Yang leaned back on her bike seat, boots propped against the grass, and let the night air fill her lungs. The city sprawled beneath her like a restless ocean of lights—flickering neon, streetlamps, and the rhythmic pulse of traffic that never really went quiet in Vale. Jaune had a nice neighborhood. The hill behind it was also nice and quiet, perched on a rise that offered a clear view. From here, the metropolis didn't look like the broken, half-haunted place that it was the Dream realm. It looked… normal.
She snorted softly. "Normal. Right."
Her fingers drummed against the leather grip of her bike. She'd been restless ever since the incident at the bike shop earlier that day, and no amount of wind against her face during the ride here had chased away the tight knot in her stomach. That thing—the Amalgamation Grimm—still lingered in her head. Its screech, the smoke-stained walls, the screams of the people scrambling for the exits.
And her. Standing there with her fists clenched and her pulse roaring in her ears, but her Rune feeling clumsy and useless. She'd thrown herself in, sure, but when it came down to it, she hadn't done much. Not compared to what she wanted.
Not compared to what prodigies like Pyrrha could have done.
Yang tilted her head back toward the starless sky, the smog and light pollution smearing it into a dull gray blanket.
Pyrrha Nikos was LUCID's golden girl. At her young age, she had already reached comprehension in her first rune and was only waiting for the same in her second Rune before she would be able to rank up to Rank 2. She had done all this before Yang had even figured out the full extent of her first. Hell, even Weiss had beaten her to condensing her second rune and Weiss wasn't even supposed to be the powerhouse type.
That sting felt a little worse than Grimm claws.
Maybe Jaune had been right. Maybe she should talk to someone. LUCID always had those therapists on standby, pushing the rhetoric that "mental resilience is the foundation of survival." She could practically hear the cheerful rehearsed cadence in her head.
But what was she supposed to say? Hi, I'm Yang, and I feel like a fraud? That she hated the way the civilians had screamed when she couldn't reach them in time? That she felt useless even though she knew, logically, she'd done what she could? It sounded pathetic.
She knew what the therapist would say. "It's normal to feel this way. You're only human. Healing takes time."
Yang grit her teeth. That wasn't what she needed.
The answer was obvious, had always been obvious. She didn't need someone to tell her she was fine. She needed to make sure she wasn't helpless in the first place.
Strength. That was the only real therapy.
She thought of uncle Qrow and the way he moved in the field. Careless on the surface and drunk half the time, but when it mattered, he cut through grimm like they were made of paper. Well, that was probably due to the fact that he couldn't even get drunk inside the dream. She then thought of Pyrrha, calm and unshakable, unbreakable.
And her first rune practically made her damned near invincible.
And then… Jaune.
Her stomach did a little flip.
Jaune was neither a prodigy nor was he strong. But when Yang thought of the look in his eyes—bloodshot and haunted, but burning—she felt a flicker of something she hadn't expected.
Resolve.
She'd seen him train. Everyone had, at one point or another. The way he pushed himself past exhaustion, past sense. The way he got back up after every hit, no matter how much his body screamed at him to stay down. Yang used to laugh it off. Call it stubbornness, desperation, maybe even idiocy. But she'd been blind.
Now? She understood.
He trained like a man drowning, like every second without improvement was another lungful of water dragging him deeper. And maybe that was what it was. Those first days before LUCID found him, when he'd been out there alone, facing things no one should face… Yang shivered. She couldn't imagine it. Not really. She'd always had people. Always had her team, her sister, even Blake and Weiss at her side whether she liked it or not.
Jaune had nothing. And somehow he'd survived.
That desperation, that manic drive—it made sense now.
Yang wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes still fixed on the dim horizon. She'd dismissed it before, figured that once Jaune had a team, once he had backup, he'd slow down. Take it easier.
She'd been a fool.
If anything, that fire of his had only burned hotter.
And maybe that was what scared her. Because when she looked at herself, she didn't see that same desperation. She didn't see that willingness to bleed for every inch of progress. She thought she wanted strength, but wanting wasn't enough. Not if Weiss was already ahead of her. Not if Pyrrha was leagues beyond.
Not if Jaune—Jaune of all people—was staring at the abyss every night and clawing his way forward while she coasted on half-measures.
Yang exhaled slowly, forcing the bitterness out with her breath.
She flexed her hands, feeling the faint pulse of her Rune in her veins. Kinetic. A straightforward power. Store force, release force. Devastating in theory, flashy when she showed it off. But it wasn't enough. Not if she barely scratched those Amalgamations. Not if she couldn't condense a second Rune.
