"Have the wounds of our youth ever truly healed?"
An aged voice sighed.
"No... I don't think they did. It kind of just faded away with time."
...
The same dream.
It never changed.
Just got louder.
The familiar voices echoed in his mind, distant and warped. Was he losing it?
Boom! A loud, sudden sound brought him back down to earth, followed by the chaotic clatter of glass echoing through the house.
A cold, suffocating silence followed. He let out a breath. Some things never changed.
The familiar sound of fighting replaced the silence. The thin, yellow stained walls strained. Struggling to contain the voices of his parents on the other side.
Their voices—sharp and forceful—cut through whatever remaining thoughts he had about going back to sleep.
He reached for his phone to check the time. How could they start this shit so early—it wasn't even 4 AM. He froze as he heard movement outside his room.
His bedroom door trembled slightly as it was pushed open. Suppressed cries reached his ears. It had to be his younger sister... she still hadn't gotten used to the fighting.
"Zeke...?" The voice of the young girl trembled as she continued. "Are you up?"
"Shh... you have to be quiet," he whispered back. "If Mum or Dad finds out you're still awake, they'll scream at you."
The pressure to act built inside him. Even though he wasn't the oldest, he was the eldest one still living at home. So naturally, it fell on him to step in... to be the one who tried—yet again—to mediate the chaos.
"Bu—"
"Stop," he cut her off gently. "Go back to your room. I'll go downstairs and see what's happening."
As her footsteps faded down the hallway, he forced himself up and sat at the edge of the bed. He let out a sigh, the kind that carried decades worth of fatigue, yet it escaped from someone barely eighteen.
Why was it always him? Why every day? It was like trying to patch up a dam with tape — everything crumbling, but still somehow his fault when it leaked. The worst part wasn't even the yelling, it was this moment. The moment he had to choose between pretending to sleep or forcing himself downstairs to act like peacekeeper again. Then again, even he could tell. The only real option he had was to go down. Convincing himself it was a choice gave him an illusion of control. It was a lie — but one he needed.
He took a few more shaky breaths, trying to hype himself up.
Come on, Ezekiel, it's just one more time...
A lie he liked to tell himself, but regardless of whether it was the truth, it did the trick as he stood and walked out of his room.
As he entered the hallway, the voices became more pronounced...
"You... Who do you think you are to tell me what I spend my money on..." his father's voice boomed, heavy and strained, like thunder in a quiet storm.
"I am your wife, and since you're almost never ho—" His mother's cold tone tried to cut in, but before she could finish, Dad interrupted sharply.
"Never home? I'm working twelve-hour shifts every day just to put food on the table, and you're complaining about me never being home?..."
Zeke zoned out as a wave of helplessness washed over him, attempting to snuff out the flicker of hope he had, that he would finally get them to stop fighting. Seriously? They were fighting over this again. This was the third time this week and it was only Tuesday.
He slowly descended the stairs, attempting to make as little sound as possi—CREAK!
The floorboard let out a sharp creak that rang louder than the church bells on Sunday morning.
He winced. Of course out of all the wooden steps, he had to step on the broken one. No way they hadn't heard that.
"Who is that, come down here right now!" A booming male voice rang out.
Damn, guess he got caught this time, he thought as he finished making his way down the stairs and to the kitchen.
"Who else could it be? You're scaring the kids with all your screaming and fighting. Please… can we just calm down? This Screaming isin't helping anyone." A weak voice, devoid of emotion came out of his mouth.
His father glared at him, sharp and cold. "Know your place, Ezekiel. You're just a kid. Stay out of things you don't understand."
His mother crossed her arms, eyes filled with frustration. "Exactly. We are the parents, you are the child so just stop talking, this isin't a conversation for you to take part in."
He wanted to scream. To tell them that he wasn't a kid, not anymore. He wanted to say that kids didn't clean up broken bottles or tuck their siblings into bed after nightmares. But instead, he just stood there — a ghost in his own home, a shadow barely noticeable.
He let out a sigh, the kind that said way more than words ever could.
No point in arguing. It would just make things worse.
He checked the time again. Still early.
He needed to get out of there.
Without another word, he walked to the front door and stepped outside, gently closing the door behind him.
A wave of cold morning air greeted him, making him wonder why he came outside without proper clothing.
His breath fogged in front of him as he took in the view of the quiet street. Empty. Still. Peaceful.
Exactly what he needed right now.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants and began walking down the usual route he took whenever he needed to clear his head. The chill outside sank into his bones, but it was clean. Honest. Unlike the sticky, suffocating heat that clung to the walls of house after an argument. From the resentment that simmered beneath every word exchanged. It was the kind of heat born from years of saying the wrong things, or worse, saying nothing at all. No one ever won those fights. They just left behind words too sharp to take back and too familiar to throw away.
Each step crunched softly against the gravel as he walked down the peaceful street. The smell of fresh bread from the bakery down the road teasing his stomach, Out here, the silence didn't hurt the way it did at home. It didn't judge, didn't accuse, didn't scream. It just was.
Would he ever truly be free from all this... and his younger siblings—perhaps they could be saved from this garbage before it messed them up too.
He passed an alleyway littered with rubbish and graffiti all along the wall.
"Lock the powered away."
"They aren't human."
"#AntiPoweredAssociation"
He scoffed under his breath, the words bitter on his tongue.
"What garbage..." he muttered, too quiet even he barely heard it...
Pissed off, he pulled out his phone. No missed calls. No new messages. Figures.
He scrolled aimlessly, not really looking at anything. Just trying to distract himself, to keep his thoughts from folding in on themselves.
He kept dragging himself forward, each step heavier than the last, wondering what he was even supposed to do today.
It all felt... pointless — like he was stuck in a loop.
Nothing changed.
Nothing got better.
He was always the one stepping in, always the one holding everything together.
When was the last time he lived for himself?
...Had he ever?
He glanced down. His phone screen glowed in the grey light of morning. A name he hadn't seen in a while flashed across the top.
A flicker of warmth in a world that had gone grey.
Ethan:Yo, you signing up for Academy or what?
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — uninvited but not unwelcome. Ethan… it had been a minute since they talked.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
The Academy...
IVA — the Institute of Virtutes Arcana.
The so-called pinnacle of powered society.
Founded nearly 300 years ago by the first Grandmaster of Humanity, it was more myth than a school in the minds of most people.
A place where power wasn't feared... but trained.
Controlled.
Honed into something useful.
He imagined standing on the steps of that school, a uniform that actually felt new, a place where no one looked at him like he was broken.
Maybe it was a place where he could stop surviving and start living.
And maybe... just maybe...
It was his way out.