Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Location: Sarasota Springs, Florida
Date: Saturday, May 3rd, 2007
Time: 5:04 PM

The attic was quiet—so quiet that Bob could hear the soft hum of cicadas through the slanted, dust-flecked windows. The Florida sun cast golden streaks across the attic floorboards, catching on long-forgotten corners and half-filled shelves stacked with old board games, shoeboxes, and sun-warped CD cases. A boxy TV sat in the corner, screen dark but surrounded by VHS tapes with hand-written labels. It smelled like warm dust, wood, but to Bob, it was peaceful. 

It was the only place in the house that felt like it belonged to him . His parents never came up here. No yelling, no slammed doors. Just stillness.

He was curled up on the smaller of the two lumpy couches, knees drawn to his chest. In his hands sat a Rubik’s Cube, the soft, methodical clicking of shifting tiles filling the air like a heartbeat. Bob liked puzzles. They gave his hands something to do, kept his brain moving so he wouldn’t have to sit too long in the dark places of his mind. The Rubik’s Cube had been a birthday present from his mother. He had just turned ten the week before.

He hadn’t expected anything. His mom forgot things—especially birthdays. Especially his. The drugs made her brain slippery, like sand running through your fingers. And even if she remembered, his father would usually make sure no money was spent on anything "stupid." But the cube had shown up one day in a little wrinkled paper bag, and she'd looked almost proud handing it to him, her eyes glassy but hopeful. It was the first thing she’d given him in over a year.

The cube slipped between his fingers as he turned it again, orange aligning with orange, green to green.

Then—a crash.

Bob flinched.

It echoed through the floorboards beneath him, the sudden thump of wood against tile followed by the low, sharp growl of his father’s voice. Bob crawled to the edge of the attic space and peered down through the narrow slats between the boards. The Kitchen swam into view at broken angles.

His father stood towering above his mother, the old kitchen chair on its side beside them. Bob couldn’t make out the words, but the tone told him everything. It wasn’t rage—it was something colder, more dangerous. Something steady and controlled.

Then it happened. His father’s hand came up and struck her across the face.

Bob gasped. The Rubik’s Cube slipped from his hands and bounced softly onto the floor.

His father had never hit her before. Grabbed her? Yes. Pulled, shoved, yelled—yes. But never this. That was saved for Bob.

His breath caught in his chest, adrenaline flooding. For a moment he stayed frozen. Then he stood slowly, shakily and crept to the attic door. He eased it open, the wood groaning under the movement, and slipped down the stairs. Each step felt like glass beneath his bare feet.

He rounded the corner to the living room doorway, heart hammering.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the day everything started to get worse.

Bob could feel his own breath hitching. His hands started to shake.

Then his father raised his hand again.

Bob didn’t think. His voice came out before he knew he’d spoken.

"Dad?"

His father’s head snapped around like a whip. His eyes narrowed.

"What?"

Bob’s voice cracked. "L-Leave Mom alone."

The room went still.

His father’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into slits. "What did you just say to me, Robert?"

Bob swallowed hard. His voice dropped to a mumble, eyes flickering between the floor and the fury etched across his father’s face.

"I said... leave her alone."

His father took a step forward. Bob forced himself not to back away.

"Speak up, boy."

Suddenly his father lunged, grabbing Bob by the arm and yanking him forward. Bob gasped, pain lancing up his arm.

His father's grip was iron-tight.

"Too scared now, huh? Think you're some kind of man? Standing up for your mommy now, huh?"

Bob looked to his mother. She sat frozen, her face expressionless, only the tight furrow of her brows betraying anything beneath.

"You think you're the man of this house? HUH?"

Bob didn’t answer fast enough.

The grip tightened to an unbearable point. Bob winced, eyes welling with tears.

"What, you gonna cry now? That it? Answer me, Robert!"

Bob tried to nod, his throat too dry, too locked up with fear to speak.

His father's hand came fast. A sharp backhand cracked across Bob’s cheek, the sound echoing through the house.

He stumbled back, eyes blurry with tears and stars. His cheek burned. His lip stung. Blood.

"ANSWER ME!" his father roared.

"Y-Yes!" Bob shouted, the word tumbling out, ragged and panicked.

"I CAN’T HEAR YOU!"

"I SAID YES!" Bob screamed.

Silence followed. His mother flinched. His father looked briefly stunned.

Then the anger returned fast.

"Watch your damn tone with me, boy."

And then, somehow—Bob stood his ground. His knees shook. His jaw trembled. But his voice, this time, came clearer.

"Leave Mom alone."

His father's fist curled. Bob barely had time to see it before the punch connected with his face.

He hit the floor hard, the world tilting sideways. A copper tang filled his mouth. His lip split, blood dripping down his chin. His head throbbed from the impact, vision swimming.

He tried to lift his head—tried to say something, anything—but a boot caught him in the ribs. Bob wheezed, the air leaving his lungs. Lightheadedness washed over him.

From somewhere above, he heard his mother shout, "Enough! Stop it, stop it, you're going to kill him!"

Bob tried to reach for her voice.

"Mom..."

Another crash. Her scream. His father’s growl.

Then—

Darkness.

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Bob awoke slowly, still on the kitchen floor. Every inch of his body protested as he sat up. Dried blood cracked on his lips. His cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing pain, and his ribs ached where his father's boot had pressed down with cruel precision. Moonlight spilled in from the window, casting long, pale shadows across the room.

The house was silent now—unnaturally so. As if it had buried the chaos from earlier beneath its floorboards.

Bob staggered to his feet, legs weak beneath him, and made his way down the dark hallway. On the way to his bedroom, he passed the open doorway to his parents’ room. They were asleep. Curled up together under their blanket, their faces calm, untouched by what had happened just hours earlier. It was like nothing had happened at all.

Bob stared at them for a moment. Something twisted in his chest—a sick, heavy feeling that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was betrayal. A terrible, hollow kind of sadness, like something inside him had been knocked loose and was now floating untethered.

He reached his room and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. The sheets curled around him like arms, warm and familiar, but the comfort was short-lived. That twisting feeling in his gut had moved, creeping up into his lungs. It sat there like smoke, dense and choking, making it hard to breathe. The soft cotton of his blanket began to feel too tight, too hot—like it was pressing down on him instead of holding him.

He kicked the covers off and sat upright, gulping air. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not like this.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He crept back up to the attic.

The air was cool and stale. Familiar. Safe, in its own way. He pulled down one of the puzzle boxes from the shelf and dumped the pieces onto the floor, the soft rattle of cardboard and plastic a welcome distraction.

Piece by piece, he began sorting them. Edges in one pile. Colors in another. His fingers moved quickly, robotically. He needed them to keep moving. If they stopped, if he gave himself even a second to think, the panic would creep in.

Puzzles made sense. They had rules. Borders. A right answer. They gave his hands purpose and kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go. When the world felt too big, too cruel, puzzles shrank it into something manageable—into small, tangible pieces he could hold and control.

But even that wasn’t enough tonight.

His breathing hitched. His throat tightened. He blinked hard, trying to keep the tears back, but they came anyway—silent, steady, falling onto the puzzle pieces below. One slipped from his hand. A sob forced its way up his throat.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders shook uncontrollably. The pieces blurred. He couldn’t stop the shaking. Couldn’t find the air.

One—two—three.

Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

He stumbled toward the couch and pulled the throw blanket down, wrapping it tightly around himself. Curled into a ball, he rocked slightly, grounding himself with the feeling of fabric against his skin. The panic began to ease, just a little. His breathing slowed. The tears still came, but quieter now.

Eventually, the exhaustion won.

Sleep took hold of him where he lay, cradled by shadows and the broken edges of a half-finished puzzle.

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When morning came Bob stretched out winching as he pulled at his bruises his footsteps light as he made his way down the steps. He crossed the doorway of his parents bedroom. His father was nowhere to be seen but his mother stood there, half-illuminated by hallway light, the other obscured by shadow.

He tried to say something to her, but before he could form the words, she slowly, silently closed the door in his face.

Bob stood there for a moment, numb. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe she just needed sleep. Maybe it was the drugs. He swallowed the thought and turned away.

Over the next few days, Bob didn’t see his mother again. Not really. Sometimes he’d hear movement in her room, the click of the bathroom door, the creak of her bed. But when he knocked, there was no response. When he passed her in the hallway, she looked through him like he wasn’t there. 

Her eyes were vacant—flat, empty, like something behind them had finally burned out for good. Bob would try to say hello. She wouldn’t answer.

Meanwhile, his father’s temper grew shorter and sharper. He snapped at nothing. Sometimes at the television. Sometimes at the walls. Sometimes even at the empty air. The sound of his yelling became part of the fabric of the house.

Bob tried to stay quiet. To stay out of the way. He started doing more chores without being asked. He stopped asking for help with homework. He ate his meals quickly and alone, cleaning up before anyone could notice he’d been there. He didn’t speak unless spoken to.

But none of it mattered. His father would find something anyway. A dish left slightly wet. A towel not folded right. A sigh that sounded too much like disrespect. Any excuse to lash out.

The weight in Bob’s chest became something constant . At first it came and went, sharp and crushing during the fights. But now—it was just there. Always. Like a second heart beating slow and heavy in his ribcage. He stopped noticing the exact moments it would hit. It wasn’t panic anymore. It was a numb sort of dread. A quiet ache that blurred the days together.

And with it came the disconnection.

He no longer cried. Not even during the worst of it. The emotions felt too far away, like watching someone else’s life through frosted glass. Sometimes he imagined himself as a character in a show—just a role to play. If he acted right, stayed in line, maybe the story would end differently.

But it didn’t.

One night, after another long string of screaming and accusations, Bob limped up the attic steps without a word. The house had gone quiet again, save for the faint hiss of the TV downstairs. He was bruised, inside and out, but he didn’t flinch anymore when he looked in the mirror.

He walked to the old TV in the corner and sifted through the VHS tapes, fingers brushing past old cartoons and recordings of forgotten home movies. Then he found one—a black plastic case with a faded label: “Ultra Justice 9: Rise of Solaris.”

No one remembered that movie. It hadn’t even been that good. But Bob had watched it a dozen times.

He pushed the tape in and sat down on the couch, wrapping himself in a blanket. The screen crackled to life, and the grainy, oversaturated opening credits began to roll.

The hero in the film had no powers. Just gadgets. Wits. And the belief that anyone could be saved.

Bob watched as Solaris saved civilians from explosions, fought villains ten times his size, and always got back up. He never stayed down.

Bob’s eyelids grew heavy. The screen flickered in front of him, casting faint blue shadows across the attic walls.

As sleep pulled at him, he whispered the words so faintly they could barely be heard.

"I wish a hero would save me."

Chapter Text

Location: Sarasota Springs, Florida
Date: October 2nd, 2010
Time: 12:03 AM

The library was quiet, save for the occasional cough or shuffle of papers. Pale fluorescent lights hummed overhead, giving the room a soft sterile glow. Bob, thirteen years old, sat alone at a long wooden table near the back, his shoulders curled over his paperwork like a shell trying to hide from the world. 

The surrounding tables buzzed with small groups of students whispering and laughing. They huddled over group assignments or traded stories about their day, their words bleeding together into background static. None of them looked Bob's way.

He didn’t mind. Not outwardly, at least. His pen scratched diligently across the worksheet in front of him. But inside, the silence was never really silent.

"You’re all alone."

The voice had started earlier this year, sometime after middle school began. It didn’t sound like his father's or anyone else's. It was just... a presence. A dark echo. A whisper that crept into his thoughts and folded itself into his every moment of stillness.

"No one wants to sit with you."

His grip tightened on the pen.

"You’re alone."

The voice repeated it, again and again, until it felt like a drumbeat in his skull.

"Alone. Alone. Alone."

Thud. A book landed on the table in front of him. Bob jumped slightly, head snapping up. The sound cut through the spiral of thoughts like cold water.

A boy—someone from his grade—slid into the seat across from him. Bob didn’t know his name, but they shared a few classes. The boy gave a small nod, then pulled out a textbook and notebook. He didn’t say anything else, just started writing.

The quiet scratching of the boy’s pencil was rhythmic, oddly comforting. Bob turned back to his own work, though now he kept stealing glances across the table. The voice was still there, but... muted.

Why did he sit here?

As if sensing the glance, the boy looked up. Their eyes met, and Bob immediately looked away, stomach tightening.

"He’s just being nice. He’ll leave soon."

But the boy didn’t leave. He tilted his head slightly, then said, "Umm... I’m Noah."

Bob blinked, surprised. "Oh. Um—Bob."

Noah gave a shy smile. "I just... I’ve noticed you’re always doing puzzles. Like your Rubik’s cube."

Bob looked at him, then into his bag. He pulled out the cube it was scuffed at the edges, a little faded but still bright and set it on the table.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Had it for a while."

"I don’t get how you do it so fast," Noah said, eyes wide with curiosity.

Bob shrugged, then started twisting the cube to scramble it. "You wanna try?"

"Seriously?"

Bob nodded and handed it over. Noah took it, his fingers fumbling a bit. He turned the sides randomly, brow furrowed. After a few moments, he laughed awkwardly. "I think I made it worse."

Bob chuckled, the sound soft and rare. "Here."

He took it back and, in a few smooth twists, solved it. Noah stared.

"Dude. How did you even—"

Bob just gave another small shrug. "I dunno. Just... keeps my hands busy. Helps me think."

Noah smiled, then hesitated. "Hey, um... do you play chess?"

Bob shook his head. "Never learned."

"Can I teach you?" Noah asked.

Bob blinked again. A small, unfamiliar warmth stirred in his chest. "Sure."

They gathered their things and walked down the dim hallways, past the janitor’s cart and through the double doors into a nearby study room where several chess sets were kept. Noah eagerly set up the board and explained the pieces. Bob watched intently.

They played through trial rounds, Noah explaining strategies and guiding Bob’s hands when he made mistakes. Every time Bob’s inner voice whispered— you’re messing it up, you look stupid —Noah calmly corrected him or just smiled, never mocking.

Hours passed. By the time they packed up, the clock neared 3AM.

"You’re good at this," Noah said.

Bob gave a soft smile. "It’s... fun. Thanks."

They agreed to meet again later that week.

As Bob stepped out into the night, he noticed the chill, but it didn’t burrow into his bones like usual. The familiar dread crawled up his spine as he neared home, but this time, it wasn’t overwhelming.

He opened the front door slowly. The lights were off. His father lay on the couch, a beer bottle dangling from limp fingers. Bob held his breath as he crept past, careful not to wake him.

Upstairs, he slipped into his room, sat on the edge of his bed, and exhaled. The joy from earlier that night flickered faintly inside him. Small. Fragile. But real.

It had been so long since he felt like he mattered to someone. Since he had learned something new and liked it. Since someone had seen him and chosen to stay.

He curled into his sheets and, for the first time in a long time, didn’t cry himself to sleep.

He dreamed of checkered boards and solved puzzles. And a voice, not the cruel one in his head, but one outside of it—calm, kind, and steady—saying:

"You’re not alone."

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The weeks that followed brought something new for Bob—something quiet but powerful. His afternoons with Noah became routine. Most days after school, they'd hole up in a quiet corner of the library or one of the study rooms, playing chess, working through puzzles, or simply sitting in companionable silence. 

The voice in Bob's head—the one that used to gnaw at him relentlessly—had grown quieter with each passing day. Sometimes, he forgot it was even there.

Noah was patient. He explained strategies and listened when Bob mumbled through questions. They'd talk between games, conversations drifting from books and classwork to weird dreams and favorite snacks. 

Bob found himself smiling more often, laughing even, and when they parted ways in the late evenings, he always felt a little lighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a friend. And that mattered more than he could say.

But not all routines were safe. 

One overcast Thursday, Bob was packing his things when his mom appeared at the school gates. It was the first time he’d seen her in weeks. Her hair was unkempt, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, but there was a strange urgency in her voice.

"Come on, Robert. I need your help with something."

He hesitated, unsure, but nodded. He hadn't ridden in a car with her in months.

They drove in silence for a while, the Florida sun leaking through the windshield, painting everything in gold. Bob glanced over. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her shoulders stiff. Something in her expression unsettled him.

“Mom?” he asked, shifting in his seat. “Are you... are you high right now?”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw twitched. She just kept driving.

“Mom, seriously. You need to pull over. Please.”

Still no response. Her grip only tightened.

Bob’s voice rose. “Mom. Pull over. Now.”

Finally, she turned her head to look at him glasses slipping down—and what he saw sent a cold jolt through his chest. Her eyes were misted, glossed over with both tears and the dull haze of drugs. But it wasn’t just that. It was what was behind them: nothing. No clarity. No warmth. Just a deep, terrible emptiness.

“This is for the best,” she whispered hoarsely. “ You always made it worse.”

The words hit him like a slap. Every ounce of air left his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs.

You always made it worse.

“Mom, please!”

A blaring horn snapped both of their heads forward. A truck was hurtling toward them at the intersection. Bob barely had time to think. Instinct took over. He lunged forward, grabbing the steering wheel, trying to swerve.

Tires screamed. Metal twisted. Glass exploded.

Everything went black.

There was no time to brace for it, no time to scream. The last thing that echoed in Bob’s mind wasn’t his mother’s words, or even the horn. It was the voice—the one he thought had disappeared—slipping back in like smoke under a locked door:

"Even your own mother doesn’t want you around."

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The world returned in fragments.

First came the smell—bleach, antiseptic, the faint trace of plastic and latex. Then the light, harsh and artificial, burned behind his eyelids. And finally, pain—a dull, distant ache that bloomed from somewhere deep in his chest.

Bob’s eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was white, far too white, the kind that made everything else look blurry around the edges. His vision swam for a moment before the sterile landscape of a hospital room came into focus.

Monitors beeped rhythmically beside him. An IV line ran into his arm, feeding some kind of liquid into his veins. Bandages wrapped his ribs, and he could feel gauze taped to the side of his head.

Then, like a wave crashing over him, everything came back.

The car. His mother. Her voice. That look in her eyes.

This is for the best.
You always made it worse.

Panic clawed its way up his throat.

“No—wait—Mom?” he croaked, voice raw.

He lurched forward, trying to sit up, yanking at the wires attached to his wrist. One of the monitors began to beep erratically. He twisted in bed, eyes darting around the room, searching—hoping—for any sign of her.

“Mom?!” he gasped, louder this time.

But no one answered. The room spun. The panic boiled into terror. His breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as if the air had thinned. The voice, the one that had been gone, roared back with brutal force:

"She’s gone."
"She meant it."
"Even your own mother didn’t want you around."

His head throbbed. He could hear shouting in the distance, muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. Nurses poured into the room, hands on his shoulders and arms, trying to steady him, calm him down. But their mouths moved without sound. He couldn’t hear them.

He was slipping.

The light in the room pulsed. His vision tunneled. And then—

Darkness again.

The second time he woke, it was quieter. Softer. The panic had dulled into something distant, like it belonged to someone else. His limbs felt heavier, but the ache in his chest had lessened. His mind was no longer buzzing with static.

“Hey there,” a voice said gently.

Bob turned his head slowly. A nurse sat beside him, clipboard on her lap. Her smile was tired but kind.

“You gave us quite the scare,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”

He blinked at her, disoriented. “We… we crashed. The car.”

“You were in a car accident,” she confirmed, voice careful. “You’ve got a concussion and some bruised ribs, but you’re going to be okay.”

Then his heart jumped. “My mom?”

The nurse hesitated, and that was enough.

He could read it in her face. It was all there—in the shift of her posture, the softening of her voice.

“I’m so sorry, Robert,” she said, her eyes brimming. “She didn’t make it.”

He sank back into the pillows. Her words barely registered.

Didn’t make it.

But it wasn’t just that. It was her last words, echoing again:

You always made it worse.

He stared at the blank white ceiling.

The nurse kept talking, filling the silence, but Bob barely heard her. He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He felt hollow. Like something had cracked open inside him and emptied out.

She reached for his IV. “Just a little more morphine to help with the pain,” she murmured.

There was a small pinch. Then warmth.

A strange calm washed over him again, thick and soft. The noise in his head—the voice, the fear, the memory of his mother’s face—it all faded into the background, as if it were happening to someone else.

He blinked slowly. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world didn’t hurt.

The nurse stood to leave. “You should rest.”

He didn’t answer.

The days that followed blurred together.

Every few hours, someone would come in. Nurses. Doctors. A social worker once. They spoke gently, moved carefully. Bob responded when he needed to, nodded when expected. But inside, he was far away.

There were only two times the haze cleared—when the morphine began to wear off, and when they pushed a new dose through his IV.

When the pain returned, so did the voice.

"You made it worse." 
"You should’ve died too."
"You’re alone again."

But then the morphine would come, and the voice would vanish like fog in the sun.

It was like flipping a switch.

The relief was addictive.

He began to count the hours. Watching the clock. Waiting for the nurses. Anticipating that soft pinch in his wrist, the warm spread in his veins. He never asked for it outright—he didn’t have to. They brought it to him like clockwork.

And each time, he welcomed it like an old friend.

Pain faded. Voices quieted. Nothingness wrapped around him like a blanket.

Bob Reynolds was thirteen years old, and for the first time in his life, he understood why people needed to escape.

He wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

He craved it.

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A week passed. Then another. Bob’s stay was extended twice.

One afternoon, he overheard the doctors speaking just outside his room—low, cautious voices that weren’t meant for him. They spoke about his discharge, wondering when his father would finally come get him.

One of the doctors mentioned, almost grimly, that his father hadn’t visited once. Another pointed out bruises during the initial exam—ones too old, too faded, to be from the accident.

Bob’s stomach clenched. Panic surged again.

If he left the hospital, what would happen to him?

Out there, the voice was louder. Out there, there would be no morphine. Out there, there was his father.

This hospital—these fluorescent walls and clinical beeps—had become his refuge. It was the only place he’d felt peace. Safe in silence . He couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not like this.

So when the doctor finally walked in, clipboard in hand, and asked gently, “How are you feeling, Bob? Better?”

Bob blurted out, “No.”

The word came before he could stop it. Sharp. Desperate.

The doctor blinked in surprise, his brow creasing. “No? Are you in pain?”

Bob hesitated. He swallowed, then nodded. “My chest still hurts. Breathing’s… hard.”

He lied, a little. Or maybe not. His chest did hurt. Maybe not the way they thought, but it hurt just the same.

The doctor’s expression softened. “Thank you for telling us. We’ll monitor you a bit longer and adjust your dosage in the meantime.”

Bob nodded slowly, guilt twisting deep inside—but it vanished the moment the words registered.

Adjust your dosage.

More time. More silence.

He exhaled deeply and leaned back into the pillows.

For the next few days, he waited with dread as his official discharge loomed ever closer. Each day he marked off brought more unease, more tension. He stared out the window, refusing to imagine what it would be like to go home.

And then—

His father arrived.

It was the first time Bob had seen him since the crash. The man looked sharp. Clean. Shaved. Like he’d dressed up to impress the hospital.

Bob sat stiffly on the hospital bed, eyes downcast, heart thudding.

His father shook the doctor’s hand and offered a tight smile. “Thanks for taking care of my son.”

