Angel stirs beneath the covers, the fabric rough and slightly damp from the warmth trapped beneath it. The material is cheap, worn thin in places, the faded fibers catching against his skin as he shifts. His arms ache—a dull, persistent soreness that settles deep into his bones. With a groan, he drags the blanket off his face, squinting at the dim light filtering into the room.
His long, black hair spills messily over his forehead, sticking to his skin in some places, tangled and unkempt in others. Dark bags sit heavy under his eyes, the purplish hue stark against his pale complexion. His face is gaunt, sharp angles made more prominent by the shadows cast across his cheekbones. He presses his palms into his eyes, rubbing at the exhaustion clinging to him. His stomach twists, a sharp pang of hunger gnawing at his insides.
Some damn food would be good right about now.
With another groan, he shakes the covers off and sits up, his movements sluggish. His oversized T-shirt hangs loosely off his frame, the faded fabric wrinkled and stained from who-knows-what—coffee, sauce, maybe something from days ago that he never bothered to clean. His shorts are no better, baggy and slightly damp with sweat, the elastic waistband barely holding onto his hips. He sniffs absently, catching a stale, unpleasant scent lingering in the air—part sweat, part whatever's been festering in the room for days.
He glances around, his room a battlefield of discarded clothes, crumpled snack wrappers, and half-empty cups filled with liquid he no longer remembers leaving there. Empty chip bags spill out from under his bed, and an overturned fast-food container sits precariously on the edge of his desk, the remnants of a dried-out burger still inside. A single, half-crushed soda can rests near his feet, and as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, he accidentally kicks it, sending it rolling with a hollow clatter. The sound grates against his already-frayed nerves.
Angel grimaces, sniffing the air again before making a face. Shit. It's worse than he thought.
Pushing himself up with a grunt, he hobbles toward the door, stepping over the mess without much thought. The floor creaks under his weight, the sound cutting through the silence of the house. He rubs the back of his neck as he steps into the hallway, blinking against the dim light filtering in from the cracked bathroom door. His bare feet press against the cool wooden floor as he walks past his sister's room.
He stops...
The door is shut, just like it always is. He stares at it...
Why her?
His hands twitch at his sides, curling slightly as an all-too-familiar tightness builds in his chest. His vision blurs slightly, and for a brief moment, he feels it—the unbearable feeling...
But before the tears can come, he inhales sharply and rubs at his face, brushing it away as if it never existed.
He moves on...
Passing by his parents' room, he barely spares it a glance, but the thought still creeps in. How long have they been gone now? He hesitates mid-step, brows furrowing. A few weeks? A month? His throat feels dry. Should I call the police? The idea barely lingers before he shakes his head, scoffing under his breath.
Wouldn't matter anyway. Damn failures.
His jaw clenches, fingers digging into the back of his neck. They fucking left me. The words simmer in his chest, burning like acid. Was I that fucking inconvenient for them?
He steps down the stairs, the wood groaning beneath his weight. The sound is familiar, grounding in a way he doesn't like. The living room is still and lifeless, the air thick with the scent of dust and something stale. He runs a hand through his messy hair, his fingers snagging on knots as he walks into the kitchen.
The countertops are cluttered—dirty dishes stacked in the sink, unopened mail scattered near the fridge, crumbs from some forgotten meal still covering the table. The fridge hums softly, its white surface smudged with fingerprints. A single overhead light flickers dimly, casting weak illumination over the room.
Angel pulls open a cabinet, reaching for the cereal box tucked in the back. He shakes it, feeling the empty weight of it before exhaling sharply through his nose. Right… I left it here. His lips curl into something bitter. For what? A sick joke to myself?
A quiet chuckle escapes him before it fades into silence...
Then, suddenly, he hurls the box across the kitchen.
It spins mid-air, tumbling end over end before slamming against the far wall with a dull thud. His chest rises and falls, breath uneven as frustration coils tight inside him. He moves to shove the counter in anger, but his body overcompensates, and he stumbles slightly, slamming his hip against the corner of it.
