The courtroom was cold.
Not in temperature—but in the way every sound felt distant, muffled, unreal.
The judge's voice echoed through the chamber, steady and practiced.
"Based on the evidence presented… the court finds no grounds for guilt. The act is ruled **self-defense**."
A wooden gavel struck.
Once.
Final.
The sound rippled outward, and just like that, it was over.
---
The scene **shifted**.
No transition. No warning.
Daniel was smaller again.
A child's hand wrapped tightly around his mother's fingers as they walked down a quiet street. The sun was warm. The air smelled faintly of grass and food from somewhere nearby. People passed them without faces—blurs that didn't matter.
They reached a park.
Green. Open. Peaceful.
His mother crouched in front of him, smiling the way she always did—the kind of smile that made promises without saying them.
"Wait here," she said gently. "I'll be right back."
Daniel nodded.
He always did.
She stood, turned, and walked away between the trees.
---
He sat on the bench.
He waited.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The sun shifted. Shadows stretched. Laughter from somewhere far away faded into quiet.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The bench grew cold beneath him. His legs swung back and forth, slower each time. He checked the path where she had gone, again and again, expecting—*knowing*—she would come back.
She always came back.
But this time…
She didn't.
The sky dimmed. The park emptied. Streetlights flickered on one by one.
Daniel stood up.
"Mom?" he called.
No answer.
His chest tightened. He walked to the path, then ran. His small feet hurt. His breath came in sharp, panicked pulls.
"Mom!"
His voice cracked.
He cried. He screamed. He begged the empty park to give her back.
But she never came.
---
The memory **bled**.
Daniel's crying echoed, folding in on itself—until it became another sound.
Draven's breath.
Ragged. Uneven.
His eyes snapped open in darkness.
That same ache sat heavy in his chest—the same one from back then.
She said she wouldn't leave.
She promised.
And yet…
no matter how long he waited,
no matter how loud he cried,
no matter how much he believed—
She didn't come back.
Not then.
Not now.
And the dream faded, leaving only the truth he hated most:
Some people leave…
even when they swear they never will.
The darkness didn't recede.
It stayed still—heavy, suffocating—as Draven stood there, facing her.
His mother.
Not a memory this time. Not a dream fading at the edges. She was right there, unmoving, silent, the way she had been when everything ended.
Draven's shoulders shook.
His voice came out rough, broken.
"…This time," he whispered, "you didn't leave me."
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms like he could anchor himself to the pain.
"I did."
His breath hitched. He took a step forward, then stopped—like an invisible line had been drawn between them.
"I was right there," he said, louder now, anger and grief tangling together. "I saw it happen. I heard it. And I didn't stop it."
His eyes burned. Tears spilled freely, blurring her face, but he didn't look away.
"I couldn't protect you."
The words cracked him open.
"I just stood there and watched you die."
His chest heaved as a sob tore loose, raw and unrestrained. He reached out, hand trembling—but it fell back to his side before it could touch her.
"Even if I cry… even if I call out for you…" His voice dropped to a whisper, hollow and devastated. "You can't come back."
The darkness seemed to press closer.
"She's gone," he said, almost to himself. "You're gone."
His knees buckled, and he sank where he stood, head bowing forward as his sobs echoed into nothingness.
"No matter how loud I scream… no matter how much I beg…"
There was no answer.
No warmth.
Only the unbearable truth settling in his chest like a wound that would never close:
This time…
she hadn't abandoned him.
He had failed her.
And nothing—nothing in any world—could bring her back now.
The words kept coming, falling out of him like they'd been waiting too long.
"She's gone," Draven said hoarsely. "And nothing… nothing is going to bring her back."
The darkness answered by closing in.
It wrapped around his legs, his chest, his throat—heavy and familiar. The same suffocating void as before. The same silence. The same conclusion.
"Just like before," he whispered. "I'm alone again."
The thought settled deep, sharp and cold.
Nothing has changed.
The darkness swallowed the last of the space between him and her. Her outline blurred. Faded. Vanished. And for a moment, he let it take him.
Then—
A name surfaced.
**Elenya.**
His breath caught.
Another.
**Lucifer.**
His heart jolted painfully, like it had been struck.
And then—
**Dad.**
Kaelen's face—bloodied, furious, unbroken—burned through the dark.
"They're still here," Draven whispered, the words trembling as they formed. "They're still alive."
The darkness **hesitated**.
A sharp, almost violent realization ripped through him.
"I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't let this end the same way."
Light pierced the void.
Not blinding. Not overwhelming.
Just enough.
Draven reached for it instinctively, arm stretching forward like a drowning man breaking the surface. His fingers closed around something warm, real—
And the darkness shattered.
Draven **gasped**.
His eyes flew open.
He sucked in air like it was the first breath he'd ever taken, chest heaving, throat burning. Tears poured freely down his face, soaking into whatever surface he lay on.
He was awake.
Alive.
And the first thing he did—before fear, before pain, before thought—was cry.
Not silently.
Not quietly.
He cried like someone who had almost been lost to the dark and clawed his way back because there were still people waiting for him in the light.