Sasha

5 years BA.

ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

Everything blurs. Time speeds, but I know Chaos didn't do it.

Something else is gripping me, not him. Something other.

Moments. Flashes. My vision fractures like broken glass. What’s happening?

Chan’s hand warms my palm, her grip somehow both gentle and firm. Her lips curl into a small, half-smile—why is she smiling when I’ve hurt her?

(I did, right?)

Next, someone guides me into a side room. The lights are lower here. Someone presses a cup into my hands. It’s warm, and for a moment, there exists nothing but the overwhelming taste in my mouth.

Edgar’s words drift across the room: “Override… the Door.” Who is he talking to? His tone tense but decisive. I only catch fragments: “We have to show her,” he says. “It’s the only way.”

Then, forcefully, “I wrote these protocols, Charles” voice ringing off the metal walls. A static crackle answers him. “Because I say so!”

I don’t understand. What does that even mean?

More humans. Too many to focus on. I don’t remember seeing them before. Their faces blur, but the tension reeks like hot metal.

They’re afraid.

My pulse kicks: who are they preparing to fight? I scan the hallway, the walls, the symbols. No threats. No Chaos. Nothing—

...me.

They’re afraid of me.

Why? I’m just a—

Time warps again. The side room falls away, replaced by another corridor—wider, dimmer, runes swirling along the walls. The air clings to my skin, heavy with an old, simmering hatred. He's close. He's close.

Edgar’s gaze catches mine. Even though he’s so much taller, somehow he meets me eye-to-eye, his light-brown irises steadying me.

(They’re lying. They’ll throw you back to him.)

“Sasha,” he says gently, “the Door is near. You’ll sense Chaos, but it’s only a shadow. Keep your head clear—use your magic to know the difference.”

The corridor lights flicker as we push forward and enter a large room. It's dark, and I don't see the ceiling. The walls are tall and grey and exude coldness. The weight on my soul doubles, a familiar pressure that sets my nerves on fire. I’ve felt this... forever.

Chan’s hand stays wrapped around mine, her palm damp with sweat—maybe fear. Or maybe my own? Blood smears on her face—my fault—but she doesn’t let go.

Then I sense it, clear as a blade’s edge: Chaos.

The body is so heavy I cannot move.

But why do I feel... relief?

“You destroy. That’s all you’ve ever been good for. You are mine. Did you really think you could be anything else?”

My pulse slams against my ribs. He’s right. He makes sense. Finally, something makes sense.

And I hate him for it.

No—this is deeper than hate. Deeper than anything. With everything in me, I want to unmake him, to rip him apart, to carve his existence down to nothing. To silence him.

But I cannot.

He’s here. I must destroy myself. My hands tremble as I claw at the edges of my own essence, testing the fail-safes for any weakness. Chaos always stops me—but maybe this time—

Then Edgar’s hand presses my shoulder, stilling me. His voice is strangely calm—how is he not terrified?

“Stop, Sasha. Breathe. He’s not really here.”

“I am here. I always was. I always will be. You cannot escape me. I am in you.”

“He’s not here,” Edgar repeats softly, his grip unyielding. “He can’t reach us. Not anymore. Use your magic; you know what real Chaos feels like. This is only a shadow, an echo.”

I force my senses to expand. If it were truly him, I’d feel his endless, burning rage bending reality. But there is no all-consuming will. No infinity of layers of his awareness. By now, he’d have ripped me down to my marrow—filling every second with searing torment, and it would be only the beginning. But he—

He isn’t here.

What I sense is only a smear of malevolence, like a thick stain soaked into the walls, not the living force behind it.

“You are mine. Nothing else.”

“No, Sasha.”

Edgar, again. How?

“It’s not his voice. It's you,” Edgar murmurs. “Your memory, re-creating what he would say.”

My mind—?

“Do you hear him too?” I ask Edgar, not knowing why, only that I need to.

He hesitates—just for a breath.

“I used to. Not anymore. Now...” He pauses too long, eyes fixed on my face.

“Now it’s worse.”

