Chapter Text
Dream never liked being kept in the dark. As a little kid, that dislike was rooted in something simpler, something more visceral: fear. He had always been afraid of the literal darkness, the way it pressed in around him like a suffocating, empty void. For years, he relied on the soft glow of a nightlight to stave off that fear—though he would never admit this to anyone. Darkness, to him, wasn’t just the absence of light. It was an absence of certainty. It was cold. It was empty. Most unsettling of all, it was unknown. The thought of being unable to see, of not knowing what lay ahead, of being blind to whatever might lurk beyond his reach—that was what terrified him the most.
His parents had dismissed it as a passing phase, a childhood fear he would inevitably outgrow, and in some ways, they were right. As he got older, he no longer needed a nightlight to sleep. He didn’t wake up crying for his mother to tuck him back in or ask his father to tell him stories to chase the shadows away. He learned to face the physical darkness on his own. Though fear—true fear—has a way of evolving. It doesn’t vanish; it changes form, hiding in the shadows of new experiences, waiting for the right moment to surface.
Darkness, Dream realized, was never just a lack of light. It was a shroud, a veil that concealed truths and hid monsters, both real and imagined. It held secrets, and those secrets terrified him more than anything else. Now, in Creekside, the darkness took on a new, almost tangible presence. It wasn’t something he couldn’t ignore, and it certainly wasn’t something he could conquer on his own.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to.
“—and now my editor is telling me I should’ve ‘toned it down.’ Can you believe that?” George’s words cut through Dream’s thoughts as they exited the school building, stepping out into the nipping cold.
Dream glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Tone what down?”
“The kidnapping story,” George replied, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket to cover his wrists. “Apparently letting people know that there are dangerous people in Creekside isn’t as important as not ‘stirring up hysteria’. He scoffed, his breath fogging in the chilly air. “People should be hysterical. There are traffickers in this town that the police have done nothing about until now. I was just reporting the facts.”
He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “The truth makes people uncomfortable. It’s not your fault—or mine. People are too busy pretending everything’s fine. Sometimes they need to be uncomfortable. It’s the only way things change. They needed a wakeup call.”
“Exactly,” he nodded along. “Speaking of calls, have you heard anything back from the police about what they’ve found do far? They have to have something by now.”
“If they have, they haven’t told me about it. I haven’t heard anything since the press conference.”
George groaned. “I can’t stand being left in the dark.”
He glanced down at his shoes, his voice quieter as he murmured, “tell me about it.”
“You know,” George began after a moment of quiet, his voice softer than usual, “despite the circumstances, I’m glad we met. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
Dream glanced at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Well, you’re the one who actually wrote the story, got people to listen.”
“Sure, but none of that would’ve mattered if you hadn’t trusted me in the first place,” he replied, his eyes meeting Dream’s. “You could’ve kept everything to yourself, but you didn’t. You took a risk. Honestly, you’re a lot braver than I think you give yourself credit for.”
He looked away, his cheeks warming. “It wasn’t about being brave. It just… needed to be done. And I knew you’d actually do something with it. You care enough to make people pay attention.”
George smiled faintly, his steps slowing as he tilted his head toward Dream. “Guess that makes us a pretty good team, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dream said softly, glancing back at him. “We are.”
For a moment, the seriousness hung between them like a fragile thread, unspoken gratitude passing in the space of their silence. Then George smirked, breaking the spell “Though, I guess if we’re being honest now,” he said, his tone shifting back to playful, “I did do most of the heavy lifting.”
Dream blinked at him, eyebrows raising. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all.” He grinned. “I pieced everything together, wrote the story, got the town to actually pay attention—”
“After I gave you everything you needed,” Dream interjected, crossing his arms.
“Sure, sure,” George muttered off-handedly, waving a hand, “but someone had to turn your cryptic clues into something coherent. That’s a skill, Dream. One that deserves at least seventy percent of the credit.”
“Seventy?” He repeated, his voice incredulous. “I did all the hard parts—digging, figuring out who to trust, putting myself in danger, by the way—and you think you deserve seventy?”
“Okay, sixty-forty.”
“Fifty-fifty,” Dream shot back, though his lips twitched with a faint smile.
George hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. “Fine. Fifty-fifty—but only because you’re kind of adorable when you get worked up.”
He rolled his eyes, though his cheeks flushed a little. “I can’t stand you.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” George replied with a wink, bumping Dream’s shoulder.
Dream shook his head, but before he could retort, the distant hum of an approaching engine cut through the air, sharp and deliberate. Everyone in the after school crowd instinctively turned toward the sound as a sheriff’s car rolled up to the curb, its presence commanding an instant, uneasy silence.
The cruiser came to a stop right in front of them, the sun glinting off its windshield like a warning. The driver’s side door opened, and Sheriff Granger stepped out with his usual unhurried precision. His face was unreadable, his expression a blank slate that somehow felt more intimidating than if he’d been scowling. Dream’s heart fell into his stomach as their eyes met.
“Dream.” Granger’s voice was steady, calm in a way that made Dream feel anything but. It wasn’t a greeting—it was an order. “I need you to come with me.”
Around him, his peers caught on quickly to the gravity of the moment. Conversations died, replaced by hushed murmurs and furtive glances. Dream could feel their eyes on him, their whispers like static in his ears. He wanted to shrink into himself, to disappear from their judgmental stares, but there was no escape.
He glanced at George, whose face reflected equal parts concern and confusion. Their gazes locked, and George’s mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something, but the moment passed.
Granger broke the silence, walking to the passenger side of the car and pulling open the rear door. “Come on, kid. We need to talk.”
His pulse quickened. Need to talk? The words felt like a trap, vague and ominous, and he hated the way they made him feel like a little kid being scolded. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry.
“I…” Dream started, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? That he didn’t want to go? That he didn’t feel like talking?
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone firm but not unkind. “Now, Dream.”
He hesitated, his ears burning despite the chilly air. Was he under arrest? What had he done? He felt everyone’s gaze drilling into his back as he took a reluctant step toward the patrol car. The sickness in his stomach churned more with every movement. His sneakers scuffed the pavement, and the sound felt deafening in the tense quiet.
When he reached the car, he paused, gripping the edge of the door as if it might steady him. A glance back over his shoulder revealed George still watching, his face unreadable now, though a faint crease of worry lingered in his brow. Dream wanted to say something, to offer reassurance—or maybe ask for it—but his throat was locked tight.
With a deep breath, he ducked into the backseat of the cruiser, his shoulders hunched as though the weight of the moment was bearing down on him. The door shut behind him with a firm click, and the sound made him flinch slightly.
As Granger slid into the driver’s seat, the car’s engine rumbled back to life. Dream’s gaze darted to the window, his heart sinking as the patrol car began to pull away from the curb. His classmates were still staring, a mix of curiosity and discomfort etched on their faces.
However, it was George’s eyes he searched for, locking on to his friend’s worried expression one final time before the distance swallowed him whole.
The sharp, sterile smell of the precinct hit Dream like a wall the moment he stepped through the door, the tang of disinfectant laced with the faint bitterness of stale coffee. Sheriff Granger led the way with a purposeful stride, his heavy boots thudding against the tiled floor. Dream followed a step behind, his head down and shoulders hunched, the weight of countless stares pressing against him. He could feel them—officers pausing mid-step, mid-conversation, their gazes cold and assessing. He was used to pity, to being seen as the tragic kid from a tragic story, but this was different. This was sharper. Harsher. It cut through him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
Muted voices and the low hum of ringing phones created a dissonant backdrop, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sharp crack of a woman’s voice.
“You have to do something!” The words rang out, hoarse and trembling, stopping Dream in his tracks.
Ahead, a woman stood at the front desk, her knuckles white against the edge of the counter. Desperation carved deep lines into her face, her tear-streaked cheeks glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. The young officer behind the desk looked overwhelmed, his shoulders hunched defensively, his expression a careful mask of neutrality, but Dream could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers fidgeted with a pen. He was trying not to break under the weight of her plea.
“Ma’am, as I’ve explained, your daughter’s an adult,” the officer said, his tone strained but measured. “She has the right to cut contact if she chooses. We can’t classify her as missing unless we have evidence of foul play.”
