A shattered moon hid behind a haze of grey fog, shining a pale light upon a city and filling the streets with a beautiful lunar aura. Streets stretched like veins throughout the land, with shops, houses, and parks lined along them. The night was young, creating a romantic atmosphere. Somewhere within these streets, a couple sat at the table of a popular restaurant, a mother was putting her children to sleep, and a lone child wept.
"Mom…"
A child with skin pale enough to mimic a ghost clutched tightly onto the chest of his mother.
She was dead.
Blood leaked from a large wound on her neck, staining the hands that had desperately tried to keep it from gushing out before she drowned in it. Her body had long grown cold, but the crimson flowing out of her still held a faint hint of warmth. The boy wept, for he knew now that this world was not a world of dreams or nightmares, but a world of harsh reality.
"Mom, please wake up. Don't go—I can't live alone! Please don't leave me here!"
The young boy brought his trembling right hand to his face to wipe his tears, only to smear blood into his eyes. He refused to stop crying—how could he? After all, he had also been cut by the shard of glass. He clearly hadn't thought it through—if he had thought at all—when he picked it up off the ground and pressed it to his mother's neck.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
His screams and sobs echoed through the streets and were broken only when the door to the living room slammed open, letting creeping moonlight smother the dark expanse of the house. A tanned man wearing a suit composed of dark blue metal plates ran inside.
"Vicnan! What happened!?"
The man shouted in the same deep tone he used when scolding the child now soaked in blood before him—when he refused to listen. But Vicnan did not care, or perhaps he simply did not hear him. Instead, he gripped his raven-black hair with both hands and pulled, muttering curses under his breath.
"Vicnan… my boy."
The man's eyes widened at the scene, and his voice cracked much like the mirror Vicnan had used to murder his beautiful young mother. He dropped to his knees and leaned forward to hug Vicnan. He spoke no further, simply held his son tightly and sobbed quietly.
Somewhere in the corner of the room not touched by moonlight, a young man with raven-black hair and smooth pale skin watched the scene unfold—as he had many times before. The man cried silently, revealed only by the tears rolling down his cheeks and falling through the illusionary world.
"How many more times must I see this damned scene?"
He bit his lip until blood dripped from his chin. Unlike his tears, the blood did not fall through the world. Instead, it levitated, as if pulled upward by gravity itself, and formed into a crude knife. The blood hardened, turning from bright red to a deep crimson. The man grabbed it and brought the blade to his own neck.
"I'm sorry."
He cut deep into his throat using his own blood as a weapon.
But he did not die.
The world around him turned misty and fell apart. His eyes closed slowly. The last thing to dissipate was not the corpse of his mother but the bloody boy weeping into his father's cold metallic shoulders.
His eyes finally shut completely—and then immediately opened again to the same shattered moon illuminating the streets, though this time the fog was lifted. The pale man's eyes teared up as he sat up in his bed and looked at himself in the mirror positioned across from him. An old Victorian-esque suit hung over the top right corner of the mirror, custom made for him. In the breast pocket of the suit, a company card read:
Second Class Support-Type Agent: Vicnan Durand.