Chapter 87
Thor (2)
IAM sat silently on the hospital bed, back slightly hunched, legs under the blanket, arms limp by his sides. His head tilted just enough to suggest presence, but not engagement. The porridge on the spoon trembled slightly as Maye, his nurse, tried once more to coax him into taking a bite. Her brow furrowed with concern as she leaned forward gently, her other hand resting on the tray, steadying it.
"Please… just a spoonful," she said softly, voice threaded with equal parts patience and unease. "You've got to eat something."
IAM's eyes remained fixed forward, not on her but through her, as if she were translucent, a figure not part of the room he inhabited in his mind. His expression was placid. Empty. A stillness in the face that wasn't calmness, but resignation—resignation to the sheer weight of nothingness.
Maye's sigh was almost inaudible, but the room was so quiet it felt like thunder. She lowered the spoon, the metallic clink as it touched the tray marking her surrender.
Then, the door opened.
A gust of sterile hospital air rolled in as a tall man stepped inside. His presence immediately shifted the room's atmosphere. Blond-haired, well-built, with a presence that was hard to ignore. His posture spoke of strength, but more than that—authority. The kind not worn like a badge but carried in the weight of decisions made and battles survived.
He scanned the room briefly, sharp brown eyes observing with a quiet scrutiny. After a short pause, he nodded to the guard and then to Maye. Without saying a word, he gestured, firmly but respectfully, for them to step outside.
A clear command. A display of authority. A message to IAM: this conversation mattered.
Maye hesitated for only a second, then rose, giving IAM a glance—part worry, part encouragement—and stepped out alongside the guard, who silently followed orders.
The door closed behind them.
The man dragged a chair closer, positioning it beside the bed. He sat with a quiet exhale, as if unsure whether he should've prepared more. He rested his forearms on his thighs, glanced sideways at IAM, then back ahead, and finally cleared his throat.
"My name is Thor," he began, his voice steady, practiced, but not unkind. "I'm what you'd call a high-level ascender. I am at the level of master, and I'm part of a specialized unit. For now, the details of that team are... classified."
His tone didn't carry pride or ego. Just facts. His voice lowered slightly as he continued, this time more measured.
"I don't know what you're feeling right now," Thor admitted, eyes narrowing just a little, "and I won't pretend to understand. But I do hope—however impossible it seems—that you find a way through this. That you recover."
Those dark, heavy eyes remained fixed on Thor—motionless and unreadable. There was no flicker of response, no sign of acknowledgement. They were like two pools of still, black water—silent and unfathomable.But even still water hides what's beneath.
Thor paused, taking a breath, steeling himself, beginning to feel the weight of how difficult this conversation was going to be.
"I know this isn't the time for questions," he said, his voice lowering, more cautious now, "but I'm afraid there's little choice. IAM, you are the only one left—the only person to make it out of the Hold alive."
He watched IAM carefully, but there was no flicker of reaction.
"There's nothing left. No survivors. No bodies. No clues. Just… devastation. And you."
He leaned slightly forward, speaking with quiet intensity.
"I need to know what happened. Anything you saw. Anything you remember. How it started. How you… survived."
Silence fell like a curtain.
Thor let the moment stretch. And stretch.
But IAM didn't speak.
Just when Thor sighed and began to rise, ready to call the attempt a failure—
IAM's lips parted.
"Is that the only reason you're here?" His voice was low and hoarse, dry from disuse. But not cracked. Not trembling. "To make use of me?"
Thor blinked, stunned.
"I—what?" he stammered. "No. No, I—well, I mean… of course not. I only meant—" he cleared his throat awkwardly, regrouping. "As the only survivor of the Hold—"
"Can you please stop saying that?" IAM interrupted sharply.
Thor fell silent, taken aback.
There was a pause. A shift.
Thor straightened slightly, nodding. "Understood."
He hesitated, then continued. "We have a full suite of resources ready for you. Compensation, recognition… comfort. But we do need a formal report of what happened."
He scratched the back of his neck, looking almost guilty. "Even just a few details would help."
IAM studied him quietly.
Then looked away.
He didn't answer right away. He didn't move.
He just… sat there.
Still.
Silent.
He didn't need to think about the answer—he already knew it. It wasn't that he was being difficult or trying to resist cooperating. It was just that he didn't care. He didn't care about the rewards, or the report, or the mission, or anything else Thor had said.
In that moment, a single thought echoed through IAM's mind, louder than Thor's voice, louder than the beeping machines and silent hospital walls:
I just want to rest… forever.
Whatever it was that had brought him back, whatever force or fate or cruel mistake—it didn't matter anymore.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone.
Not just comrades. Not just acquaintances. But his people. His team. His friends. People who had joked with him, trained with him, bled beside him.
Gone.
He hated it.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone who mattered.
Mia.
Kon.
Leovico.
Jasmine.
Raj.
Regina.
Bryan.
Kepa.
Althea.
