It was the evening of December 25th, and northern Vermont lay buried beneath a suffocating weight of snow. Pine trees stood like silent sentinels beneath a steel-gray sky, their branches heavy, unmoving. Snow drifted lazily through the air, catching what little moonlight filtered down between the canopy, casting the forest in a dim, ghostly glow. The world felt paused—quiet in a way that suggested not peace, but anticipation.
The stillness broke under the low crunch of tires.
A battered, matte-black 2008 Ford Crown Victoria pushed its way along the narrow road, its engine humming low, its weight grinding softly through snow and gravel. Once a proud police interceptor, it had long since been stripped of dignity—paint dulled, body scarred, windows scratched into a permanent haze by years of abuse. It looked forgettable by design. That was the point.
Inside, it was anything but.
Frank Armstrong drove.
At thirty-five, Frank had the look of a man who had carved himself down to function—everything unnecessary stripped away. Lean, controlled, precise. His short blonde hair was kept tight, his jaw clean, his blue eyes fixed forward with an intensity that made even empty roads feel like threats waiting to be decoded. He wore practical gear—dark sweater, tactical vest, cargo pants, boots. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.
Frank made sense.
Bruce did not.
Bruce Redford filled the passenger seat like something that had been forced into a shape too small to contain it. Six-foot-eight, three hundred and fifty pounds of bulk and imbalance, knees jammed up against the dash, elbows bumping the door with every minor shift. His head tilted awkwardly against the window, sunglasses—scratched to near-opacity—still clinging stubbornly to his face despite the darkness.
He looked like a man who had dressed himself in the dark using only bad decisions.
A stained gray hoodie stretched across his massive frame. The sleeves were frayed where he'd picked at them, threads hanging loose like nerves. His vest—if it could still be called that—was patched together with duct tape in places where it had simply given up. His jeans were worn thin at the knees, and his sneakers looked like they had survived something they shouldn't have.
Bruce didn't notice.
Or didn't care.
Across his lap rested his rifle.
An AR-15.
Decorated.
Bright stickers clung to the matte black surface—smiling cartoon bunnies, peeling slightly at the edges, and near the grip, a small, worn image of Yoda stared outward with quiet, misplaced wisdom. Bruce's massive hand moved slowly along the barrel, almost absentmindedly, like someone petting a dog that couldn't bite back.
Frank glanced at him once.
Then looked away.
He'd learned not to ask.
Silence sat comfortably between them—not the kind born from ease, but from repetition. Years of it. Missions stacked on top of each other until words stopped being necessary.
The car rolled forward.
Then—
Movement.
A flicker from the roadside. Small. Fast.
Frank saw it immediately. His eyes caught everything.
He didn't react.
Bruce did.
"O-OH SHIT, STOP—!"
His entire body lunged forward, hands slamming against the dashboard as if impact was seconds away.
Frank hit the brakes.
Hard.
The Crown Vic skidded, tires biting into ice and gravel, snow kicking up into the headlights in a sudden burst of white.
Then stillness.
A gray rat stood frozen in the beam of light—tiny, fragile, completely insignificant.
It twitched.
Then bolted.
Gone.
Frank turned his head slowly.
"You screamed like we were about to kill a child."
Bruce sank back into his seat, breathing heavy, face flushed—not with fear anymore, but relief. His hand returned to the rifle, gripping it lightly.
"I-I'm sorry," he muttered. "B-but you s-saw him, right? H-he made it."
Frank stared at him.
"It's a rat."
Bruce shook his head slightly, eyes still fixed on where it had disappeared.
"Yeah… b-but not really."
Frank said nothing.
Bruce swallowed, then spoke again—slower this time, forcing the words out like they mattered.
"S-some people… they g-get roads, you know? C-clear ones. N-no one chases them. N-no one tries to k-kill them."
His thumb brushed over Yoda's face.
"S-some don't. S-some just r-run. A-all the time. S-scared. A-alone."
He exhaled quietly.
"Th-that little guy… he k-kept going anyway."
Frank looked forward again.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then, quieter—
"We're almost there."
Bruce nodded.
That was enough.
The road stretched on, cutting through the trees until the forest finally opened up.
And there it was.
The mansion.
A sprawling ski lodge dressed up as something warm and inviting—Christmas lights draped across balconies, golden light spilling from frosted windows, the illusion of comfort carefully maintained. But the illusion didn't hold up under scrutiny.
Not to them.
The front yard was packed.