“She didn’t just ‘cut contact,’” the woman shot back, her voice cracking. “She wouldn’t do this. I know my daughter. Something happened to her. You have to believe me.”
Dream’s chest tightened as he lingered, unable to tear his gaze away. The raw emotion in her voice stirred something deep in him, something he couldn’t name.
Sheriff Granger glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowing when he saw Dream had fallen behind. “Let’s go,” he muttered, nodding for him to keep moving.
He hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor as the woman’s voice rose again.
“You’ve seen the articles, haven’t you? About those traffickers in Creekside? What if she’s—”
“Ma’am,” the officer interrupted, his voice softening despite the weariness etched into his features. “We’ve looked into every possibility. I promise you. But without evidence—”
“You haven’t looked hard enough!” Her palm slammed against the counter, the sound reverberating through the room. “She’s out there, scared, and you’re telling me to wait? To do nothing?”
Dream’s heart thudded painfully as her words echoed in his mind. He knew that kind of fear, that kind of helplessness. It was all too familiar.
“Dream,” Granger said again, his tone firmer this time.
Reluctantly, Dream tore his gaze away, quickening his pace to fall in line behind the sheriff. But the woman’s pleas lingered in his ears, her desperation clawing at the edges of his mind.
He sat in the cold, unforgiving metal chair, the bite of the surface cutting through the thin fabric of his jacket, a constant reminder of the uncomfortable reality he was trapped in. The precinct buzzed with activity—officers moving briskly between cluttered desks, phones ringing incessantly, the occasional rustle of paper as files were shuffled and passed from hand to hand. Yet, despite the chaos, the tension in the air was palpable. It was as if the whole room had collectively held its breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen, but no one seemed ready to exhale.
Across from him sat Sheriff Granger, his large frame hunched forward, his forearms resting heavily on his knees. The weight of the room was no match for the weight Granger was carrying. His eyes were tired, deeper than Dream had ever seen them, as if the sheriff had aged years since the last time they’d spoken. His broad shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of every unsolved case, the burden of every unspoken word, and now, apparently, Dream’s tangled mess of a story.
The sheriff’s voice broke through the silence, low but edged with an unmistakable pressure. “You’re sure you’re being honest with me about what happened that night?”
Dream blinked, his mind scrambling to process the question. “I’ve told you everything. I’m not lying,” he shot back, disbelief mixing with frustration.
Granger let out a long exhale, his shoulders falling in resignation as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, Dream,” he began, the weariness clear in his voice, “I’ve been trying to make sense of your story, but it doesn’t add up. There’s no warehouse in or near Creekside that fits the description you gave. No one’s seen anything like what you’re talking about. And even if there was—if we entertain that possibility for a second, you couldn’t have made it there and back in one night, not with the timeline you’ve given me.”
His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he fought to keep himself composed. “I was there. I don’t care what your maps or records say. I remember it,” he insisted, his voice hardening.
The Sheriff’s face tightened with frustration, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “You’re telling me you were kidnapped from Creek Park boulevard, across from the convenience store, but we had officers patrolling that area all night. They didn’t see anything. No suspicious vehicles. No signs of a struggle. Nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” he fired back, his voice rising slightly.
Granger let the silence hang between them for a beat before continuing, his tone colder. “And then there’s the apartment,” he said, making the words land heavily between them. “Zoe’s apartment.” He let the name linger in the air, the way it always did, carrying a weight of its own. “It wasn’t an apartment. It was a staged room for a rental tour. Empty. No one’s lived there for months—years even.”
Dream’s stomach dropped at the words. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the dissonance. “That can’t be true,” he said, shaking his head. “There were pictures of her. Notes on the desk. You’re wrong. I saw it all.”
The Sheriff’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience visibly wearing thin. “You shouldn’t have been there in the first place, Dream,” he snapped, his voice sharper now. “You were trespassing. You’re lucky we’re not charging you for that.”
His breath caught, his heart sinking in his chest. He wasn’t prepared for that—didn’t even have the words to fight back. “I didn’t—.”
