Sins Of The Father Chapter One: The Father, The Son & The Unholy Ghost. (Part. 1)

It came in waves — the scrape of blistering shrapnel against his skin, bones giving way under metal's cool edge. The stench of copper and wet earth before a flash bang in its short but blinding embrace razed everything. Still, a ticking lingered in the gaps of Jason’s memories, the same ones that slipped away like his once steady heartbeat.

Perhaps it was there to spite the semi-silence of the Al Ghul estate, as it hung around thick and eerie. For once, the white stone pillars that shouldered the arched ceilings were full on their feast of screeching swords and hushed words owned by the shadows. However, in its place were hints of gunpowder staining his senses, but never the sterile white maw that threatened to consume him whole. Even though the windows were bent in soft curves, a lethal edge crept beneath the waning winter sun. Hidden under the pristine plaster were knife-like teeth ready for blood.

Ghosts don't run back to the halls that haunt them. Just because they had a memory doesn't mean he was included. No matter how long he stared at the room down the hall with its locked door and unlit existence. Well, until the dust got so bad that the green-tinged lights brought about spring cleaning and caressed the bright hues of the framed big top posters. Now his room might have been the same, a sealed tomb for an undead boy long past his burial.

His shadow twisted on the marble floor. In one moment, he was muscle-bound and hulking as he hunched against the basin, the next a frail, bloody heap. Although his legs kept him from joining the silvery gleam below, his chest ran ragged. The air came out in laboured wisps of warm breath. With it came a deep ache, as if his lungs had forgotten how to breathe, or perhaps it just wanted to escape his skin, which clung too tightly to the bone. Still, his shaking fingers grasped at the babbling stream before him.

Clear tendrils split between the gaps of this stronghold, coating the curve of the sloping granite and sending ice-carved daggers into his veins. There was mercy within the cold pinpricks, a balm to the red burns adorning his skin and an anchor to reality. All while unseen hands pounded behind his skull, forming a guttural pain that mimicked the beat of his restless heart.

"Please, please, please… “spoke a high-pitched whine from the depths of Jason’s mind. It beckoned goosebumps and let phantoms play in the mirror, “This isn't fair, Bruce, you can't promise me action, then keep me cooped up in here. “

Time seemed to rewind in the corners of his vision, imposing walls shifting into dank, lopsided stone and rusting steel stairs. Sunlight morphed into the cool flickers of computer screens, beating away the permanent shade around them. The moisture fled from his tongue like a coward as his gaze met a warping reflection—one that was still wide-eyed, their knowledge betrayed by his messy hair and unending energy.

For such a small moment, it seemed to pierce through his chest. Tendons and capillaries ripped themselves apart under Time's blade, each snap furthering the hard set of his jaw. However, that was the only part brave enough to still as a tremor shook high-strung nerves free. With their newfound life came a churning, red-hot anger and darkness that lingered on the edges of his sight. Those shadows threatened to close in as the voice deepened, shaking off its immature nature and age, sharpening the reflections' features.

Bruises broke his skin like cracks in the mirror. Purples pressed against sunken cheeks as if to taunt the life once held within them. This time, there was no comfort held in an old gaze. Instead, it was locked behind swollen eyelids. Where the expected dirt and smog of home had been was now overtaken by hues of red. Crimson, not yet settled, threatened to smother the deep maroons that painted his face. A pitiful mimicry of the broken mask, he dawned, ages ago. Now it was caked in the remnants of his rattled breath and desperate final moments.

" Please, please, please... You can't leave me here, Bruce! You can't leave me to fucking die alone."

Those words uttered through busted lips seemed to invite the darkness in full, as if it were another memory. One of corse fabric with its tattered ends and the embrace of a cool sea-salted breeze laced throughout the night. However, there was no strange warmth to hide in; rather, this darkness choked Jason like smoke in his lungs. It was a chokehold that wasn't keen on loosening as his fingers curled into a shaking fist.

A strange comfort was found in his fingernails sinking through calloused skin. His body turned against itself as if to scrape a new identity from a scarred corpse. Bits and pieces ripped from his bones became a feast for the anger that circled him like birds of prey. Perhaps to save themselves from being stripped bare, his veins began to pump, and muscles sparked back to life. Soon, the fluid movements of his arm cutting through the air would take over. Simple, easy. It was a lifeline as glass buckled before his hand, fractals breaking into a pointed rainfall.