Cars everywhere—SUVs, muscle cars, high-end sedans—thirty, maybe forty vehicles scattered across the snow like a graveyard of bad decisions. Each one belonged to someone inside.
Someone dangerous.
Frank slowed the car, guiding it off the road and into the shadows behind a cluster of pine trees. The engine quieted to a low hum before dying completely.
Silence returned.
Both men stared ahead.
Bruce wasn't looking at the house.
He was looking to the side.
At the fuel tank.
Large. Industrial. Red paint dulled by time, rust creeping along its edges. It sat too close to the building—close enough that it felt wrong.
Or, to Bruce—
Right.
He stared at it, unmoving, something settling behind his eyes. Not curiosity. Not concern.
Certainty.
Frank reached for the radio.
"Unit Bravo-Fourteen—"
Bruce's hand stopped him.
Not forcefully.
Just enough.
Frank turned, already irritated. "Bruce—"
"Th-that's it."
Frank blinked. "What?"
Bruce didn't look at him.
"Th-that's how we d-do it."
Frank followed his gaze.
The tank.
Then back to Bruce.
"No."
Bruce nodded slowly, like he hadn't even heard him.
"Y-yeah."
"Bruce, no."
"I-it's perfect."
Frank let out a sharp breath, trying to keep his voice level. "There are at least fifty people in that building."
"E-exactly."
"That's not a good thing."
"It is f-for this."
Frank stared at him, disbelief creeping in. "You're not serious."
Bruce finally turned.
Pulled off his sunglasses.
His eyes weren't confused.
They weren't uncertain.
They were calm.
That was worse.
"W-we call this in," Bruce said, voice steady in its broken way, "a-and it t-turns into a s-standoff. H-hours. M-maybe longer."
Frank didn't interrupt.
"P-people d-die. G-good people."
Bruce gestured toward the mansion.
"T-they g-get deals. L-light sentences. T-they walk."
A beat.
"Th-then they k-keep going."
Frank shook his head. "That's not how this works."
"N-no," Bruce said quietly. "I-it is."
Frank ran a hand over his face. "You don't just blow up a building because it's convenient."
Bruce glanced back at the tank.
"Th-that's not c-convenience."
A pause.
"Th-that's God p-putting it there."
Frank actually laughed once.
Short. Disbelieving. "Jesus Christ."
Bruce opened the door.
Cold air rushed in.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank."
And then he was out.
Frank sat there for half a second longer.
Then—
"Goddammit."
He was moving.
Out of the car, around to the trunk, grabbing gear with practiced speed—helmet, rifle, ammo. No hesitation in the motions, even if every part of his brain was screaming that this was wrong.
He slammed the trunk shut, already running.
Snow crunched under his boots as he cut toward the edge of the clearing, dropping behind a parked SUV. He crouched, scanning, rifle up, breathing controlled.
Professional.
Always professional.
He keyed his mic.
"Bruce, I'm at your six. Behind the black SUV. Confirm—"
Nothing.
Frank closed his eyes briefly.
"Of course you forgot your radio."
He peeked around the vehicle.
Bruce was already halfway there.
A massive silhouette moving through the snow, slow but unstoppable, like something that had already decided the outcome.
Inside the lodge, the lights still glowed warm.
Music low.
Bodies scattered.
Unaware.
Frank tightened his grip on the rifle.
This was wrong.
Every part of it.
But he was here.
Because Bruce was here.
And that had always been enough.
Snow continued to fall, soft and indifferent, settling over the rows of cars, over the roof of the lodge, over the path Bruce carved forward with each heavy step.
Toward the fuel tank.
Toward something final.
Bruce approached it without hesitation, his breath rolling out in thick clouds that vanished as quickly as they formed. Each step crunched loudly in the snow despite his effort to be quiet, his size making subtlety more of a suggestion than a reality. The fuel tank loomed larger with every stride, its rusted red surface dulled by frost, warning labels peeling but still legible in the pale wash of moonlight.
Too close to the building.
Too dangerous.
To Bruce—
Perfect.
He stopped in front of it, staring for a moment as if waiting for something—confirmation, maybe. When none came, he nodded to himself anyway.
Then, with surprising care, he reached into his hoodie pocket.
His fingers fumbled through the usual chaos—coins, lint, a crushed candy wrapper—before closing around something solid. He pulled them out slowly, revealing a handful of novelty lighters, clutched together like small, ridiculous relics.
Bruce didn't smoke. Never had.
He'd bought them months ago at a convention because they'd made him feel… something. Cooler, maybe. Braver. Like the kind of guy who had a plan, even if he never actually did. They were supposed to be gifts—Frank's kids would've liked them—but somehow they'd just stayed in his pocket, carried around like quiet little promises of a version of himself that made more sense.
