Garret stepped into what was left of his sister's room. The door hung from a single hinge, swaying gently every time the wind pushed through the shattered window. The air was thick with the scent of dust and something else, something faintly familiar. Her perfume. It clung to the wreckage like a ghost refusing to fade.
He moved slowly at first, then faster, tearing through the debris with shaking hands. Shreds of blankets. A cracked picture frame. A small notebook crushed beneath a fallen shelf. Each piece made his chest tighten further. His breath came in ragged bursts, caught between fury and dread.
He overturned the mattress—nothing. The wardrobe—empty. His pulse roared in his ears.
"No… no, she's not…"
His voice broke.
He dropped to his knees, hands trembling, the world blurring through tears he refused to let fall.
"She can't be dead."
Logic screamed otherwise—he'd seen the shattered door, the signs of struggle, the faint streaks of blood. Everything pointed to the same truth. But his heart refused to hear it.
He pressed his palm against the cold floorboards, fingers curling into fists. Something inside him cracked. The fury that had kept him standing all this time, the defiance, the iron will—just… fell away. What replaced it was raw, suffocating grief. His body went still, then began to shake. His breath hitched, uneven, and before he could stop it, the first sob tore through his chest.
And then another.
And another.
Garret collapsed fully, his body curling as though the pain had weight. His shoulders shook, his hands clawing at the ground. The walls that had made him who he was—the calm, unbreakable front, the stoic silence—crumbled under the crushing realization.
He wept. Loudly. Violently. Without shame. The sound echoed through the ruined room, a raw, human sound in a world that had forgotten humanity.
From the doorway, Eira stood frozen.
She had come to tell him they were regrouping. That the others were ready to move. That they'd done all they could here. But when she saw him—Garret Morte, the man who faced death without flinching, who commanded shadows like extensions of his will—lying on the floor, broken, trembling, weeping the words caught in her throat.
She couldn't move for several seconds. Something about the sight unnerved her more than any monster could. The man she thought unshakable, was just a brother.
She stepped forward once, hesitated. His hand was clutching a locket, her locket, so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. His tears stained the floor beneath him, mixing with the dust.
Eira's chest tightened. There was nothing she could say that wouldn't sound hollow. Nothing that would make this moment any less real. So she didn't speak. She didn't touch him.
Instead, she turned quietly and stepped back into the hallway, her boots crunching softly over the broken glass.
Her hand lingered on the doorframe for a moment—then she let go and walked toward the others.
Garret stood in her sister's room for a long time before stepping out. The air felt thick, heavy, even the silence pitied him. When he finally stepped out, the sound of his boots against the cracked floor was the only noise anyone dared to make. Every head turned— Eira, Leah, Kael, Marcus, Aria, Dave… even Darrius paused mid-step. The man who had walked in before the calm, composed, lethal Garret was gone. What stood before them was something else entirely.
He looked at them, but not really at them. His eyes were hollow, unfocused, like he was staring through them into something far away. The faint sheen of tears still clung to his lashes, though his face had long since dried. His chest rose and fell shallowly, the rhythm uneven, his knuckles white from gripping her locket like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
Clara took a hesitant step toward him. Her voice trembled.
"You… you saved us. Thank you. We wouldn't be alive without you"
He didn't answer. Didn't nod. Didn't even flick his eyes toward her. The words were just sounds, meaningless against the roar of everything breaking inside him. Gratitude, survival, relief… they were luxuries for people who hadn't lost anything. The weight in his chest was too heavy — too final.
The silence grew thick. Leah bit her lip, her eyes full of worry. Dave shifted awkwardly, trying to think of something to say, but the look on Garret's face silenced even him. It wasn't anger, or grief. It was emptiness. The others shifted uncomfortably under the emptiness in his gaze. He wasn't the same man who had cut through the undead like a reaper. What stood before them was a shell, a husk of something that had burned too bright, and now only smoldered.
Eira's voice finally broke the stillness. Calm, but not as cold as usual.
"Garret."
He didn't move but the sound of his name seemed to reach him, faintly. She took a small step closer, her gaze steady.
"The girls told me something," she said quietly. "About two days ago, a man came here. He cleared the first and second floors… but when he saw the creature on the third, he ran." Her voice hardened. "The same man I mentioned before. The one who made people carry him around like servants."
Garret's eyes flicked up slightly, just enough to show that he was listening.
Eira continued, more carefully now. "If he cleared those floors, then it's possible your sister made it out with the survivors he took or she escaped. The girls said he left with a few others. If she was alive then, she might still be. It's not certain, but… it's something."
The faintest shift crossed Garret's face
Hope. The cruelest illusion of all.
Garret wanted to believe it. Wanted to hold on to that tiny flicker of light, but the rational part of him, the one that had faced death multiple times — knew better. His sister wasn't a fighter. She had no powers, no skills, no experience surviving in a world this cruel. Even if she'd escaped the dorm that night, the outside world would have devoured her before dawn. The silence stretched.
Finally, Garret spoke, his voice low and hoarse, each word scraping out of him like it hurt to breathe.
"When do we visit this bastard?"
Eira didn't hesitate. Her answer came cold, sharp, and immediate.
"Tonight."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Garret's fingers tightened around the sword's hilt. The hollow, distant look in his eyes hardened—grief cooling into something sharper, darker. Not hope. Not vengeance. Purpose.
He walked past them without another word. Each step felt heavy, deliberate. The others watched him go; Eira's face unreadable, Kael tense beside her, Leah clutching her hands together in silent prayer.
Marcus muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.
"Guess we're going hunting."
Eira didn't respond. Her eyes lingered on Garret's fading silhouette, shoulders straight despite the weight of everything. For a moment, she thought back to the man she'd seen crumbling in that room, broken, human. Now, all she saw was the mask again.
But this time, it wasn't to hide his pain.
It was to bury it alive.
And as his resolve hardened, the quiet, faint murmur of the Weave whispered silently in his ears
{You have learnt a new skill...}