Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the Central Hub for Regulating Omniversal and Nexus Security came knocking, nothing good ever followed.

For years, CHRONOS had been a name whispered with a mix of awe and dread, a shadowy organization wielding the power to rewrite the fates of entire worlds. To most, they were faceless enforcers, untouchable arbiters of justice operating above any known law. To Xisuma, they were a threat—a chilling reminder that even the safest haven could be invaded.

Xisuma sat in his chair, the glow of his console reflecting off his visor. The comforting hum of the server filled the air, a constant reassurance of the world he had built and protected. But the moment his admin access was abruptly revoked mid-firewall update, a sense of dread settled in his chest. The screen before him blinked once, twice—then flashed crimson.

ACCESS RESTRICTED. SERVER LOCKDOWN IMMINENT.

The words were cold, unyielding, and undeniable.

This wasn’t a polite visit. It was an invasion.

A single chime broke the silence, followed by a cascade of dread-inducing notifications:

Silly joined the game

Guardia joined the game

Karl joined the game

PoliCe joined the game

Each name hit him like a hammer, the weight of their presence settling heavily on his shoulders. Xisuma’s fingers hovered over his communicator as it vibrated incessantly with messages.

The chat was chaos:

        TangoTek: What the void is going on?!

        PearlescentMoon: X, why can’t I access my tools?!

        MumboJumbo: “Who are these people?!”

        GoodTimeWithScar: “Are we under attack?!”

The Hermits were panicking.

The Hermitcraft server wasn’t just a shared space—it was a sanctuary. Over the years, it had become a home for the broken and the lost, a refuge for those who needed a fresh start. Xisuma had built it to be more than just blocks and pixels; it was a promise of safety.

Now, that promise was crumbling.

Xisuma’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk. The Hermits had been through wars, invasions, and server resets, but this? This was different. CHRONOS wasn’t a rogue player or an unpredictable bug. They were the embodiment of order, the ultimate authority, and they didn’t play by anyone else’s rules.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus. The Hermits needed leadership, not panic.

Silly joined the game. The name lingered on the screen, burning in his mind. That was the name of a very important and powerful enforcer. The one who took down his twin brother, Evil Xisuma.

Xisuma muttered to himself, his voice low and seething. "They have no right to be here. No warrant. No authority. Not without my permission."

His fingers flew across the communicator, typing a single, decisive message:

        Xisumavoid: CHRONOS has infiltrated the server. Everyone to spawn. Now.

The replies were instant:

        Impulse: Spawn? Why? What’s happening?

        Grian: X, are you serious?

        GeminiTay: Is it safe to leave our bases?

He ignored the deluge of responses. They didn’t matter—not yet. Fastening his elytra, he shot into the sky, his mind racing.

The wind howled around him as Xisuma soared through the skies of Season 10. Below him stretched a patchwork of their shared world, each landmark a testament to the Hermits' collective creativity and boundless determination. He passed Grian’s fishing area, its warehouse perched at the edge of Magic Mountain, a beacon of rustic charm and organized chaos.

Mumbo’s starter base hung precariously above the terrain, his town spreading a wide expanse. 

Scar’s trees and train came into view, a spectacle of raw beauty and artistry. The track glimmered in the fading sunlight.

Movement caught Xisuma’s eye—two snails, their mischievous presence unmistakable, meandering through a base with unhurried chaos.

The server’s beauty only sharpened Xisuma’s resolve. This wasn’t just a world of blocks and builds; it was a sanctuary. His sanctuary. And CHRONOS had no right to tread here.

As he approached the central spawn platform, he noted the Hermits were already gathering, their colorful forms like scattered confetti. From the ground, the grandeur of their server was lost to the heavy tension settling over the group. Xisuma’s jaw tightened. He wouldn’t let CHRONOS destroy what they had built.

The agents stood in formation at the edge of the platform, their armor gleaming unnaturally in the fading sunlight. It was sleek, pristine, and sterile—a stark contrast to the Hermits’ worn, practical gear. Their faces were obscured by visored helmets, except for one figure who stood slightly ahead.

A woman.

Her uniform was immaculate, her posture rigid with authority. Her piercing eyes swept over the gathering Hermits with clinical precision. She radiated control, an unshakable confidence that sent a chill through Xisuma. He had never met her in person, but he knew she was the infamous ‘Villain Hunter’.

Behind her, the other agents were motionless, their presence like a storm cloud hanging over the server.

One by one, the Hermits arrived, their faces etched with worry. Weapons glinted in the fading light as some clutched swords and bows, their grips tight with nervous energy.

Tango muttered under his breath, his crossbow ready but lowered. "Who are these people, X? And what do they want?"

Pearl kept her distance, her hand hovering over her sword. "They don’t look like they’re here to negotiate."

Even Mumbo, the usually unflappable tinkerer, looked unsettled. He frowned, his gaze lingering on the woman at the front. "There’s something about her," he said quietly. "She seems… familiar."

Xisuma’s head snapped toward him. "Familiar how?"

Mumbo shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. "I don’t know. I just… I’ve seen her before. Somewhere."

Xisuma turned his attention back to the woman, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need Mumbo’s intuition to recognize her significance.

This wasn’t just a routine visit.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low on the horizon, its warm glow spilling across the water as Grian sat on the edge of his pier. The rhythmic lapping of waves against weathered wood was the only sound breaking the quiet of his evening. His fishing rod rested in his hands, the line drifting lazily through the water. This wasn’t about the catch; it was about the stillness. A rare moment of peace in an otherwise chaotic world.

He reeled in the line with a soft click, setting the rod aside. Turning toward the pier’s disorganized mess of chests, shulker boxes, and barrels, Grian rummaged aimlessly. Rockets, enchanted books, blocks from half-finished projects—the familiar clutter was both a comfort and a reminder of everything he had left unfinished.

Then, a sharp ding pierced the quiet.

Grian froze, his hand hovering midair. His communicator screen lit up, projecting a notification into the space before him. His eyes darted to the text, the name burning itself into his mind.

Silly joined the game.

His breath caught, chest tightening as the world seemed to tilt. A sharp pang of recognition followed. The screen didn’t flicker. It wasn’t a glitch. She was here.

“No. No, no, no,” Grian muttered, the words spilling out like a mantra as if saying them could change what he’d just seen. But the communicator pulsed again, pulling his attention back.

Guardia joined the game.

Karl joined the game.

PoliCe joined the game.

A growing sense of dread overtook him as each name appeared. CHRONOS. Here. On Hermitcraft. The air around him grew heavy, and Grian’s mind raced, a thousand questions colliding in his head. Why were they here? How had they found him? What had he left behind?

Then the chat exploded.

        TangoTek: What the void is going on?!

        PearlescentMoon: X, why can’t I access my tools?!

        MumboJumbo: Who are these people?!

        GoodTimeWithScar: Are we under attack?!

Grian’s eyes darted across the chaotic messages, each one stoking the growing storm of panic. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except the next message, stark and foreboding:

        Xisumavoid: CHRONOS has infiltrated the server. Everyone to spawn. Now.

Grian’s throat went dry. He gripped the edge of the chest so tightly the wood creaked under his fingers. He barely managed to type out a single reply.

        Grian: X, are you serious?

No answer came. Instead, his communicator chimed again, a stream of messages flooding the chat.

        Impulse: Spawn? Why? What’s happening?

        GeminiTay: Is it safe to leave our bases?

        RenTheDog: Do they have a warrant?

Grian’s hand hovered over the communicator. His vision blurred as the names stayed etched in his mind. His fingers shook as he tried to type another message, but he couldn’t finish. He didn’t need to ask—he already knew.

His ex was here. His childhood friend. The one person who knew him better than anyone else, and the one person he never wanted to see again.

The memory of Silly hit him like a punch to the gut. Her piercing gaze, the way she always seemed two steps ahead, her ambition that burned brighter than anything else. She had been everything he wasn’t—focused, driven, willing to do whatever it took. And now, it seemed, that had led her to CHRONOS.

A flood of memories threatened to drown him. Their shared laughter, dreams of a future beyond their broken pasts. Her betrayal. His failures. It all surged back, sharp and unrelenting.

The chat chimed again, but Grian barely registered it. His hands moved on instinct, grabbing supplies from the chest: rockets, food, an enchanted sword. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the world spinning around him. He dropped a stack of blocks, the sharp clatter against the wooden pier snapping him back to the present.

The Nether portal shimmered in the corner of his base, its swirling purple depths casting an eerie glow. It loomed like a silent warning, its hum low and foreboding. Grian’s steps were heavy as he approached it, his heart pounding in his chest.

He glanced at the communicator one last time. Silly’s name still hung there like a curse, an omen of what was to come.

With a deep breath, he stepped through.

The familiar heat of the Nether rushed to meet him, ash swirling in the air like the remnants of his shattered peace. The crimson landscape stretched out before him, jagged and treacherous. He landed on the uneven ground, fists clenched at his sides.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know how far he could run. But running was the only thing he’d ever been good at.

Chapter Text

Silly scanned the gathering at Spawn with surgical precision, her sharp eyes cutting through the eclectic mix of Hermits before her. Their appearances ranged from fantastical to monstrous, some humanoid, some barely tethered to the laws of reality itself. Among them, a blood fey muttered under his breath, pacing as though the tension in the air wasn’t already suffocating.

Karl, her right-hand man, lingered a step behind her, his usual composure marred by a shadow of unease. “Are you sure you want to do this yourself?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only Silly could hear. “Someone else could—”

“I need to do this,” Silly snapped, her words as sharp as her glare. Years of decisions, compromises, and sacrifices had led her to this moment. She couldn’t hand it off—not when it was so deeply personal. Karl hesitated, then gave a curt nod, stepping back with an unspoken warning in his eyes.

Silly’s attention returned to the Hermits. They were curious, wary, some openly hostile as they whispered among themselves. They didn’t trust her presence, but she hadn’t expected them to. She wasn’t here to make friends; she was here to enforce the law.

A voidwalker stepped forward, his confident stride cutting through the murmurs like a blade. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his presence carried the weight of authority. His sharp eyes met hers, unreadable yet brimming with challenge.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Xisuma’s voice was polite, but his tone was steely, the undercurrent of distrust impossible to miss.

Silly’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’re here for a fugitive,” she stated flatly, her voice slicing through the hum of whispers. “A particularly dangerous one.”

The tension shifted palpably. Xisuma’s lips curled into a tight smile, devoid of warmth. “Dangerous? On my server? You must be mistaken.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Silly countered, taking a deliberate step forward. “You’ve been ignoring our inquiries, but we’ve confirmed this individual resides here.”

“Ignoring inquiries without a warrant is within my jurisdiction,” Xisuma said coolly. “Breaking into my server isn’t within yours.”

Silly bristled but pressed on, her voice unyielding. “This server has been harboring a fugitive on CHRONOS’ most-wanted list. Denying that now is pointless.”

At this, the crowd murmured louder. Suspicion flared in their eyes, some directed at Silly, others at their admin. Xisuma remained calm, his gaze unreadable, but his fingers flexed at his sides as though suppressing the urge to intervene.

Silly glanced at the Hermits and took a deep breath. “Let me jog your memory. This player is wanted for the following charges…”

As she rattled off the crimes—jaywalking, littering, trespassing, vandalism—the crowd relaxed slightly, some even chuckling. A vex hybrid, perched casually with his cane, grinned. The name above his head said Scar.

“Sounds like a typical day for most of us” Scar, quipped, drawing scattered laughter. “Is that really worth all this trouble?”

Silly’s sharp gaze pinned him, and the humor drained from the air. “Breaking and entering. Burglary. Grave robbing. Identity fraud.” Her voice grew colder with every word. “Unlawful alteration of timelines.”

That one landed like a hammer. The laughter stopped. Faces turned serious, confusion bleeding into concern.

“Unlawful… what?” Scar’s voice broke the silence, hesitant but curious.

Silly pressed on, relentless. “Participation in illicit combat clubs. Manslaughter. Murder.” She paused deliberately, letting the weight of her words sink in. “World destruction.”

The crowd fell deathly silent.

Silly smiled, reveling in the anxiety in the air.

“He is the infamous villain, ‘The World Destroyer: Grian’”

“You can’t be serious,” Mumbo said finally, his voice a mix of disbelief and anger. “This is Grian. He’s not a criminal.”

“You’re lying,” Scar growled, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by uncharacteristic fierceness. “Grian’s our friend. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—”

Xisuma stood still, his expression unreadable but his eyes narrowed, calculating. He had seen the worst of the server, but even now, this felt wrong. He stepped forward, his tone firm. “This isn’t Grian. He wouldn't—”

Silly’s gaze snapped to him, and for a moment, it was as if the world held its breath. “Grian's actions speak for themselves, Xisuma,” she said, her voice heavy with finality.

Scar, the vex hybrid, stood frozen. His charm had completely faltered, the façade crumbling in the face of the truth. His eyes flicked to the other Hermits, his hands gripping his cane tighter. “I won’t believe it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Not without proof. You think you can just tear down everything he built for us?”

Silly smirked, a cold, calculated expression. “Where is he, Scar? He’s not here, and neither are your excuses. He’s a fugitive, and you’re harboring him.”

A shift rippled through the crowd as the realization settled in. Some of the Hermits exchanged glances—those who had laughed with Grian, who had been pranked by him, who had shared in the chaotic joy of his antics. They were torn. Some were visibly shaking their heads, still unable to reconcile the Grian they knew with the monster Silly described. But others were beginning to feel the weight of the accusations, their faith in him starting to crack.

But Mumbo, Xisuma, and Scar stood firm. “This isn’t true,” Mumbo said, his voice breaking with frustration. “You can’t just destroy everything we’ve built on a few accusations!”

“Where is he?” Silly’s question was simple, yet it carried the weight of everything that had come before. The silence answered her question well enough.“No one seems to know. How convenient.”

A ripple of panic swept through the crowd. The mood shifted again. Some Hermits looked ready to defend Grian, while others couldn’t help but wonder if they had been blind to his darker side.

Silly knew the truth had landed. And now, she would wait for them to tear themselves apart, piece by piece.

Silly stood tall, her eyes still scanning the crowd, but her mind already calculating her next move. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, glowing device, a tracking tool she had used countless times before. The coordinates of Grian’s last known whereabouts flashed on the screen, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“It appears he’s heading to the End,” she said coolly, her tone dropping into a quiet certainty that made the room still. “Grian’s never been one for the obvious route. Always a few steps ahead of everyone else... or at least, he thinks he is.”

She glanced over at Scar, her eyes locking onto his tense figure. “Scar, was it?” she asked, her voice smooth and calculated. “Why don’t you show us the way?” It wasn't a question, it was a demand. She wanted to see this server fall apart. See their trust in him begin to waver until it no longer existed. She wanted justice and revenge. And she was going to win. 

Chapter Text

It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else why Grian had chosen to flee to the End rather than simply leave the server altogether.

It wouldn’t make sense to any sane person why—out of all the vast expanses of the End—he’d decided to hide inside one of the obsidian pillars in the Dragon’s Lair.

But Grian had never been a paragon of sanity. He wasn’t predictable, and he wasn’t rational. He was spontaneous, impulsive—and it was those very traits he hoped would save him now.

The hours dragged like years as he crouched within the cold, jagged confines of the obsidian pillar. The stone walls pressed in on him, their edges sharp and unforgiving, biting into his wings as he tried to keep them tucked as best he could. The air around him was thick, suffocating, the silence so profound it felt as though the entire world had stopped. His legs were cramping, his muscles screamed in protest, and every shallow breath he took echoed painfully in the stillness. His avian instincts rebelled against the confinement, his wings twitching with the urge to stretch, but there was nowhere to go. He had to stay hidden. The cramped inside the pillar wrapped around him like a vice, suffocating any shred of calmness he had left. He could almost feel the weight of the void pressing against him, a constant reminder that escape was fleeting.

Then, just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, he heard voices. His heart clenched, cold dread flooding through him.

“Give us some elytra,” a sharp, commanding voice rang out.

Grian’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. He didn’t need to see her face to know who it belonged to.

Silly.

Scar’s voice, always light and joking, broke the tension. “Now, now, we have a thriving economy here on Hermitcraft. If you want an elytra, you’ll have to either find one yourself or pay for it.”

Even now, Scar was trying to make a sale. A bitter laugh bubbled up in Grian’s chest, but it died quickly, suffocated by the constriction in his ribs.

“I don’t have time for this,” Silly snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Either you hand over the elytras, or I charge you with obstructing the law.”

Scar sighed dramatically, a sound that would’ve been amusing if Grian didn’t feel as though he were seconds away from being caught. “Fine, fine.”

There was a rustle, the sound of heavy things being passed around, the sharp clink of metal.

“Scar, right?”

“Oh. Yes!”

“We need rockets.”

A tense silence followed, and for a moment, Grian was sure his heart had stopped. His thoughts were tangled, a mess of fear and confusion, but then Scar’s unmistakable laugh echoed through the void. It was loud, out of place, and far too carefree. “Alright, here you go.”

The enforcers’ rockets screamed into the air, a shrill whistle cutting through the vast, alien emptiness of the End. Grian’s heart stuttered in his chest, the high-pitched sound seizing his breath, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. Time was slipping away, and every second counted.

For several agonizing moments, nothing happened. His pulse drummed in his ears, each beat growing louder, sharper. He waited, his body frozen, every muscle coiled like a taut wire, ready to spring into action—or deeper into hiding. Ten minutes passed, though it felt like hours. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to move.

One shaky, shuddering breath later, Grian began to mine his way out of the obsidian pillar. His hands trembled as he worked, every motion slow, deliberate, each block of obsidian falling with a deep, hollow thud that felt like a countdown in his ears. He peered out, squinting into the void, his vision blurry in the oppressive darkness. The space around him was vast and empty, stretching into infinity. He saw nothing—no shapes, no movement, just the silent, endless black.

No time to hesitate.

He stepped out, wincing as his wings unfolded with a sickening crack. Each joint groaned in protest, the stiffness from hours of cramped positioning making every movement feel like it was tearing him apart. His wings stretched slowly, painfully, each feather catching on the sharp obsidian, and he bit back a hiss. The ache in his limbs was unbearable, the exhaustion from his flight, and the constant tension of hiding taking its toll.

Just as he prepared to take off, something whistled through the air. A splash potion shattered just inches from him, the green liquid splattering across the ground, sending out a grey, sickly vapor that curled into the air with an eerie hiss. The smell hit him first—faintly metallic, almost sweet, but it was the coldness that sank into his skin like ice. He didn’t have time to react before it hit him full force.

Grian’s vision blurred, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. The pain struck immediately, sharp and invasive, like ice needles piercing every inch of his skin. His body went numb, his muscles locking in place as though he were made of stone. Panic clawed its way up his throat, but it was swallowed by the overwhelming, crushing sensation of paralysis.

Figures emerged from the shadows, distorted and hazy in his swimming vision. They were closing in.

A hand locked around his arm, the grip as cold and unyielding as the void itself. Another seized his wing, wrenching the feathers with cruel force. Grian didn’t think—he reacted. His wings flapped wildly, desperate, frantic. He kicked out, his foot connecting with something solid, and the satisfying crunch of bones reverberated in his skull.

For a moment, it felt like he was free. The force of his flapping lifted him, and the world seemed to open up beneath him. He was airborne, just for a moment, a fleeting escape. But the enforcers were relentless.

The sound of arrows slicing through the air came next—sharp and menacing, like whispers of death itself. Grian twisted in midair, but his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. His wings didn’t respond fast enough. An arrow thudded into his shoulder, and the pain exploded across his body, a white-hot wave that stole his breath away. Another followed, this one coated in poison, and the world around him began to fade.

The pain was unbearable, and it was only when his wings gave out that he realized how close he was to the end. He plummeted, the air rushing past him with deafening force.

His body hit the water with a sickening splash, the coldness seeping into his bones, but it wasn’t enough to numb the agony. His body was like lead, the weight of his injuries dragging him under. Hands reached into the water, pulling him out with practiced efficiency as Grian gasped for air. 

Weakly, Grian thrashed, but his movements were slow, uncoordinated, a far cry from the desperate flaps of moments before. His mind screamed at him to fight, to escape—but his body refused to listen.

His arms and wings were bound tightly, the ropes biting into his skin and feathers. They hauled him over someone's shoulder, and his head lolled to the side, the world spinning and fading to black.

The journey back to Spawn was a blur, a muddled haze of pain and exhaustion. By the time they arrived, Grian was barely conscious, the world around him nothing but fractured pieces of reality.

When he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground, the impact sent a wave of fresh agony through his battered body. He groaned weakly, but the attempt to push himself up was futile. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, his chest tightening with the weight of defeat.

Silly’s voice pierced the fog in his mind, cold and final. “Say your goodbyes, Grian.”

Her words hit him like a blow, final and suffocating.

“You’ve run out of second chances.”

The weight of those words crashed into him, deeper than the physical pain. Grian wanted to scream, to fight back, to do something, but all that escaped was a ragged breath, barely a whisper.

The realization settled over him with all the force of a tidal wave. He had lost.

Chapter Text

Grian looked terrified.

That was all Mumbo could think about as he stared at his friend—small, trembling, and curled into himself like a cornered animal. Grian wasn’t just hiding from the enforcers; he was hiding from them—from the friends he once trusted, from the people who had always stood beside him.

Mumbo’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he watched Grian shrink, his wings curled in tight to his body, his posture one of complete vulnerability. He was so unlike the Grian Mumbo had always known—the mastermind behind the pranks, the architect of chaos, the one who had turned every dull moment into an adventure. This wasn’t the man who could defuse tension with a joke or turn any situation into something absurdly funny. No, this Grian was trembling. His eyes were wide and glassy, darting back and forth as if he were trying to find a way out—any way out—and failing.

Were they really going kill him, make him say his final goodbyes?

Sure, some of the crimes they had listed were grave, maybe even deserving of a death sentence in the eyes of CHRONOS. But this wasn’t just anyone—it was Grian. The same Grian who had been a constant presence in his life. The same Grian who had always been there to share a laugh, to help him pick up the pieces when things fell apart. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.

Mumbo's chest tightened as he watched the shell of the person he thought he knew. Whatever had happened in Grian’s past, Mumbo couldn’t believe it was entirely his fault. He had seen the cracks behind Grian’s ever-present grin, the shadows of pain that flickered behind his eyes during rare, vulnerable moments. Grian had never been the perfect hero, not even as Cuteguy, but Mumbo had always believed he was worth fighting for.

Mumbo’s stomach twisted in knots, his palms sweating. How had things gotten so far? This was Grian, his best friend, the one who had stood by him for years through everything. And now, Grian was here, on his knees, a broken shell of the person Mumbo had always known.

Mumbo couldn’t imagine what Grian must be feeling in this moment. Everyone was running from something—even him—but to be caught so quickly, without even a fight, in a place Grian had thought was safe? That kind of betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

Grian had always been quick-witted, always a step ahead, always able to stay calm and collected even when things were falling apart. But now, there was no fight left in him. Grian was scared. He was completely terrified.

Grian mumbled something, his voice so faint it barely broke through the tense silence. Even Ren, with his impeccable canine hearing, had to strain to catch it.

The enforcer girl stepped closer, her expression a dangerous cocktail of concern and fury. “What did you say?” she demanded, her voice low and cutting.

Grian flinched, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. His voice cracked as he whispered, “My code is corrupted.”

The words landed like a thunderclap. Mumbo felt his blood run cold. Corrupted code.

The implications were staggering. Corruption in a server like Hermitcraft—a place heavily fortified against external interference—might go unnoticed for years. But outside? In unprotected servers? Corruption could spread like wildfire, tearing holes in the world’s structure, opening doors to Watchers and worse.

And in the Central Hub, where code wasn’t just data but flesh and blood, corrupted code was a disaster waiting to happen. It could kill a player outright, grant them unstable immortality, or rip a rift wide enough to collapse the multiverse.

Mumbo’s mind raced, struggling to keep up with the overwhelming flood of thoughts. How long had Grian been living with this? How long had he been running from something inside him—something he couldn’t control, something no one knew about?

The enforcer girl stiffened, the weight of Grian’s confession settling heavily on her shoulders. She turned sharply to Xisuma. “Voidwalker, you can scan his code. Can you not?”

Xisuma hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “It’s a privacy violation,” he said, his voice measured. “I’ll need his permission. But yes, I can.”

The enforcer’s gaze swung back to Grian, sharp and unyielding. “Well? Are you going to give him permission or not?”

Grian hesitated, his entire body trembling under the weight of the question. Slowly, he gave a shaky nod.

Mumbo could barely breathe. Grian didn’t want to do this. He was giving permission for someone to look into the very core of him, to tear down every wall he’d built around his secrets. The thought of it made Mumbo want to shout, to protest, to stop it all. But he couldn’t. He could only watch as his friend spiraled deeper into this nightmare.

Xisuma knelt in front of Grian, his movements careful, his tone far softer than the enforcer’s. “Give me your hands,” he said gently.

Grian complied, his bound hands trembling as they rested in Xisuma’s. Behind the Voidwalker’s mask, his eyes began to glow, and a holographic screen flared to life in front of him.

The enforcers leaned in, their eyes locked on the swirling mess of data that filled the screen. Mumbo could barely keep his eyes on Grian—on the broken, fragmented code that had once been his friend. Every flicker, every glitch of data felt like a betrayal.

Mumbo’s stomach churned. He had never seen anything like it—a chaotic storm of scrambled code, fragmented and unstable. It was a miracle Grian could function at all, let alone survive. Mumbo’s heart ached at the thought of what it must have been like to live with something so broken, so impossible to fix.