“I get that you’re scared,” Granger interrupted, his voice softening but still carrying an undercurrent of authority. “And maybe you believe everything you’re telling me, but right now? Nothing you’ve said holds water. No evidence. No witnesses. No timeline that makes sense. You’ve got to give me something real, Dream. Otherwise…” He trailed off, his hand rubbing over his face as though to erase the frustration there.
The air seemed to press in on Dream, his chest tightening as he swallowed hard. The precinct, once bustling, felt distant, like he was hearing it through a thick, muffled barrier. Granger’s words were suffocating him. His eyes were locked on the sheriff, but it felt like the room had gone silent, every word heavy with the weight of what Dream couldn’t seem to provide.
“I’m telling you the truth,” he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, but even as they left him, he heard the weakness in his voice.
The room seemed to shift, as though the walls themselves were drawn in by the weight of Dream’s whispered insistence. It felt like the whole precinct paused. He could sense the presence of others now—footsteps slowing, voices dropping to hushed murmurs, a silent gravity pulling the officers toward the conversation. When Dream dared glance up, he found himself under the scrutinizing gaze of a small group of officers, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and thinly veiled frustration.
Sheriff Granger straightened in his chair, a long, tired exhale escaping him as he rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to ease an ache that had been there for far too long. He glanced at the officers around him, his hand rising in a vague gesture toward the group before falling back into his lap with a heavy thud.
“You see them, Dream?” His voice was laced with fatigue. “They’ve been running on fumes, trying to make sense of this. Trying to find anything—anything to back up what you’re saying. And it’s not just about us, you know. The press is breathing down our necks, the folks in Creekside? They’re scared. Hell, some of them think we’re incompetent because we can’t give them answers.”
Dream shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his heart sinking in his chest. He could feel it—the growing tension that enveloped the room, the unspoken weight of the officers’ exhaustion and frustration bearing down on him like an invisible force. He couldn’t meet Granger’s eyes, not when it felt like the sheriff’s gaze—and the stares of everyone around him—were peeling away his defenses.
“You realize what you’re doing, don’t you?” The Sheriff’s voice dropped an octave, quieter now, though no less heavy. He leaned forward, his elbows pressing into his knees, and Dream felt his piercing gaze like a spear. “You’re not just telling a story, Dream. You’re making people worry. You’re dragging us all into something that, so far, looks like it doesn’t even exist.” He paused, his expression hardening, and for a moment Dream wondered if Granger was holding back something harsher. “Do you fully understand what you’re putting everyone through?”
Guilt coiled tightly around his body, a suffocating knot that constricted his breath. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twisting nervously as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the tired, irritated faces of the officers who stood or sat in silence, watching him. He could feel their resentment. Their fatigue. It was like an invisible pressure, pinning him in place.
“I-I didn’t mean to make things harder for you,” Dream’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if he could shrink into the chair and disappear. The words felt like an apology that didn’t quite fit, but they were all he had, all he could offer in that moment.
Granger’s head fell, his gaze softening, but only a little. He let out a long, exasperated sigh. “It’s not about us being tired, Dream,” he said, his voice quieter now, less sharp but still firm. “It’s about the fact that every second we spend chasing shadows is a second we’re not spending on cases we can solve. On people we can help.”
The guilt began gnawing at him, but he forced himself to sit up straighter, to meet the sheriff’s gaze. He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to collapse under the weight of it all. “I get it. I do. But I’m not making this up,” he said, his voice steadier now, firmer. “I know what happened. I’m telling you the truth.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge, and the room seemed to tense in response. A collective sigh passed through the officers gathered around, some exchanging looks that spoke volumes—hard eyes narrowing, mouths tightening in silent judgment. Others simply turned away, their shoulders slumping as if they couldn’t bear to listen to it again.
Sheriff Granger’s expression fell, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of Dream’s insistence was too much to handle. He leaned back in his chair, the motion slow, deliberate. His gaze lingered on Dream for a long, silent moment, as though searching for something deeper in his face—a crack in the facade, a sign of something other than what was being said.
“Again, I’m not saying you’re lying,” he finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost tired. “But we don’t have anything, Dream. No evidence. No witnesses. Just your word. And right now? That’s not enough.”