He needed to stop talking to phantoms; it ended up reopening old wounds and creating fresh scars.

Glimpses of painted ivy and hollow green eyes carved through tense fingers. A few kissed the edges of his bare palm, drawing out the smell of iron. Scarlet wove itself between the cracks of battle-worn flesh. It held a dimming warmth even as it circled the drain, staining the stone. Relief refused to lighten Jason's heaves or peel the still-untamed hair from his sweat-soaked forehead. Rather, those salt and pepper curls remained flush against furrowed brows.

A memory swirled like the tainted water, its edges unclear yet stubborn. No matter how attempts were made to wash it away or cover the new festering wound, it hid; somehow, it lingered. The details were as sharp as the gashes on his skin and the screaming of his weary nerves.

Once, the click of keyboards and wires winding around his nimble feet could have saved him, or at least would have entertained him. It was a game, after all, just an elaborate game of hide and seek or cops and robbers.

“How does it feel? “There was a lightness almost out of place in the depths of Bruce's voice.

“It feels … It feels like a lifetime ago.”

Those words hung in the air like the blood pooling on the marble floor. It sat like puddles of polish that grew with every staggering step. Even though it stood in stark contrast to everything, somehow it seemed to be an extension of this place. More like the ill-made cot pushed against the wall or gnarled tree roots curled around long forgotten bones than an accident. After all the chiselled corners and half-outlined mural that loomed over every bated breath was the labour of calculated hands. One's too still and stained to spill it so carelessly unless to feed this vampiric estate.

Still, his shaking hands slid across the battered edges of his desk, catching rouge wires and discarded motherboards between stinging fingers. The frayed coating clung to the cuts as if to mend them in place of the gauze, no doubt balled up somewhere among the mess. It was a process closer to instinct than thought as his gaze swept across the clutter. Whatever well-worn tales hid behind the glint of a frozen watch face or the still-warm tip of a soldering iron fell on blind eyes. Rather, the acrid remnants of smoke calmed his weary bones as the cotton wound around his fingers and rested on his palm.

At the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about bleeding on his half-finished circuits. Instead, the challenge was trying not to burn himself half to death, or any more than he had alred-

If it weren't for the soft click of his lock, the uninvited guest would have been safe in their soundless approach. The footfall of dress shoes or the click of heels marked his days. What would have melted into the mundane sharpened his focus and jolted his lax muscles back into a taut, practiced stance. However, nothing at all birthed an itch in his trigger finger and sent waves of thick adrenaline through his veins. It rose and fell in peaks like the hungry roar of his heart as his flesh met the chill of metal.

The weight would have been alien in his hands not so long ago. Yet its heft brimmed with strength and misplaced comfort, like an anchor caught by a rusting chain. His fingers wrapped around the trigger with silent discipline as his arms jetted out with the speed of a skilled swordsman. Rather than his pistol meeting movement, it was greeted by empty space. Threaded throughout his level breath and darting eyes came a high-pitched giggle. It echoed against the walls as if the thin air was mocking him with juvenile glee.

“I wouldn't get too cocky. Just because anyone's a target doesn't mean you have the upper hand. “Jason's voice was slow as his gaze took in every inch of the room. “But I will humour you and say you're the one who walks out of here. There is no promise that you will be useful to whoever sent you.”

The old man must have gotten tired of him. However, he would have been dead by now if he were. Ra’s was toying with him, trying to get some sick entertainment out of this. It was too calm, too coy to be a test.

Even as those threats hung between the two, no shadow dared to shift. All that would change was the unending laugh as it came in short, haunting bursts. It grated against his ears and dug into his fighting chest like a brand. The trigger against his finger seemed like a rock as his muscles fought their inborn memories. Something as simple as an inhale could have broken the tension in the air, like a dam spilling over. However, before his heavy-set nerves could jump into action, a tiny fist wrapped around the door frame, and a pair of eyes bore into his.

For a second, that stoic yet practiced mask melted into something softer. The trigger no longer teased his skin, and his arms began to sink. Whatever dull aches built in his jaw or sat on his temple faded into a whisper. His brows, however, refused to shake off the impression of danger. Instead, he searched for threats in the shifting grayish blues that stared back at him. Within it, all was a timid interest and growing disappointment that swirled like flooding watercolours as the laughter died. A few loose waves betrayed what little sharp features the child held. Yet there was a silent promise to grow into them and become something darker, like the deep chestnut brown that already dipped into a murky black.

