The sun finally slips below the horizon, and the great glass walls of the penthouse no longer spill gold into the room. Instead, the city comes alive in its place—neon veins of light crawling across skyscrapers, holographic ads flickering against towers, the hum of traffic far below. The penthouse is bathed in that strange twilight of purple haze and electric glow, reflections dancing across the polished marble floors and steel fixtures.
Mikey talks. He rambles, in fact—his words tumbling out faster than he can contain them. He tells his parents everything. Every heartbreak, every laugh, every betrayal, every victory. The story unravels in all its jagged glory, like spilling the contents of a chest too full to stay shut. His parents sit across from him, rapt. They cry when the pain is too sharp, they laugh when his humor cuts through, they grimace at the darker parts. They live it with him, step by step.
By the time he finishes, Desmond is chuckling, shaking his head in disbelief."I still can't believe you said you jumped out of this building. Was it... right here?"
He jerks his thumb casually back toward the massive glass wall behind him, the same one glowing with the reflection of the city.
Mikey smirks, letting out a breath that almost feels like relief. "Yeah. Right here."
Desmond laughs again, leaning back in his chair. "And this all felt real?"
"As real as this moment." Mikey chuckles, though there's a catch in his throat.
Darla, smiling at the sight of her husband and son trading stories, finally leans forward, her chin resting delicately on her hand. Her emerald eyes linger on Mikey with warmth. "How was it, dear? Experiencing all of that... living another life?"
Mikey pauses, weighing his words carefully.
"It was terrible—"
But his mind betrays him. In an instant, images flood him: Bobo's wide, toothy grin, that laugh that could lift an entire room. Luce's tears and trembling hugs, her arms around him when everything else fell apart. Ryosuke's calm, steady voice, the weight of his wisdom, the soreness of their training sessions. Tobi's nervous stutter, his awkward jokes, the heart of gold hiding underneath. Amelia—Nadia—her fire, her embrace, the way she smiled that last time on the rooftop, a smile that lived and died with her. Angelica's innocence, Marlene's kindness, the fragile bonds that meant more to him than he ever admitted aloud. He swallows, changing course mid-sentence.
"—but it wasn't all bad. There was a lot of good in there too. I met people who mattered. People I'll never forget. I just... I wish they were real. God, I wish they were."
Desmond reaches across the table, covering his son's hand with his own. Darla follows, both their hands anchoring him in the present, in this reality. After a silence, Desmond clears his throat, his brow furrowing with thought. Then he decides to press on. "So... son. You said Payne was the one who killed us, right? Your arch-nemesis." He says it lightly, almost joking, but his eyes search Mikey's face.
Mikey's expression hardens instantly. His brows knit, his jaw tightens.
"Yes."
Desmond and Darla exchange a quick glance before she leans in, her tone careful. "Well... your father actually called him earlier. Told him what happened with you. He was worried sick. But your dad explained that right now, because of this dream, you think you hate him. He understands—it'll pass. But for now... we can assume you're not too fond of him."
Mikey's eyes widen, suspicion flaring. "Yeah... and where exactly is this going?"
Desmond exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's on his way here. We think... it's best you face him now. Clear the air."
"What?" Mikey shoots up from his chair, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry, I know that technically whatever I hate him for isn't real, but it feels real. Too real!"
Darla stands, her voice soft but firm, the voice she always used to calm storms. "Sweetheart, your Uncle Payne would never—"
"Uncle?" Mikey blurts, eyes wide, his voice breaking against the word. "What do you mean, Uncle?"
Darla's eyes soften further, her hand reaching out as though to steady him. "Your father and Payne grew up together. He was there when you were born. They're as close as brothers. He's like an uncle to you, Mikey. He loves you. Just as much as we do."
Mikey shakes his head, his mind reeling.
"What? But that—"
Desmond cuts in, his voice low and steady.
"I know it's hard to reconcile, son. But promise us you'll be calm when he arrives. He's not here to hurt you. He just wants to make sure you're okay."
Mikey breathes hard, fighting the instinct to argue. After a long silence, he lowers himself back into his chair, fists clenching against his knees. His chest rises and falls as he steadies himself. Finally, he nods.
"I can try."
