[Tobias's POV]
I stood in front of what was left of my childhood, eyes locked on the half-rotted door, the splintered wood clinging to its hinges like it hadn't realized everything else had already let go.
This was it. The place I used to call home. Now just bones and memories.
And still… I felt them. As if they hadn't really left. As if I'd open that door and find Ma humming under her breath, stirring whatever thin stew she'd managed to scrape together.
As if Elie would come sprinting barefoot across the floor, asking if I'd brought anything sweet. Even Pops, tired-eyed, telling us jokes that he learned here and there.
But they weren't here. Not really.
They hadn't been for a long time.
Why did it have to turn out like this?
If I'd just found the medicine that day. If I'd run faster. Fought harder. Stolen from someone richer.
If I'd been stronger. But I wasn't. Back then, I was just a scared kid pretending to be something more.
And now?
Now I didn't know if anything had changed since then.
I clenched my jaw, swallowing whatever tried to crawl up my throat.
My hand closed around the doorknob—cold and rusted, the kind that sticks to your palm like it's judging you—and pushed. It groaned, loud and aching, but it held. One more time, it held.
"Still not falling off, huh?" I murmured absentmindedly.
Inside, it was like stepping into a painting left out in the rain. Blurred. Broken. But familiar.
The air was thick with the stale scent of rot and dust, layered over something fainter—something sweet and sharp, like dried blood and old memories.
Every creak of the floorboard was a whisper from another life.
The shattered remains of chairs, the scorched edge of the table where the candle tipped over once, the sun bleeding in through the cracks like it didn't want to touch anything for too long.
It had been a year.
A full damn year since I last came here.
And still, nothing had changed. The grief didn't fade. The guilt didn't rot. It just waited—quiet and patient—like the house itself. And here I was again, back in its arms, like I never left.
A cycle of pain, like clockwork.
Like I owed it this.
The room was hollowed out by time, but three things had survived—untouched, waiting like quiet sentinels in the dust.
Pop's old hat still hung on the crooked nail by the window, slouched and worn, the brim folded in like it was bowing its head.
Ma's necklace, that dull silver pendant with the chipped blue stone, sat where she always left it—curled like a sleeping snake on the rickety table.
And Elie's toy, a little wooden bird with one wing broken off, still perched on the shelf, forever mid-flight.
Everything else had decayed, but those three things felt preserved by something more than memory.
No one had stolen them. No one had touched this place. I still didn't know why. The slums weren't known for sentimentality.
But maybe… maybe the name we carried still meant something. Maybe there was some thread of respect left behind in the dirt.
I sank down onto the cracked wooden floor, my back pressed against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me like I was just visiting.
As if I wasn't walking through the ruins of my own life.
"So... how've you been?" I said aloud, voice dry, like dust slipping from a cracked vase.
My eyes stayed on the toy, half-expecting it to twitch. I wasn't sure if hearing an answer would be better… or worse.
"Alright, let me go first then," I muttered, pulling my knees in.
"Ma, you'd hate it. I've been fighting in a war. Killing. Bathing in blood, like it's just another job. I even got good at it."
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just air and regret.
"Guess I'd be a monster in your eyes, huh? Just like him."
The silence pressed heavier now, thick and full of ghosts.
"And remember that friend I used to talk about? The one I always brought up, like he was gonna change the world with me? We're not speaking anymore. Not after what he did."
I stared at the necklace, the light catching on the edge of the stone. It looked like it was watching me. Judging me.
"They call him the devil now. The devil of Tetron. Can you believe that?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "And I was his best friend. I knew him better than anyone… or thought I did."
I didn't realize I'd clenched my hands into fists until I felt my nails biting into my palm.
"It stings, Ma. More than I thought it would. Being betrayed by someone that close—it's like getting gutted slow. You don't die right away, just... bleed out in pieces."
The words just hung there, like they didn't know where to go.
And I just sat there, in the house of the dead, talking to shadows that no longer spoke back.
Then I felt it—warm, unwelcome, sliding down my cheek like a betrayal. A tear.
