/Well well look at it. Chapter earlier than usual./The reason is there are three st chapters for the main story and I have decided to post them all this weekend./I will talk more about this once we reach the st chapter so enjoy for now ^^

  The first thing he noticed was the quiet.

  Not the kind that comes with peace, but the kind that follows chaos—dull, sterile, and far too still. Aldon’s eyes fluttered open slowly, shes heavy with sleep or sedation. White ceiling. A distant beep. The faint, rhythmic hiss of a machine nearby.

  A hospital.

  His head ached dully, a pressure blooming just behind his eyes. His limbs felt weightless at first—until he moved his left arm and pain fred instantly through the nerves, sharp and unforgiving.

  He winced.

  A slow, rasping breath escaped as he turned his head. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains. The warmth was dim, filtered through gss and gauze. He blinked again, finally grounding himself.

  What happened?

  Bits and pieces came back in fractured fshes.

  The attack. The steel cords. That figure. The pain in his arm—And then… the fire.

  Aldon slowly raised his right hand, resting it over the thick bandages wrapping his opposite arm. He stared at the dressing, heart thudding. The skin beneath felt sore, tight, but intact.

  He sat up with effort, the bnket sliding down his chest. Wires pulled lightly at his wrist, one of the monitors beeping in quiet protest. There were bruises mottled across his skin—faint outlines of bindings, burns, pressure marks.

  But he was breathing.

  He swung his legs off the side of the bed, bare feet brushing cool tile. The IV tugged lightly in his arm, but he ignored it, letting instinct guide him to the window. Something had drawn his attention without him realizing it.

  Noise.

  Not sirens. Not battle cries. Something else.

  Shouting.

  He parted the curtains with stiff fingers, squinting against the gre of the outside world.

  Down below, just past the hospital gates, a crowd had gathered.

  Dozens of people, maybe more—waving signs, some with microphones, others simply shouting into the air like they needed the world to hear them. But it wasn’t excitement. It wasn’t cheering.

  It was anger.

  And at the center of it—spttered across posters and crude effigies, screamed from torn throats—

  “ENDEAVOR!”

  Aldon stared, his breath catching in his throat.

  The name rang out again. But not in admiration. Not like fans.

  This was something else he didn’t understand.

  Not yet. But something had changed.

  Something big.

  A soft gasp came from the door.

  “He’s awake!”

  Aldon turned just in time to see Yori rush inside, her long red coat fring behind her. Her voice carried the kind of relief that clung to panic—bright, breathless, and nearly shaking.

  Before he could say a word, she was at his side, gently guiding him back toward the bed. “You shouldn’t be standing, idiot,” she scolded, though her tone was thick with emotion. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

  Two days?

  As Aldon sank back onto the mattress, the door opened wider—and in came the rest of them.

  His family.

  Victoria entered first, her elegant frame tense with worry, a gss of water already in hand. Akio followed close behind, posture stiff, expression unreadable. Behind him came Naoki and Yuki, both unusually quiet, their eyes trained on Aldon like they didn’t believe he was real.

  His mother reached him before any of them.

  “Here,” she whispered, pressing the cool gss into his hand. Her fingers trembled, just slightly.

  Aldon accepted it and took a slow sip, eyes scanning each of their faces in turn. Everyone looked older somehow. More worn. Or maybe just tired.

  “...What happened?” he asked, voice hoarse from disuse. “Why are there people outside? Why are they—angry?”

  The silence that followed was immediate.

  His mother’s gaze dropped. Her hands folded in front of her, knuckles white.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, she sat beside him, her voice quiet—too quiet.

  “You’ve just woken up, sweetheart. I don’t know if you’re ready to—”

  “I need to know,” Aldon said, firmer now. “Please.”

  Yori gnced at their mother, then pulled her phone from her pocket without a word.

  She sat beside him and unlocked the screen. Her hands moved with care, like whatever she was about to show him would be sharp enough to cut.

  “It’s all over the news,” she said softly. “Every channel. Every ptform.”

  She tapped the screen once.

  Aldon looked down.

  And there—broadcasted on someone’s shaky phone camera, recorded off a giant screen in the middle of a street—was him.

  Touya.

  Or rather—Dabi.

  Hair white. Eyes burning. And a voice sharp as gss as he sat on couch and decred, in front of the world—

  “My name is Touya Todoroki. I’m the eldest son of Endeavor.”

