"What's on your mind, JiJi?" Idris' voice called out from his desk, and Jimena's face scrunched up, side-eyeing the man annoyedly.

"Drop the nickname, Idris."

"Nah, I think I'll stick with it."

They stared at each other for a long while, Idris' evident amusement shining through his honeyed eyes—Jimena nearly scoffed. There was a brief silence that filled their workshop, as they leaned closer to one another, their eyes slightly narrowing. The telltale pinpricks forming in the corners of her brown eyes nearly made her blink, but she kept them open. Like hell she was going to let him drag her name in the mud.

"Give up."

"Aw, don't be like that, JiJi."

"I'm warning you, Idris."

"What ya gonna do, JiJi? Throw another shoe?"

Her caramel skin flushed a bright pink, and Idris's awful smirk grew.

"Aww, don't feel bad, hon'. You didn't have many options with me in the first place."

"Wanna bet, asshat?"

"Do your worst, JiJi. I'm curious what you plannin' on pullin' with a man twice your size."

If looks could kill, Idris would be six feet under, and Jimena would gladly dance over his grave. It was surprising that the man hadn't shut his eyes for even a fleeting moment, seemingly far too concerned with making his point. She wanted to slap him across his face and wipe that smug grin off him, but she knew better—the man was far too crafty, and she wasn't going to give in to his game. She sighed, taming the murderous thoughts bouncing in her mind. There's an easy way to end this.

"No more enchiladas for you then, Okoye."

Idris' entire body stiffened, and Jimena could only savor the quick 180° in his demeanor. He grabbed her arms like a child being denied fried sugar at the district, regret swarming his eyes.

"J-Jimena, please don't do this. I-I'm sorry..."

Oh, the power she had over this overgrown child.

"I'll think about it," she smirked, glancing back towards her book, ignoring the man's pitiful whines. It was one of her favorites, a coveted possession of hers that she only shared with her loved ones. One of the Queen's handmaidens had given it to her for safekeeping, as she had accidentally walked out of the Queen's quarters with it in hand and wouldn't dare to return it. Jimena read the book to Cyrus and Logan when they were just kids running around the streets, and they seemingly took a quick liking to it—Logan more than Cyrus, honestly, the redhead was asleep by the middle.

"You worry too much for them, ya know," Idris' voice cut back through her thoughts for the second time. She was zoning out more than usual lately.

"Can you really blame me?" Jimena said, running her fingers over the tattered cover. The binding was slowly falling apart at the seams, and the leather was barely holding on. Maybe she should stop by one of the vendors for some leather and linen thread after their next shipment.

"They're not kids anymore, Jimena. Don't you think they're tired of your constant eye? If you were their age, you'd have probably killed a man."

Jimena nearly snorted at that.

"You didn't even know me when I was a teenager Idris."

"You didn't deny what I said, though."

She rubbed the annoyance out of her eyes, looking back down towards the tiny book in her lap—dealing with Idris' constant bullshit was taking a toll on her fragile mind. Reading right now was pointless, it seemed, so Jimena slipped out of her seat and placed the book back on her round table.

"I'm gonna go cook," Jimena said, moving past the clutter to the stairs. Idris jumped around in excitement, abandoning his work entirely to journey up to the second floor with her. She smiled, moving towards the tiny kitchen tucked in the back, hidden behind a black door. Jimena grabbed the floral apron hanging off the front—a gift from Idris—and slipped it over her head.

"Can you tie it for me?" She asked with big eyes, and Idris lit up. He clumsily tied a knot at the back, carefully easing it against her. The growl of his stomach did not go unnoticed, and Jimena could only look towards him happily, thanking him before slipping through the door.

"W-What about me?"

"Who said I was making any for you?"

Jimena nearly slammed the door in the man's face, relishing the sweet cries that came after.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"I'm headed out, aight?" Cyrus called out to no one in particular. Mama and Logan were both in their bedrooms, probably too engrossed in whatever they were doing, as he never got a response. He slipped on his shoes—a borrowed pair from kind ol' Mister Okoye—and reached for his satchel. The telltale crinkle of plastic sounded from under the latch, and Cyrus smiled.

