Ash stood there, looking down at the crowd below, his body held together by bandages and sheer fucking stubbornness. Jet-black hair--long enough to fall into his eyes now, stuck to the sweat on his forehead. His right arm was useless, wrapped in thick bandages, pulsing with pain every time he moved. His chest felt tight, the cuts along his skin still raw. The eyepatch over his right eye was too tight, digging into the scar tissue underneath. He wanted to rip it off. Wanted to claw at his own skin until the itching stopped.
They stationed him here on purpose. He knew that. They wanted him to feel it--to feel every stare, every whisper, every reminder that no matter how much time passed, people would never forget what happened. They would never forgive.
It had been three years.
Three years since the day Ash's older brother Richie turned his back on everything. Three years since the bloodshed. Three years since the world looked at Ash like he was something rotten, something disgusting, something meant to be thrown away.
And yet, somehow, it still felt like yesterday.
His fingers gripped the railing in front of him. His body was trembling, but he didn't know if it was from the pain or the weight pressing against his chest. His jaw was locked so tight it hurt, his teeth grinding together, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
'Why am I even here?'
Why did they make him stand above the people who hated him? Why did they make him watch? Why did they still pretend like he had a place in this world?
He could hear them.
The crowd below was a mess of voices, each one heavy with grief, anger, exhaustion. Some people stood in silence, eyes locked on the giant screen displaying names, watching as the faces of the dead appeared and disappeared. Others whispered to themselves, heads bowed, hands shaking.
But not everyone was calm.
A woman in the middle of the crowd beat her chest like she was choking on air. Her husband held onto her, whispering something in her ear, but it wasn't working. She was breaking apart, right in front of everyone. And no one stopped to help.
Near the front, a man stood frozen, lips moving soundlessly. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white. Like if he uncurled them, he'd collapse.
And then there was the kid--couldn't have been older than Ash--screaming himself raw, cursing the heroes, the world, the sky. He cursed Richie's name, spat on the ground, pulled at his own hair like he wanted to rip it out. His friends tried to hold him back, but he fought against them, his voice raw with years of pain that never had a place to go.
Ash looked away.
His fingers twitched against the railing. His body still shook. His chest felt tight, so fucking tight, like something inside him was about to snap.
He didn't want to be here.
He wanted to leave. To run. To disappear.
Or maybe… just stop existing.
For a second, he let the thought slip into his mind, let himself feel it. The possibility of just… letting go. Of making it all stop.
But then what?
Would it change anything? Would they forgive him? Would they let him rest? Would they finally stop hating him? Or would they just piss on his grave next to Richie's victims?
Then, a voice cut through everything.
"Stop him! He stole my bag!"
The words snapped him out of his haze. His head turned sharply, his body reacting before he could even think. Electricity sparked around him, crackling at his fingertips, dancing along his skin.
He saw him. A man--thin, fast, dressed in torn clothes, pushing past people, running down the street. His hands clutched a bag that didn't belong to him.
Ash didn't hesitate.
Lightning split the air. One second he was on the platform, the next he had the thief by the collar, slamming him into a wall.
The man gasped, struggling, his hands still gripping the stolen bag. His eyes were wide, wild, desperate. He twisted his body, trying to break free, but Ash's grip was iron. Electricity hummed around them, filling the space with static. Ash felt it in his bones, felt it in his teeth, felt it creeping up the back of his neck. His heart was pounding, his body trembling with something he didn't want to name.
He was angry.
Not at the thief. Not really. But at everything. At himself. At the world.
His grip tightened.
It would be so easy.
So easy to let the anger take over. To let the pain spill out. To make someone, anyone feel even a fraction of what he felt every day.
But then, something caught his eye.
A large screen, mounted high on a nearby building, playing the news.
A woman in a clean suit stood in front of wreckage. Behind her, a broken transport vehicle, its frame torn apart, floating in the void. Blood. So much blood. Pieces of bodies, drifting in space like they were never people to begin with.
The reporter spoke in a calm, steady voice, like she was reading from a script.
"The transport carrying civilians to planet SVK-199 was caught in a sudden void tear. The only hero on the scene attempted to hold back the creatures, but was ultimately unable to prevent the destruction of the vehicle. All passengers were lost. Authorities and cleanup crews are still identifying the bodies and contacting the families of the deceased."
The thief flinched, pressing himself harder against the wall, like he was trying to disappear.
Ash barely noticed. His eyes stayed locked on the screen.
Dead. They were all dead.
Ash exhaled, but it felt like he was choking. The weight in his chest was unbearable. His hand loosened. The guy slid to the ground, scrambling back like a kicked dog. The bag tumbled from his hands. He didn't even look at it. Just ran.
Ash let him.
His head was spinning. His body felt too small for all the things he was feeling, too weak to hold them in.