The enforcer girl sighed, breaking the heavy silence. “Send me the code,” she said, her voice clipped. “I’ll get the Coders to fix it. But it’ll take months—maybe longer.”

Grian exhaled shakily, a flicker of relief softening the tension in his wings.

Xisuma complied, transferring the corrupted data to the enforcer. As the file uploaded, her demeanor hardened once more. Without a word, she grabbed Grian by the arm, pulling him to his feet with little care for his fragile state.

“In the meantime,” she announced, her tone sharp and unyielding, “in accordance with Article 4598a of the CHRONOS Codex,” she snapped. “Bugged criminals are to be tried within protected territories. All witnesses and victims of the criminal in question are required to attend.”

Mumbo’s heart sank. He had heard of CHRONOS trials before—their brutal efficiency, their cold detachment. Trials that stripped players down to nothing more than their mistakes. A trial. For Grian.

The enforcer glanced around the group, her sharp gaze cutting through them like a blade. “It looks like MCC is the nearest protected server. The trial will take place there. Be ready.”

She tightened her grip on Grian’s arm, the weight of her authority pressing down on everyone in the room. Grian didn’t resist. He didn’t fight. His body hung limp in her grasp, the fire in his eyes extinguished.

With a final glance over her shoulder, the enforcer stepped onto the launch pad, her team flanking her. She paused, her gaze cold and unfeeling as it swept over the Hermits one last time.

“I’ll see you all at the trial.”

In a flash of light, they were gone, leaving the room empty and silent.

Mumbo stood frozen, staring at the spot where they had disappeared. His mind was spinning, his thoughts in chaos.

Something soft brushed against his hand, and he looked down to see a single feather drifting gently to the ground.

He reached for it, his fingers trembling as they closed around the delicate plume. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the rush of air hit his chest.

He looked at the feather, its fragile form a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him.

“Not again,” Mumbo whispered, his voice shaking but resolute. “I’m not losing him again.”

Chapter Text

Grian blinked as the harsh light of the new server hit his eyes, leaving dark spots that danced across his vision. Server hopping always left him disoriented—like having his very soul pulled and twisted through the cosmic void. No matter how many times he endured it, the sensation never became easier to bear.

As the world around him sharpened, the vibrant hues of the MCC lobby greeted him. Once, the sight would have filled him with excitement: the roar of the crowd, the thrill of the games, the camaraderie of teammates who felt like family. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter and cheers, see flashes of past victories and defeats, and feel the heady adrenaline that made every bruise and fall worthwhile.

But those memories were distant now, faint whispers drowned out by the heavy silence around him. This time, there were no cheers, no banter—just a handful of moderators and admins standing like sentinels. Their hushed voices cut through the air, sharp and clinical.

His stomach twisted as he recognized their faces. These weren’t strangers. They were people he’d worked with—builders of games that had once brought joy to thousands of players. Now, their expressions held no warmth, only cold judgment.

“Is that really him?” one moderator muttered, their voice low but still audible.

“He doesn’t look so tough now,” another sneered.

Grian shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his chains a constant reminder of what he was now: a prisoner. He caught the way their eyes darted to his wings, their gazes laced with disdain.

“Typical of an avian,” someone muttered. “Chaos is in their nature.”

He flinched as another voice chimed in, sharp with derision. “Harpy.”

The word hit like a slap, a reminder of every slur he’d ever endured. Birdbrain. Featherhead. Stupid Polly. He’d heard them all before, but they never stung any less. Avians weren’t just rare—they were distrusted, feared. Most people couldn’t see the difference between him and a Watcher. The comparison made him sick, but maybe it was fitting. He was a monster too, wasn’t he?

A familiar face caught his eye—a moderator he’d once called a friend. For a moment, he thought he saw hesitation in her gaze, a flicker of the bond they used to share. Then her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile, and she whispered a single word: “Idiot.”

His chest tightened. The moderators began to move again, their footsteps measured and deliberate, each one echoing like a death knell. He was nudged forward, the motion impersonal and unrelenting. The sound of his chains, normally deafening, now felt muffled, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the empty arena.

And then he saw it: a jagged box of bedrock ahead, its sharp edges casting angular shadows across the floor.

Grian’s breath hitched. His steps faltered, but the guards pushed him on. The sight of the cell sent a jolt through his chest, a cold and final reminder of what awaited him.

“They should skip the trial,” one moderator muttered. “Save everyone the trouble. He’s guilty. We all know it.”

“Not our call,” someone replied, though their tone lacked conviction.

Silly’s voice broke through the murmur of dissent, sharp and commanding. “Enough.”

The moderators fell silent, but their judgmental stares didn’t waver. Silly didn’t look at him as she barked the next order. “Inside.”

The shove caught him off guard. Grian stumbled, the chains around his ankles tangling as he fell face-first onto the rough bedrock floor. Pain flared across his hands and knees, the jagged stone biting through his clothes.

Before he could push himself up, the final block slammed into place. The sound of it echoed like a death sentence, and then—darkness.

Thick, suffocating darkness swallowed him whole. His wings flared instinctively, beating against the confined space. The dull thud of feathers meeting bedrock reverberated around him, each impact a painful reminder of how small the cell truly was.

A strangled chirp escaped his throat, high-pitched and frantic. He bit it back, but the sound lingered in the air, a plaintive cry that no one would hear.

He hated himself for it.

The darkness pressed against him, heavy and alive. Avians feared confinement the way most feared death. And the darkness—it was soothing in its suffocation, a calculated cruelty designed to break him.

His breaths came faster, shallower. His body trembled as instincts warred within him: fight or surrender. Survive or succumb.

Memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden and raw. Other cages. Other dark places. Times when he’d screamed himself hoarse, begging for someone—anyone—to save him. But no one ever had.

The faces of the moderators flashed in his mind, their betrayal cutting deeper than any cage. These were people he’d trusted, people he’d laughed with, people who had once seen him as more than his wings. Now, they wouldn’t even meet his gaze.

The chirps slowed. His wings stilled. His body betrayed him, sinking into a calm that felt more like drowning than peace.

And in that suffocating silence, the whispers began.

He’d heard the rumors about CHRONOS trials. The brutality. The public spectacle. The truth extracted by any means necessary, no matter how much pain it caused.

Death would be a mercy.

The thought terrified him, but a part of him—buried deep within—welcomed it. At least death would bring an end to the running, the chaos, the endless ache.

But he wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.

Somehow, some way, he would survive this. He would endure the trial, bear their accusations, and when the time came, he’d escape. He’d vanish to the farthest corner of existence, somewhere even CHRONOS couldn’t reach.

But even as the thought flickered in his mind, it felt distant, unattainable. Like a star out of reach.

And here, in the dark, with the weight of the world pressing down on him, it felt impossible to fight back.

Chapter Text

Lizzie had been stunned when she and Joel received the letter from CHRONOS. The heavy envelope had remained unopened for hours, an ominous presence between them. It was as if the world itself paused, the silence only broken by the ticking of an unseen clock, counting down to something neither of them was ready for.

It wasn’t until Joel explained what had transpired on Hermitcraft that the gravity of the situation truly sank in. Her husband, who typically split his time between Empires SMP and Hermitcraft, had returned early—an occurrence so rare it immediately raised alarms. That alone was unsettling enough to worry Lizzie, but it was the story he told next that shook her to her core.

Joel told her about Grian. About the charges levied against him by CHRONOS. Lizzie’s mind raced. She’d known Grian for years, since secondary school. Back then, his life had been nothing short of chaotic. She had seen the turmoil that followed him, the destruction and confusion that clung to him like a shadow. Though she could understand why some of the charges might hold weight, Lizzie refused to believe that Grian was the sole architect of his own downfall. There had to be more to the story. And the trial—well, the trial would be the place to find out the truth, wouldn’t it?

With their decision made, they opened the letter together. It was a summons to court, and though they had already guessed its contents, the reality of it still hit with brutal force.

Now, Lizzie stood before the mirror, her makeup brush in hand, each stroke slow and deliberate as she tried to steady her nerves. The trial was in just two hours, and even now, she couldn’t fully accept what was happening. Every step of this process felt unreal.

She knew the way CHRONOS trials worked—everything was meticulously orchestrated. The accused were not only summoned, but everyone involved with them was called to bear witness. The seating arrangements were never random; those closest to or most affected by the accused were seated in the front. It wasn’t just about justice—it was about making the accused face the full weight of their actions, forcing them to feel the impact of what they had done.

Public trials were harrowing, emotionally intense affairs.

“Are you ready to go?” Joel’s voice interrupted her thoughts. His hand found hers, his eyes searching her face, anxiety and concern etched in every line. He was terrified—for Grian, for what might happen, for everything. Lizzie felt that same fear, gnawing at her insides.

She nodded, forcing a semblance of composure. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Together, they left Empires SMP, the familiar world around them dissolving into a flash of light as they arrived on the MCC server.

The sight that greeted them upon arrival took Lizzie by surprise. The MCC server, usually buzzing with energy during tournament days, was unusually crowded and had an aura of despair. This wasn’t a tournament. This wasn’t a game. This was a trial. So why were there so many people here?

Joel and Lizzie followed the stream of players into the large, newly constructed courthouse. An usher, clipboard in hand, approached them with an almost mechanical efficiency.

“Usernames?”

“LDShadowLady and SmallishBeans,” Joel replied, his voice steady but taut with barely-contained emotion.

The usher flipped through a thick stack of papers, then nodded. “This way, please.”

They were led down a long corridor, past row upon row of seats, until they reached the very front. Many of those already seated looked familiar—Mumbo, Pearl, Jimmy, and a few others from the Life games. But there was one figure Lizzie hadn’t expected to see—a woman, seated just a few spots away from Mumbo right next to Pearl. 

She was the focus of Mumbo’s hard, almost hostile glare, and her presence seemed to unsettle him in a way Lizzie had never seen before. He was tense, his usually calm demeanor replaced with something tight, like a bowstring about to snap.

Joel leaned in, whispering, “That’s Silly—the enforcer who captured Grian. His ex.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened. That explained a lot.

The air between Mumbo and Silly was thick with tension. It was clear that the trial was dredging up far more than just Grian’s past—it was forcing old wounds open. Wounds Lizzie wasn’t sure everyone in the room was prepared to confront.

In the row behind them, the rest of the Hermits had gathered. Some sat in stony silence, others whispered in low, urgent tones. Their faces were a mixture of worry, anger, and palpable unease. Most of them were focused on the empty seat in the defendant’s box, their gazes heavy with anticipation and dread.

Lizzie’s gaze swept across the room. The weight of the atmosphere pressed down on her, and all she wanted was for this to be over. For Grian’s sake. For everyone’s sake.

Chapter Text

Grian’s body felt like lead, every joint stiff, every muscle aching with exhaustion. His mind was a tangle of fear and disorientation, slipping between the edges of unconsciousness and fragmented thoughts. He had lost track of time—whether it had been hours, days, or weeks no longer mattered. The small, dark room was all he could comprehend. The hunger gnawed at him, his head pounded with thirst, and the crushing weight of captivity had drained every ounce of willpower he once had. He was trapped. Exactly as they wanted him.

Muted noises seeped through the walls, distant and distorted. Voices, footsteps, the occasional clinking of metal—each sound just another reminder of the life that moved on without him. The world beyond his cell, where he was nothing but a forgotten pawn. He hated it. The silence of his confinement echoed too loudly in his mind.

Then, a deafening crack shattered the stillness.

The wall in front of Grian exploded, splintering into jagged fragments that disappeared into the air as harsh lights flooded the room, blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brilliance. Raising a trembling hand to shield himself, his movement sluggish, as though his body were moving through water.

Footsteps followed—heavy, deliberate, and purposeful. Before Grian could react, rough hands gripped him, hauling him upright. His legs buckled, refusing to hold his weight, and he was forced to lean on his captors for support.

His vision swam, dark patches encroaching at the edges. Slowly, he registered a tall, broad-shouldered man standing before him. A cold, mocking voice cut through the haze.

“So, you’re Silly’s high school ex.” The words dripped with derision, each syllable a sharp blade. “Makes sense—a straight-laced woman like her falling for a chaotic birdbrain like you.”

The voice clawed at Grian’s heart. He forced his eyes to focus on the figure in front of him, and the sight sent a chill down his spine. The imposing person loomed over him, dark eyes gleaming with malice, a twisted smile etched onto his face. Every instinct screamed that this man was dangerous—far more dangerous than anything Grian had encountered in the suffocating darkness of his cell.

“Who… are you?” Grian’s voice was hoarse, weak.

The man’s grin widened. “Commander Chio,” he said with heavy pride, his voice laced with arrogance. “Silly’s fiance. Nice to meet you, birdie.”

Chio’s mocking grin twisted further as he stepped closer, towering over Grian. “You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” He sneered, reaching for Grian’s wings. The roughness of Chio’s grip sent jolts of pain shooting through his battered body. “Silly must’ve been desperate to waste her time with a featherbrain like you.”

“Let go…” Grian muttered through clenched teeth, his voice trembling. But Chio only laughed darkly.

“Oh, I’m not done yet, little parrot,” Chio said, his grip shifting to the base of Grian’s wings. The sensitive feathers there caused a sharp, involuntary gasp from Grian as Chio yanked cruelly. His wings burned with pain. His knees buckled, and the guards holding him let him drop to the floor, stepping aside to give Chio full access to his wings.

“Pathetic,” Chio spat, watching as Grian struggled to steady himself. “Can’t even stand on your own, can you?”

Grian’s lips parted, desperate to say something, anything, but Chio cut him off with a sneer. “Birds can’t talk,” he hissed, his words laced with mockery. The phrase struck a chord deep in Grian’s mind, stirring memories he didn’t dare confront.

Chio’s hands gripped Grian’s wings tighter, his mocking tone never wavering. “You’re a disgrace to everything she stands for. Silly deserves better than a criminal like you tainting her name.” With a sharp tug on the feathers, Chio sent another wave of pain coursing through Grian’s body. Chio finally released him, turning to face the entrance. Chio snapped and the guards walked towards Grian. 

They showed no concern, hauling Grian up once more. His legs barely supported him as they dragged him down the cobbled path to his doom.

Chio followed closely, his voice a relentless stream of venom. “You think you’re special because you have wings? Hollow bones and plumage don’t make you better than anyone else. You’re just another coop-dwelling loser playing at being something great.”

He leaned closer, his voice dripping with disdain. “You avians are all the same—all feathers and pride, no substance. You think your wings make you untouchable, but we’ll see how high you fly when they’re clipped.”

Each insult was a dagger, but Grian bore them in silence. Chio’s sneer deepened, his dark eyes burning with hate. “You ruined her life, you know that? She should’ve let you rot. But don’t worry,” he said with a cold smile. “I’ll make sure you’re nothing more than a bad memory for her.”

The guards roughly grabbed Grian under his shoulders and dragged him forward, his chains clinking against the cold stone path. Chio’s laughter echoed in his ears, cruel and triumphant. 

By the time they reached the courthouse, Grian’s legs were trembling, his entire body ached, and his heart was pounding like a drum. The grand structure loomed over him, its imposing façade radiating judgment. As they entered through a side entrance, the muffled roar of a crowd reached his ears—a sea of voices demanding justice.

Inside, the tension was suffocating. Familiar faces lined the courtroom, their gazes turning toward him as he was guided to the defendant’s box. Their expressions ranged from pity to disgust, and the weight of their judgment pressed heavily on his chest.

The judge’s booming voice shattered the silence. “Mr. Grian Charles, you stand accused of multiple crimes. To determine the truth of these charges, I have ordered an immersion trial.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the room.

“These trials delve deep into your most heartfelt memories, laying them bare for all to see. You will re-experience these events as though they are unfolding in real time, the emotions as vivid as when they first occurred. Many individuals have been driven to madness by the strain of enduring an immersion trial alone. Therefore, you are permitted to select two individuals to help tether you to the present. Who do you choose?”

Grian’s pulse quickened. He thought for a moment before deciding. His voice, though steady, betrayed the trembling of his body. “Mumbo Jumbo and LDShadowLady.”

An enforcer left to retrieve them. Moments later, a short man in a white lab coat entered, a sleek case of equipment in hand. His stiff smile and overly cheerful tone clashed with the room’s somber atmosphere.

“Greetings,” the man said, his false cheer grating against the tension in the air. “I will be the doctor overseeing your immersion trial today. The process is straightforward: a scan of your memories, focusing on those with the strongest emotional resonance. These will be displayed for the court. While the trial will be emotionally taxing, it is effective.”

He opened his case, revealing adhesive pads and thin wires. “These will monitor and project your memories. You may feel a chill when they make contact.”

Grian nodded reluctantly, flinching as the cold pads adhered to his temples. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine, amplifying the dread pooling in his stomach.

When Mumbo and Lizzie arrived, their presence was a fragile comfort. They sat beside him without a word, each grasping one of his hands. The warmth of their touch steadied him, anchoring him in the moment.

The doctor turned to them, his tone softening slightly. “Your role is vital. Be his tether to reality. If he shows distress, gently squeeze his hand to ground him. He won’t hear or see you, but your presence will help him not become trapped in a memory.”

They nodded, determination etched into their faces.

The doctor prepared the injection. “This may feel disorienting at first. Brace yourself.”

The cold liquid entered Grian’s veins, spreading through him like ice. His limbs grew heavy, his mind foggy, and the room blurred into an indistinct haze. Mumbo and Lizzie’s grip was the only thing keeping him from slipping into the void.

Then, like a tidal wave, darkness consumed him.

Chapter Text

“Alright, class, today we’re going to play a little game,” the teacher announced, his voice laced with an unsettling cheerfulness. His smile, wide and practiced, sent a chill crawling down Grian’s spine. The man stood at the front of the room, dressed in a sharply tailored suit and a sleek Fedora, his appearance more reminiscent of a mob boss than a teacher.

At just seven years old, Grian had an uncanny ability to read situations, and something about this one felt profoundly off. His instincts buzzed with discomfort, but he was in a new school, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and the murmur of children much younger than him.

What could he do? He was a newcomer, and he wasn’t about to ask too many questions—yet.

With a flourish, the teacher handed each child a rusted katana, the blades jagged and dull, the kind of dullness that suggested long disuse. “Don’t worry, they’re just props,” he said, though the smile on his face failed to reassure Grian. Every fiber of his being screamed that there was something more sinister at play. “Now, listen up. There’s a man in town—an actor, a very convincing one. Your task is simple: sneak up on him and pretend to kill him. He’ll play along and pretend to die. Understood?”

A ripple of eager excitement swept through the group of children, their faces lighting up with anticipation. The group ranged in age from as young as three to as old as eight, their innocence juxtaposed with the dangerous game they were about to play. Grian exchanged a glance with Silly, who was the youngest in the group. Her tiny legs struggled to keep up as they marched out of the school grounds and into the bustling streets beyond. Grian couldn’t help but notice how vulnerable she appeared, like a fragile bird lost in the storm. She reminded him of his younger siblings back home. The ones he had been banned from seeing ever again. 

They reached a crowded street, where the teacher stopped in front of a man sitting on a bench. “That’s your target,” he said, voice full of unnatural enthusiasm. “Be sneaky. Make it convincing.”

Sam, the self-appointed leader of their little band, gave a confident nod and crouched low behind a bush, his friend Taurtis signaling the others to follow suit. The rest of the children mimicked their movements, their tiny bodies trembling with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Silly, as usual, lagged behind, struggling to match the pace of the others.

“Ready?” Sam whispered, his voice laced with anticipation. The others nodded, their small hands gripping the handles of their swords with an intensity that belied their age.

Without further hesitation, the children sprang from their hiding place with a collective shout, rushing the man sitting on the bench.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Grian hesitated, his breath catching in his chest. But then, his instincts kicked in, and he joined the fray, rusty blades swinging wildly.

The man let out a strangled cry, a sound that was not in the least bit theatrical, before collapsing to the ground with an unsettling thud.

The teacher emerged from behind a nearby building, clapping his hands in mock approval. “Excellent! Well done, everyone. See? He’s just pretending. A very convincing actor, don’t you think?”

The younger children beamed, eager smiles plastered across their faces as they handed back their swords. But Grian’s gaze was fixed on the man’s prone body, the blood pooling around him in dark, ominous stains. His stomach churned violently, and his breath became shallow. Memories of his pseudo-father’s recent, death surged forward, unbidden. The way he had fallen, ill and coughing, into a small stake in the ground before his life gave up. The way the blood pooled as Grian begged Mr. Chiwakase to wake up. Wake up. Please don't leave him to fend through the world alone. Plea— Grian knew what death looked like; it wasn’t something you could fake. This was no act.

“Guys, what just happened?” Grian’s voice trembled, his words barely escaping his dry throat as he turned toward his friends.

“We just played the best game ever!” Sam cheered, a grin spread wide across his face. He wiped a smear of blood from his cheek as though it were nothing more than a trivial stain. Taurtis, equally nonchalant, laughed and nodded in agreement before the two of them bounded off, carefree and oblivious to the weight of what they had just done.

But Grian remained frozen, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the blood staining them—his bloodied hands, an irreversible mark of participation in something monstrous.

Grian's wings dropped in grief.

A small, familiar hand slipped into his, and Grian’s gaze turned to meet Silly’s eyes. Despite the fear that clearly lingered in her gaze, her voice was surprisingly steady.

“I understand,” Silly whispered, her words a soft echo of his own thoughts.

Grian blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “You do?”

Silly nodded solemnly, her expression a quiet mask of shared knowledge. Slowly, Grian and Silly moved toward a narrow alleyway, the shadows providing them with some semblance of privacy in this strange, foreign world.

“I’ve seen death before,” she continued, her voice barely more than a breath. “That... was death. Real death.”

The weight of her words hit Grian like a physical blow. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, the world spinning around him in disorienting waves. “What do we do now?” he whispered, his voice hollow.

A long, suffocating silence stretched between them. Silly’s grip tightened around his hand before she spoke again, her voice quivering with the burden of their shared understanding, wisdom beyond her years. “I—I don’t think we can tell anyone. No one would believe us.”

Grian swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat as the enormity of their situation settled over him. “So... we just keep quiet?”

Silly wrapped her arms around him in a tight, desperate embrace. “Yes. It’s our secret, Grian. Just between you and me.”

Just as Grian sought solace in the warmth of her embrace, a harsh voice sliced through the tension, sharp and accusatory.

“Oi!” The teacher’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, as he strode toward them, flanked by a group of men.

His once-smug expression had shifted to something darker, more sinister, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at them. “What are you two doing here?”

Silly and Grian’s hearts froze in terror, their eyes wide with panic. 

Without a word, they bolted, their small feet pounding against the pavement as they fled, the sound of their breath ragged in their ears. 

As they ran, Grian’s heart pounded in his chest, the teacher’s chilling words echoing behind them.

“They know.”

Chapter Text

Mumbo could hardly process what he had just witnessed. His chest felt as if it were being crushed under the weight of an overwhelming, sickening dread. Who does that to children? The thought gnawed at him, consuming his sanity since the memory had played out.

The scene that Grian had relived now burned in Mumbo’s mind, seared there like a scar that would never fade. He couldn’t help but glance around the courtroom, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of witnesses. They were a sea of conflicting emotions—anger, disgust, pity, and even a subtle, unsettling denial. But no matter where he looked, the faces around him seemed distant, detached, as though they couldn’t fully grasp the magnitude of what had occurred.

But when his gaze landed on Silly, his heart sank further. She sat in the front next to Grian's siblings, an enforcer whose role he had loathed for the past week. Her expression was a mask of unreadable neutrality, a stark contrast to the chaos and emotion swirling through the room. Her hands were gripping the edge of the bench with a white-knuckled intensity, as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

Mumbo's mind began to piece together the silent bond between Grian and Silly. It wasn’t a relationship founded on romance or affection, but something darker, something far more complicated: survival. They had endured horrors together as children, their connection forged in the furnace of trauma and shared pain. That bond, that unspoken understanding, was why they had remained so close even when separated by miles of distance and time.

He remembered long nights spent in the dorms, when Grian would wake in the dead of night, his body trembling with silent sobs. Mumbo had often woken to the faint sounds of his friend’s voice, whispering quietly into the phone, a muffled conversation with someone—likely Silly. Back then, Mumbo hadn’t asked. It felt intrusive, like stepping into a private world that wasn’t meant for him. Grian had never brought it up. But now, as the pieces of their shared past fell into place, the weight of it all hit him like a physical blow.

A pang of guilt shot through Mumbo’s chest. How had he never pressed Grian to talk? How had he never noticed the burden his friend had been silently carrying all these years, hidden behind the masks of humor and levity?

His heart ached as the realization settled in. He had been blind to Grian’s pain—perhaps out of ignorance, or perhaps because he hadn’t known how to help. Either way, the shame was overwhelming.

Mumbo turned to the doctor beside him, his voice barely a whisper. “Hey, Doctor?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. The doctor didn’t look up from the monitor, his hands deftly adjusting dials, monitoring Grian’s vitals with practiced precision.

“Does this... thing go in any particular order?” Mumbo asked, his words more hesitant than he intended.

The doctor shook his head, his tone clinical and detached. “No. It’s not linear. The memories flow from one to the next, often beginning with the events that are most emotionally charged, whether those emotions are positive or negative. Younger memories tend to be more intense, though. Stronger emotional ties, you see.”