The doctor nodded, smiling politely. “He’s been a wonderful patient. All his medication and discharge papers are with him.”

“Great,” his father said, reaching out. His hand came down on Bob’s shoulder, firm. Too firm.

His grip tightened.

Bob didn’t flinch. He just kept his face blank.

The doctor didn’t notice.

“We’ll be going now,” his father said.

The doctor nodded. “Take care, Robert.”

Bob murmured something noncommittal and slid off the bed. He dragged himself after his father, his hospital bag clutched in his hand.

They walked in silence through the hallway.

The air outside was thick. Stifling.

They got in the car. The doors shut. The engine started.

And Bob knew—without a word being spoken—that whatever fragile peace he had found in that hospital would not follow him home.

Something was going to break.

The drive home was quiet. Too quiet.

Bob sat in the passenger seat, clutching the strap of his duffel bag like it was a lifeline. His fingers dug into the canvas until his knuckles ached. He stared out the window, but the world blurred by without shape or meaning. His father hadn't spoken since they'd pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

The sun had dipped behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the road. A low country radio station crackled faintly from the dashboard. Static. A gravelly voice sang about regret, loss, drinking. Bob stared harder out the window.

He didn’t want to go home. That place wasn’t home—it never had been. Not really. It was just where the shouting lived. Where the doors slammed, and the walls shook, and the bottle clinked hard against the counter at midnight. It was the place where the bruises came from. The place where silence wasn't peace, but punishment.

When they pulled into the driveway, the house looked exactly the same.

The grass was overgrown. The porch light flickered. One of the blinds in the front window was bent out of shape. Bob’s stomach twisted.

“Inside,” his father said gruffly, getting out of the car. Bob followed, his legs trembling, not from weakness but from anticipation. Dread.

The door creaked open. The house smelled like old beer and sweat and something burnt. Bob stepped inside and the air shifted, pressing down on him like a weighted blanket soaked through.

He barely had time to take in the living room before the first words hit him.

“You made quite the mess,” his father muttered, dropping his keys onto the counter. “Whole town thinks I’m some kinda monster now. You happy with that?”

Bob froze.

“I didn’t—”

His father turned, eyes bloodshot but sharp. “Don’t you talk back to me. Not a damn word.”

There was silence. Heavy, stretched.

Then: “Hospital bill’s gonna screw me over. And you just laid there, like a useless little piece of—”

Bob didn’t hear the rest. His ears buzzed. That same blankness from the hospital tried to settle over him again, but it wouldn’t come. Not here. Not without the morphine. Not without the walls to keep the world out.

His father took a step forward, towering over him.

“You think you can just lie to those doctors, huh? Think I don’t know what you did?” He jabbed a finger into Bob’s chest. Right between the ribs. Bob hissed softly. The pain was real this time.

His father grinned. “So you are still hurting. Thought so.”

He shoved Bob backward—hard, to make it clear: there were no rules in this house. No nurses. No safe words. No one watching.

“You made your mother miserable,” he said, voice a low growl. “Why couldn’t you just be normal. ”

Bob’s breath caught.

“She left because of you. She drove that car into that truck because of you. You were the reason she wanted out. You think I don’t know that?”

That landed harder than the shove.

Bob’s fingers dug into the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve. He remembered her face in the car—blank, distant. The silence. The soft, cold words she’d said just before the crash: “You always made things worse.”

It hadn’t been an accident.

It had been a decision.

And somehow, he’d survived it.

He backed away. His legs hit the bottom of the staircase, and he sank onto the first step.

His father didn’t follow. He just stood there, arms crossed, glaring like Bob was an infection that had crept back into his house.

“You’ll clean up your mess,” he said finally. “Starting tomorrow. No more lying. No more of that pathetic act. You’re not sick. You’re just soft.”

Then he turned and walked into the kitchen. The fridge opened. The familiar hiss of a beer can cracked the silence.

Bob sat on the stairs for what felt like hours. The only sound was the buzz of the fridge and the occasional drag of a chair across the kitchen floor. Eventually, he stood, limbs trembling, and crept up to his room.

It was as he’d left it.

Blank walls. A twin bed with the same worn sheets. A desk covered in dust.

Nothing to suggest a boy lived here, let alone one who’d almost died.

He sat on the bed, still in his clothes. The house groaned around him. Below, his father muttered something at the television. A laugh track roared.

Bob pressed his palms to his face.

He couldn’t go back to the hospital. He knew that.

But he wasn’t sure how long he could survive here, either.

As he laid down his eyes drifted across his room landing on the faded Rubix Cube that sat on his night stand. 

He stared at it for a moment, like it might tell him what to do. His fingers reached for it instinctively, but the colors didn’t offer any answers. Just something to turn. Something to focus on. Something to keep his hands busy when his thoughts tried to eat him alive.

Then he was suddenly reminded of Noah he hadn't seen him in so long a small smile came onto his lips at least he'd still be able to see him again.

But as he laid awake that sinking feeling started to grow in his chest again but he pushed it down then he thought of the morphine.

No he couldn't. 

He thought of his mother and how she succumbed to addiction he knew the consequences and vowed to never getting lost in drugs like she did.

That night, he didn’t sleep, waiting for the voice to return.

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The morning had been unusually quiet. Bob woke up expecting his father to explode over something small—but there was nothing. Just silence. That was worse. That meant the storm was gathering.

He walked to school, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes on the sidewalk. The air was crisp, but it didn’t wake him up. 

He moved through the day in a blur, the voice in the back of his mind low and persistent but dulled. He’d gotten used to its company. It never truly left, just quieted.

What pulled him through school was the thought of seeing Noah again. His safe place. His anchor.

But when he got to their usual meeting spot behind the art building, Noah wasn’t there.

He waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Bob told himself it was a fluke. Noah probably just didn’t think he’d be there yet. It had been over a week. That was fair. He pushed the voice away when it got louder. Insistent.

But the next day? Still nothing.

And the next.

Each passing day, the voice grew louder. Crueler. It dug its claws in, whispering that Noah had left, too. That he didn’t want to see him. That he was alone again.

By Friday, Bob couldn’t take it. He asked around and finally learned the truth—while Bob had been in the hospital, Noah’s family had left town for an emergency.

Just like that, the only good thing in his life was gone.

His chest ached—not from the bruises, but from something deeper. The kind of ache that no one could see, but that lived behind his ribs like rot.

He walked home in a fog. The weight in his chest made it hard to breathe. He barely registered the front door slamming shut behind him.

His father was there. Sitting at the table. A half-empty bottle next to him.

“What the hell are you moping around for?” he barked.

Bob didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form.

“Too good to talk now, huh? You come back from that hospital and think you’re special?”

Bob’s fists clenched. “I didn’t ask to go to the hospital.”

“You lied to get more time there,” his father spat, rising from the chair, unsteady. “You lied to those doctors. You think I don’t know? You think I’m stupid?”

“No,” Bob said, voice rising. “I didn’t lie. I just—”

“You just what?”

Bob didn’t back down. “I didn’t want to come back here!”

Silence.

Then the bottle slammed against the counter. His father lunged.

He grabbed Bob by the shoulders and slammed him back into the wall. The impact rattled the drywall. Bob gasped, wind knocked out of him.

His father’s breath reeked of alcohol.

“You think I wanted this? You think I wanted her dead?” he snarled, eyes wild. “She was all I had. And now she’s gone because of you. ”

Bob’s stomach dropped.

“You were in that car. You did something. You drove her to it.”

“She—she crashed the car on purpose!” Bob cried, voice cracking. “She didn’t want to live anymore!”

“And why do you think that is?” His father’s face twisted. “Because she was stuck with you. Always crying, always broken. She was tired. Tired of you.”

Bob tried to turn away, but the blow came hard. A sharp punch to the side of his face. He collapsed, curling into himself. Tears burned in his eyes, but they fell silent. He didn’t make a sound.

His father loomed over him, sneering. “Go ahead. Cry. That’s all you’re good for.”

Then he turned and staggered away, muttering something cruel under his breath.

Bob stayed on the floor, sobbing softly. The voice in his head screamed now. It told him it was his fault. That he ruined everything. That Noah left because of him. That his mother was dead because of him.

He pushed himself upright, barely seeing through the blur. Every breath hurt. Every part of him felt cracked open.

His legs carried him on autopilot. Up the stairs. Past his bedroom. To the attic.

His sanctuary.

He dropped to his knees beside the bag he’d brought back from the hospital. His hands trembled violently as he fumbled with the zipper.

The pill bottle came out. The label blurred before his eyes. He unscrewed the cap and let a handful spill into his palm.

The voice told him it was time. That he didn’t deserve to stay. That the world would be better if he was just gone.

He knocked the pills back and swallowed dry. His throat burned.

The voice quieted.

He let out a soft, broken laugh. Almost a sob. “So much for not being like her,” he whispered.

The numbness crept in. Everything slowed. He stumbled toward the old couch in the attic, tripping over something on the floor.

A VHS tape.

Ultra Justice 9: Rise of Solaris.

Bob stared at it blankly. The colors looked dull. The plastic casing cracked.

He collapsed onto the couch, body heavy, breath shallow. The last thing he thought before the dark took him was:

“So much for heros.”

Chapter Text

Location: Sarasota Springs, Florida
Date: March 12th, 2014
Time: Late Evening

The bus station was nearly abandoned just a couple of old vending machines, a faded timetable barely hanging on the wall, and the kind of fluorescent lighting that buzzed in a way that made Bob's skull throb. 

He sat on a splintered bench in the far corner, hunched over, arms resting on his knees, a hoodie pulled low over his eyes. Nineteen now, and somehow still stuck in Sarasota. It wasn’t a town so much as a prison with sunshine.

He stared out at the cracked pavement, letting his mind drift to the years he’d tried to claw his way through high school. Sophomore year was where it ended. He just couldn’t do it anymore—the teachers’ voices were white noise, the assignments meaningless. The voice in his head was louder than anything on paper. And when the morphine prescriptions ran dry, so did any illusion he had of control.

He remembered thinking, naively, that maybe he could break the itch. He’d tried. Locked himself in his room for three days with nothing but bottled water and a blanket, shivering and sweating through every hour. He thought if he just powered through it, he could beat it. But addiction didn’t work that way. The moment the physical pain subsided, the mental war kicked in.

He’d torn the house apart, looking through drawers, bathroom cabinets, under furniture—any place his mother might’ve hidden an old stash. Pills, syringes, even empty bottles he’d try to scrape something from. Anything. When that didn’t work, he started going out. Asking around. The street kids saw him as an easy mark at first, but when they realized he wasn’t competition—just another junkie—they let him hang around.

He had tried to fight it. He really had. But every time he stayed clean for more than a day or two, the voice came roaring back with razor teeth. Whispering in the rhythm of his heartbeat. Scratching at his skull. The pain never left. It was just waiting. Always waiting.

There was a moment—he winced thinking about it—when he thought he could be normal. He remembered applying for a job as a chicken mascot spinning a sign for Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. He made it through half a shift before he lashed out and attacked a passerby who laughed at him. He was high. He barely remembered doing it. Just the shame that came after, the way the manager looked at him like he was a rabid animal.

His home life was a frozen wasteland. He barely spoke to his father, and when they did talk, it was shouting. Most nights, Bob didn’t even sleep at home. He drifted from couch to couch—people he called friends, though he knew they weren’t. They only wanted someone to share a hit with, someone to sink with.

Tonight, the drugs had started to wear off. The itch was back, crawling across his skin like fire ants. He stumbled home just before midnight, arms twitching, the voice already slipping through the cracks in his mind.

"Look at you, Just like your mother."

He sped up. Ignored the slurred yelling from the kitchen as he passed. Reached his bedroom. Slammed the door.

The twin bed creaked under his weight—it was too small for him now, his legs dangling off the edge. He reached under the mattress, pulling out a weathered shoebox. Inside sat a single needle, already filled. His hands shook as he wrapped a belt around his arm, veins popping to the surface like lifelines.

He hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then he pushed the needle in.

Relief washed over him like a tide. The voice faded. The shaking stopped. For the briefest second, he felt weightless. He untied the belt and let it fall. Placed the used needle back in the box like it was some kind of twisted ritual.

He was out. That had been the last dose.

He told himself he’d go out later. Find more. He always found more.

The meth kicked in and he grinned, giddy and hollow. He stumbled into the bathroom, fully clothed, and turned the shower on cold. The water cooled the burn spreading through his limbs. He slid down the wall and sat under the stream, laughing bitterly.

This was his life now.

The high was already fading. He was too resilient to meth now—his body burned through it too fast. The only way to make it last was to up the dosage, but nobody had product. There’d been a bust—he heard whispers on the street, murmurs of cops swarming dealer hideouts.

He peeled himself up and stood in front of the mirror. The face staring back at him was barely human. Deep eye bags, hollow cheeks, pupils dilated. He sighed. Stripped out of his wet clothes. Changed into something dry and stepped back out into the night.

He visited the usual places. Dead ends. Everyone was dry. Tension hung in the air like smog.

Then he heard it—someone muttering about a new synthetic super-drug out of Kuala Lumpur. Supposed to be the strongest thing on the market. Clean, untraceable, euphoric. A miracle.

His heart leapt.

Maybe this was it. His way out. His chance to finally leave this rotting town behind.

He had some money saved. Not much. But maybe enough. A one-way ticket. A new start.

 Even if it was just another illusion.

Even if it killed him.

He didn’t care.

Anywhere was better than here.

Bob rushed home like a man possessed, fueled by desperation and hope. He collapsed into the creaking chair at his father’s old desk and flipped open the battered laptop that still barely worked. With trembling fingers, he started researching everything he could about Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. 

What he found made his heart pound—there were whispers of experimental highs and underground labs creating things the U.S. hadn’t even dreamed of yet. It was a place ripe with opportunity, or at least that’s what the addicts in his forums said. Bob didn’t care. It sounded like freedom.

He glanced at his money stash—bundles of crumpled bills he’d tucked away over the last few months from odd jobs, stolen wallets, or spare change found under grimy cushions. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough. A one-way ticket to Malaysia and maybe enough to live on for a week or two. That was all he needed. Just long enough to find a new supply, a new start.

His bedroom barely resembled a living space. It never truly felt like his room, more like a place where time stood still—empty beer bottles from his dad, broken drawers, wallpaper peeling at the corners. The mattress still sagged in the center from when he was a kid. He looked around the dimly lit space and sighed.

Then he started packing. A duffel bag and a weathered bookbag were all he had. He shoved in clothes: three shirts, two pairs of jeans, socks, a thin blanket. A roll of bills tucked into a hidden pocket. Toothbrush. Comb. Disposable razors. A crumpled page of written-down directions. And finally, just before zipping the bag closed, he paused and reached beneath his bed. From the dusty shadows, he pulled out a small Rubik’s Cube.

It was old now, the stickers peeling from overuse, the colors faded from sun and stress. He turned it over in his hands, thumb grazing the red tile where his mother once wrote his initials in Sharpie. He placed it gently on top of his clothes, as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, then zipped the bag closed.

The rest of the items—books, movies, posters, some old toys—were dumped into cardboard boxes. He planned to sell them at the pawn shop on his way out. Not because they were worth much, but because it meant his father wouldn’t have the satisfaction of keeping any of it.

As he worked, the voice in his head slithered back up.

"Coward. You’re running. You think this’ll save you? You’ll still be broken."

Bob ignored it. Or tried to. He didn’t sleep that night. His mind buzzed with the chaos of planning—scenarios, customs, directions, where to sleep on arrival, who he might meet, what the air might smell like. He barely noticed the hours pass. Around 4 a.m., he crept up to the attic—his sanctuary.

It hadn’t changed. The warm scent of dust, aged wood, and faint mildew greeted him like an old friend. Sunlight hadn’t yet breached the sky, but moonlight pooled through the slanted attic window, casting ghostly shadows over the cluttered shelves. He passed by stacks of puzzle books, vintage toys, and half-assembled models. Then his eyes caught on an old VHS tape: "Ultra Justice 9: Rise of Solaris."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

He remembered being 10 years old, hugging a pillow, watching it over and over again, praying someone like Solaris would come save him. Wishing on stars. Believing in heroes. He felt that old pang in his chest—childhood hope curdled into adult bitterness.

But maybe... just maybe... he didn’t need to be saved.

Maybe he could save himself.

He sat down on the attic couch, letting the moment wash over him. For a while, he simply breathed. No voices. No needles. Just breath. And wood. And silence. He watched the horizon shift from indigo to orange to pale gold. Sunrise.

He stood. Dressed slowly—his cleanest jeans, a black hoodie, his old Converse. The jean jacket that was three sizes too big, but warm. He slung the backpack over one shoulder and hoisted the duffel bag. The boxes of stuff were balanced in his arms.

He paused on the landing. His father was passed out on the couch downstairs, snoring amid empty bottles, his TV blaring static. Bob stared for a beat, expression unreadable.

Then he walked out the door.

And he never looked back.

He walked faster and faster, each step shedding pieces of the past until he was nearly running. He made his first stop at a little pawn shop near the corner of Eighth and Rose. The clerk barely glanced at the boxes before shoving some wrinkled bills into his hand. It was enough.

From there, Bob headed straight to the airport, heart pounding against his ribs. Not from fear. From something else. The kind of anticipation that only came from standing on the edge of something huge.

Maybe it would be worse. Maybe it would kill him.

But maybe...

Just maybe...

It would be the start of something new.

He’d be his own hero.

Chapter Text

Two and a Half Years Later – Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Date: May 8th, 2016

Time: Early afternoon

It was early afternoon, and the humid air of Kuala Lumpur clung to Bob's skin like a second layer of clothing. He weaved in and out of the crowded market streets, sidestepping vendors shouting over one another and tourists gawking at the architecture. Plastic tarps flapped overhead as he moved with purpose, gripping a small, unmarked package under his arm.

He'd been here two and a half years now.

Two and a half years of living in the shadows.

Bob had come to Malaysia looking for an escape, a rebirth, maybe even a miracle. What he found instead was more of the same. The drugs were no more miraculous than the ones he'd left behind in Florida—just differently sourced, differently packaged. But there was comfort in anonymity, and he’d found a fragile sort of contentment in his new life.

He didn’t pay rent. He didn’t have to. His boss—an influential figure whose name never reached daylight—covered that in exchange for Bob’s service. Deliveries. Pickups. Never questions. Bob was an errand boy, no more, no less. He didn't know what the packages contained, and he didn’t want to. Every week, a note would be slid under his door with a time, a location, and a name. He followed the instructions. He survived.

Still, there were moments like today when his thoughts drifted back to the beginning.

He remembered landing in the country, nineteen and trembling, adrenaline battling exhaustion. The city was alive, pulsating with noise and color. As soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the scent of fried street food mixed with exhaust and incense overwhelmed him. For a brief, disorienting second, he almost turned around.

Instead, he pulled out the small map he'd drawn himself from internet research. On it were starred inns, marked-out temples, and alleyways circled in red. He tried to navigate, but the streets were more confusing in person. The press of the crowd, the blur of unfamiliar words, the heat—all of it became too much.

He turned down the wrong alleyway.

It was narrow, the air colder there. Two men stood deep in argument.

“Wrong drop,” one hissed.

“You told me—wrong place, wrong day—now the boss is gonna—”

Bob froze. He took a step back, hoping to melt into the shadows.

Then one of the men turned and locked eyes with him.

Shit.

“What do we have here?” the taller one sneered. “Someone pokin’ around where they don’t belong?”

Bob raised his hands, stepping back. “I–I just took a wrong turn, I swear. I-I’m leaving.”

But the man lunged, shoving him hard against the wall. His back hit brick, and the Rubik’s Cube in his backpack jabbed into his spine. He gasped.

“Check his bag,” the other one muttered.

Nothing but clothes. “He’s clean.”

The man pinning him scowled. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m just looking for a place to stay.”

“A likely story.”

The blade glinted as the man pulled a pocketknife and pressed it against Bob’s throat. Bob stilled, eyes locked upward.

“Please,” he murmured. “I-I don’t know where I am.”

The man finally let go, and for a moment Bob thought he was safe. Then a punch slammed into his cheek, and he hit the ground hard, pain blooming in his ribs.

He tried to sit up—another kick, this time to his stomach. He doubled over with a groan.

“Stop it, Zikri,” came a new, deeper voice.

The one who’d kicked him paused.

A tall man stepped into view. Dark suit. Broad shoulders. Muscular, poised, dangerous. Bob couldn’t see his face clearly, but he radiated command. He addressed the other man—Rayyan.

“What happened here?”

“He walked in on us,” Rayyan explained. “Zikri thought he was spying.”

The man in the suit crouched beside Bob and gripped his chin, forcing him to look up. His face was sharp, clean-shaven, his eyes unreadable but deeply assessing. He glanced down and saw the crumpled map that had slipped from Bob’s backpack.

“You have no place to go,” he said.

Bob nodded.

“Then work for me In return a roof over your head. No expenses. 

Bob sat up slowly, heart pounding. The three men towered over him like monoliths. “What kind of work?” he asked.

The leader chuckled. “Nothing serious. run errands. Deliver. No questions. Only a Time and place. That’s all.”

He paused, then added, “You’ll get an income.”

Bob hesitated only a moment longer.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

The man smirked, something oddly charming yet dangerous glinting in his eyes. Then, he reached out his hand.

“Amirul,” he said simply, voice smooth and confident like someone who didn’t need to raise it to be heard.

Bob hesitated flinching back slightly for only a second before taking the offered hand. The grip was firm and warm, grounding. Amirul pulled him up with a strength that betrayed the casual calm in his demeanor.

“Um... Bob—Robert,” Bob muttered, slightly breathless, cheeks burning with a mix of shame and adrenaline.

Amirul nodded, still holding Bob’s gaze. “Robert. Good. Follow me.”

Without another word, Amirul turned and began walking, his black suit absorbing the dim alley light. Bob glanced once at the two men who had moments ago beaten him bloody. They followed behind without a word, like shadows slinking back into formation.

“Those two,” Amirul said with an exaggerated sigh, not looking back as he spoke, “are my right hands. Unfortunately, they only have one brain cell between them.”

Zikri muttered under his breath, but both men noticeably flinched, their shoulders curling in like scolded dogs. Bob had to stifle a nervous laugh, surprised at the shift in energy now that Amirul was around. The air was still tense, but the threat no longer felt aimless—it was focused, organized.

They made their way through a maze of backstreets, and Bob realized he would’ve never found this route on his own. The city around them buzzed with life—motorbikes zipped past, hawkers shouted prices in Malay, and the humid air carried smells of spices and exhaust—but this path? It felt hidden. Tucked away from the chaos. On purpose.

Amirul glanced over his shoulder as they reached a narrow walkway flanked by aging brick walls and creeping vines. “I can tell you’re a foreigner,” he said. “And that you just arrived.”

Bob nodded slowly, feeling exposed under Amirul’s eyes.

“So,” Amirul continued, “what brings you to the beautiful country of Malaysia?”

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure how much to say, or how honest he wanted to be. But the fatigue in his bones and the ache in his jaw made the truth easier to spill.

“I needed... a new life,” he said, voice low. “A um restart.”