Worse? What could be worse than Chaos?

I don’t ask.

But Edgar is right. Chaos is close, yet not here. Something stands between us—a barrier—and he… he doesn’t react.

No rage. No attention. No burning hatred. Just presence, somewhere far away.

He doesn’t see me.

He doesn’t see me.

How can that be?

(What am I then?)

For an eternity, he was everything. His will shaped existence itself—his thoughts, his presence, my pain. Then I came here, where his absence was both a relief and an unbearable void. But now—

I stretch my senses—my soul-sight, as they call it here—into that barrier. The Wall. But it isn’t truly a wall: not stone, not metal. Not even a physical shield. It is a concept, a boundary that does not merely enclose but divides. It’s everywhere—an infinite weave that is both a shield and something deeper. It folds through space, through dimensions beyond my reach, splitting reality itself into here and him.

And what it is made of—

What is this?

The first time I glimpsed Edgar’s soul, I called it anti-Chaos—structured where Chaos frays and unravels, layered where he is raw destruction. But this—this is really an "anti-Chaos".

Chaos is erosion, the relentless dissolution of all things. His essence is change, corrosion, entropy—destruction given voice.

But this… this is protection. The unyielding refusal to be undone. Stability. Structure. Order.

It hums, steady, unwavering. It is almost... alive, but not as Chaos or humans are alive. Not sentient. This is something else.

Who—what—created this?

It is as opposite to Chaos as... "care" and... "kindness" are opposite to pain.

And I... I know it. I've seen it before.

I—

I need to get closer.

You hate it.

I need to understand it.

Destroy it

I need to preserve it.

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"Be silent, Chaos. You are not here."

(At least— not yet.)

The ground shifts. The world tilts. My legs buckle. Before I can fall, Edgar catches me. He lowers me into a chair—when did it get here?

“What… what is that?”

Edgar exhales:

“We don’t really know.”

What?

"We call it the ‘essence of Order.’ We don’t know where it came from. Only that it is opposite to Chaos. That it protects the world." He pauses. - "But it only exists in the Wall… and in people like you and me."

Me?

I... I see. I know what he means. I've known for an eternity, haven't I?

My soul. My essence. I spent eons watching Chaos destroying it. Learned how to hold the shattered pieces together. But I always had some of this "essence of Order" inside me. Less and less, over time. But still—some.

Same as Edgar. We are different from the others. Their souls are whole—full of color, energy, life. Ours are fractured remnants, held together by traces of Chaos, by scars, by sheer will.

But none of them have this… “essence of Order,” while we do. Even then, ours is only the faintest trace, a dying ember.

“Look at the Door, Sasha,” Chan says softly.

The Door is here. I didn't even notice it first. It looks like a tall arch, carved with symbols I can’t read.

But deeper sight reveals the Wall’s imperfection: a gap, a tear in its essence, like an old scar that never healed properly. Edgar called it a "weak spot" and said every spell has one. This must be that. A rip, leading straight into Chaos.

The Door isn’t a passageway. It’s a patch. It is crude compared to the Wall—a rough, desperate attempt to hold reality together, to stitch shut the tear with something else. It isn't made from "Order’s essence". It is something else. Magic. Vast and precise, overwhelmingly intricate. Powerful. An act of engineering, man-made.

I see how it works. The Wall self-reinforces, enduring simply by existing. But the Door—the patch—needs energy.

Right now, it’s full, brimming with stored power. Yet it depletes, not quickly or visibly, but steadily. Over the next few decades—maybe more, maybe less—it will run dry.

And then it needs to be recharged. And for this, there is contingency. A mechanism—designed to contain and hold the Wall together while the patch recharges.

And it uses a soul. A Savior.

This is what Edgar meant. Not everyone can be slotted into this mechanism—only those who match the Wall’s energy.

That’s what a Savior is: a living stopgap. That’s what I once was—so they say.

It would require A LOT of energy. A soul full of it.

But...

I don’t have it.

Chaos destroyed me too thoroughly.

