Xavier steps out of bed, feeling an odd sense of calm wash over him. His apartment, neat and organized, just like before. The soft morning light filters through the clean windows, casting a warm glow over everything. It's surreal, too perfect, but he chooses not to question it—not right now. He blinks, and when his gaze falls on the woman lying beside him, the world around him seems to freeze.

Anna... but how? She’s been gone. He knows she’s been gone.

Xavier feels a mix of disbelief and hope flood his chest, and before he can even think, he leans in and presses a soft kiss on her forehead. For a this small moment, everything feels right. The warmth of her skin, the peaceful rise and fall of her chest—it’s as if she never left.

Xavier feels the familiar pull of guilt as he looks back at Anna, her peaceful expression so out of reach yet so tangible in the moment. His heart swells with a mix of love and pain. He moves toward the bed and embraces her tightly, burying his face in her hair. Anna giggles softly, her voice like a melody he thought he'd never hear again.

“Go on,” she says, nudging him gently. “You know I’m no good without my morning coffee.”

Reluctantly, he lets go, taking in her presence one last time before heading to the kitchen. As he brews the coffee and makes breakfast, everything feels strangely perfect—too perfect. The smell of coffee, the sound of the kettle, all of it feels like a memory being played back, and that gnawing unease returns. His hands move mechanically, preparing a small breakfast as he always did.

Carrying the tray back into the bedroom, Xavier finds Anna sitting up straight, a soft smile playing on her lips. He sets the tray in her lap, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his. He thinks of how much he’s missed her, how long he’s yearned for this moment.

Then she coughs.

“Need some water?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice. But Anna doesn’t stop. The cough grows worse, deeper, and suddenly, there’s blood. Her lips are stained red, her face contorted in pain.

Xavier’s heart races as panic floods him. “Anna! Hold on, I’ll get help—”

Before he can turn, her hand grips his wrist tightly, pulling him back. Her eyes, no longer soft and loving, bore into him with a cold accusation. Blood leaks from her nose, her ears, her eyes.

“Why did you let me die?” she whispers, her voice a twisted echo of the love they once shared. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Xavier’s breath catches in his throat, fear paralyzing him. She’s breaking apart in front of him, her body melting, her voice turning to something unrecognizable. Her skin seems to dissolve into a pool of blood as she clutches him, the warmth of her presence disappearing as quickly as it came.

“I... I couldn’t—” he stammers, trying to pull away, but her grip tightens.

Her eyes, those once beautiful blue eyes, lock onto his with burning intensity. “You left me.”

And then she’s gone.

Xavier jolts awake, gasping desperately for air. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts, and for a moment, he just stares at the ceiling, disoriented. His body quakes, his mind desperately clawing for reality—anything to pull him out of the nightmare.

But the tears in his eyes won’t stop.

Slowly, he sits up, wiping his face with trembling hands. The room around him comes into focus: the same sterile, dimly lit space he had found himself in when he first woke up. It’s cold, clinical—so far removed from the warmth of his apartment. And so far removed from Anna.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the silence of the room amplifying the dull ache in his chest. Every muscle in his body feels heavy, weighed down by the dream—by her words. You left me. The accusation rings in his ears, her voice still echoing in his mind.

For a long moment, he just sits there, staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. He knows it was a dream, but the guilt feels real—tangible, like it’s eating him alive from the inside. He could never shake it, no matter how many times he told himself there was nothing he could have done.

With a deep, shaky breath, he stands, his legs unsteady beneath him. The room is suffocating, and he can’t stay here any longer. He needs to move, to get out—before the walls close in on him completely.

Xavier stumbles toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle. He pauses, glancing back at the bed, half-expecting to see her there again, but the room is empty.

"She’s gone. She’s been gone for years," Xavier tells himself, gripping the door handle tightly. His knuckles whiten under the pressure, but he can’t stop. If he stops, if he lets himself think about it too much, he might break apart again.

"It was just a dream… It wasn’t real."

But the dream felt real—too real. Her touch, her voice, the way she looked at him. The way she blamed him.

"Why didn’t you stop me?"

