Victor walked through the chilly evening streets, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his feet the only accompaniment to his thoughts. Hawthorn was quiet at this hour, the faint hum of streetlights flickering in the distance. He carried the faint aches from his hospital stay, his limbs heavy but his mind sharper than ever. Whatever Arcadius had awakened in him burned faintly, like embers waiting to roar to life.

When Victor approached the narrow apartment building he reluctantly called home, something caught his eye. A bright yellow page was taped to the door, fluttering slightly in the breeze. His stomach twisted as he stepped closer and read the bold letters printed at the top: EVICTION NOTICE.

Victor froze, his breath catching in his throat. The notice felt like an accusation, glaring at him in stark black ink. He scanned the rest of the page quickly, his mind racing. Unpaid rent. Immediate vacate. Final warning. The usual bureaucratic language offered no comfort, only a gnawing sense of abandonment.

He reached for the door, his hand trembling slightly. Locked. Of course. His father’s bad habits had caught up to them again, just as he’d feared. But the odd thing was, the place looked untouched. Peering through the small window by the door, he could see the shadowy shapes of furniture still sitting in place. His father’s usual clutter—bottles, papers, and odds and ends—lay scattered across the living room. Nothing seemed moved or missing.

Victor’s pulse quickened. Where was his father? Why hadn’t the place been emptied yet?

He turned his gaze upward, the faint outline of his bedroom window catching the moonlight on the third floor. Without thinking, he slipped into the narrow alley beside the building. He craned his neck, judging the distance. The fire escape rattled faintly as he grabbed the lower rung and pulled himself up. The ache in his muscles protested, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through.

The climb was slow and deliberate. Each rung felt like a question waiting to be answered, a step toward clarity—or perhaps more confusion. He reached his bedroom window and braced himself against the metal railing. The glass was smudged but intact. Gritting his teeth, he tried the latch. Locked. He frowned and pulled a small pocket knife from his coat, wedging it between the frame and the latch. After a few moments of careful maneuvering, the lock gave way with a soft click.

Victor slid the window up and climbed inside, landing lightly on the floor. His room smelled faintly of old paper and fabric, the remnants of a life paused mid-motion. His desk was still cluttered with notebooks and half-scribbled ideas. A hoodie hung from the back of his chair, and his bed was unmade—exactly as he’d left it.

But something felt… wrong.

The air was heavy, as if the room itself held its breath. The faint glow of the streetlight outside barely illuminated the edges of the room, casting long, spindly shadows across the floor and walls. Victor moved cautiously, his eyes darting toward the door leading to the rest of the apartment. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness peeking through.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he approached the door, his movements careful and deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe, and pushed it open slowly.

The living room was just as he had glimpsed from the window—messy but untouched. Bottles of cheap liquor lined the table, and the television sat in the corner, its screen dark and lifeless. But there was no sign of his father. No note. No explanation. Just… absence.

Victor’s eyes swept the room again, and a sinking feeling settled in his chest. Where was he?

Victor’s breath quickened as he scanned the room again, each detail sharper than the last but offering no comfort. Where was his father? The eviction notice? The silence? The staleness of the air, untouched by another presence for what felt like days? It all pressed on him, heavy and relentless, like an iron vice tightening around his chest.

He tried to breathe, but the air felt too thick, suffocating. His hand instinctively went to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if trying to pull something free. His vision blurred at the edges, the room swaying as if the walls themselves were conspiring to crush him.

In. Out. Just breathe.

His thoughts raced, each one tripping over the other like a panicked mob trying to escape a burning building. But there was no escape. Each thought sharpened into jagged fragments that sliced through his mind:

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The eviction notice.

What if he’s gone?

What if he drank himself to death?

What if he left? What if I’m alone?

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and the room seemed to twist, the shadows elongating and stretching toward him. The shadows felt alive. They felt like they were watching. Waiting. The air vibrated faintly, his pulse hammering in his ears, louder and louder until it was a deafening roar. His knees buckled, and he staggered back, knocking over a chair. The crash jolted through the room, but it didn’t anchor him. If anything, it made everything worse.

He gasped, but it felt like there was no air. His lungs burned, desperate for oxygen that didn’t seem to exist. His head pounded, each beat in rhythm with the icy panic coursing through his veins. His mouth moved soundlessly, trying to form words—trying to make sense of this tidal wave of fear crashing over him.