He paused. That part was true—but only half of it. His hand flexed at his side, fingers brushing the frayed hem of his shirt.

“I heard about a drug,” he added, almost in a whisper. “S-something different. Something that could... fix everything.”

That made Amirul laugh—sharp and amused. He glanced back again, his grin wide.

“Ah. So you’re an adrenaline chaser.”

Bob wasn’t sure how to respond, so he stayed quiet. His stomach churned with shame and a twisted kind of excitement.

Amirul hummed, thoughtful now. “I’ve heard the whispers too. Very underground. Very... experimental.”

Zikri, who’d been unusually quiet, finally piped up from behind. “People say it’s still in development.”

Rayyan nodded in agreement, his voice softer but no less intrigued. “High-level American lab. Black-budget kind of thing. Government hands all over it.”

They reached a modest building nestled between two closed storefronts. It looked abandoned from the outside—grime-covered windows, peeling paint, and a flickering neon sign half hanging from a screw—but when Amirul punched in a code at a metal keypad beside the door, it clicked open with surprising smoothness.

“Stay with us long enough,” Amirul said over his shoulder, “and you just might find yourself a path to that drug. If it exists.”

He looked Bob directly in the eye.

“But you’ll need to keep your ears sharp. Watch everything. Learn quickly. We don’t have time for the slow and stupid.”

Bob nodded, pulse quickening.

Inside, the air was cooler, thick with the smell of incense and old brick. They walked down a narrow hallway, the floor creaking beneath their footsteps. Finally, Amirul stopped at a small wooden door at the end of the corridor. He opened it without ceremony.

“This is yours.”

Bob stepped inside.

The room was small—claustrophobically so—but it was clean. There was a thin mattress on the floor, a low wooden dresser, and a single barred window that filtered in dusty sunlight. A fan spun slowly overhead. It wasn’t much, but compared to home, it felt like luxury.

He set his bags down gently, still dazed. His thoughts were a tornado. He’d come looking for peace, an escape from the slow rot of his life in Florida. Instead, he might’ve walked headfirst into something darker —but there was something exhilarating about that too.

He was no longer drifting.

Zirik leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and a crooked smirk on his lips. “See you tomorrow for instructions. You’ll get more details then.”

He paused.

“Goodbye, American.”

The door creaked shut behind him with a final-sounding click.

Bob stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, frozen in place. Then he slowly lowered himself onto the mattress, his body sinking with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. He stared up at the fan, watching the blades spin and blur.

This was his life now. He wasn’t sure if that terrified or thrilled him.

Maybe both.

He took his time unpacking—folding each shirt, checking for anything missing. He found the Rubik’s Cube tucked into the bottom of his bookbag and held it in his hands, thumbing the edges like a charm.

Somewhere far away, his old life existed. But here, in this quiet, strange little room in a country he barely knew, he was anonymous. He was nothing.

Which meant, in a way, he could become anything

Bob remeberded the first night awaking with a groan, the weight of the mattress beneath him unfamiliar, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. His new life in Malaysia was still settling into his bones like a second skin he hadn't quite gotten used to. He had barely blinked the sleep from his eyes when a loud banging rattled his door. He jolted upright, heart racing, limbs scrambling.

When he cracked the door open, Zikri stood there—stoic, stern, the same man who had left bruises blooming across Bob’s ribs just the day before. Bob still couldn’t quite separate his presence from the pain. Zikri looked him up and down, his gaze cool and unimpressed.

"You have five minutes to get ready," he said flatly before turning away.

Bob swallowed the lump rising in his throat, rushing to pull on the least wrinkled shirt and pants he had. He didn’t have much—a handful of outfits stuffed into his bag when he fled Maltase. A moment later, he opened the door again to find Zirik lounging against the wall just outside, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. Smoke curled around his face like a halo of apathy. Zirik said nothing, only lifted a brow.

Bob hesitated. Then he stepped out, unsure of the protocol. Zikri gave him another once-over, scoffed, then turned and began walking without another word. Bob blinked, then rushed to follow, trailing awkwardly behind him.

As they moved through the narrow alleys and into the sunlight-soaked streets, Bob’s senses were overwhelmed again by Malaysia’s chaos and color. Hawker stalls spilled onto sidewalks, the aroma of spices clashing with car exhaust. The noise pressed in from every direction. Bob’s hands twitched—just slightly—but enough. The voice in his head stirred.

“You already don’t belong.”

“You’re just going to run away to another place in the end.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to shake the thoughts loose, but the tremor in his fingers gave him away. Sweat dotted his brow, not entirely from the heat. Withdrawal was crawling in beneath his skin again, and Zikri, ever observant, barked over his shoulder:

"Keep up."

Bob flinched and quickened his pace. Zikri’s gaze flicked back to him again. He seemed to register the tremors, the sheen of sweat, the way Bob’s lips were drawn tight like he was trying not to scream. Wordlessly, Zikri popped open a silver cigarette case and pulled one out, offering it to Bob.

Bob took it, surprised. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Zikri lit his own cigarette, then flicked the lighter toward Bob, who leaned in gratefully. The smoke filled his lungs and dulled the edge of the craving, if only slightly. The two walked side by side now, the shared silence less hostile than before. Bob could almost pretend the past didn’t exist in this haze of smoke.

Eventually, they reached a squat building with rusted shutters and a sign that had long lost its paint. Rayyan was waiting outside, arms crossed, a gym towel slung over one shoulder. Bob slowed to a stop, eyeing the space warily. Inside, it looked like a blend of dojo and old-school fight club—mats covering the floor, wooden weapons hanging on the walls, punching bags in every corner.

He looked from Zikri to Rayyan, then back again rocking on he heels unsure what to do.

"Um... what are we doing here?"

Rayyan stepped forward. "Boss wants to make sure you know how to defend yourself."

Zikri snorted. "From your display earlier, it seemed like you’re just good at receiving pain."

Bob flinched at the comment, his hand curling into a fist. The voice in his head sneered:

“He’s right. That’s all you’ve ever been good at.”

Rayyan noticed the shift in Bob’s posture, the slight drop of his shoulders, the flicker of something dark behind his eyes. Without hesitation, he smacked Zikri upside the head.

"Treat him with respect. He works alongside us now—for the time being."

Zikri muttered something under his breath and walked across the room, either to grab equipment or distance himself from the tension. Rayyan walked over to Bob, his tone softer now.

"Ignore him. He’s got a big stick shoved up his ass."

Bob let out a small laugh despite himself, shrugging in a way that said, Yeah, kinda. The tension broke slightly. Rayyan grinned and clapped a heavy hand on Bob’s shoulder.

"I’m going to teach you basic hand-to-hand. You ever had any experience?"

Bob hesitated. Did getting punched by his father count? Did growing up in a household where pain was more common than praise qualify?

Rayyan saw the pause and softened again. "It’s fine if you haven’t. That’s why I’m teaching you."

Bob nodded slowly. Then, something itched at the back of his mind.

"I thought the deliveries were nothing dangerous... Just dropping things off, back and forth."

Rayyan nodded. "They are. Most of the time. But sometimes things go sideways. Not usually—but it’s best to be prepared."

He looked Bob in the eye.

"You can walk out if you don’t want this. But if you’re serious about finding that drug..."

That made Bob freeze.

Rayyan stepped back, giving him space. Bob’s mind spun, the ache in his bones returning, the need rising in his throat.

He needed that drug. Whatever it took.

He squared his shoulders and looked Rayyan in the eye.

"Okay. Teach me."

Rayyan nodded with approval. "Alright, American. Let’s begin."

And so it did.

With Zikri returning tossing a roll of bandages to Rayyan, who caught it easily. He began to wrap his hands with practiced ease, the motion smooth and automatic. 

Bob watched, curious, marveling at how effortless it seemed. Then Rayyan reached for Bob’s hands and wrapped them for him, firm but gentle.

The training began simply—Rayyan showed him how to stand, how to hold his fists, how to protect his face and core. They went through the basics: blocking, ducking, throwing a punch properly. It was awkward at first—Bob’s body slow to respond, stiff and uncertain. But Rayyan was patient.

"No power, not yet. Just form," he’d say, adjusting Bob’s elbow or nudging his foot into the correct angle.

They trained through the afternoon, the golden light shifting as the sun crept toward the horizon. The room grew warmer with effort and time. Bob’s shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, but he didn’t complain. They didn’t spar seriously—Rayyan was careful to keep things simple and safe. Just repetition. Bob’s body began to remember how to move, how to react.

By the time they finally sat down on a bench at the edge of the mat, Bob’s limbs ached but his blood hummed with adrenaline. He panted, pushing damp hair from his face.

Rayyan sat beside him, unwrapping the bandages from his hands.

"You did good," he said simply.

Bob nodded, chest still heaving. "Thanks."

He liked this feeling—sore, tired, but steady.

He glanced around and noticed something.

"Where’d Zikri go?"

"Back to report to the boss about your progress," Rayyan said casually.

That made Bob nervous, but he tried not to show it. He just nodded.

Rayyan reached into his bag and pulled out a small gift box. He handed it to Bob, who took it carefully, eyes narrowing.

"What’s this for?"

"Open it," Rayyan said.

Bob peeled the lid back and inside lay a sleek, engraved pocket knife. Its handle was dark metal, the engraving simple but beautiful—elegant, dangerous. He picked it up slowly, flicking it open. The blade was sharp and clean, glinting in the dim light. Bob stared at it.

"What’s this for?"

Rayyan leaned back. "Just a gift. In case of emergency. Hopefully you’ll never need it."

Bob stared a moment longer, then slowly folded the blade back and slipped it into his pocket. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Just then, Zikri returned, nodding at both of them.

"You guys can come to the back."

Rayyan stood, stretching. "Let’s go."

Bob followed, the weight of the knife solid in his pocket, the sweat on his skin drying in the evening air.

They walked into a large room where Amruil sat on a table, one leg crossed, a faint grin playing on his lips. He tapped something on the surface beside him, and a large, glowing map of the city appeared in the air—a perfect 3D layout.

"This," Amruil said, gesturing toward the projection, "is your playground."

Bob stepped forward, eyes wide as he took in the sheer scale of it. The map rotated slowly, landmarks and roads lighting up as Amruil pointed out key locations. His voice was calm, almost bored, but his fingers moved with purpose.

"These are the main checkpoints. These alleys here—shortcuts. Here’s where you avoid the cops. Here’s where you can ditch a tail. And here—" he zoomed in on a small section, "—is your first delivery point."

Bob nodded slowly, absorbing every detail. If this super drug was underground right now, these streets were the veins —and he needed to follow them if he was ever going to find what he was looking for.

Amruil gave Bob a small black package, then paused.

"One more thing."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek silver watch, tossing it to Bob. Bob caught it, confused.

"Put it on."

Bob did, and as soon as it clasped around his wrist, a soft beep sounded. A miniature hologram flared to life above the watch, mimicking the 3D map Amruil had shown earlier.

"That’ll guide you. Updates in real-time. Not traceable, unless you’re really stupid."

Bob stared at the glowing map hovering over his wrist, speechless.

"Don’t get lost," Amruil added, his tone laced with a wry edge. "Report back when you're done."

Bob gave a slight nod, the weight of the package now matched by the weight of responsibility—and opportunity. He turned to leave, pausing at the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder.

Amruil met his gaze and offered a silent nod.

Bob stepped out into the neon-drenched night, and that was how it began.

Now, years later, the routine was familiar. Predictable. Hollow.

It had been thrilling at first—this new world, these secret deliveries, the chase. But like the drugs he once craved, it dulled. The spark faded. And yet, he kept running.

Still gripping today’s package, Bob ducked through a narrow alleyway that spilled out onto another crowded street. He moved with ease now, ghosting past people who barely noticed him. The same fruit vendor waved absently, offering the usual bruised mangos. The same noodle shop’s sign buzzed overhead, flickering with a stubborn pulse. The same wiry cat lounged in a square of sun, blinking slowly.

He didn’t look back.

He never did.

He was still running.

But at least here—no one asked why.

Bob came to a slow stop as the narrow alleyway began to open up toward his destination glancing down at his watch for conformation. 

The tension in his chest made his breath shallow. He moved quietly, years of repetition guiding his steps. He slipped along the side of a graffitied wall, the concrete still warm from the sun. He wiped sweat from his brow, hand trembling just slightly, and cursed under his breath.

"Shouldn’t’ve taken a hit," he muttered to himself, wincing. His mind was sluggish, thoughts moving like syrup, but he forced it to cooperate. Focus. This wasn’t the first time he’d done a job high, but every time, it added that layer of unpredictability. Not something he could afford today.

He pressed his back to the wall as he inched closer to the faint sound of voices up ahead. Two men, deep in conversation. One tall and sharp-featured, the other shorter but jittery, looking over his shoulder every few seconds. Bob crouched slightly, hiding in the shadow of a dumpster and peered around the edge.

He could just make out snippets of the conversation.

"...not stable yet. We can’t rush this. Project S–"

"–almost ready to release. It’s what we’ve been waiting for."

The name hit him like a bullet to the brain.

Project S.

The words cut through the fog of his high like a cold knife. Bob's breath caught in his throat. He pressed himself harder into the wall, his ears straining. The rest of the conversation was too muffled, words bleeding into each other under the low hum of a nearby generator and the distant honk of traffic.

But what he had heard was enough to send his heart into a sprint.

Project S. Ready to release.

His fingers twitched as he took mental inventory. For two years he’d chased whispers, piecing together crumbs. The rumors had always painted the same picture: a powerful drug, experimental, supposedly American-made, but not tied to the government—not directly. The people behind it weren’t official branches. They were something else. Something shrouded in shadows. Independent. They were quiet, precise, and buried deep.

And now, it was right here.

One of the men turned and disappeared around the side of the building, leaving the other behind. Bob waited a beat, then another, until his gut told him it was time.

With deliberate slowness, he stepped out from the shadows, the package tucked securely under his arm.

The remaining man startled at the sight of him, his whole body tensing as if caught doing something illegal. Bob just raised an eyebrow slightly, approaching with a blank face.

"Delivery," Bob said, voice flat.

The man didn’t answer. He wore a white lab coat, crisp and clean, and clipped to the front was a badge with three bold letters: O.X.E.

Bob’s eyes locked on the badge.

O.X.E.

He’d never heard it before. But he etched it into his brain. The letters practically glowed under the dim light above the door.

The man reached out and took the package wordlessly, nodding once as if that alone was confirmation. His eyes flicked toward Bob’s face, then back down, clearly uneasy. Not out of fear—but recognition. Bob could tell. It was like the man was calculating, deciding how much Bob had heard, how much he knew.

They stood in silence for a beat too long. Then the man took a half-step back, opened the metal door behind him, and slipped inside without another word.

Bob remained standing there for a second longer, his eyes scanning the facade of the building. Three stories. Minimal signage. Industrial windows. He committed every detail to memory.

Then, slowly, he turned away.

As he moved back through the alley, his heart still thundering in his chest, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. His hands were shaking. Badly.

He lit it with one practiced flick, bringing it to his lips and inhaling sharply. The smoke curled in his lungs and exhaled through his nose. He couldn’t tell if the pounding in his chest was from the remnants of the high, the adrenaline of the moment, or the realization that he might’ve just found the key to everything.

Project S was real, whatever it was.

And it was close.

"O.X.E.," he muttered to himself, dragging the name across his tongue like a curse, letting the letters burn into his brain alongside the nicotine.

He stared down at his shaking hands. One of them was still holding the lighter, the flame flickering before it died out. Bob snuffed it and took another long pull from the cigarette before heading toward the nearest exit.

He didn’t rush. He never did.

But his eyes were wider than before. Brighter. And underneath the dull weight of the drug and years of wandering, something sharp and hot stirred in his chest.

Hope.

He was getting closer.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt almost alive.

Chapter Text

The walk back to headquarters was a blur. Bob’s body moved on autopilot, guided more by instinct than thought. But as he reached the familiar door and stepped inside, something in him surged.

It wasn’t the drugs.

His chest buzzed with something electric. Excitement. Real, untethered anticipation. And it made him feel… more. More present, more alert, more alive than anything he had swallowed, snorted, or smoked in years.

The voice in his head scratched at the moment

¨ This high will only last a couple days. Just like all the others.¨

Bob grimaced. He shook it off, shoving the voice back into the shadows where it came from.

The hallway opened into the main corridor. That’s where he spotted Rayyan leaning casually against the wall.

Rayyan straightened when he saw Bob. “How’d the mission go?” he asked, half-smirking. “Judging by the look on your face, I’d say… really well?”

Bob stopped short. He hadn’t realized how obvious it was. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. His feet wouldn’t stay still.

Rayyan tilted his head. “No, seriously,” he added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this—what’s the word? Giddy?”

Bob blinked. “I—” he started, then cut himself off with a small, awkward cough. He wasn’t used to this much energy. It vibrated inside him, making it hard to stay still. He started pacing without realizing.

Rayyan watched, arms crossed.

Bob finally stopped near a bench, hands wringing slightly. “I heard something,” he said quickly. “In the alley. Two guys were talking. I think—I think they mentioned it. The drug. Project S--s..something I didnt hear the rest.”

Rayyan’s eyes narrowed slightly but he didn’t interrupt.

Bob kept going, stumbling over his words. “They said it’s almost ready to release. One of them had a badge on his coat—O.X.E. I’ve never seen it before, but I saw it. It’s real. I saw it. This could be the one”

His words poured out in a rush, each syllable laced with barely-contained adrenaline.

Rayyan stayed silent, studying him. Bob’s eyes darted up and met his stare. It made him pause. He realized how much he’d said, how fast he’d said it, and suddenly he felt like he’d been talking too loud in a quiet room.

He took a small step back, shoulders curling inward slightly.

Rayyan didn’t look away. After a long pause, he finally said, almost softly, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk this much. About anything.”

Bob’s gaze dropped to the floor.

Then, gently, Rayyan added, “You really want that drug, don’t you?”

Bob nodded, slow but certain. “It’s the reason I came here. All of this—everything—I’ve done, it’s been about this.”

Rayyan’s expression shifted. There was something unreadable behind his eyes. Thoughtfulness. Maybe sadness?

He looked like he was about to say something—something important.

But before he could, the door swung open with a loud clang , and Zirki burst into the hallway.

"You two," Zirki said, out of breath. “Amirul wants to see you. Now.”

Bob and Rayyan exchanged a look. Rayyan’s lips parted like he still wanted to say something, but hesitated—his brow furrowing slightly. Bob, still jittery from the walk and the adrenaline crash, didn’t press. He shifted his weight and took a step after Zirki, who was already striding down the corridor. Rayyan hesitated another second, then followed.

They entered the back room together. The door creaked slightly behind them as it closed. Inside, the air felt heavy, humid with tension. Amirul was pacing—back and forth, back and forth—his fingers twitching at his sides like he couldn’t keep them still. His usually composed face was strained, jaw clenched tight.

Bob had never seen him like this. Not even close.

A chill slid down his spine. His gut whispered the same mantra it always did when things turned sideways

“ It’s something you did. Your fault. ”

He swallowed it down. Now wasn’t the time.

Zirki came to a stop, arms crossed. Bob hovered near the wall. Rayyan stood just behind him. They all looked between each other, silently waiting for someone to speak first.

Amirul stopped pacing. He turned to face them, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “There’s been an infiltration,” he said, voice low. “Something’s wrong. Very wrong.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

Amirul dragged a chair out from the corner and dropped into it with a heavy sigh. “Some kind of information breach. Supply lines aren’t adding up. Product’s missing. Routes are off. And now, there’s this—” He gestured vaguely toward the desk cluttered with papers. “This feeling. I don’t know how else to describe it. But I can feel it. Something’s about to go down.”

Zikri stepped forward. “Who’s targeting us?”

Amirul shook his head. “I don’t know yet. But it’s organized. Not just street gangs or rival pushers. It’s bigger.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. His voice dropped further. “There’s one group that keeps popping up on flagged shipments. One organization. They’re not interfering with everything—just certain routes. Certain types of packages. Mostly chemical components, ingredients for new formulas, things that could lead to innovation.”

Rayyan frowned. “Like they’re cherry-picking the good stuff?”

“Or cornering the market,” Amrul muttered. “Trying to cut off supply chains to force dependency on a single source. If they gain total control…”

He trailed off, then slammed a fist against the side of the desk. “If they succeed, we’re done. All of us. We owe people products. Schedules. There are deals we can’t afford to fall through on.”

The room fell silent. The pressure in the air thickened.

Amirul looked up at them. His eyes, usually calculating and cool, burned with urgency. “I need the three of you to figure out what’s going on. I need answers. Fast. Before this backup becomes a collapse.”

Bob didn’t speak, but he felt it in his bones—the shift. This wasn’t the same man he had met two and a half years ago when he’d first arrived in Malaysia. That Amirul had been sharp, sure, but steady. Unshakable. This version looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff.

And something inside Bob told him: this wasn’t just about supply lines or territory.

It was about survival

It was silent for a moment before the three of them turned on their heels and walked out the door with heavy steps.

The door clicked shut behind them, and tension lingered in the air like smoke. Zirki, Rayyan, and Bob all seemed to exhale at once, the weight of Amirul’s words pressing down hard.

"We need to figure something out," Rayyan muttered, breaking the silence as they moved down the hallway. "If we don’t act fast… Amrul’s going to snap."

Bob nodded wordlessly, following a few paces behind them. He could feel the urgency radiating off both of them. The sound of their boots on the sidewalk echoed louder than usual in Bob’s ears as they took an unfamiliar route through the city.

They didn’t talk much. Zirki and Rayyan moved with a sense of purpose that Bob felt he couldn’t match. 

Eventually, they reached a building tucked between an auto shop and a noodle stall. It looked abandoned—paint peeling, a busted neon sign hanging lopsided in the window. Bob blinked, unsure what they were doing here.

Inside, the place was dim and dusty. It wasn’t anything special, but it wasn’t empty either. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and paper.

Zirki led them into a back room. When Bob stepped inside, his breath caught slightly. The walls were lined with filing cabinets. Folders and papers cluttered a long metal table in the center of the room.

He looked around, a mix of awe and confusion creeping across his face.

Rayyan noticed. “This is all documentation,” he explained, pulling open a drawer. “Past deliveries, deal logs, some copies of supplier contracts and shipment requests.”

Zirki was already rummaging through one of the cabinets, yanking out files and tossing them onto the table. He moved fast, like he already knew what he was looking for.

Rayyan joined in, scanning a couple of files with furrowed brows. Bob lingered by the door, unsure.

Then Zirki looked up, eyes sharp. “Well, don’t just stand there. These files aren’t going to sort themselves.”

Bob swallowed and moved forward quickly, grabbing a stack and flipping through. Each file was labeled—some with drug names, others with coded shipment numbers. He started sorting them into rough categories.

Zirki kept throwing more files onto the table, the stack growing higher. Bob’s fingers worked faster, eyes scanning for anything that might stand out.

One file, thick and slightly crumpled, caught his attention. Inside were records that aligned eerily with the information he’d overheard in the alley. Something stirred in his chest. A faint smile ghosted across his lips.

A loud slam startled him.

Zirki stood next to him now, expression unreadable but eyes narrowed. “What are you smiling at?” he snapped. “You find this funny?”

