Gala Marian's Past – The Bird

  Gala Marian had always been a woman of strength, her every word and action calculated to project an image of confidence and resolve. She carried herself with a poise that demanded respect, an unwavering presence that made her seem untouchable. Yet beneath that hardened exterior lay a past so deeply buried that even she struggled to acknowledge it. It was a past laced with pain, but also one that had shaped her into the woman she had become. And though she had learned to mask the scars, Gala knew the weight of her history could shatter her if anyone ever uncovered the truth.

  Her earliest memories were of a family that seemed perfect—almost too perfect. Her parents were successful, well-respected pillars of the community, the embodiment of affluence and stability. To outsiders, they were enviable, a family others aspired to be. Yet beneath the pristine facade lurked a suffocating coldness. Her mother, though physically present, was emotionally absent—a woman of composure who viewed affection as a weakness. Her father was worse. He was a master of deception, a man of charm and influence, whose words could persuade and manipulate with terrifying ease. To the world, he was a beacon of success; to Gala, he was a monster.

  The darkness lurking behind closed doors revealed itself early. At first, it was subtle—his lingering gazes, his overfamiliar touches—but soon, the mask he wore for the public crumbled entirely within the confines of their home. He was a man who took what he wanted, a man whose power made him untouchable. She was just a girl, a helpless bird in a cage, her wings clipped before she ever had the chance to fly. Night after night, he shattered what innocence she had left, breaking her spirit bit by bit. There was no escape, no sanctuary, no one to confide in. Who would believe the daughter of such a revered man? If she spoke, she knew her pain would be dismissed, buried beneath the weight of his reputation.

  So she remained silent.

  She learned to make herself small, to disappear within the walls of her own home. She adapted, hiding the fractures behind a mask of quiet resilience. But deep within, something inside her screamed for freedom, a caged creature that refused to die.

  The day she finally broke free, it was not with defiance but with quiet resolve. She left everything behind, choosing a life of control, of discipline—one where no man would ever wield power over her again. Law enforcement became her refuge, her weapon. It gave her a sense of purpose, a structure that helped her bury the past beneath layers of professionalism and duty. Yet even as she built her life anew, the ghosts of her childhood never truly left her. In the dead of night, when silence replaced the distractions of work, she could still hear the echoes of the cage she had once been trapped in. The bird inside her had never truly flown free.

  And so she moved forward, haunted but unbroken, searching for a future that would not be defined by the horrors of her past.

  Wayne Jackson's Past – The Tiger

  Wayne Jackson's life had always felt like an endless pursuit—a desperate race toward something just beyond his grasp. From childhood, he had understood that love was conditional, that affection had to be earned rather than given freely. His father was a man consumed by success, a businessman whose devotion to his work left little room for anything else. His mother, though not unkind, was distant, locked away in her own silent battles. There was never space for Wayne in their world, never a place where he truly belonged.

  At first, he accepted it. He was a quiet, introspective child, content to observe rather than engage. But as he grew older, the emptiness became unbearable. The hunger for connection gnawed at him, an unrelenting void that no amount of accomplishments could fill. His father noticed him only when his successes aligned with the family's reputation, his approval fleeting and transactional. His mother’s smiles were vacant, hollow gestures that never reached her eyes.

  Wayne learned that he had to fight for recognition, that he had to push himself beyond limits if he ever wanted to matter. So he did. He became the best—at school, at sports, at anything that might earn him a sliver of validation. But no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough. His achievements were acknowledged, but he was never truly seen.

  And so, within him, the tiger was born.

  The tiger was the relentless hunger, the roaring need for something he could never quite name. It drove him, pushed him forward, whispering that if he just did more, if he just became more, he would finally be worthy. But it was an endless chase, one that left him exhausted yet unsatisfied.

  As an adult, Wayne channeled that drive into his work. He became a law enforcement officer, seeking justice, order, purpose. But the walls he had built around himself were impenetrable. He did not know how to let people in, did not know how to quiet the tiger that still prowled inside him. His success was undeniable, but his loneliness was just as profound. No matter how much he achieved, he always felt as though he was standing outside, looking in.

  Yet, even with all his pain, there remained a flicker of hope. He still believed that, one day, he might find what he had spent his entire life searching for—a place where he was truly seen, truly loved. The tiger still roared inside him, but he refused to let it consume him. He would keep moving forward, keep fighting, not just for himself but for the chance of something real.