His hands trembled violently as he gripped the edge of the couch, desperate to ground himself, but the world kept spinning, shifting, closing in on him. Was the room shrinking? Were the walls closer? His nails dug into the upholstery as his vision darkened further. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts, his chest heaving in a futile attempt to stave off the rising tide of terror.

And then, the whispers came. Faint and indistinct, like voices from the depths of a well, echoing and distorted. Were they real? Were they in his head? It didn’t matter. They clawed at his sanity, twisting around his thoughts like vines. His surroundings faded into a hazy blend of darkness and noise. The eviction notice blurred, the furniture around him warped and alien, the silence broken by the faint sound of his own ragged breathing.

Get out.

It’s too much.

You can’t handle this.

You’re alone.

The voices fed the panic, and he felt himself curling inward, clutching his knees as he sat on the floor. His fingers dug into his scalp, trying to hold onto something, anything, but the terror was relentless.

The moment stretched on, infinite and unbearable, until finally, a small, fragile flicker of clarity broke through the storm. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. His mind clawed desperately at the memory of those words, forcing himself to follow them like a lifeline in the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to slow the spiral, just barely. His breath began to steady, each inhale shaky but longer than the last.

The shadows receded. The whispers faded. The room stopped spinning.

Victor’s head rested against the cool floor, his entire body trembling, drenched in sweat. His heart still pounded, but it no longer felt like it would burst. The cold reality of the room came back into focus, but it didn’t comfort him. His father was still gone. The eviction notice still loomed.

Victor lay on the cold floor for what felt like hours, though he knew it was only minutes. The trembling in his hands had lessened, but the weight on his chest lingered—a dull, persistent ache that reminded him of how fragile everything had become. He let his eyes trace the uneven texture of the ceiling, his thoughts sluggish and scattered like the aftermath of a storm.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he forced himself to sit up. The room felt foreign now, as though it no longer belonged to him. It doesn’t, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, cold and matter-of-fact. He ignored it, dragging himself to his feet.

The task ahead was simple: grab what mattered. What mattered? The thought flitted through his mind like a restless bird, darting from one perch to another. He moved almost mechanically, scanning the room for anything he couldn’t leave behind.

The first thing he grabbed was the small prototype of the Etherion prosthetic he had been working on with Rhea. It was crude—unfinished and barely functional—but it represented something important. A project. A goal. A thread of connection to someone who believed in him. He cradled it for a moment, then gently wrapped it in an old shirt before tucking it into his bag.

Next came clothes. He shoved a few essentials into the bag without much thought. Just enough to get by. Then, his eyes landed on the small family portrait sitting on the cluttered desk.

Victor hesitated, the weight in his chest pressing harder. The photo was from years ago, back when everything had been… stable. His mother’s smile was radiant, her arm draped around a younger version of him. His father, standing tall in his Etherion Enforcer uniform, looked proud and composed. Victor barely recognized the man in the picture anymore. But still, it was a piece of what once was, and he couldn’t leave it behind. He grabbed the frame, holding it for a moment before carefully placing it into the bag.

A few other small items followed—a notebook, a pen his mother had given him, and an old pocket knife he didn’t even remember owning until now. They were tokens of a life that felt like it was slipping further and further away.

With his bag packed and the essentials gathered, Victor took a final look around the room. The emptiness was suffocating. He crossed to the window, pushing it open as quietly as he could, and climbed back out into the night.

The cool air hit him as he dropped down to the street, the bag slung over his shoulder. He stood there for a moment, the faint hum of distant traffic the only sound breaking the stillness. His mind churned with uncertainty, his chest tightening as he glanced back at the darkened house one last time.

His hand instinctively went to his pocket, pulling out the sleek black and gold business card. The lettering gleamed faintly under the streetlight: Arcadius - Etherion Enforcer. The weight of it in his palm felt heavier than it should have, its promise both daunting and enticing.

Victor stared at the card, his grip tightening around it. He didn’t know where else to go, what else to do. But this… this was something. A glimmer of a path forward, even if it was unclear.

The decision was far from made, but for now, Victor just stood there, the business card in his hand and the weight of the night pressing down on him.