Bob’s smile vanished. He took a shaky step back. “No—I’m not—I wasn’t…” he stammered.

Zirki stepped forward, towering slightly. “This is a mess. Not a joke.”

“Zirki,” Rayyan said, stepping in quickly. “Back off. It's probably because of his breakthrough.” He glanced at Bob and added, with slight finger quotations, “Something about his ‘super drug.’”

Zirki blinked, taken aback. “What?”

Bob cleared his throat. “I… I overheard two men. They mentioned something called Project S. One of them had a lab coat, with the letters ‘OXE’ clipped to his chest. I don’t know if that’s the organization name, though—it could’ve been a department, a code, maybe even a supplier.”

Zirki backed off a bit, gaze still skeptical. “‘OXE,’ huh? Doesn’t ring a bell. Could be anything—”

Then he turned discarding the thought and yanked open another drawer, flipping through documents with increasing speed. “ These files—they don’t list names, but the signatures match. Same format. Same odd routing codes.”

He slapped them on the table. “Smart bastards didn’t put names down. But the patterns are consistent. Me and Amirul… we’d been watching these for weeks. Thought it was a side operation. Small-time. But it’s not.”

Rayyan’s eyes narrowed. “They’ve escalated.”

“Exactly. There are three drop points we suspect they’ll be using. Three active routes that have had the most interference. We split up—check each one. If they’re moving, it’s happening tonight.”

Bob blanched. He’d never done a mission with others before. He always worked solo. He could feel his pulse quicken.

Zirki caught the look. “Relax. You’re not engaging anyone. You spot them, you report it. Same for all of us.”

Rayyan gave Bob a quick glance. “Still got your pocket knife, right?”

Bob nodded and pulled it out. It was clean. Polished. He’d never used it in a real fight. Still in prime condition.

Zirki pointed at their compact watches. “These are also comms. Just press the dial. You’ll alert the rest of us.”

They each took a drop point—one west, one north, one east.

Bob reached his post first. He crouched low, heart pounding, nestled behind a crate near a vacant alley. It was quiet. Too quiet. He sent a message through the comm watch. “In position. No movement yet.”

But his mind kept circling those three letters. O. X. E.

Rayyan reached his vantage point next. He perched high, looking down at the street below. A bad feeling was sinking in his chest. He sent a report: “In position. Nothing yet. Eyes on the street.”

Zirki was the last to get into place. He didn’t head straight to his mark—he stalked the area first, scanning corners and alleys. At first, nothing. Then something flickered in the shadows.

He narrowed his eyes, stepping forward in silence.

Something was out there.

And it was moving.

Zirki slowly crept toward the disturbance, deliberately light on his feet. He tapped his comm and whispered, "Movement. Sending location."

He knew the plan. Spot and report. No engagement. But as he peered between cargo trucks and supply containers, adrenaline overruled strategy. This is my shot, he thought. If I wait, they might vanish.

He moved deeper, weaving through the maze of trucks and stacked crates. Light swung across the lot—security spotlights that he ducked under. He spotted men in lab coats speaking English as they offloaded crates into trucks.

Zirki edged closer. Open crates revealed chemical containers, folders, medical equipment—piles of evidence that this site was more than just a storage zone. Were they setting up? Packing to leave? Hiding?

He wasn’t sure.

Then a beam of light locked onto him.

A voice shouted. He turned on his heel and ran .

Gunfire cracked through the night.

Zirki dove behind a nearby vehicle and fired back blindly. Bullets shattered glass. He sprinted toward the alley, arm raised to activate his comm.

Bang! Pain exploded in his shoulder.

He gasped but kept going. He had to warn the others. Another shot grazed his arm.

He ducked behind a wall, panting, gun raised. He peeked out—and shot the man pursuing him.

But another attacker flanked him.

The man tackled him, knocking the gun away. They grappled—fists flying. Zirki landed a hit, but the man countered with a blow to his stomach. Zirki hit the ground hard.

His vision blurred.

The attacker stood over him, speaking into a phone. Zirki couldn’t hear the words—but he could guess.

Finish him.

Blood leaked from his side. The world dimmed. I’ve done bad things, he thought. Maybe this was always going to catch up to me.

But then… something glinted in the light.

A metal badge on the man's chest.

His breath caught.

It read: O.X.E.

His eyes widened. Even as the darkness closed in, that name burned itself into his final memory.

O.X.E.

Chapter Text

Bob and Rayyan stood in separate parts of the city, but at the exact same moment, their watches vibrated. They both glanced down.

Movement. Sending location.

Rayyan bolted upright from his perch, heart racing. He knew what that message meant. Zikri had found something—or someone—and was likely going to act without waiting for backup. He always did. Rayyan clenched his jaw and took off, weaving through tight alleys with speed and purpose, heart pounding not just from the run but from a rising sense of dread. Zikri never stuck to the plan. He acted with his fists, not his head.

Across the city, Bob stared at the message on his watch. His hands trembled slightly, but his feet were already moving. He didn't fully understand what he was running toward, but something inside him pushed him forward. He could feel a strange unease creeping into his skin, a crawling tension that told him this wasn’t going to end cleanly.

Their paths converged.

Rayyan skidded around a corner near the drop point just as Bob rounded the other side of the block. They nearly collided. Both stopped short, eyes wide.

"Have you seen him?" Rayyan barked. His breath was sharp, his voice pitched with panic.

Bob shook his head, too breathless to speak. But in that moment, they both knew—something had gone terribly wrong.

The drop location was empty. No crates. No trucks. No Zikri.

Rayyan stepped forward cautiously. "He must’ve moved. Maybe chased them."

Bob followed hesitantly, keeping close behind, arms wrapped tight around his chest like he was holding himself together. His pocketknife weighed heavy in his pocket. It wasn’t comforting—it was a grim reminder that things might go south.

Then, without warning, Rayyan broke into a sprint. His instincts were screaming at him now, louder than ever.

"Rayyan!" Bob called, stumbling forward before taking off after him.

They ran through darkened streets, side-by-side again for just a moment—until Rayyan let out a sharp cry and dropped to his knees.

Bob slowed to a halt, chest heaving.

Rayyan was hunched over a body. Even from a distance, Bob could see the blood. He froze, unable to move closer, unable to turn away.

It was Zikri.

Rayyan’s hands cupped Zikri’s face gently. Blood had soaked through the front of his shirt, staining the pavement below. His eyes were half-lidded, lips slightly parted like he had tried to say something just before he died.

Bob stood like a statue. He had never seen a dead body before—at least not up close. It made everything feel surreal. The world quieted. Even the streetlights seemed dimmer.

Rayyan wasn’t making a sound, but his chest shook. He sat crumpled beside Zikri, gripping his jaw, brushing fingers through his hair like he was trying to wake him up. There was something heartbreakingly intimate in the way he touched him. Bob didn’t move. He felt like he was intruding on a sacred moment. He didn’t know Zikri like Rayyan had.

Bob’s throat tightened. He looked at Rayyan, at the raw grief spilling out of him—not loud or dramatic, but quiet and devastating. The kind that didn't need words.

Then Bob’s watch vibrated again. He blinked, looking down.

SIGNAL LOST: ZIKRI.

His blood went cold.

He crouched slowly, staying just behind Rayyan, unsure what to say, unsure if anything could even be said. The night air pressed down on them like a weight.

Rayyan finally whispered, almost to himself, "He went after them... didn't wait. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped him."

Bob opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

He could still see Zikri’s eyes, still open, still full of fire even in death.

Rayyan reached over and gently closed Zikri’s eyes. Then he stood.

He wasn’t crying. But he looked older. Harder.

Bob felt bile rise up in his throat. He turned sharply away from Zikri’s body, unable to swallow it down. The bitter taste sat on his tongue, but worse than that was the voice in his head, creeping up like a whisper he couldn’t silence: 

“You let one of the only people in your life slip through your fingers.”

His hands shook as they came up to rub at his eyes, trying to blink away the burn. A vice had clamped down over his lungs. He couldn’t breathe—no, he was breathing, but it wasn’t helping. The air was there, but it wasn’t enough.

A hand clapped hard on his shoulder.

Bob flinched violently, twirling around and stepping back, startled like a wild animal. His eyes were wide and wild with fear.

Rayyan froze for a second, taken aback by Bob’s reaction. But he didn’t scold him. He just said firmly, "Bob—we have to move. Now."

Gunshots rang out in the distance.

Bob's breath caught. Before he could react, Rayyan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a run. The city blurred past them. Bob’s legs moved on instinct, but every part of his body screamed in panic.

His chest tightened. He couldn’t get a full breath. A familiar spiral began—a rising panic, cold and quick and brutal. He could feel the edges of a panic attack closing in, the world shrinking with every heartbeat.

Rayyan noticed. He stopped them behind a building, pressed Bob against the wall, and grabbed both his shoulders.

"Bob! Look at me. Look at me!"

Bob’s eyes snapped to his. His pupils were blown wide, his breath short and fast.

"You’re here," Rayyan said, calm but intense. "We’re alive. You’re not alone. Just breathe, alright? Breathe with me. In—hold—out."

Bob mirrored him, forcing himself to follow the pattern. It was shaky, inconsistent, but enough. Slowly, the pressure in his chest started to loosen.

"We have to move," Rayyan repeated, quieter this time. "I’ve got you. We’ll get through this."

Bob gave a shaky nod.

His hands still trembled as they took off running again. He could feel sweat on his brow, uncertain if it was from adrenaline, fear, or the aching hunger clawing at the edges of his focus. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it together.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Not after Zikri.

Bob and Rayyan weaved through the twisting streets of the city, dodging pedestrians, crates, and chaos. At one point, Bob collided with a fruit vendor’s cart. Oranges and apples tumbled into the street.

"Sorry!" he gasped mid-sprint, flashing an apologetic look and throwing his hands up as the vendor shouted behind him. He nearly tripped over a rolling apple, catching himself at the last second before pushing forward again.

He kept close to Rayyan, his feet unsteady, tripping once, then again. The headquarters finally came into view like a beacon, rising out of the smoke and narrow streets. Relief almost slowed him, but Rayyan stopped abruptly, and Bob barely stopped in time, nearly crashing into him.

"What—?" Bob began, but Rayyan cut him off with a sharp finger to his lips.

Bob fell silent instantly, leaning to peer over Rayyan’s shoulder.

The door was ajar. Just slightly—but enough to send a chill down both their spines.

Rayyan glanced back and gave Bob a quick nod.

Bob wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but he understood enough to stay close. For the first time, his fingers slid into his pocket and wrapped around the pocketknife. He pulled it free, slow and quiet, gripping it with both hands now. Rayyan, moving like a shadow, slipped a handgun from beneath his coat.

Bob swallowed. Hard.

They moved inside together, steps light, ears straining. The building was eerily quiet. Furniture was toppled. Scuff marks littered the floor.

They reached the back room.

Amirul sat slumped at his chair, his head tipped forward.

Bob’s breath hitched—then his eyes fell on the blood. A hole clean through the center of his forehead. Dried blood stained his face and pooled at the base of his seat.

Rayyan and Bob both let out shaky breaths. Bob had to turn away, stomach lurching. The voice in his head coiled tighter, squeezing his heart and lungs.

“You’re too late again.”

He spoke to himself under his breath, shaky murmurs meant to ground him. Reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, his fingers fumbled and it fell to the floor. He stared at it, chest heaving, breathing hard through his nose.

"Bob," Rayyan said, voice urgent. "Bob."

Bob blinked rapidly, looking up.

"We have to keep moving."

"No—no, I can’t—I don’t—" Bob stammered, eyes wide. He was unraveling.

Rayyan gave him a look. Cold, sharp. It said everything Bob needed to hear: You don’t get a choice right now.

Bob swallowed his protest, forced down a groan, and nodded.

They moved deeper into the building. Rayyan led them to a door Bob had never gone through before.

Inside, rows of supplement containers lined the walls. Rayyan moved cautiously, gun up.

But there was no one there.

He lowered his weapon and bolted to the supply counter.

The packages were gone.

Bob checked another stash. Empty.

He looked up at Rayyan, who slammed his fist against the counter.

"Damn it!"

Then—a noise.

They both turned. A shadow darted past the open door.

Rayyan was faster. He took off like a bullet.

Bob hesitated—but then followed, adrenaline taking over. He felt like he was being dragged underwater. None of this felt real. He was in over his head.

Then—

A gunshot rang out behind them.

Rayyan cursed and yanked Bob into an empty storage room. They hit the ground hard.

"It’s a trap," Rayyan said, low and fast. "They’re trying to corner us."

Bob slumped against a crate, whispering under his breath, "Why me? Why me?"

Rayyan didn’t answer. He raised his gun.

The door burst open.

Three armed men poured in.

Rayyan didn’t wait. He charged.

The room erupted into chaos. Bob ducked behind a table, heart hammering. He could hear fists flying, shots firing, bodies colliding.

Then something shifted in him.

He couldn’t just sit there.

His hand slid into his pocket again. The knife flicked open.

He stared at the metal.

Move.

Bob stood. His body moved before his brain caught up. The first man didn’t even see him coming—Bob tackled him to the ground, the knife flashing once, then again. His movements were sloppy, desperate. A blur of motion and instinct.

Another attacker lunged at him, but Rayyan intercepted, gun whipping out to knock the man unconscious.

Rayyan tossed Bob a pistol.

"Catch!"

Bob fumbled the weapon, hands shaking. He barely aimed before pulling the trigger.

A man collapsed.

Bob stared at him.

He had just shot someone.

His fingers went numb. The gun clattered from his grip.

Rayyan grabbed him, shouting his name.

They sprinted toward the window. More footsteps echoed in the hall behind them.

"Go!"

Rayyan shoved it open. They climbed through together. The jump was brutal—a two-story drop into a metal dumpster.

They hit hard.

Bob groaned, limbs aching.

But they were alive.

And now, they were on the run.

Bob took off sprinting down the alleyway, feet slamming against the pavement, lungs burning with each breath.

Laughter—manic and hysterical—burst out of him, adrenaline still coursing through his veins like wildfire. He dragged his hands through his hair, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in disbelief.

"We did it," he panted, turning around with a dazed grin.

But the smile disappeared instantly.

Rayyan was far behind him, staggering. His hand was clutched to his stomach, and his face had gone pale.

Bob froze.

"No... no no no no—" Bob murmured, the words tumbling out like a mantra as he rushed toward him.

Rayyan faltered, his knees giving out. Bob caught him just in time, easing him to the ground onto his side. His hands hovered, unsure where to touch, what to do. Blood was seeping fast through Rayyan’s fingers, dark and thick, the crimson blossoming across his shirt.

Bob’s vision blurred. Tears pressed hard at the back of his eyes.

"I can get help," he choked out. "You’ll be fine. I just need to—I just need to..."

Rayyan’s trembling hand reached up, covering one of Bob’s.

"You... you need to get out," he whispered, voice rasping and weak.

Bob shook his head desperately. "No. No, I’m not leaving you."

"Bob... it’s over," Rayyan croaked. "Amuril is dead."

Bob stared at him, paralyzed, heart in his throat.

Rayyan's gaze grew more intense. "There were things... I wanted to tell you... before."

"Then tell me later," Bob said quickly, applying more pressure to the wound. "You’re going to make it. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine."

But Rayyan only stared up at him, eyes dimming. His mouth moved, trying to form words, but no sound came. His chest barely rose.

Then it stopped rising at all.

Bob let out a broken sob, curling over him. Blood soaked Bob’s hands, sticky and warm. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel the weight of another loss settling over him like a shroud.

The numbness crawled in slowly, swallowing him whole. The voice in his head was back, loud and cruel.

This is what you do. Everyone around you dies. You’re a curse, Bob. You always have been.

Everything felt muffled. Distant. But then—sirens. Faint, growing louder.

He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to leave Rayyan’s side.

But he knew he had to.

Bob stood with all the strength he had left, his body moving as if through sludge. Every step felt like digging himself out of a grave.

He forced his eyes away from Rayyan’s lifeless body.

Then he turned.

And he ran.

Down the alley, away from the sirens.

Tears streamed down his face. He didn’t try to stop them. A sob clawed its way up his throat and broke free.

His heart pounded like war drums in his ears. His vision blurred. The city around him passed in streaks and shapes.

But he kept running.

Because if he didn’t, it would all be over.

Because now, there was no one left to catch him if he fell.

—---

Bob didn’t remember how he got back to his apartment. His legs just carried him there, muscle memory guiding every step. He barely noticed the streets passing by. All he knew—deep in his bones—was that he had to get rid of everything. They’d be able to connect it all. The buildings. The traces. They’d find him.

His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys, dropping them once, nearly again. When the door finally clicked open, he stumbled inside. The hallway stretched out in front of him like a tunnel, impossibly long. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like he was walking through water. Or a dream.

He tore off his bloodied clothes and left them where they fell. His reflection caught in the small mirror—his hands, slick and red—made his stomach turn. He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes tight.

“You’ll never escape the cycle.”

The voice in his head was merciless.

He pulled on the clothes he’d arrived in: black hoodie, jean jacket, dark jeans. The fabric felt rough and unfamiliar now, like it didn’t belong to him. 

He grabbed his backpack and began stuffing it: passport, emergency cash, a few stashes of drugs, whatever he could fit. His thoughts spun faster than his hands could move. He needed to burn the rest. Destroy every trace. He had his lighter. It’d have to be enough.

Then—a loud crunch.

He froze.

Looking down, he saw it.

His Rubik’s Cube. 

Broken. 

The pieces scattered underfoot, colors faded and cracked with wear.

He just stared.

It had been with him for years—his hands used to twist it absently when things got too loud, too dark. Now it was nothing. Just another broken thing in the ruins of his life.

The numbness rushed in like a tide. There was no mission anymore. No Rayyan. No plan. And now, not even that small, stupid comfort to hold onto.

Then came the smoke.

Sharp. Bitter. Overwhelming.

He coughed, eyes burning. Of course—they’d beaten him to it. The enemy had the same idea: erase everything.

The fire had already started.

Bob stood there for a moment as the smoke curled around him. The voice whispered again.

Stay. Let it take you. Let it end.

And for a second, he listened.

It would be easier. To give in. Let it all disappear in the flames. No more running. No more grief.

But then he looked at his hands. Still stained red.

Rayyan hadn’t had a choice.

But Bob did.

He wasn’t ready to give that up. Not yet.

He shoved the voice down and forced his body to move. Each breath scraped his throat raw. The smoke stung his eyes, blinding. He stumbled through the apartment, coughing hard. Flames crackled at the edges of the walls, licking toward the ceiling.

The front door was blocked. Heat radiated off it in waves.

He turned back, heart slamming against his ribs. He slammed his shoulder against the side door—once, twice, three times—until it broke open.

A window. There. His escape.

He clawed it open, flung himself through. The frame scraped his ribs, tore at his hoodie. He hit the fire escape with a painful thud, gasping. Above him, the building roared in fire.

He didn’t look back.

Bob climbed down rung by rung, each one a test of will. When he reached the alley, he ran. Didn’t stop to think. Didn’t slow down.

He shoved past people in the street, ignoring their curses. The world was smeared and unfocused. Just motion. Just noise.

He ran until his lungs gave out and his legs buckled. He collapsed onto a bench blocks away, far enough that the smoke had faded from the air but not from his skin.

His hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight. His chest heaved. In. Out. In. Out.

It was the only thing he could control.

Just breathe.

Not the blood.

Not the fire.

Not the body on the floor.

Just. Breathe.

The voice didn’t stop. It crept in, soft but unrelenting.

Told you so. This is the end. Rayyan saw you—but he never really knew you. No one does. No one will.

Bob clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.

You’ll always be alone.

And worse.

That he deserved to be.

Bob reached into his bag blindly and pulled out the nearest pill bottle. He didn’t check the label. He didn’t care. Whatever it was, he dumped the last of it into his palm and swallowed everything in one go.

His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He coughed, bent forward slightly, his hands bracing his knees. He felt sick. Dizzy. Empty.

What’s left? his thoughts murmured.

Everywhere he went, it turned to nothing. A high always followed by a devastating low. A fleeting moment of peace replaced by violence, destruction, guilt.

His eyes drifted up to the busy road. Cars, trucks, motorbikes speeding by. Fast. Powerful. Indifferent.

His legs moved on their own.

He stepped off the curb.

The voice in his head went silent.

In the stillness of what might be his final moments, Bob found his thoughts drifting—strangely, achingly—back to Rayyan. To the way Rayyan wanted to tell him something important. Something Bob would never hear.

His feet met asphalt. The distance between him and the road’s center narrowed.

He was numb.

A hollow shell moving through the world.

Then—

“Excuse me, young man?”

Bob froze.

He turned slowly, startled by the sound. His eyes widened, and for the first time, he realized he was crying. Wetness streaked his cheeks, and he hadn’t noticed. Not until now.

A man stood there. Clean-shaven. White. Brown hair, glasses, a calm presence. A white lab coat. He looked almost out of place on the sidewalk.

“I’m Dr. Halden,” he said, voice measured but kind. “I’m with a research group working on a project called Project Sentry. We’re testing a drug designed to help people unlock the best version of themselves.”

Bob’s mind blanked.

Project Sentry?

He blinked, disoriented, and looked down at the man’s name tag.

O.X.E.

That name. So he was right. It was part of the puzzle he hadn’t been able to solve. He almost laughed, the sound half-hysterical, stuck in his throat.

This was what he’d been searching for. His entire time here. But now… now he didn’t know what he wanted.

Every part of him screamed to keep walking. To disappear into the traffic. Into nothing.

But something rooted him in place.

The doctor stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I see potential in you,” he said. “This trial drug… it could change your life.”

Bob stared at him, hollow-eyed. His voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Why me?”

He wasnt sure if he was asking the universe or the doctor. About the drug? The inccident? His life?

The doctor tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then he smiled, soft and almost sad. “Maybe it’s fate.”

Fate.

Bob looked back at the road. Then down at his hands. Then past the doctor, as if trying to see through time.

What would Rayyan want?

What would his mother have said?

Noah?

And finally—what did he want?

The war inside him raged. Hope fought despair. Anger wrestled guilt. And the drug dulled the edges of it all, but didn’t silence it.

Eventually, slowly, he reached out.

He took the doctor’s hand.

Another high, sure to end in a low. But maybe—just maybe—this time it would be different.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered. “I’ll do the trial.”

The doctor’s face lit up with a quiet, satisfied smile.

“Excellent,” he said. “Come on. We’ll head to the lab.”

Bob stood and followed.

This was the right choice.

Right?

If only he knew.

If only he could’ve heard Rayyan’s final words:

You are so much more than a drug. You don’t need something to lead your life. You learn to take it yourself.

Chapter Text

The building was tall, rising in clean, sleek lines above the rest of the block. Its many floors shimmered with reflective glass, giving the illusion of transparency while revealing nothing inside. It looked pristine—almost too pristine. Yet somehow, it still managed to blend with the surrounding Malaysian architecture. 

Bob trailed behind the doctor silently, the weight of his decision pressing down on every step.