One of the officers muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. Another officer shook her head, turning away entirely, her footsteps soft but final as she walked off. The remaining officers lingered, their faces grim and expectant, waiting for something that might make this all make sense, but Dream had nothing left to offer. Only his truth. Only his insistence that what he said had happened did happen.
For a moment, he teetered on the edge of backing down. Maybe he was making things worse. Maybe Granger was right—maybe he was just chasing shadows. The nagging thought curled in his chest like a cold knot, but then something inside him snapped. Anger, raw and unrestrained, bubbled to the surface, drowning out the uncertainty that had kept him silent for so long.
His voice cut through the murmur of the precinct, sharp and biting, as he leaned forward, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You’re really going to sit there and talk to me about not having enough evidence?” His gaze swept over the officers still gathered nearby, their expressions hardening in response to the sudden shift in energy. “How many times have people come to you with something real, begging for help, and you’ve turned them away because you ‘didn’t have enough to go on’?” His words hit like a hammer, each hit harder than the last. “How many cases have slipped through your fingers because you couldn’t be bothered to look further?”
The room seemed to grow heavier, the air thick with tension. Dream could feel the weight of their stares now—sharp, unyielding. His chest tightened, his pulse quickening, and his voice rose without his permission, frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “I’ve spent weeks digging through my father’s files. Weeks—trying to piece together the case he left behind. I’ve done more for those missing women than anyone else in this room, and you’re treating me like I’m wasting your time?”
There was a long beat of silence before a harsh laugh split the tension. One of the officers scoffed under his breath. “Maybe because you are wasting our time,” someone muttered, their voice dripping with disdain.
That was all it took. Dream felt his entire body tense, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He was done holding back, but before he could say another word, Granger’s voice erupted like a volcano, shaking the room.
“Alright, enough.” His stern voice echoed through the precinct, and instantly, the officers quieted. He shot a venomous glare at the officer who had spoken, silencing him with a single look before his attention turned back to Dream. “Knock it off, all of you. Now.”
The murmurs died down, but the weight of the hostile glances, the whispers meant to sting, lingered. Dream’s pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the rest of the noise, but Granger’s next words cut through it all like a blade.
“You’re walking a dangerous line, Dream,” he said, his voice low, measured, and ice-cold, carrying an edge that sank straight into Dream’s stomach. It wasn’t the anger in Granger’s tone that made Dream freeze—it was the weight of the words themselves. “Your father left behind a damn good reputation in this precinct. One built on integrity and trust. Do you really want to be the one to tear that down?”
The impact of those words hit Dream like a punch to the gut. His stomach churned, nausea rising in his throat as he struggled to breathe. For the first time, he felt the full weight of his father’s legacy crushing down on him all at once.
“I’m not—.” His voice faltered, breaking under the pressure, and for a moment, he couldn’t even finish the sentence. He wanted to shout, to fight back against the guilt and the expectations that suddenly seemed to hang over him like a shadow, but the words caught in his throat, trapped by a lump of emotion so thick, it was suffocating him.
Granger didn’t give him the chance to recover. His voice, now quieter but no less severe, dragged Dream back into the moment. “You need to think long and hard about what you’re doing,” he muttered, his gaze boring into Dream, sharp and unforgiving. “Because right now, all you’re doing is hurting people. Your father included.”
The room felt like it was closing in on Dream, the walls pressing against him with the scrutiny of Granger’s words. His mind raced, his thoughts scattered and jumbled, but he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t defend himself against the accusation that felt so true in that moment. The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating, until Dream couldn’t bear it any longer.
For the first time, Dream wasn’t sure if he could keep going. Not like this. Not with everything unraveling around him. With no one who believed him. No one who cared to hear him out. He felt small, like an imposter in his own skin, caught between the need to prove the truth of his father’s work and the crushing reality that maybe he was already too far gone to fix it.
The walk out of the precinct felt like a gauntlet. Each of Dream’s footsteps seemed to echo louder than the last, the sound of his shoes hitting the floor reverberating through the silence, amplifying his sense of isolation. With each stride, he drew closer to the exit and further from any semblance of resolve. The weight of the conversation with Granger, the officers’ whispered judgment, and the crushing doubt in his own heart all pressed down on him like an invisible weight.