  The sound drained from the room.

  Even though he’d already known—had known for months—Aldon felt the impact like a punch to the chest.

  Because now the whole world knew, too.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  The words pyed again and again from the phone’s speaker like a loop in his mind, even after Yori gently tapped the screen to stop the video.

  Aldon’s mouth was slightly open, but no sound came out. His eyes stayed on the darkened screen as if it might still show him something—anything—to help him understand what to feel.

  But all he felt was the weight.

  The weight of everyone knowing.

  Touya didn’t just reveal himself. He turned the world upside down—live, public, with proof and intent. That wasn’t just a confession. That was a bde driven straight into the heart of hero society.

  Aldon knew how carefully pnned that was. How brilliantly cruel.

  That’s how he’s starting his revenge, Aldon thought numbly. Not with fire. With the truth.

  It was smart. It was theatrical. It was effective.

  And it terrified him.

  Not because Touya had done it—but because of what it would spark. The hate. The panic. The retaliation.

  Where are you now…? he wondered. Are you okay? Are you watching the fallout? Are you hiding? Running? Laughing?

  He didn’t know.

  He hated not knowing.

  “Aldon,” his mother said softly, reaching out. Her voice was gentler now, but edged with careful concern. “I can’t imagine how this must feel. Knowing he’s alive. Knowing what he’s become…”

  He didn’t look up.

  He couldn’t.

  He didn’t even know if he was allowed to feel what he felt. He cared. Of course he did. But the fear curled cold beneath it—fear for Touya, for himself, for what this would mean for all of them.

  For Shoto.

  And yet—somewhere in the mess of emotion—a strange, broken part of him was amazed.

  Amazed at how bold it was. How loud. How unapologetically Dabi.

  The silence stretched until it cracked at the edges.

  All Aldon could manage was a single, fragile breath.

  “...Yeah.”

  The word barely made it past his lips. It sounded wrong. Too small.

  His mother didn’t ask for more.

  She just wrapped her arms around him.

  And Aldon let her.

  He leaned forward, eyes burning, head tucked against her shoulder—and for now, he didn’t speak.

  A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

  Everyone in the room turned as it creaked open. The light from the hallway stretched long across the tiles, catching on a familiar silhouette—tall, slouched, wingless.

  Keigo.

  His face was mostly hidden behind the bck mask, bandages visible up his neck. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion… and something heavier beneath it. A voicebox device attached to the mask, and in his hands—trembling only slightly—was his phone.

  “I’d like to speak to Aldon,” came the synthesized voice from the speaker. “Alone. If that’s alright.”

  The room went silent.

  Aldon’s mother gnced between them, lips pressed into a thin line. Yori hesitated too, clearly wanting to stay—but one look at Aldon’s face told her he wasn’t going to argue.

  “Alright,” his father said softly. “We’ll be outside.”

  One by one, they slipped from the room, the door closing gently behind them.

  Silence fell like snow.

  Keigo didn’t move right away. His gaze drifted across the white sheets, the monitor’s steady beeping, the bandages wrapped around Aldon’s arm.

  Then he crossed the room slowly and sat in the chair beside the bed.

  The space between them felt too wide.

  Too loaded. Too full of everything they hadn’t said.

  Keigo’s thumb hovered over his phone screen, but he didn’t type anything.

  Aldon looked at him—not the hero, not the Commission’s bde—but him. Scarred. Tired. Hollow-eyed.

  And silent. So painfully silent.

  Aldon swallowed hard.

  Still, neither of them spoke.

  The monitor beeped again.

  Outside, the sound of the distant crowd filtered faintly through the walls—muffled shouting, heavy with anger.

  Inside, two friends sat in the quiet, with miles of grief between them.

  And neither knew where to begin.

  They both spoke at once.

  “I need to—”“Do you want—”

  Silence.

  They stopped, their voices cshing in the quiet like mismatched chords. Aldon blinked up at him. Keigo gave the faintest nod.

  “…You first,” he typed.

  Aldon swallowed. His fingers pressed lightly to the bandages along his side. The pain was muted now—dulled by meds and exhaustion—but his thoughts burned.

