All chapters in The Heroes are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events, dialogue, and actions, including depictions of violence, threats, or moral conflict, are fictional representations created for storytelling purposes only.
I do not condone or encourage any harmful, violent, or unethical behavior outside of this story.
This story should be taken seriously. It is neither satire and not comedy. The Heroes is a realistic fictional series that explores moral, emotional, and ethical struggles. It seeks to promote good, expose evil, and reflect the truth of the world raw, uncensored, and unfiltered.
Every moral and ethical issue addressed in this story exists to raise awareness, not to mock or glorify it. As you read, please keep an open mind and understand that the intent behind every chapter is to inspire thought, empathy, and change.
This chapter contains intense and mature content intended for adult audiences. It includes themes of graphic violence, emotional trauma, psychological distress, and the depiction of dangerous situations. Some scenes may be disturbing or triggering, including death, injury, grief, and implied sexual misconduct. Strong language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised. This material is not suitable for children or sensitive readers. Rated 14+
Sunlight poured through the leafy canopy of the park, scattering gold across the swings and slides. Laughter rang out, sharp and carefree, as Mark, draped in a cardboard "General Pike" chestplate, glitter glue still clinging to the edges, raised a hand dramatically. "You cannot escape my zero-point energy super-speed!" he bellowed, spinning in a circle, too wide for the makeshift cape trailing behind him.
Zack, as Electric Strike, crouched low, his blue hoodie stretched over a paper lightning bolt taped crookedly across the chest. He winked at Connor. "Prepare for chaos, slowpoke." Lightning fingers wiggled in the sun, a flash of imagination striking invisible foes. He tripped over a root and tumbled forward, arms flailing, but recovered with a dramatic roll, sticking his landing with mock precision.
Connor, silent as always in his Winthrop guise, moved like a shadow, black hoodie over his head, mask sketched with a purple crayon. Every step calculated, he crouched behind the swing set, watching, waiting. He tapped the shoulder of Alex Valkyrie in pink armor made of paper plates and nodded. Alex's braid swung as she ducked, crouching low, throwing a foam sword like a javelin. "On my mark," she whispered, eyes sharp, every move precise.
Dylan, Inferno, towered in a red towel cape. Even in the afternoon light, he seemed larger than life, flames of imagination licking the air around him as he stomped, sending a pile of leaves skittering. "I am fire! I am the king!" he roared, sending a plastic action figure spinning skyward as if it had been incinerated by his sheer presence.
Alisha Vortex twirled, skipping on the grass, paper streamers flowing from her arms like wind trails. She kicked a leaf into a swirl, eyes gleaming with mischief, pretending the air obeyed her every move. "Watch your backs, mortals!" she laughed, tugging at an invisible tornado that flung a water balloon harmlessly into Zack's face.
The twins Roadrunner and Sentro darted and clunked across the park. Roadrunner, in red running shoes far too large, zipped between benches in a blur of motion, leaving a faint echo of laughter behind him. Sentro, the "carrier," struggled with a backpack stuffed with rocks and sticks, flailing his arms as he tried to "fly" at Mach 40, knocking over a trash can in his wake.
Mr. American, Kevin, stood rigid at the edge of the sandbox, arms crossed, chest painted with a golden star. "This isn't how the patriots fight," he scolded, shaking a foam sword at anyone who dared approach. The other kids ignored him, giggling, plotting their next move.
Mark General Pike grabbed two action figures, holding them high as hostages. "Surrender now, or the Arsenal of Mr. American will be useless!" he declared, voice cracking at the high notes, a faint sunbeam catching on glitter glue. Connor's Winthrop eyes narrowed. Alex pointed her sword. Zack's hands crackled with imaginary lightning. Dylan stomped the ground, pretending flames spread in concentric rings.
The "battle" erupted with chaotic choreography. Roadrunner zipped in, kicked one of Mark's pretend hostages free, leaving Mark spinning like a top. Sentro lifted a swing with both hands, trying to hurl it gently toward Alisha, who deflected it with a swirl of streamers, laughing as it bounced harmlessly. Alex leapt, sword twirling, striking a shadowy spot near General Pike, who dramatically fell back onto a soft patch of grass.
Connor moved like a ghost, silent and lethal. Every motion is measured. He tapped Zack's shoulder and ducked behind a bench, waiting for the perfect strike. Zack responded with a chaotic burst, waving his arms and "electrocuting" Mark's cape. Dylan stomped again, red towel flaring, imaginary flames licking the air as he roared. "All hostages are mine!"
