The wind clawed at Griffith's coat, as if trying to finish what he couldn't. He stood at the ledge, whiskey breath thick in his throat, an old photo clenched in his shaking hand. His breath smells like stale whiskey. In one hand, he clutches the neck of an empty bottle. In the other, a creased photo—soft at the edges from years of being handled.
The woman in the picture smiles in bright red lipstick, her dark curls frozen in time.
Griffith stares at the city lights below. "Is this it?" he whispers.
From behind, sirens wail. Red and blue lights flash against his silhouette. He doesn't flinch. Just sways slightly, like the breeze might decide for him.
He closes his eyes. A cold night from long ago flashes across his mind—standing on a balcony as a child, bruised and barefoot, listening to screaming behind a closed door. Smoke curled from a broken heater. A swollen ankle throbbed. He remembered whispering, "I won't be like them."
A megaphone crackles. "Please, step back from the edge. You don't have to do this."
Griffith doesn't even turn. The voice is thin, distant—drowned out by older, louder ones echoing in his head.
Flash—ten. His father missed the first swing. The second one didn't. Blood hit the carpet. The TV hummed static like nothing had happened.
Flash—twelve. Carrying a garbage bag of liquor bottles. It split halfway down the stairs. He didn't clean it up. Just kept walking, like Dad would've.
Griffith crumples the photo and lets it fall. The wind takes it. Shreds of memory tumbling into the dark.
"I'm done," he mutters.
A new voice cuts through. This one's closer. Human. Raw.
"Three years ago, I stood where you are."
Griffith turns slightly. A firefighter—tall, lean, haunted. No megaphone. No rehearsed speech.
"I didn't think anyone could help me," the firefighter said. "I didn't even want them to try."
He stepped closer. "I still have nightmares about that night. About what would've happened if no one showed up."
Griffith glanced sideways. The man wasn't preaching—he was remembering. Not cleaned up, just… still here.
Another flash—thirteen, rooftop, alone. Bandaged knee. Black eye. "I won't end up like them," he had whispered to the moon.
But the whispers had never stopped. They only got louder.
"I'm not like you," Griffith chokes out. "No one pulled you back."
A woman steps up beside the firefighter. Young. Steady eyes. She says nothing, just watches him with quiet fear.
"You don't know me," he growls. "Don't act like you care."
The man takes a slow step forward. "You're right. I don't know your story. But I can see you're still fighting. You're here. That means something."
Griffith swallows hard. The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters behind him.
Then—movement. He steps forward, off balance.
"NO—!"
The firefighter lunges, grabbing his wrist.
Their eyes lock. For a breath, time stops.
Panic flares in Griffith's chest. He pulls back.
And lets go.
Falling.
The wind howls. The world blurs.
A scream breaks from his throat. "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
It's too late.
He thinks of the hand that reached for him. The eyes that didn't flinch. The voice that didn't lie.
"Someone—please—help me…"
Then—impact. Agony erupted like fire through his spine. Darkness swallowed him.
And just before it took everything, he saw it: a golden ring of symbols spinning in the void—faster and faster—until it split like glass.
Then—silence. Black. A voice.
"...jasdoih…"
Griffith stirs. His body won't move. His limbs are foreign. His mouth won't form words.
"...asnekhle..."
The language bends. Warps. Shifts.
Then:
"What is this thing?"
The pain spikes again. His eyes sting. Blood coats his lashes.
footsteps approach.
A man speaks—sharp, angry, disdainful.
"Is this the one they chose to represent us? This broken thing?"
Griffith tries to rise. Fails. Tries again.
Pain answers.
But through clenched teeth, he forms a thought.
Where the hell am I?
And why does everything still hurt?