The lights flickered once. Twice. Then—blackout.

  Cyrus sat frozen, his heart pounding, hands locked on the controller.

  One moment, he was mid-raid in Titans of Baldorok—the battlefield alive with magic and steel. The next—gone. The clash of weapons, the roar of spells, his entire world blinked out, leaving only silence and suffocating blackness.

  "Whoa… what the…?"

  A jolt of unease shot through him. He tore off his VR rig, expecting the dim glow of his apartment—but there was only darkness.

  He blinked, disoriented. He normally kept his drapes pinned closed, preferring the steady glow of LED lights over the inconsistent, intrusive outside world. But this was different—near absolute. Like he had been disconnected along with the game.

  Then it hit him. The text from the electric company—the scheduled outage.

  "Right. That."

  With a groan, he smacked his forehead, misjudging the motion in the darkness. His pulse was still hammering, adrenaline spiking as his body fought a threat that wasn’t there. He forced himself to breathe—deep, measured breaths—to keep the anxiety from spiraling.

  A few moments later, his nerves settled. He reached for his phone, fumbling in the dark. His fingers clipped a bottle, sending it into a brief wobble before it settled upright again.

  Still, his heart lurched.

  Even though it was sealed—because he had learned the hard way—the near-disaster still sent a spike of anxiety through him.

  Finally, his fingers brushed the screen. Light flared to life, bluish and soft, chasing away creeping thoughts of monsters, ghosts, or unseen figures lurking just beyond his vision. Irrational fears. But the mind didn't always listen to logic.

  Cyrus exhaled. "Okay. Just a blackout. No big deal."

  But as always, the dark had a way of digging things up.

  Cyrus was, to put it mildly, not a people person. Most would call him a recluse, a shut-in, but he was perfectly fine with that. He preferred order, cleanliness, and a life free of external distractions.

  Even things like TV felt somewhat intrusive. He had enjoyed it once, fully embracing streaming, but he had long since finished the programs that interested him.

  Now, nearly all his entertainment came through his VR headset. It offered everything TV could—only better. The immersion, the escape from reality—it was something traditional screens simply couldn’t match. Especially when paired with the soothing, ergonomic embrace of his custom-built gaming chair.

  But his solitude wasn’t just a matter of preference.

  There was a reason for it, a reason that haunted him every day.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t suppress the memory.

  It had happened when he was fourteen. A single event that had profoundly changed his life, shifting his mental state into what it was now.

  Cyrus was walking home from school, his attention locked on his handheld gaming device, fingers tapping furiously as he pushed for a new high score in Hyruk Legends.

  He was wearing his new sneakers—the ones his dad had bought him over the weekend. They still pinched a little, but he could tell they were breaking in. He couldn’t wait to tell his dad how much he liked them.

  His feet moved on autopilot—he knew this route by heart. He could have walked it blindfolded.

  Then there was a sound, a faint hiss, just ahead.

  At first, he barely noticed it, the digital music from his game drowning out most background noise. His brain filtered it out, prioritizing the game at hand. But something about the sound tickled at his awareness. It was a steady spray—like a garden hose left running.

  ‘Mom watering the flowers?’ The thought flitted through his mind, but that didn’t quite fit. She usually did that in the mornings.

  No… this was different. The noise was too sharp, too pressurized. It just sounded… off.

  His eyes reluctantly flicked up from the screen. His curiosity momentarily winning over the focus required on the game.

  Then, in that instant—

  BOOM.

  The world detonated.

  Fire. Shrapnel. His world cracked apart.

  The air slammed into his chest, ribs rattling, skin searing. Up—he was flying—no, falling. No, spinning.

  A frozen second stretched, fragments of his home suspended midair—his front door folding in on itself, a ceramic figurine spinning in the firestorm, the flash of glass shards catching the light.

  Then, the shockwave hit.

  A massive fireball erupted from the center of his house, swallowing everything in a surge of flames and wreckage. The blast shattered the windows, ripped through the walls, and sent broken fragments of his world screaming into the sky.

  For a moment, reality fractured.

  Time seemed to crawl, stretching thin at the edges of his vision. Cyrus’s mind couldn’t keep up. The pieces of his home hung suspended in the air like a broken puzzle.

  Books, clothes, furniture—everything he knew, everything that made up his life—shattered, scattered, burned.

  It all spiraled outward, consumed by fire, hurled into the air like remnants of a world that no longer belonged to him.

  Then the shockwave hit.

  It struck like a freight train, the sheer force lifting him off the ground. His stomach dropped as he went airborne, the sky twisting above him.

  For a fleeting moment, the clouds filled his memory, replacing the devastation unfolding below. He was part of it now, carried by the same unstoppable force that had torn his home apart.

  And then—Impact.

  His back slammed onto the pavement, his backpack jarring his spine at an unnatural angle, ripping the air from his lungs. A heartbeat later, his head struck the sidewalk with a sharp crack.

  Pain flared. His vision went white. The clouds, the fire—everything flickered in and out of focus, collapsing into a single, overwhelming moment.

  Then—nothing.