Alisha jumped, twirling in the air, scattering leaves into little tornadoes. "Wind goddess, at your service!" she shouted, narrowly avoiding Sentro's heavy arms swinging in "flight." Roadrunner zipped in and out, so fast the camera, or rather, their friends' eyes, could barely follow, leaving streaks of red and gold laughter in his wake.
Mr. American puffed up, trying to regain order, brandishing his foam sword with the sternest frown a ten-year-old could muster. "Stand still, patriots! I will save the day!" But MAD Lauren was unstoppable, roaring through the sandbox like a whirlwind, sand flying everywhere. Her braids bounced with fury as she charged past, tossing imaginary bombs, laughing uncontrollably.
The scene slowed for a moment, sunlight glinting off all the kids' mismatched "armor" and costumes. Connor crouched low, watching his friends with pride. Alex raised her sword, eyes sharp. Zack's tongue stuck out, concentrating as he zapped another imaginary bolt. Dylan's cape flared; Alisha spun. Roadrunner and Sentro collided gently in a blur of limbs, giggling. MAD's triumphant roar echoed. Mr. American's frown softened into a reluctant grin.
Finally, in an exaggerated crescendo, Mark tripped over a root, sending hostages (plastic figures) flying safely into the grass. The others "attacked" simultaneously: punches, spins, leaps, and shouted heroic names every action over-the-top, ridiculous, but precise in its own way. Dirt flew, streamers twisted, leaves scattered, water balloons popped.
The camera or the mental picture paused as the four main heroes froze mid-laugh, mid-action, mid-air. Dylan's towel cape flared like fire. Alex's braid swung dramatically. Connor crouched low, eyes scanning. Zack's hands crackled with invisible energy. All four smiled, triumphant, happy, invincible in the sun-dappled park.
The freeze-frame lingered, then slowly faded into the sepia-toned photo pinned to the treehouse wall years later. Nostalgia radiated from the paper edges, a perfect echo of laughter, heroics, and childhood imagination.
The treehouse groaned under the dusk wind, boards creaking as gusts whistled through the gaps. Dust motes swirled in the thin streams of fading light, glinting like microscopic sparks caught in the amber glow. The single overhead bulb flickered sporadically, casting brief, jittering shadows that crawled along the walls. Every sound—the groan of the wood, the rattle of a bottle, the scrape of a chair—felt magnified, amplified by the silence of expectation.
Zack and Mark lay flat on their stomachs, eyes scanning the spread-out map of the woods, tracing possible routes Alex could have taken. Around them, scattered bottles of water, cans of soda, and a few crumpled Prime bottles suggested hours of restless planning. Their hands hovered over markers and pens, but neither of them moved. The wind outside pressed at the treehouse, carrying a low, mournful whistle that threaded through the boards like a warning.
Connor sat in his usual spot on the couch, hood pulled low over his eyes. His journal rested in his lap, the pencil moving slowly, deliberately. His shoulders were tense, hands trembling slightly with each stroke. His breath was shallow, almost imperceptible, and yet each exhale seemed to scrape against his chest like sandpaper. Days had passed since Alex vanished, and every fiber of his being ached with the weight of helplessness.
We've been looking everywhere… everyone we've asked… they all feel the same emptiness. Everyone is missing someone they love. Why hasn't anyone stepped forward? His pencil paused. He raised his head, glanced at Mark and Zack, then lowered it again. I tried to warn them. I told them it was the Nine. Specifically… Electric Strike… and Roadrunner. Everyone thought I was crazy—everyone…
Connor's eyes flicked to the edge of the room, tracing the shadows that slithered across the walls. He swallowed hard, pressing the pencil to the page again. But the strangest part… He flinched at a creaking floorboard, then continued. …when we walked away, she— He hesitated, voice barely above a whisper. Stop… don't continue. They'll know…
The memory hit him like ice water. Alex had grabbed his shoulder, trembling violently, eyes wide, silent lips muttering. He had been confused, terrified, powerless. And the next day… the mute one was dead, a note tucked in her hand with a smiley face scrawled in crude ink.
The sound of wind rattling the boards brought him back to the present. Mark adjusted his hair, pointing at the map with a shaky finger. "She could've run along here," he said, voice low, almost a whisper. "Maybe something scared her?"
