lost.
I woke up in Alice's room, her small figure pressed to the edge of the bed.
Damn. For the first time in what seemed like a decade I cried.