  Blackness swallowed him whole.

  But in that fractured second before the darkness took him, something strange happened.

  A cold, detached calm settled over him. The explosin, the destruction—it all felt distant, unreal. Like he was watching it unfold through someone else’s eyes.

  As if it wasn’t really happening to him.

  He had always loved action movies—watching massive explosions on screen, the thrill of destruction unfolding in spectacular, controlled chaos.

  But witnessing one in person? Feeling the heat, the concussive wave slamming into his body, the sheer force ripping apart his world—that changed everything.

  It shattered his innocent view of violence. Of safety. Of life itself.

  His neighbors had called for an ambulance and checked on him, but no one dared move him from the sidewalk, fearing the awkward angle of his back meant something was broken. He was rushed to the hospital—then airlifted to a larger one, one better equipped to handle severe trauma.

  At least, that’s what he was told.

  He had no memory of it.

  He was in a coma.

  For several days, his fate hung precariously in the balance, his unconscious mind drifting in the void between life and death. Scattered words and fleeting visions filtered in and out of his subconscious—whispers like ghosts at the edge of awareness, slipping away before he could grasp them—as his body fought to reanimate itself.

  When he finally woke, it was to an empty hospital room.

  The only sounds were the rhythmic whir of machines and the muffled voices of nurses in the hallway.

  He lay there, unable to move, his body weighed down by exhaustion and pain.

  His first thought, sharp and immediate, brought a pang of fear, ‘Where’s mom and dad?’

  Then, in the next cruel instant, the memories surged back.

  The explosion. The fire. The end of all he knew and loved.

  The fear and panic crashed into him all at once, the weight of it solidifying in his mind, twisting deep into his chest like a knife.

  That day was filled with so many questions—so many tears.

  Doctors and nurses poked and prodded his weak, aching body, their faces blurring together in a haze of half-consciousness. He was examined from top to bottom, every touch foreign, clinical, detached. The world around him felt unreal, his skin too sensitive, his muscles sluggish—like his body had forgotten how to exist.

  Only when they had finished did they finally let him sit up—his limbs trembling from the effort. He took a slow sip of warm broth, and that was when the numbness began to crack.

  The next day, after a long, lonely night of staring at a sterile white ceiling, a kind-looking woman entered his room. Her expression was careful, measured.

  She wasn’t a police officer. She didn’t dress like a doctor.

  "My name is Ms. Norris," she said gently. "I’m a grief counselor."

  The word grief echoed in the sterile silence of the room, a sharp sound against the dull hum of medical machines.

  Cyrus stared at her blankly. ‘Grief?’

  She spoke softly, explaining what the police had pieced together. That after the explosion, his neighbors had come running. That they had found him on the sidewalk. That help had arrived quickly.

  She told him he was in Washington D.C., in a major trauma center. She spoke as if grounding him in facts would soften the blow.

  But the only fact that mattered—the one his mind refused to accept—was the reason she was here at all.

  His throat tightened, his voice hoarse from days of silence and sobbing. He was about to ask why he would even need a grief counselor—but instead, another question tumbled out.

  "Why are they saying those things about my parents?"

  He had heard them.

  The hushed conversations in the hallway. The whispers just outside his door. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

  Ms. Norris bowed her head and gently took Cyrus’s hand. He flinched at the unexpected contact but didn’t pull away.

  “Cyrus,” she began softly, “there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s not going to be easy to understand or accept.”

  She was right.

  Her voice remained gentle but firm as she explained. His parents, who had worked for their homeland’s embassy here in the U.S., had been hiding a devastating secret.

  They weren’t just diplomats.

  They had been spies.

  No one knew the full story—whether they had been bribed, coerced, or turned willingly—but they had been passing intelligence, not only about their homeland but about the U.S. and its allies as well.

  But apparently their cover had been compromised.

  Official reports suggested it was the rival nation—the very one they had been feeding information to—that had orchestrated their assassination. The attack was designed to erase any evidence, to bury the truth along with their own spies.

  At the same time as the explosion, a paper trail, leaked photos, and digital records were released to the media. The documents confirmed their identities as spies—but carefully obscured who they had truly been working for. The evidence pointed to an unknown faction, leaving both their homeland, the U.S., and the rival nation as possible culprits.

  There was no proof tying it to any one country. No clear answers.

  But one thing was certain.

  The leak also proved, beyond any doubt, that Cyrus had known nothing about his parents' activities. He had taken no part in their undertakings.

  That detail had been crucial. It was the reason he was here, in a real hospital—safe, free—instead of locked away in a military facility, where he would have been interrogated and held.

  At the time, he hadn’t understood why that distinction mattered so much. But as the weight of the situation settled in, as his mind slowly pieced things together, he silently thanked whoever had included that information in the leak. It had kept him from a fate he wasn’t sure he could have survived.

  Cyrus sat in stunned silence, unable to fully comprehend the enormity of what he was hearing. As Ms. Norris continued speaking, a fragment of memory surfaced.