Maybe she hadn't pushed herself hard enough. Maybe she'd been leaning too much on her natural talent or her physicality, on her confidence that when the chips were down, she'd figure something out. That attitude worked well in regular fights in the dream.
But against the grimm in reality? Against things that could devour cities?
Confidence meant nothing.
She needed more. More fights, more hunts and more nights in the Dream no matter how much it wore her down. She needed to understand her Rune down to its marrow, squeeze every drop of potential from it, and then force it further.
Because if she didn't, she'd always be behind. Always watching as Pyrrha pulled civilians to safety, Weiss summon firestorms and even Jaune of all people rise with bloody hands and unbroken will.
And Yang Xiao Long wasn't built to be behind.
She sighed again, the sound rougher this time. Above her, the sky gave no answers. The stars were there, she knew, but buried under layers of pollution and artificial light, their shine smothered.
Kind of like her, she thought.
The potential was there, hidden under layers of excuses, comfort, laziness. She could almost laugh at herself—comparing her soul to a smog-choked sky. Ruby would tease her for it.
But the thought stuck.
She tapped her foot against the ground, restless energy building again. Maybe Jaune was right. Maybe desperation was the key. Maybe she needed to burn with it too, until there was no room left for doubt or hesitation.
Her gaze drifted back toward the city, toward the faint cluster of houses where she knew Jaune lived. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Strength. That was the answer. Always had been.
And if she had to burn herself down to ash to get it… then so be it.
Yang sighed then swung a leg over her bike and thumbed the ignition. The engine purred to life with a low growl that vibrated in her chest, familiar and grounding. She eased the bike around and started coasting down the hill toward the streets below. The wind tugged at her hair, the cool night air washing some of the tightness out of her thoughts. She should've felt better—riding always did that for her.
But when she turned onto Jaune's street, her hand tightened on the brake without really thinking. The bike slowed, then rolled to a stop right in front of his house.
Her brows furrowed.
The hell was she doing?
She sat there a moment, visor catching the faint reflection of the porch light, just staring at the little suburban home. It looked normal. Ordinary. A house like any other on the block. But her chest prickled, her gut tightening the longer she lingered.
Something was off...
Her instincts were screaming this at her.
Dream stats were… complicated. Even after LUCID had drilled her on the theory, Yang thought half of it sounded like mystical hand-waving. Still, she couldn't deny what the numbers meant. She might only keep ten percent of her Dream self's stats in the real world, but even that made her a different breed entirely compared to normal people. Stronger, faster and most importantly, sharper. Every sense was tuned higher. Instinct honed to a knife's-edge.
And right now?
That instinct whispered danger. Not in any obvious way. No creeping Grimm, no looming shadow.
Just… wrongness?
Yang cut the engine and swung her leg down. The sudden silence of the street pressed in, the faint buzz of Vale's distant nightlife muffled by rows of houses and hedges. She stood next to the bike, staring at Jaune's porch. The light above the door was on. The living room light too, glowing faintly behind the curtains.
She swallowed. Earlier, when she'd dropped him off, nothing had felt strange. She remembered the way Jaune had waved. Everything had seemed normal then.
So why now?
Her boots crunched softly against the pavement as she stepped off the curb. She tried to make sense of the feeling gnawing at her chest. It wasn't fear, exactly. Not danger, like when a Grimm was lurking nearby in the shadow of a decaying building. It was more like a… premonition. A prickle of unease with no shape, no teeth.
Just dread without a name.
Yang stepped onto the porch and scanned her surroundings. The only weird thing was that the welcome mat was crooked, and had a bit of dirt smeared on one corner. Nothing unusual. Nothing to match the crawling tension under her skin.
She crouched slightly, leaning closer to the door, straining her ears.
Silence.
That wasn't right.
Even with the muted insulation of the house, she should've been able to pick something up. A shuffle of feet or even the rhythm of breathing from inside. Something. Anything.
But there was nothing. Just the faint, steady hum of the porch light bulb.
Her frown deepened.
'Did Jaune and his dad step out?' she wondered. 'But why leave the lights on?'
Her gaze flicked toward the curb, and her stomach tightened further. A car sat parked in front of the house. She'd noticed it earlier, when she first dropped him off. If they'd gone anywhere, why not take the car?
Her instincts refused to let it go.
Yang straightened, hesitating in front of the door. Her hand hovered, then curled into a fist. She knocked, sharp and deliberate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed against the wood, swallowed by the silence inside.
She waited.
Nothing.
Her jaw tightened. She lifted her hand and tried again, louder this time.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Still nothing.