Now they sat in his palm.
A Darth Vader lighter—Your Empire Needs YOU—the dark figure pointing outward like an accusation.
A black-and-gold Lord of the Rings lighter, etched with delicate script: One Ring to Rule Them All.
Another, more chaotic—Gandalf locked in defiance against the Balrog, frozen mid-battle.
A simple one, almost out of place: Work Hard & Be Nice to People.
And the last—polished, clean, almost sincere:
Light the Way to Your Dreams.
Bruce stared at them for a second longer than necessary.
Then he smiled.
It was small. Crooked. But real.
"Alright," he murmured to no one.
He crouched, placing two of them carefully into the snow near the base of the tank—the Vader lighter and the Ring. He flipped them open with clumsy precision, thumbs pressing down until—
click.
Two small flames bloomed to life.
They flickered weakly in the cold air, fragile and unimpressive.
Bruce leaned back slightly, studying them like they were something much bigger.
Like they mattered.
"Timers," he whispered, satisfied.
He stood again, turning toward the valve.
It was larger up close. Heavier. Old.
He grabbed it with both hands and twisted.
Nothing.
He adjusted his grip, planting his boots more firmly into the snow, and tried again—harder this time.
The metal screamed.
A long, grinding shriek tore through the quiet night, echoing off the trees and the lodge like something alive and in pain.
Bruce froze.
Every muscle locked.
"…oh no."
From inside the mansion—
A voice.
Muffled. Angry.
"Hey! Who's messing with my car?!"
Bruce's eyes widened.
"Sh-shit."
He moved fast—or at least, as fast as someone his size could—rounding the corner of the building and pressing himself flat against the wall. Which didn't work very well, because there was simply too much of him to hide properly.
Still, he tried.
He reached instinctively for his radio.
His hand met nothing.
Bruce blinked.
Then groaned softly, letting his head thunk once against the wooden siding.
"D-damn it… n-no radio again…"
A beat.
"Frank's g-gonna kill me."
Footsteps.
Crunching closer.
Bruce inhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. His brain scrambled, digging desperately through anything useful it could find.
Tactics.
Stealth.
Distractions.
Most of what it found came from YouTube.
His eyes lit up slightly.
Right.
Okay.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned out just enough to project his voice into the dark.
"Moo! M-moo! C-come here, y-you gangster cow!" he called, far too loudly. "Y-your mother w-was a hamster!"
The silence that followed lasted half a second.
Then the footsteps sped up.
"—the hell?"
Bruce tensed, gripping his rifle tighter, adrenaline slamming into him all at once. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might shake him apart from the inside.
The side door burst open.
Light spilled out into the snow.
A figure stepped through—
Bruce moved.
He came out of the shadows, raising his rifle—
—and stopped.
"…oh."
The man in front of him was small.
Very small.
No taller than Bruce's chest—maybe four-foot-six at most—with sharp features and a face that carried an uncanny resemblance to Peter Dinklage, only angrier. Much angrier.
He wore a leather jacket two sizes too big, gold chains draped across his chest in a way that tried very hard to look intimidating and didn't quite manage it.
He looked up at Bruce like he wanted to bite him.
"Who you callin' cow, freak?" the man snapped, already reaching into his waistband.
Bruce didn't think.
He reacted.
All three hundred and fifty pounds of him surged forward at once.
They hit the ground hard.
Snow exploded around them as they crashed down, Bruce scrambling to pin him, the smaller man twisting violently beneath him with surprising strength. It wasn't clumsy—it was fast, practiced, vicious.
The man snarled, baring his teeth—
And bit.
Hard.
Bruce yelped, jerking instinctively. Pain shot through his hand, sharp and immediate, his grip faltering for just a second, and that was enough.
His other arm swung with force.
His fist connected with the side of the man's head with a dull, final crack.
Everything stopped.
Not slowed. Not staggered.
Stopped.
The struggle vanished instantly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside the smaller man's body. One second there was resistance—sharp, violent, alive—and the next there was nothing.
The weight beneath Bruce shifted.
Then went slack.
Too slack.
Bruce froze above him, breath coming in short, uneven bursts, chest heaving as if his body hadn't yet realized the fight was over.
"…h-hey…"
No response.
The man's eyes stared upward, wide and glassy, whatever had been burning behind them extinguished so completely it was almost hard to believe it had ever been there at all.
Bruce swallowed.
