Edgar.
5 years BA.
ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.
"What is home?" she asked, her voice low and hoarse, still clearly struggling with speech.
Edgar swallowed hard, his throat tightening. Home... The word hung in the air between them, too heavy, too fragile. "Home... It's where you are safe, Sasha," he said, his voice trembling.
She didn’t ask further, but something flickered across her face—disbelief, hesitation. Safety was an alien concept to her. Perhaps it always would be.
He looked at her—really looked. In those brief eight months before he'd sent her to hell, she'd become like family. There was still something from that girl in her, an openness, even almost childlike wonder. But now, she was also something else. Something other. Broken, yet somehow whole. Unlike Alaric. Unlike himself. While they had returned as empty husks, Sasha... Sasha was here. Thinking. Questioning. Watching.
They had planned for her return meticulously—an approach rooted in experience, modeled after his and Alaric’s recovery. The plan was simple: surround her with care, love, and familiar faces. Family, friends—the fragments of memories they preserved—so that when awareness finally came, it would find her in a world already rich with warmth and connection.
He believed that if she had months, even years, of comfort before she would be aware enough for the inevitable question—Why am I not in pain?—then it would be easier for her to accept the reality.
It had worked with him, though he didn't remember these months. It had almost worked with Alaric, who tragically preserved memories about only one person—his wife, Martha, who had died waiting for him. Edgar had ensured Sasha had multiple anchors, multiple threads to hold onto.
None of that mattered now.
She returned aware. Fully aware.
Chan called her “brilliant, deeply analytical.” Her lucidity was unexpected—but in hindsight, it made sense. Chaos thrived on having his victims conscious for as long as he could before breaking them again and again. It was a matter of chance, at which point they returned.
Sasha was thinking, observing, drawing conclusions—and who knew which ones? Her awareness was both a miracle and a threat. Alaric had died the moment he became fully conscious. They couldn't really stop a Savior if they focused their power with intent. Sasha could do anything.
They weren’t ready. He wasn’t ready.
How could he guide her? How could he ensure she chose to live? How much truth could he afford to give, knowing she lacked the knowledge and emotional framework to process it, yet was already making decisions?
He knew what Chan had told her—"You are from here. Your suffering mattered. You saved the world".
And he knew Sasha did not believe it.
But Chan hadn't told her everything. She didn't have the full picture—the weight of it, the injustice, the sheer enormity of what had been done to her. "It’s not my place," Chan had said. And Edgar had respected that.
It is mine.
How do you explain to someone that all that they knew - unimaginable suffering - was the price of protecting a world they forgot existed? Because of a choice they don’t remember making?
Edgar studied her, watching those eyes—ageless yet young, vulnerable yet sharp, carrying a resolve he didn't think he had ever possessed.
He told her everything.
And she listened.
He explained the Door—how it existed to protect their world from Chaos. How its ancient magic required a soul with the right frequency to hold that weak spot from within, recharging the defensive barrier. How the “Savior” endured decades here but an eternity in Chaos's grasp. How, by doing so, they spared humanity from annihilation.
Sasha listened, her face shifting with emotions too fast for him to decipher. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t with anger or betrayal, or even confusion.
"You... were there... too?"
Edgar’s breath caught. How had she figured it out? Memory flashes? Soul vision? Chan hadn’t told her—he was certain of that.
He nodded. Sasha studied him, calculating, and then asked the one question he had dreaded most.
"How... how do you... know it's... real?" Her voice was careful, the words painstakingly chosen. A pause. "That he will... not take you back?"
Edgar felt a chill run through him. Too soon. But was it? Hadn’t he asked the same question? Over and over, for years?
He knew Chaos could create illusions so perfect they fooled anyone. He had lived countless lifetimes within Chaos’s fabrications—each an exquisite prison of false hope, shattered just as he began to believe. It had taken him millennia to see the cracks. Chaos’s illusions lacked certain things. Stability, complexity. And he could never truly recreate kindness. There was always pain.
Yet Edgar hadn’t remembered any of it at first. His memories had come back in bursts, fragmented and nonlinear, revealing themselves over decades. He had analyzed his recovery endlessly, trying to prepare future Saviors. When he started remembering Chaos's illusions, the doubt crept in, poisoning everything. Having already lived here for years helped. Still, he had many nights when he couldn't sleep, turning the same question in his mind. How do I know it's real?
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But Sasha remembered.
She was aware of it all. All of it. And the fact that she was here, analyzing, searching, waiting—it proved she knew this reality was different.
But would it be enough?
And how could he answer?
He met her gaze, steady and unwavering. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears.
Then, with quiet finality, he said, "I don’t."
Sasha blinked. He pressed on.
"He would do it, wouldn't he?" Edgar’s voice was quiet but firm. "The perfect trap. Let you think you know his illusions. Let you believe you can see through them. And then create the ultimate one. Let you believe you've won—that it’s over… and then take it all away."
He paused, steadying his breath. "I’m still waiting for him to do it. But he never does. And I choose to believe he never will."
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Sasha.
5 years BA.
ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.
Nine cycles. Nine whole 'days' without pain. Without Chaos. Longer than ever before—thousands of times longer.
(I will never get used to this.
Stop.)
Chan still came back in the morning, as before. She said I was ready to speak with the "Edgar".
Edgar was the strongest presence—the first I dared to believe was truly sentient. Always near, always steady. The memories Chan claimed were mine whispered of deep, tangled connections.