And that means—

There isn't enough of this energy left in me to become a "Savior" again. This patch won't close.

I can never return. I am not needed. This machine has no place for a broken piece.

I must have spoken aloud because Edgar answered:

“When I first met you, your soul burned like a sun,” he says, voice weighed down by something I can’t name. “Now you see how little remains. It won’t come back. That’s not how souls work.”

Then, softer: “But it doesn’t matter. You’re still you, still Sasha—and your soul is still... beautiful.”

I do not understand what he means.

(I do not want to. I never was this Sasha he remembers)

But, then, it means I was wrong. Whatever they prepare me for, it's not this. It's simply not possible.

Chan told the truth.

I hurt her.

I hurt her, and she only showed me care.

(they need you for something else, then)

- Do you see? Do you understand now? - Edgar asked softly.

I nodded, my mind empty.

I... what have I done? Why?.. How?..

- Let's leave this place, okay? - Edgar offered. I nodded again.

Chan nearly leaped from her chair. Around us, the others exhaled—relief washing over them like a wave. Their faces eased, tension draining from their shoulders.

We edge back, one careful step at a time, until the crushing weight of Chaos’s echo fades to a dull pulse. The corridor brightens. The air doesn't weigh heavily in the chest anymore. Strangely, the silence isn’t as oppressive as before. Knowing exactly where he is makes it… easier.

We stopped in a small room filled with chairs and unfamiliar devices. The others left, leaving only Edgar, Chan, and me. They let me sit, pressing something warm to drink, again. It was… anti-pain. No. "Good".

Edgar was speaking to Chan, but I couldn’t focus. My head throbbed, my heartbeat drumming in my ears, in my skull—everywhere. What had I done? What would they do to me now?

(but they cannot give me to Chaos, so it doesn't matter, right?)

Then I felt it—Edgar’s magic. Subtle, deliberate. He was doing something to Chan. I didn’t understand at first, but then I saw it. Her pain was gone. He... healed her.

That was the word, wasn’t it?

I hurt her. He healed her.

I destroy. He means.

I don’t know how to do that. I only know how to destroy.

Chaos was right about that.

(He’s right about everything.)

(But… Edgar learned it, right? Could... I?)

I need punishment. A consequence. Pain. Something to make this right.

Chan…” My throat closes. “I… did this to you."

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix what I’ve broken.

She seems to know, though. Her mind brushes against mine, asking for a connection. Then warmth pours in—too much warmth, almost unbearable. My throat clenches; my face burns.

“It’s okay, Sasha. It’s okay.”

She steps forward. (No…)

Then—soft arms, solid presence. An embrace, just as Edgar did before.

(stop)

I don’t move. I cannot. But still, something strange happens: a tremor shudders through this body. The eyes burn—dry yet overflowing. Wetness spills down the cheeks. Crying.

Is that what this is called?

Why?

But Chan holds me anyway. I feel it all through her mind: no anger, hatred, or fear. Not even pain, not anymore. Only… care. Kindness. And other things I have no name for—

things I don’t deserve.

Still, she held me while I cried. I don't know why I didn't pull away.

---------

Edgar

They settled into an uneasy breakfast. Sasha’s face remained pale, her eyes red with fatigue, and her fingers trembled as they clutched the warm mug. Edgar briefly considered offering coffee—her old favorite—but the moment felt too fragile. Still, the thought stirred something raw in him: a memory laced with guilt, a reminder of who she’d once been.

Maybe later, he told himself. When she’s ready.

Chan excused herself and gently touched Sasha’s shoulder in farewell. Sasha jolted at the contact, but didn’t withdraw. As the door clicked shut, Edgar studied the girl in the hush that followed. She was still gripping her mug like a lifeline, her gaze fixed on the swirling liquid as though it might give answers.

“Are you going to punish me?”

The words tumbled out in a low murmur, so soft he almost missed them. Hearing them sent a cold twist through Edgar’s gut. Punishment—that she understood. Everything else was new and terrifying.