Sheriff Granger led the way, his steps measured and even, but his silence was suffocating. It wasn’t the sheriff’s presence that made Dream’s skin crawl, though—it was the whispers. They started as a murmur, almost imperceptible, but the more Dream tried to ignore them, the louder they became.
“I bet Detective Watson would be ashamed to see his son making such a mess of things.”
The words pierced through him like shards of glass, slicing straight to the bone. Dream’s body went rigid, his muscles locking up. His thoughts scrambled as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. Detective Watson—his father… ashamed..? It was a simple sentence, but it held an unbearable weight.
He froze mid-step, his feet unable to move forward as the room seemed to close in around him. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned to look behind him. His eyes scanned the group of younger officers standing by the desks. They weren’t hiding their disdain; it was as visible as the exhaustion in their faces. One officer, a young man with a scowl carved deep into his features, folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head with an expression that dared Dream to react. Another officer, a woman, let out a bitter laugh and turned away, rolling her eyes as she returned to her work. The rest of them—those who remained—simply stared at him, their gazes varying from icy contempt to indifferent apathy.
He couldn’t breathe. A whirlwind of emotions surged through him so fast, he thought he might drown in it. Anger. Hurt. A deep, searing betrayal. His pulse hammered in his temples, and for a split second, he wanted to lash out, to scream at them. To demand they understand. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t the man they expected him to be, but he was trying his hardest. Though as the thoughts raged through his mind, something else came crashing in—the overwhelming weight of grief, of a lifetime spent idolizing the father who had left him too soon. Detective Watson would be ashamed to see his son making such a mess of things.
He wanted to cry. To collapse right there on the floor and let their glares break him. The nausea in his stomach surged, sharp and bitter. It churned in his gut, threatening to spill out. He could feel his breath hitching in his throat, each inhale too shallow, too quick. His hands trembled at his sides, his fingers twitching helplessly, wanting to reach for something to steady himself, but finding nothing but empty air. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Nothing came out. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but his voice was trapped beneath the flood of emotions threatening to drown him.
Granger, a few steps ahead, noticed Dream had stopped following. He turned back, brow furrowing when he saw the rigid way Dream was standing, his pale face drawn tight in shock. Granger’s eyes flicked to the officers still watching Dream, his expression hardening in an instant. The sheriff’s gaze was enough to make the room feel smaller, his authority imposing.
“I don’t want to hear another word out of line,” Granger said, his voice low but carrying an edge of authority that made the officers snap to attention. “Do I make myself clear?”
The officers went silent, their stares lingering a moment longer before they turned back to their tasks. The scorn in their silence was louder than anything they could have said. Dream felt it though, and it was hurting him.
With a swallow that felt like it took all his strength, Dream tore his eyes away from the officers and forced himself to move. Each step was heavier than the last, as though the floor had become a bog, pulling him deeper into its grip. He followed Granger out of the precinct, his thoughts spinning like a carousel, each turn faster and more disorienting than the last. His vision blurred, the world around him hazy, distant. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the pain grounding him, but only just.
The door to the precinct swung open, and the cold air hit Dream like a slap. It was a brutal contrast to the suffocating atmosphere he’d just left behind, but it didn’t feel any better. If anything, it made it worse, the sharpness of the cold just another reminder of how alone he felt. How much further he had to go, and how little hope he had left.
Granger stopped a few paces ahead, turning to face Dream. His expression softened ever so slightly, but the undercurrent of frustration was still there, unmistakable.
“Get some rest, kid,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. ”Think about what I said.”
Dream didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words that had been whispered, the looks that had been thrown his way, the weight of Granger’s disappointment—they all seemed to pile on top of him, suffocating him in ways he couldn’t escape. He stared past Granger, eyes unfocused, mind replaying those words over and over again like an endless loop. “Detective Watson would be ashamed to see his son making such a mess of things.”
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality, and Dream felt the world around him shift, the sound of the city streets distant and muffled. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream or cry, or maybe both. The tears burned in his throat, but they didn’t come. All he could do was stand there, his body trembling, as the city hummed around him—unaware, indifferent.
In that moment, Dream felt smaller than he ever had. Alone in a sea of people who couldn’t—and wouldn’t—understand.