He was just a kid who had yet to pick up a blade. A future threat for sure, but as it stood now...

" I take that back. Something tells me you aren't doing their dirty work. For that to happen, your mother would need to unfuse you from her hip."

" Mother is painting, bored. " The child said as he pushed the door open further. Half-formed sentences undermined the eerie maturity of his small frame.

With a sigh, still brimming with a slight weariness, Jason found himself walking past his desk. Small piles of scrap metal and unfinished wiring had yet to gain his attention once again as he turned the doorknob. The growing smirk on his face was creased by the start of a frown when tiny limbs didn't stumble.

" And what makes you think I would be any better? After all, I could tell her you've been sneaking to places you shouldn't be. "

" You live here, not like students. You are strange. " The child paused a few steps out of the threshold, cupping his hands behind his back, taking everything in with a stern stare.“I-it would be foolish to bite hand that feeds.”

How in the world had he gone from a billionaire's adoptive son to being threatened by a one-year-old? An insane assassin's lovechild of a one-year-old, sure, but it was still a cruel joke, regardless.

It took a second for his guard to drop fully, even if the sting came before the thoughts formed. Red stained the cotton in growing splotches by the time his gun had found its place. Without the weight, a part of him felt bare, as if some unseen threat had clung to the boy and now disturbed the fading mirage of safety. All of it was gone like smoke in the wind, inviting a coming fire to barrel through as he slipped into his rickety, age-old chair.

" You got me there, kid. It would be foolish to bite the hand that feeds. However, if you're going to watch me, could I at least get a name? "

Rather than soft, albeit graceful steps, signs of life came in changing shadows. A scene that bordered on absurd played out on the back wall. Figures seeming to float in the shade were something laced with a warm nostalgia. However, never were these figures so small or out of place. When a pair of cool eyes struggled to peek over his desk, an image struck him. He was reasoning with the spirit of an old man in a child's body.

" I am the heir. " Unlike the rest, those words seemed practiced, almost repeated.

"Didn't you say I wasn't like the students? Why would I use that title? However, if you want a fancy nickname that I can do." For a second, Jason stopped rifling through loose scraps and, with a smug grin, plucked the now flailing child from the ground. "What do you say, little prince? What shall I call you? "

Tiny fists attempted to break through his chest with a mounting rage, complete with bruise-causing kicks. It was an act that met an immovable wall of sighs and wrinkled clothes as bronze fists bounced right back to the start. The veins underneath seemed to shake as if it were a sword being pulled from stone.

“Unhand me, h-heathen.”

" You are like a little bird picking away. Maybe that's it, you can be Robin... No, that would be cruel even for a kid with a burden like yours." Jason stilled the small-scale assault and ruffled through those dark waves. “Back at home, robins were a dime a dozen and fun for a while until they became target practice. However, no one would bat an eye at sparrows even when they overran the place. “

“Not a bird! Heir. “

“I don't know, you seem like one to me. Those sparrows look innocent, but they are bloodthirsty little freaks. Yet something tells me that fighting you on this will get me nowhere. If you calm down, you can help me out. Whatcha say? “

Silence brewed as those fists slipped from his grasp, with a second wind that deafened the response. A sigh left his throat as if to prepare for the overblown onslaught, as if he were rewatching an old tape a few too many times. On instinct, his open palms moved along with an imagined arch awaiting skin to press into his own. However, those blue eyes stared into his being as fists uncurled into the tightly bound form of a slap. Yet no strike or sting came as a buried sense of amusement pushed through the gaze.

Fingertips drenched in perfume pressed against his face, as if they weren't ready to dig in. In a small way, it was a mercy not to break already battered skin, cleaning it out with a wash of amber and roses. Even if his nerves wanted to flee from his jagged scars at the mere thought of them being touched. They were an unwelcome parting gift that traced his nose and rested on his jaw. Ones dipped in a pearlescent gleam and coated in the scent of old love letters, doomed to hide away from prying eyes.

When was the last time he had been in the study, had gone through those drawers, had looked into the eyes those letters were for? Not through hazy memories or night terrors, but in the flesh, and if it had been years, then why were they staring at him? For Christ's sake, he didn't... They were one-to-one.

“I will take that as a yes, but I've got one more question for you, sparrow. Do you know who your old man is?”