He hesitated at the threshold. The moment he crossed that door, this would become something real. Tangible. A turning point. Was this truly the path he wanted? Fulfillment. Purpose. That was what he craved. No—what he needed .

He inhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and stepped through.

Inside, the white walls hit him like a slap. They were blindingly clean, the kind of sterile white that made your head spin, especially with the lingering drugs dulling his senses. 

There wasn’t a speck of dust, not a single smudge. Every surface gleamed under the artificial light. Cold. Too perfect.

He followed Dr. Halden through winding corridors that seemed to twist and fold in on themselves. The floors were polished to a mirror-like shine, reflecting a distorted version of himself back with every step. 

Bob felt like he was walking deeper into a maze designed to swallow him whole. He lost track of time—of how many left turns they’d taken, how many subtle shifts in architecture occurred as they moved. Smooth glass panels morphed into seamless white walls. There were no clocks. No windows. No end.

He felt like he might never find his way out again.

Then, suddenly, they stopped.

Dr. Halden opened a door.

The room inside was minimalist to the point of discomfort. A single metal table sat in the center, paper arranged perfectly square at its center. A pen lay parallel to its top edge, placed with the kind of precision that felt almost surgical. Off to one side was a stark white photo area—a background and camera clearly prepared in advance. On the far wall were rows of lockers that looked more like safes, seamless and stainless, each one labeled with a barcode and a tiny glowing red light.

"Why don't you take a seat," the doctor said, gesturing toward the chair across from the table. "We can talk more about the trial drug."

Bob hesitated again, his eyes scanning the sterile, impossibly symmetrical room. Nothing was out of place. Not a single paperclip or speck of dust. 

Even the chair looked too clean, like no one had ever used it. Cautiously, he lowered himself down, the cold surface pressing through his clothes. He tried to focus on that—on the sensation of the chair beneath him. Something real.

The doctor sat opposite him, folding his hands neatly. His smile was soft, polite, but so perfect it bordered on uncanny. Something about it set Bob on edge. It was too rehearsed. 

But maybe that was just the drugs talking.

Dr. Halden spoke slowly, his voice gentle, almost like he was explaining something to a child. "Before we proceed with administering the drug, there are three simple preliminary tests. Nothing invasive or difficult. Just steps to ensure you’re a suitable candidate."

Bob nodded faintly, still staring at the paper in front of him.

"The first is a basic physical," the doctor continued. "Vitals, reflexes, neurological check. The usual things you'd expect."

Bob didn’t move.

"The second is an endurance and coordination test. Some simple tasks to assess your baseline focus and stability. It's not a race—just a few light exercises."

Still nothing.

"And the third is a brief psychological screening. A few personal questions. Nothing you haven’t already asked yourself, I imagine."

Bob finally glanced up. The words weren’t comforting, not really. But they didn’t scare him either. Not after everything he’d been through.

He just wanted whatever came next.

He wanted to stop waiting.

So he nodded again. "Alright. Let’s get it over with."

The doctor smiled, more real this time. And for just a second, the room didn’t feel quite so cold.

Then he finally gestured down to the paperwork in front of him. It was contracts. He explained the contract and what it entailed. Bob looked at it, flipping through the pages and barely skimming over them before signing the bottom of the last page. He dropped the pen back on the table. The doctor’s smile widened, though the rest of his face stayed oddly still.

The doctor gestured to the door at the back of the room and said, "The showers are through there. Please feel free to clean up. Oh—but first, as stated in the contract you just signed, during this process you're not allowed to have any personal items on you."

Bob looked up at this, but he wasn’t really upset. It’s not like he had much on him anyway. He stood slowly, sliding the backpack off his shoulders and setting it on the chair. The doctor asked, "Do you have anything in your pockets?"

Bob checked and flinched when his hand hit something cold. His pocket knife. He breathed in, pulling it out and keeping it partially hidden. He knew it was covered in blood. Without a word, he shoved it deep into the bottom of his backpack. He also slipped off the metal watch on his wrist. It made him slightly uncomfortable—not wearing it felt like losing a part of himself.

The doctor smiled and nodded, then gestured at the lockers. "Everything will be placed in a specific locker. You’ll get it all back at the end of the trial."

"Okay," Bob said softly.

The doctor gestured again to the back door. "Please. We've left you a change of clothes in there as well."

Bob nodded once more. They had everything ready and prepared... It was almost like they were waiting for him.

He slipped into the shower room. First, there was a small entry area with benches and lockers, and beyond that, a tiled shower area. He peeled out of his smoke-ridden clothes, the scent of ash and fire still clinging to him, and stepped into the stream of hot water.

The water felt like it ran through his veins, soothing every raw nerve in his body. His muscles relaxed slowly, inch by inch. He pressed his forehead against the tile of the shower wall, savoring the coolness of it against his overheated skin. He let himself forget everything. All of it washed down the drain.

He spent a long time under the water. Longer than he realized. The grime and filth came out of his hair in dark passes, circling the drain until the water finally ran clear.

When he stepped out, the new clothes were folded neatly for him on a bench. It looked like medical scrubs—soft, light blue pants and a loose matching top. The fabric was soft. He slipped into them slowly, pulling on the socks they’d left as well. For a moment, Bob almost felt like a little kid again—dressed by someone else, cared for by someone else. It was unsettling in its comfort.

He stepped back into the main room. The table was now clean and bare, and the doctor was at a file cabinet, rifling through folders. He turned when he noticed Bob.

"Ahh, Robert—"

"Bob," he cut in quickly. "Call me Bob."

The doctor gave a small nod. “Bob then. I've filed your paperwork. Now, we just need a headshot."

He walked over to a mounted camera and gestured for Bob to stand in front of it. Bob moved behind the camera, unsure what to do, and simply stood stiffly. He stared at the lens like a startled meerkat. The light flashed. He winced, blinking hard as white spots filled his vision.

The doctor looked at the image and said, "Good." He turned off the camera and gently placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder.

"Let’s get you down to the first test."

And just like that, Bob followed him.

They walked through the ever-winding maze of hallways again, the fluorescent lights above flickering just enough to be annoying. Eventually, Dr. Haldan stopped at an intersection and turned to Bob.

"This is where I leave you," he said simply.

Bob hesitated. "Oh, um—okay. Thank you." He fiddled with his hands.

But the doctor was already turning, walking away without another word. Bob stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he sighed and pushed himself forward into the next room. He just had to keep moving.

It was quiet here. Quiet in a way that made him itchy. The room was spare, not much in it—a small padded bench, a locked cabinet, a digital panel on the wall. Not cold, but not warm either. Just sterile. He sat on the bench, the fabric beneath him whispering against his clothing.

And then the panic started.

He did drugs.

The thought slammed into his chest like a truck. What if they found out? Would they test him and throw him out? Would they tell someone—report him? Was this a trap? Had it all been a trick?

He was now just wandering around in the dark.

His heart thundered. His palms began to sweat. He rubbed them down the front of the scrubs and caught the seam with his thumb. It was soft. Strangely soft. He pinched the fabric between two fingers and focused on the texture. Rubbed it slowly. Trying to pull him self out.

And then, just like that, the memory opened.

He was six. Maybe seven. The old apartment, night had settled outside, and rain tapped gently at the single window.

He was tucked under a blanket one of those super soft fleece ones. His mother had pulled it over him, sitting at the edge of the mattress that sagged in the middle.

"I don’t like the dark," he had whispered, clutching the blanket up to his nose.

His mother—back then still bright-eyed, still whole smiled and tucked the blanket tighter around his chest.

"The dark’s just the part before the story gets good," she said.

"What if something’s hiding in it?"

"Then maybe it’s waiting for you to find it."

He frowned. "What if it’s scary?"

She exhaled through her nose and brushed his hair back with gentle fingers. "Then you’re brave enough to meet it anyway. That’s what being brave is, Bobby. It’s not not being scared. It’s walking through it anyway."

She laid down beside him, her arm over his chest. "When you were a baby, I used to rock you and whisper all my hopes into your little ears. I said, ‘Grow up strong. Grow up kind. Grow up brave.’ And I still want that for you. Even now. Even if things aren’t perfect."

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were shiny in the dim light, but not sad. Just full. "You really think I can be brave?"

She nodded. "You already are. You just forget sometimes. That’s okay. I’ll remember for you."

He didn’t answer. He just curled a little closer to her, warm beneath the blanket, the darkness no longer quite so big.

And now, years later, in a silent, sterile room with synthetic clothes and cold walls, Bob pressed his fingers tighter into that seam and closed his eyes. For a second, it was like her arm was there again. Her voice. 

She had wanted him to be brave.

Maybe it was time to try again.

The door clicked open.

Bob looked up, eyes dry now. His heartbeat had slowed.

It was odd, really. Bob honestly wasn’t too familiar with doctors—not in any real, consistent way. It was never a family priority. 

Especially not after that one time, after that visit. When he was eleven, his dad had nearly been charged with domestic abuse, but managed to lie his way out of it. And after that… they never went to the doctors again.

The medical staff had started asking questions, innocent on the surface: "Does that bruise hurt?" "How often do you get headaches?" But they had seen it. The way Bob flinched when his father stood up. The way he wouldn’t meet their eyes. They suspected something. So that was it. No more checkups. No more risks.

So when the door opened again and a new man stepped in, Bob immediately tensed. The man had a clipboard tucked against his side and wore a soft, calm expression. His voice matched it when he spoke, quiet and kind, like he was talking to a frightened animal or a small child.

"Well, good afternoon, mister…?"

Bob blinked. "Uh. Bob."

The man smiled warmly. “Bob. Perfect. I’m Dr. Roberts, but you can call me Mister Robert if that’s easier. Just here to do a routine check-up. Nothing scary. Just some vitals, scans, all that boring stuff.”

Bob nodded slowly. This guy… felt different. More genuine. He wasn’t performing the way some adults did—like they were trying too hard to be nice. This man seemed calm in a way that calmed Bob in return.

He sat obediently on the exam table while Dr. Roberts started setting up equipment. The usual things: blood pressure cuff, thermometer, a little handheld scanner Bob didn’t recognize.

Bob, cautious but curious, finally asked, “Hey, um… what’s the drug exactly?”

Dr. Roberts glanced at him, then back to the scanner. “Hmm?”

“The thing I signed up for. The—what’s it do specifically?”

The doctor’s pause was slight but noticeable.

“Well, it’s still in trial phases,” he said lightly. “Mostly designed to enhance cognitive and physical responsiveness brining out the best In people to there full potential. We’re observing its effects in a monitored environment .”

“But what is it?” Bob pressed.

Dr. Roberts smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Let’s just get through the checkup, shall we?”

Bob didn’t like that. Not so much that the doctor avoided the question—but how easily he avoided it. Like it was second nature. Like he had done this a thousand times.

Still, Bob let the questions drop. After the tenth one was brushed off, it felt pointless.

The checkup was quiet after that. Polite. Professional. Dr. Roberts made notes in careful handwriting and nodded approvingly every so often.

Then, when it was all done, the doctor clapped the file shut and said, “You’re all good to go.”

Bob slid off the table, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay.”

Dr. Roberts checked a tablet in his hand and raised his brows. “Well now, looks like you’re our last one.”

Bob blinked. “Last one?”

“Oh, um…” The doctor trailed off. He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just… last for the day. That’s not a bad thing, son. That’s a good thing.”

He offered a hand toward the door.

“Let’s go meet with the others.”

Bob tilted his head. “The others?”

Dr. Roberts opened the door and waited.

“Yep,” he said with a vague smile. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

And before Bob could decide how he felt about that, he was stepping through into the hallway, following quietly after the man in the white coat.

It was a wide, sterile room open and echoey, with tile floors and bright overhead lights that buzzed just a little too loud. Bob figured there were maybe sixty, seventy guys in there. Eighty at most. Hard to tell with how many kept shifting on their feet, stretching, pacing. But one thing stood out immediately, hit him in the face like a truck.

They all kinda looked the same.

Not exactly, but close enough that it made Bob do a double take. Predominantly white. Blonde hair. Square jaws. Mid-twenties to thirties. Built but not huge, but clean-cut, military fit. Like they’d walked straight off the cover of a Captain America comic. It felt like he’d walked into a live-action lookalike contest. 

Bob shook his head, uncomfortable with the thought. It was weird. Really weird. Especially considering they were in Malaysia. Maybe the drug they were testing just attracted a certain kind of guy? Or maybe it was targeted for that demographic.

Still. It didn’t sit right.

He shuffled to the edge of the room, settling into a corner with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, fidgeting with the seam of his sleeve. His thoughts drifted back to what Dr. Halden had said earlier.

“ It’s mostly designed to enhance cognitive and physical responsiveness—bringing out the best in people, helping them reach their full potential.”

Right. Whatever that meant.

Bob furrowed his brows. "Best" always meant something different depending on who was saying it.

"Hey," a voice said beside him.

Bob glanced up. One of the blonde guys was looking directly at him. With a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Sorry?" Bob asked.

The guy repeated himself. “I said it’s kinda odd, huh? That we all look alike. And we’re here for the physical.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Not just you. Noticed it the second I walked in. Like a lab grew a batch of All-American boys.”

They started talking, a few of them, casually at first. Observations, jokes. But beneath it, there was tension. The realization was spreading, crawling through the group. Something about this wasn’t normal, wasn’t random. The murmuring grew louder, overlapping into an uneasy buzz of suspicion.

And then the door opened.

Dr. Halden stepped inside, clipboard in hand, flanked by two assistants in white coats. The chatter died almost instantly. The air thickened, charged with silent anticipation.

“Welcome, all,” Dr. Halden said smoothly, smiling like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. “We’re so glad you’re here for the first run of our trial. But before we can offer you a taste of what this drug can do, we need to run a quick physical assessment.”

The murmuring rose again—questions, concern, confusion.

Halden raised his hand, voice firm. “It’s just a precaution. To see how your body might react to the formula. If you fail... well, we’ll have to ask you to leave.”

People started shifting, glancing at each other. Then, without warning, a section of the floor lit up in a rectangular strip. Overhead, a voice crackled to life from the intercom:

“Welcome to the PACER test. You will hear a series of beeps. Begin at the line. Run to the opposite side before the second beep. The pace will gradually increase. Continue until told to stop.”

Bob blinked. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he muttered.

The men hesitated, but slowly, they began moving. Jogging up to the lit strip in staggered lines. Bob followed, dragging his feet a little. His heart was pounding before he’d even started.

BEEEEP.

A sharp, echoing sound tore through the room. The men took off.

Bob jogged to the other side, keeping pace. Another beep. Another run. Easy enough—he’d kept himself decently in shape over the years with his delivery job. Thanks, Amirul, he thought grimly.

But every time that buzzer blared— the long, low buzz for those who failed to make the line—Bob flinched. One by one, doctors emerged from the side doors, pulling out confused or panicked men by the arms. Some protested, resisted. It didn’t matter. They were gone. It was getting serious now. Everyone felt it. The tension was suffocating.

Another beep. Bob ran.

Another. He kept going.

And then—

“Stop,” the intercom instructed.

Bob staggered to a halt, bent over his knees, chest heaving. His top clung to his back with sweat, hair damp against his forehead. Around him, others were in similar shape. Maybe thirty men had been pulled—maybe more. It wasn’t just a formality anymore. This was a filter.

The voice came back.

“Next: hand-to-hand combat assessment.”

Someone near the back snapped. “This is insane! Why are we doing combat trials just to take a drug?!”

Dr. Halden stepped forward again, calm as ever.

“You’re here for a reason,” he said, his voice silky and deliberate. “You chose to be here. And each of you came to us with something—pain, desperation, ambition. We’re not giving this to just anyone. You’ll have to earn it.”

He smiled. “It’s just a simple test. We’re not asking you to fight to the death.”

Bob shivered, pressing his palms against his thighs to steady himself. He knew some self-defense. Enough, maybe. Hopefully. He kept repeating it in his head: You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

Names were called. Pairs of men stepped forward, squared off. Some fights were messy, others surgical. If you held your own, you were led further into the building. If not... you were out.

Then:

“Robert Reynolds.”

Bob stepped forward slowly, heart jackhammering.

His opponent was taller, broader. Looked like he knew what he was doing. Got into position fast, confident.

Bob hesitated. Then mirrored the stance. He didn’t want to fight the guy. Didn’t want to fight anybody . But he had to. Everyone here needed that drug. And Bob could feel that same hunger buzzing in the room. Like electricity.

They moved. Feints. A swipe—

Bob hit the ground hard, wind knocked out of him.

He stared at the ceiling for a second, dazed. Then a hand appeared in his vision. Dr. Halden.

No he cant be out of it now.

Bob blinked. Hesitated. Took it.

The doctor helped him up and led him toward the side door.

Bob sighed in relief. 

He swallowed thickly, legs trembling slightly, but he kept walking.

One step closer to the drug.

Everyone who was left was soon sectioned off for questioning. It started simple—routine background checks, the kind of questions Bob thought would be no problem.

“Who’s in your family?” the psychologist asked.

Bob shifted in his chair. “My mother passed when I was younger. My father’s still alive.”

“And your relationship with him?”

Bob’s jaw twitched. “We don’t talk anymore.”

It was flat. Devoid of elaboration. Absolute.

He didn’t say he ran away. Didn’t say he’d left bruises behind, or that he still sometimes flinched when someone raised their voice. He just kept his hands in his lap and refused to let them shake.

The doctor scribbled something.

“Any close friends waiting for you back home?”

Bob’s mind flickered—unbidden—to Noah and Rayyan.

His heart clenched.

“No,” he said quietly.

The doctor smiled. Too satisfied. 

“Thank you, Robert.”

Bob hated how that smile made his skin crawl. Like the right answers were the wrong ones. Like being alone made him easier to mold.

He was starting to wish for fresh air. Sunlight. Anything but the buzzing fluorescent blue of the lights overhead.

“Well congrlations you passed you may now proceed to receive your dosage”

Bob’s breath hitched a weak smile slowly formed on his face.

This was it.

A nurse opened the door just ahead and waved him in. Bob moved, but it felt like his legs were moving for him. Detached. Dreamlike.

The room looked like something from an asylum: white-walled, with only a single padded chair bolted to the floor. Black sleek restraints looped loosely over the armrests. His smile the weak one that had tugged at the corners of his mouth when the doctor told him he’d passed—flickered and died.

Another doctor entered, flipping through a clipboard. "Robert? Please, sit."

Bob hesitated, then nodded and eased into the chair. It was stiff. Cold. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but there was no such thing in a place like this.

The nurses approached quietly. One took his left wrist, the other his right. Click. Click. Thick black straps tightened over his arms, then his biceps. He could feel his breathing pick up, chest rising too fast, too shallow.

He was strapped down. Strapped in.

The doctor didn’t hesitate. He took Bob’s arm, cleaned a patch with antiseptic, and before Bob could protest—

The needle sank in.

A cold rush bloomed through his vein.

At first, there was nothing. A strange stillness.

Then it hit.

Not like a punch or a jolt—but a build . A pressure from within.

Bob twitched. Then flinched. His body surged forward instinctively, fighting the straps, eyes blown wide. A sound escaped him—a strangled cry—and his vision blurred.

It felt like his insides were boiling. His skin pulsed. Veins bulged and pressed against the surface like they were trying to escape. He grit his teeth. His legs kicked out and his arms pulled instinctively against the leather restraints that held him still. Pain—sharp, searing—shot through every limb.

He gasped for breath, chest heaving. But even his lungs felt too full. Too tight.

Then came the worst part.

The feeling that something else was inside him.

Not just a chemical or heat. Something living. Something foreign.

It was crawling under his skin, like his muscles were being rewritten. Like someone else was trying to wear him. 

Like he was splitting in two.

A scream tore its way out of his throat. 

He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

Everything went white.

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Bob blinked.

The light was gone.

He stood in an attic.

Still. Dusty. Familiar.

The same smell as when he was a kid—mildew and cedar and the faint must of forgotten things.

He took a step back, heart thudding.

“No,” he whispered. “This is a dream.”

His voice shook. His hands trembled.

He brought one up to his face, wiped at his eyes. “Wake up, Bob. Wake up.”

He thought he was alone—until he heard it.

Thump.

His head snapped toward the door.

It was closed.

But something was behind it.

He stared.

And then, despite everything, took a step toward it.

He opened the door, following the sound slowly, each step down the stairs careful and hesitant. He held his breath. The air in the house felt heavier than he remembered, and colder. He hadn’t been back in this home in forever.

Then suddenly—

“Bobby, are you kidding me?”

His father’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.

Bob flinched backward, hand tightening on the rail, and whirled around. There—his father. Standing in the hallway. Looking at him.

Younger.

He looked younger. Not the one from those few miserable final years. This version was strong. Sharp-eyed. Intimidating.

Bob took a step back involuntarily.

His father only ever called him “Bobby” when he was a teenager—when he wanted to get under his skin, to provoke something in him, to remind him who was in charge.

But there was something else.

Bob squinted.

His father… wasn’t really looking at him. He was looking through him.

Then Bob turned around—and saw himself. A teenage version of himself. Slouched, scowling, defensive. Face thinner, arms crossed, a bruise forming beneath one eye. He gasped aloud, stepping back into one of the rooms off the hallway just as his father advanced, a familiar fury brewing behind his eyes.

Bob clamped his eyes shut.

He knew what was coming.

He remembered what was coming.

And then the sound: the sharp, ugly crack of skin on skin.

But when he opened his eyes—

He was somewhere else.

A different room. A different time.

A living room, dimly lit, with bottles on the floor and peeling wallpaper. Himself at eighteen wiry, strung out, sunken cheeks and restless hands moving through someone else’s house with other junkies. Rummaging through drawers. Desperate. Shaky. His older self had to look away. The shame burned through him. This was the worst of it. The darkest part. He remembered the sensation in his chest how it was hollow and caved in. He remembered the feeling of crossing a line and knowing he couldn’t go back.

He opened another door. Anything to escape.

But now—

Now he was in the police department.

Cold white lights. The click of a camera. A tired cop with a clipboard. Bob stood still, frozen in time, as a younger version of himself stared dead-eyed at the lens. His name printed on the whiteboard under his chin.

“Shit,” he said weakly.

His hand fumbled with the doorknob, desperate to escape.

“Please don’t,” he mumbled. “Please. Please.”

He pushed through the door.

And finally—

He was back in the attic.

He stumbled forward, falling to the couch like gravity had suddenly returned. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. Relief. It was quiet up here. Just like it was when he was a child.

His legs folded beneath him. He lay down, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched into fists.

“I want to wake up,” he whispered. “Please. Please let me wake up.”

But no one answered.

So he clenched his eyes tighter, and forced the noise in his mind—the voices, the images, the memories—to go silent.

For now.

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When he awakened, he was in a small, sterile room with a narrow bed and humming fluorescent lights. His body felt lighter—almost hollow—but he couldn’t explain why. Something was wrong. Something had shifted. Then, like a weight crashing into his chest, he remembered the dream.

He pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to shut it out, trying to not remember. But the door creaked open, and in walked Dr. Halden, his lab coat too clean, his smile too tight.

“Bob,” he said, clipboard in hand, “you are our first successful patient. So far. You’ll be moved on to the next dosage.”

