The night stretched endlessly.
Acheron couldn't find peace in his sheets. His body twisted beneath them, sweat slicking the fabric as he turned again and again, trying in vain to find a position that made his thoughts go quiet, but they kept racing, always circling back to the same thing.
The meeting. The lawyer. The case. The truth.
He'd made progress. He knew that. Dr. Pace had said it, and so had his parents. He could talk more now. He could sit in silence without fearing what might rise to fill it. There were fewer nights spent crying into his pillow, and more days when he remembered to eat without being told.
He wasn't better. But he wasn't the same boy who had come crawling home months ago, either.
Still, the idea of walking into that firm, of sitting across from a stranger whose entire job was to drag out every twisted detail of what Hadeon had done, made his stomach clench and his skin crawl.
It was the real world, knocking.
Not the soft one built by his family's love. Not the quiet hours with Camlo, or Acacia's hand squeezing his shoulder, or Nia offering him her last piece of candy.
This weekend had been… beautiful.
Their trip to the university, the laughter at the cafeteria, the kids' drawings. It had all reminded him of what safety could feel like. He had needed that more than ever.
And yet…
That sweetness came with a bitter aftertaste...Their expectation. Now that he was surrounded by love, he couldn't fail. Couldn't fall. He had to be strong. Had to be healed. Had to be okay.
He owed it to them.
The weight of that was unbearable.
The conflicting feelings clawed through him like fire under the skin, warmth and guilt tangled together. Love that burned too brightly bloomed pressure, crushing, suffocating pressure.
Sometime after midnight, Acheron sat up in bed, his chest tight and jaw aching. He stood on shaky legs, pacing at first, then pulling open drawers. He didn't entirely know what he was doing until he'd already started.
His hands shook as he tore through his closet. He pulled his sketchbooks off the shelves, flipped through the pages like they might somehow hide what he was searching for. He got on his knees and shoved his arms under the bed, reaching into forgotten corners. Dust clung to his skin. Nothing.
Then the mattress, he flipped it. Finding the previous cut foam now closed. A new mattress.
He moved to the bathroom. His chest was heaving now, panic and desperation blended until he felt like a trapped animal.
He lifted the toilet lid. Removed the tank cover. Shook out the shampoo bottles. Pulled open every drawer, scattering their contents onto the floor. Expired medication, empty lotion tubes, broken hair bands. A pile of nothing.
There was nothing.
Not a powder. Not a vial. Not a trace.
He dropped to the floor, sweat dripping from his hairline, his breath hitching in his throat. He rocked back and forth on his knees, his fingers clutching at the edge of the sink cabinet, nails biting into the wood.
He became frantic; he just needed one more hit, just one.
Just enough so that he could sleep.
Just enough to deal with the stress.
Just enough to take away the pain.
But there was nothing; his room was sterile. His parents had done a thorough job. His dad hadn't been joking when he mentioned bringing in a drug detection dog. Not one bit of it had been left behind.
They had cleared everything.
He was alone in his craving. Alone in this silence.
Acheron collapsed onto the bathroom floor, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The tile was cold beneath him, grounding and cruel. His breathing had finally started to slow, but the ache inside hadn't faded. His reflection off the broken shards of mirror surrounding him stared back at him.
Warped and splintered. Eyes too wide, lips trembling fiercely.
He wasn't even crying.
He felt… nothing.
Just hollow.
Empty.
Suddenly, a flicker of memory pierced through the fog in Acheron's head.
The garden.
He had buried something there a few months ago? Time meant nothing when your nerves were burning from the inside out.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, leaving behind the wreckage and the broken pieces of himself. The hallway stretched endlessly in the dark, the floor cold beneath his feet. Just as he passed Camlo and Kai's bedroom, the soft hiss of the shower turned on. He froze.
He heard no further footsteps. No voices. Just water falling in a rhythm that wasn't his own heartbeat. He continued, quieter now, until he reached the cabinet beneath the stairs. Every key was in its place, neatly labelled in Ivy's clear handwriting. His trembling fingers reached for the one marked Back Door. His eyes swept across the hooks.
None of the car keys were there.
Of course. They didn't trust him.
They were right not to.
If they'd been there, he would've driven into the city. Straight to that apartment with the red door. Straight to the man who always had a pocketful of numbness, but they weren't, and the city was too far to reach on foot.
Still, the stash in the garden, if it was still there, would be enough. Enough to take the edge off. Just a taste. Just to calm the beast inside his ribs.
He rushed out into the night, the back door creaking behind him. Cold air slapped his skin, and his socks were suddenly soaked. Insects were silenced as he passed, their hush eerie and watchful.
He moved like a ghost through the garden, feet slipping in the mud, his chest tightening with every breath. He barely noticed the sting in his fingers from the branches that scratched at him as he passed. His focus was absolute. Then he saw the tree, the old one with the gnarled roots and low-hanging branches. He dropped to his knees in front of it, the earth welcoming him like a coffin.
He hadn't brought a shovel from his father's tool shed. It didn't matter.
He clawed at the soil, fingernails cracking and caked with wet dirt, flinging it aside in frantic handfuls. Mud smeared across his arms, his face, and his pyjama set. He didn't stop, couldn't stop.
The burn in his arms, the itch in his throat, the stabbing ache behind his eyes all pushed him forward. He needed it, needed the poison to flood his blood and drown his brain.
His fingers hit something hard.
There.
His pulse spiked, and his breath came fast and ragged.
His digging intensified, flinging clumps of soil aside until the small metal box came free. He pulled it out with shaking hands, wiping away the mud.
With a quick inspection, he determined the lock was still intact and, with a rapid shake, a crisp rattle announced the presence of something inside.
Good.
It was still full, still holding his salvation. Although the lock is rusted, it was still stubbornly locked.