  Shared Struggles – The Hunt for Healing

  Despite their vastly different pasts, Gala and Wayne's struggles were bound by a common thread—a longing for connection, for something that had always been just out of reach. Gala’s trauma had left her afraid of vulnerability, unwilling to let anyone close. Wayne’s emotional neglect had built an impenetrable wall around his heart, a fear that no matter what he did, he would never be enough.

  They buried their pain in their work, in their pursuit of justice, but no matter how much they tried to outrun their pasts, the shadows always caught up to them. It wasn’t until they began working together, alongside William, that they started to see their own brokenness reflected in one another.

  At first, it was unspoken, a silent understanding in the way they carried themselves, in the way they avoided certain questions, certain memories. But as time passed, their wounds became impossible to ignore. They weren’t just trying to save William from his own darkness—they were fighting to save themselves.

  For the first time, they weren’t alone. And for the first time, they wondered if escape was truly possible—if the cages they had built around themselves could ever be broken.

  Maybe, just maybe, they could finally find a way to heal.

  The station was quiet at this hour, the hum of the vending machine the only sound cutting through the silence. The overhead lights flickered, casting long shadows across the desks. Gala sat at hers, absently rolling a pen between her fingers, her mind far from the case files in front of her.

  Across from her, Wayne leaned back in his chair, his usual mask of indifference in place. He had a coffee in one hand, his other tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the desk. He wasn't looking at her, but she knew he was aware of her mood. Wayne always noticed things, even if he never said much about them.

  "You're brooding," he finally said, breaking the silence.

  Gala exhaled sharply, not bothering to deny it. "And you're stating the obvious."

  Wayne smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. "Something about this case bothering you?"

  She hesitated. Lying would be easy, but what was the point? "Not just the case. Just... thinking."

  Wayne nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did. "Thinking’s dangerous at this hour."

  Gala scoffed. "You always say that."

  "Because it’s true." He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "But you’re not the type to lose yourself in thought unless something’s really eating at you."

  There it was—that sharp perception of his, cutting right through her defenses. She glanced away, focusing on the vending machine as if it held the answers she was looking for. "Do you ever feel like no matter how much you try to move forward, the past just keeps pulling you back?"

  Wayne was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more controlled. "Yeah." He ran a hand over his face, sighing. "All the time."

  Gala turned to look at him, surprised by his honesty. He wasn’t usually one to talk about himself. "What do you do when it happens?"

  Wayne leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I work. I push it down. I tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore." He let out a humorless chuckle. "Not the healthiest approach, but it keeps me functional."

  She studied him, the tiredness in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "That why you never let anyone in?"

  Wayne met her gaze, and for a second, she saw something raw there—something he usually kept locked away. "Probably." He looked down at his hands. "And you? Why do you always act like you’ve got it all together when I know damn well you don’t?"

  Her first instinct was to deflect, to joke, but something about the way he asked made her pause. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. "Because if I don’t, I might fall apart."

  Wayne didn’t respond right away, but when he did, it wasn’t with words. Instead, he reached across the desk, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist. The touch was brief, fleeting, but it said more than words ever could.

  "You don’t have to carry everything alone," he murmured.

  Gala swallowed the lump in her throat and gave him a small, tired smile. "Neither do you."

  Wayne held her gaze for a moment before leaning back in his chair, the walls slowly coming back up. But something had shifted between them.

  For the first time, they weren’t just colleagues. They weren’t just two people haunted by their pasts.

  They were something more.

  And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

  Reflections in the Wound

  William is a wounded animal—metaphorically speaking. When Gala and Wayne try to help him, he reacts like someone who has spent too long in the dark and doesn’t know how to function in the light. His first instinct is resistance—anger, sarcasm, avoidance. He lashes out, not because he hates them, but because he doesn’t know how to accept help without feeling weak.

  At first, he rejects their concern outright. If they offer advice, he scoffs. If they try to reach out, he pushes them away—sometimes literally. His words are sharp, cutting into old scars they thought had long since healed. Maybe he throws their own pain back at them, weaponizing their past mistakes against them.

  “Stop pretending you care,” William spits at Wayne one night, after an argument spirals out of control. “You just don’t want to feel guilty if I crash and burn.”

  Wayne clenches his fists. It’s not true, and yet… a part of it is. He does feel guilty. He has watched too many people self-destruct, too many times he’s stood by as someone fell apart and convinced himself there was nothing he could do. William is pulling at that old wound, reopening it with cruel precision.