"N-no… no, no…"
He shifted his weight, awkwardly, carefully—like he might break something if he moved too fast, like the damage hadn't already been done. One massive hand reached out, giving the man a small shake.
"W-wake up… c'mon…"
Nothing.
The silence pressed in.
Not the quiet of the forest.
Not the stillness of snow.
Something heavier.
Final.
Bruce's chest tightened, a slow, crushing pressure building beneath his ribs. His stomach dropped, hollowing out, leaving something cold and sick behind.
"I-I didn't m-mean—"
The words cracked apart in his throat.
For a moment—just a moment—Bruce Redford didn't look like something immovable, didn't look like a wall of muscle and bad decisions.
He looked small.
Lost.
Then—
Voices.
From inside.
More than one.
Closer now.
"What was that?"
"Yo— you hear that?!"
Footsteps.
Fast.
Multiple.
Coming straight for the door.
Bruce's head snapped up, panic slamming back into him so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him. The world rushed back all at once—the cold, the gun, the tank, the plan—if it could even be called that.
He looked down again, as if hoping—just hoping—
But the body didn't change.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't move.
"N-no… I-I didn't…"
His hands trembled now as he grabbed at the man's jacket, shaking him harder, desperation creeping in.
"W-wake up… p-please…"
Nothing.
And then—
The door burst open.
Light flooded out into the snow again, harsh and sudden.
Another figure stepped through—taller this time, wiry, already armed, gun coming up with instinctive speed.
Bruce didn't even have time to stand.
A shot cracked through the night.
Sharp. Clean.
The man jerked—stumbled—then dropped straight down into the snow without a sound.
Bruce flinched, instinctively ducking, eyes snapping toward the darkness.
From behind a parked SUV came a yell—
"Bruce, move!"
Frank's voice didn't just cut through the night—it snapped it in half. Sharp, controlled, but louder than Bruce had ever heard it, stripped of patience, stripped of restraint.
"They're waking up!"
And like the world had been waiting for permission—
The mansion came alive.
Shouts burst through the walls. Confused at first, then angry. Footsteps thundered across wooden floors, doors slamming open hard enough to rattle the frame. The warm, harmless illusion of the lodge collapsed in an instant, something ugly and violent clawing its way out from underneath.
Bruce didn't think.
He moved.
He scrambled back toward the fuel tank, boots slipping in the snow, breath tearing out of him in panicked bursts. His hands found the valve again—cold, unyielding—and he threw his full weight into it.
"C-come on—!"
The metal shrieked in protest.
For a second, it refused.
Then—
It gave.
Rust ground against rust with a sound like something breaking its own bones, and the valve twisted open. Gasoline burst out in a heavy, choking rush, splashing across the snow, soaking it instantly, the sharp chemical stench filling the air.
Bruce stumbled back half a step, eyes wide.
It was working.
It was actually working—
Gunfire exploded from the windows.
Glass shattered outward in violent bursts, and bullets tore into the ground around him, kicking up sprays of snow and dirt. The sound was deafening—sharp cracks layered over each other, too fast to track, too loud to process.
Bruce dove.
He slammed into the side of the tank, pressing himself against the freezing metal as rounds hammered into it with violent clangs. Sparks snapped off the surface inches from his face, brief flashes of light in the chaos.
Too close.
Way too close.
His heart was out of control now, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His breath came fast, uneven, each inhale catching halfway like his lungs had forgotten how to work properly.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
The lighters—
He glanced down.
Still there.
Still burning.
Small, stupid flames flickering in the snow, completely indifferent to the storm of bullets tearing the world apart around them.
His hand—
Shaking.
There was blood on it.
Not his.
That hit him all over again.
The dwarf.
The eyes.
The stillness.
Bruce swallowed hard, something tight and ugly crawling up his throat.
"I-I messed up…"
Another volley of gunfire slammed into the tank, snapping him back.
He curled tighter against it, clutching his rifle like it might anchor him to something real.
"H-Happygun…"
His voice was barely more than a breath now.
He looked down at it.
At the stickers.
The smiling bunnies.
The calm, steady face of Yoda staring back at him like none of this meant anything at all.
"P-please…" he whispered. "P-please p-protect me…"
His grip tightened.
"I-I don't w-wanna k-kill anyone else…"
A beat.
"I-I didn't k-kill that dwarf… y-you did, r-right…? Y-you handle that p-part…"
Another burst cracked past, close enough to make him flinch hard.
Bruce sucked in a breath, then leaned out from cover.
He pulled the trigger.
