Sonia sat there, fingers gently wrapped around a warm mug of hibiscus tea, the steam curling like a quiet melody above it.
Janet laughed. James reached for her hand. The candlelight was soft.
The clinking of plates, the low hum of chatter—it all sounded like peace.
But more than that…
It felt like home.
---
> "You don't have to bottle it up anymore," Janet said gently, brushing her curls behind her ear.
James leaned in with a soft smile.
> "We've got you. All of you. No conditions."
Sonia paused. Her eyes scanned them both, as if searching for that hidden smirk, the tension in the shoulders, the passive-aggressive phrases she learned to decode in real life like a master cryptographer.
But… none came.
Janet wasn't doing that thing where she "checked in" just to feel morally superior.
James didn't have that flicker of guilt in his eye from a secret DM he'd never confess.
Everything was pure.
Not perfect—but safe.
---
She smiled. For the first time in what felt like years, she smiled without suspicion.
The kind of smile you give when you feel seen.
Not scanned. Not analyzed. Seen.
She leaned back, looked around the restaurant.
No tension. No noise behind the noise.
Just peace.
---
Then… she heard it.
A sound so faint, it could've been missed.
A spoon clinked a beat too early.
The server's footsteps repeated the same rhythm.
The flame of the candle?
Didn't flicker. Not once.
---
Sonia's heart slowed.
> "That's not how this works…"
Her smile wavered. Her fingers tapped the mug in a rhythm.
Tap-tap…tap.
Tap-tap…tap.
Her therapist taught her that when the world feels too tight, too perfect, too off…
Tap back into yourself.
---
She turned to Janet.
> "You… you always told me I could say anything. But you never listened. You judged."
Janet blinked.
> "I'm listening now," she replied. But her voice repeated.
Not echoed—repeated. Same pitch. Same tone.
James smiled too long.
---
Sonia stood up. The chair didn't screech.
She stepped back. The air didn't shift.
"This is a trap," she whispered.
Her mug shattered—not from falling… just shattered.
And suddenly the whole room froze.
---
Redan's voice slithered in from behind the false restaurant walls.
> "Awww… Sonia, you were always the soft one. I tailored this just for you.
You deserve a reality where people aren't so cruel…
where your breakdowns don't land you in white rooms and silent stares."
Sonia trembled. Her fingers clenched.
> "Maybe I do…"
She blinked away the tears.
> "But I'll earn that peace. Not borrow it from your illusion."
Then she did something brutal.
She snapped her own wrist in the dream.
The world shrieked.
The illusion peeled away like wet wallpaper.
She dropped to her knees in a black void, breathing hard, bones healing through raw Avian instinct.
And Redan clapped in the darkness.
> "You're no fun either…"
But Sonia smiled.
A real one. This time, with pain.
But also with power.
The walls of that backstage hallway echoed with the kind of silence that only came after betrayal.
Kennedy stood over Felix, chest heaving, hands trembling—not from fear, but from the white-hot fury of a dream dismantled.
His shirt was torn. His glasses cracked. His usual comedic sparkle? Now just shards in the puddle of sweat beneath his feet.
---
Flashbulbs and applause still echoed from the press room, like the ghosts of stolen recognition haunting his ears.
> "So… you're the one who stole my work, huh?"
His voice wasn't shaky. It was sharp. Like an animated line sketch turned blade.
Felix, still straightening his designer tie, backed into a wall of digital screens.
> "I—I have no idea what you're talking about. You're crazy, man!"
And just like that, a lie walked out of his mouth wearing a tuxedo.
Kennedy's fist clenched so tight his own blood whispered out between his fingers.
---
> "Crazy?" Kennedy's eyes twitched. "I was crazy enough to build a world from nothing.
Frame by frame. Line by line. I drew that dream while skipping food, skipping parties, skipping LIFE—
just to get it perfect."
> "You don't know what it's like…
To fall in love with something you made—
and watch someone else get praised for it like you never existed."
Felix flinched.
Not at the words—at the truth in them.
And then, the hallway shivered.
---
Redan's voice slid into the scene like ink on wet paper.
> "Claim what's yours, Kennedy.
He took from you.
You're owed.
The world owes you."
Kennedy blinked.
The lights in the hallway flickered. His old sketches lined the walls suddenly—frames from his early days.
His real animation—The Morph Beast—in stills and scenes.
Kennedy looked back at Felix. The fear in his eyes wasn't fear of a madman.
It was guilt. Confirmed.
