Noctis fled through the rain-choked alleys, heart hammering in his chest, lungs burning with every ragged breath. The world blurred in streaks of torchlight and shadow—jeers and shouts echoing behind him as he pushed through the twisting lanes. Mud slid beneath his battered shoes, the cold biting through thin fabric.
Each stride was heavier than the last, pain flaring with every scraped bruise and aching memory. He rounded a corner, desperate to outpace the storm of voices gaining ground, when his foot snagged the splintered edge of a broken crate hidden by debris.
He tumbled hard, arms flailing for balance. The impact drove dirt and stones into his knees and palms. His head struck the wet cobblestones with a dull thud—the world tilting, then spinning.
Torches flickered on stone walls above him. Rain pooled in his hair, trickling past his eyes. He tried to rise, but dizziness consumed him—a bright rush of pain behind his eyes, and then everything went black.
The voices faded, replaced by the hollow thunder of his own heart. Alone and knocked to the cold earth, Noctis surrendered to unconsciousness, the last thing he felt the sting of betrayal burning deeper than the pain in his bones.
Darkness pressed against Noctis's senses, swirling with memory as he drifted in and out of consciousness on the cold, rain-soaked stones. The sting of betrayal still burned in his chest, but a deeper ache began to surface—the old wound of abandonment that never truly healed.
In his mind, time twisted backwards. He was eight years old again, kneeling beside his mother on the threadbare rug of their cramped home. Her hands trembled against his hair, tears shining in her eyes as she pressed a promise into his heart: "You're a good boy, Noctis. You'll be brave for us, won't you?"
The room was heavy with silence. Across from them, the stranger waited—a man with gold rings on thick fingers and a voice that rolled like thunder. He spoke of debts and survival, bargains struck where love was just another thing to be traded.
His father wouldn't meet his eyes. Shadows crawled across the man's face as coins exchanged hands. Noctis felt something inside him fray—a thread snapping as he realized what was happening.
"Mama, please—don't go! I'll do anything; just don't leave me!" His voice broke with a desperation too raw for words. But her lips only brushed his forehead, soft and frantic: "Don't cry, darling. Be good. Promise you'll listen."
The promise he was forced to make, in a room that had grown too quiet and cold.
Back in the present, Noctis's vision pulsed with lightning and pain. Rob and Magi's faces swam through the dark, each etched with the same fear and uncertainty he'd always carried. He understood now—what he was searching for in their friendship, why that fragile oath mattered so much.
He had needed to believe that someone would choose him, that togetherness could be stronger than hunger or fear. He'd made the promise to stay, to never leave, as a shield against that old wound—against the emptiness left behind when his family traded love for survival.
Now, with the street cold against his skin and the taste of blood mingling with rain, Noctis felt the promise cracking inside him. The memories of abandonment and the fresh sting of betrayal tangled together, pulling him into an abyss of despair—a place where hope dared not shine.
In that darkness, as unconsciousness swallowed his pain, Noctis came to a bleak realization:
Promises could not protect him from the world. Not from hunger. Not from betrayal. Not from the kind of loneliness that started long before anyone knew his name.
And somewhere, deep inside, something began to change—a quiet resolve hardening in his chest, sharper than any broken bone. If he was to live now, it would not be through hope or promises. It would be through fury, survival, and a heart finally learning to trust nothing but its own strength.