He replays the moment over and over in his mind. Anna’s face, her blue eyes full of love, turning cold and accusing as she melted into nothingness. The guilt that followed him since that day wraps itself around his chest, squeezing until it feels like he can’t breathe.

"I couldn’t have known... It wasn’t my fault…" But no matter how many times he tells himself that, it never silences the doubt.

With a shaky exhale, Xavier pulls the door open. The hallway beyond is just as cold and dark as the room, but at least out here, he can breathe. His footsteps echo softly against the stone floor, the rhythmic tapping grounding him just enough to keep moving forward.

"Get out of your head, Xavier." His mind tells him, but he can’t shake the image of Anna, her lips forming those final, damning words: "You left me."

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"I didn’t leave you, I couldn’t have known. I couldn’t have stopped you." But did he believe it? Did he truly believe he couldn’t have done anything?

The hallway stretches ahead, and as he walks, his surroundings blur into the background. He doesn’t care where he’s going. He just knows he needs to keep moving—needs to outrun the memories chasing him.

But no matter how fast he walks, he can’t outrun the guilt.

"You could’ve saved her. You should’ve done more." The voices claw at him, insistent and merciless, but Xavier shakes his head, trying to drown them out. "I couldn’t have done anything. It was an accident."

His pace quickens into running, his feet carrying him down the long, endless hallways, but the weight on his chest refuses to lift. Every step feels heavier than the last, the emotional burden dragging him down like an anchor. He doesn’t even know where he’s headed anymore. All he knows is that he needs to get away from his thoughts, from his memories, from her.

Suddenly, Xavier comes to a stop, his breath ragged as he stares down at his bloody hands. They're trembling.

"You’re a killer. A ruthless, pathetic killer," the voice in his mind hisses. It’s relentless, mocking him, sinking its claws deeper into his consciousness.

"Shut up," he mutters under his breath, but the words offer no solace, no reprieve. The blood—whether real or imagined—seems to seep into his skin, tainting his hands.

The hallway stretches on, endless and indifferent. His feet twitch with the urge to run faster, to escape this inescapable nightmare, but before he can even take a step, something shifts in the shadows ahead.

A figure emerges.

Xavier's mind spins with questions as the silhouette draws nearer. The dim lighting obscures the figure’s face, but Xavier’s mind screams at him to run—to flee before the man gets too close. But it’s too late. The figure is upon him.

Silva.

"Well, well…" Silva’s voice drips with malice as he steps into the light. "Look at you. Still trying to run from your own demons?"

Xavier’s breath catches in his throat, his body tensing at the sight of Silva. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His chest tightens as Silva draws closer, the space between them evaporating in an instant.

Without warning, Silva’s hand lashes out, gripping Xavier’s throat and slamming him against the cold wall. The impact rattles his bones, pain shooting through his body, but Xavier can’t even react before Silva’s fist connects with his stomach. Air rushes out of his lungs, and his vision blurs from the sudden force.

"You really think you can escape what you’ve done?" Silva growls, his voice low and menacing. "You think running will make it all go away?"

Xavier chokes out a gasp, his hands instinctively grabbing at Silva’s arm, trying to pry him off, but it’s no use. Silva is relentless, his grip unyielding as he slams Xavier into the wall again—this time harder. Xavier’s head spins, pain radiating through every nerve in his body.

"I—I didn’t…" Xavier’s voice is barely a whisper, the words strangled in his throat as Silva’s fingers tighten around his neck. He tries to fight, to push back, but his strength is failing.

Suddenly, there’s a crack, and another, and another.

Xavier’s scream tears through the air, guttural and raw, as Silva twists and rips his arm from its socket. His body convulses in agony, nerves alight with unbearable pain as blood spurts from the gaping wound where his arm used to be. Every fiber of his being screams for mercy, but there is none. Silva’s face is a mask of cruel satisfaction, watching Xavier writhe beneath him.

The pain is blinding, searing—more than Xavier ever thought possible. He feels the skin, the muscle, the bone ripping apart in a slow, deliberate torment, and he’s powerless to stop it. The world around him blurs, reduced to the red-hot sensation of pure suffering. His vision swims with dark spots, and for a brief moment, he prays for unconsciousness—anything to escape this nightmare.