It's time.

The air was bitingly cold, the all-too-familiar sparks of numbness making themselves at home in his arms and legs. For once, the streets were vacant, clear of any stumbling drunkards and desperate vendors, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The usual hunkering steps and monotonous voices of the Chrome Militia were far away. He needed to move fast. With a quick look left and right, he sprinted towards the nearest alley—a well-known bypass of some sort that cut through 6th and 4th Street. The street lights blurred, distant yellow hues fading away as he slipped into the darkened opening, swallowing his body whole.

The alley, it seems, was where the people went. Even if he couldn't see, Cyrus could hear the wails and shrieks of the unfortunate swarming in the never-ending abyss. They sounded distant but uncomfortably close: their pleads were trying to feast on the inside of his skull, and Cyrus did his best to push them away.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt what he could only recognize as a hand wrap around his ankle.

It was bony.

Too bony.

He snatched his foot away and quickened his pace. His nerves were getting the better of him. He usually prided himself on his level-headedness in these kinds of situations, but right now, he was anything but. Did it always smell so rancid in these parts of the city? Cyrus couldn't remember, and frankly, he couldn't care less. A plethora of warnings fled his mind, and with it, a new kind of paranoia. He wanted out, to get as far away from this—

p̶̧̡̮̗̝͔͑̈̈́̃̓̈͌͂̈́́͒͝l̵̢̛͙̔̓̆̇͛̓͛̀̕͠͠e̶͔͉̒͋͑̅͆̆̃̔̆͛͆̕͝͠a̷͖͔̖͚̼̠̩̙̺͚̦̔̀̈́̏̎̓̄̄́͝s̷̢̢͖̦̪̟̹͕̋̎̋̒͜e̷̛̯̔̉͐̌̿̍͆͗̆̀͊͊̿͝ ̸̡̧͔̱̦͎͎̠͇̦̥̙̱̠̞̍͒̐̎d̸̠͖̮̤͓̳̞̭̩͉̤͕̞̓͒̅͒̄̓̇͐̏̀͂̄̇̏̕ͅo̴̡͖̠̓̈́̾̒̆̈͋̉͆̒̚͘n̴͖̟̮̈́͌̒̈̋̓́́̃̈'̴̨̪̼͉̳̩̫̠͒̑̑̽̿̌ẗ̸̼̲̳̖́͑͆͒̈́ ̴̧̨̰̭̹̙͙͖̤̬͖͎̼̖͠l̸̖̰̮̹̳̹̿̆̄͛̃̐̚͘͘͘ͅë̷̙̬̰̗̻̝̫̥̞̩͉̩͚̣͓͆̉̉̀̒̅͆̈́̏͠a̴̼̼͈̰̹̣̿͑̉͐͋͘͘̚̚ͅv̵̡̩̫̻̗̠̠̪͓͕͇͉̆͜͜e̸̹̙̖̹̣̪͙͎͔͛̍̀͗̅̊͝͝ͅ

Are you shitting me? Fuck this!

Cyrus knew something was inherently different this time, the ache in his head taking on a different form than the others entirely. It almost sounded like a woman—a very masculine woman at that, the voice low and guttural—but Cyrus couldn't identify it. His usual migraines feel like a 1 on 1 conversation with himself, another Cyrus almost, but this?

Who are you?

The shrill of his wrist monitor ripped through his ears, and Cyrus could only curse at his luck. He needed to keep moving, migraines be damned. If he managed to walk through the last stretch of this darkened path with his body intact, then he'd entertain his predictions.

Cyrus practically sprinted the rest of the way, his breath painted white against the cold air. He paid no heed to the shuffles in the tiny crevices of the alley, far too paranoid that he'd turn his head and be met with the face of his suffering.

"Come on. Come on. COME ON!" He nearly screamed, his hoarse voice only subdued by his fears. Cyrus could feel the imminent danger closing in on him. Even completely submersed in pitch-black, he was sure of it. There was no mistaking that someone, or something, was watching him—watching him lose himself in this darkened alley, a shell of the boy he was just a little while ago.