Mumbo’s gaze flickered back to Grian’s face. His friend’s features were taut with tension, his unconscious expression a far cry from the mischievous, carefree persona Grian so often projected. He looked fragile, like a piece of glass on the verge of shattering. Mumbo’s heart ached as he squeezed Grian’s hand, wishing desperately that somehow, in the depths of his mind, Grian could feel the contact.

He leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I may not have been there for you before, Grian, but I’m here now, mate. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. We’ll get through this. I promise.”

Mumbo didn’t know what the next memory would bring, but he steeled himself. For Grian’s sake, he would endure whatever came next. He would stay strong. He had to.

The room fell silent once more as the memory began to unfold before them. The ripples of Grian’s past bled into the present, and Mumbo, Lizzie, and the audience watched in silence as the nightmare once again took shape.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want him!” The woman’s voice was sharp with contempt, her grip tightening on the child in her lap—her daughter, Pearl, whose soft brown curls cascaded over her tiny shoulders.

“You think I do?!” the man across from her snapped, his tone laced with irritation. He held onto a boy with sandy blonde hair and wide, innocent eyes—Jimmy.

Neither four-year-old understood the weight of the argument. They sat content in their parents’ arms, unaware of the cruel decisions being made above their heads.

The man exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I’m taking Jimmy because he’s the heir. You’re taking Pearl, so why not just take the other one too?” His eyes flicked toward the silent child standing off to the side—unacknowledged, unwanted.

The lawyer seated between them sighed, his patience stretched thin. His tired gaze settled on the boy. Grian stood stiff, head bowed low, his small frame tense under the weight of the discussion.

“Who’s been caring for him until now?” the lawyer asked, voice flat but weary.

“The butler,” the woman said curtly, waving a dismissive hand.

“Mr. Chiwakase,” the man added, his indifference mirroring hers.

The lawyer turned to the elderly butler standing quietly in the corner. Mr. Chiwakase, his back slightly hunched with age, clasped his hands neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable.

“Mr. Chiwakase,” the lawyer addressed him with polite authority. “Would you be willing to continue caring for young Grian Charles?”

The butler’s composed mask faltered. His warm smile wavered, touched with deep regret. A sudden cough rattled his chest, dry and harsh, betraying his body’s weakness. He brought a sleeve to his lips before straightening, his voice hoarse but steady. “Forgive me. I’ve not been well for some time. I’m retiring in a few days and returning home to Yandere Island.” His aged eyes softened as they flicked to Grian. “Taking a child so far from his roots… it would be cruel.”

The lawyer’s expression darkened with understanding. He hesitated, glancing at Grian, then back to the butler. “Who will take him, then?”

“Certainly not one of us!” the woman scoffed, her tone venomous. “That boy’s the source of all our problems.”

The lawyer pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose. “Which option would be best for the child, Mr. Chiwakase?”

The room fell into an eerie silence. Grian’s small fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white. His tiny shoulders trembled as if bracing for the inevitable.

Mr. Chiwakase studied him for what felt like an eternity. His aged eyes—full of wisdom, sorrow, and something heartbreakingly tender—lingered on the boy. Finally, his lips curved into a sad, bittersweet smile. “I suppose I’m taking you home with me, pesky bird.”

The words, spoken with warmth and resignation, shattered whatever fragile composure Grian had left. His head snapped up, eyes wide in disbelief. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back spilled over, trailing down his cheeks in silent rivers.

Without a word, he launched himself into the butler’s arms, clutching him desperately, as if afraid he might disappear like everything else.

In the memory, the older man’s hands were steady and strong as he held Grian close, whispering softly into his ear. “You’ll be alright, little one. I’ll take care of you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Grian let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

As the last remnants of the memory began to fade, a profound silence settled over the courtroom. The air was thick with the weight of what had just been revealed, the tension so palpable it almost seemed to vibrate in the stillness.Lizzie sat motionless, her hand pressed to her face as she wiped away a tear.

Even Mumbo, usually composed, appeared visibly shaken. His jaw was tight, his muscles stiff with restrained emotion as his fingers clung to Grian’s hand for support—an anchor in the face of such raw, painful revelations. How could Grian's parents be so heartless? 

In the audience, Pearl and Jimmy, the two children who had been dragged into this cruel family drama, huddled together. Their faces were drained of color, eyes wide with shock, their brows furrowed in a mix of disbelief and furious confusion.

The truth of their parents' callousness had struck them with brutal force, and it was clear from their expressions that the weight of this revelation was far heavier than anything they had ever imagined. The memory of their parents' disregard for their own flesh and blood seemed to burn in their minds, leaving an indelible scar.

“Grian,” Mumbo murmured, his voice barely audible as he leaned closer to his friend, his words thick with unsaid emotions. “You never told me…”

The weight of those words hung in the air, a quiet confession that echoed in the stillness of the courtroom. Mumbo’s grip tightened around Grian’s hand, his own emotions swirling in a mix of regret and sorrow. How could he have known? How could he have ever guessed the depth of rejection that Grian had been carrying all these years?

But of course, Grian couldn’t hear him. His mind was not in this moment. It had already been swept away into the next memory, pulled deeper into the unforgiving current of the immersion trial.

The trial, relentless in its pursuit of the truth, had ensnared him. Each memory, each moment, was a new layer of his past being peeled back—exposing the wounds, the darkness, the pain that he had hidden away for so long. The weight of it all would crush anyone, yet Grian had carried it all. 

As the room held its breath awaiting the next horrors, the trial continued its unyielding path.

The truth, no matter how painful, would be laid bare.

Chapter Text

“Grian. Taurtis. Sam,” their teacher called out as they arrived at the toy store, “Watch Silly.”

“Yes, sir. ” Grian responded, puffing up with pride when Rowan, his teacher, ruffled his hair. He could feel the warmth of the gesture, a rare sign of affection that made him feel valued, like he was doing something important.

“Good man,” Rowan said with a smile, and Grian beamed at the praise. Rowan was one of the few adults who treated him with kindness and respect, and Grian felt a deep sense of loyalty to him.

Turning to Silly, her small hand gripping his, Grian asked, “Where do you want to go?”

Silly’s wide eyes gleamed with excitement as she pointed toward the back of the store. There, an entire section was devoted to plush stuffed animals, each one more colorful than the last. Grian could already imagine how soft they would feel in his hands.

“Over there,” Silly said, her voice light with anticipation.

Grian nodded and led the group toward the corner, where the plush animals were displayed on shelves and in bins. Silly skipped beside him, her little steps full of energy, the sheer joy of being in the toy store making her seem even smaller.

Sam, being a rabbit hybrid, immediately made a beeline for the nearest rabbit plush, practically launching himself at it. “This one’s name is Sam, just like me!” he declared proudly, holding up the toy like a trophy. Going off to show it to everyone. 

Grian chuckled at Sam’s enthusiasm. Taurtis, predictably, got distracted. With his usual flair for mischief, Taurtis wandered off, his attention diverted by something else in the store.

That left Grian and Silly, sitting together among the rows of stuffed animals, chatting about their favorite ones and enjoying the moment.

Grian didn’t notice the back door of the store creak open at first.

It was only when a pair of hands reached out from behind and grabbed both him and Silly that his peaceful moment shattered.

In a blur, their mouths were covered before they could scream.

The force of the pull dragged them out of the shop and into the dim alleyway behind the store. Grian fought desperately, flapping his wings with all his might, but the abductor’s grip was unyielding. Silly kicked and squirmed just as fiercely, her small feet pounding against the man’s legs.

“Enough.” The cold, harsh voice sent a shiver down Grian’s spine, freezing him in place.

It was their false teacher, the one who had made them kill a man. And he was standing in the doorway of the store. He had crossed his arms, glaring at the two.

“You two are coming with me,” the man said flatly, as if it were a mere inconvenience.

Grian’s stomach twisted into knots. His mind raced, panic seizing him as he struggled to comprehend what was happening.

The man continued in a chillingly calm voice, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re too young to understand the things you’ve seen. But my princess—” His tone softened, almost fond, as he referred to someone Grian didn’t know. “She needs friends. And you two seem like you’ve already been exposed to the kind of death that follows men like me.”

Grian’s heart pounded in his chest. “W-what do you want with us?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

The words barely left his mouth before the man who was holding him's hand shot forward and grabbed his face, covering his mouth once more. "Quiet."

Without thinking, Grian bit down hard on the man’s hand, his teeth sinking into the skin. The man yelped in surprise, letting go of Grian with a curse. Grian landed on the hard concrete with a thud and quickly scrambled to his feet. He desperately pulled at the man holding Silly's arm to free her, but the man’s hold was still tight, and he wasn’t letting go.

“Run! Save yourself!” Silly screamed, her voice filled with raw urgency. Despite her size, her determination to protect him made her seem much stronger.

Grian hesitated for just a moment, torn between staying to help Silly and running to safety. His instincts screamed at him to flee, to save himself, but Silly’s blazing eyes locked onto his, and he saw the fear in them.

But she wanted him to go. “Go!” she shouted again, more fiercely this time. Her eyes burned with a fire Grian had never seen before. She wasn’t just trying to survive—she was fighting for their lives. This was his only chance to get help. 

With his heart pounding, Grian turned and ran, his legs pumping furiously beneath him. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision as he sprinted away from the alley, away from the nightmare that was unfolding.

He heard a gunshot in the distance, and the air around him seemed to crackle with the tension of what could come next. A bullet whistled past his ear, too close for comfort, hitting the metal siding of a garbage can. Fear crawled down him as he stumbled but kept running.

“Tell anyone,” the man’s voice bellowed after him, filled with venom, “and the girl dies!”

Grian’s breath hitched as the words echoed in his mind. The threat was all too real, and his heart wrenched with the weight of it. He was going to escape. But he couldn't get help. Not with Silly's life on the line. 

Grian stumbled back to the school group, just as they were leaving the store. He slipped into the crowd unnoticed. He steadied his breath, trying to hide his trembling hands and the storm of emotions that raged within him. He couldn't get help. His mind was a whirlwind of guilt and fear. He couldn't save Silly. 

As the group readied to disperse, Ms. Okami, scanned the group, doing a head count. “Looks like we’re missing someone,” she said, a hint of concern creeping into her voice. After a brief pause, Ms. Okami shifted in easily. 

“Where’s our daughter, Rowan?”

Rowan froze, his face pale. “She’s with Sam, Taurtis, and Grian.”

Ms. Okami’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Rowan, she’s not here.”

Rowan’s face drained of color, and without another word, he bolted into the streets, his long legs carrying him quickly as he searched frantically for Silly.

“Alright, everyone,” Ms. Okami said after a deep, steadying breath. She forced herself to remain calm, but Grian could see the tension in her eyes. “School is over for today. Go home.”

The children began to disperse. Grian began to walk with Sam, an attempted smile plastered on his face. He was shaking, trying to walk past Ms. Okami with out wilting from guilt. He was almost home free. A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

He froze.

“Grian,” Ms. Okami said softly, her voice laced with concern and an underlying tone of judgment. “There’s something we need to discuss. Will you come with me to our house?”

Grian felt his heart race. His mouth felt dry and he was still trembling, but he forced a smile, though it was weak and fragile.

“Sure,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

By the time they arrived at her home, the sun had set, casting long shadows across the yard.

Grian sat awkwardly at the kitchen table, sipping tea he could barely taste as Ms. Okami spoke quietly with the police. The weight of the situation was starting to sink in, and Grian felt a crushing sense of guilt gnawing at him. He knew Ms. Okami thought he was a part of what happened. But he couldn't tell her. 

Rowan returned shortly after, his expression grim. The desperate attempt to find his daughter failed. 

The two adults exchanged a few whispered words, looking pointedly towards Grian, before retreating to another room, leaving Grian alone with his thoughts. 

The silence was deafening, and Grian’s mind raced with the events of the day. He felt like he should have done something, anything, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what he did, Silly was still in danger. He can't tell them. They'll hate him and Silly will die. 

When Rowan and Ms. Okami returned, Rowan’s towering figure loomed over the small boy. His voice was heavy with an emotion Grian couldn’t read. 

“Grian,” he said with a knowing look, “where is my daughter?"

He paused, watching Grian shift under his gaze. "I already asked the others, and they didn’t see her. You were the last one with her.”

The weight of the question crushed Grian’s resolve. His wings drooped, his body trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to say something, anything to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

Rowan knelt down, pulling the boy into a tight hug. 

Grian’s heart broke at the gesture, and he choked on a sob, the guilt and fear overwhelming him. "I can't- they said. I-she'll die. I-i-"

“It’s alright, son,” Rowan murmured, his voice softer now, uderstanding the words hidden behind Grains muttering. “I was too harsh. You’re just a kid. It’s not like you could’ve known what to do.”

Grian clung to him, his wings twitching with the need to escape the crushing weight of responsibility. He couldn't tell them who it was. But maybe he could tell them what happened. Grian took a deep breath, leaning into the arms that held him. “They told me... They said they’d kill her if I told anyone. They tried to take us both, but I escaped. I can't tell you who the are. I’m sorry.”

Rowan sighed deeply, his breath heavy with the burden of the situation. “It’s not your fault. You’re just a kid. I should’ve been watching her, not you.”

Ms. Okami crouched beside them, her voice gentle as she placed a hand on Grian’s shoulder. “Grian, I know what happened to your father. I’m so sorry for your loss. I also know you’ve been living alone since Mr. Chiwakase passed. That’s not safe right now. Would you like to stay with us for a while?”

Grian hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. It felt like a small, uncertain step toward safety, but it was all he had.

“Good,” Ms. Okami said with a soft smile. “I’ll need to contact your relatives, though. Do you know how to reach them?”

Grian’s face fell, the weight of the question sinking in. He knew exactly how to reach them, but the thought of it made his stomach twist with dread. “I do, but... they won’t take me back. They don’t want me.”

Ms. Okami’s expression darkened, but she nodded firmly. “I’ll still talk to them. Maybe things will work out.”

Grian nodded back, though deep down, he knew better. Things rarely worked out for him, and this time, he wasn’t sure how much hope he had left.

Chapter Text

Silly’s eyes lingered on the memory, her heart heavy as Grian’s suffering unfolded before her. She had lived through it all—the fear, the confusion, the helplessness that had bound them together in the darkness of their past. But seeing it now, from the outside, was like reliving it with fresh wounds. It wasn’t just Grian’s pain she felt—it was the weight of her parents’ sorrow, their desperate attempts to protect him, to find her.

And then there was the fury in her mother’s eyes. They had told Grian it wasn’t his fault. That he was just a kid. Silly knew, deep down, that they had never forgiven his parents for abandoning him, for being the cause of his situation.

Grian was fortunate to have met her parents. 

A lump formed in her throat as she realized how much she missed her father.

The ache hit her suddenly, as it always did—sharp, relentless, an emptiness that never quite faded. It had been ten years, and still, the loss felt fresh. The absence of his steady presence, his quiet strength, left a void no one else could fill. She had tried to move forward, to bury the grief beneath duty, but nothing truly replaced him. He had been her shield, her anchor.

Her father had been a warrior, a protector. He had died far too soon, but he had lived with purpose, with honor.

She wanted to be like him—to carry his strength, his resolve. But how could she, when the man responsible for his death was right in front of her, trapped under the memories of his own past?

Doubt gnawed at her.

Grian had committed the crimes. He had killed her father. She had spent years telling herself that was all that mattered. That she was right to bring him in, to make him face justice. But as the memories played on, that certainty wavered. Was it really his fault? 

Doesn't matter. All that matters is the reparations for his action, the justice for his victims. Her father couldn't rest in piece until he was punished. She couldn’t afford to waver.

Silly took a slow, steady breath, pushing down the storm inside her. The fire in her chest remained—burning not with hatred, but with the same determination that had driven her father. She had to move forward. Whatever the trial revealed, whatever came next… she would not break.

Chapter Text

The alley was suffocating—the air thick with the stench of rotting garbage, damp brick, and the sickly-sweet tang of blood. The acrid bite of gunpowder clung to the walls, mixing with the putrid stink of old sewage pooling in the cracked pavement. A street lamp buzzed weakly overhead, casting shadows that twisted like grasping fingers.

The Yakuza boss was barely breathing. Slumped inside the rusted dumpster, he was a broken, crumpled thing, his body bent in unnatural angles. His pristine suit, once a mark of wealth and power, was soaked through with filth and blood. Dark stains spread across his torso where bullets had torn through, his leg twisted grotesquely beneath him. He was dying.

And Grian was standing inside the dumpster, his boots sinking into garbage, his heart slamming against his ribs, arms raised to block the shot.

Above him, silhouetted against the dim light, stood the executioners.

Sam was in the center, his stance relaxed, weight distributed evenly like he had all the time in the world. His khaki coloured shirt clung to his body, streaked with soot and drying blood. The sleeves were lazily rolled up, exposing bruised knuckles—marks of a fight he had clearly relished. He grinned down at Grian, that familiar, bone-chilling smirk playing at his lips, his amusement evident in his eyes. A cat cornering a mouse, savoring the moment before the kill.

To his right, Paul stood with the unshakable presence of authority. He was broader, taller than Sam, his police uniform streaked with grime but still carrying the weight of the law. He didn’t spare Grian a glance. To him, Grian was insignificant—a roadblock to be dealt with. His gun, however, was not so dismissive. It was raised, steady, trained on Grian like a casual afterthought.

And to Sam’s left, Taurtis stood frozen, his gun leveled at the Yakuza boss.

Grian’s stomach twisted violently.

Taurtis never hesitated. He always obeyed. Always followed orders. Always followed Sam.

Paul let out a tired sigh, voice flat, bored. “Alright. I’m done waiting.”

Cold steel pressed against the side of Grian’s skull.

A sharp spike of terror shot through him, his lungs locking up, his entire body tensing. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the distant hum of the city beyond the alley.

“Grian,” Sam murmured, tone light, almost teasing, “get out of the trash can.”

Grian clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe.

“No.”

Sam’s smirk didn’t falter, but something in his gaze sharpened, darkened. “No?”

Paul adjusted his grip, the barrel of the gun pressing harder into Grian’s temple.

“You think we won’t shoot?” Paul asked.

Grian swallowed, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Let the justice system handle him.”

Paul snorted, a bitter, humorless sound. “The justice system doesn’t work the way you think it does, kid.” His finger tightened slightly on the trigger.

Sam hummed in entertainment. “Move, or I’m taking your wings from your cold, dead body and hanging them in the living room.”

The world tilted in panic. Grian felt his breath stutter, his entire body locking up. No longer able to move. No longer able to think.

Sam was enjoying this.

“Paul, stand down. Taurtis, shoot him,” he ordered.

Paul lowered his gun and Grian barely had time to register the words before Taurtis moved.

His gun, once trained on the boss, swung toward Grian. 

Directly at his heart.

Grian’s throat closed.

Taurtis didn’t waver.

He wasn’t hesitating.

He was ready to go through him to get to the boss.

“Taurtis,” Grian whispered, his voice cracking, raw.

His best friend didn’t blink.

Sam leaned forward slightly, the rabbit hybrid balancing effortlessly on the rickety crate, his gaze locked onto Grian with something eerily close to affection.

“You’re in the way, Polly.” His voice was soft, almost kind. “You know what happens when things get in the way?”

Grian didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

And then—

The Yakuza boss moved.

Grian flinched, thinking for a split second he was going for a weapon—

But instead, blood-slicked fingers curled around a small, leather-bound book.

The man’s voice was weak, rasping. “Give this to Taurtis.”

Grian hesitated. Then, moving on instinct, he tossed it up.

Taurtis caught it with one hand. Then he turns to the first page. 

Silence.

His expression crumbled. His grip on the gun wavered. His fingers trembled as he read a few more words.

Taurtis breath hitched.

His face went pale.

Paul frowned. “The void’s wrong with you?”

Taurtis’ breathing turned shallow. His hands shook. He blinked at the book like it had just cracked his entire skull open.

And then—

The gun slipped from his grip.

It clattered onto the wooden crate.

Paul’s eyes widened. “Taurtis—”

But Taurtis wasn’t listening.

He turned, and ran.

Paul swore. “Where in the name of the watchers is he going?”

Paul cursed once more, turning to chase him down.

But Sam barely reacted. His gaze stayed locked on Grian, his expression shifting into something deeper, something more twisted.

Then, slowly, his lips stretched into a grin.

“Well,” Sam murmured, voice smooth as silk. “That’s annoying.”

Before Grian could react, hands clamped onto him like iron.

Pain detonated through his ribs as Sam wrenched him out of the dumpster and hurled him onto the pavement. The impact was brutal—his spine rattled, his lungs seized, and for a long, agonizing second, he couldn’t breathe. The world lurched violently. Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision.

Then something heavy and ice-cold slammed into his trembling hands.

The gun.

His pulse thundered in his ears, a deafening, panicked rhythm.

Sam crouched beside him, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. One hand settled against Grian’s back—and then, almost casually, slid up to his wings. Fingers curled over the base of his left wing, squeezing possessively, painfully.

“You lost me a gunman, little birdie,” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous.

Grian flinched violently, trying to wrench his wing from Sam's hand, but Sam’s grip only tightened. His fingers pressed into the sensitive joints, sending sharp spikes of pain dancing through Grian’s spine.

“So now,” Sam continued, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips, “you fix it.”

Grian’s chest heaved, his stomach churning with something raw and sickly. His hands trembled so violently he could barely keep hold of the gun.

Sam leaned in, pressing closer, his breath a whisper of heat against Grian’s ear. His fingers traced along the ridges of his wings, deceptively gentle. “Do it, or I’ll kill you.”

A pause. Then, softer, more insidious: “Or maybe I’ll take something else instead.”

Grian felt his throat tighten.

Sam hummed, thoughtful. His hand tracing down Grian's feathers. “I could cut them off right now, you know. Bet you’d look pathetic without them. A bird without wings? Ridiculous.” His nails scraped against the feathers, tugging lightly, teasing. “Maybe I’ll send them to that little family you love so much. I bet Okami and Rowan would love the present.”

Grian’s heart stuttered.

A spike of cold horror lodged itself deep in his chest, his body going rigid. Sam wasn’t just threatening him. He was laying claim. Like Grian was nothing more than a thing—a possession to be broken, to be carved apart and displayed like a trophy.

His fingers twitched violently, as he was led up the crate to get over the tall dumpster. Grian shook uncontrollably as Sam guided his hands to the right position. Sam let go, leaning in to whisper into Grian's feathered ear. "Your wings, or his life." 

Sam stood straight, bunny ears shifting to hear a response. "Personally, I'd choose your wings. That way I get to kill him myself and then take those beautiful feathers of yours. But, then you don't win anything, little parrot."

Grian's heart stutters as he looks at the boss for some sort of confirmation. 

The Yakuza boss, broken and bloodied, watched him with dull, unreadable eyes.

And then—he nodded. Just slightly. A quiet acceptance.

Grian’s stomach lurched.

The world collapsed.

The gunshot tore through the night.

The force sent Grian flying back, his skull cracking against the pavement with a sickening thud. Pain erupted like fire across his back and shoulders, shooting through his wings in sharp, unbearable waves.

The agony stole his breath, left him drowning in the suffocating weight of his own body. His fingers felt foreign, unclean, like the gun had poisoned them with something he could never wash away.

His ears rang.

His hands burned.

He blinked, dazed, up at the sky, the world spinning, distorting. Distantly, he heard laughter.

Sam’s laughter.

“Silly wouldn’t be proud of me,” Grian deliriously whispered.

The laughter stopped.

A shadow loomed over him.

Fingers gripped his jaw, hard, nails biting into the skin, forcing his dazed, unfocused gaze upward.

“What did you just say?” Sam’s voice was razor-sharp, all amusement gone in an instant.

Grian barely had the strength to speak, his body sluggish, his mind swimming through static and pain. But the words still slipped out. “Silly wouldn’t—”

Sam’s grip tightened.

His eyes gleamed with something dangerous. His expression, so carefully crafted, cracked just slightly—just enough for something dark and vicious to slip through.

His free hand trailed down, fingers curling around the base of Grian’s wing again.

His voice dropped to a cold whisper. “You love Ellen.”

Grian’s head spun. The world was tilting at impossible angles, the pain in his skull blurring everything together. He was too concussed, too battered to argue.

So he nodded weakly. “Yeah… Ellen.”

The smirk returned, as he plucked a feathers rather painfully from Grian's wings, twirling it around his fingers with morbid fascination.

“There’s a good bird.”

Then, before Grian could process it, Sam yanked him upright. A fresh wave of nausea crashed over him, his stomach twisting violently. His legs buckled beneath him, but Sam held him up like he weighed nothing.

“Man, you look awful, my little parrot.” Sam hummed, shaking him lightly, like testing the strength of something fragile before breaking it entirely. His fingers ghosted over Grian’s wings, pressing into bruised, tender flesh. “Maybe I should take you to the vet, hm?” Sam's voice was thick with amusement as his fingers ran down the length of Grian’s wings, the touch not gentle, but possessive.

“I’ve never taken a bird to the vet before. They’d probably want to give you some shots, neuter you, make sure you're not too much of a nuisance. Though… most vets don’t take creatures like you, do they?" Sam grips Grian's head highly, to keep him from falling, "Half-birds like you are just trouble. I guess I’ll just have to keep you around, but I'm not fixing you. Nor are you allowed to fix yourself” Sam released his hold on Grian's head, Grian’s head lolled forward barely hearing the threats, his body refusing to cooperate, every muscle heavy, wrong.

Sam let out a low hum, studying him. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he smirked. “You know what we should do?”