  Earlier that day, he had overheard voices outside his hospital room—a heated argument just beyond the door. Two police officers had been shouting down a group of angry, insistent voices. Even through the haze of pain and medication, he remembered the tension in their words.

  They had been sharp, fast, and forceful, spoken in a language he couldn’t fully place. But something about them felt familiar, stirring something deep in his memory.

  Not the words themselves. But the way they sounded.

  The rhythm, the cadence—it reminded him of the language his parents had spoken at home, the one they had urged him to learn, the one they had whispered in prayers he never truly understood.

  Now, those same sounds—once spoken in soft reverence—echoed in his mind, transformed into something harsh, something cold.

  Cyrus looked back to Ms. Norris, and as if she had read his mind, she nodded solemnly, confirming his fears.

  He came to understand that not only was he now homeless and traumatized, but he was completely alone. His parents had severed ties with their own families when they moved to the United States, leaving behind whatever roots they had once had.

  He had never thought much about it before—his parents had been his whole world, and family had always just meant them. He had never questioned why there were no calls on holidays, no distant relatives visiting, no grandparents spoiling him with treats and stories of the past.

  But now… now that it mattered, he found just how alone he really was.

  With everything and everyone in his life gone, he realized just how much had been taken from him.

  The weight of it all began to sink in—slowly at first, like a creeping tide, until suddenly he was drowning in it.

  The next few years blurred together in a haze of hospitals and rehabilitation centers.

  Physical therapy. Mental recovery. Endless sessions with specialists who tried to help him process everything.

  He talked. He listened. He worked through the motions. But no amount of therapy could truly erase the anxiety that had taken root deep inside him. It followed him everywhere.

  Even long after his body had healed, his mind refused to let go of the trauma. He could still hear the explosion, feel the heat, the force of the blast ripping him from the ground.

  The whispers, the stares, the look in their eyes—every stranger, every passing glance, it was as if they already knew. They knew who he was. They knew what his parents had done. Or at least, that’s what his mind told him.

  He developed crippling anxiety.

  At first, it was just unease. Stepping outside felt… wrong. Unsafe. His heart would pound, his skin prickling with an irrational sense of danger, as if the moment he crossed the threshold, the world would turn its gaze on him. As if every glance would carry judgment, every passing stranger would know his name, his past, his shame. The stares, the silent accusations, the whispered speculations—they would follow him wherever he went.

  Then the anxiety hardened into something worse.

  The world beyond his walls felt too big, too chaotic, too uncontrollable. He couldn’t face it—not with the ghosts of his past lurking in every shadow, not with the weight of his parents’ secret lives pressing down on him.

  Not with the fear that someone, somewhere, was still watching. Waiting.

  Waiting for him to step outside. Waiting for him to leave his sanctuary and walk straight into the ridicule.

  Waiting to remind him that he could never truly escape.

  Waiting to remind him that he was only ever one step away from meeting a similar fate as his parents.

  Not death. Death was easy.

  But a fate of lies and deceit. A fate of treachery and secrets.

  They were his parents, but he was not like them.

  He refused to be like them.

  So he withdrew.

  Most of the time, he stayed inside, letting the quiet of his apartment dull the outside world.

  But not always.

  Sometimes, on days when the tension in his chest wasn’t quite so tight, he pushed himself.

  He would crack the door open. Stand at the threshold. Breathe in the outside air. Hear the sounds of the city—the hum of distant traffic, the murmur of conversations, the occasional bark of a dog. He would watch as people moved through their lives, unaware of the battle raging inside him.

  Just for a moment.

  Some days, he even made it farther. Sometimes, he had to.

  Once, when Mrs. Norris had come to check on him, he had walked all the way to the mailbox—a short trip for most, but for him, it felt like crossing a battlefield.

  It was difficult.

  But it was progress.

  Through it all, Mrs. Norris—who had since married—remained a constant in his life. She had helped him secure financial assistance, arranged for his move to this apartment complex, and, through it all, had never stopped encouraging him to push his boundaries.

  Perhaps it was her unwavering belief in him. Perhaps it was simply the unusual silence left in the wake of the power outage. But as a single beam of sunlight peeked through the bottom of the drapes, something stirred inside him.

  A flicker of amusement.

  And, for the first time in years, Cyrus made an unusual decision.

  He reached out—hesitated for only a moment—then stepped toward the window and carefully drew back the curtains from the top center, making sure not to unpin the material from the wall below.

  The sunlight poured in—bright, almost blinding after the usual dimness of his apartment. The sudden shift was jarring, the contrast between the controlled darkness behind him and the vivid, open world outside almost too much to process.

  The sky stretched above in a brilliant shade of blue, with only a few soft, puffy clouds dotting the horizon. He squinted, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted.

  It took a moment, but as the brightness settled, he inhaled deeply again and made a choice. A bigger step than he had taken in years. His fingers hesitated only briefly before reaching for the window latch. Slowly, deliberately, he unlocked it and slid the pane open.

  A cool, fresh breeze rushed in, sweeping over him like something alive, carrying with it the soft, sweet scent of lilacs. It was a beautiful mid-May day in Edina, Minnesota.

