Ethan Knox - October 2120
After everything finally went quiet, no alarms, no shouting, no blood staining the ground, Daniel told me what happened at the warehouse.
Not clearly, not all at once. The words came in pieces, like each one cost him something to say.
He told me Ray couldn't keep working for a so called revolutionary while protecting the very people he claimed to be fighting against.
Ray gave up on Trinity because of me.
Because I brought Kai here.
He knew there was no world where I would ever let him touch Kai, no version of this where I'd stand by and let it happen, so instead of fighting for what he built, he chose to turn his back on all of us. He betrayed Trinity without hesitation, because in his eyes, keeping Kai alive was already enough to make us his enemy.
And somehow, even knowing all of that, it's not what stays with me the most.
It's Isaac.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him on the floor, completely still, the kind of stillness that doesn't leave room for doubt. There was too much blood, far more than there should have been, and his eyes… they weren't just empty, they were absent, like whatever made him him had already left long before anyone could do anything about it.
I brought him there and that thought doesn't sit quietly. It presses in, constant and suffocating.
I should have gone alone. I knew how dangerous it was, I'd seen enough glimpses of how it could end, and I still chose to take him with me as if I could control the outcome just by being there.
Or maybe I shouldn't have gone at all.
Maybe if I had stayed back, if I had let things unfold without interfering, none of this would have happened the way it did.
But then that thought twists into something worse, because if I hadn't gone, Kai wouldn't have come after us.
He was already at his limit, already stretched thin in ways most people wouldn't survive, and I knew that. I felt it every time a vision slipped through, every time the future shifted just enough to show me how close he was to breaking.
And I still let it happen.
I still became the reason he had to push himself further.
Or maybe it started even earlier than that. If I had just convinced Noah to stay that night, if I had tried a little harder or said the right thing at the right moment, he wouldn't have been taken in the first place and none of this would have unfolded the way it did.
Every path I follow leads back to the same point.
To me.
The guilt didn't build slowly. It crashed down the second I woke up, heavy and immediate, like my body had been holding it back just long enough for me to rest before forcing me to feel all of it at once.
I'd been so focused on Kai, so consumed by the need to keep him safe, to keep him alive, that everything else faded into the background. I didn't think about the wider consequences, didn't stop to consider what it would cost anyone else.
I didn't think about Isaac, about Trinity.
I thought I was protecting the future, shaping it into something better. Instead, all I did was choose the version of it that hurt the most.
And now I'm stuck in it.
I can't face anyone, because I already know what they'll say. They'll tell me it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have known, that I did what anyone would have done, and none of it will change anything.
It won't change what I saw.
It won't change what happened.
It won't change the fact that Kai almost died because of me.
So I stay in my room, letting the walls close in around me because it feels easier than stepping outside and pretending I'm still the same person I was before all of this. There's no energy left for that kind of performance, no way to force myself back into something that feels normal when everything underneath it has shifted.
I can't smile like nothing's wrong, can't soften it or hide it or make it easier for anyone else to look at, because none of this is okay...
A knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts, dragging me back into something that almost feels like reality.
I don't move, not at the first knock and not at the other a few seconds later. I can hear Finns voice on the other side, the faint shift of his weight, the pause between each knock stretching just long enough to feel deliberate, like he's waiting for me to give in.
But I don't.
Because opening that door means facing it properly, not just in flashes or fragments but all at once, solid and unavoidable. It means acknowledging Kai lying there, unmoving, not waking up, and the thought that keeps circling no matter how hard I try to push it away.
Because of me.
"Ethan?"
Finn's voice is careful, controlled, like he's choosing each word before he lets it out, like I'm something fragile that might splinter if he presses too hard.
It's too late for that.
I press my hand harder against my face and drag it down slowly, trying to ground myself, trying to steady my breathing before it slips out of control again, but it doesn't help.
Nothing really does. Every time I close my eyes, it all comes back in sharp, relentless flashes, the moment Kai collapsed, the way everything spiralled so quickly I couldn't catch it, couldn't redirect it, couldn't do anything except watch it unfold in real time.
I should have stopped it. I should have seen it coming...
Another knock follows, a little firmer this time, and Finn tries again, quieter but more certain.
"Ethan, it's me, Finn."
Like I don't already know.
I stay silent, staring at nothing, focusing on the stillness inside the room as if it can drown out everything outside of it. If I don't answer, if I don't react, maybe he'll take the hint and leave, and I can stay here a little longer where nothing is expected of me and nothing has to be faced.