Sam’s grip tightened, his fingers lacing through Grian’s feathers, tugging.

“Let’s go frame Dom for this.”

Grian’s blood ran cold.

He wanted to resist, to pull away, to fight. But his body refused. He was too broken, too concussed, too far gone.

And Sam knew that. That was what made it fun.

Chapter Text

Lizzie’s fists tightened, her nails digging into her palms as her mind churned. The courtroom’s oppressive silence only amplified the tumultuous storm of thoughts racing through her head. Every memory of Grian that had once felt so certain was now fractured, slipping through her fingers like sand. She tried desperately to piece together the fragments of his life, the chaos, the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went, as if it were a shadow he could never escape.

The first time Lizzie had met Sam was during her visit to the school where Grian had spent so much time. She had been apprehensive from the start. Sam’s demeanor had been off—disconcertingly nonchalant in the face of the bizarre and dangerous events that seemed to haunt the place. His ability to brush off the most terrifying incidents as though they were nothing more than trivial inconveniences sent a chill down her spine. He had referred to a string of violent altercations as nothing but horse fodder, as if dismissing it all with a wave of his hand. But it wasn’t the words that unsettled Lizzie; it was the calm, detached way he spoke, as if none of it mattered at all.

The school itself had been even stranger than Sam. The hallways were stained with dried blood, smears that seemed to chart the course of some unspeakable violence, a gruesome roadmap of past horrors. Lizzie had shuddered as she walked past them, wondering what kind of place this was, and more urgently, what kind of person Grian had become in the midst of it. The classrooms were decorated in bizarre, almost alien motifs—strange symbols and surreal imagery that didn’t belong in any ordinary school. And yet, amid this unsettling décor, everyday school supplies were scattered carelessly across the desks, as if trying to make the place feel normal. But nothing about it felt normal.

The teachers only deepened Lizzie’s unease. They were cryptic and unnervingly composed, their smiles too wide, too rehearsed, as if they were hiding something beneath the surface. Their words were vague, their intentions even more so. Every interaction left Lizzie feeling like she was missing something, like the pieces of the puzzle just wouldn’t fit. She had tried to voice her concerns to Grian, but every time, he brushed her off with that same disarming grin of his.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he would say, the lightheartedness in his tone making her doubt herself. After all, Grian always seemed fine, didn’t he? Even in the face of all that chaos, he seemed perfectly okay—like it didn’t faze him. Like none of it mattered.

When Grian dropped out and invited her to Evolution SMP– which she had politely refused, Lizzie had allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he had been alright. Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe the school, the strange incidents, the eerie atmosphere, were just her imagination running wild. She let herself convince herself that things were normal. That Grian was just fine. But now, as the memories of those days flooded back with brutal clarity, Lizzie saw how much he had hidden—how much he had concealed, not just from her, but from everyone who thought they knew him.

She glanced at Mumbo, who was sitting rigid beside her. His eyes were locked straight ahead, his face a grim mask of stoic pain, but his grip on Grian’s hand was tight, his knuckles pale with the effort to keep control. He wasn’t crying—not yet—but Lizzie could see the cracks beneath the surface. He was holding himself together, but it was clear the weight of this moment, of everything that was unfolding, was too much to bear. They had all thought they knew Grian. They had all thought they were his closest friends. But now? Now, everything they had believed was being called into question.

They were strangers to his past. To the truth.

Lizzie’s gaze shifted back to the judge. He sat there, an impassive figure of authority, his face a cold mask of neutrality. His eyes were sharp, his mind calculating, as he observed the unfolding scene. There was no shock, no sympathy, no disgust. His expression was void of emotion—a detached analysis of the chaos around him. Lizzie shivered involuntarily. The judge wasn’t reacting—no surprise, no pity, just the cold, methodical gaze of someone who had seen it all before.

The air in the courtroom was thick with tension, suffocating, as though it were pressing in from all sides. The murmurs of the crowd buzzed in Lizzie’s ears, the whispers laced with judgment and suspicion. Her fists clenched tighter, her fingers white-knuckling the edge of the bench. She wanted to scream at them—tell them to shut up, to stop judging her friend based on fragmented pieces of a life they could never truly understand. They were outsiders to Grian’s world, to the complexities of the man he had become.

But then, a seed of doubt began to grow within her. What if they were right? What if this chaos wasn’t something that had been thrust upon Grian? What if, somewhere deep inside him, there was a part of him that welcomed it? That thrived in it? What if, for all their love and loyalty, they had missed something—the darkness that had always been there, buried beneath the surface?

The thought made her stomach twist. She shook her head violently, refusing to entertain it. This was Grian. Their Grian. He wasn’t perfect—far from it. But he wasn’t evil. He couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. She wouldn’t.

But the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of her certainty.

Lizzie looked back at the judge, then at Grian. Her heart ached as she met his gaze, seeing the hollow pain in his eyes. Whatever the truth was—whatever secrets had been buried for so long—it was all coming to light now. And Lizzie wasn’t sure she—or any of them—were ready for it.

The truth was far more complicated than any of them had imagined. And for Grian, the consequences were only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Grian sat at a worn picnic table with Mumbo and Lizzie, the three of them laughing together on a warm fall afternoon. The air was crisp, with the scent of dried leaves swirling around them as they soaked in the last rays of sunlight before winter crept in. Their school had recently resumed after summer break, and it felt like a reunion in every sense of the word.

Grian smiled, his heart light. He was surrounded by his two best friends—Mumbo, who was enthusiastically rambling about his latest Redstone projects, and Lizzie, who always had a sharp curiosity and an infectious laugh. The world seemed so simple then. The sound of Mumbo’s voice filled the space between them, like a comforting rhythm.

“I’ve been working on this new Redstone circuit,” Mumbo said, voice slow, yet his hands animated as he described his latest idea. “If I can get it to work, I’ll be one step closer to becoming a Redstone engineer, you know?”

Grian nodded along, though he couldn’t fully grasp all the technical jargon Mumbo was throwing around. Still, he didn’t mind. His thoughts didn’t need to be filled with circuits and contraptions. All he needed was this moment. This peaceful moment with his friends.

Lizzie leaned forward, her eyes glinting with interest. “So, you never told us,” she said, her voice lilting with curiosity. “How was your trip to Japan this summer?”

Grian’s smile faltered, just for a second. The trip had been fine—he’d spent most of it with Silly, but something about it had felt... off. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it. There was a strange, lingering unease that refused to let him go, a feeling that had been creeping under his skin since he returned. But he shrugged it off. It was probably nothing. Just his overactive imagination.

“Good!” Grian replied, forcing a cheerful tone. “Had a great time. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Lizzie’s eyebrows rose, unconvinced by his vague response, but she didn’t press him further. Instead, she let her gaze wander to the trees overhead, their leaves flickering gold in the fading light.

Before Grian could offer any more details, his phone buzzed loudly on the table, breaking the comfortable silence. For a moment, he simply stared at it, as though waiting for the right words to come. But the words weren’t coming. 

Mumbo raised an eyebrow when he saw Grian hesitate. “You gonna answer that, mate?”

Grian’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to pick it up immediately. “Nah,” he said casually, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “It’s probably just Jimmy or Pearl, checking in on how boarding school’s going.”

He smiled again, the familiar mask slipping back into place, but his eyes lingered on the screen. The name Silly seemed to pulse on the display, reminding him of the distance between them. He excused himself from the table and moved beside a tree a few meters away. With a deep breath, he finally swiped to answer the call, moving the phone so it couldn’t be overheard.

“Hey, babe,” Grian said softly, his voice already betraying the tightness in his chest. “How are you doing? I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while. School’s been so busy…”

His words trailed off when he heard the unmistakable sound of muffled sobs on the other end. His heart froze. Something was wrong.

“I… I can’t do this anymore,” Silly’s voice cracked, filled with raw fear and heartbreak. “You need to stay away. You can’t talk to me anymore. It’s too dangerous. I—I’m breaking up with you.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. Everything had seemed fine when he’d visited Japan—better than fine. They’d even gone so far as to pretend they didn’t know each other in public, just as she had asked. So why now? Why this sudden distance?

Before he could respond, the call ended abruptly, the silence on the other end of the line deafening. Grian stared at the screen, numb. He had expected a lot of things—but this? This was something he hadn’t prepared for.

“Everything okay?” Lizzie’s voice cut through his haze, her concern evident.

Grian quickly shoved his phone into his pocket and walked back, the movements mechanical. He couldn’t let them see—he couldn’t let anyone see how much it hurt. Not here, not now. “Yeah, all good,” he lied, his voice a little too forced, a little too quick.

Lizzie seemed unconvinced but didn’t press him further. Instead, Grian tried to focus on anything else.

He pretended to be busy, glancing down at his email inbox to distract himself. But the words on the screen felt distant, irrelevant.

A new message from Sam caught his eye. An invitation to a Halloween party in Japan.

His resolve solidified as he stared at the words on the screen. No matter what Silly said, he wasn’t going to let this go. He wasn’t going to let her push him away like this—not without answers. So, he RSVPed, sending his confirmation without a second thought.

That night, as he lay in bed, the weight of the day finally hit him. He curled into himself, his back turned toward the room as silent tears pooled on his pillow. Mumbo was across the room, his focus entirely on a Redstone project that was strewn across their shared desk. Grian heard the soft clicking of Mumbo’s tools, and for a moment, he thought his roommate might say something. Maybe ask if he was okay, or offer some comforting words. But nothing came.

Mumbo just kept working, lost in his own thoughts, leaving Grian alone with his turmoil.

And for once, Grian was grateful for the silence. The world felt so much quieter when it was just him and his pain. He didn’t need anything else right now. He didn’t need answers. He didn’t need explanations.

All he needed was to grieve.

Chapter Text

Pearl was a mess. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, her cheeks streaked with tears that fell steadily, like a leaky faucet that couldn’t be turned off. The weight of the guilt pressed on her chest, suffocating her. She had never been there to protect her older brother. In fact, their parents had made sure that Pearl and Jimmy were kept in the dark about Grian’s existence entirely. They had been shielded from the truth, told nothing of him until it was far too late.

Her earliest memories of Grian were hazy. She couldn’t remember a time when he had been a part of her life. The first time she truly saw him was at their mother’s funeral. Grian had appeared like a shadow among the crowd, a figure standing apart from the others. He was so solemn, so distant, that Pearl had assumed he was just another servant—someone hired for the occasion. She didn’t think twice about it. That’s what they had been told.

When Grian went off to boarding school shortly after, Pearl and Jimmy had been confused. Who sends a servant to a private school? But they never questioned it, not really. They were too young to understand the complexities of their family’s secrets, too innocent to know what lay hidden in the shadows.

It wasn’t until Grian was fourteen, and the truth could no longer be concealed, that everything changed. They learned the awful, staggering truth that Grian was their brother, their older brother, someone who had been hidden from them for years. The revelation shattered Pearl’s world, upending everything she thought she knew about herself and her family.

From that moment on, Pearl and Jimmy clung to him fiercely, trying to make up for the years they had lost. They were desperate to make him feel loved, to make him feel like he belonged. They had no idea what had happened to him in those years apart, but they were determined to protect him from whatever darkness lurked in his past.

But no matter how much they tried, no matter how hard they clung to him, Grian’s life seemed out of their reach. The storm of his past—of chaos, betrayal, and pain—was too strong. It pulled him under, and no amount of love or effort seemed enough to save him from it.

As Pearl watched the memories unfold, her heart shattered a little more with each passing scene. Her stomach twisted with every piece of Grian’s past that was revealed. The more she saw, the more her hope slipped away, like sand through her fingers. Grian was a criminal, condemned by his own choices, by the weight of his past. And as much as it hurt to admit it, Pearl couldn’t help but blame herself for not knowing, for not being there when he needed her most.

“This is all my fault,” she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of her grief and self-blame.

Jimmy’s hand found hers, squeezing it tightly. He knew that look in her eyes—the look of someone who was spiraling, drowning in the guilt that wasn’t theirs to bear. “I know that look, Pearl,” he said softly but firmly. “But this is not our fault. We were just kids. We didn’t know. It was the adults’ fault—our parents—who kept him from us, who didn’t protect him. They should have been there for him, not us.”

Pearl sobbed harder, her shoulders shaking as she clung to her brother’s words, but even his reassurance couldn’t undo the hurt she felt. She wanted to believe him, but the ache in her chest was too deep, the pain of knowing that Grian’s life had spiraled out of control while they had been blissfully unaware, too overwhelming to ignore.

From beside her, Silly, who had been quietly watching the exchange, placed a gentle hand on Pearl’s shoulder. Her touch was warm and steady, a small comfort in the midst of Pearl’s pain. “Your brother’s right,” Silly said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her own grief. “This isn’t your fault.”

Pearl’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she felt the comforting presence of someone who understood the hurt, even if she couldn’t make it all go away. She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She still didn’t let go of Jimmy’s hand. She couldn’t.

“I need to keep watching,” Pearl said, her voice thick with emotion, but also with a new, hardened resolve. “I need to know who did this to my brother. Who do I need to make pay for everything they’ve done to him?”

Her voice wavered as more tears fell, but there was a newfound determination in her words. She couldn’t change the past. She couldn’t undo the years they had lost, the moments she could never get back. But she could fight for Grian now. She could protect him in the only way left to her—by finding out who was responsible for the damage done to him.

She had to.

Chapter Text

The mist clung to the night like a suffocating shroud, dimming the faint orange glow of the streetlights. Grian fidgeted with the burlap collar of his hastily made scarecrow costume, its coarse fabric scratching his neck.

He tugged at the patched seams nervously, avoiding the stares of passing strangers. The laughter from the open bus door jolted him, and he looked up to see Sam grinning at him, his teeth sharp in the dim light.

“Oh look, it’s Gree-ahn!” Sam’s voice was loud, almost obnoxious as he waved Grian closer. “Come on, man, let us see the masterpiece!”

Grian proudly walked off the bus to show off his hard work. 

“What are you supposed to be? A jester? A tomato? Maybe a potato with butter?” Sam teased, his grin wide and sharp.

Grian frowned, hugging his arms across his chest. “No. I’m a scarecrow. I spent a whole week putting this together.”

Sam barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “A scarecrow? Sure, Gree-ahn, sure. Real scary.”

The teasing continued as more people gathered. Grian felt the knot in his stomach tighten as Sam nudged a girl at his side. “Hey, Ellen, weren’t you supposed to go to prom with Gree-ahn?”

Ellen’s face flushed red, and they looked away, their discomfort evident. Grian’s gaze dropped to the ground, the heat of humiliation creeping up his neck. He had never asked Ellen to prom—Sam had fabricated the entire story.

“How about we make up for it tonight, huh?” Sam suggested, his voice lilting with mock concern. “Ellen can be your date for the evening. What do you say?”

Grian hesitated but eventually sighed. He didn’t have the energy to argue, not tonight. He was only here to find out what was wrong with Silly. 

The group soon grew to include Sam’s girlfriend Yuki, whose quiet connection to the Yakuza was an open secret, and Chan, a brooding figure whose sharp eyes portrayed an inner wariness. Taurtis joined last, his cheerful demeanor clashing with the unease that hung over Grian like a storm cloud.

It was when they left the convenience store that Grian saw her.

Silly.

Her scream pierced the air, and she darted to her mother’s side, glaring at him from behind her mother’s skirt. Fear etched her features, and for a moment, Grian couldn’t breathe.

He knew that look. Grian shouldn't be here. 

He would leave her be for now.

As they wandered the streets, collecting candy and dodging shadows, Grian caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Silly. Her figure lingered at the edges of the group, half-hidden in the shadows, her presence unsettling and persistent. She was following them.

No one else seemed to notice her—not even Sam, whose sharp eyes missed nothing. But Grian felt her gaze like a weight, her movements a silent plea he didn’t understand. He didn’t know why she was there, but she looked… spooked.

They ended up at the school, an impromptu test of courage.

“It’s tradition,” Sam said, leading the group with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

The girls stayed outside, their laughter fading as the boys stepped into the dark hallways. The air grew heavier with every step, and the faint echoes of their movements bounced unsettlingly off the walls.

“Creepy,” Taurtis whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Creepy?” Sam scoffed, his tone mocking. “This is the perfect place to prove you’ve got guts. Right, Taurtis?”

Grian didn’t like the tension in Sam’s voice, nor the laughter that followed, sharp and forced.

The atmosphere grew darker, heavier, as Taurtis claimed to see something—or someone—none of them could.

His voice trembled as he spoke to an invisible figure he swore was his murdered girlfriend. Grian’s stomach twisted.

Whether it was a cruel joke or something worse, he couldn’t tell.

When they got outside, Silly was no longer hiding in a shadow. Rather, she was crouched near the bushes, barely visible in the dim light.

She shared a look with him, begging him not to announce her presence. It gave him a sense of peace. 

Then, everything escalated. 

Taurtis said something that struck a nerve with Yuki, and the air grew thick with tension.

“Those fighting words?” Sam’s voice was deceptively calm, but Grian knew better.

“No, no! Of course not,” Taurtis stammered, raising his hands defensively.

“Yuki,” Sam said, hand outstretched lazily, “give me a knife. Chan, hand your boyfriend one. Let’s settle this.”

“Sam, don’t,” Grian tried to intervene, his voice faltering.

Sam ignored him, the blade glinting in his hand. Taurtis was shaking, knife in hand.

Sam let his stance go slack. “Relax, Taurtis. I’m just joking.”

Taurtis exhaled, his body sagging in relief.

That’s when Sam lunged, laughter spilling from his lips as the knife found its mark.

Taurtis cried out, clutching his side. Blood bloomed between his fingers. Grian froze, the scene unfolding in slow motion.

Sam stepped back, grinning. “Just kidding.”

He tossed the knife aside, Yuki laughing beside him. “Lighten up, Taurtis. It’s Halloween. Something scary has to happen” Sam used that as an excuse, Yuki and him retreating into the night. 

Ellen paled, taking a step back. “I can’t do this,” they said, their voice shaking.

Ellen turned to Chan. “Let’s go.”

Chan looked back at her wounded boyfriend. 

Taurtis winced but waved them off. “You should go,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

Ellen hesitated but eventually grabbed Chan’s hand, pulling her away. “Take care of yourself, Taurtis,” Chan said softly before they disappeared down the road.

Silly stepped out of the bushes the moment they were gone.

“You idiot!” she yelled, her voice shaking as she stormed toward Grian.

He flinched, startled by her sudden anger. “Silly? What—why haven't you left already?”

“I should be asking you that!” she snapped, her eyes blazing. “What the void are you thinking, coming back here?”

“I don’t—”

“You never think, do you?” She gestured wildly, her voice cracking. “You just waltz back into this place, dragging everyone else into danger, like nothing happened. Like you didn’t destroy everything last time.”

Grian stiffened, his confusion giving way to frustration. “I didn’t destroy anything! What are you talking about?”

“You don’t even remember, do you?” Silly’s laugh was bitter. “Of course, you don’t. You never see the wreckage you leave behind.”

“That’s not fair!” Grian shot back, his voice rising. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t ask for Sam or Yuki or whatever this is!”

“And yet here we are!” Silly shouted. “I was trying to protect you, Grian. Protect you from this town, from him. And you just—” She choked on the words, shaking her head.

“I don’t need your protection,” Grian said, though the words felt hollow.

Silly’s eyes softened for a moment, and she stepped closer. “Yes, you do, pesky bird,”  she said quietly. “You have no idea how dangerous this place is. You think Sam’s your biggest problem? You’re wrong.”

Grian didn’t respond, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Grian…” Silly’s voice broke, and she looked at Taurtis, who was slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath him. “You need to leave. Before it’s too late.”

Silly turned and left without another word. Never looking back. 

Chapter Text

Taurtis groaned as Grian helped him toward the bus. “We need to get you to a hospital,” Grian said, his voice tight with fear.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Taurtis muttered, wincing.

Grian reluctantly guides Taurtis back towards the bus station, leaving Silly behind. 

They see Sam as they pass bye.

“Look man, I'm sorry. Please don't tell the cops” Sam said, his grin wide but empty. Taurtis promised not to. 

Grian’s voice wavered, but he stood firm. “He needs a hospital.”

Sam’s eyes darkened, but before he could react, Taurtis forced a laugh, trying to defuse the tension.

Sam smiled. “See? He's fine. Not even injured.” 

Taurtis smiles, going along with the lie. “Yeah. I'm perfectly fine. So I'm going to drive to Grian to the airport.” Taurtis laughs nervously. 

Sam smiles. “Have fun.” Sam leaves the two at the bus stop.

The bus door creaked open, and Grian froze as he stared at the driver’s seat.

“You know how to drive this thing?” Taurtis asked, his voice weak.

“I—I’ve never driven anything,” Grian admitted, his face pale.

Taurtis groaned again. “Great. Guess I’m doing it, then.”

“You can’t—”

“I don’t have a choice,” Taurtis snapped. “Unless you want me bleeding out here.”

Grian hesitated, then nodded, helping Taurtis into the driver’s seat. Taurtis gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel as blood seeped through his fingers.

The bus lurched forward, weaving dangerously as Taurtis struggled to steer. Grian clung to the seat, panic rising with every bump and turn.

“Keep talking,” Taurtis said through gritted teeth. “Keep me awake.” Grian’s heart pounded as he gripped the dashboard.

Taurtis was fading fast, his blood soaking the seat. 

“Remember when I stole your fish when we were young?” Grian said, his voice trembling. “You were so mad. I thought you were going to throw me in the river.”

“Or that time I accidentally got stuck in the pigeon coop and so you have to pull me out. My feathers went everywhere. I was an idiot back then.”

Taurtis chuckled weakly, his head lolling. “You’re still… an idiot.”

Grian forced a laugh, but his hands shook as he tried to steady the wheel.

Taurtis slumped forward, his grip on the steering wheel slipping. The bus swerved violently.

“Taurtis! Wake up!” Grian shouted, panic rising.

Taurtis’s hands slipped on the wheel, and the bus lurched toward a massive tree. Grian acted on instinct, grabbing the wheel and yanking it to the side with all his strength.

It was too late.

The impact was deafening, the sound of metal crumpling and glass shattering filling the air. The front half of the bus folded like paper as it collided with the tree. Taurtis’s head slammed into the windshield with a sickening thud, and Grian was thrown forward.

Time seemed to slow as he hurtled through the shattered glass. Tiny shards tore into his skin, leaving shallow cuts across his face and arms. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain exploded through his body, through his wings, radiating from every point of contact with the unforgiving earth.

Grian lay sprawled on the damp grass, his chest heaving as he struggled to process what had just happened. His vision swam, the edges of the world blurring and darkening.

Voices began to filter through the haze.

“Hey, are you okay?” A stranger’s voice, urgent and filled with concern. “We called an ambulance.”

Grian blinked, his gaze sluggishly drifting toward the figures gathering around him. He opened his mouth to speak but found his throat dry and tight.

“Help…” he rasped, his voice barely audible. He mustered the strength to lift a trembling hand, pointing toward the crumpled remains of the bus. “Help him. Help Taurtis.”

The strangers exchanged worried glances, but one of them nodded, rushing toward the wreckage.

Grian’s head lolled to the side, his body heavy and unresponsive. The pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the fear clawing at his chest. Taurtis was hurt—worse than him.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Just… help him.”

The world dimmed as Grian’s strength gave out, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint before fading into darkness.

. 

. 

. 

When Grian woke up in the hospital, bruised and bandaged, officer Rowan was waiting. His face was a storm of anger and disappointment.

“What are you doing in Japan, kid?” Rowan snapped. “Your presence is nothing but trouble.”

Grian tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

“You know you broke her heart,” Rowan continued. “Silly cried all night after you left.”

Grian flinched. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to? That’s all you ever say! You didn’t mean to hurt her. You didn’t mean to cause this mess. But look where we are!”

Grian’s chest tightened. “I was trying to help Taurtis—”

“And now Taurtis is in surgery, thanks to you,” Rowan interrupted. His voice dropped, low and venomous. “Silly cried all night after you left. She begged me to forgive you, even after everything you did. And now this?”

Grian’s stomach churned. “I didn’t ask her to—”

“No, you didn’t,” Rowan said coldly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a walking disaster. If you care about her at all, you’ll stay away from her. From all of us.”

Rowan’s voice softened, but the anger didn’t fade. “I don’t think you hurt Taurtis.”

Grian’s heart pounded.

“You’re reckless, but you’re not cruel. But if you don’t tell me who did it, the blame is on you.” 

He wanted to say Sam’s name, but the fear was too strong. “I… I can’t,” he whispered, his answer reflecting his past.

“Just try to tell me.”

Grian takes a deep breath. “It was…Sa-S. It was….Sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

Rowan’s eyes hardened. “Then I have no choice but to arrest you.”

As Rowan reached for him, Grian bolted. 

The rain was cold against his skin, washing away the blood and tears as he disappeared into the night.

By the time he found Sam at the bus stop, his legs were shaking.

“Sam,” he gasped. “Taurtis is in the hospital.”

Sam turned slowly, his expression unreadable. “Did you tell the cops?”

Grian shook his head, too scared to speak.

“Good,” Sam said, his tone eerily calm. “Because nothing happened. Taurtis isn’t hurt. He’s fine. He’s right here, standing with us.”

Grian stared, confusion and fear twisting inside him. “What do you mean?”

Sam’s grin widened. “Come on, Taurtis. Stop messing around. You’ve always been yourself, haven’t you?”

Grian felt the words like a blow. His knees buckled under the weight of the lie, but he couldn’t deny it.