But death doesn’t come.

He steps forward, towering over Xavier’s crumpled form, his lips curling into a sadistic smile. "You think you can die and escape this?" he taunts. "No. Not for you."

Without hesitation, Silva raises his boot and slams it into Xavier’s chest, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The force knocks the wind out of him, and he coughs, blood splattering onto the floor beneath him. His vision darkens, his body screaming in agony—but death, sweet release, never comes.

And then, Silva does it again.

Over and over, Silva brutalizes him, fists and boots colliding with Xavier’s broken body until there’s nothing left but pain. Blood pools around him, his skin torn and bruised, but no matter how many times Silva strikes, Xavier doesn’t die.

He can’t die.

With every blow, the reality sinks in deeper—the horror of it all. He’s trapped in this endless cycle of suffering, of punishment, and no matter what he does, there’s no escape...

Xavier gasps awake, his body drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he desperately tries to pull in air. The nightmare clings to him like a second skin—the pain, the blood, the horror of being torn apart over and over without the mercy of death. His heart races as his mind struggles to catch up with reality.

He isn’t in the endless hallways. He isn’t being brutalized by Silva.

He’s… here. Somewhere else.

Xavier sits up slowly, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, and wipes his face with the back of his hand. The room around him is sterile, clinical—the smell of antiseptic fills the air. He blinks, trying to clear his blurry vision. It’s not his room in Invictardor’s home. This is… some kind of medical bay?

His head pounds as he struggles to make sense of it. How did he end up here?

He pushes the soaked sheets aside and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet touching the cold floor. His legs feel shaky, unsteady beneath him, but he forces himself to stand. The silence in the room is overwhelming, but it’s a relief compared to the hellscape of his dreams.

As he stumbles forward, his body still heavy with the remnants of his nightmare, he turns the corner and bumps into something—or rather, someone. His legs buckle under him as they both go tumbling to the ground.

"Dammit," Xavier mutters, his voice hoarse. He can’t seem to get his legs to cooperate, his body still caught between the terror of sleep and the pain of the waking world. His pulse is still pounding in his ears as he tries, and fails, to stand back up.

A small hand extends toward him.

Xavier looks up, blinking in surprise, and sees Selene standing above him. Her face is calm, her expression unreadable as she offers him a silent invitation to take her hand.

For a second, he hesitates, unsure of what to make of her presence. But the exhaustion weighing down his body wins out, and without a word, he grasps her hand. Her grip is steady, pulling him up with surprising strength.

Once on his feet, Xavier leans heavily against the wall, catching his breath. His legs still feel like jelly beneath him, but standing next to Selene—her quiet, unspoken solidarity—makes the nightmare feel just a little more distant.

"Thanks," he finally mutters, his voice low.

Selene brushes off her clothes and stands up, extending a hand toward Xavier. Her expression is unusually soft, a far cry from the determined and fierce fighter he had faced before. "I'm... sorry," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For what happened during our duel. I didn’t mean for things to get that bad."

Xavier, still lying on the ground, stares up at her, his mind spinning the nightmare and the surrealness of Selene’s apology.

“You’ve been out for a week,” she continues, looking away, her tone a little awkward. "Classes have already started, and... the Countess assigned me to help you catch up."

Xavier blinks, trying to process everything. A week? He looks around the medical bay, the environment suddenly feeling less oppressive, though the confusion remains thick. "Where’s Jackson?" he asks, his voice rough from disuse.

Selene’s gaze flickers back to him. "He’s been checking on you every day. He should be here any minute now."

Before Xavier can respond, the doors to the medical bay swing open with a loud creak, causing both him and Selene to turn sharply.

But instead of Jackson’s familiar figure, it's someone else.

Lilith stands in the doorway, her smirk as sharp as ever, eyes gleaming with that same unnerving amusement. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her gaze flicking between Xavier and Selene.

“Well, well,” she purrs, her voice smooth and dripping with condescension.

“Looks like I arrived just in time for Sleeping Beauty to finally wake up.”