  He had moved here from Virginia—far away from his past, far away from everything that had defined his life before. He needed distance. A clean break. Somewhere new, and unfamiliar. Still, he had chosen Edina carefully. It was close enough to a major metro area that he could maintain his isolation without drawing attention to himself, but far enough removed that it didn’t remind him of home.

  Even though his curtains were drawn most of the time, Cyrus was well aware of the large lilac tree growing near his window. He rarely thought about it, rarely paid attention to its placement, but he appreciated its presence nonetheless.

  Its lavender blooms shielded much of the view of the apartment complex, adding yet another layer between himself and the world outside.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Another quiet barrier. Another subtle way to keep the outside world at a distance.

  But now, as he stared at them, he decided they also brought something else.

  A much-needed pop of color.

  Against the muted grays and blacks of his apartment, the lilacs stood out in stark contrast—vivid, alive, free and unfettered; everything he was not, in his self-imposed seclusion. The way their leaves fluttered in the breeze felt almost hypnotic, a small, unexpected reminder of things he had lost in his past.

  The air flowing through the open window was cool and soothing, a welcome relief since the AC had gone out with the power. Thankfully, the temperature outside was mild, and the gentle current of fresh air was enough to keep him comfortable.

  As Cyrus turned from the window toward the kitchen, the shift in airflow stirred something else—a scent he had grown numb to.

  The stale air of the apartment drifted back into his nostrils, the muskiness of an enclosed space he had apparently gone nose-blind to over time. His apartment’s AC and heating circulated air but never truly refreshed it. Without new scents filtering in, the same stagnant undertones had settled in unnoticed.

  But now, for the first time in a long while, the floral-scented breeze briefly washed over it all—pushing aside the lingering mustiness, replacing it with something clean, crisp, and new. And for just a moment, he realized how stifling his space had become.

  "Okay, this place needs a good airing out," Cyrus said aloud to himself.

  He was almost always alone—unless Mrs. Norris came over or a delivery driver insisted on knocking—but he had long since decided that talking to himself didn’t mean he was crazy.

  People liked to say that talking to yourself was some kind of sign of mental instability, but he didn’t buy that.

  If anything, he found his own company quite pleasant, if he did say so himself.

  With that thought, he made his way to the kitchen and unlocked the small window above the sink, encouraging more airflow.

  Then, he decided to go a step further.

  If he was going to do this, he might as well do it right. He would open all the windows in the apartment—let the breeze carry out the many manly smells clinging to the walls and carpet.

  On his way out of the kitchen, he grabbed a tube of potato chips, popping it open as he moved down the hall toward his bedroom. A few steps in, his watch buzzed and rang, the familiar 8-bit intro music from one of his favorite childhood console games filling the quiet space.

  He glanced down at his wrist. It was Mrs. Norris.

  He had left his actual phone on the table near his chair, so he tapped the screen and took the call on audio only.

  “Hi, Mrs. Norris, I’m on my watch. We can switch to video once I get back to my phone if you’d prefer,” Cyrus greeted.

  “Oh, hello, Cyrus! That’s okay. Actually, I’m glad to hear you’re away from your phone—and that you sound like you’re doing well today,” Mrs. Norris replied, her voice warm and upbeat. “I was a little concerned when the electricity went out that you might be having some anxiety issues.”

  “The power company texted earlier and said it would be going out for a few hours today, so I knew what to expect. Although…” he paused, crunching into a chip, his next words slightly muffled through the chewing, “it seemed to happen sooner than I thought it would.” He swallowed and continued, “It was a little triggering at first, but once I realized what was going on, I was okay. In fact, I’m actually opening the windows. The breeze outside feels nice, and I didn’t realize how stuffy this place had gotten.”

  “Oh, that’s a great idea, Cyrus!” Mrs. Norris said excitedly. “Have you thought any more about what we talked about last week? Maybe getting some sunshine? It’d be a perfect day for it if you’re feeling up to it.”

  Cyrus winced instinctively at the suggestion, grateful this conversation wasn’t on video.

  “Uhh…” he hesitated, shifting his weight. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but… you’re right, it is a nice day, and there’s nothing really for me to do inside, so… maybe?”

  There was a short pause.

  Cyrus swore he could hear the huge smile forming on Mrs. Norris’s face, her excitement practically radiating through the phone.

  “Well, Cyrus,” she said, her tone brimming with encouragement, “I think that would be a great idea—if you feel up to it. I could even stop by if you’d like a little extra encouragement.”

  Cyrus liked Mrs. Norris. She was one of the very few people he didn’t mind having over.

  They had both lived in Virginia before moving to Minnesota, though she had left for different reasons. Her husband was originally from St. Peter, which played a big part in their decision to relocate.

  Coincidentally, it had happened right around the time Cyrus had been looking for a way to put as much distance as possible between himself and the D.C. area.

  When Mrs. Norris had mentioned their move, she had apologized for having to end their counselor-patient relationship.

  But in reality, her decision had greatly influenced his own.