“R-right,” he whispered.

Sam’s laughter echoed in the dark, wrapping around Grian like a noose.

Chapter Text

Doc had never been too close to Grian. They always seemed to end up on opposite sides of wars, rivalries, and pranks. Their roles in Hermitcraft were starkly different—Doc with his obsession for pushing boundaries with redstone and Grian with his penchant for chaotic, fun-loving antics. Yet, even when they were adversaries, there had always been an unspoken line that Doc refused to cross.

He’d never fought Grian with more than his wit and his (admittedly illegal) redstone builds. Not after season six.

It was the Civil War, and Doc had let the heat of the moment get to him. He’d charged Grian with a sword, ready to win through brute force.

The image of Grian’s reaction was seared into Doc’s mind, no matter how much he tried to bury it: the avian trembling, cowering on the floor beneath him, his wings folded tightly around his body like a shield. Grian’s usually mischievous eyes had been wide with pure terror.

His eyes weren’t just wide with fear—they were haunted, staring past Doc at something far away, something from another time.

And then came the pleading.

“Sam, stop! Please! Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt Taurtis!”

The words had been panicked, frantic, spilling from Grian’s lips in a way that made it clear he wasn’t speaking to Doc at all. He was lost in his own mind, trapped in a memory so strong it had completely overtaken him.

Doc had been frozen in place, his sword hanging uselessly by his side as he watched Grian collapse into himself. He hadn’t known who Sam was or what had happened to Taurtis, but it hadn’t mattered. All he’d known was that he was watching someone unravel in front of him, someone who needed help.

Doc wasn’t the comforting type—never had been.

But at that moment, there hadn’t been anyone else. He’d set the sword aside and knelt down, his towering frame awkwardly folding to Grian’s level. Slowly, he’d wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close and murmuring what few reassurances he could muster. Grian had been stiff at first, but eventually, the tension melted away. He’d cried into Doc’s fur, his small frame trembling as he clung to him like a lifeline.

They’d stayed like that for a long time.

Longer than Doc had expected.

He’d whispered to Grian about his own chaotic escapades, stories of worlds he’d accidentally destroyed, moderators he’d outwitted, and even CHRONOS agents he’d narrowly escaped. He’d told Grian how he’d gotten away with everything—how no one had ever learned his identity. He’d spoken quietly, hoping the stories would distract Grian, or at least make him feel a little less alone in whatever darkness he was carrying.

By the time Grian’s sobs had quieted and his breathing had evened out, Doc had felt like something had shifted between them. He thought they’d shared a bond that night—a fragile thread of trust formed in the quiet aftermath of fear.

But now, as Doc stood in the meeting hall with the CHRONOS enforcers looming over them and Grian’s life laid bare for all to see, that thread felt frayed, almost broken.

Doc had been angry earlier.

Angry at Grian for keeping secrets, for hiding a past so dark it had brought CHRONOS to their doorstep. Doc had trusted him, hadn’t he? He’d shared his own stories, his own mistakes and close calls. He’d let Grian see the parts of himself he didn’t show anyone else.

Grian trusted him. 

But now, sitting in the trial, listening to CHRONOS unravel Grian’s history, Doc wasn’t so sure what to believe. 

The revelations had hit him like a blow. Grian’s crimes weren’t just whispers or half-truths—they were laid out in excruciating detail, and the weight of them pressed heavily on the room.

And yet, when Doc looked at Grian, sitting stiffly in the defendant’s box, his wings drawn tight against his back, Doc didn’t see a criminal. He saw the same Grian he’d comforted that night, the same small, fragile figure, lost in memories too painful to speak aloud.

Grian didn’t move much, but his body was taut, like a coiled spring ready to snap. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing in particular, as though he wasn’t really in the room at all.

Doc’s chest ached at the sight. The anger he’d felt earlier—the betrayal, the frustration—was still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’d told Grian everything that night, trusted him with secrets he’d never shared with anyone else.

And Grian had told him nothing.

But now, as Doc studied him more closely, he began to understand why.

It wasn’t about trust, or at least not entirely. Grian hadn’t been keeping secrets out of malice or selfishness. He’d been carrying a weight so immense, so all-consuming, that there had been no room left for anyone else.

World destroyer. That was the title CHRONOS had thrown at Grian, the label they’d used to condemn him.

Doc almost laughed, a bitter edge to the thought.

That was his title, wasn’t it? He was the one with a reputation for pushing boundaries, for creating chaos so immense it broke entire servers. He was the one who’d earned the name through trial and error, through brilliance and recklessness.

And yet, somehow, Grian had claimed it.

Doc clenched his fists, a mix of emotions roiling in his chest. Anger, sadness, regret—they all tangled together, impossible to separate. He wanted to shake Grian, to demand answers, to ask why he hadn’t trusted him, why he hadn’t let Doc help.

But he also wanted to protect him.

Because as much as Doc hated to admit it, he understood. He understood what it was like to walk that line, to toe the edge of destruction and creation, to live in the shadow of your own mistakes.

He understood, and he hated that he hadn’t seen it sooner.

Doc stayed silent as the trial continued, his sharp mind racing to piece together a plan. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t undo the choices that had led them here. But he could stand by Grian now, the way he hadn’t before.

He'd let Grian keep the title World Destroyer, because it meant neither one of them would be alone anymore. 

Chapter Text

The apartment was suffocating. The walls, yellowed and stained with years of neglect, pressed in around Grian as though they sought to crush the last fragments of his will. Every crack in the plaster, every discarded item on the floor, mirrored the fractures in his mind. He perched on the edge of the battered couch, his muscles taut, ready to flee though there was nowhere to go.

Sam paced back and forth in front of him, the click of his boots against the warped wooden floor hammering into Grian’s skull. Sam’s words filtered through the haze like static, their meaning slipping through Grian’s grasp. He tugged at the stiff collar of his blue shirt, the fabric clinging to him like a noose. The color mocked him—blue, always blue.

He hated it now.

Once, it had been just another shade, something unremarkable in the world. But now, it had become a symbol of his imprisonment. Every time he glanced in the cracked mirror above the dingy sink, the reflection glaring back wasn’t his. It was someone else. A stranger.

Taurtis.

Sam leaned against the far wall, his predatory gaze sharp and unyielding. “Taurtis,” he snapped, deliberately using the name Grian despised. “You’re moping again. What, got a bad feather day?” His smirk widened, satisfaction glinting in his eyes as Grian flinched.

“I’m fine,” Grian muttered, forcing his voice to remain steady, even as the name Taurtis made his stomach churn.

“Fine, huh? You don’t look fine, Polly. Or should I call you Dodo?” Sam sneered, pacing toward him. “No, wait—maybe ‘flightless freak’ suits you better. What’s the point of having wings if you’re too scared to use them?”

Grian’s hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms. He wanted to retort, to shout, to claw his way out of this nightmare, but he bit his tongue. Reacting only made things worse.

Sam crouched in front of him, invading his space. “You’ve got those fancy feathers, and yet you’re still grounded, huh? Makes me wonder if you’re broken, Taurtis. Maybe you should let me take a closer look.”

“No,” Grian whispered, his voice trembling.

The name sent a chill racing through Grian’s veins, cutting deeper than the coldest blade. He hesitated, his breath catching, but the sharp glint in Sam’s eyes left no room for argument.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Polly. Wings out. Now.”

Grian’s hands shook as he extended his wings, every feather bristling with unease. The appendages ached from days of being pressed tightly against his back, but the sharp pull of fear overrode the pain.

Sam grinned, a shark’s grin, and reached for Grian’s wings. The moment his hand made contact, Grian tensed, every fiber of his being screaming to bolt. Sam’s fingers trailed along the edge of his right wing, and he shivered with revulsion.

“Soft,” Sam murmured mockingly. “Like some pampered parakeet. Bet these make you feel special, don’t they?” He tugged lightly at a feather, his grin widening when Grian winced. “Go on, stretch them out. Let’s see those ‘majestic’ wings of yours in full glory.”

Grian hesitated, bile rising in his throat, but Sam’s glare left no room for defiance. Slowly, painfully, he unfurled his wings, the muscles aching from weeks of deliberate neglect. The span was impressive, even beautiful, but all Grian saw was the weight of his shame.

“See?” Sam said, admiring his handiwork. Sam’s laughter echoed in the small room as he ran his fingers through the feathers again, tugging at them like a child with a new toy. “What a joke,” he said, shaking his head. “Yuki might think you’re cute, but to me, you’re just a stupid pigeon pretending to be someone important. Taurtis, the fearless bird-man. What a laugh.”

Grian clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The venom in Sam’s tone burned like acid, but the words themselves cut even deeper. He wasn’t Taurtis. He wasn’t Sam’s plaything, his pet, his punching bag. But no matter how many times he screamed those truths in his mind, they remained trapped, buried beneath layers of fear.

Grian’s wings twitched again, the urge to fly—just once, to escape—burning in his chest. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Sam would only hunt him down, and the punishment would be worse than this humiliation. He folded his wings back, tighter than before, as if he could make them disappear.

Sam’s hand shot out, gripping Grian’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that little spark in your eye,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You ever try to fly away from me, birdbrain, and I’ll clip those pretty feathers myself. Got it, Taurtis?”

Grian swallowed hard, nodding slightly, his heart hammering in his chest. The words “I’m not Taurtis” screamed in his mind, but he forced them down. Sam released him with a rough shove, turning away as if bored with his new toy, resuming his pacing as if nothing had happened. Grian sat frozen on the couch, his heart hammering in his chest. His wings folded tightly against his back, as if trying to shield themselves from further humiliation.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Grian’s face, wrenching him back to the present. “Oi, birdbrain,” Sam said sharply, the insult cutting through the fog. “You listening, or are you too busy daydreaming about worms, Taurtis?”

Grian flinched, bile rising in his throat at the sound of the name. That’s not him, his mind screamed. That’s not who I am. But Sam’s gaze, sharp and unrelenting, rooted him in place.

“Yes,” Grian muttered, his voice shaking.

“Yes, what?” Sam demanded, stopping mid-pace to loom over him.

“Yes... sir, I’m listening,” Grian forced out, his throat tightening around the words.

Sam’s lips curled into a satisfied grin, a predator pleased with its prey. “Good. Yuki’s dad has a job for us—easy cash. All we have to do is show up, look tough, and get what’s ours.”

Grian nodded weakly, his stomach twisting. He knew what the job really entailed. Sam would sit around the Yakuza hideout, squandering their money, then storm through the town to collect. Grian hated being dragged into these errands, but there was no escaping them—or Sam.

Sam smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Good, now let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The lighting was dim, flickering bulbs casting uneven shadows across the cracked walls. In the corner, a group of men hunched over a table, their laughter coarse as they slammed their cards onto the stained surface. Texas Hold’em. Of course.

“Perfect,” Sam said, his voice tinged with excitement. He gestured toward the gamblers. “Jerry, Taurtis, let’s make some money.”

Grian hesitated, his stomach twisting in knots. He didn’t want to sit at that table, didn’t want to watch Sam squander what little they had left. But his wants didn’t matter.

“Taurtis,” Sam said sharply, snapping his fingers. “Come on, don’t keep me waiting. You know you’re my good luck charm.”

Reluctantly, Grian followed, his feet dragging across the sticky floor. As always, the eyes of everyone in the room fell on him, or rather, on his wings.

“Hey, bird boy!” one of the men jeered, he was new to the joint. “Don’t see many like you around here.”

Sam grinned, puffing up with pride as if Grian’s wings were his own achievement. “Yeah, he’s a rare one, isn’t he? Go ahead, take a closer look.”

Before Grian could protest, Sam reached out and stretched one of his wings slightly, making the feathers fan out in a shimmering display. The crowd murmured in appreciation, a few leaning closer to touch.

“Soft as anything, huh?” Sam said, his grin widening as someone brushed their fingers against the feathers. “One-of-a-kind, my Taurtis. Always keeps them looking perfect for me.”

Grian’s stomach churned, the humiliation burning through him like acid. He wanted to snap his wings closed, to stop the hands from pawing at him, but he knew better.

“Don’t mess up the feathers too much,” Sam added with a laugh. “Takes him ages to fix ‘em.”

The men laughed, and Sam finally released Grian’s wing, giving it a playful slap.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to a chair beside him.

Grian obeyed, his body moving on autopilot. Jerry, oblivious as always, plopped down on the other side of Sam with a grin.

“Let’s play,” Sam said, tossing a wad of crumpled bills onto the table.

But before the dealer could start, Sam leaned back and clapped a hand on Grian’s shoulder.

“Take a good look, boys,” Sam said with a cocky grin, his fingers digging slightly into Grian’s jacket. “This right here is my little parrot. Prettiest bird you’ll ever see. Don’t let the quiet act fool you—he’s smarter than all of you combined.”

The men at the table chuckled uneasily, their eyes flicking between Sam and Grian.

“Sam, stop,” Grian muttered, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“What?” Sam said, smirking. “I’m just telling the truth. You’ve got brains, wings, and a face that could charm the feathers off a phoenix. You should be thanking me for keeping you safe from the vultures.” His eyes narrowed, the underlying warning unmistakable.

Grian stiffened, his stomach twisting. He wanted to argue, but Sam’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his nails just shy of digging into Grian’s skin.

“Don’t be shy, birdie,” Sam cooed, his voice dripping with mockery. “Smile a little. You’re with me. What’s there to worry about?”

Grian clenched his fists under the table, his nails biting into his palms. He didn’t smile.

The game began, and Grian sat stiffly, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. He wasn’t allowed to play. Sam had made that clear the last time they’d come to a place like this. “You’re not good enough for cards,” Sam sneered. “Just sit there and look pretty.”

So Grian sat, his wings tucked tightly against his back, watching as the money dwindled with every lost hand.

Eventually, Yuki appeared, her bright smile grating against Grian’s nerves. She leaned against the back of Sam’s chair, her presence adding another layer of tension to the room.

“My dad’s ready to see you,” she said, her eyes flicking to Grian briefly before dismissing him.

Sam glanced at her, then at Grian. “Hear that, birdie? The boss wants a word. Don’t embarrass me.”

Grian started to stand, but Sam grabbed his arm, his grip like a vice. “Not so fast,” Sam said, his voice dropping. “You don’t go anywhere without my say-so. Got it?”

Grian nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He waited for Sam's permission. 

Sam released him, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. You can go. But don’t forget, you’re mine.”

As Grian followed Yuki out of the bar, Sam’s mocking laugh echoed behind him.

The back room was dimly lit, the air colder and more oppressive than the bar outside.

Grian hesitated in the doorway, his wings twitching nervously. “Sit,” the boss said, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence.

Grian obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from the desk.

“You know why you’re here?” the boss asked, his sharp eyes locking onto Grian.

“No,” Grian said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The boss leaned forward. “When I found out you were running with Sam, I was shocked. I thought you'd be smart enough to never come back."

Grian shifted uncomfortably as the man's gaze hardened, "You and that girl caused me a lot of trouble back then,” he muttered. “I lost everything. My son, my life. All because of you two.”

Grian’s throat tightened. He wanted to explain, to defend himself, but the words caught in his throat.

“What I’m saying is that I don’t like you,” The boss paused dramatically. Grian felt tight pressure on his wings as his body pushed back on the seat. He continued, “But Sam… Sam’s a bigger problem. Keep an eye on him, bird boy. You might be the only thing keeping him from burning this place to the ground.”

The words stung, but Grian nodded, unsure of what else to do.

“Get out of here. And tell Sam to stop being an idiot.”

Grian stood, his legs shaky, and made his way back to the bar. Sam was waiting for him, a smug grin on his face.

“Well?” Sam asked.

“Let’s just go,” Grian muttered, his voice hollow. Sam laughed, throwing an arm around Grian’s shoulders. 

“That’s my Taurtis. Never doing what he’s told.” the hold tightened, gripping his wings" I order you around. Not the boss, not you. Got it?"

Grian hesitantly nodded. 

As they left the bar, Grian’s chest felt heavy. The weight of Sam’s words and the boss’s warning pressed down on him like a stone. 

He knes wasn’t Taurtis. He knew wasn’t anyone’s puppet.

But as he glanced at Sam, his heart sinking, he knew that didn’t matter. Not here. Not ever.

Chapter Text

The streets of the small, crumbling town felt colder at night, the cracked pavement shimmering faintly under dim streetlights. Grian trudged behind Sam and Jerry, his head low, wings tucked tightly against his back. His eyes darted to every shadow, every flicker of movement, but he knew better than to let himself hope for an escape.

They had been walking for hours, stopping door after door to demand payment for the boss. Each knock on a door sent a wave of dread washing over Grian. He hated it—the terrified faces that peered out, the trembling hands that offered up meager savings, the quiet, choked sobs of families who had nothing left to give. The weight of it pressed down on him like iron chains.

At each stop, Sam was the first to step forward, his presence dominating the space. “Boss wants what’s owed,” he’d say, his voice sharp and commanding.

Jerry, meanwhile, loved to play the enforcer, his grin stretching wide as he banged on doors and leaned in far too close to the trembling townsfolk. “Better hurry up,” he’d jeer. “Don’t want us to have to come back, do ya?” He laughed loudly, finding glee in their fear.

Grian stayed in the background, silent and still. His wings, always a point of fascination, were on full display, fluttering faintly in the cold breeze. Sam wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Make sure they get a good look at you,” Sam said, shoving Grian forward slightly. “People will remember the pretty bird. Then you can't escape.”

At one house, a child peeked out from behind a parent’s leg, their wide eyes fixed on Grian’s wings.

“Are you an angel?” the child asked softly.

Grian froze, wishing he knew how to answer. The child's parents looked at Grian with pity, as if they knew he needed help. But they had their own child to protect. 

"Of course he is. My little fallen angel." Sam snapped, shoving the door wider. He shot Grian a smirk before turning to the child’s parents. “Now, unless you want this angel’s wings to end up in a bad place, I’d suggest you pay up. All of it.”

Grian’s stomach churned as the parents scrambled to find the money, their faces pale with fear. He wanted to fold his wings in, to shield them from the greedy eyes and mocking words, but Sam had made it clear: his wings were part of the show.

At another house, a man hesitated too long, Jerry stepped in, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the doorframe. “Don’t think the boss is in the business of waiting,” Jerry snarled. “You got the money or not?”

The man stammered, nodding quickly as he thrust a crumpled wad of cash into Sam’s waiting hand.

Jerry stepped back, laughing. “See? Easy when you try. Right Taurtis? ”

Grian clenched his fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Every part of this felt wrong, every act of cruelty another weight pressing down on him. But he forced a chuckle before they moved on to another house for protection fees. 

As they moved to the next house, Sam glanced back at Grian. “You’re quiet tonight, Taurtis,” he said, his tone mocking. “What’s the matter? Feeling guilty?”

Grian didn’t answer, keeping his gaze on the ground.

Sam chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Grian’s hair like one might pet a dog. “Relax. They’re just paying what due. Not your problem if they don’t like the terms.”

Grian flinched away from Sam’s touch, but the movement only made Sam laugh harder.

“Don’t even think about running,” Sam added, his voice darkening. “You wouldn’t last five minutes out there. And besides, who’s going to take care of my little bird if I’m not around?”

Jerry joined in, laughing obnoxiously. “Yeah, Taurtis, you’d probably get eaten alive. Bet you wouldn’t even find your way out of town.”

Their taunts burned, but Grian stayed silent.

Every door they knocked on, every frightened face they left behind, made him feel smaller and smaller.

At one point, a woman slammed her door in their faces before Sam could even speak.

“Oh, we’re doing this the hard way?” Sam said, his voice dangerously low. He banged on the door with his fist. “Open up, or Jerry and I will make sure you regret it.”

Jerry cracked his knuckles dramatically, grinning. “Let me handle this one, Sam. I’ve got a way with stubborn people.”

Before Grian could protest—or even think of how to protest—Jerry kicked the door in, the crash echoing down the empty street. The woman screamed, retreating into the house as Jerry stalked inside.

“Get the money,” Sam called after him, leaning casually against the doorframe. He glanced at Grian, smirking. “See? That’s how you make people listen.”

Grian’s stomach churned, and he turned his head away, wishing he could shut out the noise.

When Jerry returned, a wad of cash in hand, he tossed it to Sam with a grin. “Easy money.”

Sam pocketed the cash, turning to Grian. “See what happens when people don’t play nice? You don’t want to end up like that, do you, Taurtis?”

Grian swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He wasn’t Taurtis. He didn’t belong here. But as Sam and Jerry moved to the next house, laughing and joking like they didn’t have a care in the world, Grian followed, his feet dragging.

"C'mon, Taurtis. We've got an extra house on the list today. A family borrowed money and hasn't bothered to pay it back." Sam patted Grian on the back. "I promise, you're going to love this one."

That just made the pit in his stomach grow. Shivers trailing down his spine. 

Chapter Text

The house sat at the edge of a quiet street, its porch light glowing faintly. Grian had never been here with Sam, but he recognized it all the same. Grian hung back as Sam and Jerry approached, dread coiling in his stomach. Every stop, every door—it only made the fear worse. The weight of collecting money for the boss—humiliating and soul-crushing—was suffocating. He felt like a predator, watching without any ability to change the situation.

Sam knocked on the door with his usual confidence, a grin on his face like he was about to greet an old friend. Jerry leaned lazily against the porch railing, his eyes darting around, always looking for trouble. Grian shifted on his feet, his mind racing with thoughts of escape, but Sam’s earlier threats froze him in place.

The door creaked open, revealing Okami. She wore an apron dusted with flour, a rolling pin still in her hand. “Oh, boys,” she said coolly, leaning against the doorframe. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“Business,” Sam replied, his smug tone matching his grin. “We’re here to collect.”

Okami’s expression hardened, but she didn’t move. “I told you before, we don’t have any money for you people.”

Sam leaned closer, his grin widening. “Well, that’s not gonna fly, miss Okami. Boss wants his payment, and we’re not leaving until we get it.”

“You’ve got some nerve—” Okami began, but she stopped when Rowan stepped into view behind her.

“What’s going on?” Rowan asked, his deep voice cutting through the tension.

Okami turned to him, shaking her head. “It’s them again. Coming to collect.”

Rowan stepped out onto the porch, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Grian. His gaze locked on him, and for a moment, the tension felt unbearable.

“You,” Rowan said sharply. “Why are you running with them? You’re better than this.”

Grian opened his mouth, but the words lodged in his throat, stuck between guilt and fear. He wanted to tell Rowan everything but couldn’t find the strength. Instead, he just looked away, fighting back the wave of helplessness rising in his chest.

“Don’t blame him, old man,” Sam chuckled from behind Grian. “He’s just following orders. Aren’t you, Taurtis?”

The name sliced through Grian, but he didn’t respond. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

Rowan’s gaze softened, but only for a moment. He stepped forward, his voice quieter now, edged with concern. “You’re better than this, kid. You’re better off in jail than stuck in this mess. What’s wrong with you?”

Grian stepped back, his pulse quickening. He wanted to explain, wanted to tell Rowan everything, but the shadow of Sam loomed too large.

“He doesn’t need your moralizing,” Sam interjected, stepping between Grian and Rowan. “Now, are you going to pay, or do we have to take it ourselves?”

Before Rowan could respond, Jerry, who had been looking around restlessly, decided to act. With a careless swing, he grabbed the rolling pin from Okami’s hand and swung it. Okami ducked, but the momentum sent Jerry stumbling back, his foot catching the edge of the porch. He toppled into the railing, his head cracking against the wooden post with a sickening thud before he crumpled to the ground.

“Jerry!” Grian exclaimed, rushing toward him, but Sam grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

“Let him be,” Sam growled, his voice cold.

Jerry groaned, clutching his head as he slowly sat up. His eyes opened, but there was something different in them—something distant.

“Grian?” Jerry murmured, his voice unsteady.

Grian froze. Something wasn’t right.

Jerry blinked, confusion clouding his features. “I’m... Taurtis?”

The words didn’t fully register, and Grian was about to ask what was happening when Sam’s cold voice cut through the moment.

“Grian, distract them,” Sam ordered, the sharpness in his tone unmistakable. “If they call the cops, we’re done. And if you don’t—well, you’ll regret it.”

Panic surged through Grian. "What?!"

Before he could protest, Sam moved past him and into the house, leaving Grian alone with Rowan and Jerry—no, Taurtis—who seemed to be caught in his own disorienting fog of confusion.

Rowan’s gaze shifted back to Grian, his concern deepening. “You’re not going anywhere. As a police officer, I can’t let a criminal escape. And as your teacher, I won’t let you drag yourself into this pit.” He grabbed Grian’s arm with a vice-like grip, his strength steady as he held him in place.

“No,” Rowan continued, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re staying here until you explain yourself. Why are you doing this? Is this really who you want to be?”

Grian’s heart pounded. The pressure crushed his chest, stealing his breath. “I don’t want to be any of this!” The words cracked, raw with emotion. “I don’t know who I am anymore. But I don’t have a choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” Rowan countered, tightening his grip, but it only made Grian’s resolve fracture more.

“No! There isn’t!” Grian shouted, panic surging. “If I don’t do what Sam says, I’m dead! Dead, Rowan, do you understand?”

Rowan froze, the words cutting through him like a knife. He opened his mouth to say something, but the weight of Grian’s raw fear and pain stopped him cold.

Grian wrenched free and bolted for the road. Rowan’s hand shot out, grabbing his wing.

Grian screamed, his breath catching as the pain seared through him. 