  “…The crowd outside,” Aldon murmured, eyes still fixed on the distant shouting beyond the gss. His voice was quiet, but not shaken. Just… tired. “It’s about the video, isn’t it?”

  Keigo nodded once, slowly. He reached for his phone again, the familiar motion practiced and deliberate. A few taps echoed softly between them before the synthetic voice spoke:

  “Dabi released a video. During the fight.”

  Aldon didn’t react. Not visibly. He just turned back from the window as he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling faintly into the bnket. Like confirmation was a colder thing than he thought it would be.

  Keigo kept going.

  “He revealed everything. Told the world who he is—Touya Todoroki.”

  There was a stillness between them. Not shock. Not denial.

  Just gravity.

  “He named Endeavor. Spoke about what happened to him. About the abuse. About the fire at Sekoto Peak. He had proof. Files. Blood test. And he showed… everything.” His thumb moved again. “Even the moment I killed Twice.”

  Aldon’s jaw clenched at that, but he said nothing. His grip on the bnket didn’t ease.

  “He didn’t hold back,” Keigo added after a beat. “It was calcuted. And brutal.”

  Silence again.

  The kind that fills your lungs with everything unsaid.

  Then—

  “…The Todorokis,” Keigo typed, “haven’t made a public statement yet. But they’re here. In the hospital. They’ve been talking.”

  He looked up, meeting Aldon’s eyes directly now.

  “They… decided to stop him together.”

  Aldon’s chest rose with a sharp breath he hadn’t meant to take. Something pulled in his throat—tight and dry and full of weight. His thoughts jumped between scenes that hadn’t happened yet—scenes he didn’t want to imagine.

  “…I see,” Aldon said, barely above a whisper.

  He leaned back against the bed frame, eyes unfocused now.

  Aldon said nothing for a moment. Just stared at the bnket, lips parted slightly, eyes wide but unfocused.

  He wasn’t surprised. He was just… scared.

  Because now it wasn’t a secret anymore.

  Now everyone knew.

  Keigo broke the silence again, his voice quieter this time.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Aldon looked up.

  And he didn’t try to hide it anymore.

  He nodded once, slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

  Keigo leaned forward slightly.

  Aldon took a breath.

  “I’ve known Touya since I was a kid.”

  His voice was raw now—honest in a way he hadn’t let himself be since the war started.

  “When I moved to Japan, I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have a quirk yet. I met him on Sekoto Peak—he had fire, and I was terrified of it. But he… didn’t make fun of me. He taught me. We trained together, dreamed about being heroes together.”

  His throat caught, just a bit.

  “He was my first real friend.”

  Keigo didn’t interrupt.

  Aldon pressed on.

  “Then he died. Or—everyone thought he did. I thought he did. Sekoto Peak. The fire. I cried for weeks.”

  His hand touched his bandaged arm, eyes distant.

  “I carried that grief for years. And then… Kamino.”

  His voice cracked slightly at the name.

  “I saw him. I didn’t know for sure, not then—but the fire, the eyes. It was like seeing a ghost. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  He looked back at Keigo now.

  “So I looked for him. Alone. I disguised myself and went to the darkest parts. Asked around. Tracked him. And eventually, he found me.”

  A long breath. The memory flickered behind his eyes like fme.

  “He led me into an alley and attacked me. I tried to reach him—I called him Touya, even though he told me that name meant nothing.”

  A brief silence.

  “But I saw it. In his eyes. It still meant something to him.”

  Aldon looked down at his hands.

  “And I kept going back.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I let him into my apartment. I treated his wounds. I listened to him when no one else would. I knew he was dangerous. I knew it was a risk.”

  He lifted his head again.

  “But I saw more than just Dabi. I saw the broken kid who never got to grow up.”

  Keigo looked at him, unmoving.

  Aldon’s voice cracked. “And no—I’m not betraying heroes. I still fight. I still protect people. I still believe in what we’re supposed to stand for. But I also believe people can change. I have to.”

  He sat back, exhausted.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Aldon admitted. “I don’t know if I made a mistake. But I wasn’t going to turn him in—not when he finally had someone who didn’t see him as a monster.”

  Silence fell again. He didn’t try to fill it.

  He’d said everything.

  He had nothing left to hide.

  The silence between them thickened—but this time, it wasn’t sharp.

  It wasn’t judgmental.

  Just quiet. Weighty.