No. No, no, no. I promised. I swore I wouldn't cry again.
I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve, rough and fast, like I could erase the weakness with enough pressure.
My eyes flicked to the toy bird. That broken little thing—hers. Elie's. The reason I made that promise in the first place.
Be strong, for her. That's what I told myself. What I told her. What a joke.
And where did that strength get me?
Nowhere.
She's still dead. I still failed. I let her die. I couldn't save her. Couldn't save anyone.
The room felt colder all of a sudden, the weight of those words curling in my chest like rusted nails. I dug my fingers into my knees, trying to stop the shaking.
Why?
Why am I still so damn weak?
Why do you keep showing up in my head, Elie? Every time I try to move forward, there you are—quiet, smiling, gone.
Then—
"Below."
The voice hit like a snap of thunder, low and sudden. I jolted upright, fists clenched, arms up out of habit.
My heart flipped in my chest. The room hadn't changed, but everything felt wrong now.
"What the fuck?" I muttered, breath caught halfway between fear and disbelief.
My gaze swept the room. Empty. Just dust, decay, and memories that should've stayed buried. The hat. The necklace. The toy. Still. Silent. Watching.
"Who's there?" My voice cracked, barely holding itself together.
Silence.
I took a slow step back, pulse pounding in my ears like war drums. Was I losing it? Had grief finally chewed through the last piece of sanity I had left?
"Did I… turn into a nutjob?" I muttered under my breath, eyes darting across shadows that hadn't moved in years.
My mind raced, latching onto something—anything—that made sense.
Ghosts. Hell, why not? There were people out there who could shatter stone with a punch. People who flew, who lit the air on fire with a thought.
So maybe ghosts weren't the craziest thing anymore.
But what the hell did below mean?
My eyes dropped to the floor, scanning the warped wood beneath me. The boards looked the same as always—splintered, old, worn by time and weight and memories. Still, the word echoed in my head like a whisper I couldn't shake, and something in me refused to let it go.
"Alright," I muttered under my breath, half to the ghosts, half to myself. "Let's see how far gone I really am."
I started stomping. Not hard enough to break anything, just enough to feel for that telltale hollow. My boots thudded against solid wood… then again… and then—
Thock.
There. Subtle, but different. I stopped cold.
My gaze locked on one particular plank—it didn't quite sit right, slightly misaligned, like it had been pried up once before and shoved back in a hurry.
My stomach tightened. My fingers twitched.
I crouched down, wedged my nails underneath the edge, and pulled.
The board came loose easier than I expected, too easy for something that hadn't been touched in years. Dust and grime clung to my hands, but I barely noticed.
"What the hell were you hiding down here?" I whispered.
Beneath the floor was a small, shadowed cavity, not much bigger than a shoe box. Nestled inside, catching the faintest bit of light, was… a flask?
I blinked. Not a cheap tin one like the drunks in the alleys carried.
This thing was old, ornate. Silver maybe, or something close.
Etchings wound along its body like ivy, curling symbols that made my skin prickle just looking at them.
The stopper was still sealed tight, wax dried around its edges like blood turned to stone.
It didn't belong here. It never did.
This wasn't something my parents ever owned. Definitely not Elie's. So who the hell left it? A former tenant? Some slum noble playing pretend?
Or something worse.
A flicker of instinct stirred in the back of my skull—an itch I remembered from my time in the Risen camp.
Cult detection alarm bells, low and quiet, but there. The kind that told you when to step back before stepping in.
I reached in and lifted the flask. It was heavier than it looked, the kind of weight that didn't just come from the liquid inside.
It felt… dense, like it was packed with something you couldn't quite see. Or feel. Or maybe shouldn't.
I held it up to the light. The contents were hidden, thick and opaque. No slosh, no sound. Just a dead silence from inside that matched the quiet in the room.
I should've dropped it. Thrown it back under the floor and buried it again. But I didn't. I couldn't.
Curiosity coiled in my gut like a serpent, twisting tighter with every passing second.
What the hell was this thing?
And why the hell was it here?