A response refused to come right away; instead, a hand traced his face. It was careful, as if trying to draw out the churning anger and shock from his pores along with the words.

“Mother knows, will not tell, it is not important. “

Well, well, well, how the tables have turned on him, huh?



Answers were hard to find compared to the awkward lumps of metal that turned in his hands. Half-formed edges and uneven breaks were twisted in the light like a puzzle that needed a different angle to be seen. All the while, a skeleton of tangled wire and stolen steel stared back at him. Solder seeped from the curves that were meant to hug his skull as every move passed by empty sockets. Neither judging the shadows nor the smoke, as it was forged like something ripped from the pages of Mary Shelly.

The same pages that evoked an ache in both his joints and heart as their words were read by a deep voice. One filling the space of chilled air and the drum line of punches with a tired tenderness hidden away in the old brick walls. However, that memory would be replaced by grabbing hands and the click of a button. It crept up in his peripheral vision as if to remind him that the child in his lap was like a small feathered thing taking in life with fresh eyes.

" I demand to see, I want to see! " the child whined, little feet kicking the air once again.

A sigh took the place of a response as Jason placed down the mass of electronics bound to become comms held together with duct tape.

" Only if you give me the button, Sparrow. I am going to need that. "

" Not a bird. Last time, not a bird." His tiny fist tightened against the button within his grasp, refusing to ease it into Jason's palm. " I want the metal pen and helmet, then."

Why did he have to be as stubborn as his father... Their father? Even Lady Al Ghul had some give if he wore her down enough, that was.

" As if your mother would murder me, and she wouldn't let me walk it off this go around. Besides, we need the comms. How else are we going to be like spies and get intel or family secrets?"

Something between a deep-seated distrust belonging to an older mind and the softness of child-like intrigue pushed out the amusement. Fingers slowly uncoiled, although a palpable hesitance was laced within. A little sigh seemed to lighten the already light load as the button fell into his palm.

" Thank you, Spar-"

"Damian."

A slight chuckle left Jason's mouth as he placed the button back into its well-earned and rightful place. It was a strange sound to his ears, something that belonged on the fringe of dreams meant to slip away from his fingers. Still, there had been something soothing about it as his hands gripped the sides of the helmet, freeing it from its resting place. Uneven curves and scratches glinted in the light as he brought it close. There was a gentleness in him, placing the helmet on that crown of waves. Even as it slipped past his chin and shoulders like a trick-or-treater being consumed by his play-cowl.

" Be careful. It might be a bit finicky, but the nice thing is when you're under it, you can be anyone," Jason paused as if waiting for a muffled response while he balanced it on those small shoulders." You're safe because they have to get through the metal first. As long as I'm in it, no one can hurt me again, and maybe once you get older, I'll make you one. "

If he were still here by then, that was...

There were a few echoing giggles compressed by the steel. In a way, it looked as if the blank features were mocking him. However, anger refused to rise within him, nor allowed whispered taunts to fill his mind. Rather, something softer seemed to creep in like a long-held breath being released. An exhale laced with memories of stolen moments, ones played out to distract wide, fearful eyes. For a moment, he had one foot in a pocket of calm amidst crime-riddled streets and the tentative peace of the present.

" I will be big, strong, no need. Secrets I need. "

" You know, for that to happen, I'm going to need this back. "

A half-defeated sigh came in response, not quite a surrender but not quite acceptance, either. For a second, Jason's fingers seemed to twitch as they prepared for gnashing teeth or tiny anger to spill over when the helmet eased its hold. Rather, a slight pout and half-amused stare greeted him once again. Now, the only temperament to bend was the wires as they curved around piecemeal motherboards like muscles around bone. Parts of long-forgotten radios were harvested and placed in a nest of silver circuits and copper-tinted fumes.

Silence fell upon the room in waves of static, as if the world ended in the snow-covered cliffs outside. All while a fuss started next to him, small bronze blurs lashed out at the desk in a miniature show of disappointment. However, before a reprimand could leave Jason's lips or a finger could be pressed to them, something stirred. It was long and droning as it cut through the static like a heated blade. Then came the howl of passing air and the rumble of well-worked engines, their travels as wide as the two pairs of eyes that met.

" Come in, B, come in," said a voice somehow familiar yet made from overlapping genders and stories. " This will be my last check-in before the Boy Wonder takes the helm for a bit."

It couldn't be, could it? This wasn't a memory or a dream, but why now?