A muscle twitched in her cheek. That strange feeling in her chest—the one that had been biting at her since she stopped—was beginning to fade. Like mist in sunlight, the wrongness bled away with each second. And that… made her even more uneasy.
Instincts didn't just go away. Not like that.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She pressed the doorbell. Once. Twice. The chime rang inside, muffled but clear.
Still no answer.
Yang glanced toward the street. All the other houses sat quiet, cozy, tucked into the rhythm of Vale's nightlife. Nothing stirred. Nobody looked out a window to check on her.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob. She hesitated. She wasn't exactly breaking in—not if the door was locked, anyway.
Curiosity and that prickling instinct won out. She curled her fingers around the cool metal and gave it a twist.
Click.
The knob turned smoothly beneath her hand. The door was unlocked.
Yang froze.
Her gut clenched, instincts sparking again. She'd expected resistance. A locked door would've been normal, reasonable. Something to prove that she was just imagining things.
But this?
Unlocked, silent, lights on.
Her pulse picked up, heat pricking at the back of her neck.
She stood there, caught between fight and flight, the world narrowing to the thin seam of the doorway in front of her. Her breath came quiet, steady, controlled—LUCID training doing its work—but the unease still coiled tighter and tighter.
What was going on inside that house?
Yang's fingers were still curled around the doorknob when the world suddenly changed.
It wasn't sound or movement. Just a vast darkness, a weight that pressed down over half the street like a suffocating blanket. Shadows deepened, stretching unnaturally across the neat lawns and driveways. Her instincts went berserk.
She spun on her heel, heat flushing through her chest, eyes darting for the source.
And then she saw it.
A presence—no, a shape—sprawled across the pavement. A bird-like shadow so enormous that it seemed to swallow half the street. The shadow had wings which stretched wide across cars, rooftops, and hedges. Jagged and wrong, like some twisted bird given form only in absence of light.
Yang's breath caught in her throat. It was neither a grimm nor anything she had fought in the Dream realm.
The massive shadow began to shrink, edges drawing inward like smoke sucked down a drain. Her heart pounded as the void coalesced tighter and tighter until it compressed into something roughly human-sized, though still monstrous in outline—its proportions wrong, shifting.
The shape streaked forward across the pavement, skittering unnaturally fast.
It stopped right at her boots.
Yang tensed slightly with her fists clenching instinctively. The shadow rippled and rose upwards. A man pulled himself free of it, as though stepping up from the surface of a pool. The rest of the darkness bled away, flattening into nothing more than an ordinary shadow at his feet.
Yang's eyes widened as recognition rushed through her.
Messy black hair, slicked back in that lazy, half-stylized way. Red eyes—sharp, but with a glint of exhaustion in their depths. A few days' worth of stubble clung to his jaw, somehow making him look more roguish than ragged. Black trench coat, shirt and cargo pants with heavy boots on his feet. On his back, strapped at an angle that practically oozed menace, a massive single-edged greatsword.
The man stood there silently, regarding her.
And then, from the darkness at his feet, a raven burst upward with a flutter of wings, landing smoothly on his shoulder. Its feathers gleamed oily black under the porch light, and its eyes—red, unblinking, far too human—locked onto her.
Yang's voice slipped out before she could stop it.
"Uncle Qrow!?"
Shock blasted through her chest.
He inclined his head, almost casual, though his gaze flickered past her almost immediately—to the door she still hovered in front of.
"Good to see you too, firecracker," Qrow greeted gravelly, voice low and worn at the edges, but steady. "Sorry, this isn't a family fun-time visit."
Yang blinked, heart hammering. His tone wasn't teasing. It was flat and measured.
Qrow shifted his stance, trench coat flaring slightly, and reached up to grip the hilt of his greatsword. His knuckles whitened around the weapon as though bracing himself for something heavy.
"Step back from the door," he told her, eyes never leaving the entrance to Jaune's house. "Now."
Yang's breath hitched, but she obeyed, instinctively retreating a few steps down the porch.
The raven on his shoulder cawed once, a low noise, but its red eyes didn't leave her. Watching and weighing. Almost like it was peeling her apart with its stare, memorizing every thought that flashed across her face.
Qrow's expression didn't change. His eyes, however, seemed to sharpen further, pupils narrowing to pinpricks as he leveled his attention on the quiet, glowing doorway.
Yang swallowed, adrenaline and confusion warring inside her.
Whatever was happening here—whatever was inside that house—her uncle Qrow had come ready to draw blood.
And Yang realized that her instincts hadn't been wrong at all.
