Elijah stared at the ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts he couldn't quite pin down. The room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the dorm's heater filling the silence. Out of the three of them, Kieran's childhood was undeniably the happiest—or at least, it seemed that way.
Kieran had parents who loved and spoiled him, a brother he idolized, and a life filled with warmth. But after that fire, everything fell apart. His parents were gone in an instant, and then, just a week later, his brother. Elijah couldn't even imagine the weight of that kind of grief, how it must've felt to not even have the chance to mourn properly before life threw another tragedy at him.
Visconti's childhood was an entirely different story—cold, calculated, and brutal. The Zenon family was a battlefield, a place where betrayal and assassination were just another part of life. For all the wealth and prestige they held, it sounded more like a prison to Elijah, a gilded cage filled with vipers.
Then there was him. Elijah let out a long sigh, the air escaping him like he was deflating.
His own childhood wasn't any better. Sure, there were no fiery tragedies or family betrayals, but the emptiness of it was just as stifling.
He and Augustus were always alone in that massive house, the kind of loneliness that echoed in every room.
Their mother, for all her rare moments of affection, was more a shadow than a presence in their lives. She'd come home once a month, maybe less, spending a few fleeting hours with them before disappearing again. And when she wasn't there, they were left with those people—the ones in suits who were polite but unsettling, always watching, always hovering.
It didn't take a genius to realize they weren't normal. He'd always suspected they were tied to his mother's criminal activities, and as he grew older, those suspicions became undeniable. They moved like soldiers, spoke in clipped, coded phrases, and radiated an aura of danger that made his skin crawl.
Elijah's lips twitched in a humorless smile. His childhood was far from ideal, and yet, it seemed almost mundane compared to Kieran and Visconti's. No assassins, no fiery losses—just an oppressive silence that had stretched on for years, suffocating in its own way.
He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. Why was he even thinking about this? What was the point? It wasn't like dwelling on the past would change anything. And yet, he couldn't stop himself.
"Why does it feel like everyone's past is just... broken?" he muttered under his breath.
Closing his eyes, Elijah tried to shove the thoughts away, focusing instead on the faint sounds of Kieran's snoring from the other room.
He'd never say it out loud, but he was glad to have them—Kieran and Visconti. Their presence, their bickering, their laughter—it was the first time in a long while he felt like he wasn't completely alone.
Maybe, just maybe, they could be the family he never really had.
Elijah shifted restlessly on his bed, the blanket twisted around his legs as he turned from side to side. His face was scrunched in discomfort, his breathing uneven.
In the dream, Elijah was standing in a wide, sunlit field. It was familiar, the kind of scene that brought a bittersweet smile to his face.
He could see Oliver there, laughing and running through the grass. His blonde hair caught the sunlight, his grin infectious.
Elijah remembered this place. It was the park they used to visit as after school when they're in middle school, it was when they still believed the world was kind and full of endless possibilities.
Oliver turned to him, his voice clear and warm. "C'mon, Elijah! You're too slow!"
Elijah started to laugh, his chest feeling lighter than it had in years. He took a step forward, reaching out to catch up to his friend—
Elijah felt the knot in his chest loosen, a rare sense of peace settling over him.
But just as quickly as it came, the warmth began to fade.
The sun dimmed, the golden hue turning to gray. The laughter echoed until it sounded hollow, distant. The dream shifted violently, and Elijah suddenly found himself in a sterile, white room.
It was the Esper testing room.
His heart sank, dread clawing at his chest. A month have already, yet everything was just as he remembered—the cold metallic walls, and the oppressive silence that seemed to weigh down on him.
In the center of the room stood Oliver, his once bright smile replaced with a look of confusion and fear. Elijah wanted to call out to him, to warn him, but his voice wouldn't come.
Then, he saw him—Allan, the corps officer.
Allan's cold, calculating gaze fixed on Oliver like a predator sizing up its prey. In one swift motion, Allan raised his hand, and the room erupted in chaos.
"No!" Elijah screamed, but the sound barely escaped his lips. He was frozen, powerless, as Allan's attack hit Oliver square in the chest.
Oliver crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Elijah's, a silent plea for help that tore at his soul.
"Oliver!" Elijah called out, he tried to move, to run to Oliver, to warn him, but his body wouldn't respond. It was as if he were frozen in place, forced to watch as the scene unfolded.
Oliver crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Elijah's, a silent plea for help that tore at his soul.
Elijah tried to move, to do something, anything, but his legs felt like lead. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing closer and closer.
"Why didn't you stop him, Elijah?"
The voice wasn't Oliver's. It was something darker, more insidious.
"You could've saved him."
"No," Elijah whispered, shaking his head violently. "It wasn't my fault. I couldn't—"
But the voice didn't relent.
"You let him die. Just like you'll let everyone else die."
And then, as if the dream itself had a will of its own, Allan's figure reappeared, closer this time. His smirk widened unnaturally, and his eyes glowed with an eerie light.
"You couldn't save him," Allan said mockingly. "Just like you won't save anyone else."
"You let this happen," Allan said, his voice echoing in Elijah's head like a haunting melody. His lips didn't even move. "You stood by while your Oliver's blood stained the room."
"I didn't…" Elijah's voice cracked, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I didn't know—"
"You knew," Allan interrupted, his tone merciless. "You knew what they would do to him. You knew, and you still did nothing."
Elijah staggered back, shaking his head as tears welled up in his eyes.
Suddenly, the scene shifted again. Allan was no longer there. Instead, Elijah found himself holding Oliver's lifeless body in his arms. The rain poured harder, soaking them both as Elijah's hands trembled.
"I'm sorry," Elijah choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry…"
Oliver's head tilted slightly, his lifeless eyes meeting Elijah's. But then, to Elijah's horror, Oliver spoke.
"Sorry doesn't bring me back," he rasped, his voice distorted and unnatural. "You failed me, Elijah. You'll fail everyone."
Elijah jolted awake with a gasp, his chest heaving as he sat upright in his bed. His heart thundered in his ears, his hands clutching the damp fabric of his sheets.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at the ceiling, the image of Oliver's lifeless body still vivid in his mind.
The room was dark, the faint sound of clock breaking the silence. It was still 4:49 A.M.
For a moment, Elijah just sat there, his mind reeling from the vividness of the dream.
He ran a shaky hand through his sweat-drenched hair, muttering to himself, "It was just a dream… just a dream…"
But the ache in his chest and the images burned into his mind told him otherwise.
Elijah sat up, running a shaky hand through his hair. He didn't want to close his eyes again—not tonight.