Darla leans in, kissing his forehead, her lips warm and grounding.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
The city lights continue to flicker across the glass wall, casting fractured colors over their faces, as if even the neon itself is uncertain what's real and what's not. After a while the doorbell rang, sharp and final, echoing through the penthouse. Darla rose at once, while Desmond's steady hands remained on Mikey's shoulders, firm and grounding.
"That must be him," Darla said softly. "I'll go get it."
Her small steps carried her down the hall. She typed the code into the lock, and the door clicked with a gentle hiss.
Ding.
It opened, and she greeted him with a warm embrace. From where Mikey sat, he didn't turn. He refused to give Payne that satisfaction. He only watched through the reflection in the glass wall, the city lights ghosting the edges of their bodies. His pulse hammered, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. Desmond leaned close, voice low, almost a whisper.
"You got this, Mikey. Be strong now."
Mikey nodded through gritted teeth, the sound of enamel grinding loud in his own skull. He saw Desmond move across the room and greet Payne with an embrace. Mikey's eyes never left the reflection. His mouth twisted into a strained grin, equal parts fury and disbelief.
Payne stepped into the room. His tall frame carried a quiet weight, the black suit pressed sharp, the wide-brimmed hat now in his hands. He removed it slowly, revealing cropped black hair—not bald anymore. No scar, no brow-slit. Even his eyes were different—soft brown instead of the cold, dark pits Mikey remembered. He looked almost gentle. Almost.
"Hey, kiddo…" Payne's voice was slow, calm.
Mikey turned, finally locking eyes with him. The fury behind his stare was so sharp it could cut glass, his brow furrowed deep with a rage that felt too big for his body. Payne's own eyes widened at the sight. He swallowed hard.
"Wow," Payne murmured. "They weren't kidding when they said all that about dream amnesia… I heard I did some unsavory things to you and your parents in that dream. And from the way you're looking at me—God, you think it's real. Do you hate me, Mikey?"
"Yes. I do." Mikey's words scraped out between clenched teeth.
Payne flinched, then sighed, shoulders sinking. His tone softened. "I thought so. I can tell I did some nasty things in that dream, and I am so sorry, Mikey. I swear, I would never do anything like that. I'm not that man. I'm Uncle Payne. The man that taught you to ride a bike. I taught you how to shoot that slingshot you loved. I helped your dad build your little automated friend—H.E.L.P. Me and your mom, we taught you to read. You're my nephew, you're best friends with my son. I love you, kiddo."
Mikey said nothing, though his body trembled. In his head, the memories rushed back in flashes: his father's burnt body in the penthouse, Payne's gun pointed at Elliot's head on the dock, his mother screaming on that exploding train. So much loss, by his hands. His teeth dug deeper into his lip until he tasted copper. Then Payne carefully reached into his back pocket.
"I just… I brought some photos. Is that okay, kid?"
"…Sure."
He spread them out on the table. They weren't staged. They weren't tricks. Mikey flipped through them one by one: Payne pushing a younger version of himself on a bike, Payne holding him as a baby, Payne and Desmond laughing together when they were younger. Small, ordinary memories. Proof. His heavy heart buckled beneath them.
"These are real?" Mikey whispered.
"Sure as hell they are, kid."
Desmond stepped forward, resting a hand on Payne's shoulder as Mikey lingered on the images. He studied them, then set them down with a trembling sigh. His eyes were still hard, still furious, but his grip loosened.
Breaking the silence, Payne cleared his throat. "You can say no. I get it. But I heard you collapsed today… missed graduation. I was worried sick. And now you don't even remember me. I know this will all pass tomorrow, but if I could just—" he paused, voice dropping. "If I could get a hug… it would mean the world to me, kid."
Mikey looked at his parents. Both nodded gently. His breath stuttered, and then he forced the word out.
"Sure."
Payne stepped forward. Mikey rose, and Payne pulled him into an embrace. His arms were strong, steady, warm. "I'm sorry, kid," Payne whispered into his hair. "I'm sorry I hurt you."
Mikey stood stiff, his fists pressed hard at his sides, teeth grinding like stone. He didn't hug back. Not once. He let it happen, let the weight of Payne's arms settle over him, and forced himself to accept it as truth.
And that was his biggest mistake.