The rifle barked in uneven, panicked bursts, recoil kicking wildly through his arms. He wasn't aiming—couldn't aim—just sending rounds toward the light, toward movement, toward anything that wasn't him.
Somewhere—
A figure dropped.
Then another.
Bruce ducked back instantly, shaking harder now.
"I-It wasn't me…" he muttered under his breath. "H-Happygun did it… I-I'm s-sorry…"
Again.
Quieter.
Like repeating it might make it true.
Across the clearing, Frank moved like something else entirely.
Where Bruce was chaos, Frank was precision.
He flowed between the parked cars, low and fast, rifle up, firing in controlled bursts that ended exactly when they needed to. He never stayed still, never gave the shooters a clean angle—one second behind a sedan, the next already gone, slipping into another pocket of shadow.
Bullets chased him.
Always just behind.
Always just missing.
To Bruce, half-glimpsing it through panic and smoke, it looked impossible—like Frank wasn't dodging the gunfire so much as existing slightly ahead of it.
Back at the tank, Bruce pressed himself harder against the metal.
The gasoline kept pouring.
Spreading.
Creeping outward across the snow in a widening stain.
Closer to the flames.
Always closer.
Bruce forced himself to look up.
Ten meters.
That was all.
Ten meters to the row of cars.
Ten meters to something that wasn't this.
But the distance twisted in his head, stretching, growing, turning into something unreachable. The open ground between him and safety felt enormous—wide enough to swallow him whole.
"I c-can't…"
His breath hitched.
Then—
Something else pushed in.
Not the gunfire.
Not the shouting.
Something softer.
Warmer.
A memory.
The gymnast.
She appeared in his mind like she always did—effortless, weightless, moving through space like the rules didn't apply to her. Blonde pigtails bouncing, bright eyes full of something light and fearless, her body twisting and turning in ways that made no sense but still looked right.
She didn't crash into things.
Didn't break them.
Didn't scare people.
People cheered for her.
Bruce stared at the snow in front of him, blinking hard.
"She m-makes it l-look so easy…"
For a second, his thoughts drifted—strange, misplaced, almost innocent. The curves of her body, the softness he didn't understand, the way she seemed built for something completely different than what he was.
"W-why don't m-men have that…" he muttered faintly, then shook his head quickly, like physically pushing the thought away.
Not now.
Amber's voice followed right behind it.
Sharp. Frustrated.
You broke the table, Bruce.
You're not built for that.
His jaw tightened.
If he could just—
Move like her.
Just once.
Just this once.
No crashing.
No breaking.
No messing it up.
He tightened his grip on Happygun, knuckles whitening, and leaned out again, firing one last messy burst before snapping back into cover.
Bullets answered immediately, cracking past his head, forcing him down.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut.
His heart hammered so hard it hurt.
Then, quietly—
Almost like a prayer—
"P-please…" he whispered. "L-let me b-be graceful… j-just this once…"
A breath.
"I-I don't wanna d-die clumsy."
And then—
The pause came.
Not silence, not truly—but a fracture in the chaos. A single, fragile heartbeat where the gunfire stuttered, where the night seemed to inhale and forget to exhale.
Bruce moved.
He didn't run so much as throw himself forward.
His enormous frame lurched into motion, limbs flailing in something that, in his mind, resembled the gymnast's effortless grace—spins, lightness, control. In reality, it was weight and momentum and desperation colliding all at once. He stumbled into the air more than he leapt, crashed into the snow more than he landed.
But he was moving.
Forward.
That was enough.
The gunfire returned.
Bullets screamed through the air like hornets, furious and blind.
One found him.
It tore across his face in a wet, violent line—bone, cartilage, flesh giving way in an instant. His nose vanished in a spray of blood, pain detonating through his skull so bright and sharp it swallowed everything else.
Bruce screamed.
A raw, broken sound.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Another shot—
His ear—
Gone.
A flash of heat, then absence, something ripped away and thrown into the dark behind him. Blood streamed down his neck, hot against the freezing air.
He staggered, tried to rise—
The next bullet shattered his knee.
It didn't feel like a wound. It felt like the leg had simply ceased to exist properly. His weight collapsed with it, his body slamming into the ground with a force that knocked the breath from him entirely.
He howled.
Still—
Still—
He moved.
Dragging now.
One hand gripping Happygun, the other clawing through snow and gravel, fingers tearing, nails breaking, pulling his massive body forward inch by inch.
Closer.
Just a little closer—
The gunfire intensified.