"We'll be fine, Oracle. Well done today. However, do remind him he can't slack off just because things won't be high octane. “Replied a clear but gravelly voice forever stuck somewhere between stoic and tired.

" I'm offended you even asked, Bats. You know I have a reputation to keep up. He was thoroughly debriefed before he even dared to step out of Bludhaven."

A buzz built in Jason's nerves as if they had awoken and were stretching through his skin. However, this wasn't the steady wave of warming anger he had come to know, but something more sickening. Those nerves seemed to reach his lungs as the air left them before his stomach began to twist like fretting hands. Hope crept into his eyes, forming an answer to the questions between Damian's brows.

So it was real, not some dream; the wait was over. His wait would be over; his family had come. With help, it seemed...

" Oh, and Robin, make sure he doesn't get distracted by things—things I can't say on comms with a child listening."

" For the last time, this is not a pleasure trip." Static overtook the line for a second as the words left Bruce's mouth.

" Is it ever one when it comes to The League of Assassins? And from what the others say, that doesn't stop you from having some fun on the side." Robin said, his careful words not quite smothering the high-pitched tones that come from youth.

" That's enough, kid. It's a quick in and out. "

Something bitter mixed with his setting excitement, like the aftertaste of cheap cough medicine. It seemed to cover the tightness in his chest and the spike of his heart. Every beat resembled the pounding of hands against a coffin lid or stirred rage-filled whispers spoken not in his voice but that were embedded into his being. Although his thoughts were still wisps, unable to be grasped in full, his mouth grew drier.

Robin... He had replaced him after what — a week, a month, a year? Did the blood even dry on his costume by the time it was worn again? Perhaps the golden boy had a point because that kid sounded way too young, and Bruce was way too old not to learn his lesson. That, however, is a Gotham-based bridge to burn when he gets there…

" We shouldn't even be here. This is absurd, and you know it. " Robin pressed on." Look, I'm here to keep you upright in your grief, reel you in, and I refuse to think this is about the city."

" Of course, it's about the city. We need the information to protect it."

" No, no, it's not. You don't have to lie. It's about him, isn't it, just like the past three years have been?"

A second wave of silence fell across the room, leaving only Jason's sparse breath and his now pounding heart. Something tumbling towards a weary laugh and struggling sob slipped from his tightened throat. It was a long, confused sound that melted furrowed brows and brought two small hands to cup his face. Tears traced his skin and were bathed once again in the scent of amber and roses, mirroring when his time here had started.

Bruce was running from his grief as he always did, but he always seemed to put pieces together the quickest when backed into a corner, and here he was. Here to make up for when he couldn't come in time, here to bring him home. Home, home, home, he was going home. Maybe that could be enough to look past the man’s many god forsaken failings for now.

" Look, Sparrow, I'm sorry, but I think this is the end of the line. "Jason's voice was an uneven whisper." You know it's only been an hour, but I thought I would be a better brother than mine turned out to be. However, I wasn't meant to stay..."

" Ahki? Goodbye? I do not want to return to mother." Damian's gaze refused to waver, a frown forming at the corner of his mouth.

A misshapen type of shame seemed to writhe within him, inviting the taste of ash and dirt to coat his tongue. Something bitter and angry that refused to be lost between the cracks of his mind. More a feeling that not even the reaper could shake, as it belonged to the heft of a tire iron. No matter how much it lashed out, striking his lungs or mistrusting heart, it was masked under wiped away tears and soft sniffles. Still, one by one, he peeled tiny hands away from his face.

" Well, too bad, kid. I don't have to listen to you, and right now I've got better things to do than continue to be your mom's necromancy pet project."

That frown only deepened. It took on a life, caught between lips pressed in, learnt resignation and a grim weight unfit for him to carry. His hands, now free from his half-failed comfort, curled into fists. Although they were not as eager to continue, their assault instead seemed to shake with the smallest glimmer of frustration. Even after his legs kicked nothing but air, and he once again could not peer past the desk.

" No one leaves unless grandfather says, and he has not said. I demand to know how we are brothers if you in-insist on dying." The mix of anger and perhaps something closer to pity was almost lost under the chair's screeching creaks.