  He hadn’t been sure what to do at first, but as she spoke about the upcoming transition, he had noticed something. She was excited about the move, but there was an underlying uncertainty in her voice—hesitation about starting over, about rebuilding a clientele from scratch.

  Cyrus wasn’t good with people. He wasn’t the comforting type.

  But he could offer what little stability his continued patronage might bring.

  So, after a long pause, he had asked, “Would it help if you had a well-established patient waiting for you when you arrived?”

  She had scrunched her brow, the skin between her eyebrows pinching as she worked through what he was suggesting.

  Then, realization dawned.

  She blinked at him in surprise, clearly caught off guard. “Well,” she half-spluttered, “I mean… yeah, it would mean a lot, actually. It would give me a steady start.”

  And just like that, a plan had formed.

  She had helped him find a place, assisted in arranging his move, and ensured he had what he needed to settle in. He had given her her first client in a new city, and a steady paycheck while she established herself.

  It was practical. It was logical. It was the least he could do for all the years of assistance she had given him.

  And, though neither of them had said it outright, it meant neither of them had to completely start over alone.

  So she remained the exception to his house visitor policy. He wasn’t embarrassed about his apartment—he kept things clean—but having people in his space always felt intrusive. Like they wanted something from him. Like they were silently judging his reclusive nature, even if they never said it aloud.

  He had tried before. Letting people in. Giving them access to his space, his world. It hadn’t worked out. So now, unless someone was very special, he rarely let anyone inside.

  "Okay, well, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want to bother you with that. I’m sure you have plans—things you have to do today," Cyrus said as he pulled out the pins holding the curtains to the wall and set them in a cup on his nightstand.

  He cranked open the bedroom window, letting the fresh air push into the room.

  "I think I’ll be okay by myself," he continued. "If I take a walk or something, though, I’ll let you know."

  Mrs. Norris hesitated for a moment, and he could hear the subtle disappointment in her voice. "Oh, okay, Cyrus."

  She lingered on the line for a second longer, then added, "If you need anything from me, don’t hesitate to ask. You know I’m always here for you."

  Their relationship had become more than just counselor and patient over the years. He had been there when her career was just beginning, and she had remained a steady presence in his life ever since.

  In some ways, he knew he was like a son to her—and though he didn’t often let himself think about it, he had to admit she had become, in a way, a stand-in for the mother he no longer had.

  A baby’s cry rang out softly in the background of the call. Cyrus took it as his cue to end the conversation.

  "Okay, Mrs. Norris. I’ll let you know how things go today."

  Cyrus could hear Mrs. Norris’s footsteps as she walked over to where her baby was fussing. Her shoes clicked softly on the wooden floors, and the baby’s crying got louder as she drew nearer.

  “It sounds like I need to get back to Sophie anyway," she said lightly. "Take care of yourself, Cyrus, and we can talk more tomorrow at our usual session.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Norris. Talk to you tomorrow,” Cyrus said and hung up the call.

  Cyrus exhaled, relieved by the finality of the conversation. Not that he didn’t appreciate her—but ending conversations always felt like a small victory.

  He had always been grateful for Mrs. Norris and everything she had done for him. She had helped him beyond measure throughout the years.

  But still, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy whenever the topic of leaving his home came up.

  Even though his parents had been exposed as spies, Cyrus had been completely unaware of their actions. That fact had protected him—legally, at least. It meant he had been able to claim the insurance policies they had left behind: one from their home, and another from their deaths.

  They hadn’t been loyal to this country. Or even to the one they had lived in. But they had been prepared. And, in their own way, they had been loyal to him.

  Because of that, he had been left with enough to take care of himself once they were gone. It hadn’t made him rich, but it had given him what he needed.

  A home. Security. Freedom from the need to work for anyone.

  But that didn’t mean he was totally idle.

  He had a few side projects that brought in some extra income, but they were more like hobbies—things he actually enjoyed. Cooking videos. Proofreading and editing manuscripts.

  None of it felt like forced labor.

  This was how he managed to live the life he did. He received some assistance from the state, mostly in the form of healthcare, but overall, he felt like he contributed more to the economy than he took from it.

  Cyrus made his way back into the living room, his eyes settling on the large gaming chair waiting for him. He popped the can of chips open again, grabbing a handful and tossing them into his mouth with a satisfying crunch.

  He had intended to sit down, stare out the window, and enjoy his snack. But the conversation had planted a different idea in his head.

  An actual walk.

  He looked down at himself. The lean, athletic body he had as a kid was long gone. What he saw now was soft and untoned, a body shaped by years of inactivity.

  He knew exercise was important, but had never made any effort to keep up his physique. He didn’t do calisthenics or pushups—most of the time, he was immobile, except for the occasional movement when cleaning his apartment.

  His life revolved around video games, sci-fi and fantasy stories, and cooking—none of which required much movement or strength.

  He stood there, pondering his limited existence, absentmindedly tossing another couple of generic, saddle-shaped, cheddar-flavored fried potato crisps into his mouth.

  How much of life had he missed by locking himself away in his safe place?