Bob blinked. “Next… one?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Dr. Halden raised an eyebrow. “The trial is a two-part drug. It was all laid out in the contract you signed.”

A cold ache settled in Bob’s stomach. Why hadn’t he read the damn contract? He groaned aloud and ran his hand through his hair.

The doctor’s expression shifted—eager, almost giddy. “Now, Bob, we need you to tell us everything you experienced. How you felt.”

Bob stared. “What?”

“After the drug settled in. What was it like?”

“I passed out,” Bob said. “I had a… dream.”

Dr. Halden stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “That was no dream.”

Bob furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“The levitating. The floating objects. I know it sounds impossible—”

“Levitating?” Bob let out an awkward, almost hysterical laugh. “Floating objects?”

And then, like a needle tearing through fabric, memories he didn’t recognize began to press against the walls of his mind.

 Flickers of sterile lights, tools hovering midair. The black straps on the table— ripped clean off . He remembered looking down and seeing his feet not touching the ground. And the faces. The wide, terrified and amazed eyes of the doctors around him.

He clutched his head, gasping, stumbling backwards. Pain lanced through his skull like fire.

Dr. Halden didn’t move. “Yes, Bob,” he said gently. “You’re remembering.”

“No,” Bob hissed. “No, that wasn’t me. I was dreaming —someone else—something else took over—”

The Dr wasnt listening. 

“The trial worked.” The doctor was practically beaming now. “It unlocked something buried deep in you. Enhanced your physical and mental thresholds. Would you not call that potential ?”

Bob’s heart raced. He shook his head. “That wasn’t enhancement. That was possession.”

“Or evolution,” the doctor said calmly. “You’ve become what we always knew was possible. The highest level of human adaptation.”

Bob took a step back. His pulse was thunder in his ears.

When he was younger, he would sometimes black out. Lose time. Wake up feeling like a stranger in his own skin. Like he had done something bad . Or… something powerful.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked, barely more than a whisper.

Dr. Halden smiled, all calm calculation. 

“The future,” he said, “is being born inside you.”

Chapter Text

He felt numb. Still in shock from discovering he had powers. Now his head throbbed at the idea of being turned into a weapon. He let out a weak, humorless laugh. “This must be a joke. I—I can’t…”

“I know it may seem like a lot to take in,” Halden said, eyes cool, “but the drug has brought out your best potential.”

Bob looked up sharply, eyes wide. “No. I don’t want this.” His voice cracked. He was shaking. “I never wanted any of this.”

The doctor’s face dropped just slightly, lips tightening as Bob rambled, his words tumbling out faster and more panicked.

“I want to leave,” Bob said, standing up quickly.

Dr. Halden nearly flinched. “We can’t let you leave until the trial is over. It’s in the contract you signed.”

“I never wanted this—this is crazy!” Bob shouted, stepping back.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Halden said flatly, and pressed a button on the side of his clipboard.

The door opened.

More doctors entered.

Bob’s panic surged. Something rose in his chest, heavy and hot and unfamiliar. His breath came fast. He didn’t notice his eyes shift—glowing faint gold.

Dr. Halden did. And he smiled.

One doctor approached, hands up in mock calm.

“Stay away from me,” Bob said, voice trembling.

The man kept walking. Bob backed up.

Another doctor lunged from the other side.

Bob yelped, instinctively throwing his hands up to block—

—and the man was flung backward through the air, crashing against the wall with a sickening crack.

Bob stared, frozen. The man lay limp.

He didn’t see the other doctor advance.

A sharp prick bit into the side of his neck.

Everything tilted. The pressure in his chest faded. His limbs went heavy. His vision swam.

The last thing he saw, as the world tilted and spun, was Dr. Halden’s face. Smiling.

Excited.

Voices blurred together. He tried to focus.

“…kill switch…”

“…must inform Valit…”

“…first step…”

“…erase memories…”

And then—

Blackness.

Slowly, Bob drifted in and out of consciousness. 

He couldn’t move, but he could feel —the cold sting of metal straps tightening over his arms and legs, the feeling of metal pressing against his temples, and the intrusion of a plastic mouthpiece forced between his teeth.

His muscles twitched involuntarily, and though his vision blurred and cleared in waves, he managed to glimpse the sterile ceiling above him. Panic crawled through his chest like a parasite.

Then, a familiar figure entered his line of sight. Dr. Halden.

“Don’t worry, Bob,” he said, his voice calm, almost too calm. “You’ll forget this ever happened. Hopefully, you’ll be more willing the second time.”

Bob’s body tensed—he tried to scream, tried to resist—but then came the pain. Blinding, searing pain that shot through his skull like electric fire. His teeth sank into the mouthpiece. His back arched. And then—white. Only white.

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He woke up with a groan, the world spinning softly around him. He was lying on a narrow bed in a small, bare room. The light above buzzed faintly, its cold white glow making the walls seem even more sterile than they were. He reached up instinctively, touching his forehead—it ached like hell.

Bob sat up slowly. 

The door creaked open, and Dr. Halden stepped in with a familiar, unsettling smile.

“Bob,” he greeted warmly. “The trial was a success. How are you feeling?”

Bob blinked at him, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… fine. A little sore, but that’s it.”

He expected to feel different. More alert, maybe. Or powerful. Something. But instead, he felt like something was missing—as if someone had opened his mind, scooped out pieces of it, and stitched it back up without telling him.

“That’s a normal side effect,” Dr. Halden assured him. “The trial drug is administered in two doses, as explained in your contract.”

Bob nodded absently, eyes flicking around the room. There was something about it. Déjà vu. The corners, the way the light hit the floor, the slight crack in the lower left tile—it all felt hauntingly familiar. But no memory came with it.

“You’re now ready for your second dosage,” Halden said, gesturing toward the hall. Bob stood on shaky legs, following the doctor out of the room.

They walked down a long corridor, their footsteps echoing off the cold floor. As they passed a side room with the door ajar, Bob caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach twist—a patient was lying motionless on the floor, his eyes open but utterly empty. Glassy. Lifeless.

Bob stopped in his tracks. A chill crawled down his spine.

Before he could process it, Dr. Halden clapped a firm hand on his back and nudged him forward. “Some patients have adverse reactions to the first dose,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “It’s perfectly normal. Not every body is compatible with progress.”

As they walked further, Bob heard faint noises—shuffling, a faint thud, something like muffled screams—but he shook his head, forcing himself to believe it was just nerves, just echoes, just his mind playing tricks.

Eventually, they reached the main lab.

It was sleek and clinical, an open space dominated by shining white surfaces, overhead lights, and the hum of quietly running machines. Security guards stood at each door checkpoint, their stances rigid, eyes watching everything.

In the center of the lab was an enclosed glass area with a single medical bed and overhanging medical lights. It was locked, requiring a facial recognition scan for entry. Inside, he could see shelves lined with syringes and complex chemical vials, computer monitors displaying rapid data streams.

Dr. Halden turned to him. “Stay here. I’ll retrieve the scientists.”

Bob nodded, still dazed, and watched the doctor leave.

He wandered a few steps, unable to stop himself from scanning the room. Every beep, every hiss of machinery, made his nerves tighten. Then he heard a soft scuttling sound.

Looking down, he saw a guinea pig, brown and white, in a little maze no doubt used for experiments. 

Bob leaned down, a small smile curling on his lips. It was the first living thing he’d seen here that didn’t seem to be under a microscope. The little animal froze, looking up at him with wide black eyes. Bob reached out, gently running his fingers along its back and scratching under its chin.

For a brief second, something human returned to him—compassion, empathy. He felt for the creature. Lost in a maze, probably experimented on. Wandering around in circles, unaware of the cruel minds that hovered above him, testing, manipulating.

He sat there beside the guinea pig for a moment longer, heart pounding, mind spinning with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to.

Then—hurried footsteps.

Bob stood up straight, tension knotting in his shoulders. Dr. Halden reappeared, this time with two others in lab coats.

“Follow us,” one of them said, with a practiced smile.

Bob was led into the glass-encased room. Dr. Halden leaned toward the scanner—beep. The screen lit up, analyzing his face, scanning each minute feature with eerie precision.

Face confirmed.

The glass doors hissed open.

Bob hesitated, then stepped inside. The medical bed loomed. He sat slowly, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

The scientists were whispering to each other, but Bob couldn’t hear the words. It didn’t matter—he was too distracted by something else.

A strange pressure behind his eyes. A tickle in the back of his mind.

One of the scientists took his arm, rubbing it with antiseptic. The cold sting snapped something loose.

A memory.

He had been here before.

Not just the first dose. Something else. Something after. A brief awakening—fuzzy, panicked. Screaming, maybe. Fighting.

His eyes flicked to one of the men outside the glass. A sharp-featured face. His breath caught in his throat.

He knew that face.

He had lunged at him.

There had been shouting. A scuffle. He remembered hands grabbing him, dragging him back.

Before he could think more on it, he felt the pinch of the needle entering his arm.

His head snapped toward Dr. Halden, who stood smiling down at him.

“Let’s see how much development we get now,” he said smoothly. “With luck, you’ll have more control over the abilities.”

Abilities.

That word echoed.

His body went cold. The pressure behind his eyes intensified.

Floating objects.

Faces twisted in fear.

His own scream echoed in his head.

He gasped out loud.

It felt like something was shifting inside him. Something not him. A presence, pressing at the edges of his soul.

Then—

The voice.

He hadn’t heard it in a long time not since he joind the trials. It used to be faceless. Toneless. Just a whisper of thought.

But now it had a voice.

His voice.

"You are all alone."

Bob’s heart dropped. The voice didn’t echo in his ears—it echoed from within . From the depths of his own mind.

He tried to respond, to fight it off, but the fog was already thickening.

Darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

And then—

He awoke again. This time in the attic.

Cold. Drenched in sweat. Chest heaving.

He stood up from the couch, panic surging in his chest. There was no way— no way —this was a coincidence. Waking up in the same place where he had that vivid dream? It was too exact. Too aligned. But he couldn’t bear to go downstairs again, couldn’t face those horrible memories stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Out of the corner of his eye, something flickered.

He whirled around, stumbling back with a sharp breath—there, standing across the room, was himself . Or rather, a version of himself cloaked entirely in darkness. Its features were swallowed by shadow, its form warped like a smudged reflection. Only the faint glint of one eye shone through the black.

Bob’s throat tightened. He took a step back, breath shaky.

It was like staring into a nightmare. A living void. A corrupted echo of who he was.

The shadowed version of himself stepped forward. Bob forced his feet to stay planted, even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. The figure began to circle him slowly, its steps silent.

It stopped just behind him.

Bob flinched hard as a cold hand clamped down onto his shoulder. The grip was firm. Icy.

The shadow leaned in close.

"It’s all your fault," it whispered.

A cold wind blew through the attic, and suddenly—

Bob snapped back to reality.

He gasped, looking around wildly.

The two scientists who had been beside Dr. Halden were gone . In their place were shadows , etched into the walls like scorched silhouettes. Motionless. Permanent.

And then the words echoed again.

"It’s all your fault."

Bob stared down at his trembling hands. His vision blurred with confusion and dread. Slowly, he turned to face the others in the room.

More scientists. All watching. All silent.

Dr. Halden stood at the center of them, his face unreadable. But there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He took a step forward.

“Patient 106 is a failure,” he said flatly. “Send him to one of the containment modules.”

The glass doors hissed open with a pneumatic rush.

Doctors surged in. Bob didn’t resist as they restrained him, didn’t fight as a syringe was plunged into his neck. His limbs began to go limp. His thoughts, too, began to float apart like leaves in water.

He was too drained. Mentally. Emotionally. Lost.

As the world tilted, dimming around him, one final thought drifted through his mind:

I’m sinking into the void.

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Five years later Brooklyn, New York 2021 Early Afternoon

The muted hum of a ceiling fan spun lazily above Bucky Barnes as he stood in his small apartment’s kitchen, his metal fingers rhythmically tapping the edge of a cluttered counter. 

Takeout boxes—mostly old Chinese food—were scattered across the surface, half-eaten and forgotten. The faint aroma of soy and ginger lingered in the air, but Bucky barely noticed. His attention was buried deep in the pile of files spread before him.

His flesh hand supported the weight of his head as he leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the pages he'd read dozens of times. Photographs, documents, redacted reports—each one a grim breadcrumb in the trail he was trying to follow. The name on the top of every other page burned into his mind like a scar: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He’d promised himself he’d let go—leave the covert stuff to Sam and the new generation. But some promises were easier said than kept, especially when guilt clawed at your ribs and justice felt half-buried.

With a sigh, he flipped another page. A small envelope slipped from between the documents and fluttered to the floor like a dead leaf. He blinked. That hadn’t been there before.

Curious and cautious, Bucky stooped to retrieve it. The envelope was plain—aged by travel, its corners softened. No return name. Just a sender’s address stamped in red ink:

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

He frowned. Flipping it over, he broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper within. The handwriting was quick and slanted, like whoever wrote it hadn’t stopped to think.

"I heard you were trying to get information on Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. You might want to take a look at this."

No greeting. No signature.

Inside the envelope, several clipped photos and a folded data sheet were wedged behind the letter. Bucky spread them out slowly, scanning each one. The images were grainy but telling: a research facility, zoomed-in shots of security checkpoints, underground entrances, a loading dock. On the data sheet, words leapt out at him:

"Experimental augmentation. Failed trials. Serum derivative. Subject D-Class."

His breath caught in his throat.

Super soldiers.

His jaw clenched, the sharp edges of his molars grinding together. He dropped the photos onto the counter and paced. The weight of the letter sat heavy in his chest.

As he moved, a soft brush against his ankle caught his attention. Alpine—his white cat—circled his legs with practiced grace, purring steadily. Bucky looked down, momentarily pulled from his spiraling thoughts. She always knew when something was wrong.

She followed as he paced, occasionally weaving between his feet. At one point, she headbutted his shin firmly, a quiet reminder to stay grounded. Bucky stopped and reached down to gently scratch behind her ears. "I'm alright," he murmured, unsure if he believed it himself.

How many more? How many others had been injected, manipulated, broken into pieces like he had been?

He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled through his nose, forcing the anger down before it boiled over. He was trying—really trying—not to lose himself again. To live like a person. To forgive himself. But this?

This dragged him backward.

His eyes fell back on the smudged ink at the bottom of the letter. Someone had tried to sign it, but the name had been rubbed out. Intentionally or not, he couldn’t tell.

It didn't matter.

He rubbed a hand down his face and whispered, "Damn it."

He’d told Sam—told himself—that he was done chasing ghosts. That he wouldn’t let this kind of thing pull him back into the shadows.

But a ghost hadn’t sent this. A person had. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

He picked up the pictures again, staring hard at the lab building in the background. The architecture was distinct—concrete, modern. He could almost feel the humidity in the photo.

He took a step back and looked around his apartment. It was small. Simple. Lived-in. Boxes of takeout and a half-finished cup of coffee sat next to an open book. The quiet life he'd built here was steady—fragile, but steady.

Was he really about to throw himself into another unknown?

Another mission?

Another piece of the Hydra-tainted world he swore he left behind?

He didn’t need to answer.

He was already digging through a drawer, pulling out a duffel bag. He packed light—he always did. 

As he zipped the bag closed and grabbed his keys, he paused at the door. Alpine had hopped onto the windowsill, but leapt down to meet him. She rubbed her cheek against his boot, tail flicking.

Bucky knelt, reaching a hand beneath her chin and gently scratching. She tilted her head into his touch.

“I’ll be back,” he said softly. “Promise.”

Then he stood, steeled himself—and stepped out of his apartment, bound for Malaysia.

"Just a small trip," he muttered. "Just to look around."

But deep down, he knew. There would be no such thing as just looking .

And with that, Bucky Barnes stepped out of his apartment, bound for Malaysia.

Because someone needed help.

And maybe—so did he.

Chapter Text

Bucky stepped out of the airport, his boots tapping against the hot pavement as he squinted into the sun. The glare was sharp, unrelenting, washing over the parking lot and surrounding streets like a spotlight he hadn’t asked for. He instinctively raised a hand to block it, sighing as he scanned the area.

His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed behind his fingers until he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black sunglasses, slipping them on. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless one more barrier between him and the world.

He was dressed simply, a pair of dark black pants, a white shirt that clung to his chest and arms in the heat, and a faded red hoodie zipped up halfway. The hoodie felt suffocating already, but it served its purpose especially with the gloves covering his hands. He didn’t want the vibranium hand to draw attention, not today. This wasn’t a sanctioned mission, and he hadn’t told Sam or his therapist what he was planning. He didn’t want to set off alarm bells, not until he knew what he was walking into. If anything happened, it was on him. And he preferred it that way.

Letting out a soft breath, he stepped down into the flow of people, weaving in and out of the crowd with practiced ease. His mind was moving faster than his feet, spiraling through every possible outcome of what he was about to do. Could this really lead to Valentina’s exposure? Would this dig up something deeper — something worse? 

His past had a way of resurfacing like a minefield, and every step toward it was a risk. He'd worked so hard to bury those ghosts. But then again, maybe confronting it head-on was the only way to lay it to rest for good.

The heat pressed down on him like a weight. His hoodie clung to his back, and sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie, cursing the timing of the sun. 

It was barely past morning, and already the city felt like an oven. He knew he'd have to take the hoodie off soon, but not yet — not while he still had ground to cover and eyes on him.

He ducked into a side street, pulling out the worn, folded documents from his inside pocket. The edges were soft from being handled too much, the ink slightly faded. 

There were a couple image he lingered on that he had looked at the night before the shot of a research facility with side entrances, zoomed-in snapshots of checkpoint guards, underground vents, and an unassuming loading dock. 

He had studied it all carefully, enough to map out a plan. The security checkpoint on the side of the building seemed like his best bet. If not, there was an underground vent access near the loading bay. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing ever was.

He had managed to locate the lab’s position on the way here, using details from the photos and publicly available records. What surprised him was where it was: right in the middle of the city, surrounded by other busy buildings. It wasn’t tucked away in some remote industrial park — it was hiding in plain sight. The idea made his stomach twist. People lived their lives next door to something built on pain and cruelty, and they had no idea.

With the route memorized, he refolded the papers and slipped them back into his pocket. As he walked through the streets, he allowed himself a few moments to observe the world around him. 

Colorful awnings fluttered in the breeze, street vendors called out their wares, and the scent of spices and grilled food filled the air. If there was one thing about being the Winter Soldier he could appreciate, it was the places he had seen. Even if most of the time he was too numb to enjoy them, he remembered the colors. The little things.

One vendor’s stand stood out — a bright display of fruits in all shapes and shades. His stomach growled. He drifted over and scanned the produce until his eyes landed on a ripe mango. 

The skin was golden with hints of red, and it looked like it had been picked at the perfect time. He handed over a few bills and took the mango with a nod. The vendor returned the gesture without a word.

Biting into the fruit, juice immediately trickled down his chin. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his hoodie, the taste sweet and grounding. 

For a moment, just a brief one, he was here — not in a war, not on a mission, just walking through a market with a piece of fruit in his hand.

But the moment shattered when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. A black motorcycle, gleaming under the sun, parked just outside a nearby shop. 

It was old but powerful-looking — sturdy frame, low seat, chrome accents catching the light just right. He felt something stir in his chest. Not nostalgia, exactly. Just… familiarity.

He tossed the mango pit in a nearby bin and crossed the street, sunglasses flashing as he approached the storefront. There were a few people inside, but none who paid him much mind. 

Negotiation didn’t take long — a few firm words, some cash, and a little pointed persuasion. When he walked out again, a pair of keys twirled around his gloved finger.

He slung one leg over the seat, shifting his weight as the leather creaked beneath him. He gave the handlebars an experimental grip before turning the key. 

The engine roared to life, deep and throaty, and the vibrations buzzed through his spine. It felt good. Real. Like something solid in a life full of shadows.

He kicked up the stand, revved the engine again, and pulled out into the street. The tires gripped the pavement, the wind hit his face, and the colors of the city blurred past him. 

He felt everything and nothing all at once — focus sharpening, senses heightened, heart steady. This was what he knew. What he could control.

As the motorcycle tore through intersections and curved around corners, Bucky didn’t look back. 

The city was alive around him, a blur of heat and noise and motion. And ahead — somewhere behind concrete walls and steel doors — was the truth he’d come for.

Whatever waited for him there, he would face it. Alone if he had to. But this time, he’d face it on his terms.

Bucky slowed as the building came into view. He parked the motorcycle in a narrow alleyway nearby, partially shaded by the buildings crowding the block. From his vantage point, he scoped out the structure.

It rose sleek and tall, reflective glass casting back distorted versions of the city around it. The edges were crisp, almost surgical in design. It looked too clean. Too perfect. The kind of building that hid horrors behind a polished smile. Yet somehow, it still blended in — just enough to escape suspicion. No wonder no one had questioned it.

But Bucky’s gut twisted. It was all wrong.

He pushed down the frustration curling at his spine and approached cautiously, observing the security. Two guards stood at the front entrance, posture stiff and alert. Instead of challenging them, he moved toward the side of the building. He had seen a side checkpoint on the photos — one that led underground. There had been fewer guards stationed there, and now, just as he'd hoped, the security presence was light.

When the lone guard’s attention drifted, Bucky took his chance. Silently, he crept up behind the man and knocked him out with a swift, practiced movement. He caught the man before he hit the ground, dragging him to the shadows.

Bucky rifled through the guard’s pockets and pulled out a small ID badge, but that wasn’t what he needed. Instead, he reached into his own bag and retrieved a compact circular device — tech Shuri had sent him months ago, labeled simply "for emergencies."

He pressed the scanner to the keypad by the side entrance. A soft series of beeps echoed in the stillness. Bucky held his breath. Then — click. The door eased open with a reluctant creak.

He slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The air changed immediately: cooler, drier, filtered. Fluorescent lights flickered above, casting a bluish glow down the narrow corridor. It smelled sterile. Too sterile.

Crates and lockers lined the walls. Somewhere deeper in the complex, he could hear mechanical hissing — maybe an air system, maybe something worse. He followed it, each step soundless and deliberate.

The sound grew. Voices. Tires squealing. Engines starting. He approached a door slightly ajar and pressed himself to the wall, peering inside.

It was a warehouse. A massive one. Dozens of people moved in hurried coordination. Uniformed soldiers packed crates while scientists in lab coats barked orders. Everything was being loaded with urgency.

Bucky listened closely. “They’re shipping everything to Utah. Just like a vault,” someone said.

“Shh — we’re not supposed to talk about it,” another hissed. “You want to get reassigned? Or worse?”

His chest tightened. A vault in Utah? He didn’t like the sound of that. He kept watching until a sudden flurry of footsteps drew his attention.

Two scientists walked into view, deep in a heated argument. One older, gruff, with streaks of gray in his beard. The other younger, nervously adjusting his glasses.

“I’m telling you, this has gone too far!” the younger one said, voice sharp with desperation.

“We’re on the cusp of a breakthrough,” the older man growled. “You want to throw that away?”

“You’ve been saying that for year and have been breaking protocol for years!”

He trailed off befrore looking up again "Its not humane"

The older man scoffed. “You think this was ever humane?”