Yang's shoes creaked softly against the porch as she backed away even more, pulse hammering in her ears. Her uncle's voice had been calm and steady, but that tone—it was unfamiliar. Apparently one that he only used when the air smelled of blood and steel. When the wrong move could end with someone dead.
Qrow's hand was still clenched around his greatsword. He didn't draw it but he placed his other palm flat against the door and pushed it open with a slow, deliberate motion.
The hinges gave a muted groan, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence that clung to the house.
Yang hesitated. Her every instinct screamed that something was wrong here, that stepping into the threshold would be like diving into a storm without knowing if she could swim back out. But her uncle Qrow hadn't told her to leave. That mattered. If things were truly dire—if she was in the way—he'd have ordered her gone. The fact that he hadn't, meant… that the situation probably wasn't too serious.
So she followed.
The air inside was warm, compared to the cool night outside. A faint smell drifted toward her nose—something savory, something that might've been stew, though she wasn't sure. The scent seemed off, too normal and homey for the oppressive weight that still pressed against her chest.
She took a slow step onto the floor. Inside, was a couch, a low coffee table and a couple of magazines stacked neatly in the corner.
Just a house. A normal house.
Her first time in Jaune's home, and it looked exactly like what she'd expected: neat, modest, lived-in.
But then—
Her eyes caught movement. Qrow stepped farther inside, shoulders squared, his gaze fixed downward. He crouched, trench coat whispering against the floor as he bent low.
And it was only when he moved out of her line of sight that Yang saw him.
A body.
Her breath hitched, her throat seizing as her pulse roared in her ears. For a single, ice-cold second her instincts overrode all reason. That wasn't a stranger on the ground. That was Jaune.
He lay flat on his back, his blond hair messy and sticking in odd angles, his limbs slack, his chest still. The living room light washed over him, pale and lifeless.
Yang's stomach dropped. She nearly stumbled forward, every part of her screaming to rush to him, to shake him awake, to cry out for help. Her lips parted—
But then Qrow's head tilted up, crimson eyes pinning her with quiet command.
"Don't."
The single word froze her mid-step.
Qrow pressed two fingers against Jaune's neck, then leaned down with his ear close to Jaune's mouth. Yang strained to hear but caught nothing.
Her heart thundered.
Qrow's shoulders relaxed by the barest fraction, and when he looked up at her again his voice was quieter, though steady.
"Don't panic, firecracker. He's not dead."
Yang blinked, words catching in her throat. Not dead? But—he wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.
"He's in the Dream Realm," Qrow explained, as though that made everything obvious. "Whole body checks out."
Yang exhaled hard, relief punching through her chest. Her knees wobbled and she had to catch herself on the arm of the couch, sucking in air.
Her eyes stayed on Jaune's slack face, but her thoughts spun. The Dream Realm—sure. But why was he lying here, on the floor of his living room? Every awakened she knew usually used a safe space where they went under. Beds, specialized pods, etc. that kept the body supported.
Nobody just… dropped in the middle of their living room like this. And... where was Jaune's dad?
Something was wrong.
Qrow seemed to read her thoughts without her saying a word. His eyes slid shut, his brow furrowing faintly as if he was trying to sense something invisible. For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling light.
Then he spoke—not to her, but to the air.
"Seems we were a little too late." His voice was low, almost bitter. "That thing is gone."
Yang stiffened. Her heart lurched. That thing?
The raven on his shoulder cawed, the sound sharp and too deliberate. Not like a bird, but like a voice trying to cut through. Qrow tilted his head slightly, listening, then gave a curt nod as though an answer had been given.
Yang's pulse spiked. She couldn't stay quiet anymore.
Her words came out sharper than she intended. "Gone? What do you mean gone? Are you talking about Jaune?"
Qrow opened his eyes and regarded her silently for a moment. She hated that look—the tired one, the one that made her feel like a child demanding answers she wasn't ready for.
Finally, he sighed. "No. The kid's fine. Probably."
"Probably?" she snapped.
Qrow raised a brow. "Don't get bent out of shape. He looks... well, he looks tougher than he looks. That sentence didn't sound right." He scratched his head slightly as he shifted, rising smoothly to his feet, his hand left the hilt of his sword, no longer clutching it. "Anyway, you don't really have clearance for the rest of this conversation."
Yang blinked. "Clearance? Are you serious right now?"
Her voice cracked with frustration. She gestured at the boy lying limp on the carpet, her words tumbling out in a rush. "That's my friend! You're telling me that something happened here—something bad enough to drag you in—but I don't get to know?!"