> "You don't get to pretend anymore," Kennedy growled. "You looked me in the eye and called me your brother… while robbing me blind."
Felix tried to run. Kennedy stepped forward, aura sparking like glitching animation frames—linework warping into Avian geometry.
Then the guards came—slow at first, like lagging cutscenes.
---
> "NOW!" Redan's voice boomed. "Take the shot! END him!
You'll never get this moment back!"
Kennedy's fists glowed—his frameworks activating.
Two glowing hands, one made of steel and the other of clay, shaped from his own inner blueprint.
One hand to destroy, the other to mold.
---
He lifted the steel one.
Felix's eyes widened.
A tear rolled down the thief's cheek—he knew he didn't deserve mercy. And Kennedy—he deserved justice.
The steel fist vibrated with power.
He could shatter Felix's jaw and his fake career in a heartbeat.
But…
He turned to the clay hand.
---
> "What if," Kennedy whispered, "what if I used the pain…
not to break things—
but to build something they can't steal?"
He lowered his fists.
The framework fizzled. His rage…
turned into something purer.
The guards burst in. Felix collapsed. Kennedy raised his hands and didn't resist.
Not because he was guilty.
Because he was above this now.
---
Redan hissed like static on a broken radio.
> "You had your moment…"
Kennedy smiled, bruised and bloodied.
> "No, I didn't have it…
I made it.
Just like I'll make the next one."
And as the illusion around him shattered, his clay hand molded a small glowing symbol in the air—a creature curled up like a sleeping dream.
The true form of his art.
His revenge?
Creation.
The air cracked, not with sound—but with truth. It hung heavy between them like the moment before a punchline… or a prophecy.
Redan leaned in, his voice velvet and venom, laced with that smug, all-knowing grin.
> "So... you finally figured it out, huh?
That your anger wasn't a flaw—
It was a door.
And I? I just gave you the key."
Kennedy's brows lowered. His fists didn't clench this time—they stayed open. Not in surrender, but in resolve.
> "You're right. I wanted to hurt him.
I wanted to scream, to tear down everything he built using my dreams.
But that would've just made me disappear again."
Redan smirked.
> "Oh? And what, pray tell, will you do?
Sit in a circle?
Sing about justice while he climbs the ladder you built?"
Kennedy stepped forward.
His voice was steady, but his aura—it trembled with complexity.
Shame and pride. Pain and peace.
An artist's paradox.
> "No. I'll do what you can't understand.
I'll make something better.
Something so undeniably mine that no one—not even the ghouls—can rewrite the credits."
Redan's eye twitched. His grin faltered just a hair.
> "That's... not how the world works, Kennedy."
Kennedy tilted his head.
> "Yeah. I know.
But maybe I'm not trying to change the world...
Maybe I'm trying to change me.
And if I can do that... maybe the world will follow."
---
And in that moment, Redan—this ancient manipulator of freedom twisted into lies—felt something odd.
A crack in the illusion.
Kennedy's decision wasn't power.
It wasn't vengeance.
It was authorship.
A reclamation of narrative.
---
Redan scoffed, fading into the shadows of his metaphysical domain.
> "You're more dangerous than I thought, creator."
Kennedy exhaled.
> "Nah.
I'm just getting started."
Charles stood in a digital amphitheater of dreams, glowing runes of binary dancing across the sky like northern lights made of code. The air shimmered with the quiet hum of quantum servers that didn't exist—at least not in the waking world.
And there he was.
His father.
Regal in his own quiet way, dressed in his signature white-and-blue coder's blazer, with glasses that glinted not just with intelligence, but legacy. Behind him, stood a cohort of prodigies—young minds, hungry to learn, to build, to be something more.
The applause echoed like rainfall over warm metal.
> Father:
"Charles...
You did it, son.
You walked through fire,
and you never let it melt your truth."
Charles couldn't speak for a moment. His throat tightened like uncompiled code. He clenched and unclenched his fist, staring into his father's face—one he hadn't seen smile like this since… maybe ever.
> Charles:
"I didn't sell out.
Not to those data-hackers from Macrobyte.
Not to the private brokers who waved millions just for a little shortcut in the algorithm.
I stayed clean.
Just like you taught me when you said:
'A corrupted script is a corrupted soul.'"
His father chuckled—low, proud.
> Father:
"I thought you forgot that line."
Charles laughed too, shaking his head.
> Charles:
"I tried to.
Every time I was broke.
Every time I watched my friends cash out on dirty code, while I debugged mine in the dark.
But I guess your voice stayed in my syntax."
