Despair was subjective. Defined by its owner’s experiences, ranges of a scale that held no measure. For Ian, the Underground Facility had been drab, terribly suffocating, utterly dehumanizing—but never despairing.

  Death, too, was a sorrowful event. But still, it wasn’t despair.

  He had realized despair on that fateful evening, or perhaps day, all those years ago. It had stewed into the pit of his stomach the second his sister’s svelte arms circled his neck and embraced him, wearing a wry smile.

  It would be a longer mission. A difficult one.

  He had known that.

  Eloise, bred of modified genetics, successfully manifested into an unparalleled Guide at the age of twelve. They immediately whisked her into training, and their time together grew short. Nevertheless, they stole treasured memories in seconds of time.

  Ian had been satisfied. Perhaps in dimensions unknown, there were versions of greater happiness. But it wouldn’t have been his.

  With a disobedient and wicked tongue, he made a poor choice for the missions, despite his proficient guiding at the time. His personality guaranteed an eternity in the Base, likely to be a receptor to ease Esper’s on the verge of an outbreak, unless he was properly sold.

  Ian compromised on obedience, ensuring his sister’s comfort—much as they were allowed there—over his. A limited number of slots; he gave them all to her.

  Eloise enjoyed the Rifts, though she was blindfolded to the state within the Base. She cradled the glimpses beyond the walls with such care and would return with whispered stories as they curled in their room and pretended the metal ceilings were an expanse of stars.

  Ian thought he would live and die like that. Perhaps they’d be lucky enough to meet a compatible Esper who allowed them entry to the above.

  He robotically committed to his duties, both training and blood-letting, despite his conflicts with others. It was the life he had known, and though they sometimes found scraps of the upper world, he knew better than to desire more.

  But in those slips of time, where dreams floated in his vision, he longed for the stars. Endless meadows, the obscurity of the Rifts described by Eloise.

  Wind cascading across his skin, and a ravishing banquet made of more than the routine meals.

  But his dreams were not a reality.

  He realized, far too late, when exhaustion built beneath her soft gaze, until the grime couldn’t be cleared. Her smile, once stretching cheek to cheek, started to fade. Her disappearances became frequent.

  And at the age of sixteen, a mere six years ago, Eloise departed for an SS-Rank Rift.

  It had been late in the evening of her due arrival when he stripped himself of the countless tubes in his arm. He was ushered to a shallow cavity, crowded with researchers. Contrary to their white, fitted coats, he was dressed like an animal in a flimsy gown.

  He remembered that his friend—both of their friend—lingered in the room’s center.

  Ian hadn’t been sure of the reason the young man was there. He hadn’t known much other than the child’s fondness for spiders and gentle appearance.

  And when he spoke, Ian learned something else.

  “I apologize, Ian,” muttered the other, holding out a bundle swathed in claret cloth. Solemnity wrote the other’s expression, and later, it became a face he no longer remembered in vividness. He was dressed in a tailored suit and a military cap. “I requested that they return any remnants.”

  Despair was a million maggots writhing in the stomach, squirming alive as they twitched beneath skin. It was the hand of a beloved tightening around the neck. The metallic retch of blood and bile, the overwhelming weight of grief.

  Despair was that single day, when he lost Eloise.

  At nineteen, his height towered above others, and arrogance followed his treat. But then and there, his broad shoulders shrank, and his neck bent. He clumsily fumbled with the bundle.

  He’d thought his heart would beat out of his ears.

  And when he unfolded the fabrics and sank to his knees, he was certain his heart abandoned him that day.

  He gagged, forcing it back down as he inhaled sharply. A myriad of both ice and rampaging resentment crept up his skin, frostbitten by his own chilled realization.

  What ripped out of his throat could have only been called a monster’s raw. Low, guttural cries and screams, cradling a severed hand to his chest. The anger and sorrow jerked, hammering in his veins as tears streaked down his cheeks.

  He stared unblinkingly at the curled, pale hand. It bore a single mole between the thumb and index.

  The place where faeries kissed, Eloise had always insisted. Ian’s body was covered in faerie kisses, and therefore, they would certainly be spirited away on some fateful day.

  Ian couldn’t recall that day. Not entirely, in the blur of his trembling vision and his wailing mind.

  That young man, a friend enrobed in betrayal, grazed his shoulder. An act of consolation. But Ian had thrashed, and he remembered bodies rushing toward him, and a pair of urgent, familiar arms that wrapped around his gasping body.

  It should have brought comfort. Tears and mucus smeared his face, gulping for air like a fish out of water.