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  For Wayne, William’s defiance is frustrating—like looking into a mirror and seeing a version of himself he despises. He knows what it’s like to push people away. He recognizes the bitterness in William’s voice because he’s heard it in his own. It forces him to confront the hypocrisy of his anger—how often has he done the same? How often has he rejected help, convinced that suffering alone was the only way to stay strong?

  Gala isn’t spared from William’s cutting words either. She stays by his side, steady and unshaken, but she isn’t prepared for when he looks her dead in the eyes and says, “Why do you always act like you’re fine? Like you’re stronger than everyone else? You’re not. You’re just pretending.”

  His voice is bitter, but there’s no malice in it—only raw exhaustion. He doesn’t even realize how deep the knife has cut until he sees Gala’s breath hitch, the momentary flicker of vulnerability in her eyes before she blinks it away.

  Gala’s wounds run deep. Maybe William isn’t wrong. Maybe she is pretending. Maybe her insistence on helping him isn’t about him at all—it’s about her. About trying to prove to herself that she can fix people, that she can do something good. That if she saves William, maybe it will somehow erase the times she wasn’t able to save someone else.

  But William isn’t just cruel for the sake of cruelty. His suffering is raw, and when words fail him, his actions become reckless. At his worst, he does something self-destructive. Maybe he picks a fight he can’t win, throwing himself into a losing battle just to feel something. Maybe he walks straight into danger, as if daring the world to stop him.

  It’s this moment—when they see him standing on the edge of disaster—that Wayne and Gala realize the depth of his suffering. It shakes them both to the core. Because it’s not just about him anymore.

  They see their own reflections in his pain.

  Wayne sees the ghosts of the people he’s lost, the ones he couldn’t reach in time. The ones who slipped through his fingers because he didn’t know how to hold on.

  Gala sees the guilt weighing on her shoulders, the unspoken grief she has carried for so long. The desperate need to fix others because she can’t fix herself.

  And then, for the first time, William sees them.

  He sees the grief behind Wayne’s frustration, the ghosts that haunt him. He sees the guilt behind Gala’s insistence, the way she tries so hard to heal others because she’s terrified of facing her own wounds.

  And for the first time, he pauses.

  Maybe he doesn’t fully accept their help yet, but he stops pushing as hard. He listens, even if he doesn’t respond. He lets the silence stretch without filling it with sharp words.

  And in that moment, all three of them realize—

  Healing isn’t a one-way street.

  They’re not just trying to save William.

  They’re trying to save themselves.

  Ghosts of the Past

  Gala thought she had buried the past. She had spent years convincing herself that the wounds had closed, that the ghosts had faded into nothing but whispers in the dark. But ghosts don’t die.

  They wait.

  When he reappears—whether it’s her father or another figure tied to her trauma—the ground beneath her feels unsteady, like she’s standing on a bridge that could collapse at any moment. A part of her had always known this moment could come, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

  Wayne notices the shift in her immediately. The way her body tenses, the way her eyes darken, the way she suddenly goes quiet, calculating. Gala, the one who always had a sharp retort, who never backed down, suddenly looks like a cornered animal.

  And William—William watches her carefully, his usual cynicism absent. He’s seen that look before. It’s the look of someone who is staring at a nightmare made flesh.

  The past doesn’t just knock on her door. It forces its way in, demanding to be acknowledged.

  She can hear his voice, just as it was back then. The voice that once dictated the rules of her life. The voice that made her feel small, powerless. And now, standing in front of her again, it is both familiar and foreign.

  She wants to run.

  But Wayne’s presence keeps her rooted, his steady hand at her back—silent, reassuring. And William, though unpredictable, feels like a wall standing between her and something she no longer has the strength to face. She swallows hard.

  What was she supposed to say? That she hated this man? That she feared him? That she had long since stopped believing that people like him could change?

  No. None of that mattered. Because William had already made his decision.

  The Breaking Point

  By the time Gala even processes what’s happening, William is already standing over a body—his body. The man who had haunted her steps, who had been a shadow over her life, now lay motionless in a growing pool of crimson.

  And for the first time, Gala doesn’t know how to feel.

  She should feel relief. Shouldn’t she?

  But all she feels is a hollow silence, stretching inside her like an abyss.

  Wayne looks between them, his usual composure cracking. This wasn’t what he and Gala had been fighting for. They had spent all this time trying to convince William that there were other ways. That he didn’t have to be the blade, that he didn’t have to solve everything with blood.