The pressure on his wing felt like it was shattering him from the inside out, his vision flashing white with agony. He writhed in Rowan’s grip, heart hammering, terrified of being held down, terrified of being broken. 

The pain overwhelmed him, and his world spun out of control.

“Stop fighting!” Rowan yelled, his voice cracking under the strain. But it was no use—he saw the fear in Grian’s eyes and it only made his grip falter.

“Please! Stop!” Grian cried out, the words tearing at his throat as the pain intensified. His wings were meant to be a source of freedom, but now they were shackles, a reminder of how trapped he was. 

A violent twist of his body, and suddenly the joint popped with a sickening, sharp crack.

Grian collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, every breath laced with pain. He didn’t care about the blood, the tears. It all blurred into the nightmare of his existence.

Rowan stood frozen, horror on his face. His hands trembled as he looked at Grian, the tears that filled his eyes feeling like a flood he couldn’t control. “What have I done?” he whispered, his voice so low it barely carried over the wind.

Okami appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. “Rowan, what the void did you do?” Her voice was harsh, but there was a frantic edge to it. She rushed over to Grian, her hands gentle as she tried to stabilize him.

“I—he was trying to run—I didn’t mean—” Rowan stammered, his voice broken, regret flooding his chest like an unbearable weight.

Okami didn’t have time to argue. She turned her focus to Grian, who was writhing in pain. “Hold still, kid,” she said, though her voice was tight with emotion. “This is going to hurt, but I’ve got you.”

Grian couldn’t stop the scream that ripped from his throat as she carefully maneuvered his wing back into place, the pain jagged and searing. He felt like his entire body was being torn apart, but somehow, she managed to stabilize him.

When the agony subsided, Grian lay there, trembling, tears streaming down his face. His body was broken, but worse than that was the crushing realization that he was alone in this. Rowan had tried to help, but he was just another figure in the long list of people who couldn’t save him.

Rowan stood a few feet away, guilt eating at him, his hands still trembling. His eyes locked onto Grian, and for a moment, all the weight of the decision he had just made—the choice to grab him, to hurt him—fell on his shoulders. “I just wanted to help,” he whispered, his voice lost in the wind.

The weight of everything—the fear, the helplessness—pressed down on him, suffocating him.

Sam’s voice came from behind, his tone mocking. “Good job, Taurtis,” he said with sickening approval. “Keep it up. I need to get moving.” His words only added to the knot of dread coiling in Grian’s stomach.

Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper, as sharp as a knife at Grian’s ear. “You know what will happen if you don’t keep them distracted. Don’t make me remind you again.” His fingers brushed the edge of Grian’s wing, a cruel smirk twisting his face.

Before Grian could process, Sam was gone. Grian was left in the broken silence, his heart pounding as the weight of everything crashed down on him.

Grian’s mind screamed, but he couldn’t do anything. He was trapped.

Before Grian could process what was happening, Rowan pulls him into a hug.

The air felt like it was pressing in on him, suffocating him, as he glanced back at Okami, the up to Rowan. Their faces, etched with grief and guilt, haunted him. They wanted to help. They tried. But he couldn’t let them in. Not now. Not ever.

Grian wanted to run away from this town. His body ached, his wings dragging behind him, but the fear of Sam catching up with him kept him frozen in place. He knew that escaping them was just a temporary reprieve, a short-lived victory in a long, unwinnable battle..

Suddenly, the sound of sirens sliced through the stillness, growing louder by the second. Grian’s stomach twisted in panic.

“No...” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his heart began to race. Grian pulls back out from the hug.

Rowan’s hold tightens. “You're probably better off in a jail cell, kid. Just stay,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation.

“It’s over,” Okami muttered, kneeling down next to Grian, her hand in his. “You’re not running from this, Grian. You owe us an explanation. Just talk to the police. We’ll figure this out together.”

“No!” Grian shouted, the panic rising like a wave crashing over him. His body trembled.. “You don’t understand! They’ll kill me if I stay here! Sam will come after me!”

Rowan let go of Grian for a split second, shocked. Grian gets up on shaky knees, preparing to leave. “If you run, you’ll make it worse. Just stay and face the cops.”

But Grian’s mind was already made up. He wasn’t going to wait for the storm to break. He couldn’t. Not again.

“Grian, wait!” Rowan called as he moved to stop him, but it was too late.

Grian dashed past him, the pain in his wing screaming with every awkward step. He didn’t care. All he could focus on was the need to run—run far away from this life, from the people who thought they could save him, from the man who had created this nightmare.

He ran. The sirens wailed behind him, red and blue lights swallowing the night. He didn’t look back.

“Grian!” Rowan’s voice called out again, but he couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

He was already running, deeper into the shadows, further from any chance of salvation. He wasn’t free. He was just another fugitive, lost in a bigger cage.

But for now, the only thing he could do was run into the alleyway. 

Grian’s footsteps echoed against the narrow walls of the alley, the sound muffled by the thudding of his pulse in his ears. The dim street lights blurred as he ran, the weight of his injury dragging him down, but still, he pushed forward—away from the chaos, away from everything he knew.

He had met up with Sam, falling back into the same oppressive rhythm of following orders. The familiar weight of being controlled pressed down on him like a vice. He noticed Jerry—no, Taurtis—acting strangely, but there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do. He was too tired, too defeated to fight back.

As he walked, the bitter weight of his life as Taurtis, Jerry, or whatever identity Sam had made him wear suffocated him. He was a prisoner in his own skin, shackled by the expectations of others. He had lost himself so completely that he couldn’t remember who he was without the strings of someone else pulling him along.

Then, as if on cue, a voice cut through the silence, one Grian knew all too well.

“Taurtis…”

Grian froze. The sound of his name sent a jolt through him. He turned to see Taurtis standing still, his vacant expression faltering for the first time in ages. For a moment, there was clarity in his eyes, as if the fog that clouded his mind was lifting. For the first time in what felt like forever, Grian saw a glimmer of the person beneath the puppet.

“Taurtis?” Grian breathed, his voice trembling.

Taurtis blinked, his gaze sharpening, though still uncertain. “I… I remember,” he said slowly, his voice hoarse. “Grian… I remember who I am.”

The words hit Grian like a tidal wave. For the first time in so long, there was a chance—an out. He didn’t have to be Taurtis anymore. The shackles that had bound him could finally be broken.

“Then you’re free?” Grian asked, nearly breathless.

Taurtis nodded slowly, his expression uncertain but resolute. “Yeah… I’m not him anymore. And you don’t have to be me.”

Grian’s chest tightened with something resembling hope, though it was fleeting. He wasn’t free, not yet, but at least now he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

But before he could process the relief, the sound of approaching footsteps reached them, familiar and cold. Sam’s voice broke through the moment, his words laced with venom.

“Of course he doesn’t have to be you, Taurtis.” Sam’s sneer was evident even through his tone. “Grian has always been Grian. Always. Don’t forget that.”

Grian tensed, a chill running down his spine, but before he could reply, a figure stepped from the shadows—the Yakuza boss, towering over them, his gaze sharp.

“Where’s the money?” the boss demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Sam rolled his shoulders dismissively, his expression one of indifference. “You want your money? You’ll have to do better than this.” He waved a hand with the crumpled bills, clearly uninterested. “I’ve got bigger plans anyway.”

The boss narrowed his eyes, growing more impatient with each passing second. Sam’s refusal to cooperate only pushed him further into frustration, but he was already turning, walking away with his usual arrogance.

“I’m outta here,” Sam muttered, barely sparing Grian a glance. “Taurtis, let’s go. Grian, you deal with this.”

Taurtis hesitated, glancing between Sam and Grian. His confusion was evident, but he followed Sam without a word, leaving Grian alone with the boss.

The Yakuza boss stepped forward, his imposing presence filling the alley. He eyed Grian critically, focusing on his injured wing—the limp, painful reminder of how far Grian had fallen.

“Come here,” the boss ordered quietly.

Grian flinched but obeyed, limping toward the boss. He was exhausted, every step dragging him further into a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. The pain from his wing flared with each movement, sending jolts of agony through his body. He couldn’t remember the last time it didn’t hurt.

The boss stepped forward again, carefully inspecting his injured wing. He winced as the boss’s fingers grazed the pain-filled area, but the boss was gentle, though his touch was firm and calculated.

“You need first aid,” the boss muttered. “You’re not in any condition to keep running around.”

Grian winced again as the boss carefully adjusted his wing, the sharp pain making his head spin. “You’re going to help me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not helping you out of kindness,” the boss replied bluntly. “I’m helping because Sam’s a liability. He can’t keep things in check, but you’re more useful than he is.”

The boss’s hands worked swiftly, wrapping a bandage around Grian’s wing. Each touch was precise, but there was something unsettlingly familiar in the way he moved. 

Grian couldn’t shake the feeling that the boss had dealt with broken people before—people who, like him, had been manipulated and controlled by others.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed behind them, and Grian’s heart skipped a beat. 

He turned to see Sam standing there, his cold eyes burning with anger.

“You let him touch you?” Sam’s voice was low, dark with possessiveness. He stalked toward Grian, his eyes locking onto the injured wing. The fury in his gaze was unmistakable. 

Grian flinched before Sam’s hands shot out, fingers grazing the delicate skin of his wing.

“You think it’s okay for someone else to touch my wings, without my permission?” Sam growled, his tone venomous. He applied pressure to the damaged area, forcing Grian to bite back a gasp of pain.

Sam’s fingers dug into the painful part of Grian’s wing, his grip possessive and cruel. “You’re mine, Grian. No one else gets to lay a hand on you. You don’t belong to anyone but me.”

The sharpness in his touch sent waves of pain through Grian’s body, and for a moment, he felt himself slipping, caught between the suffocating pressure of Sam’s grip and the weight of his helplessness.

“I… I didn’t—” Grian began, but Sam cut him off.

“You never ask for permission,” Sam hissed, his fingers tightening. “You never ask what I want. You’re so selfish.”

Grian trembled beneath the force of Sam’s touch, unable to escape. Sam wasn’t just angry about the injury—he was angry that anyone else dared to get close to Grian. That feeling of ownership was suffocating.

Finally, Sam let go with a frustrated grunt, stepping back with a scowl. He shot a look of pure contempt at the boss before muttering, “You better keep your hands to yourself next time.”

With that, Sam turned on his heel, storming off down the alley.

Grian’s breath came in shallow gasps as he pulled his uninjured wing in close, trying to hide the pain, both physical and emotional. Sam’s possessiveness lingered like a dark cloud over him, and the weight of it was too much to bear.

The boss reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial, holding it out to Grian.

“This is for you,” the boss said, his voice tinged with an odd mixture of regret and bitterness. The liquid inside shimmered a strange shade of purple.

Grian’s heart skipped a beat as he eyed the vial. “What is it?” he asked, wary of the implications.

The boss sighed deeply, his voice heavy. “It’s for stopping people like Sam. He’s corrupt, too powerful. When he gets out of control… you’ll need something to bring him back down.” His gaze locked with Grian’s, and his tone shifted, almost serious. “I won’t let him do to you what he’s done to others. If you ever get the chance… you know what to do.”

Grian took the vial, his hand trembling, the implications of the boss’s words sinking in. 

The vial was small, but it felt heavy in Grian’s palm, like a choice too large to make. He wondered if this would be the key to ending Sam’s control—or the beginning of something worse. Sam was too dangerous now—too unpredictable. And Grian wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this.

With a final glance at the boss, Grian turned to find Sam again, the anger, confusion, and fear building in his chest. He didn’t know what was coming, but he had no choice but to follow.

Chapter Text

It hurt more than Scar ever thought it could, sitting silently as people tore into one of his closest friends. Each biting word echoed in the courtroom like a hammer, each accusation a chisel against Grian’s character. Scar's nails bit into the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles white with tension. He wanted to shout, to fight back, to defend Grian, but he knew his place here was as a spectator, nothing more.

And yet, the ache in his chest wasn’t solely from the sharp words against Grian.

Somewhere deep inside, something darker stirred—jealousy. It clawed at him with cold, bitter fingers, wrapping around his heart. He hated himself for it. When Grian needed him the most, he hadn’t been the one chosen. 

It was Mumbo and Lizzie, Grian’s oldest friends, who stood closest to him now, their faces pale and drawn. Scar couldn’t blame Grian for leaning on them. They had been part of his life long before Scar had ever arrived. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

As Scar glanced at Mumbo, he could see the despair etched into every line of the vampire’s face, a stark contrast to Lizzie’s horrified expression.

It struck him then—Grian had hidden this part of himself from everyone, even from them. Whatever truth had come out, it was new to them too. Scar’s gaze dropped to the polished wooden floor, remembering the late nights and quiet conversations he’d shared with Mumbo over the years. They’d become close, but it was only now that he realized how much more there was to Grian’s story.

Mumbo had always been a mystery wrapped in open friendliness. Joining Hermitcraft back in high school, Mumbo had been a natural with redstone. His machines were intricate works of art, and his passion for the craft had drawn admiration from everyone, Scar included. Scar had been impressed—no, awed—by Mumbo’s skills when he first joined the server. It wasn’t just the technical precision that struck him but the way Mumbo’s mind worked, always a step ahead, always creating. They’d bonded quickly, finding common ground in their shared excitement for the server and its possibilities.

Unlike most of the Hermits, Mumbo had no reservations about sharing his past. For him, speaking his truth was a way to heal, a way to release the weight of his memories. Scar had always admired that about him, and late one night, after a particularly rough dream, Mumbo had opened up about a chapter of his life that Scar hadn’t known before.

It had all started with Grian. 

Mumbo’s voice had been soft, almost like a whisper, but the weight behind it was undeniable. He had told Scar about the time when his best friend, Grian, had moved to Japan without warning, cutting off nearly all contact. Mumbo described how Grian’s calls had started becoming less frequent, his messages colder, more strained. Mumbo would still speak proudly of him to anyone who would listen—his pride for Grian was obvious to anyone who knew him.

Grian, the brilliant builder. The admin. The mastermind with the skills to match. They had dreamed of building something together—something that could change everything. They were just two kids back then, unburdened by the weight of the world, and neither had finished school. They had both been so sure they would change everything, so sure of the future that was waiting for them. But life had pulled them in different directions, and those dreams had slowly faded away, like smoke dissipating in the wind.

As Mumbo continued, Scar listened in silence. Mumbo told him about the Evolution SMP—Grian’s project. It had started as a server after Grian had left school, a place Grian had poured all his energy into. And then Grian had invited Mumbo to join. But Mumbo had chosen to stay in school, a decision he had regretted ever since. For a while, things had seemed better. Grian’s voice had sounded lighter, his laughter brighter. But then Grian had confessed something that had shaken Mumbo to his core. He had a bad feeling about going to the End. Something about it felt wrong. Mumbo had reassured him, told him to ignore it, that everything would be fine. But after that, Grian stopped reaching out.

The calls stopped. The texts stopped. Grian had vanished.

Pearl was the one who eventually told Mumbo that Grian was gone. The Evolution SMP had been destroyed without a trace. No closure. No explanation. Just a sudden and complete silence. Scar could still see the hollow look in Mumbo’s eyes when he told him. It was like a piece of him had died with Grian’s disappearance, and no one seemed to care.

It had been the turning point for Mumbo. The person who had once been so full of dreams had been broken that day. Scar could still remember the haunted look in his eyes when he spoke of it. Mumbo had been just a kid—still in high school—when Grian had disappeared. With no one to help him, no family to turn to, Mumbo had made a vow to find his friend. If no one else would search, he would.

The path he had chosen hadn’t been easy. Scar’s chest tightened as Mumbo described his search—how he had dropped out of school and dedicated every moment to finding Grian. He scoured forums, dove into the darkest corners of the internet, and reached out to servers he’d never dared to approach before. Nothing would stop him. Not the danger. Not the unknown.

But the world is cruel to those who search too deeply.

Mumbo’s voice had shaken when he told Scar of what happened next.

That was when he had encountered the brood of blood fae—vampires who trafficked in “blood bags,” a term they used for humans whose blood was harvested until there was nothing left. Mumbo had been caught in their web, his own blood deemed valuable. Scar could still hear the bitterness in Mumbo’s voice when he described how the fae had looked at him—not as a person, but as a commodity. His blood was strong, stronger than most, and that made him a prize.

Scar’s chest tightened. He could feel the torment in every syllable. It wasn’t just physical. It was the isolation—the endless, aching loneliness of having no choice, no freedom, nothing but that constant, unbearable pain.

And then he was turned into a vampire. 

The weight of Mumbo’s voice was heavy in the air, and Scar found himself clutching the present moment, aware that this was not just a memory, but the truth that Mumbo had lived with for so long.

Scar had cried the first time Mumbo told him the story. He hadn’t meant to, but the weight of it—the pain, the resilience, the love Mumbo had found in the most unlikely of places—was overwhelming. Even now, Scar’s chest tightened at the memory. 

Mumbo had been through so much, yet here he was, standing strong, a loyal friend and a vital part of the Hermitcraft family.

And as he sat in the stuffy courtroom, Scar felt the air grow heavy with memories. The dull buzz of murmured conversations and the sharp rustle of papers around him faded into the background. His gaze dropped to his lap, and before he could stop himself, a single tear slid down his cheek.

Chapter Text

Scar remembered the first time he had met the Grian Mumbo had spoken so lovingly about. It was the start of Season Six, a day filled with boundless excitement and promise. Xisuma had just finished setting up their new world, and they’d all spawned in together, standing in a sunlit clearing surrounded by towering trees.

The sunlight streamed through the canopy, casting golden patches on the grass. The breeze carried the crisp, earthy scent of the forest, mingling with the faint hum of life all around them. The Hermits were brimming with energy, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of awe and enthusiasm as they took in their new surroundings.

But Scar had noticed the shift before anyone else. While the others explored and chatted, Ren and Mumbo had gone quiet, their gazes darting around the clearing. Scar rolled closer to them, lowering his voice so only they could hear.

“Mumbo, Ren. What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his tone light but concerned. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Mumbo hesitated, his jaw tightening as he exchanged a look with Ren. Finally, he leaned in, speaking in a low whisper. “We smell blood.”

Scar blinked, the words sinking in like a lead weight. “Blood?” he repeated.

Ren nodded grimly. “Close by.”

Scar shifted in his chair, his heart picking up pace. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s find out what’s going on.”

Mumbo shook his head, casting a glance back toward the group. “Xisuma wants everyone to stay in spawn while he finishes setting things up. If we leave, he’ll notice.”

Scar straightened his posture, a determined smile spreading across his face. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “Watch and learn.”

He rolled over to Xisuma, who was hunched over his tablet, furiously typing away.

“Hey, Zoom Zoom,” Scar said, his voice cheerful.

Xisuma glanced up, his expression one of mild amusement. “Hey, Scar. What’s up?”

Scar tilted his head, flashing his best smile. “Ren, Mumbo, and I are getting a bit antsy. Mind if we take a little stroll? Just to stretch our legs. I promise we won’t go more than 300 blocks.”

Xisuma squinted, tapping a finger against his tablet thoughtfully. “250,” he said finally, “and not a block further.”

“Deal.” Scar extended a hand, sealing the agreement with a firm shake.

When he returned to Mumbo and Ren, he gave them a thumbs-up. “Lead the way.”

They followed a narrow path through the forest, the soft crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot the only sound breaking the stillness. The air grew cooler as they ventured deeper, the dappled sunlight fading beneath the dense canopy.

Mumbo and Ren moved cautiously, their senses on high alert. Scar could feel the tension in the air—the way Mumbo’s shoulders were hunched, the way Ren’s ears twitched as he scanned the surroundings.

Suddenly, Ren froze, his nose twitching. Without a word, he bolted off the path, leaving Mumbo and Scar scrambling to follow.

When Scar finally caught up, Ren was standing in a clearing, his body rigid. Mumbo slowed to a stop beside him, his eyes widening as he took in the scene.

“What is it?” Scar asked, wheeling himself forward. Then he saw it.

A figure lay crumpled in the grass, half-buried beneath a pile of blood-soaked feathers. The wings—parrot wings, vibrant and familiar—were twisted at unnatural angles, their once-brilliant colors marred by streaks of crimson. But what drew Scar’s attention was the scattering of purple feathers around the figure.

His brow furrowed. Purple? The parrot wings were unmistakably parrot; Scar had seen enough avians to recognize their distinct patterns. But there wasn’t a single trace of purple on them, never should be.

The figure’s back was a mess of torn skin and blood. Two deep, raw wounds marked the area just below the base of the parrot wings, as though something had been ripped away. The sight sent a shiver down Scar’s spine.

“What the…” he murmured, his voice trailing off. He turned to Mumbo, who was staring at the figure with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“Could it be…” Mumbo whispered, his voice trembling. But he didn’t move.

Scar glanced between Mumbo and the figure, his own confusion mounting. 

He wheeled himself closer, carefully moving the feathers away from the man’s face. When the features were finally revealed, Mumbo gasped, his composure breaking.

“Grian!” Mumbo cried, rushing forward. Tears streamed down his face as he fell to his knees beside the unconscious man.

Scar looked up at him, startled. “Wait… you mean your Grian?”

Mumbo nodded furiously, his voice cracking as he replied, “Yes. It’s him. It’s really him.”

Scar’s gaze returned to the purple feathers scattered around Grian’s broken body. A chill crept down his spine. If the parrot wings were still intact, where had the purple feathers come from? And those wounds—what could have caused them?

As Mumbo reached out to hold him, Scar grabbed his arm. “Wait!” he said firmly. “Look at his back. He’s injured—we can’t move him.”

Mumbo froze, horror dawning on his face as he realized what he’d almost done. Ren stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Mumbo’s shoulder.

“We need Xisuma,” Ren said quietly.

Before Scar could respond, the sound of rustling bushes made him jump. A familiar voice called out, tinged with frustration.

 “Alright, you gremlins. You’re in a lot of trouble. Your coordinates say you’re four hundred blocks out. I will be having a seriou—”

Xisuma emerged from the undergrowth, his words dying on his lips as he took in the scene. His eyes widened behind his helmet, flickering from the bloodied figure to the Hermits around him.

“Who is that?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “Did they hurt you?”

Mumbo raised his hands in a placating gesture. “No,” he said quickly. His voice softened as he added, “It’s Grian. My Grian.”

Xisuma stared at him, his shock evident. Mumbo’s voice grew firmer. “He needs help.”

For a moment, Xisuma was silent, his gaze fixed on the purple feathers scattered around Grian. 

Then, with a determined nod, he knelt beside him, assessing the wounds with practiced efficiency.

That was the last time he had seen Grian so defenseless, until today, that is.

Scar’s gaze lingered on the defendant's box, where Grian sat slumped, unconscious. 

The courtroom’s stifling atmosphere pressed on his chest, as though the weight of the entire trial bore down on him alone. Grian, his chaotic and witty friend, looked so small and fragile now—a stark contrast to the force of nature Scar had come to know.

Just like how Scar first met Grian in that clearing surrounded by bloodied feathers and confusion. It hurt to look at.

Scar couldn’t help but remember the strange ache of seeing someone so broken, someone Mumbo had spoken of so reverently. That moment had imprinted something in Scar, a silent promise to always be gentle with the avian.

His mind drifted to all the moments since then. 

The nights on Monopoly Mountain, where the stars stretched endlessly above them, and laughter echoed through the cool air. 

The late nights spent on Red Velvet Cake Fort, a creation of red wood and stubborn teamwork. He could still hear Grian’s voice mocking his ideas as they built and rebuilt. Teasing about his Panda reservation, how much more Scar loved the pandas than him. They both knew that wasn't true, but enjoyed the game nevertheless.

The fort didn’t last, of course—it had burned with the ship and everything else on that cursed world, leaving only the memory of their efforts behind—but it symbolized their friendship in a way no monument ever could.

They’d fought battles together, standing shoulder to shoulder when the odds seemed insurmountable. Scar had laid down his life for Grian, and Grian had done the same for him. Their bond was carved from trust, laughter, and sacrifice.

But as Scar sat here, his eyes fixed on Grian’s still form, he realized how much he didn’t know. 

There were parts of Grian’s life that had always been a mystery. He had never known the stories behind the scars on Grian’s body or the weight behind the avian’s laughter. Each scar, each painful memory, was a part of Grian’s history that Scar hadn’t been privy to.

Grian’s actions, the ones that had brought him here, weren’t his fault. Scar believed that with every fiber of his being. Even if there came a time when evidence revealed that Grian had made choices of his own volition, Scar knew he could never hold onto anger forever.

Not at Grian. Not at his friend.

A tear slid down Scar’s cheek as he held onto that thought, the memories of their shared life battling against the bitter reality before him. 

Whatever happened next, Scar would stand by him, even if it meant carrying the weight of Grian’s past alongside his own.

Chapter Text

The Grian Empire had been thriving—its vibrant construction projects buzzing with life and ambition. His embassy, now in the process of completion, stood tall against the skyline like a beacon of progress. SystemZee, always a reliable ally, had agreed to assist in the creation of Downtown Evo, and together they had started shaping the town into a place that felt like it could rival anything the other servers had seen. Grian was eager to show Taurtis all the advancements they had made.

But there was a problem. A problem Grian hadn’t expected. Taurtis was missing.

He had searched everywhere—Taurtis’s theme park, their shared areas in the Grian Empire, the long stretch of railway that connected various parts of their world. He had even checked Netty’s treehouse and the latest Watchers pillar, despite the uncomfortable shiver that ran through his spine every time he entered their territory. But despite his efforts, Taurtis was nowhere to be found.

