Chevie blinked as the morning light streamed through the window, stretching out in the sterile hospital room.
His body felt strange, like it was both familiar and foreign at the same time.
He could feel the strength coursing through him—stronger than he'd ever been, yet still weighed down by the memories of what had happened.
The memories of his clone's death, of the Whitehole dimension, and his team's sacrifices were still fresh, haunting him in the quiet moments.
A nurse entered, clipboard in hand, breaking his thoughts. "Mr. Harley, you're free to go," she said with a smile that was almost too bright for a hospital. "
"We just need you to check in with the Department of Dimensional Affairs, about your second awakening. You know the drill."
"Yeah, yeah," Chevie replied, nodding slowly.
He didn't feel like explaining the whole 'I was actually a clone' thing.
Thankfully, they'd bought the second awakening story—kind of. The doctors were still scratching their heads, but at least they hadn't dug too deep. Not yet, anyway.
He got dressed quickly, his movements automatic. His body was different now—stronger, more powerful—but it was hard to feel the excitement.
Not when the memories of his friends, now gone, weighed so heavily on him.
The world outside seemed so... ordinary. People walking by, going about their day.
… ….
Chevie stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face.
He walked slowly through Avenridge City, his footsteps echoing off the familiar streets.
It was almost like nothing had changed, but everything had.
His heart ached as he passed by the places he used to visit with his team—the diner where they'd sit after missions, laughing about nothing in particular, teasing Darius for his wild ideas.
He could almost hear Leon's voice telling him to stop moping, but it didn't help.
"Get it together, Chevie," he muttered to himself.
He couldn't afford to stay in this fog forever. Not when there were things to do. Things his friends had asked of him.
He passed a Gatewalker recruitment poster, the bright colors mocking him. It was a reminder that the world was still moving, that people were still being dragged into this chaotic mess of wormholes and magical beasts. The same world that had taken everything from him.
For a moment, he stopped and looked at the poster.
Avenridge's best Gatewalkers. Join the fight.
Chevie snorted. "Yeah, right," he muttered.
No one knew what it was really like out there. But he did. And it was about time he started doing something about it.
… ….
Chevie's apartment was the same as it had always been—small, cramped, with peeling walls and just enough space for him to breathe.
He tossed his jacket on the couch and sat down, staring at the walls for a while. He should've been excited.
He was stronger than he'd ever been, but instead, he just felt... heavy.
It was as though all the power that had flooded into him during the past few months was too much for his body to handle.
"Guess I should start somewhere," he muttered, picking up the spear he'd carried during his awakening.
It had been with him through everything—the fights, the long nights training, the pain. But now... it felt wrong. It didn't fit.
He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on a dusty sword leaning against the corner.
" _ "
It had belonged to a former Gatewalker who'd moved out years ago, leaving it behind when he quit the life.
Chevie had never really thought much about it, but now... now it felt right.
He grabbed it, testing the weight in his hands.
The memories of his clone training with a sword flooded back.
The fluid movements. The grace. The power. It felt like the right step forward.
Chevie smirked to himself. "Spear's too... flashy anyway."
He set the spear aside and unsheathed the sword, the cool steel gleaming in the light.
His reflection stared back at him, the face of someone who had seen too much, yet somehow still had so much to do.
… ….
Chevie was on his way to the DDA's headquarters. As he walked in, the buzz of activity was almost overwhelming.
People in suits hustled by, murmuring about the latest Gates and magical beasts. The tension in the air was palpable—nobody was ever relaxed at the DDA.
Not when things were constantly shifting.
He was led into a sterile room where agents stood, watching him carefully as if expecting him to break at any moment.
"Mr. Harley, please have a seat," one of the agents said.
"We've been monitoring your condition closely since the incident. It's... fascinating, really."
Chevie sat, his hands resting on his knees.
He hadn't expected anything less than to be interrogated. The doctors had already told him they'd noted the sudden increase in his vitality.
They didn't know the half of it.
"So, tell us about your second awakening," the agent asked, flipping through some papers.
"I don't know. Just... happened. It's rare, right?" Chevie shrugged, keeping his voice steady.
"I was just out there, then... boom. New ability."
The agents exchanged looks, but they didn't press him any further.
… ….
Back at his apartment, Chevie stood in front of the window, staring out at the city below.
He could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him, but for the first time since his team's death, he didn't feel completely lost.
He had a purpose. He had promises to keep.
The memories of his comrades—their laughter, their determination—flashed in his mind.
They wouldn't be forgotten. They couldn't be. Not when there was so much at stake.
He placed the sword on the table and looked at it one last time before heading to bed.
The next day would bring new challenges, new decisions. But he was ready for it.
"I'll keep my promise," Chevie whispered to the empty room.
"I'll make sure they didn't die for nothing."