  And yet, this was the proof that their words had started to reach him.

  Because William hadn’t killed out of blind fury. Not this time.

  He had done it for her.

  No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just cold, calculated finality.

  Wayne clenches his jaw, fists curling at his sides. Damn it. This was exactly why he didn’t want William to listen to them the wrong way. Because this is what happens when you teach someone to care, but not how to handle it.

  The air is heavy, suffocating. Gala’s hands are shaking, and she doesn’t even realize it until she clenches them into fists. She looks at William, searching for something in his face—remorse, justification, anything. But all she finds is quiet acceptance. He isn’t proud. He isn’t angry. He just looks at her like he’s waiting for a verdict.

  Waiting for her to decide whether he is still something worth saving.

  The man on the floor is dead. The past is dead. But that doesn’t mean it’s over.

  Gala sucks in a shaky breath and takes a step back. Her throat is tight. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  William tilts his head slightly. “But I did.” His voice is steady, almost detached. “And now he can’t hurt you anymore.”

  A bitter laugh escapes her before she can stop it. “You think it’s that simple?”

  Wayne steps in now, the tension radiating off him in waves. “We’ve been telling you there’s another way, William. You don’t have to solve every problem with death.”

  William shrugs. “Maybe not. But I did what you two wouldn’t.” His gaze flickers to Gala. “And don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”

  She flinches. Because maybe—just maybe—he’s right. And that terrifies her more than anything.

  The Fallout

  They don’t talk about it right away. The silence follows them, lingering like the scent of blood, clinging to their skin, their clothes, their thoughts.

  Wayne is the first to break. “What now?”

  Gala doesn’t answer immediately. What now? That was the question, wasn’t it? The past was supposed to be gone, but somehow, she felt heavier than before. Like it had finally sunk its claws into her in a way she couldn’t shake off.

  William, as always, is the one to break the moment with his usual bluntness. “You’re angry.”

  Gala looks up at him sharply. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.”

  “I’m not. I’m just saying—”

  “No.” Her voice is firm, the anger bubbling up now. “You don’t get to make this decision for me. You don’t get to walk in and take the choice out of my hands.”

  William’s jaw tightens. “I did what needed to be done.”

  Wayne shakes his head. “No, you did what you thought needed to be done. There’s a difference.”

  A silence stretches between them again, thick with everything unsaid.

  Gala sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. She is exhausted. “I don’t even know what to do with you anymore.”

  William tilts his head slightly. “That makes two of us.”

  There’s something almost sad in his voice, and that’s what makes her hesitate. Because for all his violence, for all his recklessness, William had listened. He had done this for her. Not for revenge. Not for fun. But because he thought it was what she needed.

  And isn’t that the most dangerous thing of all? That she had let herself believe, even for a second, that she needed someone like him to fix this?

  She looks away. “Just… give me space.”

  William nods, and for once, he doesn’t argue. He just turns and walks away.

  Wayne stays behind, watching her carefully. “Are you okay?”

  She lets out a bitter laugh. “Not even a little.”

  He nods, as if he expected that answer. “Then let’s figure this out.”

  She glances at him. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Wayne gives her a small, tired smile. “Too bad. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  She should tell him to leave. She should push him away like she always does.

  But instead, she lets out a long breath and nods.

  Because she doesn’t want to do this alone.

  Healing Isn’t Clean

  Healing isn’t clean. It isn’t a straight path.

  Sometimes, it’s messy. Sometimes, it’s bloody.

  And sometimes, it looks like a monster standing over a corpse, waiting for you to tell him whether he did the right thing.

  But the truth is, there’s no right answer.

  There’s just moving forward.

  The night was supposed to be uneventful. At least, that’s what they told themselves.

  Gala, Wayne, and William had been walking through the quiet streets, tension simmering just beneath the surface. The weight of everything that had happened—the blood on William’s hands, the ghosts of Gala’s past, the unspoken conversations between them—pressed down like an unseen force.

  But fate didn’t care for their fragile peace.

  The first sign of danger came as a whisper of movement in the shadows.

  A trap.

  Before any of them could react, figures emerged from the darkness—armed, coordinated, and out for blood. They weren’t ordinary thugs. Their precision spoke of experience. Assassins, mercenaries, or worse—someone had sent them. And they had come prepared.

  Wayne barely had time to shout a warning before chaos erupted.

