That night, the apartment pressed down like a weight made of iron and fog, a heaviness that seeped into every corner and settled in my chest. My muscles throbbed from the gym, dull fire crawling along each sinew—a reminder of every barbell, every pull-up, every failure I'd forced myself through.
But that was nothing compared to the tension waiting for me inside.
The holo-display hummed faintly, fractured light spilling across the walls in cold, ghostly stripes. Shadows leaned and trembled along the ceiling, bending with the flicker of artificial blue.
Damian was on the couch, a taut slouch, like he was suspended between relaxation and bracing for impact. His tablet lay untouched, dim and dead beside him—a rare lapse in the man's usually unblinking attention to every mission update and Tower report.
"Rough day?" I asked, dropping my bag by the door and stepping into the room. The words felt like an understatement, but they were all I could manage against the unspoken weight pressing down on us.
His eyes lifted, weary but steady. A smile flickered faintly, brittle as spun glass. "Just the usual," he said. Smooth. Controlled. Hollow. "Tower mission tomorrow. Tight deadlines, high stakes. Rent's coming up… so no pressure."
I didn't need him to elaborate. The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Tower missions weren't just dangerous; they were relentless, grinding people down until there was nothing left.
Failure wasn't an option—but it happened anyway, too often.
And sometimes, people didn't come back.
I moved closer, lowering myself into the chair opposite him. "You've handled worse," I said, keeping my voice light but steady. It wasn't much, but it was all I could offer. "Just… don't push it too far."
A soft chuckle escaped him, like air slipping through a cracked pipe. "You know me," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'll get it done. Always do."
But his words hit empty air. I saw the cracks in the practiced composure—lines etched too early around eyes and mouth, shadows that even his smile couldn't hide.
"Damian," I said quietly, leaning forward. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
His gaze softened, guard slipping. "I'll do my best," he said, this time with weight behind it. "For you and Brix. Always."
A firm, steady pat on my shoulder. His way of saying: I've got you, even if the world wants to grind us to dust. Then he stood, snatched up his tablet, and disappeared toward his room. The click of the door sounded louder than it should have, cutting through the silence like a knife, leaving the apartment cloaked in its usual oppressive stillness.
********
After Damian left, the quiet pressed in. I let it settle, breathing through it. Anchors—he was ours. But even anchors can fray.
My mind wandered back, far enough to the day I woke from that coma, disoriented in a world that felt half digital, half nightmare. Damian had been patient, measured in a way I hadn't expected. He spoke to me as an equal, not a child, giving room for mistakes but stepping in when guidance was needed.
I remembered the day he told me he was proud of me. The words felt foreign, almost strange.
The words that had stuck weren't gentle, but heavy: "You've changed. Ever since the coma, it's like… you're more mature. My little brother is starting to grow up."
If only he knew the truth. I wasn't growing up. I was already grown—a 30-year-old mind trapped in a 16-year-old's body.
But in that moment, hearing his words, I realized something. It didn't matter what I'd been before. Damian didn't see me as someone else. He saw me as his little brother, someone he trusted and believed in. Someone he wanted to protect.
It hadn't always been like that.
I thought back to the early weeks after waking. The world too loud, too bright, too alien. I'd snapped at the smallest things, retreated into silence, lashed out without warning. One evening, tension crawling along my nerves, I sat at the kitchen table, head in hands. Brixley's faint chatter barely registered.
"Noah?" Damian's calm voice cut through, settling around me like a cloak. He slid into the chair across from me, arms resting on the table.
"What?" I snapped, the word harsher than I intended.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "I know this isn't easy for you. Hell, it's not easy for any of us. But you're not alone in this."
I scoffed, not trusting myself to say anything else.
"You don't have to talk if you're not ready. But know this," he said, tone patient, unyielding, "whatever choices you make, I'll respect them."
I blinked, caught off guard. "I'm sixteen," I muttered. "My decisions don't exactly hold a lot of weight."
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. "GAIA might control everything else, but this—you, your choices—you still have that. And unless it defies GAIA outright, I'll support you."
The words hung between us, heavy as steel chains. I couldn't stop myself. "Would you… believe in me or GAIA?"
He hesitated—just a flicker—and then met my eyes. "I know this world feels out of control. Most of it is. But you—you're still you. I'll respect that. Even if it scares me."
"Even if it means defying GAIA?"
A beat. He leaned back slightly. "Then I'll make my choice. And my choice is family. GAIA or no GAIA, you and Brixley come first. Always. I promised Mom and Dad."
That promise lodged in my chest like a splinter of light. Damian, a man who followed GAIA's rules to the letter, willing to bend them for us. I hadn't been ready to believe it then. Now I did.
********
Later, alone in my room, I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling—a blank canvas for doubt and fear. Damian walked into danger, again, and I wasn't ready. Not yet.
My fingers brushed the skull icon in my HUD. Codebreaker pulsed faintly, steady, unyielding. A reminder that the world could bend to those who knew its hidden threads. GAIA didn't own us—not forever.
"Hang in there, Damian," I whispered to the shadows, to the empty room, to the weight pressing in. "I'll catch up. I promise."
Some promises aren't loud. They don't echo. They linger like smoke in the lungs. And some day, they burn bright enough to light the darkness.