  ‘Maybe I should go outside,’ the thought surfaced unexpectedly. ‘the exercise would be good for me. So would the vitamin D from the sunshine. I could make a sandwich and have a little picnic down by the pond.’

  He chewed slowly, barely registering the taste. He had eaten so many of these flavor-bombed chips over the years that they no longer even registered as food.

  But then, the familiar voice stirred at the back of his mind.

  ‘There’s nothing but violence and chaos outside. It’s not worth the effort. Just sit here and let nature take its course.’ This was the voice he listened to the most. The voice that had kept him safe for so long.

  It had started whispering to him almost immediately after the incident, murmuring its warnings, shielding him from the dangers waiting beyond his walls. It had kept him alive. Kept him well.

  But as Cyrus glanced between his flabby body and the sunlit grass outside, a different voice—quieter, less intrusive—spoke up.

  ‘But have you actually lived? You haven’t left here in over a year— and even then, only when forced to pick up your medications because the delivery was unavailable. Is that really who you want to be?’

  The iconic image of an angel and a demon sitting on his shoulders came to mind as the voices battled for his attention.

  He could see both sides of the debate. It was easy to justify staying inside, hidden away from the world—away from the dangers and unpredictability. Away from the people who might want to hurt him, steal from him, or worse… judge him for his parents’ crimes.

  Because they knew, didn’t they? They saw his face, recognized his name. No matter how much time passed, there would always be whispers.

  Traitor’s son.

  How much did he know?

  How much was he hiding?

  Cyrus swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how stale the air in his apartment felt again.

  He knew not everything outside was scary. That not everyone wanted his money, or to cause him pain, or to hold him responsible for things he never did.

  But believing that? That was the hard part.

  It was an argument he had with himself frequently, yet he almost always pushed away the voice telling him to be ‘normal.’ The smaller voice—the one urging him to leave, to just try—was always easier to ignore.

  But today, it felt a little harder to silence.

  His gaze drifted back to the window. Through the lilac tree’s branches, he could see the pond in the distance, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. Ducks floated lazily atop the water, their movements unhurried, unbothered.

  In the center, the fountain jetted upward, its plume catching the light as it cascaded back down in a soft, rhythmic spray.

  ‘You could take some of that popcorn you bought—the cardboard-tasting stuff you thought would be a “healthier” snack than chips. The ducks won’t mind that it has no flavor.’ The smaller voice spoke again, just a little louder this time.

  “There really isn’t anything to do here at the moment, is there?” Cyrus muttered aloud, as if saying it would make it true.

  His legs quivered as he seriously considered the idea.

  Was it anticipation? Dread? Or just the thought of having to actually exercise?

  The sound of small birds tweeting drifted in from outside, and the scent of lilacs wafted through the open window once more.

  The sweet, floral fragrance carried a quiet sense of relaxation and contentment—a stark contrast to the tightness in his chest as he hesitated.

  Cyrus glanced around his apartment.

  Everything was in place. Nothing would expire. Nothing would change if he stepped outside for a little while.

  He took a huge breath, closing his eyes as he made up his mind.

  "Okay. Let’s do this," he said aloud, reaffirming his decision, gearing himself up.

  The next few minutes were spent assembling a proper picnic—a sandwich stacked with turkey, roast beef, white cheddar, pickles, lettuce, and honey-dijon mustard on rye bread along with a mixed-berry smoothie, blended with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  He stuffed the remaining chips from the tube, some cookies, a diet soda (of course), and the aforementioned cardboard-tasting popcorn into a small duffel bag.

  Finally, he slipped on his best walking shoes—which just so happened to be the only pair of actual shoes he owned. (The rest were slippers meant for indoor life.)

  Then, he stood at the door to his apartment, his hand resting lightly on the knob.

  "Am I really going to do this?" he asked himself.

  He was already sweating—partially from the exertion of getting everything ready, but mostly from the sheer weight of leaving.

  ‘You got this! Just think of how good you’ll feel once you’re outside—with the grass and sunshine, feeling the breeze and smelling nature.’ The once-small voice in his mind spoke up again, stronger now, more confident.

  Cyrus could swear he heard a condescending ‘pfft’ from the other voice—the one that had kept him locked away all these years. ‘This is going to suck, and you know it.’

  He didn’t let the condescension get to him and tightened his grip on the doorknob.

  "I can do this," he said aloud, trying to force his hand to move.

  But the sweat on his palm made it slide against the cool silver knob, forcing him to grip tighter. His knuckles whitened with effort.

  "Come on, you stupid door," he growled.

  He wasn’t sure if he was mad at the door or at himself—but it felt like the universe itself was pushing back.

  He was trying to do something good. Trying to break free of the mental shackles that had kept him inside for so long. And yet, every little obstacle made it feel that much harder.

  Cyrus inhaled deeply, wiped his damp palm on his shorts, and gripped the handle again.

  This time, he twisted as he exhaled. The latch clicked free. The door swung inward. And beyond it, the hallway waited.

  He had overcome the first obstacle.