Zack shook his head, lips pressed tight. "Nah. Nothing scares her. Except… jump scares," he said, snickering faintly.
Mark's attempt at humor died on his lips. "Yeah… nice," he muttered, voice flat, eyes tracing the treeline beyond the map.
Connor's voice came, brittle, shaking, almost drowned out by the wind. "No… someone took her… I swear…" His hood slipped slightly, revealing the trembling edges of his face, the tear streaks shining in the dim light.
"Oh really?" Zack sat up, shadows cutting across his face. "You want me to believe that, Black Noir?"
Connor's hands clenched the journal tighter, knuckles white. "What… does… Black… Noir…from the Boys have to—"
"I know who did it," Connor interrupted, voice breaking. "The fabric… torn from her… matches Electric Strike."
"Bro!" Mark shot up, hands raised. "That's a huge accusation! You're tossing around names like they're nothing! He—he shouldn't be disrespected!"
Zack leaned forward, jaw tight, voice low and tense. "Yeah, man. What the… you're blaming him for taking Alex? The guy who saves lives, lowers national debt… and now he's a kidnapper?"
Connor's head dropped further, shame and frustration mingling with grief. "I…" he began, voice caught in his throat.
"No. You did it," Zack barked, stepping closer. Kneeling down, he loomed over Connor, eyes dark. "Was it because you didn't have enough…? Huh?"
Mark's legs trembled; his hands gripped the map. "Zack… maybe—"
"No!" Zack snapped, voice cracking. "Not until I'm finished. You took her, didn't you? You were last with her! I should've known… you volunteered that day knowing…" He leaned even closer, face twisted with accusation. "You'd give her away… blame Electric Strike… and survive, huh?"
Connor's lip twitched, face red, hands shaking violently. He couldn't speak. Every nerve screamed, chest heaving, tears spilling, his legs jittering uncontrollably.
Zack leaned forward, voice low, venom-laced. "It's hard… living with no parents, your sister never around… that's why you sold her… to a—"
Mark cut in sharply, voice a whisper but trembling. "To what?"
Zack exhaled slowly, gaze dropping. "A monster… a pedophile."
Connor's eyes widened. His fists clenched, nails biting into palms, memories flashing: the journal, the laughter, the plans, the betrayals. In a blur of rage and despair, he hurled the journal across the room. His right arm swung in a brutal arc, connecting with Zack's jaw. Zack went down hard, head snapping against the floor.
"HOW DARE… YOU!" Connor screamed, hood falling back, tears streaming freely. Fingers trembled as he pointed at them. "Alex told me… our friendship is breaking. You already lost one…" He threw the torn fabric to the floor. "Now… now you lost another!" His sobs shredded the silence as he bolted down the ladder, shoulders shaking, legs trembling.
Mark's hands clutched his hair. "Zack… why… why… how could you?"
Zack, sitting up, dazed, whispered, "Because… believe it or not… it was him. He took her… he took her away."
Mark bit his lip, shaking his head as he descended the ladder. Zack's brow furrowed. "What… what are you doing?"
"I'm going to find Connor… and fix this mess." Mark's eyes were sharp, cold with determination.
"You really think he's telling the truth?" Zack asked, voice barely audible over the whistling wind.
Mark didn't answer. He leaped from the ladder, landing near the tire tracks. "He's out there… alone. Last time, Alex was taken. Let's move."
Zack swung his bike upright, flashlight clipped to the handlebars. "Onward," he muttered, voice tense. Their tires crunched against fallen leaves and loose branches, each turn of the wheels echoing through the dense woods.
Connor was already there, weaving through shadow and tree, tears streaming, breaths sharp and ragged. He gripped the handlebars, knuckles white, visions of Alex and their lost adventures flashing behind his eyes. Then he heard it—shouting in the distance:
"CONNER! WHERE ARE YOU?!"
He glanced behind, foot catching a root. The bike flipped violently; he crashed, dirt and leaves scratching his skin. Pain shot up his arms and legs as he lay pinned beneath the metal frame. Every nerve screamed, but he froze, hearing something else… softer, sinister, deliberate. Footsteps against dry leaves. Ragged breath, or perhaps no breath at all.
Connor's voice caught in his throat. He wanted to scream but knew better. He knew who it was.
A red blur erupted from the shadows, golden sparks flaring from its fists. A chilling chuckle cut through the forest, vibrating against the trees. The figure leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed.
