Authers notes;
Before you all read this chapter I want to make something known, this chapter will start off with a timeskip to when he is fifteen, since while I gave him the illness does not mean I wish to go on great detail especially when it's a young child, so without a second thought let's start this chapter.
Ryan's eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above. For a moment, he lay still, disoriented, until the hum of machines and the rhythmic beeping of monitors grounded him back in reality. The sterile, chemical scent in the air stung his nose, clinging to everything in the room like an unwelcome guest. This was his world, a claustrophobic cocoon of tangled sheets, IV lines, and machines that kept him alive but never truly living.
The weight of the oxygen mask pressed against his face, each shallow breath a laborious effort. His body had long since betrayed him, his muscles frail and uncooperative, a constant reminder of how far he had fallen from the carefree boy he used to be.
His gaze drifted across the room, taking in the cold, clinical space that had become his prison. The window offered no comfort, just a dull, gray expanse that seemed to mirror his own fading existence. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt the warmth of the sun on his skin or the cool breeze of a spring morning.
A quiet sigh drew his attention to the edge of his bed. His mother sat there, her head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her brown hair, once neatly combed and radiant, now hung in tired waves, unkempt and lifeless. The faint trace of her perfume lingered in the air, a shadow of the vibrant woman she used to be. She looked so small, so worn, as if the weight of the world had ground her down to this fragile state.
Ryan hated seeing her like this. She was trying so hard too hard, really. But he could see the cracks. The way her shoulders slumped, the lines etched into her face, the exhaustion in her eyes. She was a dam barely holding back the flood, and every day that dam crumbled a little more.
He shifted slightly, a weak attempt to reposition himself against the stiff pillows, but even that small movement sent a dull ache coursing through his joints. The sound startled his mother, her eyes snapping open with a mix of relief and worry.
"Ryan," she said softly, leaning closer. Her voice was hoarse, raw from too many nights spent in whispered prayers. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
He stared at her for a long moment, searching for an answer she wouldn't want to hear. What was the point of telling the truth? She already knew. She always knew.
"Like a million bucks," he muttered, his voice thin and raspy. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, though it lacked the strength to be convincing. The joke fell flat between them, the weight of unspoken truths suffocating any chance at levity.
Clara didn't return his smile. She leaned back slightly, her eyes scanning his face, searching for any glimmer of hope. But there was none. Just the pale, gaunt features of her son, a boy who had been forced to grow up too quickly, trapped in a body that was failing him.
Her silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the steady beeping of the machines. She seemed on the verge of saying something anything but the words never came.
The sound of footsteps echoed faintly from the hall, heavy and deliberate. Ryan's gaze flicked toward the doorway, his chest tightening. His father.
Ryan didn't need to see him to know what was coming. He'd heard the routine enough times. His father would linger just long enough to grab his coat or his keys, never stepping into the room, never meeting his son's eyes. Ryan couldn't even remember the last time his father had looked at him without resentment, without the guilt that clung to him like a second skin.
His heart ached for the man his father used to be for the warmth, the laughter, the love that had once filled their home. But now, those memories felt like distant dreams, and Ryan couldn't bring himself to hold on to them. It hurt too much.
Ryan turned his attention back to his mother. She was staring at the doorway too, her body tense, her hands trembling slightly in her lap.
"You can go see what he wants, Mom," Ryan said quietly, his voice laced with resignation. He didn't want her to feel torn between them. "Don't worry about me, okay? Just… just put the VR headset on me before you go."
Clara hesitated, her brow furrowing. She opened her mouth to protest, but Ryan cut her off with a faint smile.
"Please," he added softly, his eyes pleading. "I'll be fine. I promise."
Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded, reaching for the headset resting on the bedside table. As she gently placed it over his head, her fingers brushed against his hair, lingering for just a moment.
"I'll be right back," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Ryan didn't respond. He closed his eyes as the headset powered on, immersing himself in the familiar, comforting world of The Gods' Games. It was his escape, his sanctuary a place where his body wasn't a prison and his spirit could roam free.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Ryan let himself drift away, leaving the weight of reality behind.
Clara stood by the closed door, her hand resting lightly on the handle, eyes fixed on the small, quiet room beyond. She didn't want to leave Ryan even for a second, not when every moment felt precious, not when she was afraid of what might happen if she wasn't there. But this this conversation was long overdue.
She had tried so hard, so desperately, to keep things together. Jason, her so-called husband, had withdrawn further into himself, leaving her to carry the weight of everything. He worked two dead-end jobs, the kind that paid next to nothing, then spent half of what little he earned on beer. She couldn't understand how he could keep doing it, day after day, ignoring the reality of their lives. Ignoring their son's illness. Ignoring her.
The medical bills had stacked up like a mountain, impossible to scale. Every day, more arrived demands for payment that they could never meet. Ryan's condition wasn't getting better, and with each passing week, Clara found herself sinking deeper into despair.
She had tried everything, searched for every possible job, but nothing paid enough. And the hours were never right. Even if she found something that paid decently, she couldn't leave Ryan alone. He was too weak, too frail. She couldn't risk that.
So, when her last remaining friend, desperate and without options herself, suggested something.....something that made Clara's stomach churn just to think about, she had turned it over in her mind. And as the days went by, as hope slipped further out of reach, she had made the decision.
Prostitution.
It was a word that haunted her, a line she never thought she'd cross, but it felt like the only way to keep them afloat. It wasn't just about the bills. It was about saving Ryan, about keeping the machines beeping, keeping him alive long enough to give him a chance. She wasn't proud of it. She hated herself for it. But she couldn't afford to think about pride anymore. Not when her son's life was at stake.