  Now, he needed to cross the invisible barrier that kept him separate from the rest of the world. Cyrus knew it was all in his mind, but that didn’t make it feel any less real.

  If he focused hard enough, he could almost see it—a shimmering blue force field, partitioning his apartment from the hallway.

  Closing his eyes, he centered himself, inhaling deeply, steadily.

  Then, with deliberate focus, he extended his right foot forward. It passed effortlessly through the mental barrier, landing on the diamond-patterned gray-and-blue carpet of the hallway.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw it—his foot, actually outside his doorway. It had worked.

  But now came the harder part.

  With another burst of effort, he forced himself forward, dragging his left foot to join him.

  A wave of tension rolled over him as his torso passed through the invisible plane of the barrier he had erected.

  And then—he was through. Cyrus was outside.

  Immediately, the warring voices in his mind erupted into chaos, each one vying for control.

  One side cheered him on, pushing him forward. ‘This is great! You’re doing it! Just keep going—just think how proud of you Mrs. Norris will be!’

  The other screamed in protest, its tone sharp and reprimanding.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?! Turn around! You don’t belong out here! You know what’s waiting—judgment, danger, people who will never see you as anything but a traitor’s son!’

  The voices clashed, overlapping, competing—one urging him forward, the other demanding retreat.

  Cyrus clenched his fists.

  He had made it this far.

  Now, the question was: would he keep going?

  Cyrus closed his eyes again, focusing on his breathing, simply listening—hoping to drown out the voices battling in his mind.

  Luckily, the hallway was empty.

  If he had heard voices—real ones, from actual people—it would have tipped the scales. He would have turned around. He would have gone back.

  But instead, he only heard a distant dog barking and the same birds singing he had heard from inside.

  The sounds of nature were muted but encouraging, easing the tension rather than feeding the fear clawing at his anxiety-ridden mind.

  With another effort of will, Cyrus pulled the door shut behind him. The lock clicked into place, the handle sliding smoothly forward.

  No turning back now.

  His apartment door locked automatically, requiring either a specific key card or the mobile app on his phone to get back in. Double-checking, he patted his pocket to make sure he had both—the key card, and his phone with the app already open.

  Just in case.

  Only four steps separated him from the end of the hall.

  Four steps to the glass door, its surface covered in sticky little handprints from the children who played outside.

  Four steps between him and the world beyond.

  He stood frozen, heart hammering, as his mind waged war against itself once more.

  It took several long seconds to gather the courage to take those steps—to fight against the battle raging inside him every time he tried to leave his apartment.

  But finally, he moved. Slowly. Deliberately. One step, then another.

  Before he knew it, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door to the outside—his brain protesting the entire time.

  His apartment was his sacred space, but the building itself was another layer of protection. An additional sanctuary of sorts.

  Once he moved through this next door, he would be truly outside—beyond his comfort zone, away from shelter. Once he was outside, he would be vulnerable.

  Cyrus stood there, gripping the handle, focusing only on his breathing.

  Listening. Calming himself.

  The encouraging voice in his mind whispered reassurances, growing louder against the tide of fear clawing at him. And eventually, after one last deep inhale, he found the strength to pull the door open.

  The door swung open. Cyrus froze.

  The outside world stretched before him, too big, too bright, too loud. The scent of fresh-cut grass hit him first, sharp and alive, so different from the stale air of his apartment. The wind pressed against his skin, sending a full-body shudder through him.

  He hesitated. One step. Then another.

  The ground felt too open beneath his feet.

  But he was out.

  A cool breeze rushed over him—humid but refreshing. The temperature was comfortable, and the scent of freshly cut grass filled his nostrils, carried on the wind.

  He could hear the whir of a lawnmower, its work around his building already finished. The gentle trickle of water from the fountain. The quacks of ducks as they blended with the familiar hum of city life—horns, engines, people’s voices.

  And that was the crux of Cyrus’s problem. People.

  Nature, he could handle. Nature followed rules. It had hierarchies, did things out of necessity, not emotion.

  People were the opposite.

  People did things because they wanted to. Because it felt good. Because it made them money. People did things that made no sense. They hurt each other. They lied to themselves and to each other.

  People were the scary part.

  Now that he was beyond the doors, outside where anything could happen, Cyrus both froze and melted at the same time.

  His body was frozen, locked in place, but something inside him shifted—the weight of his emotional baggage, the coldness it wrapped around his heart, slowly melting as he felt the subtle peace only nature could offer.

  For a few moments, he simply stood there.

  The happy, encouraging voice in his mind sang its praises, while the smaller, bitter voice grumbled in a dark corner, shrinking in its defeat.

  Finally, he took a step. Then another.

  Slowly, deliberately, placing one foot in front of the other, he made his way away from the apartment building. His pace was slow, tentative, but after only a few minutes, he finally reached a small table near the edge of the pond.

  A few other people were nearby.

  A man walked two small brown dogs, their tiny legs moving in quick, energetic steps as they sniffed along the path.

  An obviously romantic couple sat by the water, enjoying lunch together—apparently having a similar idea as he had.

