“I thought you liked it rough,” Gerard whispered into his ear.
Symond twisted against him, but it was like fighting iron. “You think you’re—”
Gerard shoved him to his knees, hand pressing down on Symond’s neck with casual cruelty. “I know what I am,” he said. “Think you do too.”
Symond’s vision blurred as he struggled to breathe. “Go to hell.” He forced the words from his lungs.
Gerard chuckled and released him. Symond’s breath caught. He tried to speak, but his mouth filled with warm water. He choked. Coughed. Nothing came out.
Thorn stood beside him now, towering over him. Both of them cast shadows that moved independently from their bodies.
“You’ve always been such a disappointment,” Thorn said flatly.
Gerard knelt down in front of him. “Not to me.” He brushed hair from his face like a lover. “It’s great to have you back.”
Symond screamed—
He woke gasping, hands scrabbling against rough stone, the scream still lodged somewhere between his throat and the alley air.
Where the hell am I?
He rose from the ground, careful to not fall into the puddle of probably piss next to him. Not his own, he hoped. The alcohol carved its way through Symond. Each step on Azsona's cracked cobblestones sent shockwaves through his skull that fractured the dream he just had and replaced it with the failure before it.
I did everything right. I was gentle. I was careful. I stayed present. So, why couldn’t I fucking feel anything?
The booze burned in his chest, a familiar ache that did nothing to quiet the restless anger always churning beneath his skin.
Why can’t I do anything right? Why am I so fucking—
Footsteps came like thunder in his alcohol-muddled ears—sharp, urgent, getting closer. Symond's hand instinctively moved toward the knife at his belt, muscles tensing despite the liquor's weight. Around here, people only ran toward you when theywanted something from you, and it was rarely something you wanted to give.
A blur of movement crashed into his vision, fingers wrapping around his wrist with surprising strength. Symond's knife was halfway out of its sheath before his eyes registered the size of the hand gripping him—tiny child-like. He froze, then slowly slid it back as he was dragged forward across the uneven stones.
What kind of swindle is this?“Hey, kid. Where are… are we… going,” The words stumbled out of his mouth, each one threatening to bring the booze back up with it.
Symond stumbled, boots catching, and looked down at the kid hauling him along like salvation depended on it. Blond hair caught the lamplight—wild and untamed curls. His pale complexion matched Symond’s, besides the scars that marred his body.
The kid looked like him.
Not the broken, scarred wreck standing here reeking of cheap alcohol and self-loathing. But maybe like his younger self might have looked if he'd ever wanted what was being offered. If he'd been eager instead of terrified, hopeful instead of betrayed. This kid had the same wild blond hair, the same hazel eyes, but they blazed with want where Symond's had only ever held fear and fury.
"There!" The kid pointed toward uniformed men near a recruitment table. Institute colors. Black and gold tailored suits like these men worshiped The Thorns and wanted to embody their benevolent dictator. Those fucking colors made Symond's insides twist like they were being wrung out.
Am I being turned in by some kid, right now? Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.Symond tried to plant his feet down, but only succeeded in stumbling over a jagged corner of cobblestone.
"They said I need parent permission but—"
The terror that gripped him a moment ago faded by the tiniest amount. The kid had already been talking to them. Had already tried to sign his life away and been turned down for a technicality. He wasn’t turning him in.
"Sir! Sir!" The kid called out, dragging Symond closer to the recruiters. "I found him! This is my brother—he can give permission now!"
Brother? Do I have a brother? Wait, no.The kid was just calling him that, weaving some desperate lie to get around their parent permission rule. The recruiters were already turning back, their predatory eyes lighting up. They recognized the kid from his earlier attempt, and now here was his supposed guardian, ready to sign him over.
"Please," the kid whispered, tugging at Symond's sleeve with trembling fingers. "Just say yes. Just tell them it's true."
Symond stared down at this boy who was everything he'd never been—eager, desperate to escape whatever mundane hell had birthed him, ready to trade his freedom for the promise of power and purpose. Here was someone willingly walking toward the flames that had consumed Symond against his will, someone choosing what had been forced on him through lies and betrayal.
The irony was so sharp it could draw blood. The boy who had no fucking idea what he was asking for.