  And then, he remembered agony. A web of resentment burning, threads snapping around his body like a cocoon, and he had grabbed it.

  He remembered an agonized scream by his ear. A painful squeeze, tight enough to bruise his ribs. And the weightlessness of a body slumping against his, then to the ground with a thud. The pinpoint of a needle jammed into his neck.

  And then, nothing. They never met again.

  Ian never learned the true purpose or intentions of his friend, bound in mystery. Three childhood friends, embarking on separate paths. One dead.

  Did that young man, identity untold, know more about his sister’s abrupt death?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Now, in the present illusion, on the rooftop of his deceased sister’s university, Ian’s closed eyes slowly fluttered open. Rain and gales whipped against his skin, leaving angry lashes of red. His clothes were soaked through.

  William’s teeth chattered, shouting. “What are we doing here?”

  Ian’s hollow eyes dragged to him, his face cold. “We’re going to jump,” he said calmly, slipping his fingers around William’s cold wrist. “Now.”

  “What?” William blinked, staggering forward. Once realization settled, he snapped to attention and thrashed violently, desperately clawing Ian’s hand. “No—! No, you madman! Let me go!”

  But Ian’s grip was a python that had seized its prey, coiled and venomous. William jerked, and his elbow smashed into Ian’s face. The Guide’s head snapped sideways.

  Blood streaked his nose, quickly washing in the hailing storm, but his eyes beheld nothing.

  William stilled, swallowing. The tempest raged on, a seemingly endless misfortune that would devour them whole. “I-I… I didn’t mean to—”

  Ian had long stopped listening. He dragged the unwilling young man to the edge of the desolate rooftop as lightning thundered high above. He shoved away the mess of raven clinging to his eyelids, shoving the other through a broken fence.

  “You’re joining to jump,” he repeated robotically.

  They had to eject themselves from the illusion themselves. The ghost’s violent resistance when Ian attempted to slice his neck determined an abnormality, although there was no guarantee.

  He was gambling with William’s life.

  Certainly, only an irredeemable fool would commit such irrationality, and only a madman could stand as he stood, demanding that another to willingly end their life. But something had snapped. A fine string, long pulled taut.

  And suddenly, he realized he cared little for William’s current desires.

  Time relentlessly continued its pursuit, and he didn’t know how far behind it lingered. He wanted to leave this forsaken delusion as soon as possible.

  Victor was a blight that clung to his head, and abandoning William would only become another burden. Ian didn’t need anymore plaguing his memory. And perhaps it was selfish to insist upon saving another, when it was really saving himself from the ordeals of guilt

  It didn’t matter. William would jump, and Ian would follow.

  Suddenly, as a last-ditch effort, William’s hand snapped out, nails scraping against Ian’s cheek. His head ricocheted sideways again. Red beaded down his tanned skin.

  For what felt like eons, he remained still. He very slowly lifted his hand to smear away the blood, aided by the rain that drenched his dark expression, shrouding it in the gloomy skies. His chest heaved, a steady breath.

  How tedious this was. He had grown up in that facility, witnessing a thousand farewells, and willowy bodies returning in brutal shapes of which they would never heal. He was a living commodity, no better than a machine injecting vitality.

  Then, when he crawled out of that pit and greeted the surface, it was senseless murder and discrimination, no better than below.

  All those memories shuddered through his abyssal eyes.

  “This isn’t real,” he whispered, a hoarse, eerie sound that peppered goosebumps. The half year possessing his memory, and his sister’s mangled corpse—none of it was real. “But do you prefer this life?”

  William trembled, his expression warping. On a better day, Ian would have attempted to sympathize and read him, but he had few of those days now. The young man sniffed, eyes rimmed in a glaring red. He hugged his sides. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. This is my life.”

  “This is a lie,” said Ian cruelly.

  William shook his head. “Not to me. And… and I really don’t want to die.”

  The gap in the criss-crossed metal fence separated them. Rusted iron. The ghost girl floated in reflections of every drop, her shadowed and pale face glinting. Observing.

  She didn’t interfere.

  Ian drew a breath. He wasn’t bred of cruelty, although he accepted labels of aggression and hypocrisy. He couldn’t have abandoned Lucian, and now, he couldn’t abandon William.

  His breathing quickened, desperation burrowing bone-deep. Everything had been manageable, and his vengeance remained a distant, but not impossible, reach. Yet the helplessness of the Rift’s influence overpowered him, forcing him into a state of inability.

  The elegant tread of another tapped against a puddle, sounding at Ian’s back. When Ian turned, he saw the beige coat whipping around the Esper’s body. “Make your choice, Guide. Time is running out, and it would be terribly disappointing if it all fails.”