  Then—slowly—Keigo moved his hand.

  His fingers, bandaged and trembling, reached across the space between them and settled over Aldon’s.

  Not tight. Not forceful. Just enough to say I’m here.

  Aldon blinked, lips parting slightly—but he didn’t pull away.

  Instead, his voice came back—softer now. Barely above a whisper.

  “That day we were all teasing each other in the karaoke room,” he said, “and Mirko teased me about liking someone…”

  Keigo nodded, remembering.

  Aldon’s shes lowered.

  “It was Touya.”

  The words hung there, raw and bare and completely unguarded.

  “He let me see a version of him I don’t think anyone else gets to see,” Aldon continued, staring down at their hands. “He joked. He got embarrassed. He… let himself be soft around me.”

  His voice cracked. Just a little.

  “He cried in front of me once,” he whispered. “And not because of pain. Just… everything he’d been holding in. Everything that hurt.”

  A small breath trembled out of his chest.

  “When we were together, it wasn’t about sides. Or wars. Or what we used to be. It was just… him. And me. No vilin Dabi. No hero Firefly. Just Touya and Aldon.”

  He looked up then, eyes gssy but steady.

  “And I think… I fell for that version of him. The one who lets himself be real.”

  He smiled faintly, painfully.

  “I don’t know if it’s stupid. I don’t know if I was just seeing what I wanted to see. But I know he tried. At least with me.”

  Silence again.

  But this one was warmer. Like an exhale.

  Keigo’s thumb brushed once, gently, against Aldon’s knuckles.

  His hand remained wrapped lightly around Aldon’s, but his gaze dropped—unreadable. A long breath eased from his lungs. It was quiet. Measured. But it wasn’t cold.

  It was heavy.

  Then, after a beat, he lifted his phone with his free hand. The soft tapping echoed between them.

  “You’re not stupid. I get it. We don’t get to choose who saves us… or who we try to save back.”

  Aldon’s breath caught.

  Keigo gnced up—eyes sharp and tired, something burning behind them. His lips parted like he wanted to speak… but couldn’t. So he typed again.

  “I don’t trust him. But I trust you.”

  Another breath, slower now. He leaned back in the chair like the weight on his shoulders had finally settled—aging him by years in a single motion.

  “I just needed to know,” he said, voice rasping from fme and smoke, but still unmistakably his. “If you were really gone.”

  He looked at Aldon—not as a hero. Not as Firefly. Just as Aldon.

  “And you’re not.”

  There was a pause. The air shifted.

  Then Keigo’s eyes dropped again—just for a moment.

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” he murmured. The words sounded strange coming from him—raw and slow, like they hadn’t been spoken out loud until now. “Twice.”

  Aldon blinked.

  Keigo’s grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly. Not in pain. Not in guilt. In something deeper.

  “He was kind,” Keigo said. “Too kind, honestly. I offered him a way out. Told him to surrender. Told him maybe—maybe there could be another life. Away from all of this.”

  His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

  “But he didn’t choose himself.” A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He chose them. His friends. His family. He died protecting the people he loved.”

  He exhaled, shoulders sinking.

  “I wish it could’ve been different.”

  Aldon’s eyes stung.

  And then—another shift. Keigo reached for his phone again and typed with deliberate slowness.

  “I was reading your file again. The one you tried to submit to the Commission. Your project. The rehab one.”

  Aldon froze.

  Keigo looked at him—no judgment in his expression. Just that same tired weight, carved deep into his face.

  “You really believe some of them can be saved.”

  Aldon nodded, slowly.

  “I believe they deserve the chance to try.”

  Keigo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers drummed once on the armrest before stilling. Then:

  “Do you believe that about Touya too?”

  The name nded heavy.

  Aldon’s eyes dropped to their still-joined hands.

  “I do,” he whispered.

  Another pause.

  Keigo sat back again, then gave a tired ugh—not mocking. Just bitter. Like someone who’d seen too many things fall apart.

  “You love him.”

  Aldon didn’t deny it.

  Keigo’s gaze hardened slightly—not in cruelty, but in realism.

  “Then you need to be ready. For all of it.”

  Aldon looked up.

  “If the world finds out,” Keigo continued, slowly, “if they learn you’ve been protecting him—loving him—do you know what they’ll do to you? What they’ll say?”