Sitting beside the now-defamed fountain—its once-glorious waters tainted by forgotten acts—Grian surveyed the town in front of him. The vibrant dirt shop stood off to the side, growing messily with cluttered additions, a bizarre but somehow fitting contrast to the sleek headquarters he had built for the property police station that loomed like a monument to order. The angry mustached store, which Grian had long wished to take down, still sat at the edge of town, its unsettling presence gnawing at him every time he walked by. Creeper holes pockmarked the pathway, a clear sign of past destruction. Yet in the midst of it all, the beautiful tree house—one of the first builds in the server—remained, untouched by the chaos, a quiet symbol of the world’s beginnings.

Grian could make out Zee’s base, a squid clinging tightly to it, a curious sight that he most definitely didn’t cause. And across the lake, the distant houses were scattered like a handful of seeds in a wide, open field. I giant cookie just past the horizon.

Despite the hustle of players going about their business, the world felt eerily empty. The absence of Taurtis weighed on him. Something felt… wrong. The liveliness of the world that had once felt full of possibility now felt hollow. The thought of why Taurtis was missing plagued him, gnawing at the edge of his mind, but Grian didn’t have the answers.

After days of searching with no result, Grian had almost given up. He had no leads, no way of tracking his friend. 

Just as he was about to return to work on his embassy, a flicker in the sky caught his attention—a broken portal made of bedrock; a Watcher sign had appeared, flashing brightly against the darkening sky. He knew it was probably another prank. It always seemed to be. But for some reason, the sign felt different this time. 

His curiosity got the better of him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed some blocks and began to climb. But as he ascended, a dark shape fell from the sky, hurtling toward the ground with terrifying speed. Grian watched as the figure fell right past his tower, wings unfurling just before impact. The figure caught themselves midair, stumbling before collapsing onto the ground, their wings still fluttering weakly as they tried to catch their breath.

Grian’s heart skipped a beat. 

Who was this? It couldn’t be the Watchers—they didn’t exist. But this player… this was no ordinary visitor. Grian could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He hadn’t whitelisted anyone.

Gliding down to meet the stranger, Grian squinted, noticing the familiar sleek moth-like wings. His stomach twisted as recognition hit him like a jolt. 

There was only one person he knew who had wings like that—someone he hadn’t seen in years.

“Pearl?” Grian called out, disbelief coloring his voice.

The figure froze, their face lifting toward him. Then, without warning, they rushed forward, their arms wrapping around him in a tight, trembling hug. “Griba!” Pearl’s voice cracked as she held him, shivering in his embrace.

Grian hesitated for a split second, still stunned by the sudden reappearance of his younger sister. But he wrapped his arms around her, his own pulse quickening with a mix of relief and confusion. What was she doing here?

“Pearl… what happened?” Grian asked, his voice low, filled with concern. He could feel the shuddering breaths as Pearl clung to him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice muffled as she spoke between sobs. “I—I was there. And it was dark. So dark. And Taurtis was there, too. We were just... floating in the void.” Her voice faltered, a deep, unsettled fear creeping in. “But that can’t be. No one survives the void. But I was there, Grian. I don’t know how I got there. And then... then he was gone, and I was falling. Falling into nothing. And Griba... I thought you were dead. I thought you were gone.”

Grian’s heart shattered at her words. 

The void. 

Taurtis. 

The terror in Pearl’s voice was a reminder of the very real dangers lurking just beneath the surface of their world. 

He pulled her closer, holding her tightly as she cried, her hands clutching him desperately. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. Taurtis was confirmed missing now, but what had Pearl seen? What had really happened?

“I’m so sorry I made you believe I was dead,” Grian whispered, his voice barely audible. “I should have contacted you. I should’ve called, but it was too risky. It was dangerous, Pearl. I... I didn’t know who to trust. I was being chased and I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.” His words felt weak in the face of the chaos they were both experiencing.

But Pearl wasn’t listening. Her eyes, though red from crying, were filled with fury and betrayal. “You left me, Grian. You vanished. I searched for you. I looked for you, for Jimmy. I couldn’t find you. And then Mumbo tells me you’ve started a new server, dragged Jimmy with you… but not me. You didn’t even tell me. What was I supposed to think?”

Grian winced. “I... I didn’t know how to explain. I couldn’t get to you on foot, like I could Jimmy and Mumbo. I lost my phone and was being hunted. When I finally got a communicator, I wanted to call you. But things started happening on the server and I thought you’d be safer on Earth. I never meant to push you away. I just…” He faltered, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

Pearl wasn’t done. Her eyes narrowed, the pain in them mingling with the anger that began to rise. “I could’ve helped. You know that, right? I would have helped you, Grian. But you pushed me away.”

Grian bowed his head in shame. He had failed her. There was no easy way to explain the tangled mess of his choices. He had thought he could handle it all himself, but now it was clear: he couldn’t.

He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. I should have done things differently.” His voice was thick with regret.

But the moment passed, and the weight of Taurtis's absence came crashing back into his mind. Pearl, sensing his shift in mood, stopped. Her eyes softened, just a little. “What’s going on, Grian?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “What happened to Taurtis?”

Grian took a deep breath, glancing at the horizon, where the dark silhouette of the Watchers’ pillar loomed ominously in the distance. His stomach churned. He couldn’t keep this a secret anymore.

“I think…” Grian hesitated, his voice strained with the knowledge of what he was about to say. “I think the Watchers took Taurtis.” He finally let the words escape his lips. “And I’m almost sure of it. I don’t have proof, but everything is pointing to them. The signs, the disappearance, Pearl…” He trailed off, looking at her, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend like this is just a prank. It’s too real.”

Pearl's eyes went wide, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of his words sank in, their meaning hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Finally, Pearl broke the silence, her voice steely with determination. “We’re not sitting around and waiting for something worse to happen. We’re going after him.”

Grian nodded. “We’ll make them pay for what they’ve done. I’ll make them regret ever messing with Taurtis— with us. They won’t get away with it.”

Pearl straightened, the fire in her eyes unmistakable. “Let’s get started, then. Together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Grian felt the burning need for action—no longer just to survive, but to fight back.

Chapter Text

Out of everything he had seen, this is what had broken him.

Not the wars. Not the loss. Not the pain carved into years of survival.

But this.

Grian.

The memory showed him as he'd never seen him before—raw, splintered, cracking under something too heavy to carry. The look in his eyes… it wasn’t guilt.

It was grief.

Grief like a wound torn open.

He’d heard the stories—everyone had. Whispers traded around barracks fires and war-battered trenches. The Watchers: immortal, omnipotent, chaotic. Beings older than code, older than Earth’s first servers. Creatures who fought the Voidwalkers in a war so ancient, its scars still haunted the twins—Xisuma and Evil X—etched across their faces like forgotten maps.

Watchers weren’t supposed to meddle. They were only ever meant to watch.

But legends were wrong. Or worse—half true.

He remembered his captain’s face that night: shadow-drenched by firelight, voice low and certain. Events that happened a lifetime ago. When he was far younger.

“Don’t let them scare you, soldier BDouble0100.” His captain had said, sitting across from him, fire casting deep shadows on his face. “The Watchers from the legends… They’re a fickle race. Bored. Chaotic. Always meddling where they shouldn’t. But they can’t reach this server. The only thing we have to fear—” he smirked, “—is the enemy.”

Bdubs took a bite of his rations, frowning at his captain’s words.

Words that would be his last as radiant light spilled over the camp, swallowing trees, tents, people. 

Sound—music, almost—otherworldly and warm.

And then: death. Soldiers crumpling mid-step. Screams caught in their throats.

The world fell silent as his ears rang like a broken bell.

Bdubs hit the ground, knees scraping stone.

And through the haze of smoke and ash, it arrived.

A being stepped through the fire, tall and saccharine, purple light bleeding from its many shifting wings. A smile curled over a half-masked face. 

Graceful. 

Inhuman. 

Beautiful in the way lightning was beautiful—terrifying, untouchable. 

“You survived?” the creature asked, voice like wine poured into a silver vessel.

Bdubs couldn’t answer, words caught like thorns in his throat. 

The being knelt. A large hand patted his head, sickeningly human. 

“How could they make such a little one fight? You can’t be older than twelve.” 

Fingers tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet the glowing, cracked symbol on their mask. His heart thundered in his ears as he mustered the courage to speak. “W-What. What are you?” 

The being’s teeth shimmered in the glow of the fire. 

“A Watcher, of course.”

Bdubs’ breath caught in his throat, unmoving and unwilling to continue its steady path. 

The Watcher hummed. 

“Or, well, what your kind calls a Watcher. I’m a Listener, dear one. I hear everything, and sometimes—” their voice curled, sharp and beautiful,”—I answer.”

A finger traced down his cheek, soft as starlight. Bdubs shivered.

“Your enemy begged me to annihilate this army…” 

It leaned down with a smirk on its lips. “But, I never promised I wouldn’t spare a few.” 

Their tone turned cold, sharp with disdain, “Child soldiers. Mortals so desperate they send their young to war. Disgusting” 

Bdubs sobbed—unbidden, choking. He tried to stand. Tried to be tall. “Please... They’re all I have. Please spare them.”

The being laughed, kind amusement tinged their voice. 

“Child, I will not spare scum.”

The Listener leaned in. 

Their eyes softened—not with pity, but with something older. 

Something that ached. “Because you…deserve to be loved.”

Bdubs shook. The words didn’t make sense. “I thought. I- You’re evil, right?” His legs gave out and the Listener caught him with impossible grace, cradling him like he weighed nothing.

“Not everyone born good stays that way.”

“Not everyone born evil remains it.”

“Never box a soul because of their race. My kind is chaos, yes. But even in the darkest storms, you’ll find one soul reaching for the light.”

The warmth of their arms was unbearable. So soft. So safe. So wrong. “You will need to remember that someday in the future. One day, you will find family. But if you forget this lesson...

You will lose everything.”

The Listener pressed a hand over his eyes, gentle as a lullaby. “Goodnight, dear Bdubs,” they said, voice thick with strange fondness. 

“I’ll keep an ear out for you.”

He woke in the ruins.

Ash. Smoke. Silence.

The Listener was gone.

Only memory remained—etched deep, like a warning in his bones.

It was the only Watcher he had ever met. And while Xisuma had told him plenty of horror stories, Bdubs had never forgotten what that moment taught him:

No one is born good or evil.

People are shaped. Scarred. Forged by what they live through. And what they choose afterward.

Dust floated through the crack of the courtroom. Silence beyond the tears of Pearl and the soft comforting from her twin. But he heard none of it, looking at Grian—unconscious, alone, exhausted—Bdubs didn’t see a criminal.

He saw a brother.

A man who had fought too long. Too hard. And never stopped choosing the light.

Grian wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t innocent.

But he was good.

The kind of good that crawled out of chaos and refused to become it.

Bdubs' jaw clenched, sitting up taller.

He would not lose his family.

Not to CHRONOS. Not to the Watchers. Not to anyone.

His eyes sparked with quiet fury.

Grian would survive this.

He’d make sure of it.

Chapter Text

The circumstances of their employment were, to put it mildly, abysmal.

Grian had woken up that morning with Sam holding up a roll of toilet paper. Which was never a good sign.

“Birdie,” Sam had said with too much glee, “you missed a spot.”

That “spot” turned out to be his butt. Grian, red-faced and sputtering excuses to not obey Sam, had barely picked up a tissue before the door creaked open—and a teacher stepped in.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sam said, completely unbothered as Grian yelped and tripped over his own wings.

The teacher didn’t react to the chaos, only adjusted his glasses with the expression of someone dead inside. “Taurtis has been deported.”

The room stilled.

For a moment, Grian genuinely couldn’t process the words. Deported? Taurtis? That didn’t make sense—he was born in Japan, wasn’t he? Had lived there his whole life. Deportation? It shouldn’t be possible for him. That wasn’t supposed to be a word in his story. It felt suspicious.

But Sam, ever Sam, shrugged like she’d just told them it was raining outside. “Guess we’ll have to get him back.”

Just like that, they were moving on. Sam said he’d scored them a job interview. Something temporary. Sam would be the bad cop. Grian would—well, Grian would be himself. Apparently, that was a role Sam considered useful.

Their trek through Tokyo was wet and ridiculous. The rain came down in miserable sheets, soaking them in seconds. After some light robbery—Sam had insisted it was “borrowing”—and an unfortunate underwear-for-umbrella trade that left Grian with very little dignity, they finally found their destination.

The supermarket stood like a modern monolith, its windows gleaming, its logo screaming ‘Super’ in all caps across the front in obnoxiously cheerful red.

Grian did not feel super.

He felt cold. Wet. Uneasy. Like his skin didn’t quite fit, like the sky was watching him too closely.

Inside, the place was ghostly. Silent. Desolate.

Except for the cashier.

Jason was a bald, slow-looking man who appeared allergic to charm and hygiene. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t smile. Just looked at Grian like he’d personally offended him by existing.

“What are you looking at?” Jason sneered.

“Uh… nothing?” Grian replied, startled.

“Stupid,” Jason muttered under his breath.

Grian blinked. Rude. Extremely unprofessional. Sam had to hold him back by the collar, whispering something about “focus, birdbrain,” and they made their way toward the back office.

After getting lost in the cereal aisle (twice) and nearly walking into the janitor’s closet thinking it was the elevator, they finally arrived—soaking wet, mildly humiliated, and out of breath—at the manager’s door.

The man who greeted them looked like he’d been there since before supermarkets existed. Wrinkled, gray, eyes so dull they looked like they’d stopped seeing people and only recognized trouble.

He didn’t even say hello before asking, in a gravelly voice, “What do you do for previous employment?”

Grian froze. Sam didn’t.

He grinned. “We were cops.”

Grian blinked. Not a lie, technically. Except for the whole part where they’d... uh, offed a Yakuza boss.

“We were delivery boys,” Sam added. “Special deliveries.”

That was one way to describe shaking people down for money in alleyways.

“I killed a man once.”

“Sam!” Grian punched him in the ribs, panicking. The manager raised a brow, not looking particularly surprised.

“And you?” the man asked Grian, deadpan.

“I—I made spreadsheets,” Grian said.

That seemed to do the trick. After a few more questions—some of which made Grian suspect the old man wasn’t mentally present—they were hired on the spot.

“Uh, how much are we getting paid?” Grian asked, slightly hopeful.

“Gift cards,” the manager replied, as if that were perfectly normal.

Grian stared. “Gift cards.”

“To here.”

Well, isn’t that sketchy.

As they were led to the employee locker room to change, Grian caught his reflection in the mirror. Sam stood beside him, both of them dripping, tired, out of place.

And in the corner of the mirror—he swore—he saw something watching. A shadow. A flicker. Something that didn’t blink.

He rubbed his eyes. It was gone.

Still, the unease lingered like static in the air. It buzzed down his spine and curled into his stomach.

Bad things were coming. He could feel it in his feathers.

And Sam? Sam just winked at his reflection and started whistling a cheery little tune.

Chapter Text

After a day of work, Grian was tired already. Selling watches, taking only cash,everything was sketchy. Jason kept stealing their sales. The old manager kept watching them with a creepy face too.

They were fired by Sunday.

It was the kind of firing that didn’t come with a meeting or a letter—just a silent shutdown. Their locker codes stopped working. Their names were scrubbed from the schedule like they’d never existed. And the only person who seemed happy about it was Jason, who gave them a smug wave on their way out, like he’d just won a war.

Sam was done.

He ranted for hours. About Jason. About capitalism. About the manager who looked like he died five years ago and just hadn’t noticed yet. About how everything was “rigged” and how they were the ones being wronged. It didn’t matter that they’d done almost no actual work. Or that Sam might’ve made a few threats in the break room. Or that Grian may have—accidentally—knocked over an entire canned goods display.

“It’s the principle,” Sam snapped. “We worked for it. They owe us.”

Grian didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because something had shifted in Sam’s voice. It was colder now. Sharper.

That’s when the Yakuza man showed up.

He found them behind a ramen shop, steam curling into the cold air, the streets humming with late-night neon. He didn’t say his name. Didn’t need to. His suit was clean, his shoes were shiny, and the look in his eyes said he’d seen worse things than either of them could imagine.

“Taurtis wasn’t deported,” he said, voice low and calm.

Grian’s stomach dropped.

“He’s been missing for three days. We have reason to believe he was taken. If you want him back alive…” The man handed them a small slip of paper, almost politely. “Two million yen. By the end of the week.”

Sam stared at the paper like it was a joke. Grian just stared. At the numbers. At the reality. At the silence that followed.

Two million yen.

Sam broke the silence first.

“We’re robbing the supermarket.”

Grian blinked. “I—what?”

“We know the layout. We know where the cameras are. And they still owe us gift cards, Grian. Think of it as payback.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, it’s for Taurtis.”

And that was the worst part.

It was for Taurtis.

So now, they were planning a heist. Not because they were good at it. Not because it was smart. But because Taurtis was out there—somewhere—and the only way to reach him was through desperation and crime.

And a very sketchy, very cursed supermarket named ‘Super’.

“Sam, this is a bad idea,” Grian hissed, crouching low behind a dented trash can in the alley, the sharp scent of old ramen and wet cardboard biting at his nose.

Sam was beside him, tugging on a mask with a painted-on smile that felt far too cheerful for what they were about to do. He was all swagger and madness, like a kid playing dress-up—except the stakes were real this time.

“C’mon, birdie,” Sam grinned, voice too calm. “It’ll be fun. He took our sales, we take his life. Then we save Taurtis. Full circle. Poetic, even.”

Grian whipped around, eyes wide. “He took our sales?! Sam, we’re not killing Jason over sales! And this wasn’t my plan!”

Sam only chuckled. “Sure it was. You said we needed money. This gets us money. Boom. Your idea.”

“That’s not even remotely how that works!”

Before Grian could continue the argument, a soft whimper pulled his attention back to the trembling boy beside them—the one they’d “borrowed” the masks from. He couldn’t have been older than twelve. Too thin. Too pale. And clearly terrified.

Grian’s expression softened. He knelt and gently helped the boy back to his feet, brushing some dirt from his sleeve. The kid flinched at the touch.

“Hey,” Grian whispered, voice low and gentle. “I’m sorry. About all this. If you want to live—really live—just stay here. Don’t follow us. Don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

The boy’s eyes welled with tears, but he nodded, lips trembling. “O-okay.”

Grian gave him a small, shaky smile. “Good. You’re braver than you think.”

He stood again, mask in hand, and looked back at Sam, who was practically bouncing in place with anticipation.

This wasn’t supposed to be how things went. They were just supposed to get a job. Save Taurtis. Keep a low profile. And now here they were, hiding in an alley with stolen masks, possibly plotting murder and definitely committing armed robbery.

Grian slid the mask over his face.

This was a terrible idea.

But Taurtis was worth it.

Chapter Text

They snuck into the supermarket just before close. The rain masked their approach. Real guns in their pockets. Stolen masks on their faces.

Grian's hands were trembling.

They slipped into a blind spot in the camera layout—Sam had studied it, mapped it out, like this was a game. Like it wasn’t real. Like someone wouldn’t die tonight.

And then—Sam stepped out.

“This is a robbery! Everybody down! Now!” his voice was cold. Loud. Confident.

Grian felt like vomiting.

Jason stood behind the counter. Slow. Blinking. “What the—?”

“Don’t test me!” Sam barked, training the gun right on him. “Wallets. Credit cards. Cash. Everyone hands where I can see them!”

Panic spread like fire.

A woman screamed.

A kid started crying.

Hostages dropped to the floor, hands over their heads. Grian could feel every heartbeat around him. Thudding. Shaking. Alive.

For now.

“We’ve got enough,” Sam hissed, glancing at the heavy duffel of yen and cards. “Gree-on. Let’s go. Now. Through the back.”

But then—

Glass shattered.

Gunfire exploded.

Police stormed in like a wave. Yelling, shouting. No time to think.

Grian flinched, spinning toward the sound—

Bang.

Something punched through his shoulder. White-hot pain. He cried out, collapsing against the shelf behind him. His vision spun.

Sam returned fire.

And without meaning to, Grian did too.

He didn’t think. He didn’t aim. He just pulled the trigger.

The girl collapsed.

Small. Slender. A school uniform.

She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

She looked like Silly.

Grian froze.

Everything around him slowed. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.

He had killed her.

Blood pooled beneath her body. Her hand twitched once—then stopped.

A scream caught in his throat.

Sam grabbed him, shaking him hard. “Move!” he snarled. “Did you want Taurtis back or not?! Run!”

They burst through the back, slipping in blood and rain, cutting through side streets. Sirens echoed in the distance.

They ditched the guns and masks in a storm drain. The money stayed with them—wet, red-streaked, heavy.

No words passed between them as they made their way home.

They burst into the apartment, soaked to the bone.

Sam tossed the duffel onto the couch like it was nothing. “Phew. We made it.”

But Grian didn’t answer.

He stood in the doorway, breathing ragged. Rain dripping off him like blood.

He had made it.

But someone else didn’t.

There was a knock at the door.

Grian didn’t think much of it—maybe Dom dropping by again with food or some dumb idea to pass the time.

“Coming!” he called, wiping his hands on his jeans as he swung the door open.

He froze.

Standing on the doorstep were four officers, two of which he knew.

Okami.

And Silly.

“Grian,” Silly said, voice steady, eyes hard, “you are under arrest for armed robbery.”

Her uniform looked freshly pressed, her badge glinting in the hallway light. It read In-Training, but Grian wouldn’t have known it. She looked like she belonged in it. Strong. Sharp. Unshakable.

So beautiful it made his chest ache.

So perfect he forgot to run.

Forgot to lie.

A few cops pushed past him.

He forgot to fight.

Cold metal slipped around his wrists before he even realized his hands had moved. Okami was already at his side, checking the bloodstained bandage on his arm.

“We’ll need to get this patched up,” Okami muttered. Then, louder: “Boys! Did you get the other one?”

The answer came with a thud and a scream.

Two cops emerged, dragging Sam—kicking, biting, yelling.

“We didn’t do anything!” Sam shouted, voice cracking. “Let me go!”

Okami crossed his arms. “You think we’re fools? There were cameras. Witnesses. You called each other by your real names.”

Sam froze. His lip trembled. Then—for the first time Grian had ever seen—Sam started crying. His chest shook with every breath, tears streaking his dirty cheeks.

“We—we were just trying to save Taurtis!” Sam sobbed, pointing with his chin toward Grian. “And it was his idea!”

Okami turned. His eyes were sad. “Is that true, Grian? There are better ways to get help than… this.”

Grian looked at Sam.

That look in his eyes.

Not pleading. Not broken. Warning.

Sam’s fingers curled behind his back, subtle and sharp, and made the motion.

Snip.

Like scissors.

Grian's wings puffed out on instinct, a tremor running down his spine.

They still hadn’t healed. Not fully.

Not after what Sam did.

His throat felt tight. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t.

“…Yeah,” he said, quiet. “It was my idea.”

He felt the shift in the air.

Silly looked away. Okami sighed.

And then they were being walked down the path. Handcuffed. Dragged. Silly didn’t look at him again.

They were shoved into the back of a cop car. The doors slammed.

Grian sat there, rain tapping on the roof, heart in his throat. He should have been thinking about his future. A lawyer. A plan. Escape.

But all he could think about…

Was his wings.

Still broken.

Still bleeding.

Still clipped.

Chapter Text

Grian was a good person. A kind person. The kind of person who’d go out of his way to send little notes and warm cookies—still soft in the middle—when someone had a rough day. The kind of person BigB could talk to for hours about nothing and everything… if it weren’t for Ren inevitably dragging them off into whatever fresh chaos he’d cooked up that morning.

BigB had spent months around Grian during the so-called Life Series—those twisted death games the Watchers forced them into. And through it all, Grian was kind. Funny. Mischievous in a way that made even the bleakest days feel bearable. The trouble he stirred up always came with laughter, never malice.

As nosy neighbors, they’d made quite the team. Sneaking around, spying, planting traps. Sure, Grian always ended up blowing something up—sometimes even his own base. But the explosions, the chaos, the skynets tangled like spider webs across the sky, the falling stalactites that startled more than harmed—they were part of the Games. That wasn’t who Grian was.

Even now—forced to rob a store, that same hand-tied desperation in his eyes—his kindness still shines through. He didn’t run. Didn’t resist when they were caught. He stood tall, shoulders squared, voice steady, and owned every part of what he did. That takes bravery. That takes integrity.

And he didn’t do it for greed. Or glory. He did it for a friend. If that doesn’t show someone’s true character, BigB didn’t know what did.

Grian had been dealt a hard life—blow after blow—and yet he carried it with a grace few could manage.

Back when BigB first joined Evo, he wasn’t too sure about him. Grian was loud, unpredictable, always plotting something. But after a few harmless pranks, a couple of sleepless nights filled with laughter, and waking up to find his house buried under a mountain of snow, he came to appreciate his strange, chaotic, avian friend.

Yes, Grian has done some bad things.

Yes, he’s been an annoying gremlin with suspicious actions.

And there were times when Grian’s face darkened and his eyes were somewhere else.

Grian was hurting. He didn’t always understand certain rules or boundaries. But now BigB has seen where that pain came from. The darkness. The eeriness. The explosions. And the utter joy of destruction during the Games.

Even after all BigB has seen—and all he knows is still to come—he could tell anyone, without a shadow of a doubt: Grian is good.

And if that doesn’t count for anything in this court, then BigB will make it count.