The crowd behind them began chanting:
> "Charles! Charles! Charles!"
But it wasn't fame he felt.
It was fulfillment.
The rarest form of wealth.
He turned to face the proteges—young versions of himself with wide eyes and cracked fingers from years of endless typing.
> Charles:
"If you're here to be rich, you might make it.
If you're here to be famous, you might get lucky.
But if you're here to tell the truth in code…
Then you'll build something that even time can't delete."
The cheers roared like a tidal wave of validation. His father stepped closer, pulling him into a tight embrace.
> Father:
"I never told you enough…
But I always knew you'd out-code me one day.
Not just in skill—
In integrity."
Charles closed his eyes.
> "I never needed the world to see me.
I just needed you to."
And for the first time, that aching silence in his chest—
The silence that sounded like "not enough"—
Broke into a symphony of peace.
---
But deep in the audience… a glitch blinked.
Redan's silhouette formed in the background, slow clapping.
> "Beautiful, isn't it?
That moment when the soul feels full…
But are you sure it's real, Charles?"
The colors began to distort. The proteges froze mid-cheer. His father's embrace lingered just a little too long.
> "What if I told you your father never knew how proud he should be?
What if I told you… he died before you ever made it?"
Charles stepped back, eyes widening.
> Charles:
"...what?"
Redan grinned, head tilted.
> "Oh, you didn't think this was reality, did you?
This is just the highlight reel you never got.
So, tell me...
Will you stay here?
Or wake up to a world that's still waiting for you to earn this moment?"
The stage flickered.
The proteges faded.
His father's voice echoed in silence.
Charles stood alone.
And then…
He whispered:
> "I'll earn it again. From scratch if I have to.
But next time… it'll be real."
The illusion cracked like broken code.
Reality rebooted.
Henry stood in the warm hum of his garage, sparks lazily dancing along wires like playful fireflies. His workbench was alive—his gadgets clicked and beeped with polished grace. For the first time, the chaos in his mind had become clarity in circuits. No overloads. No fizzled fuses. Just... harmony.
Then the scent of old engine oil and peppermint tobacco hit his nose.
Grandpa.
Wearing that old grease-stained lab coat, hands behind his back, eyes holding both wisdom and worry.
> Grandpa:
"Hey Henry… You're a good guy.
A real good one.
But tell me—
Have you ever thought maybe Jack's been stealing your shine this whole time?"
Henry froze. A quiet whir from one of his drones broke the silence.
> Grandpa (stepping closer):
"Not on purpose, of course.
Jack's... charismatic. Destined. All that.
But you?
You were always just the tech support.
The spark behind his boom.
And when that Creation Stone picked you…
Wasn't it just because it picked him first?"
The words cut sharper than voltage ever could.
> Grandpa:
"I know you're not jealous, Henry.
That ain't you.
But don't you wanna show the world who you are?
That you're not his sidekick?
That your power… your light…
Doesn't need Jack's shadow to shine?"
Henry looked down. His hands, stained with copper and grease, trembled just a little. He loved Jack. Like a brother. Hell, he was his brother, blood or not. But lately… he did feel like a passenger in Jack's saga. Like he was destined to be the one who helps the chosen one, not the one chosen.
And then—
A cold laugh coiled in the corner of the room.
Redan.
Dressed in cosmic black, his eyes glowing with corrupted data and truth-laced venom.
> Redan:
"This isn't a lie, Henry.
It's reality.
You know it.
You've always deserved more.
And Jack… as noble as he is…
Will always be the center of the prophecy."
Redan stretched out a hand—gloved in raw electricity shaped like a crown.
> Redan:
"Join the Liberation Force.
Show him your spark isn't his leftover ember.
Forge your own legend."
The temptation wrapped itself around Henry's chest like magnetic vines. It was logical, even honest. It played on facts more than fears.
But Henry shook his head slowly.
> Henry:
"Jack ain't that kinda guy.
He never tried to be the sun while we stayed stars.
He pulls people up, not beneath."
His gadgets beeped in agreement, as if even the machines understood.
> Henry:
"I don't need to stand above him.
I just need to stand with him.
And if the world don't see that,
I'll build a mirror big enough to reflect it back."
Redan's smirk faltered. Just a twitch.
> Henry (sparks dancing on his knuckles):
"So take your force...
And shove it into a surge protector."
The illusion cracked. The garage flickered. The warmth stayed.
And Henry?
He picked up his tool again—not to fight Jack…
But to build the legacy with him.