He forgot that he had placed a lock on it, and he had no key with him now. He couldn't remember where he'd hidden it. Maybe he'd lost it. Maybe his dad had found it.
He scanned the garden in the moonlight, found a solid rock near the base of the tree. Sat down hard in the wet grass, securing the box between his thighs. He will just break it off. He raised the rock and slammed it down.
The first two strikes missed the lock but dented the metal. Changing the position of his arms higher above his head, he swung a third, hitting dead-on.
Nothing.
The fourth hit his leg. He didn't flinch, not even giving any reaction; the pain didn't register, or maybe it did, and he just didn't care.
His world had shrunk to one thought:
Get inside that box.
Swing. Thud. Swing. Thud. Swing. Thud.
Finally, the lock snapped off. Eron threw the wet rock aside, his fingers scraping at the lid, flinging it open. His craving is hitting its peak.
He froze.
The inside of the box contains: No pills, no powder and no escape. Just a few smooth stones and a single note, sealed in a clear bag. He knew the handwriting before he even touched it; his father's graceful and deliberate hand met his gaze.
You are stronger than this.
We love you with all our hearts.
— Mom & Dad
The words shattered him more than any craving ever could. His heart felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon. His body folded in on itself, and tears fell fast and hot, streaking down the dirt on his face.
Acheron let out a scream. It was raw and animalistic and truly heartbreaking.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Oaklen and Ivy had been going through legal documents, stacks of case notes and court summaries spread across their bed. They hadn't touched a single file all weekend, choosing instead to enjoy the rare peace of uninterrupted time with their children. But with Monday looming, duty called.
Oaklen had just finished locking the folders away, preparing to climb into bed, when it happened. A loud, earthshattering scream tore through the stillness of the house.
Eron.
Without a word, both parents bolted from the bed. Oaklen didn't even grab his shirt. They rushed into the hall, instinct pulling them toward Eron's room, though the scream had sounded farther, perhaps, outside.
Kai and Ivo were already at Acheron's door. The room itself was in chaos. Boxes overturned and clothes flung across the floor. The bathroom, being the worst, had its door hung open, the mirror was shattered, and the glass was scattered like jagged ice across the tiles. Small bloody footprints led away from it.
Ivy covered her mouth.
Without needing to speak, the group followed the trail. The smeared prints dragged out into the hall, then down the stairs.
Another scream pierced through the night. They were getting closer.
Acacia joined them at the back door, flashlight in hand. Together, they charged into the garden, the cold night pressing against their skin. They found Acheron by the old tree, surrounded by a mangled bed of flowers and torn earth. His body was caked in mud, his pyjamas drenched in blood. His hands were clawing at his skin, tearing at it, trying to rip something out of him.
He didn't even register them at first.
Then he looked up. Eyes wide, pupils blown. A child, shattered and small, trapped inside a storm. He had tried to stand, but his beaten legs shook in pain.
"Daddy—" Acheron choked, arms stretching for Oaklen. "Make it stop…"
Oaklen didn't hesitate. He lifted him, cradling the trembling frame close to his chest. Acheron whimpered, face buried in his father's shoulder.
The calm didn't last, as soon as they reached the lawn, Acheron screamed again, thrashing violently in his arms.
"Make it stop!" he shrieked. His fingers dug into Oaklen's skin, reopening the shallow gashes.
Kai was already on a call with Camlo. "Get the med bag. Check for the sedative." Urging everyone along.
Oaklen tightened his hold, pinning Acheron's arms against his chest to prevent him from harming himself further. His pace quickened. He struggled to suppress the panic swelling in his chest.
Ivy flung the back door open, her nightgown damp with tears, her face pale with panic.
Inside, Oaklen lowered Acheron onto the couch, pulling Eron's arms above his head, but in the process, Acheron turned his head and bit down on Oaklen's forearm.
A gasp tore from her throat. "Oaklen!" She pulled at Eron's head, trying to pull him off of Oaklen.
"Block his nose!" Kai ordered calmly, kneeling beside them. Ivy obeyed. Acheron held on for a second longer before releasing the bite, breath catching in his throat and blood-stained Oaklen's arm.
Acacia quickly stepped in, gently but firmly securing Acheron's head.
Eron wasn't done. With his upper body restrained, he tried to kick, arching his back, legs flailing. He intended to lift his body off the couch. Ivo, reading the movement a second before it happened, lunged and pinned his legs down. Even with Ivo's full weight, Acheron nearly bucked him off.
How much strength could that small frame contain?
How much pain was he in?
The screaming only got louder, and the whole house trembled with it. Camlo burst into the room at this time, the medical bag clutched in his hands. His face was pale, his eyes glassy.
Kai met him, grabbed the bag, and found the syringe. The sedative was already on top; he'd prepared it days ago, just in case.
He injected it swiftly into Acheron's arm.
"Accompany Lena and the twins," he said softly but firmly to Camlo. Who didn't move, his eyes were locked on Acheron's body, twitching with the drug's slow effect.
"Camlo," Kai said again, firmer.
Cam blinked out of his daze and nodded, and fled the room.
—
Upstairs, Lena sat on the bed with the twins curled in her lap. She'd caught them sneaking down the hallway, drawn by the noise. She didn't scold them. Just ushered them in, wrapped them in blankets, and bribed them with snacks and loud cartoons.
Alen was holding onto her sleeve. His eyes were wide and watery, staring at the door.
Camlo entered silently and climbed in beside them, pulling Alen into his arms. Lena gave him a look, asking without words, but the look on Camlo's face gave her the answer.
She turned the volume of the laptop up, letting the cartoon fill the room with noise, trying to drown out what none of them could bear to hear.
Over time, silence returned.
Not peace.
But stillness.