An old ache twisted in his gut, memories stirring of how Chaos had reduced him to begging for more pain. He swallowed. “No,” he said softly. “You were afraid—anyone would be. I should’ve explained more from the beginning, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

She blinked, trying to parse his reassurance. “But I…”

“You never meant to hurt Chan,” Edgar said, tone mild but unyielding. “She knows that. We all do.”

Sasha’s grip on the mug relaxed by a fraction, though the tension remained in her hunched shoulders. The silence pressed in around them, thick as an oncoming storm.

At last, her voice cracked the quiet. “If the Door doesn’t need me,” she said, brittle, “why am I here? Why waste time and resources…on me?”

Edgar inhaled, conscious of how little she understood about love, care—any of it. “You exist for more than just the Door,” he replied, carefully enunciating each word. “Living isn’t just about being used.”

She frowned as though he’d just mentioned a law of physics she’d never heard of. Edgar switched tactics. “I was a Savior before you,” he reminded her, voice soft and even. “Chaos broke me in every way imaginable. But I survived, and every breath I take proves he failed.”

He paused, letting that idea breathe. “You can have that, too,” he continued, gentler. “You can live. Really live. And if you do, he didn't win.”

She hesitated, a flicker of disbelief clouding her features—though underneath, Edgar thought he glimpsed the barest hint of something else. Hope, perhaps, or at least curiosity.

“And... did it work?” she asked.

His smile was faint and tinged with an old bitterness. “In a way, yes,” he murmured. “It wasn't easy. But... I have a good life now, Sasha. I found purpose—eventually even joy. And I swore I’d help any future Savior do the same...and that includes you.”

She stared at him, both hands locked around the mug as if it might slip away.

“Help me beat him, Sasha,” Edgar urged. “Prove he never broke you.”

She repeated the words under her breath, “Beat him…,” as if unsure how they tasted. For a heartbeat, Edgar glimpsed something in her eyes—an echo of the brilliant girl who never showed up without her coffee and laughed so openly despite everything. He longed to see her thoughts the way Chan could.

At last, she drew a shaky breath. “You…you knew he wasn’t really here,” she whispered, “So you…you know all this.”

She paused, then spoke faster “I... I won’t self-annihilate or attack unless you... give permission.” she said, voice trembling but certain, as though she’d finally came up with the neatest possible solution.

Edgar resisted the urge to sigh. It wasn’t the reply he’d hoped for, but it was something. “Stars, give me patience,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. The vow was heartbreakingly trusting—and so heartbreakingly wrong.

Sasha’s next words came in a hush. “And when Chaos does come... promise me we’ll destroy everyone first, so he can’t have them?”

The request cut him to the core, painfully familiar. He remembered the nights he’d wrestled with that very thought, how it haunted him. Hearing it from her— that tore him open anew.

And yet… it meant she cared more than she knew.

“Yes,” he whispered. “If that day ever comes, we’ll do what we must—together.”

Her shoulders seemed to loosen, and Edgar saw how fully she entrusted her fate to him. She had no concept of real freedom—only obedience. He pressed his lips into a thin line. That had to change.

He remembered how she nearly tore through the fail-safes, how he’d had no choice but to strengthen them—for her sake and everyone else’s. But watching her white-knuckled grip on that mug, he recognized a starker truth:

Nothing could hold her if she truly meant to leave. Not runes, not wards, not even him. She was unstoppable when threatened, and trying to cage her would shred the fragile trust they’d built.

He breathed out slowly, feeling the threads of tension unravel. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said softly. “It’s only fair I trust you, too.”

He shifted in his seat, faking a nonchalance. Then, softly but decisively, he offered: “Let’s remove the fail-safes.”

Sasha froze, the cup stilling in her hands as if someone had pressed pause. Her voice scraped out in a whisper. “Why?”

The confusion flickered across her features. “You—you need them. I—I hurt Chan… what if…”

Edgar inclined his head, letting a gentle note enter his tone. “You won’t,” he said, a quiet confidence threaded through each word. “Because I trust you, Sasha.”

The silence between them pulsed. Then he added, almost too lightly, “Care to help?”