The old man had no say in his being brought here; he had no say in his leaving. It wouldn't have mattered much if Ra’s had been on board; he was meant to be complaining about sophomore calculus, not digging himself out of a coffin and straight into three years of insanity. Even if it did pass…

“Again, if he wants to kill me, what's a second pointless death? That doesn't mean it will stop me; not that he would bat a withered eyelash.” Before the words could land, Jason tore the bare room apart for what sparse odds or ends it held. “Now hold on, you don't need to get peck happy, sparrow. We share a father, I think it's a bit of a clusterfu- It's complicated. “

The uneasy thud of boots pacing filled the space as the patter of a wobbling gait tried to break through. All while his hands grasped at wires or stolen nicknacks covered in gunpowder before giving up on the task. Instead, he resorted to balling up the somehow thin but coarse blanket in his leather-bound arms. In a somewhat optimistic hope, it would calm the churning debate in his stomach or lessen the fact that he was playing hide and seek with mismatched holsters.

“Then why will they not recognize you as the heir? Did you kill too much or n-not enough? “There was an innocent horror in Damian’s words that felt absurd.

Whatever glimpse of straps, clips, or buckles he saw on the edge of his vision fell away. A forced stillness seemed to weigh him down with a fear not as naïve. One that coated the dryness in his mouth with smog, masking the sharp notes of iron and bile. Both long since soaked into the cramped apartment's being, turning it into a friend as his small hands worked to find a pulse against tacky skin, now it seemed more like an ever-changing spectre that would haunt another too young soul.

A familiar rhythm rang out in Jason's head, although it had long fallen out of use.

" It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, she'll wake up, she'll live." The thoughts bumped along with the shallow melody of a heartbeat that no longer existed. However, something else seemed to push it away as quickly as it came.

Jesus Christ, he was just a kid. It shouldn't have shocked him, but he was just a kid.

" Okay, kid, I've got a deal for you. I will hold up my end of the big brother deal, but you can't tell anyone. I got a reputation to keep up, after all."

The cold metal of the buckles pressed against his palm when moving once again seemed possible. His fingers fiddled with clips and straps as they protested, sliding into place near his pants' pockets. All the while, somewhat suspicious steps drew closer, with a raised brow.

Damn kid, had him softening up...

" Come on, you know I don't bite. So you promise?"

Soon, those steps stopped by his feet, both purposeful and a semi-coordinated waddle. The contrast did little to hide the slight smirk Damian held, one that grew as Jason stooped to his level on bent knees.

" I promise..." His words were undermined by the trickster-like energy that played on his lips.

With a tenderness that dipped into a sense of awkwardness, Jason placed a hand on the kid's shoulder. His grasp was too light, as if any more pressure would break skin or crush bone with a strength unknown to him.

" No matter how they look at you or what the whispers say. Don't be ashamed of what you gotta do to survive, just because you do it doesn't mean you want to."

For a second, he waited with bated breath as he stared into those eyes. Both the soft blues and playful nature shrink back into dull grays, accompanied by that grim frown. A sigh left his mouth before he returned to his full height, his hands sorting through his scrap-laden desk.

" What I am going to do will bring honour to Mother and Grandfather."

It was unclear what hesitated first, his heart or his fingers as they rested upon the gun.

"You'll understand it someday."

For all the power the gun had given him, it now sat heavy on his hip like a coming damnation. Something to be dealt with in stern looks hiding an inborn fear or hushed whispers meant to be tucked away behind cave walls. However, it seemed a natural extension of his shaking nerves, like some misguided safety net against the many moving figures that were housed in these halls. Even as the floor broke into rippling tremors, as if the place had shown its true face. Still, walls became more like the shifting limbs of an awakening beast, spittle slipping through bared teeth. The soft rumbling of engines as it entangled with the hum of propellers served as its stark roars. One last reminder of why that gun was pushed into his grasping hands by paint-stained fingers night after night.

It would've been so easy to undo what laws of nature she had broken, but the debate was still out on what was the bigger stupid risk: giving the zombie boy she had grave robbed a gun or said zombie boy leaving with no thanks. If any was in order in the first place.

Amidst the dying sounds, every wispy breath he forced in did not feel real. Instead, they seemed closer to what reality was in his shattered mind. Something only meant to slip away long after his throat was raw and almost bleeding, stopped screaming. However, this time, eyeless sockets bound in metal stared at him, rather than the world shifting under a paranoid gaze. A promised safety lingered in the unpolished seams, pushing him towards the door before the growing doubts could sneak past his mind. The estate's roars gave way to hurrying footsteps and the slow groan of door hinges.