  Gunfire. The sharp scent of burning metal. The sickening crunch of bone.

  William moved first. He always did.

  There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted effort. He was a force of nature, cutting through their attackers with a ruthless efficiency that was terrifying to watch. A blade to the throat. A gun wrenched from an enemy’s grip and turned against them. A brutal, calculated dance of death.

  But for the first time, he wasn’t fighting for himself.

  He was fighting for them.

  Gala ducked behind cover, heart hammering against her ribs. She wasn’t weak—she had never been weak—but something about this felt different. She wasn’t just fighting to survive; she was fighting for something bigger than herself.

  Wayne had positioned himself defensively, trying to keep Gala safe while fending off the ones that got too close. He was used to watching William fight, used to seeing the violence that followed him. But this time, it was different.

  This time, William wasn’t just surviving.

  He was protecting.

  For every blade that came close to Gala, William was there first. For every gun aimed at Wayne, William made sure it never fired.

  And that terrified them more than anything.

  Because it meant William cared.

  And when William cared, he was dangerous.

  The last attacker barely had time to scream before William drove his knife into his chest, twisting with finality. Silence followed, broken only by the heavy breathing of the three survivors.

  Blood stained William’s hands—his arms—his face.

  But none of it was theirs.

  He had kept them safe.

  Wayne exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his weapon. He should have been angry. Should have reminded William that this wasn’t what they wanted for him—that this wasn’t what healing was supposed to look like.

  But the truth was, they were alive because of him.

  Gala stared at William, searching for something in his expression—guilt, rage, regret.

  She found none of it.

  Just quiet understanding.

  He wasn’t looking for approval. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness.

  He had done what needed to be done.

  And for the first time, neither Wayne nor Gala had the strength to argue.

  Because, despite everything, William had saved them.

  And whether they liked it or not…

  That meant something.

  The night air was thick with silence, the kind that settled between thoughts too heavy to voice.

  Gala sat on the edge of a rooftop, her legs dangling over the side, staring at the sky. The city lights below flickered like dying stars, but she wasn’t looking at them. Her eyes followed the dark silhouette of a bird cutting through the night, its wings carrying it higher, further, until it disappeared into the vastness beyond her reach.

  She exhaled slowly.

  The sight stirred something in her chest—a dull ache, a longing she barely understood.

  The bird was free.

  Unafraid. Unburdened.

  And yet, she felt like she had spent her whole life in a cage.

  It wasn’t always a physical one. Sometimes, it was the weight of the past, the chains of expectations, the ghosts that still whispered in the back of her mind. She had spent years convincing herself that she had broken free, that she had escaped what tried to destroy her.

  But watching that bird, soaring with nothing to tether it down, she wondered if she had ever truly left her cage at all.

  And worse—she wondered if she even knew how.

  Behind her, Wayne had the television on, though he wasn’t really watching. A documentary played, the voice of a narrator speaking over the low growls of a tiger pacing behind a cage.

  Wayne leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the restless creature.

  The tiger’s muscles tensed with every step, a force barely contained, a predator that didn’t belong behind steel bars.

  Wayne knew that feeling.

  The urge to move. The instinct to fight. The quiet fury of knowing you were built for something more than this, but being unable to grasp it.

  It was a strange thing, watching a beast reduced to captivity. It still had its power, still had its fangs and claws, but it wasn’t the same. The wildness in its eyes had dulled—only slightly, only just enough to be noticeable—but Wayne saw it.

  And he hated it.

  He had spent his whole life running, clawing, fighting against the things that tried to control him.

  And yet, was he any different from the tiger?

  Pacing. Restless. Waiting for something that might never come.

  Gala turned from the window, her gaze flickering toward the screen, then to Wayne. She didn’t say anything, but he caught the look in her eyes—like she had seen something in him she wasn’t supposed to.

  He clicked off the TV.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Because they both understood what neither of them wanted to say.

  And somewhere, across the room, William leaned against the wall, watching them both.

  He saw the way Gala's fingers clenched against the windowsill, like she wanted to fly but didn’t know how to let go.

  He saw the way Wayne’s jaw tightened, the way his hands twitched, like he was afraid of what would happen if he stopped moving.

  And for the first time, William realized—

  They weren’t just trying to save him.

  They were just as trapped as he was.

  Maybe in different ways. Maybe in different cages.

  But none of them were free.

  Not yet.

  And maybe—just maybe—none of them had to be alone in figuring out how to escape.