Then there was silence.
Not the gentle kind—no, this silence pressed in on me, thick and suffocating, as if the world itself had stepped back and left me alone with the truth.
Then came darkness.
The realization struck harder than any hit I had taken that night.
I failed them.
When I looked at Jordan, at Maya, at Cameron, the weight of it crushed me all over again. Their faces burned into my mind—Jordan's shock, Maya's broken body, Cameron frozen in fear. The word failure echoed endlessly, repeating until it drowned out everything else. Rage churned in my chest. Anger stung behind my eyes. Sadness hollowed me out.
But none of it screamed louder than that one word.
Failure.
I turned back to Cameron, forcing myself to move, forcing my voice steady even as my hands trembled.
"You'll be able to do this," I said. "Don't worry. You can rely on me. You watch the team's back, and the team will watch yours."
Cameron swallowed, tears still clinging to his lashes.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I really needed that."
"Anytime," I replied.
The lie tasted bitter.
I turned and walked out of the coffeehouse.
The bell above the door chimed softly behind me, far too gentle for how broken everything felt. Cold air hit my face, sharp and grounding. Streetlights stretched my shadow across the pavement, long and warped, like it didn't quite belong to me anymore.
A promise replayed in my mind. You can count on us. You can count on me.
And yet here we were—fractured, scattered, losing shape. Like we were already part of a pattern I didn't understand yet.
I limped down the street, my body protesting every step. Pain flared with each movement, but I kept going.
"How did everything go so wrong so fast?" I muttered.
Memories forced their way back in—the snap of Maya's arm, Jordan's face draining of color, her body going limp, Cameron unable to move. The moments lined up too cleanly in my head, like they were meant to be remembered in this order.
My thoughts turned to Shu.
He hadn't told us everything. He warned us it would be hard. He warned us it was powerful. He said if we didn't work together, we'd die. But he never prepared us for the shape of it—for how precise it felt, how intentional.
"This didn't have to happen," I whispered.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the news.
"Eight people were found unconscious by the docks. This is Rebecca Robertson reporting. Authorities are investigating the fires, structural damage, and unexplained collapse of multiple individuals downtown. Officials say the incident may be part of a larger pattern, though no suspects have been identified. Redwood Bugle reporter Ava is on scene."
The screen shifted.
"I'm Ava, reporting for the Redwood Bugle," she said. "I was assigned to investigate after receiving an anonymous tip. When I arrived, I saw smoke, burn marks, and signs of explosions—but no attackers. Just unconscious people scattered across the docks."
She paused, glancing around before continuing.
"What's unsettling is that none of the victims appear random. Authorities are beginning to believe this may be part of a developing pattern."
She turned to an older man nearby.
"Sir, did you see anything?"
"No," he said. "One second I was working—moving boxes like usual. The next thing I knew, everything went black."
"Thank you," Ava said. "More details will be released soon."
The broadcast ended.
I locked my phone and slid it back into my pocket.
At least we weren't noticed.
Still, the thought gnawed at me. He was going to hit me again. He was close enough to kill me. But instead, he vanished—like he was never meant to finish it. Like this wasn't the end of the pattern, just another step in it.
By the time I reached home, my body was barely holding together.
I unlocked the door but stopped when I heard my parents' voices inside.
"How was your surgery?" my mom asked.
"Good. Long. Six hours," my dad replied.
"And work?"
"Busy. Nothing crazy—except for those eight unconscious people."
"I heard," my mom said. "Everyone was talking about it. They said it might not be isolated."
"I'm going to check on William later," she added softly. "We haven't talked to him much."
"You're right," my dad said. "We've been so busy. I'm worried about him."
My chest tightened.
I closed the door quietly and went around the house, climbing the tree with shaking limbs. Each branch dug into my palms. I pulled myself onto the roof and slipped through my window, collapsing onto the floor.
The room was dark. Still. Safe.
Or at least, it used to be.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts circling the same idea.
This wasn't over.
It was repeating.
A knock broke the silence.