Every night, as she returned from each meeting, which usually meant doing it in the car or sometimes if needed to actually be near her son, she would use her bedroom for her meeting, and after Clara finished she would stand in front of the mirror, hating the woman she saw staring back at her. But then, she'd think of Ryan. Of the days he'd spent confined to his bed, his once-vibrant eyes dimmed, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest, too shallow for comfort. That was why she did it. That was the only reason she could find to justify her actions.
She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up. She didn't know if she could survive it, emotionally, physically, mentally. But Ryan needed her. And this was the price she was willing to pay.
Taking a deep breath, Clara walked away and went to the hallway. Jason was waiting, leaning against the wall, looking at her like he always did avoiding her eyes, avoiding the truth. But tonight, she couldn't let him off the hook anymore. She couldn't let him keep pretending that everything was okay when it was anything but.
"I need to talk to you," Clara said, her voice quiet but firm. She didn't wait for a response, just walked past him, heading toward the kitchen. Jason followed, his footsteps hesitant.
"What's going on?" His voice was thick with drink, but Clara wasn't in the mood to placate him. Not anymore.
"I can't keep doing this," she said, her back to him as she busied herself with nothing. Her hands were shaking, but she didn't let him see. "You've made it clear you're not going to help. You're not going to change. I can't do this alone anymore."
Jason's face twisted with guilt, and for a moment, he actually looked like the man she had married. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came.
"I'm doing my best, Clara. You know I am," he muttered, swaying slightly.
"No, Jason. You're not. And you haven't been for a long time." Her voice caught, and she took a shaky breath, looking him dead in the eyes for the first time in years. "I'm done waiting. I'm done hoping you'll change."
There was a long pause, and Jason didn't move, didn't speak. His silence was deafening. Finally, Clara exhaled, her shoulders slumping as the words she had feared leaving her mouth for so long came out.
"I've been doing things, Jason. Things I never wanted to do. But I have no other choice. Ryan's bills are piling up, and I can't keep up. So I've been… I've been working to pay them."
Jason's brow furrowed in confusion, and Clara saw the moment realization hit him.
"You… you're…?" His voice trailed off, the question hanging between them. His eyes turned from confusion to something darker, something like shame, but Clara didn't flinch.
"Yes," she said quietly, her voice steady even though her heart was pounding. "I've been doing what I have to, to keep him alive. To keep him going."
Jason opened his mouth to say something, but Clara was already walking past him, heading for the door.
"I can't do this anymore, Jason. You're not here. You're not helping. And I'm not going to let Ryan suffer because of your weakness, look I am giving you a final chance to change to be the man I married, the father that our son needs, if you don't come I be waiting for our Divorce papers."
With that, she left, leaving Jason standing in the doorway, the weight of her words settling in like a suffocating fog. Clara didn't know if what she had done was right. But she knew one thing, she would never stop fighting for Ryan. And if she had to sell her soul to keep him alive, then that's what she would do.
She walked back to her son, sitting on the chair next to him playing with his hair while he was connected to the Vrheadset, she didn't speak or make a sound knowing that he was technically asleep while playing this game
We now go to Jason prospective,
Jason remained near the door, his body rigid, one hand gripping the frame so tightly his knuckles turned white. Anger burned in his chest, not at Clara for her infidelity he couldn't even muster that much indignation but at himself.
He wanted to scream, to punch the wall, to lash out at anything that could take away this unbearable sense of failure. He had known, deep down, that things were spiraling out of control. Every beer he drank, every late-night shift he worked, every moment he avoided looking at Ryan's fragile form, was another nail in the coffin of his self-worth.
What kind of man lets his family fall apart? What kind of father can't even look his own son in the eye?
The memory of Ryan's laughter echoed in his mind a sound so distant now it felt like it belonged to another lifetime. He'd been so full of life once, so vibrant. Jason used to toss him in the air, watch him squeal with delight, and think that no matter how hard life got, it would always be worth it for that smile. But then came the diagnosis, the endless doctor visits, the machines, and the bills that swallowed them whole.
Jason sank into a nearby chair, his head falling into his hands. He hated himself for not being stronger, for not finding a way to fix this. He hated that he couldn't face Clara without seeing the toll he'd taken on her. And most of all, he hated that every time he looked at Ryan, all he could see was his own failure reflected back at him.
The bottle had become his only escape, but it was no refuge, it was a slow poison, numbing the guilt without ever silencing it.
Clara's words echoed in his mind, cutting through the fog of his self-pity like a razor:
"I'm giving you a final chance to change… If you don't, I'll be waiting for the divorce papers."
He'd never been good with ultimatums. His first instinct was to retreat, to shut down and let the world move on without him. But this time… this time, something was different.
The image of Clara standing in front of him, exhausted but unbroken, seared itself into his mind. She had done what he couldn't. She had made sacrifices he couldn't even fathom, all for Ryan. And here he was, wallowing in his own self-loathing while she carried the weight of their world on her shoulders.
Jason clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until it hurt. For the first time in years, the anger felt like it had somewhere to go, something to drive him forward instead of dragging him down.
"I have to fix this," he muttered under his breath. "I don't know how, but I have to."
The words felt hollow, like every other empty promise he'd made to himself over the years. But this time, he didn't have a choice. Clara was right he couldn't keep hiding. Ryan needed him. Clara needed him.
The thought terrified him.
But maybe that was the point.
Jason stood slowly, his legs shaky but resolute. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew he couldn't stay in this house another second, paralyzed by his own fear. He grabbed his coat and stepped outside, letting the cool night air slap him in the face.
One step at a time, he thought. One step toward being the man he used to be or at least someone better than the man he was now.