Chan said Edgar would explain more. That she might help me believe.
When Edgar arrived, the air changed. She was larger than Chan. Her face had more lines on it. Her hair was shorter. And some of it was... low, on the front of her face, around her mouth. How does she eat soup like that? Humans are complex.
But it was her magic that was most noticeable—thick, layered, pressing against the room. It didn’t burn or recoil. Instead, it grounded me, almost... energizing. Like the way food made this body feel—full, steady.
She "hugged" me. Chan had warned it might happen, though her explanations made little sense. But I knew it wasn't an attack. Edgar's touch felt like her magic—strange, weighty, yet not painful. Even... good, somehow.
Now, I could finally compare her essence to Chan's and others.
Edgar was broken. Shattered an infinite number of times. It was Chaos' work, I could tell. She wasn’t like these humans. She was like me—yet so much more intricate, layered in ways I could barely grasp, let alone be.
Something deep within my essence recognized Edgar. I didn't know why or what it meant. There was a connection—maybe from their memories, maybe something deeper—but in her presence, I felt... anti-pain.
Was that what Chaos planned?
Chan said I 'suffered so this world could be safe.' She didn’t seem to lie, yet the thought was too absurd to hold onto. And there were speaking, water, soup, applesauce - I couldn't believe that body could produce so strong anti-pain - good - sensations - and Chan's impossible consistency and... care, whatever it actually means - so I didn't think about this idea any longer.
Yet now, Edgar was telling more of this impossible story. I didn’t understand everything, but I grasped enough. She believed it—at least, I thought she did. And the pieces... they fit, like a puzzle.
If this is true... it explains something I’ve wondered for as long as I can remember. Every time Chaos shattered me, when I reassembled enough to think again, I noticed it—how he slowed time. Whatever he was doing, even when he twisted and turned time around or broke it completely, he also slowed it down. For eternity, I wondered. Why do it?
But what Edgar said made so much sense. If it's true... then eternity was never his, to begin with. Just two decades—seven thousand 'days,' a mere blink. His usual cycles stretched far beyond that. He would spend much longer tearing my essence apart from the inside with his tendrils, just as a break between more creative phases. So, to have his time, he slowed the... real one.
So this, unexpectedly, answered the question I had forever.
But that doesn’t make it true, does it?
The other things - protecting from Chaos, imperfect defenses, and tactical usage of humans - also were logical.
If it’s true... could Chaos hate me not just for my complexity but because I stand between him and everything he despises?
Edgar didn't really dwell on it, but it was clear to me - this "savior" human, as he called it, wasn't just a filler for the weak spot in their defenses. They were there to give Chaos a focus and distract him from a full-scale attack at the weakest moment. It made sense. Chaos would take the bait; for all his cunning, I knew he would.
Edgar’s explanation fit together well. But illusions always did, too.
But why make me the center of this illusion? Why craft a story where I saved them? Chaos wouldn't expect me to fall for something so... absurd.
Unless it... it is real.
My mind goes back and forth. I could see only two possibilities. This world is real, or Chaos can create illusions beyond my reckoning. I always could recognize them - at least lately. But maybe he let me believe I could, leading me to now?
I need to break this spiral. Chaos thrived on confusion, weaving doubt into every thought, every moment. The only way out is to choose—because even the wrong choice is better than none. He would punish me for it, but still, it seemed to hurt less.
If this reality is true... then Edgar was a Savior too, wasn't she?
(Could she have grown beyond Chaos's toy? Could I? No. Stop.)
That means she existed through the same eternity. That she was tortured the same as I was.
(this is wrong, this is wrong, I should have been the only one)
...that she knows Chaos' power and illusions just as well. Could she... know?
My thoughts swirled, pulling at me like invisible threads. Questions are dangerous. Yet... Chan never punished me for them. Edgar also didn't so far.
- How... how do you... know it's... real? - I asked, words still weird and unfamiliar on my tongue. "That he will... not take you back?"
I almost expected Chaos to come back, right here and now. He used to, before.
Edgar's face shifted, her expression unreadable. She was thinking. For a long time.
If Chaos spoke through her, what would he say? He'd need me to believe. He knows I can usually detect his lies. Would he think I’d trust someone else—someone who isn’t him? Probably.
"I don’t." - Edgar finally said, words heavy.
She doesn’t. So... what does that mean?
Edgar’s voice sliced through my thoughts. "He would, wouldn’t he?" Her words were quieter now, but they carried a weight that pressed against us both. "The perfect trap. Let you think you know his illusions. Let you believe you can see through them. And then create the ultimate one. Let you believe you've won—that it’s over… and then take it all away."
Would Chaos admit it so readily?
And then, Edgar added:
"I’m still waiting for him to do it. But he never does. And I choose to believe he never will."
The air thickened, pressing against my skin. She believed. And for a fleeting moment... so did I.
What do I have to lose? Real or illusion—this is unlike anything Chaos has done before. I don’t know where the pain is. But I do know one thing: hesitation always makes it worse.
What if, instead of avoiding pain, I seek anti-pain? If I think it's an illusion, I won't.
But if I think it is true...
(stop)
But if I think it is true, I might have experiences I could never have imagined. Anti-pain. Positive ones.
When Chaos comes—because he always does—losing this will hurt. But never having it? That might hurt more.