The younger man’s face twisted with disgust. “It has to stop.” He turned abruptly and stormed off, muttering under his breath. “You’re insane. Someone has to stop you.”

The older man jsut stood there before turning away down the opposite direction seemingly into a less occupied area.

Bucky’s instincts flared. He followed.

He trailed the scientist quietly, but the man seemed to sense he was being followed. His pace quickened. Then he broke into a sprint.

So did Bucky, tearing off his red hoodie mid-stride. The man was faster than he looked — fueled by fear or something else.

Bucky closed the distance and slammed him against the wall. The scientist gasped, startled but eerily calm.

The man gave him a once over.

"The Winter Soldier," the man said, voice low and awed. "It's an honor."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. He tightened his grip.

“What is this place? What are you doing here?” he growled.

The man didn’t answer. He just smiled. “We’re building the future.”

Bucky slammed his vibranium fist into the wall beside the man’s head, denting the steel with a sharp crunch. “Try again.”

Still, the man only smirked. Then swiftly he pulled a small device from his coat and jabbed it into Bucky’s thigh.

Pain exploded through his leg. His muscles seized. He gasped, stumbling back as the scientist shoved past him and ran.

Bucky’s breath came in harsh, ragged bursts. But he pushed through it, legs unsteady, then steadier. He forced himself into a sprint again, chasing the man down the maze-like corridors.

Doors flashed past. The man burst through one at the end of the hall.

Bucky slowed. He had to be careful. This guy wasn’t just smart — he was unstable.

He drew his gun, pressing it close to his side as he edged toward the door.

It creaked open with a slow, ominous sound.

Bucky stepped through the threshold.

Every nerve in his body was ready.

 ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁· · ─ ·⚡︎· ─ · · ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Bob awoke with a sharp, panicked gasp. His body lurched upward before he even registered he was moving. 

His fingers clawed at the smooth inside of the containment pod, searching for air, for purchase, for something real. His vision was hazy, edged with white, and his mind was worse—flashes of images, half-formed thoughts, and emotions slamming into his skull like broken glass.

The whiplash of consciousness hit him like a truck. One second he was nowhere, nothing—just cold silence and sleep—and the next, he was here , panting, sweating, wide-eyed. The walls of the container curved around him, claustrophobic. 

He shoved the hatch open with trembling hands and stumbled out, knees buckling for a moment beneath him. The floor met him hard, but he barely felt it. Everything was static. His skin itched like it didn’t belong to him. The artificial light above flickered, making the dust in the air glow like fog.

His limbs felt heavy, rubbery. Wrong. There was a white sheen to his skin, like he hadn't moved in... days? Weeks? Maybe longer. He didn’t know. The timeline didn’t make sense in his head.

Memories surged—blurry and overlapping. Needles. Restraints. The sound of a voice he couldn’t quite place. Screams—his or someone else's, he couldn't be sure.

Bob exhaled shakily, blinking as he forced himself to his feet. His knees protested, joints aching as if they’d rusted in place. His heart was hammering in his chest, a steady drumbeat of anxiety.

He looked around.

The lab was a wreck.

Tables were overturned, drawers left half-open. The pod he had been trapped in was crooked, like someone had slammed into it. That… that must’ve triggered the release. They didn’t mean to let him out. It was an accident.

Bob let out a breath that tasted like disbelief. His eyes drifted across the room, slow and cautious. 

Papers were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Some were torn. Others stained. A few vials had shattered near the back wall, the shards still glinting. It looked like someone had left in a hurry—or more likely, someone had come through in one.

Dust coated everything. This place hadn’t been touched in a while. At least, not until now.

A sound in the hallway broke the silence.

Bob flinched violently, breath catching in his throat. He pressed his back against the side of the pod, hands flat against the cool metal, bracing himself. Something was coming. Footsteps.

This could be his chance. Maybe.

But where would he go?

The thought crushed him. A weight he hadn’t prepared for. He didn’t have anyone. Didn’t have anything. He was all alone.

The door creaked open.

Bob ducked, heart in his throat, and slipped behind the pod. His breath was shallow. His eyes darted toward the floor where a scalpel had fallen, glinting under the flickering light.

His hand reached for it—hesitant, shaking. Memories rose in waves: sharp voices, cold metal, the burn of sedatives. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them down. Swallowing them whole.

His fingers closed around the scalpel.

Footsteps drew closer.

Slower now. Intentional.

Then—they stopped. Turned. Started again. Quieter this time.

Bob’s muscles tensed, frozen in place.

And then—

A man stepped around the pod.

Bob pushed himself backward across the floor, the scalpel still tight in his hand. His breath hitched.

The man didn’t speak. Didn’t make any sudden moves. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, Medium black hair falling in loose strands across his brow. He wasn’t wearing a lab coat. He didn’t look like the others but he was holding a gun.

Something about him was familiar—but Bob couldn’t place it. He didn’t trust it. Not yet.

They stared at each other in silence. The man’s eyes flicked to the scalpel in Bob’s hand. Then calmly, carefully, he reached to his side and holstered the gun at his hip.

Then, with slow precision, he raised both hands, palms out, a silent I’m not here to hurt you .

Bob’s eyes flicked to his gloves. Leather. Clean. Not sterile. Not surgical. Just… gloves. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He couldn’t stop trembling.

He let the scalpel fall. It hit the floor with a loud clang .

Bob lifted his hands—surrender, instinctive, learned behavior. His voice came out small, raw. “Don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t,” the man said. His voice was low. Rough around the edges, but… steady. Grounded.

He looked at Bob like he was trying to figure something out. His eyes flicked to the containment pod. Something clicked in his expression.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m… uh… I’m Bob.” His voice caught halfway through. The name felt strange on his tongue.

The man nodded, quiet. “Okay, Bob. I’m Bucky.”

Bob nodded faintly, his hands still raised. Then he lowered them slowly, rubbing at his sleeve like he could scrub away the nerves building under his skin.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asked. His tone was careful, not accusatory.

Bob hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Not fully. Not truthfully.

“I’m… I was a patient,” he mumbled, eyes drifting to the floor.

Bucky nodded again. “Okay.”

There was silence.

Then Bucky said, “Why don’t you come with me?”

Bob blinked. For a second, hope flickered behind his eyes—soft, hesitant, fragile.

But then he shook his head, backing away a step.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice trembling. “He’ll be back soon.”

Bucky frowned. “Who? The doctor?”

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Bucky could already guess.

“I only want to help you,” Bucky said, taking a small step closer.

Before he could say more, shouting rang out from somewhere above them.

Bob flinched like he’d been shot, curling slightly in on himself.

Bucky turned his head toward the sound. It confirmed his suspicions. This wasn’t just a forgotten facility—someone had restarted the operation. Someone was still here .

And Bob—he was definitely one of the subjects. Maybe one of the last. Maybe one of the successful ones. 

Which would explain why they'd kept him locked up, even after the program was supposedly shut down. The documents Bucky had found said as much. And that young doctor from earlier had hinted the old man running this place had been breaking protocol.

Bucky clenched his jaw. No time for that now. He’d sort it out later.

They needed to go. Now.

He turned back to Bob and extended a hand. “Come on,” he said, voice soft. “I promise—I’ll get you out of here.”

Bob looked at his hand.

He didn’t take it right away. His eyes searched Bucky’s face, wary, uncertain.

Then slowly— reluctantly —he reached forward and took it.

His fingers were cold like metal. His grip, light. But he didn’t let go.

And Bucky gave him a reassuring squeeze.

“Let’s get you out,” he said.

Together, they stepped into the hallway. Whatever was waiting for them, Bob wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Bob stared at the man across from him—Bucky, supposedly.

The name echoed in his head, but it felt almost irrelevant compared to the heaviness sitting in his chest. The sterile room, the overturned furniture, the crooked container he'd just clawed his way out of—it all pressed down on him like gravity had doubled.

His heart pounded, hammering like it was trying to break through his ribs. He was painfully aware of every thud, every twitch of his hands, every jolt of instinct telling him to run or hide or fight. He didn’t move at first, just stared at the hand extended toward him. It hung there in the still air, patient and steady, like it was immune to the chaos surrounding them.

Bob’s eyes didn’t move to it right away. Instead, they scanned the man offering it—face first, calm but alert. Not cold. Not hostile. Searching, maybe. Like Bucky was cataloging everything Bob was, everything he could be. His gaze wasn’t unfamiliar to Bob. He’d seen it before. Scientists. Military men. Doctors with clipboards who looked at him like he was a locked vault. But this was different. This wasn’t a man trying to dissect him. This was someone trying to understand.

And there was no lie in his eyes.

Bob had gotten good—too good—at spotting falsehoods. In promises. In reassurances. In orders disguised as kindness. But here? There was nothing but honesty. The kind of worn truth that came from someone who’d been broken and stitched together more times than he could count.

Bob still hesitated. Not because he didn’t believe him, but because believing him felt dangerous. Hope was dangerous.

But then something shifted.

A flicker of will stirred in Bob’s gut—something small.. The part of him that had been forced into silence, into obedience, into becoming something other than human. It whispered that he had nowhere else to go. No orders to follow. No cage to return to.

So maybe, just maybe, it was time to make a decision for himself.

He reached out.

Bucky’s gloved hand closed around his own. Bob flinched slightly at the cold—unnatural, metallic. His gaze fell to the edge of Bucky’s sleeve where black and gold glinted faintly from beneath the fabric.

The realization hit like a thunderclap.
The Winter Soldier.

Of course. It made sense. The quiet, the caution, the metal arm. Bob remembered the name from hazy news clips, from the static of a television in a common room he was rarely allowed in. Back then, he hadn’t cared—his mind was too frayed, too full of painkillers and regret. But the story had filtered through eventually. A soldier brainwashed, turned into a ghost with a gun, and now—someone seeking redemption.

The thought calmed Bob. Just a little.
If he could survive what they’d done to him... maybe Bob could, too.

Bucky must’ve noticed the recognition in Bob’s face, because he gave his hand a small, reassuring squeeze. It startled Bob from his thoughts, and he looked back up just as Bucky said gently, “Let’s get you out of here.”

Bob didn’t speak. He only nodded, and let Bucky lead him out of the wreckage.

The hallway was cold and far too quiet. Their footsteps echoed as they moved quickly—Bucky ahead, Bob just a step or two behind, struggling to keep pace. His limbs were slow to respond, heavy with disuse and still jittering with nerves.

Above them, something shifted. Metal groaned. Then—footsteps. A lot of them.

Bucky’s hand fell away from Bob’s as they picked up speed. The soldier’s eyes scanned the ceiling, calculating. Bob lagged but pushed himself forward.

“How many people know you’re here?” Bucky asked, low and sharp, still watching the hall.

Bob winced, trying to remember. “Uh—maybe… four? Or five? I’m not sure. Faces are kind of a blur.” He frowned. “I didn’t… really talk to any of them. They didn’t talk to me.”

That answer alone told Bucky everything he needed to know. This place wasn’t just secret. It was off the map . Bob had been buried. And whatever experiment he was part of—Bucky doubted even the military brass had real clearance on it.

He clenched his jaw. This shouldn’t have happened again. Not after Hydra. Not after everything. And yet here it was.

They turned a corner—dead end. Elevator doors in front of them.

A sharp bang! rang out behind them.
Gunfire.

Bucky reacted instantly, grabbing Bob and pulling him behind cover as bullets sparked off the hallway wall.

Bob gasped and slammed the elevator button with rapid, panicked taps. “Come on, come on, please —”

Bucky drew his pistol, spun, and fired back. Two shots—one clipped the wall, the other struck a man in the shoulder. Another figure lunged into view followed by a man in a lab coat, but Bucky was already moving. He met him head-on, disarmed him with a twist, and flipped him over with a brutal, practiced motion. The man went down cold. Bucky took out the doctor quickly. 

The elevator dinged.

They both scrambled in. Bob slammed the button for the ground floor, but a red light blinked back at him.

Access Denied.

“Keycard,” Bucky muttered, checking his pockets. He pulled out the same device he used earlier but only it was cracked clean through. “Damn it.”

He stepped back out into the hallway, knelt beside the Dr, and yanked the keycard off his belt. Scanning it, the elevator chimed, accepting access—but only to one level.

Bucky sighed, annoyed but resigned. “Better than nothing.

Inside the elevator, the silence returned.

Bob stood against the far wall, arms crossed tightly, eyes flickering between the floor and the ceiling. Bucky watched him. Really watched him now.

The kid—man, really—looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in months. Maybe years. His hair was longer, curling slightly around his ears. His clothes were basic—cotton scrubs, baggy and pale blue, probably issued by whatever black site held him. He looked thin. But what caught Bucky’s attention was his hands.

They didn’t stop moving.

Fidgeting. Picking at his sleeve. Fingertips brushing his palm, then back to the fabric. Small, repetitive motions. A coping mechanism. Bucky recognized the type.

And the way Bob’s mouth moved—barely audible, like he was whispering to someone who wasn’t there.

“Bob,” Bucky said softly. No response.

“Bob.”

The second time, the man blinked, head snapping up like he’d just been yanked from underwater. “Hmm—sorry,” he said quickly almost sheepishly.

That made Bucky smile. It was small, but genuine. “It’s okay. Just wanted to check in. Do you… know how long you’ve been here?”

Bob looked down. Thought for a second. Then let out a soft laugh—wry, a little bitter.

“That depends… what year is it now?”

Bucky’s brows lifted. “It’s 2021.”

Bob’s face froze.

Then—“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “It’s been that long?”

His voice cracked as he added, almost to himself, “I’ve been here for five years.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He knew what it was like to lose time. To wake up and not recognize the world, or yourself. Their circumstances were different, but the loneliness —that was familiar.

“We’re getting you out,” Bucky said, with quiet certainty.

Bob looked at him. Not like someone who believed instantly. But like someone wanted to believe. That was enough for now.

The elevator began to slow.

The elevator let out a mechanical hum as the doors slid open.

Bucky instinctively raised a hand to signal Bob to hold back. His stance dropped low, eyes narrowing, his other hand tightening on the grip of the gun. He stepped forward carefully, boots silent against the sterile floor, sweeping the room with precision.

What lay ahead wasn’t a hallway—it was a lab.

A wide, windowless chamber stretched out before them, bathed in the cold white glow of overhead fluorescents. Rows of shelves lined the walls, stacked with vacuum-sealed containers, data tablets, and meticulously labeled vials of opaque fluids. It was Sanitized. But not clean in the moral sense.

Against the far wall, encased in glass, stood a small medical enclosure. The sight of it sent a ripple of tension through Bucky’s shoulders. 

The enclosed room was sealed shut, its entry panel flashing red. Facial recognition access only. Inside, beyond the fingerprint-proof surface, was a solitary medical bed beneath an array of harsh surgical lights. Dozens of syringes filled with iridescent chemicals sat on sterile trays. Monitors displayed fluctuating vitals and indecipherable algorithms in rapid succession.

But the worst part was the walls.

Charred silhouettes were burned into them. Shadows of bodies—curved, twisted, unmoving. Not a trace of flesh remained, only the ghostly remains of people seared into plaster. Bucky squinted at them, piecing together the twisted limbs and blank faces. They weren’t fresh. But they hadn’t faded either.

He turned to look at Bob.

The kid was still in the elevator, frozen. His face had gone white. His eyes flickered to the shadows just long enough to register them—then he looked away. Quickly. Almost too quickly. Like the sight physically repelled him.

Bucky didn’t ask. Not now.

Instead, he kept his voice level. “Keep an eye out for another key card. We’ve got to get out of this maze.”

Bob nodded, slow and stiff, and stepped out of the elevator. His movements were hesitant, like he was afraid the floor might collapse beneath him. He kept a wide arc around the center glass room, as if even proximity could drag him back into old nightmares.

Bucky turned to a bank of file drawers and yanked one open. The metal screeched slightly, too loud in the silence. He rifled through folder after folder—standard procedure logs, calibration reports. Most were heavily redacted.

Then he found something buried deep—yellowing papers stapled together with the words Project Sentry stamped in fading ink.

He pulled it closer, eyes scanning.

Claims. Dozens of them. Filed over the years, begging for the operation to be shut down due to “unethical practices,” “subject fatalities,” “psychological trauma beyond recovery.”

One page in particular made Bucky pause.

SUBJECT SURVIVAL RATE: 0%

He turned and looked over his shoulder at Bob, who was hunched over a white container on a side table, unaware he was being watched.

“Huh,” Bucky muttered. “Guess they were wrong about that.”

There were photos attached. Bodies wrapped in white sheets. Too many to count. All marked with experiment numbers. Bucky shoved the folder into his jacket. He didn’t know what would come of it yet, but someone needed to know.

Meanwhile, Bob did everything he could to ignore the room’s center. Even with his mind clouded and memories jagged, that place—that bed—remained burned into him like the silhouettes on the walls.                                                                               

“It was all your fault.”

The voice echoed again in his mind.

He pressed his lips together and focused harder on the small container in front of him. Something moved inside.

A guinea pig.

It blinked up at him with twitching whiskers and wide, unblinking eyes. Something about it struck a nerve—it looked exactly like the one hed seen when he first arrived. A kindness, before the pain started. Before he lost control of what was done to him.

Without thinking, Bob reached forward and gently scooped it into his arms. The warmth of the tiny body against his chest helped him breathe again. No more experiments. Not for the guinea pig. Not for him.

Not anymore.

He set the creature carefully into the pocket of his loose shirt and began checking drawers for a key card, eyes avoiding the center glass room at all costs. He didn’t even want to see the reflection of it.

“Bob!” Bucky called out from the other side of the lab.

Bob jumped, turning around sharply. Bucky was halfway across the room, a slim black device in his hand. His mouth opened slightly when he spotted the guinea pig curled up in Bob’s arms, but he didn’t comment.

“I found something that can probably override the system,” Bucky said, voice low but laced with urgency.

Bob nodded, clinging a little tighter to the creature. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said, the rawness in his voice cutting through his usual uncertainty.

Bucky gave a small, crooked smile—almost proud of him—and gestured for Bob to follow. They returned to the elevator and Bucky swiped the device across the panel. A different beep this time. A welcome one.

The display lit up, showing more levels than before.

“We’ll go to the mid-section,” Bucky said. “From there, we can take the stairs. 

Bob nodded. He wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. Not anymore. He just didn’t want to stay.

The elevator hummed again, moving downward. Neither of them spoke. The silence was thick—but no longer hopeless.

They weren’t out yet.

But they were getting closer.

They made it out onto the middle floor, Bob clutching the small guinea pig tight against his chest, the creature nestled into the crook of his arm like it somehow understood the weight of the moment. 

Bucky moved ahead, every muscle tight and alert, scanning the corridor. He waved Bob forward with two fingers. Bob followed, footsteps nearly soundless despite the thudding in his chest.

They descended several more flights of stairs in tense silence, the air thick with institutional cold and faint chemical traces. They had to cross over into a different section of the facility to reach the final stairwell down to the exit. But just as they slipped through the stairwell door and stepped into a new corridor—

Gunfire split the silence.

They dropped instantly. The bullets bit into the walls behind them, scattering tile and drywall. The two of them flattened behind a potted plant, the only available cover, breath heavy in their throats. Bob was trembling slightly, his body not used to this much movement or stress after so many years sedated and still. The guinea pig twitched nervously in his grip but didn’t squeal.

Bucky turned to him, jaw clenched.

“Make a run for the exit,” he said, voice low but firm. “I’ll hold them off.”

“What? No—” Bob started to protest.

“No time. Go.”

Bob looked like he might argue, but then the hallway lit up again with gunfire. He clutched the guinea pig to his chest like a lifeline, heart racing, and took off as soon as Bucky stood and drew fire away from him.

Bucky surged forward, gun already blazing as he launched himself into the chaos. One soldier barely had time to raise his weapon before Bucky’s elbow cracked into his throat, sending him collapsing. 

Another came at him with a baton—Bucky spun low, his leg sweeping the man’s feet out from under him before driving a punch square into his gut, the breath knocked clean out. He pivoted sharply, ducking a swing from behind and rolling into a crouch, where he stabbed a third soldier in the thigh and fired a clean shot into the shoulder of a fourth.

For a moment, it looked like he might actually clear a path.

But then—boots thundered from both ends of the hall. Reinforcements.

And everything turned.

Bucky’s shoulder caught a grazing bullet, and the pain slowed him. He blocked a blow from one attacker but didn’t see the second one coming. A soldier tackled him from the side, slamming him into the wall. Bucky struggled—left arm pinned—his right trying to aim, but the attacker had a blade and was rearing back to strike.

And then—

The man flew.

Lifted like a ragdoll and slammed violently into the opposite wall with a sickening crunch. Bucky staggered to his feet, blinking in disbelief.

Bob stood at the end of the hall, wide-eyed, unmoving. His pupils had vanished into a faint, glowing gold. A slow pulse of energy hummed around him. The guinea pig was still cradled against his chest, safe—but Bob’s face was slack, dazed, something deep and alien flickering behind his expression.

“Okay,” Bucky muttered, lowering his weapon. “That answers that.”

He didn’t press. No time.

He jogged over, grabbed Bob by the shoulder. “We’ve gotta go.”

They ran again, rounding a corner—only to come face-to-face with another squad of guards. Bob barely paused. He grabbed Bucky’s sleeve and yanked him toward a side hallway, the motion frantic.

“Window!” he barked.

The end of the hallway led to an old emergency exit, the kind with dusty red trim and rusted handles. Bucky threw his shoulder into it, shoving it open as the sound of shouts rose behind them. He looked back—Bob was already halfway out, climbing onto a rattling fire escape.

“Go!” Bucky snapped.

They descended the fire escape fast, boots slamming metal grates. Once their feet hit the alley pavement, Bucky grabbed Bob by the arm and veered hard to the left.

"This way," he muttered, urgency returning to his stride.

They darted through two narrow alleys, turned sharply, and finally came upon an old matte-black motorcycle tucked beneath a rusted stairwell. Bucky swung one leg over with practiced ease, glancing back at Bob. "Get on."

Bob hesitated only a second. Still clutching the guinea pig close, he awkwardly climbed on behind Bucky. His fingers gripped the back of Bucky’s jacket at first, unsure, trembling a little. As the engine roared to life and the bike peeled away from the alley, the world blurred.

City lights smeared into long bands of neon and haze, streetlamps flickering overhead like streaks of gold in oil. Bob had never felt anything like it. The wind stole his breath. His chest rose and fell against Bucky’s back, and gradually, instinctively, his grip shifted. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s middle instead, holding tighter, grounding himself.

The farther they drove, the more the building behind them seemed to melt into shadows—until it no longer felt real. Bob rested his chin lightly on Bucky’s shoulder, not speaking, just watching the night slip past in streaks of color and sound.

He’d never been on a motorcycle before. Never felt this free.

And for the first time in what felt like years, he let his body relax.

They didn’t stop until the city had thinned, quiet stretching out around them like a held breath. Bucky pulled off into a secluded alleyway lined with brick and overgrown ivy, the motorcycle’s engine finally winding down to silence.

He kicked the stand down, leaned the bike gently against the wall, and turned to face Bob.