The handle at the door shifts, but it's locked.
There's a pause after that, long enough that for a moment I think he might give up, but then-
"Ethan."
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
Noah.
He's awake, of course he is already moving around like nothing happened, like he didn't almost die, like his body wasn't pushed past every limit it has.
"If you don't open the door," he continues, his tone calm and even, like this is just another problem to solve, "I will find another way in."
A quiet, humourless breath leaves me as I shake my head, even though he can't see it.
"Go away" I say, my voice rough, worn thin from everything sitting in my chest.
There's no hesitation.
"No."
Of course not.
"I said go away" I repeat, louder this time, frustration pushing through the exhaustion.
"That's not a productive response. Now open the door."
Something in me snaps at that, quick and sharp.
"You don't get to tell me what's productive right now," I shoot back, my voice cracking despite how hard I try to keep it steady. "Just leave."
There's a brief silence, just enough to make me think it might have worked, but it doesn't last.
"You're assigning blame incorrectly," Noah says, his voice as composed as ever. "Your conclusion lacks sufficient evidence."
I stare at the door, disbelief flooding in so fast it almost dulls the anger, but instead it sharpens it. My hand lashes out without thinking, knocking something off the table beside me, the crash loud in the quiet room.
"Are you serious right now?" I snap. "Kai's in that condition because of me."
"No," Noah replies immediately. "He's in that condition because of multiple variables, including my own actions. If you're assigning responsibility, I am the more logical choice."
That makes me pause, not completely, but enough to interrupt the spiral. It's not what I expected him to say, and for a second the anger falters under the weight of it.
The silence stretches, and before I can overthink it, I move. My hand reaches for the lock, and the click sounds louder than it should as I pull the door open just enough to see him.
He looks awful, pale and unsteady, like he's been dragged back from somewhere he wasn't meant to return from and hasn't fully settled into himself yet. There's a slight imbalance in the way he stands, something subtle he's trying to hide but can't quite mask.
And he's still here, still standing, still acting like everything is under control.
"You look like crap" I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
"I'm aware" he replies, like it's nothing worth dwelling on.
My eyes flick over him again, taking in every detail he's pretending doesn't matter, the tension in his posture, the way he's holding himself together through sheer will.
"You shouldn't be out of bed."
"That assessment has already been made and I chose to ignore it."
A short, disbelieving breath escapes me. "You're unbelievable."
"Not relevant," he says. "What is relevant is that your current behaviour is counterproductive."
I let out something that almost sounds like a laugh, but there's no humour in it.
"I'm not doing this with you right now."
"You are," he says, meeting my eyes without flinching. "Because isolating yourself does not improve Kai's condition."
"It doesn't make it worse either."
"It does," he replies. "You're removing a stabilising factor."
That makes me hesitate, just slightly, and he steps closer, not enough to crowd me but enough that I can't ignore him.
"You being out there with the others matters," he says, more deliberate now. "Whether you acknowledge it or not."
I look away, my jaw tightening as everything he's saying presses against everything I feel.
"I should have done more," I admit quietly. "I should have stopped it, seen it earlier, changed something."
"That's not how this works," he says. "You're applying hindsight to a situation that didn't allow for it."
"That doesn't change anything."
"It does," he insists. "Because your conclusion is wrong."
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration and exhaustion tangling together. "You don't get it."
"I do."
I look back at him, shaking my head. "No, you don't."
For a moment nothing changes in his expression, but something shifts underneath it, something quieter.
"I nearly lost him too" he says.
The words land harder than anything else he's said.
"And unlike you, I was directly responsible for the outcome."
That takes the rest of the fight out of me. It doesn't erase the guilt, but it shifts it just enough that I don't know where to put it anymore.
"So if you're going to assign blame," he adds, "at least assign it correctly. Then decide if isolating yourself is still the best option."
Silence settles between us again, but this time it isn't as suffocating. I hate that part of me is listening, and I hate even more that part of me knows he isn't entirely wrong.
After a moment, I step back, slow and reluctant. It's not an invitation, not really, but it's not a rejection either. I don't have the energy left to keep shutting him out, to keep holding everything in place like that will somehow stop it from falling apart.
And somewhere beneath the guilt and the exhaustion, there's something quieter, something I don't want to examine too closely.
Maybe I don't actually want to be alone.