Rounds tore into his back, heavy impacts that drove the air from his lungs, that made his body jolt with each hit like something being hammered apart.
Then—
One shot.
Lower.
Final.
It struck at the base of his spine.
There was no pain.
Not like before.
Something simply… ended.
Bruce felt it—not as sensation, but as its absence. His legs were still there. He knew they were.
But they were gone.
Silent.
Empty.
Dead weight dragging behind him.
His breath hitched, a small, confused sound escaping him.
"…w-why…"
No answer.
There was no time for one.
He kept pulling.
Kept dragging.
Because stopping meant—
No.
He didn't think that part.
He just moved.
And somehow—
Somehow—
He reached the cars.
His body collapsed beneath the nearest one, folding awkwardly into the narrow shadow, his chest heaving, breath wet and uneven. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading slowly across the frozen ground, steam rising faintly into the night.
For a moment—
A single, fragile moment—
He was still.
Then the shouting came again.
Closer now.
Advancing.
Boots crunching through snow.
Bruce rolled slightly, forcing his rifle up with trembling hands, bracing it weakly against the ground. Shapes moved beyond the cars—legs, shadows, flashes of movement.
He fired.
The rifle bucked weakly in his grip, uneven bursts tearing into whatever he could see.
Feet.
Shins.
Anything.
Screams answered him.
Bodies dropped.
It didn't feel real.
None of it did.
His breath came shallow now, each inhale thick, wet, wrong. His vision narrowed, edges darkening, the world pulling away from him piece by piece.
He looked down.
His leg—
Ruined.
Twisted, barely attached, something that didn't belong to him anymore.
His hand rose to his face—
There was nothing where his nose had been.
Just warmth.
Just blood.
Too much of it.
His throat filled with it, each breath a drowning struggle, a quiet choking that he didn't have the strength to fight.
His lower body—
Gone.
Not physically.
But gone.
Bruce lay there beneath the car, staring out at the world like it was already something distant.
And slowly—
Quietly—
He understood.
This was it.
Not dramatic.
Not heroic.
Just—
Over.
"I m-messed up…"
The words barely existed.
His eyes drifted.
Past the chaos.
Past the movement.
Back to the tank.
Gasoline still poured, slower now, but steady. It crept across the snow in dark, glistening veins, inching closer to the small, stubborn flames he had placed there.
The lighters.
Still burning.
Still waiting.
Bruce watched them for a long moment.
Then his thoughts… loosened.
Not gone.
Just softer.
Distant.
He thought of his father first—not with anger, not anymore. Just a memory. Loud. Violent. Broken. And then gone, in a burst of gunfire that had carved something permanent into Bruce's chest.
That was where it had started.
The need to protect.
To fix.
To make sure no one else felt like that.
Then—
Frank.
Always Frank.
Stepping out of the dark like something impossible, offering a hand Bruce hadn't known he was allowed to take. Giving him a life he didn't understand but held onto anyway.
A home.
Richard. Meredith.
A place at a table that hadn't belonged to him—but had been given anyway.
School.
Hard.
Confusing.
But finished.
Somehow.
Games.
Endless hours of them—World of Warcraft, Medieval II—losing constantly, failing constantly, and still laughing like it mattered.
Road trips.
Bad food.
Worse ideas.
Frank laughing beside him.
That part felt warm.
That part stayed.
Amber—
A flicker of something complicated. Not regret. Never regret.
"I t-tried…"
That was enough.
Frank's wife.
Sarah.
The kids.
Bruce never really understood how any of that worked. How people made families. How love turned into something that stayed.
But Frank had it.
And that made sense.
Frank deserved it.
Bruce smiled faintly, blood on his lips.
His life hadn't been clean.
Or easy.
Or impressive.
But it had been—
Full.
In its own strange way.
And that was enough.
His eyes filled, not with pain, but something softer.
"Th-thank you…"
The words barely left him.
He lifted Happygun one last time, firing weak, fading bursts toward the approaching shapes.
"I-I'm s-sorry, Frank…"
A breath.
"I d-did okay… r-right…?"
The darkness crept closer now, slow and gentle, like something patient.
Bruce didn't fight it.
He watched the gasoline inch closer to the flames.
Watched the light flicker.
Waited.
Then—
Movement.
Fast.
Close.
A figure dropped beside him, sliding into the narrow space under the car.
Frank.
"Bruce! Jesus Christ—Bruce, stay with me!"
Hands on him. Real. Urgent.
Bruce blinked, eyes struggling to focus.
"N-no… Frank…" he rasped weakly. "Y-you h-have to g-go…"
His gaze flicked toward the tank.