"Shit—" he hisses, clutching his side.
His hand drops slightly, fingers brushing against his pocket. Something solid presses against them. He freezes for a second before realization dawns. Slowly, he reaches in and pulls out his phone. He stares at it, scoffing to himself. Why do I even bother?
Dragging himself toward the couch, he drops onto it with a sigh, the worn cushions sinking under his weight. He flips through his phone absently, scrolling past unread messages, past notifications he doesn't care about. With a flick of his thumb, he turns on the TV, the screen flickering to life with dull white noise before settling on something mindless.
His gaze lingers on the screen, but his mind drifts elsewhere. Darren said he can't go to school for a while. His grandma's sick now—convulsing and everything. So now he has to handle the shop on his own. Angel runs a hand down his face, rubbing at the sweat forming on his forehead. That's just fucking great.
He stares at the ceiling. His eyes flicker toward the empty spot on the couch beside him...
Dammit, Obinai… His fingers curl around the phone. What the hell happened to you?
The question lingers in his mind, circling like a vulture over decaying thoughts. His eyes flicker across the dimly lit room, but his focus isn't here—not on the dust settling in the air, not on the other half-crushed soda can lying beneath the coffee table, not on the cold emptiness pressing in from every direction.
Instead, he thinks back. A couple of weeks ago...
The memory comes in flashes—his hands setting his phone down after ordering flyers, the ones pleading for information about his sister. Missing scrawled across the top in bold, accusatory letters. He remembers staring at the word longer than necessary, his fingers lingering over the screen as if changing the wording would somehow make it less real. His gut had felt hollow, the weight of it pressing against his ribs like something heavy sinking inside him.
She's really gone.
Even then, he had tried to shake it off, tried to smother the fear gnawing at him from the inside out. He told himself that she was out there somewhere, just waiting to be found. That if he kept pushing, if he kept looking, it would all turn out okay.
Because that's how things are supposed to work, right?
He had even managed a half-smile at the time, the absurdity of what he was planning next keeping him grounded. He had been gearing up to plead his case to Obinai's mom, rehearsing the words in his head over and over.
"Look, I get it—I'm a lot. But I need my best friend. Just let him come over for a bit. I promise, no trouble."
He had almost laughed at himself. As if that would've been enough to convince her. As if things were ever that easy.
Still, it had felt important at the time. A stupid, desperate little thing to cling to.
Like hell was I gonna let her think I was something...tainted.
That thought had given him something—something to focus on, something to fight for. Because if he didn't, if he let his mind drift to the worse possibilities, the ones where he never found his sister, the ones where no one gave him answers—
No. Not going there.
His stomach had twisted, nausea creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. He had distracted himself by mapping out exactly how the conversation would go, how he'd phrase things to make himself seem just persuasive enough. He had even imagined a scenario where she softened a little, where she let out a long, tired sigh and waved him off with an, "Alright, fine. But just for a little while."
Would she have agreed? Would it even have mattered?
Because none of that ever happened.
Because as soon as he had rounded the corner—
The wreckage.
The entire building collapsed in on itself, nothing but twisted beams and shattered concrete where there should have been walls, windows, life. The sight had sucked the air from his lungs, leaving him lightheaded, legs trembling beneath him. He had stood there for what felt like hours, feet rooted to the cracked pavement, unable to do anything but stare. The world had tilted in that moment—spinning in slow, nauseating circles...
A few nights later, he had been sitting alone at the park, staring at the empty swings swaying in the wind. A quiet, eerie night. Then—
The ground shook.
His head had snapped up just in time to see the sky fracture, jagged cracks splitting through the darkness like something was trying to break through. The stars flickered. The air hummed.
Back in the present, Angel sucks in a breath through his teeth and presses his hands over his eyes, palms pressing hard against his sockets. His fingers drag down his face, nails scraping lightly against his skin.
"I can't take this," he mutters, barely above a whisper, then louder, "I can't take this anymore."