"Knock, knock," my mom said gently. "William? Are you awake?"
I pushed myself up too fast, pain flaring through my body as I groaned.
I quickly pulled on a hoodie and yanked it over my head, tugging the fabric low over my face. My heart was still pounding when I heard the door open.
She stepped inside.
I was standing there, frozen, stiff in the middle of my room like I'd been caught doing something wrong. She noticed immediately.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"Yeah—everything's fine," I replied too fast, my eyes flicking around the room. "Why would anything be wrong?"
I shifted slightly and nudged the sword farther under my bed with my foot, my movements clumsy and obvious.
She frowned and took a step closer.
"Hey," she said softly, studying my face. "What happened to your cheek?"
I hesitated, my mind scrambling for something—anything—to say.
Before I could stop her, she reached out and gently touched my face. Her fingers brushed the cut, and I flinched.
"That's a pretty deep cut," she said, her voice tightening with concern. "Is everything okay at school, William?"
"I'm fine, Mom," I said quickly.
"Are you sure?" she pressed. "If you're getting bullied—if something's happening—you don't have to deal with it alone. We can do something."
"I said I'm fine," I replied, my tone sharper now.
She softened, her voice dropping.
"Honey, you can talk to me."
I turned fully toward her, the words already spilling out before I could stop them.
"I'm fine," I said, more serious than I meant to sound. "I promise. It's not like you or Dad are around anyway."
The moment the words left my mouth, regret hit me like a punch.
Her expression changed instantly. The warmth in her face faded, replaced by quiet sadness. Her eyes—always kind, always steady—filled with something heavy, something hurt. These were words she never thought she'd hear from me.
"I know we're not always around," she said gently. "And I'm sorry, kiddo. It's not that we don't want to be. We're just… busy with everything."
"And it's fine," I muttered, even though it wasn't.
She hesitated in the doorway.
"Well," she said after a moment, "dinner's downstairs if you're hungry."
Then she turned and walked away.
Creak. Creak.
The sound of the stairs echoed as she went down, the old wood groaning beneath her steps. I lay back on my bed and listened despite myself.
"I think William's getting bullied at school," my mom said quietly. "He had a deep cut on his cheek, but he won't tell me what happened. And he said we're never around."
"He said that?" my dad asked.
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"Well… maybe I can start working on call more," my dad said. "Be home more often. Maybe we can plan something. Do something together."
"I've got an idea," my mom said. "We'll tell him to invite his friends over this weekend."
"That's a great idea."
I stopped listening.
My body finally gave out. I flopped back onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I looked down at my hands—cut, bruised, scraped. Then at my reflection in the mirror. The cut on my cheek was already darkening.
It would scar.
A reminder of this day.
I should have never given Jordan the role.
I should have never taken this lightly.
The moment I knew better—and did nothing anyway.
I swallowed hard.
I was dumb. I was irresponsible. I kept blaming Shu, but deep down I knew the truth—I was running from it.
It was my fault.
All of it.
I took a slow breath in, then let it out.
Finally finding a home. Making new friends. Becoming a dragon keeper. I really thought life was good. Training was hard, sure. We pushed ourselves. We did things I never imagined I'd do—but now, for the first time, I had a place to stay. A place I could call my own.
But that was all just a dream. A fairytale I made up in my head. Something I had already lost. And today proved it.
That thought stopped me cold.
It echoed in my head until my hand curled into a fist. I clenched it tighter and tighter until my nails dug into my palm, drawing blood. The pain grounded me, but it didn't quiet my thoughts.
Lose.
Lose.
Lose.
Gain.
Lose.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
The word repeated endlessly, drowning out everything else.
I lay there, staring into the dark, my chest tight, my body aching. But for the first time in hours, maybe days, I felt it: a small, fragile sense of safety. This—my room, my home—was mine. No battles, no chaos, no city to run from. Here, I could breathe. Here, I could exist.
Finally… I had a place to stay.
And as sleep takes me, I can't tell if I'm running from the truth… or bracing myself for what comes next.