The rain always fell in Lokni, and the sky perpetually sat in an overcast state. The world in this land was monochrome, existing only in shades of gray.
Cole sat alone, his heart pounding, his hands shaking—trembling from what he had done.
His hands!
Stained. A shade so striking, so unnerving. So vibrant—like nothing he had ever seen, the sight was new, but it instantly set his nerves ablaze.
And the smell... It was strong.
Like iron.
Fire and rusting iron.
Alex Blight was a bitter man. He knew this himself, but who could blame him?
Father of two.
Two worthless little brats.
And the girl—she looked so much like…
He choked down his anger with another swig of bourbon.
The disheveled man sat in the back corner of the bar, dark circles under his eyes as he sipped his "medication." In a place where the sun never shone, bourbon seemed like the only thing that could chase the gray skies away.
Alex felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
George Morgan—the old bartender. An old friend. Or at least, he had been once.
Alex had a habit of burning bridges.
"You've had enough," George said, softening his grip but not removing it.
Alex started to protest, but George cut him off.
"You've been here since 1600. It's 2100 now. I'm saying this as your friend—if I weren't, I'd let you sit there drinking yourself into a stupor. Go home, Alex."
Alex opened his mouth, but George spoke again.
"You were a hero once. I say once because it's hard to see the man who saved my life all those years ago. I want to see him again—and those kids need him too. So I'm asking you, as the last real friend you've got left—go home. Get a good night's rest and be the man who would do anything to make a better future."
Alex went home after that.
He had been a hero once, and he knew his younger self would chastise him for what he'd become.
But that bright-eyed kid hadn't seen what he had—the blood, the smoke, the smell of iron.
As Alex stumbled down the street, his mind drifted back. He remembered the pain. The fear. And the relief—when he woke up in Lokin Medical.
It had all been a bad dream.
Then reality set in, as someone shouted, "He's awake!", and dozens of doctors and orderlies surrounded his bed.
A coma. That's what the doctors told him.
Alex had run into a building that was being bombarded to pull his comrades from the rubble. He saved twelve men that day.
The last thing he remembered was pulling Jonny Dotsen from a pile of ash and rocks. Jonny had a nasty burn on his right leg and was bleeding from a cut on his head. He was barely eighteen and crying—sobs of a boy sent into an unforgiving world to fight the wars of old fools sitting far away in their manors, sipping wine by the fire.
Alex hoisted him on his back and ran through the smoke, determined to give the boy a second chance.
Then the world went black.
A mortar shell had landed right behind him.
The only reason he survived was because Jonny had taken most of the impact.
It was cruel—the boy he was trying to save had died in his place.
Alex was found about eighty feet from where the blast had detonated. He was covered in dust and blood. Fragments of bone riddled the back of his Kevlar vest. One of the young medics nearly fainted while pulling bone fragments from Alex's arm—then realized one was a human tooth.
The next thing Alex remembered was waking up in that hospital bed in Lokin.
He should have died that day—alongside Jonny.
He was hailed as a hero.
Given medals.
Asked to give speeches.
But no matter how many mothers thanked him for saving their sons, or how many two-faced congressmen's hands he shook, nothing could shake the feeling of worthlessness inside him.
Alex was tired. He was ready for it all to end.
He drove to Cormen Bridge, named in honor of the many young men who had lost their lives in service to a "greater cause."
A greater cause.
Alex laughed to himself—as if the agendas and grudges of old men in gated halls were something worth dying for.
Jonny's name was somewhere on one of the steel beams that held up the bridge.
Maybe that's why he came—to say goodbye. Or maybe hello.
Alex stepped closer to the edge, staring down into the rippling darkness.
He inched forward—
—and then came the sound of screeching tires.
Rubber bursting.
Metal twisting.
An old white car flipped end over end, grinding to a halt with sparks flying.
Alex sprinted toward the wreck.
He wasn't the broken man anymore.
He was the man who had saved those twelve men.
The one who believed every life was precious.
Smoke poured from the car.
He strained his eyes to see the small figure inside.
Gasoline.
The door wouldn't budge.
Alex spotted a red-hot piece of metal dislodged during the crash. He tore a sleeve from his shirt and wrapped it around his hands. Grabbing the smoldering hunk of metal, he pried the door open.
He scooped up the unconscious woman and pulled her from the wreckage just as the car burst into flames.
He checked her pulse on the bridge.
She was alive—barely.
And as the sirens screamed, waking the sleepy city, Alex held her and breathed for the first time in years.
The young woman lay bandaged in the hospital.
Even in her condition, Alex found her stunning.
Her name was Vivian.
Alex began visiting her room daily.
He brought flowers.
They talked.
They laughed.
They became close—and then something more.
He remembered fondly the night he proposed.
Nine months later, on that same bridge, he got down on one knee.
"The night we met… I know you think I saved your life, but in truth—you saved mine. My life felt so empty. You pulled me from despair. You're my light. My life. I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?"
He thought his heart might explode when she said yes.
Vivian became his world.
Their son was born first.
They named him Cole, after Vivian's brother who had died in the war.
Then came news of their second child. But joy quickly turned to dread.
There were complications. The baby would survive—but Vivian might not.
The doctors recommended an abortion.
Vivian refused.
"I love you. I will always be with you. When you hold her, think of me."
Those were her last words.
Alex held the small girl in his hands—the one who had taken his Vivi.
He was angry. So angry.
But he remembered Vivian's words.
Alex tried to be a good father.
Someone Vivian could be proud of.
But time didn't heal. It only deepened the wounds.
His heart—or part of it—died that day.
And the more time passed, the more Vanessa reminded him of her mother…
And the less he could bear to look at her.
He returned to drinking.
That night, Vanessa was in the kitchen making dinner when her father stumbled through the door. He reeked of alcohol—he always did—but something was different. He looked possessed. Fire burned in his eyes, and that fire was aimed at her.
She backed up as he lumbered forward.
He grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the floor.
"It's your fault! You killed her! You took my world—you took my Vivi!"
Vanessa screamed. She kicked, cried out for her father to stop.
That's when Cole walked in.
He had a knife in his hand.
"Let her go," he said.
Alex threw Vanessa aside and marched toward Cole, screaming for him to hand over the knife.
Vanessa bolted out the door to the neighbors, dialing the cops.
"Give me the knife, Cole!" Alex hissed.
When Cole didn't respond, Alex lunged.
Cole's hand slipped.
The knife went deep into Alex's side.
Alex crumpled to the floor, still clutching his son's arms.
In one final moment of clarity, he whispered:
"Forgive me, Cole. Forgive me, Vivian. I've been a horrid mess of a bastard."
And with that, the curtain fell on Alex Blight.
His body grew pale.
He didn't move.
And Cole, now alone, stared down at his bloodstained hands—struck with terror at what he had done.