Zack and Mark skidded to a halt, bikes thudding onto the leaf-strewn ground. Their jaws dropped, legs trembling.
"Oh my God…" Zack whispered, stepping forward. "Roadrunner? Not just him… Electric Strike, too?"
The masked figure smiled, the golden light glinting off the metallic edges of his armor. "Your favorite Strike is here," he said, voice dripping with amusement.
Zack turned, eyes wide. "Are… you here to… help? We lost a friend!"
Roadrunner's voice was calm, dangerous. "That's brave. Doing it alone, no parents, no guardians. Nothing."
Mark tensed. Something felt off. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Strike stepped forward, shadows stretching around him, faint sparks of golden energy licking the bark. "Look… you weren't supposed to be here. And you certainly weren't supposed to know."
Zack stumbled back, shaking. "Not supposed to know what?"
Strike tilted his head, a fragment of his mask shifting. Mark's breath caught. "You… you… he took her… you took Alex…"
Guilt and terror coiled in Zack's stomach. "Connor… he was right…"
Strike's laugh cut through the night, cruel and light. Then, lightning arced from his hand, slamming into Zack's chest. He flew backward, colliding with a tree; blood trickled down the bark, his body limp.
Mark screamed, rushing forward. "Zack! No… please, don't—get up! Don't!"
Strike cracked his knuckles, stepping toward Roadrunner. The red blur moved with lethal grace. "Children. No challenge at all."
Roadrunner ran a hand through his hair, gaze sweeping the forest. "Wasn't there another? That dumbass kid… Connor?"
"Leave him to the Silent One. The Master wants him now," Strike said, voice like ice. They lifted Mark and Zack, disappearing into the shadows with lethal ease.
The forest fell silent, save for the whistle of the wind and the faint rustle of leaves, marking the end of innocence—and the beginning of a nightmare.
The night air hung heavy around the police station, damp with a faint drizzle that streaked the streetlights into elongated, trembling beams. Mark's parents huddled under the awning, shivering in the chill, breath forming ghostly puffs that disappeared into the darkness. Across from them, Zack's parents paced the curb, hands jammed deep into coat pockets, eyes darting to the empty street. The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the roof, the distant hum of traffic, and the faint, anxious murmurs of worried adults.
"Where could they be?" Mark's mother whispered, fingers clutching the strap of her bag like a lifeline. Her eyes scanned every shadow along the sidewalk, the alleyways, the parked cars—every corner a potential threat.
"They wouldn't just disappear," Mark's father replied, though his voice trembled. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, but his jaw tightened with frustration and fear.
From the corner of her eye, Mark's mother spotted movement. Zack's parents approached, tentative, each step measured and cautious. Their expressions mirrored the same combination of dread and determination. The two couples met at the center of the cracked pavement, exchanging uneasy glances.
"We… we're looking for our kids," Zack's mother said, voice barely above a whisper. "They were supposed to be home hours ago."
Mark's father nodded grimly. "Same here. We—We thought… maybe the police could help."
The four of them edged toward the station's main entrance, the fluorescent lights flickering as if in warning. Every sound felt amplified: the scrape of shoes against wet asphalt, the distant roar of a car engine, the low hum of the station's neon sign. Their hearts hammered in synchrony, each beat a countdown to disaster.
Inside, the lobby was eerily empty. The faint smell of disinfectant mingled with the metallic tang of rain on concrete, sharp and cold. They stepped forward, voices echoing slightly in the sterile hall.
"Excuse me," Mark's mother called, voice quivering, "we need help—our children—they're missing!"
A figure emerged from the shadows near the reception desk. At first, it seemed like just another officer—but the way the light caught the edge of his badge, the deliberate calm in his movements, made every instinct in their bodies scream danger.
Before they could react further, more officers materialized from side rooms, converging silently, surrounding them. Flashing lights from the police station bathed the walls in red and blue, washing over their faces in jagged, stuttering rhythms. Shadows flickered violently across the polished floor as the group tightened their circle.
"Step back," one officer said, voice low, deceptively calm.
Mark's father opened his mouth, but words caught in his throat. His chest felt constricted, air thick and heavy, every inhale sharp against his ribs. His hands lifted instinctively, palms out—only to meet gloved hands gripping his arms, twisting, pinning him in place.
"Wait—what—" Zack's father stammered, eyes wide, but before he could react, another officer had his arms, firm and unyielding. The four parents were corralled like frightened animals, surrounded on all sides by authority figures whose calm was anything but reassuring.