  The pale, harrowing gaze reflected them, two mockeries carved of ice.

  Ian gritted his teeth. He stared beyond William’s shoulder, claiming the route of escape. Far below, in the descent of seven floors, he saw a sweet couple kissing by the bicycle rack. A trio of friends laughed as they lifted their backpacks over their heads.

  “Please,” whispered William, wide-eyed with panic. He attempted to tug out of Ian’s hands, scratching and scraping until the Guide’s tanned skin became a canvas of red. “Please. Please, really, I don’t want to die. I really don’t want to die!”

  Desperation and anger flared in his veins, a stampede in his rib cage. An unbearable heat coursed through him, as if his insides were boiling and burning.

  What option did he have left? Victor was no help unless it amused him, and Ian lived his entire life inside a metal box. What was he supposed to do against a person who refused to be saved?

  Even if his salvation might be a damnation.

  “Remember,” he said mutely, before his voice rose. “Remember Sylvan!”

  William only flailed, when his palm suddenly struck Ian’s chest. A spark ignited. Energy tangling. And William jerked his fingers away with a pained hiss, and gravity knocked him away.

  Away from Ian’s grasp.

  Those young, trusting eyes snapped wide in horror as his arms scrambled to find purchase. Ian’s chest throbbed. It tingled with a discomfort that crawled and coiled, a hundred centipedes swimming in his bloodstream alongside a million regrets.

  He dropped to his knees and grabbed the edge of the even ledge. Thrust his hand out. His fingers almost grazed William’s wretched, outstretched arm—

  —And missed.

  Time stretched. The other grasped helplessly, anguish warping their features. It didn’t take long.

  Seconds before the dampened smack of a body connected against cement, and muffled screams rebounded from the passerby.

  Blood splattered, pooling from a head that stared hollowly into the distance.

  That infuriating tread approached. Ducking under the gates and hovering by Ian’s forlorn shoulders. The man posed a cruel suggestion. “Tell me, what happens if this isn’t the right method?”

  Ian’s heart was racing, and he couldn’t tell if it was an error of his body, adrenaline, or utter despair. It pounded without stop, and his fingers bunched the fabrics at his chest.

  He knelt there, drowned in the miserly weather. “Then I’ve killed him.”

  The Rift, Ian had come to learn, didn't allow the luxury of time to weigh decisions or search for safer options. Sometimes came a moment of decision where all they could do was pray that luck smiled upon them.

  "We have to be willing to die to live,” he continued raggedly.

  Espers, Guides, and humans were forced to take drastic risks to preserve their lives. The irony was remarkable, and Ian wanted to sneer at it.

  "But he wasn't," mused Victor. "He wasn't willing to die. If there comes a day, Guide, where you must make a decision that will alter the fate of humanity, do you dare risk everything for an insignificant possibility of change?"

  Water pelted against Ian's body, and with his clothes clinging to his body, it granted him a fragility often disguised by aggression. Like a pathetic, drowned mutt.

  "And you?" The dark eyes suddenly cut sideways. "You've rarely used any of your abilities, and all those above A-rank should possess several. What do you want from me?"

  The answer, before this Rift, would have been simple. The Guide sparked a faint curiosity in the typically bored mind, and Victor had been curious to witness the struggles of a helpless creature that could burn with such fever.

  Now, the Esper found himself at a loss for an answer.

  He restrained the usage of his abilities to test the capabilities of the Guide—indeed, he could have done much more. In the Center, with the publication of high-level Espers and Guides as a celebrity program that boosted morale, many liked to display flashy and powerful skills.

  Victor was the opposite. He didn't hesitate to use his abilities, specializing in ice, but his physical abilities were also greatly enhanced.

  "I had a vague idea," said Victor honestly. "And now it seems that I am uncertain."

  "Be certain," sneered Ian venomously.

  What a terrible, miserable, despondent shape Ian took. A cruel carving of what had once been a Guide with more bark than bite. A Guide eager to watch Victor fall, and what shape that would appear in, Victor could not say.

  He only knew that Ian’s downfall could be amusing.

  So, the Esper offered his hand, palm facing up towards the other. Together, they hovered at the perilous edge of the university building, a corpse behind and before them.

  The thunder raged ceaselessly. Unforgiving and furious.

  Ian stared at the hand with a burning gaze and grabbed it. As if in sync, two bodies tall against the raucous weather made a leap of faith. Only days ago—months in the illusion—Ian would have never jumped off with this man.

  As their bodies descended, Ian distantly thought of that fact.

  And yet, the impression of 162 days—

  —He couldn't forget it.