That night, the apartment felt heavier than usual, the kind of weight that seeped into the air and settled in your chest. My muscles ached from the gym, a dull reminder of the grueling session I'd forced myself through.
But the physical strain was nothing compared to the tension that greeted me when I stepped through the door.
The faint hum of the holo-display cast fractured shadows on the walls, its cold blue glow failing to soften the atmosphere.
Damian was on the couch, his posture slouched but stiff, like he was caught between relaxing and bracing for something inevitable. His tablet lay untouched beside him, the screen dim and lifeless, an odd sight for someone who was usually buried in mission briefings or tower analytics.
"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.
Damian glanced up, his face composed but tired. His smile was faint, practiced—a shield rather than an expression.
"Just the usual," he said, his tone steady but lacking its usual energy. "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."
Damian let out a soft chuckle, though it sounded more like an exhale of exhaustion. "You know me," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'll get it done. Always do."
But the words felt hollow, and we both knew it. I studied his face for a moment, the faint lines of stress etched around his eyes. For all his effort to seem composed, the cracks were there, subtle but undeniable.
"Damian," I said quietly, leaning forward. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
His eyes softened, the mask slipping for just a moment. "I'll do my best," he said, and this time, it sounded real. "For you and Brix. Always."
Damian pressed a firm, reassuring pat on my shoulder, a gesture that carried more weight than words ever could. It was his way—offering silent support, even when the cracks beneath the surface threatened to show.
He straightened, grabbed his tablet from the coffee table, and walked toward his room with deliberate steps. The faint click of the door closing behind him seemed louder than it should have, cutting through the quiet and leaving the apartment wrapped in its oppressive stillness.
********
After Damian left to finish his preparations, I sat in the silence he'd left behind. The weight of his words pressed against me, a reminder of the tightrope we all walked in this world. He was always so steady, so sure—the anchor holding us together. But even anchors had their limits.
My mind drifted back to the day I'd woken from the coma, disoriented and overwhelmed by the strange new world I'd found myself in. Damian had been there, patient in a way I hadn't expected. He'd talked to me like an equal, not a kid, giving me space to process but stepping in when I needed guidance. It was his words that had stuck with me the most.
I remembered the day he told me he was proud of me. The words felt foreign, almost strange.
"You've changed," he'd said, his tone warm but edged with curiosity.
"Ever since you woke up from that 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 hacker 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 brother, someone he trusted and believed in.
It hadn't always been like that.
I thought back to the first few weeks after I woke up. The world had felt too loud, too bright, too different. I was drowning in the weight of a life that wasn't mine, and it showed. I'd snap at the smallest things, retreat into silence, or lash out without warning.
One evening, after another long day of trying to navigate this unfamiliar reality, I sat at the kitchen table, my head in my hands. The frustration burned behind my eyes, and my breath came in shallow bursts. The hum of the holo-displays and the faint chatter of my little sister, Brixley, grated against my already frayed nerves.
"Noah?" Damian's voice cut through the noise, calm and steady. He set down his tablet, moving to sit across from me. Brixley, sensing the tension, slipped quietly out of the room, leaving just the two of us.
"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.
"Look," Damian continued, his tone patient. "You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready. But just know that whatever decisions 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. GAIA might control a lot of things in our lives, but you're still growing. Still figuring things out. And unless it defies GAIA outright, I'll support you."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. I couldn't stop myself from asking. "Would you believe in me or GAIA?"
"Noah," he'd said, his voice steady but kind, "I know this world feels like it's out of your control. Hell, most of it is. But you're still you. And whatever decisions you make, I'll respect them. Even if they scare me."
I'd stared at him, incredulous. "Even if it means defying GAIA?" I'd asked, half-expecting him to scold me for even suggesting it.
He'd hesitated, but only for a moment. "If it comes to that," he'd said, his eyes unwavering, "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."
Those words had shaken something loose in me. Damian, the guy who seemed to follow GAIA's rules to the letter, was willing to put us above everything else. It was a promise I hadn't been ready to believe at the time. But now? I understood.
********
As I finally dragged myself to bed, the ceiling above me felt like a blank canvas for my doubts and fears. Damian was walking into danger, again, and I wasn't strong enough to protect him or Brixley. Not yet.
But I would be.
My fingers brushed against the skull icon in my HUD, its faint pulse steady and unyielding. Codebreaker was my key. If I couldn't change the world through sheer force, I'd rewrite the rules. GAIA didn't own us. Not forever.
"Hang in there, Damian," I whispered to the empty room. "I'll catch up. I promise."