“Um,” he said awkwardly. “Thank you. I owe you… everything.”

Bucky glanced at him. The guy looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands—shifting the guinea pig, glancing at his feet, then back up. Bucky caught the signs instantly.

“You’re coming back with me to New York,” he said plainly.

Bob blinked. “W-what? No. You’ve done enough already. I—I think it’d be better if I just… disappeared. Less risk that way.”

The words hung in the air between them. Bucky had once said something nearly identical to Steve.

“I get it,” Bucky said quietly. “But trust me, isolation doesn’t fix it. I’ve tried. And now you’ve got abilities you barely understand, coming out of a place where they made sure you never would. Whatever they did to you… it can’t be ignored. You need support. Someone who’s been through it.”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just looked away, hugging the guinea pig a little closer to his chest.

“I think it’s best you come with me,” Bucky said again. “We figure this out. Together. Make sure no one else gets hurt because of this.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, Bob gave the smallest nod. “Okay.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. He gave a short nod back.

They turned to go, the night deep and quiet around them. Behind them, the facility loomed like a bad dream, receding with every step.

The city swallowed them up.

Chapter Text

They had ended up in a cafe on the other side of town laying low. Tucked between a laundromat and an antiques shop the kind of place where the barista didn’t ask questions and the music was too soft to overhear anything.

Before they reached the café, Bucky made a quiet detour to a nearby secondhand clothing shop tucked between a pawn store and a shuttered bakery. The sun had just begun to rise, and the only sound was the creak of the store’s metal door as it swung open. Inside, Bucky rummaged quickly, selecting neutral layers—a hoodie, a worn pair of jeans, sneakers that looked lived-in but not too worn. Clothes that wouldn’t make anyone look twice.

Bob had changed in the bathroom at the back, emerging looking less like a lab escapee and more like any other tired young man trying to blend into the city’s hum. The hoodie hung slightly off his shoulders, sleeves bunched around his wrists. His knuckles were still scraped from the fire escape, and the guinea pig was nestled inside his jacket like a secret.

Now, sitting across from Bucky in a corner booth, Bob looked smaller than usual but a little more like himself. He stared at the glass of water in front of him, both hands wrapped around it like it might anchor him.

“So…” Bob’s voice was barely audible. “What happens now?”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He was busy scanning the windows, watching every face that passed. Old habits. Finally, he muttered, “We stay out of sight. Lay low for a few days. Wait for things to cool off before we move again.”

“To New York?” Bob asked.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward him. “Eventually.”

“So,” Bob started, voice tentative. “How exactly are we going to get to New York? I mean… it's not like I have the proper documents.” The condensation had pooled into a ring beneath his glass, and he traced his finger through it in slow circles.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He glanced down at his own untouched coffee, then dragged a hand through his hair and leaned back with a sigh.

“We need to find a way to get you there without being detected. Commercial travel’s a no-go. Airports flag everything, and your name is probably already tagged.”

Bob nodded slowly, eyes still on the water. “Aren’t you, like… a superhero or something? Don’t you know people who could help?”

Bucky let out a short, dry huff. “Those people might be the problem.”

Bob’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

There was a long pause. Bucky’s eyes slid away from him, focused on some far-off point out the café window. “I was supposed to be out,” he said finally. “Done with this kind of work. Keeping my head down. Living normal.”

Bob’s lips parted in quiet surprise. “Then… why’d you come?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded letter. He slid it across the table with a single finger, the edges worn and slightly smudged. “Someone sent me this. Said there were experiments going on—bad ones. That there was a connection to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. We’re trying to get her impeached, expose everything. I figured if I could gather evidence, it’d help the case. But…”

His eyes met Bob’s. “I found you instead.”

Bob went quiet, fingers trembling slightly as he picked up the letter. His eyes scanned it—but then lingered on the smudged signature at the bottom. There was something familiar about it but he shook it off. 

 “Are you going to… turn in the evidence?”

Bucky studied him for a moment, catching the fear that flickered just beneath his question. Then he shook his head. “Not anymore. If I did, it would put a giant target on your back. They’d know where you were. So no—we’ll have to find another way.”

Bob stared at the letter a moment longer, then folded it gently and slid it back across the table. “Do you think… the person who wrote this… do they know who I am?”

“Hard to say,” Bucky murmured. “But I don’t think they mean you harm. If they did, we wouldn’t be here.”

“But do you know anyone that would know you were here”

Bob thought about it for a moment fingers gently tapping on the glass his mind drifting back to Rayyan and Zikiri heart clenching at the thought of them. He looked up at bucky and shook his head no.

He then looked down at his hands. “You really don’t have to go through all this. I could disappear. Find a corner somewhere and stay quiet. It’s… safer that way.”

“We already talked about this,” Bucky said firmly. “You’re not doing this alone. We’ll get you to New York.”

He exhaled sharply, frustration knotting his brows, and muttered under his breath, “I didn’t want to have to do this…”

Bob looked up. “Do what?”

Bucky stood, pushing his hands against his knees, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I’ve got a call to make,” he said, heading toward the front of the café.

Bob blinked. “To who?”

Over his shoulder, just before stepping outside, Bucky glanced back.

“My friend… Sam.”

Chapter Text

Bucky stepped out of the café and leaned against the wall, eyes flicking to the window to make sure Bob was still in sight. The phone rang in his ear. Deep down, he honestly hoped Sam wouldn’t pick up. Not because he didn’t want to hear his voice—he did—but because he didn’t have the words yet. Not the right ones, anyway.

Then the line clicked. Sam’s voice came through, casual and unknowing. “Hey man. What’s up?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, pressing his head back against the brick. “I’m in Malaysia. I need a private plane to come get me.”

There was a long pause.

“Man, what the fuck?” Sam said, voice flat. “What are you doing?”

Bucky winced and rubbed a hand down his face. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“I found someone. A descendant from my family, supposedly. Part of trying to… reconnect. Get back to normal life. The therapist thought it might help.”

Sam didn’t buy it for a second. “You don’t have any living family, Buck.”

Bucky sighed. “Well… turns out maybe I do. Or did. Look, he’s a good kid. Been through some serious shit. He’s living in a situation that’s… bad. Real bad. I couldn’t just walk away.”

Sam let out a slow breath. “Bucky, what are you getting yourself into?”

Bucky turned slightly, peering back through the café window. Bob was still sitting in the booth, head tilted as he gently stroked the guinea pig peeking out from his jacket. There was a small smile on his face.

“He’s a good kid, Sam,” Bucky repeated. “He doesn’t deserve to be there another minute. And I’m not gonna leave him behind. He doesn’t have the credentials to get out of Malaysia. No ID, no passport. I need help.”

Sam was quiet again, but it was a different kind of silence. Considering. Weighing.

“I’ll be there in a couple days,” Sam said at last. “I’ll drop the coordinates when I get closer.”

Bucky closed his eyes, relief washing over him. “Thanks, man. I really owe you.”

“Yeah, you do,” Sam muttered. “Stay out of trouble until then.”

“No promises.”

Bucky slipped his phone back into his pocket and walked back into the café, where Bob gently nudged the guinea pig back into his jacket and looked up with a hopeful expression as Bucky approached.

Bucky gave him a faint smile. “We’ll be out of here in a few days.”

He could almost see the stress leave Bob’s shoulders. Relief poured over his face like a sudden rainstorm—his posture loosening, the tension melting from his brow.

And then, unexpectedly, tears welled in Bob’s eyes. He didn’t speak right away. Bucky sat down silently across from him, giving him space but not leaving.

The first tear slipped down Bob’s cheek, then another. He didn’t sob—just let them fall, quiet and unguarded.

“Thank you,” Bob whispered, voice catching as he clasped his hands in front of him. “Thank you.”

He swallowed hard, bowing his head, hands clenched to still the tremble in his fingers.

Bucky simply nodded, watching him. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound small.

After a long pause, Bucky rose and gestured with his head toward the door. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go find a place to lay low before our flight arrives.”

Bob nodded, sniffling and rubbing his eye and nose with the edge of his sleeve. He got up and followed Bucky out the café doors, his steps still heavy, but his chest a little lighter.

For the first time in a long time, Bob didn’t feel like he was running away. He felt like he was moving toward something.

 ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁· · ─ ·⚡︎· ─ · · ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The time had come.

Two long days of laying low in Malaysia had passed, and Bucky could feel the tension in his chest knotting tighter with every hour that ticked by. Though they had managed to stay under the radar, keeping to dim back alleys and shabby hostels tucked behind busy markets, it never really felt like safety—just a pause. A breath held. But now, the wait was over.

The soft vibration of Bucky’s phone stirred the silence in the dingy hotel room. He blinked against the faint morning light bleeding through the torn curtains and reached for the device off the nightstand. The name on the screen read Sam .

Bucky immediately accepted the call.

“I’ll be at the coordinates I sent. You’ve got one window. Don’t miss it,” Sam said—his voice clipped, firm, edged in frustration.

Bucky leaned against the wall, rubbing a hand down his face. “We’ll be there,” he said. “Just don’t be late.”

There was a pause on the line, thick with meaning.

“You better know what you’re doing, Bucky,” Sam said, a bitter note riding beneath the words.

Bucky ended the call with a sigh, slipping the phone into his pocket. He didn't have time to unpack the anger in Sam’s voice, not now. But it lingerd.

He turned toward the bed where Bob was still fast asleep, curled on his side, one arm loosely cradled around his jacket, which had become a makeshift pillow. The room was stuffy, and beads of sweat clung to Bob’s brow. His face was pinched, contorted in a way that Bucky recognized all too well.

A nightmare.

Bucky’s chest tightened. He knew that look. He had worn it too many nights to count.

He stepped closer, calling, "Bob."

No response.

He frowned, crouching down beside the bed, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Bob,” he tried again.

And then—

Bucky blinked.

The world around him tilted. The dusty hotel room vanished. The air grew cold. Metallic.

He was somewhere else entirely.

The sharp scent of disinfectant struck his nose, mingled with oil, blood, and scorched metal. Dim green lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows over the narrow corridor that now stretched before him. No windows. Just concrete and steel.

An old HYDRA lab.

His stomach dropped.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to remember. But then—

He heard it.

A scream.

Muffled. Desperate. Familiar.

It tore through the air like a blade, and Bucky flinched hard. He knew that voice. It had once belonged to someone—no, himself —before the Winter Soldier had buried it.

With a sick churn in his gut, Bucky forced his legs to move. He stepped forward, the cold from the floor seeping through the soles of his boots. Every step echoed with dread.

The corridor bent around a corner and there—

There he was.

Strapped to a metal chair.

His arms bound. His face pale, twisted in agony as electrodes crackled at his temples. His mouth was open in a silent scream while a HYDRA tech barked commands in Russian.

"Again! Wipe it again!"

The machine clicked. A surge of power. A flicker of memory.

Bucky recoiled. His knees buckled, and he gripped the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes slammed shut.

Breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

He heard Dr. Raynor’s voice in his head. He forced himself to focus—on the scrape of his boot on the floor, the beat of his own pulse, the texture of the doorframe beneath his fingers.

One breath. Two. Three.

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in that hell. The green hue of the lab flickered away, replaced by the dusty morning light of the hotel room.

Bob was sitting up, propped on his elbows, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were wide. Bucky’s hand was still on his shoulder.

He blinked a few times, disoriented. The flash of the past still burned behind his eyes.

“Sam will be here in an hour,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse, low. “We’ve got to move.”

Bob didn’t speak right away. He avoided making eye contact with Bucky almost like he was guilty, then slowly nodded, pushing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the cold floor with a soft shuffle.

He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, not saying a word.

Neither of them needed to.

The anticipation of what was next was loud enough.

Chapter Text

Bob and Bucky finally left the apartment after freshening up, stepping out into the humid morning air of Malaysia. The streets were still relatively quiet—only the occasional honk echoed in the distance, and the soft purr of scooters drifted by through the alleys. 

They kept to the backways, Bob leading the way with quiet confidence. He seemed to know the alleyways and side streets like muscle memory, weaving them through tangled corridors of old stone, cracked pavement, and mossy brick walls.

Bucky didn’t say much as they walked, but he watched Bob closely, impressed by the way the younger man moved. Head low, eyes sharp—always calculating, always alert. For someone who had supposedly been locked up in a lab, Bob sure knew how to move unnoticed. There was something about the way he read the city, like he’d had practice slipping through the cracks.

After nearly thirty minutes of navigating through overgrown trails and rust-colored metal staircases, they came upon it—a forgotten fence, nearly swallowed by nature. Rust coated the bars, and weeds crawled up and through the links. Beyond it, an old runway stretched out in the clearing, cracked and littered with tufts of wild grass and debris. The sky above shimmered faintly with heat, but the field was quiet.

“Is this it?” Bob asked, eyeing the expanse.

“The only place Sam said he could land without drawing attention,” Bucky replied.

They walked along the fence until they found a weak spot—a tear in the links, barely held together by a few twisted wires. Without hesitation, Bucky gripped the jagged metal and bent it open with a grunt. The metal groaned in protest, but he widened the gap just enough.

“Duck through,” Bucky instructed.

Bob crouched and slipped through first, Bucky followed, just as a low hum reached their ears—the unmistakable sound of a small aircraft approaching. Dust kicked up across the old tarmac as the plane descended.

Bucky placed a hand gently on Bob’s shoulder, steadying him. “Just… be prepared.”

Bob turned toward him, the nerves in his eyes all too visible. He gave a small nod.

Bucky hesitated, then added with quiet guilt, “I told him you were… somehow related to me. That I needed to get you out of a bad living situation.”

Bob blinked, then slowly nodded in understanding. He gave a weak, half-joking smile. “So... am I your long-lost cousin or something?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Kid, I don’t even know what you’d be.”

Bob tilted his head. “How old are you again?”

“Hundred and seven,” Bucky replied, deadpan.

Bob let out a soft hum. “Yeah… no clue what that makes me.”

They both chuckled quietly, a shared breath that eased the edge just enough.

The plane taxied to a stop a short distance away. The hatch opened, and a familiar figure stepped out—Sam Wilson, silhouetted against the sky, his posture firm and unreadable. As he approached, Bob suddenly felt it. Scrutiny. Pressure. His skin prickled under Sam’s intense gaze.

Bucky stepped forward. “Sam.”

“Bucky,” Sam replied, curt but civil. Then his gaze cut to Bob.

“So this is your... relative?” he asked, voice flat, skeptical.

Bob instinctively curled inward, his shoulders drawing close. He avoided Sam’s eyes, staring somewhere around his collarbone. “My name’s Bob.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Bob, huh? And what’s your full name?”

“Robert Reynolds,” he answered clearly, forcing himself to look up, if only briefly.

Sam didn’t respond right away. Then, with a clipped nod, he turned. “Alright, Robert. Let’s get going.”

He moved past Bucky without another word.

Bucky gave Bob a light push between the shoulder blades, guiding him forward. “Come on.”

They climbed aboard the plane, settling into old, worn seats that creaked under the pressure. The engines whirred back to life as the pilot prepared for takeoff. Sam took the seat across from them, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on Bob.

“So,” Sam began, his voice calm but pointed. “Where you from, kid?”

“Florida,” Bob said, quietly relieved by the simple question.

“Florida to Malaysia’s a big jump. What brought you out here?”

Bob hesitated, then exhaled. “I came looking for drugs. Something that might help with… things I was dealing with. Addiction.”

Sam’s brows lifted slightly. “You flew across the world for drugs?”

“They offered free treatment,” Bob said. “Said it was a trial. Underground. Not government-sanctioned. They promised it was save me. I was desperate.”

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And your family?”

Bob’s expression darkened. He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened.

“Don't have any” he finally said. 

Sam softened. Just a little.

“And how’d you end up finding out you were related to Bucky Barnes?”

Bob shifted, offering the lie they’d crafted. “They ran blood tests during the trial. Said my DNA matched something... unusual. Their database flagged it. Someone with the serum. They traced it to Bucky. I figured... what else did I have to lose?”

Sam turned toward Bucky. “And you believed him?”

Bucky shrugged, cool and unreadable. “Sounded convincing.”

Sam’s gaze lingered, clearly skeptical. Then it dropped.

“What’s with the guinea pig?”

Bob perked up a little. “He was in the lab with me. They used him in the early trials. I couldn’t leave him.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me that guinea pig’s been drugged too?”

Bob nodded. “He made it out. Just like me.”

Sam looked at him for a long second, then finally leaned back. “Alright then.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Sam asked, “What’s the plan when we land?”

Bucky answered before Bob could. “He stays with me. We work through detox. Get him stable. After that, we figure it out.”

Sam studied Bucky’s face. “You sure you’re up for that?”

“I’ve handled worse,” Bucky said flatly.

Bob leaned back in his seat, eyes on the ceiling of the jet. Trying to ignore the fact they were talking about him.

He looked toward Bucky, who gave him a faint nod.

They were in the air. Heading for New York.

The flight was long, and quiet settled in after the initial questioning. Bob stared out the small window, watching clouds roll past in slow motion. Occasionally, the drone of the engines lulled him close to sleep, but never fully. The hum of pressure in his ears matched the low static that always sat at the base of his skull.

Sometimes, he felt it—the voice. That slow, oily whisper, not always words but impressions. A tug behind his ribs. An ache in his bones. He shifted in his seat, fingers twitching in his lap.

He felt Bucky’s eyes on him once or twice, but the older man didn’t speak. Didn’t pry. Just offered a quiet presence.

They landed just after dusk. The sky over New York was washed in purples and oranges, city lights beginning to glow like stars beneath the horizon.

As the skyline came into view through the window, Bob leaned closer, eyes widening.

“Whoa,” he murmured.

Skyscrapers rose like jagged glass mountains, glittering at the edges. There was a kind of rhythm to the light—a silent pulse that ran through the veins of the city. His chest tightened. It was… a lot.

A world so different from the alleys of Malaysia. So much movement. So much life.

As they descended, his palms grew clammy. His heart raced. The voice—it stirred again, just beneath his thoughts. Like it could feel the city too.

Too many people. Too loud. Too bright. Too much.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his knuckles to his thigh until the voice ebbed.

They taxied and disembarked quickly. Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder as they exited the hangar.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Damn right you do,” Sam replied with a half-smirk.

He turned to Bob, offering him a small nod. “It was nice meeting you, kid.”

Bob nodded back, quiet but sincere. “Thanks for helping me get out of that place.”

Sam gave him a look—measured but not unkind. Then he turned and headed back to the plane.

Bucky and Bob hailed a taxi near the terminal. As the car pulled away from the curb, Bob pressed his forehead to the cool window, eyes locked on the towering skyline.

The city passed in streaks of color and steel. Neon signs, glowing billboards, flashing tail lights.

The voice murmured again, but softer now—curious. As if testing the boundaries of this new world.

The city swallowed them whole as the taxi sped deeper into Brooklyn.

Finally, they stepped out and onto the sidewalk in front of Bucky’s apartment. The city noises had softened in this quieter Brooklyn neighborhood, and Bob paused, tilting his head back to take in the building before them. It was an older brownstone, worn at the edges but steady, like it had stories to tell.

"This is it?" Bob asked, his voice quieter than usual, maybe out of respect for the space—or maybe awe.

Bucky gave a short nod, shouldering his duffle. “Yeah. Come on.”

They climbed the stairs, and Bob trailed a few steps behind, dragging his fingers lightly along the banister. The wood was smooth in places, chipped in others—like it had been touched a thousand times before. When they reached the top, Bucky unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A rush of warm, familiar air met them. The apartment was small but cozy, dimly lit by the glow of a lamp on the kitchen counter. Before Bob could step in fully, a blur of motion appeared at Bucky’s feet—soft white fur winding in elegant circles around his boots.

Bucky smiled, the first real smile Bob had seen on him since they met. “Hey there, girl.”

He bent down and scooped up the cat, who immediately settled into his chest, purring softly. Bob paused in the doorway, watching with quiet curiosity, his guinea pig peeking cautiously out from beneath his borrowed shirt.

“This is Alpine,” Bucky said, gently placing the cat on the counter.

Bob approached slowly, extending a tentative hand. Alpine sniffed his fingers, then nuzzled into his palm, clearly approving. Bob scratched her under the chin and grinned, a small, surprised sound of delight escaping him.

But Alpine’s attention soon shifted. Her nose twitched as she picked up the scent of Bob’s little stowaway. She padded closer, sniffing intently at the guinea pig. Surprisingly, the guinea pig didn’t flinch—just stared back, blinking slowly.

Bob glanced at Bucky. “Uh… is it okay if I—?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, nodding. “You can set him down.”

Carefully, Bob placed the guinea pig on the counter next to Alpine. The two animals sat, studying each other, frozen like statues. It was the silliest thing Bob had seen in weeks.

Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “So… does the guinea pig have a name?”

Bob blinked. “I, uh… I don’t think so. I never really thought about it.”

Just then, he felt a sudden itch in his nose—probably from all the cat hair. A sneeze was coming, fast. Desperate, Bob did what his mom had always told him to do when he was a kid. “Cucumber, cucumber, cucumber,” he said quickly.

Then he sneezed anyway, loud and sudden into his elbow.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Well, I guess that’s your name, then.”

“Huh?”

“Your guinea pig. Cucumber.”

Bob turned toward the small creature and picked him up with both hands, holding him up to eye level like he was inspecting a rare artifact. The guinea pig twitched his nose.

“I guess… he is a Cucumber,” Bob admitted, smiling.

He set Cucumber gently on one of the cushioned bar stools. Alpine had by then hopped down, weaving through Bob’s legs before leaping up onto the windowsill, her eyes fixated on the bustling city below.

Bucky pulled open a drawer in the hallway. “I’ll go grab some clean sheets for the bed.”

“No,” Bob said quickly, turning toward him. “I can’t take your bed. You’ve already done too much.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder. “You need it more than I do. I don’t sleep well in it anyway.”

Bob didn’t argue. Instead, he let his eyes wander the small space. It was cluttered, lived-in. A bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. A cracked mug on the counter. A framed photo—turned face-down.

His footsteps were quiet as he crossed the room to where Alpine was perched. She let him pet her without protest, her ears flicking slightly as he brushed his fingers through her fur.

Outside the window, New York moved on without them. But in here, in this small, strange sanctuary, Bob took his first breath that didn’t feel like borrowed air.

A few minutes later, Bucky stepped back out of the bedroom carrying a folded stack of blankets and a pillow tucked under his arm. He dropped them down onto the couch with a casual flick of his wrist and turned to face Bob.

"I think before we settle in," he said, tone shifting, "we should talk about those powers of yours."

Bob froze mid-stroke, hand resting on Alpine’s back. The room suddenly felt smaller, the light from the street outside pressing in through the windowpanes.

He turned slowly, throat tight. "Yeah. Okay."

His fingers itched with the sudden urge to fidget, his mind already racing for distractions. He stepped away from the window and toward Bucky, each footstep quiet but deliberate.

The voice stirred.

Like something pushing its way out from inside his chest. Not loud—not yet—but whispering at the edges. It coiled behind his ribs like smoke curling toward an open flame.

Bob swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Bucky’s gaze.

Whatever this conversation was going to be—it would be the beginning of something neither of them could walk back from.