Dead. All of them. Their faces—some faceless now, some smiling in memory—were burned into his mind, haunting him. They weren't just comrades. They weren't just teammates. They were the only people he had truly connected with in this world.
There was nothing left.
And now they were gone.
What was the point of survival when everything that made life worth living had vanished?
What was the point of waking up?
What was the point of speaking, of eating, of breathing?
IAM clenched his fists beneath the sheets, his gaze distant, drowning in the weight of it all. He had been foolish once—so foolish. Thinking that he could be someone. That he could grow strong. That he could carve through the layers of secrets wrapped around this world and understand it.
He thought he could uncover the truth.
He thought he could protect the people around him.
All those dreams. All those questions. All that hope he had clung to—of discovering the secrets buried deep within this world, finding purpose in his path—now seemed like the fantasies of a fool.
Who did he think he was?
He had clung to a path that was all but dead. He had wielded a gun he barely knew how to use. He had watched helplessly as the Devil tore through his squad. He had laid under rubble while betrayal poisoned the Hold and his allies fell one by one.
When everything fell apart, what had he done?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He hadn't fought.
He hadn't saved.
He hadn't even died with them.
He'd just lived. That was all. Lived, as if that meant something. As if he deserved to.
IAM swallowed, the taste of bitterness thick in his mouth.
This second life—whatever it was—it wasn't a gift. It was a punishment. A curse. A reminder that he had been powerless in the face of death, and now he was left behind to carry it. A hollow vessel with no path forward, no hope of revenge, no strength to make anything right.
Pathetic.
As much as he hated it, he could still hear Hise's voice.
"YOU. ARE. NOTHING. "
IAM lowered his head.
Maybe… Hise was right.
He was nothing.
He had nothing.
And then he died.
It was the most honest thing he'd ever done.
And now… now he was alive again. Somehow. As if fate had decided to spit on him one final time.
He hadn't earned this second chance. He didn't deserve it. He hadn't saved anyone. Hadn't made a difference. Hadn't stopped a single thing from happening.
He didn't earn the title of survivor. He didn't deserve it. It mocked him. Mocked the people who should have survived.
IAM stared at the window.
And in that moment, he thought… maybe Hise had been right.
Maybe he was nothing.
But…
If there was even one use left in this broken shell of a person, maybe it could be this.
Maybe before he fell apart completely, before the pull to rest forever became too strong to ignore… Maybe there was one last thing he could do.
If he couldn't make a difference, perhaps someone else could.
Maybe his memories—his pain—his scraps of knowledge could help someone stronger, smarter, more capable. If he couldn't stop them, maybe he could help someone who could.
His gaze lifted from the bedsheets to Thor.
And for a moment, his eyes found focus.
"Alright."
Just one word.
Maybe his words, his memory, could help someone—anyone—strike back. Maybe that was all the purpose left to him.
The smile that broke across Thor's face was involuntary. Not one of victory or glee—just relief. Gratitude.
He didn't know why IAM had said yes. He wouldn't question it.
An hour passed.
IAM spoke in a monotone, voice stripped of color or life, but full of detail. Thor asked questions, occasionally jotting down notes in a leather-bound notebook. The way it all fell apart. Thor listened intently, his pen scribbling constantly across a worn leather notebook. His questions were sharp, precise, but never impatient.
"So," Thor said at last, running a hand through his blond hair, clearly trying to piece it together. "They called themselves the Circle of the Divine... And Hise Grave was one of them."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
"This is... an absolute mess."
IAM remained quiet, staring at the ceiling. But something still gnawed at him. One thing he hadn't made sense of. Something that had stuck with him, even in the midst of death.
"Hise," he said suddenly. "He asked me something."
Thor looked up again.
"He asked if I knew who he was."
IAM frowned. "I didn't understand it at the time. I still don't."
Thor's expression grew alert. "Describe him. His face. His build. Anything."
IAM did.
He spoke of the long hair. The deep, ancient blue eyes. The calm, otherworldly confidence. The way the air changed when he walked into a room. Every detail etched in his memory—burned into it.
And as IAM described the man who claimed to be Hise Grave, he saw Thor's face change.
The smile vanished. His posture went stiff. His hand stopped moving. By the time IAM finished, Thor was standing.
Eyes wide.
Breath caught in his throat.
The man who was a master, who held command over dozens, who had seen war and death and betrayal more times than he could count—was frozen. Fear clouding his eyes.
And when he finally spoke, his voice cracked.
"You... You met him?"
IAM blinked, confused.
"You... met Mr. Graveyard?"
He took a step back, as if IAM might suddenly explode or vanish or become something else entirely.
"And you survived?!"
His voice rang out like a dropped plate on metal floors.
A pin dropped.
IAM just stared.
Blank. Still.
And even though he didn't know what Mr. Graveyard truly was…
The look in Thor's eyes said it all.
IAM said nothing.
Just one thought:
Who the hell is Mr. Graveyard?