The raven cawed again, sharper this time. Its red eyes stayed locked on Yang, unblinking, dissecting.
Qrow didn't flinch. He just gave a small shrug, his expression maddeningly unreadable. "Sometimes ignorance is bliss. For you and for him."
Yang clenched her fists, heat rushing to her face. She hated that tone. That condescending, world-weary tone that said she was just another rookie, a kid standing in a storm too big to understand.
Her mouth opened to argue again, but before she could, movement snapped her head down.
Jaune.
His chest expanded suddenly, sucking in a sharp, ragged breath. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide. Blue irises caught the lamplight as he sat up abruptly, shoulders stiff, his gaze bouncing between the two figures standing over him.
He didn't say anything. Just stared at them confused.
Yang froze where she stood, half caught between rushing forward and holding herself back.
Qrow's hand drifted a fraction closer to his greatsword, his eyes narrowing, as though he wasn't entirely sure what had just sat up in front of him.
And for a moment, the room was silent except for Jaune's quiet breathing—like the whole house was holding its breath along with them.
Jaune blinked slowly, like his eyes weren't quite in sync with the rest of him. His gaze swept over the room before settling on Yang.
"What's… going on?" His voice was low and dull like it was muffled by an unknown emotion. He sat up a little straighter, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes. "Yang… why are you here?"
Yang froze, her throat working. The question was so… normal, so casual, yet... something about his tone made her stomach twist slightly. Not scared or angry. Just muted. Weighed down.
Before she could answer, his head tilted. His eyes found Qrow, who was still standing with one hand near his sword.
"And who are you?" Jaune asked, blue irises narrowing faintly. "Why are you inside my house?"
The words weren't hostile, not really—but they weren't welcoming either. Detached.
Yang's lips parted, ready to jump in, but her uncle moved first. Qrow straightened his shoulders, trench coat whispering against the floor as he shifted his weight. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but carried the weight of authority.
"Name's Qrow. Rank 2 investigative operative." He jerked his chin toward Jaune. "Been on the lookout for… disturbances in the city."
Jaune regarded him in silence for a beat, eyes unreadable.
Qrow's crimson gaze sharpened. "You doing alright, kid? You look like you've been through hell. What exactly happened here?"
For the first time since waking, something flickered in Jaune's expression. His mouth opened, then shut. His shoulders sagged faintly. He exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that seemed far too old for someone his age.
Qrow's eyes narrowed further. He let a pause hang, then pressed. "That entity—did it appear?"
Yang blinked at the word entity. Her uncle had said it so plainly, but there was no mistaking the edge under it. Whatever he meant, it wasn't small.
Jaune's lips pressed together in a flat line. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at Qrow—really looked at him—as though weighing something. Then, at last, his shoulders slumped further, and he nodded once.
"Yes," he said, voice quiet but steady. "It was here."
Yang's breath hitched. She almost asked—what was here?—but the words stuck in her throat. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a conversation not meant for her, a conversation where even a single word might shatter something fragile.
Jaune pushed himself to his feet. The movement was slow, deliberate, his hand briefly brushing the edge of the coffee table for balance. He stood there for a moment, staring off—not at them, not at anything tangible. Just… into the middle distance.
Yang frowned. He wasn't dazed. His focus was too sharp, like he was watching something the rest of them couldn't see.
Qrow grimaced. It was a fleeting thing, but Yang caught it. The faint downturn of his lips, the stiffening of his shoulders. He knew what that kind of look meant.
"Oi kid," Qrow said, voice quieter now, more careful. "Do you have any other family members in the house?"
The question landed like a stone in the room.
Yang blinked, confused for a beat. 'Of course he did. His dad was—'
But then she noticed something. Something in Jaune's gaze.
Hollowness. An expression of resignation.
She had seen it before, once or twice. On the faces of awakened who came back from the Dream after losing someone on patrol. That numb, almost-empty look that wasn't truly empty at all—it was too heavy, like someone had carved out a part of the person and filled the gap with lead.
Her stomach knotted.
Jaune didn't look at either of them when he answered. His eyes stayed on that distant nothingness, his tone flat, even, almost mechanical.
"Not anymore."
The words hit like a hammer.
Yang's breath caught in her chest. Her throat worked but nothing came out. She had expected him to say yes, maybe to call upstairs for his father. The last answer she'd expected was that.
Her mind spun. Did he mean…?
Qrow's jaw tightened. He didn't move, didn't even blink. But Yang saw the shift in his stance, the faintest flicker of his crimson eyes. He already knew. Maybe he had known the second they stepped inside.
.
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AN: Advanced chapters are available on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.