  Aldon’s mouth opened, then closed.

  “And worse…” Keigo said, voice quieter now, “what if he doesn’t want to change? What if this—revenge, destruction, the chaos—it’s all he has left? What if he’s too far gone?”

  Aldon’s throat tightened.

  Keigo leaned forward again, the firelight outside the window catching on the faint mask still shadowing half his face.

  “This isn’t just about you anymore. The world knows who he is. This is a fight between him and his family now. Shoto. Endeavor. The whole Todoroki legacy.”

  His voice was steady.

  “Don’t stand in the way of that. Not if you’re not ready for what it’ll cost you.”

  Aldon said nothing.

  But his fingers remained ced with Keigo’s.

  Keigo was quiet for a long moment.

  Then he leaned back, shoulders tense again. His voice, when it came, was rough—not cold, but edged with something protective.

  “You need to put distance between you and him,” he said.

  Aldon looked up slowly.

  Keigo’s eyes locked on his, serious. “I’m not saying this to punish you. I’m saying it because when the war starts… I don’t want you caught in the middle.”

  Aldon’s heart ached in a way that wasn’t sharp, just slow. Deep. Like a bruise blooming under the ribs.

  He looked down at their hands. His voice barely made it out.

  “…Alright.”

  It was just one word. But it didn’t feel right. It felt like letting go of something he hadn’t even been holding tightly enough to begin with.

  Keigo studied him for a beat longer—like he was searching for cracks. Then his voice softened as much as it allowed him.

  “Who else knows?” he asked. “About… this. You and him.”

  Aldon hesitated, then met his gaze again.

  “Only you.”

  Keigo leaned forward slowly, careful not to startle him. His voice was low, but steady—sincere.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “Not until you decide to.”

  His fingers gently squeezed Aldon’s hand again—light, but firm. A promise.

  Aldon blinked once. Then, without speaking, he leaned in.

  Their foreheads touched.

  The tension in the room seemed to exhale with them. The world narrowed to the closeness of breath and warmth—no war, no ranks, no masks. Just Keigo and Aldon in the quiet, steady rhythm of now.

  “Thank you,” Aldon whispered. His voice cracked, but not from weakness—from release.

  Keigo didn’t move. Just let it be.

  They stayed like that for a few seconds longer—anchored in each other, in something soft and rare.

  And then—Aldon’s breath hitched.

  A sob escaped, small and sudden. His shoulders trembled before he could stop them.

  Keigo’s eyes widened, armed. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly, sitting up straighter, his phone nearly slipping from his fingers.

  Aldon covered his face with one hand, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, Keigo. For what Touya did to you. For your wings. I—”

  He couldn’t finish.

  The guilt choked the words before they could form, flooding out in hot tears down his cheeks. All the things he hadn’t let himself feel until now—his fear, his helplessness, the image of charred feathers on the floor—all of it colpsed in on him.

  But Keigo was already there.

  His hands came up, cupping Aldon’s face gently—thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks, holding him like he might break otherwise.

  “No,” Keigo said firmly. “Angie, no.”

  He leaned closer, eyes fierce now—not with anger, but conviction.

  “You don’t apologize for that.”

  “But he—” Aldon tried.

  “I underestimated him,” Keigo cut in. “That’s on me. I made that call. I took that risk. And I knew what might happen.”

  His voice softened then, the edge bleeding out into something quieter. “You didn’t hurt me, Aldon. He did. And that has nothing to do with you.”

  Aldon’s tears didn’t stop. But the breath behind them shuddered into something slower. Less frantic. He looked at Keigo, eyes wide and red-rimmed, searching for the lie—and finding none.

  Keigo offered the faintest smile.

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  And somehow, those four words held more comfort than anything else could have.

  Keigo’s hands lingered on Aldon’s cheeks for a moment longer, thumbs brushing away the st of the tears.

  Then he smiled. Soft. Honest.

  “You’re my closest friend, Aldon,” he said quietly. “I’m gd I got to know you… really know you.”

  Before Aldon could answer, Keigo leaned in and wrapped his arms around him.

  It was gentle, careful of the healing wounds, but warm in a way Aldon hadn’t realized he’d needed. He hesitated for only a second before hugging back—tightly, burying his face in Keigo’s shoulder, letting the moment be what it was.