"It's g-gonna—"
Frank shook his head immediately, violently.
"No. No, I'm not leaving you."
"Y-you h-have Sarah… y-your k-kids…"
"I don't care!"
The words came out raw, torn from somewhere deeper than anything Frank usually let show.
"I'm not leaving you here. Not ever."
Bruce stared at him, confusion cutting through the haze.
"…w-why…"
Frank's voice broke.
"Because you're my brother."
A breath.
"Because you're the best part of this world, Bruce."
His grip tightened.
"If you go, I go."
Bruce's eyes filled slowly.
He understood that.
Not everything.
But that.
"…o-okay…"
Together, they raised their weapons—one steady, one shaking—and fired into the advancing shadows, two figures under a car, holding a line that didn't exist anymore.
Then—
The gasoline reached the flames.
It happened instantly.
Fire raced across the ground in a violent rush, a living thing devouring the soaked snow, surging toward the tank with unstoppable hunger.
Frank saw it.
So did Bruce.
There was no time.
Frank moved without thinking.
He threw himself over Bruce, wrapping around him, shielding him completely, his body a barrier against what was coming.
"Got you," he whispered.
Then—
The world ended.
The explosion tore through the night like something divine and furious, a fireball blooming outward, consuming everything in its path—the tank, the cars, the mansion itself.
Flame.
Pressure.
Light.
Everything shattered at once.
Inside the lodge, hidden stockpiles ignited in a chain reaction—secondary blasts ripping through the structure, turning wood and steel into fragments, into dust, into nothing.
The ground shook.
The air burned.
And at the center of it—
Frank held on.
Even as the fire took them.
Even as the world collapsed.
Bruce's eyes remained open just long enough to see him—Frank's face, illuminated in firelight, not afraid.
Just—
There.
With him.
In that final moment, Bruce understood something simple, something certain.
He had lived.
Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.
But fully.
And he had not been alone.
That was enough.
Then as darkness enveloped him, warmth soon followed.
Just warmth—thick, surrounding, complete. It held him in place like something alive, something patient, something that had been waiting for him long before he arrived. There was no pain here. No fire. No broken bones, no blood in his throat, no weight dragging behind him.
Bruce floated.
Or something like it.
There was no body to measure it by anymore.
No edges.
No fear.
Just quiet.
Then—
Pressure.
It came without warning.
Subtle at first, then tightening—closing in around him from every direction. The warmth shifted, no longer gentle but insistent, pushing, compressing, forcing him forward through something too narrow, too tight.
Bruce didn't understand.
Didn't have time to.
The pressure grew.
Relentless.
Driving him onward whether he wanted to move or not.
Then—
Cold.
Violent, immediate cold.
The warmth vanished like it had never existed, ripped away in an instant. Air hit him—sharp, invasive, wrong—and his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He gasped.
A raw, instinctive inhale that burned his lungs and filled them all at once.
Sound followed.
Voices.
Close.
Real.
Hands—large, rough, calloused—caught him, lifting him upward. He felt them, actually felt them, firm but careful, supporting something that was suddenly—
Small.
Too small.
"Congratulations, my lord!"
A woman's voice, bright, breathless with joy.
"You have a healthy baby girl!"
Girl?
The word slammed into him like a mistake.
Wait—
No.
No, that was wrong.
That was—
Bruce's thoughts scrambled, colliding with each other, refusing to fit into whatever this new reality was trying to be.
I'm Bruce.
The certainty was immediate.
Solid.
I'm not—
He tried to speak.
To correct it.
To fix it.
"W-w-wha—no, I—"
But his voice didn't come out.
Not as words.
Only broken, shapeless noise spilled from him—thin, weak, unfamiliar.
"G-ga—aaa—waaaah—!"
The sound echoed strangely in the room.
Wrong.
Everything about it was wrong.
The air shifted.
The joy cracked.
Silence followed.
Not complete—but heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Eyes turned.
Not toward him.
Past him.
To someone else.
Bruce felt it before he saw him.
A presence.
Large.
Still.
Watching.
Duke Leo stood near the doorway, unmoving, his broad frame filling the space with something colder than the winter outside. His expression didn't change—not surprise, not joy, not even curiosity.
Only displeasure.
His gaze dropped to the child in the midwife's hands.
To Bruce.
Cold.
Measuring.
Then—
Contempt.
"It seems," he said quietly, his voice low and sharp, "this one is defective as well."
The words didn't rise.
They didn't need to.
They settled.
Heavy.
