Rapidly, Dyllan began to close in on the smog where Andie had landed. Just as rapidly, the reality of his current situation began to sink in. Andie was facing a Nightmare, one she had faced before with healing and protection from her friends - and still only barely survived. This time, she was ambushed and alone, and the monstrous mass of fear and hate had likely only grown stronger since their last clash.

With each dawning realization, rationality lost a little more ground to adrenaline fueled instinct. Only one thought still echoed clearly in his mind: He needed to save Andie.

So when Dyllan finally hit solid ground, and saw his friend - his close friend who was only ever driven by her desire to help others - assaulted, beaten and bleeding her very Will to Live into the air… something snapped in him.

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A fury not entirely his own ran up Dyllan’s spine like electricity. It clenched his fists. It narrowed his eyes. It made every fiber of his being burn with life, and then it vented out through clenched teeth as a low growl. “Reveal yourself, my Rage.” Sticky, black, oily hate bled from Dyllan’s hand and arm, coalescing into a sword. A long, cleaver-like, rusty, blood stained, sword. His Vice. “Tear it apart, my Rage!” Before he could think, Dyllan had slammed the blade down into the concrete, sending a jagged crack rocketing toward the Nightmare.

As soon as the crack reached the Nightmare’s feet, rusty black and red spikes shot up from the ground, piercing deep into its limbs. Instinctively, the beast turned to face Dyllan and let out a distorted roar, but it was cut short when Dyllan hurled his Rage through its throat.

Then there was silence. The flame that had engulfed Dyllan’s spirit mellowed into embers and ash resting in the pit of his stomach. He was calm.

Calm enough to notice the black ooze leaking from the freshly slain nightmare into the surrounding mindscape.