  A small group of workers in bright yellow safety vests trimmed and cleaned the areas the lawnmower couldn’t reach, wielding weed eaters and leaf blowers with practiced efficiency.

  With each step, Cyrus’s anxiety had mounted. The voices in his head rose and fell, whispering their warnings.

  But no one seemed to pay him any attention. No one looked at him like they knew him or who’s son he was.

  That realization pushed him forward.

  By the time he reached the table, his body was drenched in sweat, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. But he made it.

  He sat down, exhaling shakily as he began unpacking his food, vowing to see this through.

  ‘I’ve made it this far; I am going to finish.’ The mantra repeated in his mind, anchoring him.

  Cyrus took out his sandwich and twisted the cap off his diet soda, setting up a makeshift eating area for himself. Some small flies and a bee seemed to feel entitled to his food, but he shooed them away, determined to enjoy his impromptu picnic.

  As time passed, sitting in the sun and feeling the breeze, his anxiety began to loosen its grip. He was being left alone, just existing outside—watching the ducks gather eagerly as they snatched up the pieces of popcorn he tossed to them.

  The insects were annoying but tolerable, and the sensation of being free, open, and unrestricted felt like a balm for his anxiety-ridden brain.

  Mrs. Norris often encouraged him to do small things like this—to open his windows, to venture out for a walk in the sun.

  "I know it feels wrong at first, but the overall benefit of being outside—feeling the air and sun—will outweigh the anxiety." She had said it countless times. And logically, he knew it was true. But getting past that initial wave of fear was something he rarely had the strength to do.

  Cyrus even found himself smiling after a while.

  He had finished his sandwich and was actually enjoying himself—watching the ducks squabble over the small white kernels he tossed to them. The sounds of the world melted into a quiet hum at the back of his mind. He was still aware of it, but for once, it was background noise—easily ignored.

  He began to wonder if this was what ‘normal’ people felt like.

  ‘If I could feel like this all the time, I wouldn’t have to hide away so much.’

  He tossed another handful of flavorless popcorn to the ducks and the small birds now gathering around him. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to peace.

  Once the popcorn was gone, Cyrus stood there, letting the breeze wash over him, evaporating the sweat and humidity cloying to his skin.

  For a fleeting moment, he wished this feeling would never end. He thought of Mrs. Norris and regretted not inviting her to join him on this excursion.

  The sun warmed his back, and he stretched his arms up to meet it. He rolled his neck, cracking it from side to side, letting his nerves finally relax.

  He actually felt good.

  Mrs. Norris’s words felt true now more than ever. He had pushed through the anxiety and felt better for doing so.

  The voices still whispered in his mind, but now, they were distant, like echoes heard from afar. He could ignore them, push them away. He could simply live in the moment. Enjoying the day.

  Enjoying the warmth now covering his back.

  He hesitated. Something felt off. The sun wasn’t where it should be. It was beaming down from the west—not from the north. From his right side, not behind him.

  He turned his head, frowning, to verify.

  The sun was indeed more to his right, yet the heat on his back was growing. Not unbearable, but warmer than the rest of his body.

  He turned more fully, expecting to see something—anything—that might explain the sensation. But there was nothing. Only his apartment building.

  Then he noticed tiny, reflective particles drifting down around him, shimmering like droplets of liquid light.

  The heat on his back also swelled, spreading outward, engulfing his entire body—not like fire, but something else. Something alive.

  Weightlessness followed. A strange, floating sensation, like the moment between falling and landing. His muscles tensed instinctively, fighting against nothing.

  Then, an abrupt disconnection.

  His body no longer felt solid. He was too light and also too heavy. Floating and sinking all at once. As if gravity itself had rejected him.

  Cyrus’s panic flared. His stomach lurched into his throat, the fear of the unknown slamming into him like a steep drop on a roller coaster. His pulse hammered in his ears, sweat soaked through his clothes.

  He tried to yell, to scream—but no sound came.

  His chest expected to rise and fall, but there was no breath, no air. No heat. No pain. Just absence.

  The particles thickened, surrounding him entirely. He was moving, but not in any way he could measure.

  He felt as though he were slipping between moments, slicing through the spaces in between. Not quite space. Not quite time. Maybe another dimension.

  And yet—he wasn’t just afraid. Beneath the panic, something stirred in his chest. A strange, primal excitement. His years spent reading sci-fi and dreaming of venturing somewhere new flared as he grasped for explanations.

  His skin tingled, his senses stretched, as if part of him recognized this feeling—even if his mind didn’t.

  Then it happened, time unraveled. Seconds, years—he couldn’t tell. In this place of nothingness, time itself felt vacant.

  Then, the motion stopped.

  His body was whole again. His breath returned in a single, smooth inhale.

  The particles dissipated—but the park was gone. No freshly cut grass. No shimmering pond.

  What surrounded him now felt unreal—a world more reminiscent of the video games he played than reality itself.

  Cyrus’s hands shot to his head, fingers fumbling along his scalp in a desperate check, half-expecting to find a VR headset strapped to his skull.

  But all he found was his own curly mop of hair.