Mark's mother screamed, tugging against the grip of a burly officer. "Let go of me! We're just—just asking for help!"
The officer's eyes never wavered. His voice was cold, clipped. "You're under precautionary detainment. Cooperation is mandatory."
Zack's mother's knees buckled slightly, fear making her tremble. Her hands shot up instinctively to cover her face as she tried to resist, but two officers pinned her gently yet firmly against the wall.
The parents' muffled cries echoed through the lobby, a chilling counterpoint to the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Outside, the rain picked up, hammering against the windows in sharp, uneven bursts. Each thump sounded like a heartbeat of dread in the confined space.
Mark's father struggled, trying to reach his wife, but a firm shove held him back. "Please… listen… we're just—our children—" His voice was strangled, swallowed by panic.
One officer stepped forward, gaze unwavering. "Do not make this harder than it has to be," he said. And with that, the parents were guided, unresisting but trembling, toward the holding area in the back, the metallic clang of doors closing behind them reverberating like a death knell.
Lydia sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled tight to her chest, the envelope trembling in her hands. The stack of bills beside her seemed impossibly high, medical fees, insurance
statements—all numbers blurring together like a suffocating fog. She pressed her face into the crumpled paper, tasting the bitter tang of grief, and a tear carved a slow path down her
cheek. The room was oppressively silent. Even the faint hum of the radiator seemed louder, echoing through the gloom. Floorboards groaned with her slightest movement. A gust of wind whistled through the cracked window, stirring the curtains like whispering ghosts. She
could almost hear the laughter of her friends carried on the wind, teasing her, mocking the emptiness around her. She thought of her friends—the way she had laughed at the smallest things, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, the warmth she had carried into every room.
Lydia remembered afternoons in the park: secrets whispered on the swings, dares that ended in laughter spilling across the grass, ice cream-stained fingers pressed into each other's palms. That light had been extinguished, leaving a hollow ache she couldn't ignore. And Connor… she couldn't stop picturing him, always the one daring her to try something
dangerous, laughing even as she hesitated. He was gone, too, and every memory twisted like a knife. "I should've… done something," Lydia whispered, voice trembling. The words felt useless, as if saying them aloud might call her friends back—but of course, it wouldn't. The flashes of the attack rose again in her mind: chaos, screaming, sirens, glass shattering. She
pressed the envelope closer, as if the fragile paper could somehow hold the warmth that had been stolen from her. Her fingers traced the creases, remembering the last time she had held it—the day before the attack. Her friends had smiled at her, oblivious to what would come. She swallowed hard, choking on the lump in her throat. A soft knock at the door made
her flinch, heart hammering like a drum. She let the sound stretch painfully before answering. "Lydia… it's me," Ryan's voice came, steady and gentle, threaded with concern. She wiped
her face roughly with her sleeve, leaving streaks of tears. "I… I'm fine," she whispered, though her voice cracked. The door creaked open slowly. Ryan stepped inside, taking in the
scattered bills, the trembling hands, the hollow eyes staring past him. He crouched beside her, careful not to crowd her. "I might know who could have done this," he said softly. "About your friend… and Connor. I think I have a lead." Lydia shook her head, pressing her palms over her eyes. "I can't. I can't face it anymore." Ryan hesitated, jaw tightening. He brushed damp strands of hair from her face. "You don't have to face it alone," he said quietly. "We'll
figure it out together. But… people are missing, Lydia. Time is running out." Her fingers dug into his shirt like a lifeline. Trembling, she finally nodded. "Okay," she whispered. The drive
was quiet at first. Rain tapped against the windshield in scattered patterns. The hum of the engine and the soft swish of the wipers were the only sounds. Lydia stared at the blurred lights, each raindrop reflecting her friends' faces in shadowed fragments. Memories gnawed at her chest, reckless laughter and whispered secrets now frozen in time. She swallowed
hard, trying to steady herself, but the ache in her chest refused to subside. Ryan stole glances at her, worry tightening the lines of his face. "Do you… want to tell me what happened after the attack?" he asked gently. "I… blacked out," she whispered. "When I
woke… the mall… it was like a war zone. People… my friends… gone. Medics rushing everywhere, oxygen masks, antiseptic in the air… I overheard someone talking about her."