Why is this ȟ̴͇̳͇̲͙̒͑͒͋̌͌̑̉̏̓͜ḁ̵̟̱͍͉̼̦̻̲̱̠͇͖̤̍̀́͗͊͒͒̈́̐̃p̸̧̢̨̗̩̮̮̝̗̟̳̳͍̟̈́̌͠p̴̡̛̳̥̹̱̙̘͉͔̒̃̈̐̇͘͜ë̸̛͉̳̳̳̖͍̹̟̥͚̤̲͈̾̓̂̈́̍̍̐ͅn̶̖̝̲͇̜̄͋̋̾̐͑̎͊̃̓̌͠ȋ̷̛̖̤̲̠̩̭͕̜̫̯͖̖̹̏̉̑͗̆̈́̍̏ͅͅn̴̞̪̾̀͗͠͠͠g̴͈͓͚̓̈́͋͂̍͒͛̔̿?

He was going blind. He was going deaf.

Where am I?

The weight in his heart slowed him down, his pace dying down to a light jog. Then to a slow walk. A stroll even.

͝Ḋ̴̡̛̝̰͑̋̋͋̃̎̄̀ơ̷̧͍̬͔̫̙̳͔͉̠̝ń̷̡̨̝̞͈̪̫̳̱̥̤̙̿̑'̷̰̫͈͇͈̤̋̂͑̐̇̿̇̿͐͝ͅͅt̵̺͊͂́͋̈́̏̈́̓̀̔̅ ̷̺̮͎͓̺͔̻̰͚͎͆̃͗̍̽̈̓̌̾́͘̚͝͠w̷̛̘̳̙̩̰͚͕̗̩̏̿͋̕͝o̶̬̰͔͔̫̘͎̒̓̑́̋̿́͆͋̕͘͜r̵̛̲̺͖̯̟͙̞̳̮͊̾̀̽͑̇̀͒̇͂r̵̛̰͍̯̹̘͈͐̓͛̑̈͒́̈̈͌̕͘͘y̷̡̡̡̛̼̳̥̞̜̣͒͗̆́̈́̿̈́͑̒̐͂̍ͅ

He stopped, taking a moment to look towards his feet, which were shrouded by the darkness. All this running, and he never registered the cold sensation creeping up his leg. Tar. His feet were lodged in it, and it was slowly eating away at his skin.

The abyss was pulling him down,

down,

down.

"W̸̢͚̲̟͇̬͇̫̠͆̏̿̊́e̴̡̯̙͔͇̕'̸̢̰̭̱͕̰̺͔͊̈́́̾̔͛̑́̊͜ͅl̷̡̞̹̣͓͉̣̭͙͐͜ͅl̵̮̩̇ ̶̡̡̢̭̫͈̮̩͕̖̘͙̊͂̀t̶̰̆a̶̠̥͈͐̎̎͋k̵̬̻̣̿͒̏͑̕͘͠͝ë̴̛̓͑̈̈́̋̌͘͜͠͝ ̴͈̠͕̉̎̓́̾̉̏̐́̈́̆̿c̵̡̛̬̯̮̲̄̽̒͋̃̒̆̒̿̅ä̵͕͚̭̅̚͠ŕ̵̨̜̣̞̖̱̣ͅȩ̴̹̱͚̙̯͑̈͊ ̸̳̝̝̭͕͒͆o̵͕̰͈̙̦̼̠͍̯̤̪̓̍̚̚̕̕ͅf̴͕͈̜̱͓̙̜̜̠͈̰̽̋͊̌͂̋̕ ̴͇̙̼̦̭̹̱̍̏̾͜y̸̢̪̗̍̀̓̽̎͝ó̸̢͈̰̻̇͛ứ̵͔͍̭̋̉̆̽̀̍͌̚̕͠"

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"-ther. Brother!"

Cyrus practically jolted out of his state, ready to throw a nasty punch at whatever was here with him. His bleary eyes refocused quickly, landing on another pair staring directly back.

Pretty green eyes.

"Alfred?"

The child nodded, his soot-covered cheeks stretching with his smile.

"We thought you was dead!"