The aftermath of the bombing weighed heavily on Lucas. His once-firm resolve was shattered, crushed under the weight of the lives lost in the explosion. No matter how hard he tried to push the blame aside, the guilt gnawed at him. The faces of the faculty members he couldn't save haunted him, their lives cut short in a place that was meant to protect them.
The night after the explosion, Lucas found himself standing on a rooftop, his back against the cold metal of the railing as he gazed at the city below. His arms were wrapped tightly around his body, as though holding himself together was the only thing that kept him from shattering.
"Why... Why did it have to happen like this?" His voice was strained, like he was choking on the words.
William's form, ever-present in his mind, emerged from the shadows, his shape flickering like a mirage. The long, jagged shadows of the animatronic form seemed to distort the darkness, making the presence of the man's voice all the more real.
"You've been punishing yourself for something that's not your fault, Lucas." William's voice was quiet, not forceful, but firm. "You're not the one to blame. You were doing what you always do—trying to save people. You couldn't have known it would end up like this."
Lucas clenched his fists. "But I *was* the one there. I had them. I should've stopped the bombers. I was too slow... too... weak."
William's voice softened, filled with a strange warmth that Lucas rarely allowed himself to feel. "The bombers had the upper hand from the start. You couldn't have saved everyone, Lucas. You couldn't have known what would happen. The explosion… it wasn't on you."
"But it feels like it's my fault. Aizawa…" Lucas' throat tightened as he spoke, bitterness rising at the thought of Eraserhead's words. The blame in his eyes had been more than just disappointment—it had been a condemnation. "He blamed me."
"He's just doing his job. His responsibility is to stop people like you—people who don't fit into the neat little boxes of his world. But that's his issue, not yours. He has to rationalize his failures somehow." William's tone sharpened, a trace of frustration in his voice. "But you... you're different, Lucas. You're not the villain they want you to be. Not the monster they think you are. You're not the one to blame for their mistakes."
Lucas didn't respond immediately, allowing William's words to sink in. There was truth in them, but they were hard to accept. The idea that someone else might be wrong when it came to something so catastrophic—it felt foreign. Every part of him screamed that it was his fault. He was the one who had failed to stop the chaos, to save the innocent lives.
But then he remembered what William had said—you couldn't have known. He'd never been given the benefit of that doubt.
---
The week after the incident was the hardest for Lucas. He stayed inside, away from the eyes of the public, away from the media. News stations plastered the explosion across their channels, using the images of Nightmare Bonnie as their focal point, showing the carnage he had inadvertently caused. The headlines screamed at him, each word digging into his chest like a thousand knives.
"Nightmare Vigilante: A Terror to Society"
"Explosion Caused by Rogue Vigilante: More Lives Lost"
"What Kind of Monster is this?"
The media didn't care that he'd saved dozens from the bombers. They didn't care that, despite the explosion, he'd gotten some of the hostages to safety. The images of him in the aftermath—his monstrous form standing amidst the chaos—were all they needed to paint him as a villain.
The news channels were relentless. He knew they had their narratives to push, their ratings to keep. But it still hurt. Every time he heard his name, it felt like a slap to the face. He couldn't escape what the world saw him as.
Still, in the quiet of his apartment, he tried to pull himself together. William stayed by his side, offering the only semblance of stability Lucas had left.
"You're not a villain," William repeated, almost like a mantra. "You're not the one they're going to make you out to be. You didn't pull the trigger on that bomb. You didn't set up the attack. You didn't create this nightmare. But you're the one who has to fix it."
Lucas nodded quietly, his gaze drifting to the windowsill where a forgotten notebook sat. It was filled with pages of writing he'd done over the years—scribbled thoughts, sketches of his forms, and words he had never dared show anyone. He picked it up, flipping through it absently as he listened to William's voice echo in his mind.
"I can't fix it. I can't even make the pain go away."
The air around him grew colder, and William's voice softened. "I didn't say you'd fix everything. But you can take control of what's left. You can choose what you become, no matter what they say. The nightmare is under your control, Lucas. Not the other way around."
Lucas closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as he thought back to the explosion. The faces of the innocent people lost that day were etched into his mind. He could still see the flames, the smoke, and the wreckage of the school as if it had just happened. But through all that, he heard the faintest echo of something—something that William had told him that day.
"Not your fault."
He repeated those words in his mind, as though he could convince himself of them, even if the rest of the world wouldn't.
---
By the end of the week, Lucas had decided he couldn't hide forever. He couldn't run from his mistakes, and he couldn't let the world decide who he was without at least *trying* to take control. So, he made the decision: He would return. He would take on the nightmares that lived inside him.
But he didn't resent Aizawa—not completely, at least. He hated the situation, hated the way everything had unfolded, but he knew that it wasn't Aizawa's fault either. He had done his best, just as Lucas had. In a world that was so broken, nobody had the answers. Everyone was just doing the best they could.
He still felt that tightness in his chest when he thought about Eraserhead, though. That condemnation. That look of failure.
But it was time to move forward.
Lucas sat down at his desk and opened the notebook to a blank page. The words came slowly at first—hesitant, unsure. He picked up the pen, letting it hover above the page before writing his first thoughts:
This nightmare is under control.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to start. Enough to remind himself that he had a choice—that he could still be something different, something more than the monster everyone saw him as.
The nightmares were still inside him, but now, for the first time in days, he believed that maybe he had the power to control them.
And that thought, that small spark of hope, was all he needed to keep moving forward.