Her voice trembled. "It was all flashes—screams, broken glass, alarms. The police… they were slow. Like they didn't want to act. I… I couldn't save them." Ryan's hand found hers, grounding her. "And Connor?" he prompted softly. "Not in three days," she whispered, staring
out at the rain-slicked street. "I keep thinking about what I could've done… if I'd been faster… stronger… I keep replaying every choice… every hesitation… I feel like I failed them all." Her voice cracked, fragile as glass. Ryan squeezed her hand, quiet and firm. "You didn't fail. You
were there, you survived… and we'll find them. Both of them. I swear we will." She leaned into his touch for a long moment before pulling back, trying to steady herself. The city lights flickered across her tear-streaked face, blurring her vision into watery mosaics of grief and
fear. A shiver ran through her, and she hugged herself, trying to hold together the pieces of her breaking heart. By the time they reached the school, darkness had fallen completely.
Shadows stretched across the asphalt like reaching fingers. The building loomed ahead, scarred with peeling paint. Dim lights flickered in the windows. Police tape sagged across the entrances, flapping weakly in the wind. Papers littered the ground, fluttering like wounded birds. A faint metallic scent clung to the air, sharp and bitter. Inside, the hallways were
unnervingly silent. Her footsteps echoed sharply. Shadows danced strangely along the walls. She traced the cool metal of her friend's locker with trembling fingers. "She was here…" Ryan's gaze flicked toward the principal's desk, where a folder lay atop the surface. Carefully,
he picked it up, anxiety tightening his grip. "Lydia… look at this." She leaned over his shoulder. Inside, her friend's file stared back—DNA results stamped APPROVED: PHASE 1 COMPATIBLE, the government seal gleaming ominously: The HEROES Organization –
Director: C. Mallory (Clavin). Photos of Connor and others, all stamped EVALUATED, lined the pages. The truth pressed down like a cold hand, icy and unrelenting. Lydia's stomach twisted, her chest tightening as the full weight of what had been done sank in. Distant
footsteps echoed faintly, too soft to be human—or at least, not quite human. Lydia froze. The air smelled colder now, faintly decayed beneath antiseptic. Ryan's hand found hers again. "We shouldn't be here," he whispered. Lydia's jaw clenched, fear coiling in her chest, but
resolve hardened. "I have to know what they did to her," she said, voice brittle but firm. She snatched the folder like a shield. Together, they edged toward the door, shadows stretching around them like predators. Outside, a school bus rumbled to a stop. Relief flickered—maybe
someone had arrived to help. But the door hissed open slowly. Silence stretched, heavy and unnatural. The driver slumped forward, grotesque in stillness. Children sat unnervingly still, like frozen marionettes. A faint chemical scent hung in the air, sharp and metallic, making
Lydia's stomach twist. Her breath caught. Every instinct screamed—something was wrong. The hairs on her arms stood on end. Ryan tensed beside her, hand tightening around hers. Her scream tore through the night—raw, animalistic, shattering. Ryan grabbed her, pulling her back, shielding her. Sirens wailed, lights flashed. Her scream lingered, echoing in the hollow, unsettling quiet. He held her tight, murmuring, "You're not alone. I'm here. I promise."
Night pressed heavily over the forest. The trees whispered with a cold wind that carried the smell of rain and damp earth. Connor's shoes crunched through fallen leaves as he followed the narrow path leading out of the woods. His hoodie was torn; blood and dirt streaked his hands. Every step seemed slower than the last, like the weight of the world was dragging him backward.
The forest opened to the old steel bridge — a relic that groaned faintly under its own rust. Below, the river churned in the dark. City lights blinked in the distance like dying stars.
He stopped halfway across, his breath fogging the air. The faint hum of "Let Her Go" by Passenger drifted from a nearby car radio parked at the overlook — soft, hollow, echoing against the night.
"Only know you love her when you let her go..."
Connor's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. His face twisted, tears cutting pale streaks down his dirt‑stained cheeks. "Why… why did it have to be them?" he whispered. His voice cracked. "I tried. I tried to save them."
He ripped at his shirt, tearing the fabric open as if shedding his guilt could make it lighter. The wind whipped around him, snapping the torn cloth like paper. "I wasn't strong enough… not for them… not for her."
The song's chorus rose, carried by the wind. Connor gripped the cold metal railing, knuckles white. "I don't belong here," he murmured, the words breaking into a sob. "I'm no longer of use."
He closed his eyes.
The wind howled. The song echoed.
Blackout.