  They stayed like that in silence, breathing against the weight of everything they’d carried.

  Then Keigo pulled back slightly, lips quirking into a crooked line as he let out a dramatic sigh.

  “Damn,” he muttered, feigning exasperation. “All this time Fat Gum’s been subtly flirting with you—and he never had a chance. Turns out you’ve got a thing for vilins.”

  Aldon blinked. “Wait—what?”

  Keigo just raised an eyebrow. “C’mon. The food runs. The protective hovering. Compliments. Always checking on you. You really didn’t notice?”

  “I—” Aldon flushed. “I thought he was just… being nice.”

  Keigo snorted, the smallest ugh escaping before it turned into a dry cough. “Nice? Maybe. But also completely hopeless. Poor guy didn’t even know he was competing with a walking fire hazard.”

  Aldon buried his face in his hands with a groan. “You are the worst.”

  “And yet,” Keigo grinned, patting his head like a cat, “you still like me.”

  “I’m sure I was unconscious when you came into my life.”

  “Details,” Keigo shrugged with a chuckle.

  They both ughed softly, the sound fragile but real.

  It didn’t fix the world outside their door.

  But it made the inside a little lighter.

  Two days passed.

  Aldon remained in the hospital just long enough for the final check-ups to clear. Healing quirks had reset the bones in his arm, but the damage lingered. Muscles still ached. The bandages stayed, snug and sterile, and the doctors warned him to take it slow—avoid strenuous movement. Let it rest.

  He didn’t listen.

  By the end of April, everything had changed.

  Tartarus fell.

  The broadcast came through hospital televisions and office screens, flickering between static and horror. All For One had escaped. Not just him—but many. Entire wings colpsed. Guards sughtered. Arms useless against what came for them.

  And the prison breaks didn’t stop there.

  Other facilities fell like dominos, each breach releasing more vilins into streets already unraveling. Cities stopped being safe. Curfews weren’t enough. Panic bled into every neighborhood, every headline.

  The hero count dropped. People stopped trusting heroes. The chaos rose.

  In response, the UA barrier was initiated—fortified with tech, quirks, and everything they could throw at it. A shield meant to hold back the tide when everything else failed.

  Aldon stood at the airport in silence, watching the st of the check-in line disappear through the security gates. His mother cradled Mr. Whiskers in her arms, the cat wrapped in a soft carrier with a small bell Aldon had tied to the handle.

  He pressed a soft kiss to his mother’s cheek. Hugged Yori and Yuki tight. Naoki pced a hand on his shoulder in farewell, a rare and quiet show of pride. Even his father, stiff and formal, paused long enough to rest a hand over his son’s heart.

  “You know what you’re doing,” his father murmured. “Don’t forget why.”

  Then they were gone.

  The pne would take them to Rome—far from the frontlines. Far from what was coming.

  Aldon stayed behind.

  He didn’t even consider going.

  Because he was a hero.

  Because he was Firefly.

  Because someone had to stay and fight.

  He met Mirko outside a few days ter. Her arm was wrapped in heavy gauze, scars peeking from beneath the edges. She wore a grin like always, but there was a strain behind her teeth.

  They didn’t talk about it.

  They just stood together for a while. She cracked a few jokes. He snorted through half of them. It was enough.

  Another day, he met Fat Gum again—bruised, healing, but alive. The relief had been mutual. They shared a drink, a quiet moment in Aldon's apartment, lit by the sun setting behind a fractured skyline.

  But they didn’t talk about what almost was.

  What almost could’ve been.

  And through it all—Touya was gone.

  No visits.

  No texts.

  No word.

  The silence hurt more than any injury. Because now, more than ever, the world was unraveling—and Aldon had no idea if the person he cared for was even still alive.

  May arrived on quiet wings.

  The city was pale with dust. Sirens still wailed in the distance like a lulby that never ended.

  Inside his apartment, Aldon packed.

  He moved slowly, methodically. Every drawer emptied. Every photo frame wrapped in cloth. His fme gloves sat neatly in a box beside his wristwatch and UA badge.

  The clock ticked quietly in the background.

  This was it. Time to go behind the barrier. Time to prepare.

  He paused by the window, staring out at the sky. One hand rested over his chest, fingers brushing the faint heat that never left him.

  Touya…

  Where are you?

  A soft knock broke the silence.