Chapter 8
REASON
Thor, after a few moments, noticed that IAM had once again gone silent.
The room felt heavier somehow, the light from the window casting muted lines across the floor, each ray softened by the drawn curtains. The air felt still. Not quiet—dead.
IAM did not speak.
His eyes stayed low, burning a hole through the pristine white sheets. His hand moved in slow, mindless circles around his neck, stroking the bruised skin where the noose had left its mark.
He watched the boy in the bed, watching his profile, watching the way his shoulders curved slightly inward, his chin dipped like he was trying to vanish into himself. His hand, dark and slender, moved in slow, repetitive motions over his neck. Stroking. Almost like trying to remember something through his skin… or trying to forget.
Thor shifted in place, caught in a strange limbo between duty and something else he hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe guilt. Maybe... understanding.
"You know..." he started, his voice careful, his tone too even for his usual confidence, "I'll put in a good word... to make sure you get the appropriate benefits. What you've told me here today—it matters. You've really helped us here."
No reaction. Not even a blink.
"Your help is extremely valuable."
Still, IAM didn't move. His eyes stayed locked onto the sheet draped over his legs, as if it were the last thing in the world tethering him to reality. His fingers still moved slowly across his throat. A gesture too soft for fidgeting, too absentminded to be deliberate. It was like he was confirming something over and over again… confirming that he was still here. Still alive.
Thor exhaled quietly. "O...kay." He hesitated a moment, then nodded faintly to himself. "Well... I have things to get to. I'll be back in a few days with what I promised."
He turned, footsteps soft against the plush carpet. He reached for the door.
His hand hovered over the handle.
And then—he stopped.
Fingers suspended in air.
He stood like that for a beat. Then two. Then three.
The silence in the room grew louder.
With a quiet sigh, he let his hand fall away from the door. Slowly, Thor turned around and made his way back to the chair beside the bed. He sat down again. Not with the posture of a soldier, or the straight-backed posture of a professional—but with the slump of someone unsure, someone laying something down.
IAM glanced at him, their eyes finally locking again.
The near-black of IAM's irises met the harsh earthy brown of Thor's. One looked like bottomless water, still and heavy and unmoving. The other like dry land, cracked under sun and burden.
Thor felt it was like looking into the abyss.
"You know..." Thor began again, his voice quieter now, lower, less like someone speaking from authority and more like someone trying to reach across a void, "I have a saying. Something I learned a very long time ago."
He exhaled slowly, voice steady, words almost deliberate in their pacing. "It goes like this: Throw yourself into the sea, and you will find yourself fighting to survive. You do not want to die... but rather to kill what is within you."
He paused, letting the words hang. Not just for IAM, but for himself too.
"I know it's hard right now. Trust me..." he said, eyes locked on the young man across from him, "I could never truly understand what you've seen or felt. I can't pretend to. And I won't insult you by pretending it'll all be okay. Because, truth is, it probably isn't."
Another pause.
His voice lowered further, almost to a murmur.
"But let me tell you something that I've learned—through blood, through time, and through far too many regrets. There is nothing in this world that hurts more... than regret."
Thor leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never left IAM's face, even if IAM wasn't fully looking back anymore.
"This pain… this suffering inside you—it's like breathing in poison every second of every day. It doesn't stop. It doesn't rest. It just keeps twisting deeper and deeper into your soul. And you feel like you're drowning. Not in water, but in noise. In silence. In everything and nothing all at once."
His hands opened slightly in front of him. "You feel useless. Unwanted. Like a shadow that's overstayed its welcome. And worse—you feel like no one is ever going to remember you. Like you never mattered to begin with."
He straightened his back just a little, eyes narrowing with quiet intensity. "But have you ever asked yourself..."
He leaned forward again, the words like a whisper carried by thunder.
"That maybe the only person who needs you... is you."
The silence that followed felt alive. Not empty, but heavy.
"You don't need to be searching for a reason not to live," he said slowly. "You should be searching for a reason not to die."
He didn't blink.
"Do not use permanent solutions for temporary problems."
His tone remained calm, almost eerie in its gentleness.
"So IAM... and anyone else who might ever need to hear this... You can feel worthless. You can feel unwanted. And yeah, you might feel like those are reasons not to live. But I hope—no—I beg that you find reasons not to die. Even if you can't think of one... then make one."
His voice shook faintly on the last words, and he clenched his fists lightly.
"We can always create reasons."
IAM didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
Didn't show any sign he'd even heard the words spoken.
Thor watched for a while longer, then nodded silently. He stood slowly, not a soldier this time, not a master ascender or a figure of power—but a man. A tired man who had given all the words he had.
He turned for the door once again. This time, he opened it.
Before leaving, he murmured just loud enough to be heard behind him:
"I hope... that I get to see you in a few days."
And then he was gone.
Thor gestured to the guard posted outside.
He motioned for the female guard to wait ten minutes before returning to her post.
She nodded without question.
Inside the room, IAM remained still.
The sound of machines hummed in the background, quiet and indifferent.
Completely unmoving, his body relaxed but heavy, like a statue beneath sheets. Only his chest rose and fell, just barely enough to prove he was alive.
The curtains, half-closed, filtered slivers of late-day light through their folds. The beams settled across his bare arms and shoulders, painting his caramel skin in a soft glow like dying embers.
He hadn't shifted once.
But the sheets beneath him... they began to dampen.
From drops.
Tiny, glistening, silent drops.
At first, it was slow—one drop every few seconds.
Then another. And another.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, a stream began to form. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, steady rhythm soaking into white cotton.
Just... rain.
It was raining.
But only inside.
And no one was there to see it.