He exhales, sharp and heavy, before throwing his head back against the couch cushions, his body sinking further into the worn fabric. The room feels suffocating, the air thick with unspoken words, unshed tears, unanswered questions. His eyes flicker toward the TV, reaching for the remote almost absentmindedly.
The screen blinks to life, static crackling for a second before the news channel comes into focus. He must've switched to it by accident.
A reporter stands outside a massive building her expression tense with barely concealed frustration. Her sleek brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, stray strands whipping in the wind as she grips the microphone with white-knuckled fingers. Dark, determined eyes flick back and forth between the camera and the security team stationed behind her.
"Once again," she says, voice firm but edged with irritation, "we are being denied entry and any official statement regarding the ongoing evacuations of this facility."
Angel squints, studying the towering building in the background. The structure is sleek and modern, too polished, too perfect. People stream out in hurried clusters, avoiding the camera's gaze, their faces taut with fear, urgency, or something else entirely.
The reporter moves toward them, her heels clicking against the pavement as she raises the microphone. "Sir! Miss! Can you tell us why you're being evacuated? What's happening inside? Is there something the public should be aware of?"
No one answers.
Some shake their heads. Some pretend not to hear her. Others simply keep walking, their gazes fixed ahead, as if acknowledging her questions might bring them into whatever storm they're trying to escape.
Angel shifts forward, his fingers tightening around the remote.
"Is this related to the increasing reports of missing persons?" the reporter pushes, turning sharply as more people exit the building. "Do any of you know anything about these disappearances?"
Still, silence.
Then, a ripple of movement at the edge of the frame—men in black suits, rigid in their stance, moving with precision. They step forward in sync, their presence cutting through the hesitant crowd like knives.
One of them speaks, voice clipped and devoid of patience. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step back."
The reporter's jaw tightens, but she stands her ground. "I'm just doing my job. The people of Avaros City—and the rest of the world—deserve to know what's going on."
"You need to leave," another agent states, stepping closer, his gloved hand hovering near his side—near something he could reach for. Something she should be wary of.
Angel doesn't blink. His grip on the remote tightens.
She tries again, voice rising in urgency. "What are you not telling us? What aren't you telling the people watching right now?"
The agents don't respond with words. Instead, two of them move in, seizing her by the arms and dragging her away from the crowd. The camera jolts, a brief moment of chaos on-screen as the cameraman struggles to follow.
"Look at this!" the reporter shouts, her voice cracking with desperation. "Look at what they're doing! So desperate to keep their secrets—so afraid of the truth—how long can they keep this hidden before—"
The feed cuts.
The screen goes black.
Angel realizes his thumb has pressed down on the power button.
He exhales slowly, rubbing his temples before tossing the remote onto the couch beside him. A bitter chuckle escapes him, dry and humorless. "Damn… Basically, we're fucked. Great."
The words don't make him feel better.
Leaning back against the couch, he stares at the ceiling, his mind drifting to something else, something distant yet persistent.
That voice.
He doesn't remember when it first started. Maybe weeks ago. Maybe longer. But it was there, whispering in the moments between waking and dreaming, in the silence between thoughts.
"All will be reset… Await your place…"
Angel swallows, his throat dry.
"…Sanctuary… a Reckoning…"
He shakes his head. Maybe I'm losing it. Maybe I've already lost it.
Still, the unease lingers, crawling beneath his skin like something waiting to take hold. His fingers drum absently against his knee as his thoughts shift again, circling back to the one thing that's been gnawing at him more than anything else.
"…Obinai."
His voice is barely above a whisper.
He runs a hand through his tangled hair, exhaling shakily. "Where the hell are you, man?"
His chest tightens.
"Everything's falling apart," he mutters. "Everything's leaving me."
His vision blurs for a second, but he forces himself to breathe, blinking rapidly, shoving the feeling down, down, down—until it's buried beneath the rest of the mess.
"I need someone right now."
His fingers clench against his thigh. His breath is uneven. His mind is spiraling.
"Where are you...?"