Final.
The midwife's posture shifted instantly, shoulders dipping, her earlier excitement draining away like it had never belonged there. She looked down, avoiding his eyes.
No one argued.
No one spoke.
Duke Leo's jaw tightened, irritation flickering briefly across his face—then gone just as quickly. He turned without another word, cloak snapping lightly behind him as he strode toward the door.
"Another failure," he muttered.
The door slammed.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
And then—
Nothing.
The room felt smaller after that.
Colder.
The woman on the bed shifted weakly.
Bruce saw her now.
Young.
Too young.
Her body trembled with exhaustion, sweat dampening strands of pale blonde hair that clung to her face and neck. She looked fragile—like something that might break if touched too roughly.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were still there.
Blue.
Soft.
Tired.
But alive.
She reached out slowly, arms shaking as the midwife passed Bruce into her care.
The moment she held him—
Something changed.
Not in the room.
In her.
Her expression softened, grief loosening its hold just enough to let something else through.
Something gentler.
She cradled him close, one trembling hand brushing carefully along his cheek, as if afraid he might disappear.
"You look just like me," she whispered.
Her voice was quiet.
Unsteady.
"But… that's alright."
A faint, fragile smile touched her lips.
"Then I'll name you after me."
A pause.
"Lili."
Bruce's eyes forced themselves open.
Blurry at first.
Then clearer.
He saw her properly now—her face illuminated by the faint glow of firelight, exhaustion etched into every feature, but still… kind.
Still warm.
Still—
Trying.
"N-no," he tried again, panic rising. "I'm—"
But it came out the same.
Soft.
Broken.
Meaningless.
"Ga—baaa—"
His body betrayed him.
Small arms flailed uselessly, fingers curling and uncurling without purpose, movements disconnected from intention.
The woman—his mother—misunderstood.
Of course she did.
"Hush now," she murmured gently, pulling him closer. "It's alright… I'm here."
Her voice wrapped around him like something familiar, even though it shouldn't have been.
"I'll never leave you, my precious girl."
Girl.
The word didn't make sense.
It didn't fit.
Nothing fit.
Bruce squirmed weakly, trying to push away, trying to correct her, to fix the mistake that had somehow swallowed his entire existence.
But his body—
Didn't listen.
It reacted instead.
To something older.
Simpler.
Need.
She adjusted her dress with slow, practiced motions, revealing pale skin, soft and warm, her movements careful despite her exhaustion. She guided him gently, instinctively.
Bruce's mind recoiled.
This wasn't—
He wasn't—
But his body didn't ask.
It latched.
Hunger took over—immediate, undeniable, drowning out thought with something deeper than logic. He drank, helplessly, instinct overriding identity in a way that left him disoriented and ashamed and—
Comforted.
He hated that part.
His eyes drifted, unfocused at first, then slowly taking in the world around him.
The walls—
Rough.
Wood and straw packed together, uneven, patched in places with mud. A fireplace flickered weakly at one end of the room, orange embers struggling against the cold that seeped in from everywhere.
Simple furniture.
Worn.
Barely enough.
This wasn't a hospital.
Wasn't anything modern.
Bruce frowned—if it could even be called that on such a small face.
Africa?
No.
Outside the window—
Snow.
Slow.
Steady.
Covering everything in white.
"…that doesn't make sense…"
His thoughts felt slower now.
Heavier.
Like they had to push through something to exist at all.
Maybe… reenactment?
That didn't make sense either.
Nothing did.
The woman holding him—his mother—rocked gently, humming something soft and unfamiliar. The melody was simple, almost fragile, but steady enough to fill the silence left behind by everything else.
Her fingers moved through his hair in slow, absent strokes.
Not perfect.
Not practiced.
But careful.
Like she was trying.
Bruce watched her.
Really watched her.
She looked… alone.
Not just tired.
Not just sad.
Alone.
The realization settled quietly.
He wasn't the only one lost here.
He shifted slightly, less resistance now, his body relaxing despite himself.
Warmth returned.
Not the same as before.
But enough.
"…I guess…"
The thought came slowly.
Faint.
"…this is… home…?"
He didn't understand it.
Didn't accept it.
Not fully.
But he didn't fight it either.
Not anymore.
His eyes grew heavy.
The world softened at the edges.
And there, against her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, Bruce—now Lili—drifted.
Outside, snow continued to fall, silent and endless.
Inside, the woman held him close, whispering softly into his hair, over and over again, like a promise she needed to believe as much as he did.
"I'll always be here for you… little Lili… no matter what."