Chapter Text

When they told him he would be sent into witness protection, after everything that had happened at Yandere High, a cold dread pooled in Grian’s stomach. The very idea of leaving for Tokyo from Yandere Island sent waves of nausea through him. But what made it worse, what twisted his insides, was the thought of leaving… with Sam.

Sam. A murderer. The name itself tasted bitter in his mouth. He could still hear the echoes of Sam’s voice, dark and cold. His face twisted in satisfaction. The smell of blood. The horror that followed Sam’s every step. Grian had never chosen to walk beside him. But he had been there, part of that destructive path.

Then there was Taurtis, who somehow still saw the best in him—who had never seen Sam for what he truly was. Taurtis never had to feel the crushing weight of the decisions Grian had made, or worse, the weight of what Sam had forced him to do.

Taurtis never had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

Grian had lived with the knowledge that he was a tool, a weapon in Sam’s hands—someone who had been forced to hold a gun to an innocent’s head, someone who had been touched. Touched in ways that twisted his soul. Sam, with his fingers pulling at Grian’s wings, like they were nothing but a curiosity to be inspected. Not a person. Not a hybrid.

And so, when a sliver of escape came—he did what he thought was best. Desperation made him desperate. He dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he pleaded with Okami, begging for help. He promised her, swore he would cause no more trouble, that he would leave it all behind.

But Okami, her face sadder than Grian could bear, had a different kind of sorrow in her eyes as she replied.

"So many people have died because of you three. And while we can’t prove it, Grian—my husband died because of you." Her voice shook with grief, but there was something harder beneath it. "You didn’t take our help when we offered it before. Why should I help my husband’s murderer escape this country?"

Grian’s world crashed down on him at that moment. Every word felt like a heavy, iron weight, pressing him deeper into the floor. The reality of who he was, what he had done, hit him with unbearable clarity. He was a murderer. And yet—he was scared.

Terrified.

Because if he stayed with those two, if he kept walking that path, he would die. He would die.

He raised his head, voice raw. "Please."

His pride, the very last thing he had left, shattered as he slowly lowered himself further to the floor. He bowed low, his wings stretching as far as the chains allowed. The motion was deliberate, an avian’s surrender. A sign of respect, trust. Powerless.

He didn’t need to speak to make it clear. He needed help. He needed to be free.

Once, Okami had felt like a mother to him. And just for one fleeting moment, Grian desperately wanted her to see him for the boy he used to be—before everything fell apart.

The silence between them was deafening. The only sound was Grian’s breath, shallow against the cold tile floor. Then, after what felt like an eternity, Okami sighed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I can’t believe I’m doing this... Rowan warned me about getting attached to strays."

She bent down and gently lifted his chin, her hands surprisingly tender despite her words. "I will help you escape. But this is the last thing I’ll ever do for you, Grian."

Grian’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. She would help him.

He bowed again, this time with the deepest thanks he could offer, words unspoken. "I hope you’ll never see me again."

Okami snorted softly, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Yeah. That better be the case. You coming back would mean someone’s in danger. That’s why you came here in the first place, right? Because my daughter was in danger."

A sad, resigned smile pulled at the corner of Grian’s lips. "I won’t fail you. Not again."

Chapter Text

The moment they arrived at the airport, everything shifted.

Without warning, the three protectees were separated. No time for farewells. No chance to exchange a single word. The cold efficiency of it all chilled Grian’s very soul. Okami had made the call—more than just to help him slip past Sam and Taurtis. It was part of the procedure. A process designed to keep him contained, to ensure that he was treated like a threat, a criminal. That was all he was now.

Security theater wrapped in the thin veil of law. He wasn’t a person. He was cargo.

He was ushered through a maze of metal detectors, questions, and invasive searches. Every step felt like he was being herded closer to a cage. It was dehumanizing. The officer guiding him was stoic, and there was nothing friendly about the way he looked at Grian. Nothing at all.

He was led into a small room, stark and sterile, the kind of place that made his skin crawl. A sign above the door read "Additional Screening." Inside, another officer stood, already snapping on a pair of gloves. His face was impassive, detached. Grian had no choice but to stand still, to endure the slow, invasive pat-down that checked every inch of him. The officer’s hands roved over his ribs, down his spine, his legs, under his arms, wings—everywhere. Every time he flinched, it felt like his very soul was being stripped away.

The papers in his pocket told a new story, one of lies and erasure. His dual citizenship had been revoked. No past, no future. He was nothing. He was no longer Grian Charles. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was Chuck Dreamslayer, an exchange student from England, not Japan. 

When the officer finally gave the all-clear, Grian didn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. Okami was there, clipboard in hand, her gaze colder than before. Her smile was tight, perfunctory.

“Go,” she said, gesturing toward the terminal. “Gate’s down the hall. They’re waiting for you.”

She didn’t look back. Not once.

The flight was the next part of his prison. Two men flanked him, disguised as harmless tourists in gaudy Hawaiian shirts. But Grian saw through it. They were there to keep him in line. To keep him under control. He was wedged between them, trapped in the middle seat of the cramped plane. There was no escape.

The flight attendant’s voice was soft, almost hesitant as she approached. She held the meal tray with shaking hands, her eyes flicking nervously to the security detail. She knew exactly what he was.

She didn’t even wait for him to choose. “Chicken or pasta?”

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

He didn’t sleep. How could he? The hours stretched on forever, a never-ending cycle of buzzing lights and whispered conversations. His mind raced. His heart pounded. Alone. Always alone.

But then, after sixteen long hours, the plane began its descent. The wheels touched the tarmac with a jarring thud, and Grian felt a strange stillness settle inside him. This is it.

The beginning of the end, or the start of something new.

And maybe—just maybe—his freedom.

- - -

When he arrived at the airport in Tokyo, Canada, he was quietly handed off to another set of officers—this time disguised as airport staff escorting unaccompanied minors. Because that’s what he was. Still a minor.

They guided him to the terminal where he’d meet his host family: a seemingly normal couple—a blonde man and a brunette woman—and their son.

The boy looked about his age. Cool. Confident. Admirable. He wore a Naruto shirt, had shock-white hair, and heterochromatic eyes. Definitely an otaku.

The boy held out his hand. One of the staff subtly shifted, ready for a fight. But Grian wasn’t Sam. He wouldn’t lash out at someone for showing kindness.

“Name’s Etho. Seventeen,” the boy said.

Grian took a breath, steeling himself, then smiled.

“Chuck. Chuck Dreamslayer. Sixteen. Nice to meet you.”

Without hesitation, Etho slung an arm over Grian’s shoulders and steered him toward the exit. He didn’t care about the watching eyes, the hidden scars, or the secrets Grian carried.

One step at a time, they walked into the cold breeze and bright sky.

And Grian smiled.

He was free.

Chapter Text

Grian and Etho sat in their shared room. Etho’s side was plastered with anime posters and scattered with nerdy Redstone designs. It reminded Grian of Mumbo—his smile, his newly found voice, and that ridiculous little mustache he’d been so proud of.

Grian smiled sadly. He could never see Mumbo again. Not now. Not as Chuck.

“So, do you have a nickname?” Etho tilted his head with genuine curiosity.

Grian nodded. Maybe he could bring back a part of his old self, just a sliver.

“My friends call me Grian.”

“Grian,” Etho repeated, grinning. “Cool. Well, again, I’m Etho. Some cool things about me—I was born with white hair and heterochromia. I like anime, subbed of course. And I’m studying to be a Redstone engineer for the Coders Initiative.”

Grian’s smile grew. Etho had such a bright future. Coders were the ones who managed the Redstone-powered infrastructure that made server travel possible. To join them, you had to harness programming radiation—something that looked like magic to Grian. You had to be a master hacker or a genius circuit-builder. But if anyone could do it, Grian was sure Etho could.

“What about you?” Etho asked, eyes alight.

Grian hesitated. “Well… I’m a parrot hybrid. Kinda rare, but I’m not weird or anything.”

Etho reached out and gently took his hand. “I don’t know what it was like where you came from, but hybrids are accepted here. No one’s going to bully you. Okay?”

Grian nodded, stunned.

“I—also speak Japanese. そして私は殺人者です.”

Etho’s eyes lit up. “What did you say? I’m learning Japanese, but I’m not that good yet. That’s so cool. You’ve gotta teach me!”

Grian gave a sly smile. “I’ll let you figure out what I said. Just… yeah. Thanks.”

Etho eagerly started an anime about a reincarnated blue blob. Grian sat back, feeling warm. Accepted.

Then his phone buzzed.

“Unknown number,” the screen read.

He stepped out of the room. Etho paused the show without question.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Gree-On. Is the little birdie lost? You didn't run away, did you?”

Grian’s heart stopped.

It was Sam.

Chapter Text

“Come back to us, Gree-On. Taurtis misses you.”

Sam had called every day since the first message. Same two sentences. Then a click.

A warning.

A threat.

A leash made of guilt.

Grian knew it for what it was—but it was wearing him down.

School had been a sanctuary.

He met people. Real people.

Beef, who cracked dumb jokes until you laughed.

Gem, who sparkled when she smiled.

People who didn’t punish him for being quiet. Who didn’t flinch away when he flinched first.

People who made him feel human.

He didn’t want to go back.

Not to Japan.

Not to Sam.

Not to that life.

Tonight, he sat on the couch beside Etho, watching the slime show for the hundredth some odd episode. Something about a blue blob turning human. Absurd. Unreal.

But Grian had lived through worse.

He knew worse was coming.

His phone buzzed. Again.

Etho paused the episode. “That your ex?”

Grian nodded. He’d told Etho it was an ex-girlfriend who wouldn’t let go.

The truth was far uglier.

Sam wasn’t an ex. He was a shadow.

And shadows don’t let you leave.

Grian stepped into the hallway. Cold. Quiet. He braced himself and answered.

“Hello?”

Nothing. No two sentences. Silence. 

Then—

“Oh hey Sam, what’s with the—knife? You cooking something or—Sam? What are you—?”

Taurtis’s voice. Confused. Nervous. “Sam, what are you doing?”

The sound of something crashing. A gasp.

Grian’s blood turned to ice.

“Taurtis?! Taurtis, are you—?”

Laughter. Cruel. Hollow.

“Relax, I just knocked him out,” Sam said, voice full of twisted delight. “He won’t remember a thing. But you will. You needed a reminder, birdie. Of how much he trusts me. Of what I do when I get bored. Come back.”

A pause. A breath.

“Or next time, I’ll make sure he doesn’t wake up.”

Click.

Silence.

The phone slipped from Grian’s hand. His legs refused to move.

A touch on his shoulder.

He flinched violently, hitting the floor hard, curling in on himself with a gasp.

“Grian—hey, hey—it’s just me. It’s Etho. You're okay.”

Etho knelt beside him, eyes wide. “What happened? What do you need?”

Grian’s mouth opened. Closed. He shook his head, dazed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I—I have to go back.”

He got to his feet, stumbling to his room.

Etho followed, worry etched deep into his face. “Go back where? What’s going on? You’re not okay.”

Grian froze in the doorway, then said quietly:

“私は自由を放棄して友人を救わなければなりません。”

Etho blinked, trying to process it.

“Was that… I didn't get all that. Freedom?”

Grian didn’t answer. He didn’t look back.

He bought a ticket using an old contact—illegal, dangerous, necessary.

No way to leave the country legally.

Not anymore.

At the door, Etho hesitated.

“Grian…”

His voice cracked.

“Be safe.”

Grian paused, hand on the handle. He gave a haunted smile.

He won’t be.

- - -

The street lamps buzzed in the dead night air, casting pools of sickly yellow light over the cracked pavement.

Grian stood alone.

Suitcase in one hand. Knife in the other.

Across from him, Sam smiled—slow, deliberate, teeth glinting.

“Well, well. Polly finally grew a backbone.”

Grian didn’t blink. His feet stayed rooted, knife steady despite the tremble crawling under his skin.

“I’m done cowering.”

Sam’s reply was a sneer. Flicking a pair of steel shears clicked open in one hand. The other held his blade—his favorite one.

“Oh really, now? Then face your death like a man.”

The sound of his shoes striking the pavement echoed—sharp, rhythmic, final.

Sam charged.

Grian dodged just in time, blade grazing past his cheek. He struck back, fast, nearly catching Sam in the ribs—but missed.

Another slash. Too close.

It clipped one of his ear feathers. The slice caused burning pain bloomed across the sensitive feathers. Grian staggered back, wings flaring—but not to fly. He knew better. Sam’s knife throwing had always been deadly accurate. One flap of his wings, would be his last.

He tried to keep moving. Weave. Stay light. But Sam never played fair. Sam shined a light in his eyes. Grian blinked and when he opened there was a flash of silver. Then a burn—hot, deep—in his shoulder.

Grian gasped. Dropped to a knee.

Sam didn’t wait.

He was on him in an instant.

The impact knocked the air from Grian’s lungs. Concrete slammed into his face. His chest hit hard. The knife skidded from his hand.

Sam straddled him, knees digging into the base of Grian’s wings—pinning them in place, cruel and deliberate.

Grian thrashed. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“You lost,” Sam whispered above him, voice low and calm, like a lullaby soaked in venom.

A blade pressed cold against the side of Grian’s neck.

Grian's heart thundered in his ears. His wings twitched in pain, trapped beneath Sam’s weight. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

His whole body screamed to run—but he was caged.

“So, Gree-On…” Sam drew out the syllables mockingly, tilting his head like he was trying out a new song. “What should I do with you? Taurtis misses you, you know. But those wings… they always ruin everything.”

Grian clenched his teeth. “Let go.”

The blade lifted from his neck.

A breath of hope.

Then—slam.

His face was shoved into the concrete. His cheek scraped raw. A hollow ringing filled his head.

“Let go?” Sam’s voice was right beside his ear now, almost gentle. “Grian, you belong to me. You always have. You. Your wings. Your silence. Your fear.”

There was a click.

The rasp of metal.

Then—snip.

Grian froze, felt his wings grow uncomfortably lighter as Sam cut off the feather.

No.

Another snip.

And another.

His entire body locked up. Tears began to pool beneath his eyes.

“No… please, Sam—don’t—”

A warm hand stroked his face.

“There, there, birdie,” Sam murmured. “Just needed to make sure you’d stay. It's not like you ever used those wings properly. Thought I’d lighten your load.”

Grian whimpered. His feathers—his flight—ripped away, one by one.

More snips.

Each one louder than the last.

Then silence.

Grian couldn’t move. His arms shook beneath him. His chest heaved. All he could feel was the cold, the pain, and the weight of absence.

Sam stood, humming.

In his hands: a small bouquet of clipped feathers, bloodied at the base.

“Think these’ll make good décor? Maybe a pen. Or a necklace. Big ones could make a scarf for Taurtis.”

He crouched again. Grabbed Grian’s wrist and yanked him upright like a broken doll. Grian swayed, dizzy and weak, barely holding himself up.

Sam leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I take the whole wing.”

Then he let go.

Grian crumpled slightly, arms limp. Sam gave a satisfied nod and turned.

“Taurtis will be so happy to have you back.”

Grian followed, suitcase in hand. Silent. Bleeding.

A broken bird.

No fight left.

Only fear.

Chapter Text

Etho didn’t know what to think when Grian showed up on Hermitcraft so suddenly.

He hadn’t been on the server during Season Six—still splitting his time between Mindcrack and another world.

But Bdubs had been there. And as his best friend, they’d kept their nightly calls.

It had been a nice day on Mindcrack. One of those perfect days for tinkering with redstone and relaxing. And best of all, it ended the same way all his good days did—with a call from Bdubs.

“Hey Etho, thought you’d be too busy, but here you are calling me.”

Etho chuckled. “You know I always have time for you.”

Bdubs laughed—loud, wild, unfiltered. The kind of laugh that made the world feel lighter.

“We got a new member.”

Etho blinked. “Thought we weren’t doing new members this season?”

“Yeah, that was the plan. But this one kinda… fell from the sky or something. Showed up outta nowhere. Apparently, he’s Mumbo’s friend. Name was Green? Grey? Oh—Grian.”

Etho’s heart stopped.

Grian.

“That’s… an interesting name,” he said slowly. “What’s he look like?”

He didn’t dare to hope.

But he had to know if it was the same avian boy he had once met. 

“Blondish hair, black eyes… red wings. Why?”

Etho exhaled, the breath trembling.

It was him. Grian was alive.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured. “Just thought I’d heard the name before.”

Ever since the boy left—no, vanished—Etho had wondered.

Grian, the quiet exchange student who’d stayed with them. Traumatized. Mysterious. Careful.

He always asked for permission to speak. Always kept his wings tucked, shaking like he expected a whip crack every time they rustled.

He’d challenged Etho once—to learn more Japanese. Said he wanted to feel understood.

Etho had translated those final parting words. He remembered them too well.

Grian was a murderer. Etho had accepted that fact when he finally managed to translate all the Japanese Grian spoke to him. But it was why he killed, and where he went after, that haunted him.

Grian had gone to save someone. And he’d known he wouldn’t come back.

So when Season Seven began, and Etho joined Hermitcraft early… he didn’t expect to ever see that feathered boy so happy.

But there he was.

The Hermits were gathering early. Grian stood chatting with Mumbo and Scar—loud, animated, like someone reborn.

Etho leaned against a tree, watching.

And then—Grian saw him.

He froze.

Dead in his tracks.

Mumbo and Scar followed his gaze and, spotting Etho, waved him over.

Mumbo grinned. “Etho! You never got to meet Grian!”

Grian twitched when Mumbo said his name.

Etho stepped forward, calm and warm. “こんにちは、私は今では流暢に話せます”

Grian froze.

Scar blinked. “What did you just say?”

Grian shifted his feet. “それで、知っていますか”

Etho nodded. “はい。あなたが生きていてくれるだけで嬉しいです。”

Grian let out a shaky breath, eyes misting. Then he looked up and laughed—light, awkward, relieved.

Etho smiled. “You know, Beef is here too. I don’t want to overwhelm you—and you’ve probably met already, but…”

Grian laughed again, abashed.

Mumbo frowned a little. “Grian’s been struggling to communicate with everyone. He met most of the Hermits last season, but not everyone. He’s… a mystery. I never even knew he knew you. He keeps a lot of things to himself. ”

Etho laughed gently. “That he does.”

Now.

He was sitting in a courtroom.

Watching the broken pieces of Grian’s past rise up and breathe again—through memory, through pain, through evidence.

The boy he once knew, trembling and polite, was being dissected in front of the world.

Etho didn’t believe people were simply guilty or innocent. Not when it came to things like this.

Not when trauma was involved. Not when survival meant blood.

He only hoped the CHRONOS court could understand that too.

Because Grian didn’t deserve death.

He didn’t even deserve judgment.

He deserved peace.

And Etho would stand on that belief.

Because he saw what Grian had been through.

Because no one else ever had before today. And he had long since accepted him. 

Chapter Text

C’mon, Grian. We need a new apartment,” Taurtis said cheerfully.

Grian sighed, gesturing toward the ocean Taurtis had pointed to earlier. “I don’t want to pop your bubble, but can you breathe underwater?”

Taurtis blinked. “Oh. No... Guess we should talk to a realtor.”

Sam slung an arm around Grian, his grin wide. “That’s just what I was thinking. All three of us, living together like the good old days... not trying to leave.”

Grian shivered beneath his touch but forced a smile. The wind seemed to drop in temperature. Sam’s glare was icy, his smile too sharp.

“Taurtis is in charge! Show us the way to the realtor’s office,” Sam said, voice a little too chipper.

Taurtis beamed, oblivious to the tension. “Let’s go! I go to the realtor all the time!”

Grian had a sneaking suspicion Taurtis didn’t actually know what a realtor was. But correcting him would only lead to pain. Sam didn’t like being corrected.

He still had the potion the Yakuza boss gave him in his inventory—one dose, one escape. But he couldn’t use it yet. Not until he was sure he could get Taurtis out too.

They ended up at a convenience store, which was inconvenient in every sense. When they asked the new manager if he was a realtor, he said yes.

“C’mon, fish, show us the way,” Sam said, shaking the man’s hand with a grin.

The manager scowled.

Grian’s stomach dropped. “Sam, you don’t do that—”

Sam’s grip tightened painfully around Grian’s wings. “What did you say, Gree-on? I do what I want, bird. I’m the emperor of Japan to you. You don’t correct me. You don’t tell me what to do. You hear?”

Grian nodded. Relief washed over him as Sam let go. He sighed.

“What chu’ guys talkin’ about?” Taurtis asked with a smile.

Sam laughed. “We were just goofin’ and gaffin’, right, Gree-on? — Hey, is that Officer Paul Blart?”

Grian glanced at the street. A pit formed in his stomach. A group of police officers was tailing them—and behind them, the Yakuza. What was left of it, anyway.

Paul might’ve been on their side once, but he followed the money. And three broke high schoolers didn’t pay nearly enough.

As they toured houses, it became obvious: one, they were being hunted; and two, the so-called realtor was fake. Every house was a fake. A scam. A setup.

And now they were standing before a towering yellow crane.

The “realtor” gestured them upward.

Grian followed, begrudgingly, behind Sam. The higher they climbed, the harsher the wind blew. From the top, the town looked vast—and terrifying. Grian rarely flew more than a few feet off the ground, even after his flight feathers came in last year. Most of them were gone again. It would take forever to grow them back. If he fell, his wings would barely slow him down. Make the fall uglier.

Sam spun around at the edge of the platform. “Isn’t this a great place, Taurtis? There’s so much—--”

Grian’s heart pounded. Sam was right at the edge. One push. Just one leap of faith.

Freedom.

He could take Taurtis and run. They were already on the bad side of the law. Why not?

Just one push.

“Give me a high five, Grian!” Sam said, smiling, eyes sharp. His stance was loose, unbalanced.

Grian didn’t hesitate. He slammed his palm into Sam’s.

Sam instinctively stepped back—onto nothing.

Taurtis screamed his name. Both of them ran to the edge.

Grian watched Sam fall with fury in his eyes.

And then he hit the ground.

They were too high to hear it, but Grian was sure it crunched.

A quick death. A coward’s murder. But it worked.

Grian sighed. Taurtis cried beside him.

“Grian, what did you do?”

“Grian?”

“What did you do, Grian?”

“Wha—”

Strange. Grian had expected Taurtis to cry for hours.

He turned.

His blood ran cold.

There was Sam. Alive. Moving. Smiling.

Taurtis and the fake realtor were frozen mid-motion. Sam moved them back into place like dolls on a stage.

“Sam? I—I killed you.”

Sam grinned with glee. “My—would you look at this. You didn’t reset!”

Grian stood, trembling. “What do you mean, Sam?”

Sam flew by him. Flew. Flew, even without wings. His hand trailed down Grian’s back.

“Ever heard of a glitch?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“A glitch is someone who’s been changed into code by traveling to servers. It corrupts them. When they return, they’re part flesh, part code, and full abomination. Glitches have unstable power. Black holes, world destruction, summoning Watchers, time control—you name it.”

Grian’s voice cracked. “Why did you say we?”

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh, Gree-on. Don’t you think there’s a reason I picked you and Taurtis to keep close?”

“I’ve never been to a server in my life.”

Sam nodded. “Which is why I wasn’t sure if your powers would awaken. If not—I'd clone you.”

“…What?”

“It’s a genetic trigger,” Sam explained. “If someone travels off-world while pregnant, their child might be born glitched. Especially if they look... nothing like their parents.”

Grian froze. His whole life, he'd been branded an illegitimate child. A servant. A shame.

“You mean… I’m not illegitimate?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s what you’re getting out of this? I’m gathering glitches for ascension, and you’re crying about your birth certificate?”

He stepped closer. Grian couldn’t move.

“You should be asking why. And the answer is: to ascend. Complete a great feat, destroy a world, and the higher beings will notice.”

“No,” Grian whispered. “That’s wrong.”

“You don’t get to say no. You’re the only glitch that’s awakened. And I need you.”

Sam grabbed Grian’s hand. It jolted with electricity.

“That was a respawn point,” he said. “Let me show you what it does.”

He shoved Grian.

Grian screamed.

Wind roared past him. His wings were useless. The ground rose to meet him.

Crack.

Pain. Then—

He was back. Choking on air. Sam lifted his chin.

“That’s a respawn, Gree-on. Not just on servers. On Earth.”

Then he was falling again.

Again.

Again.

No breath. No time. Just—

Crack.

Respawn.

Fall.

Tears. Screams. Silence.

Fall.

Until it stopped.

He stood beside Taurtis. Sam was smiling, hand held high. Wind rushed again. Time returned. No one noticed.

“C’mon, Gree-on. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Grian glared at him. He wanted to leave him hanging.

Taurtis nudged Grian. Grian sighed, and gave Sam the high five.

No one remembered the fall.

They all went down together.

Chapter Text

That incident. 

Why was he remembering that now?

The crane? The death. 

Grian knelt beside the lifeless body of his best friend. Taurtis was dead.

A carbon copy of him—identical except for the missing headphones—stood at Grian’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Sam smiled. “I told Professor Geode not to touch the real Taurtis. It was meant to be an experiment. A joke. A way to awaken. And look—Not Taurtis awakened! So it worked.”

Not Taurtis trembled, staring at his own corpse.

“I’m dead.”

Grian nodded. “Yeah. My Taurtis is dead. His will and testament? The hundred copies in his wake.”

“But... I thought I was real. I have all his memories. I am real. Please—I’m real. I’m—”

Grian rose and hugged him. A copy, yes. But the closest he’d ever get to the original. He wouldn’t lose this one.

His hand brushed the potion in his inventory. If thrown, it would weaken all three of them. Just long enough to escape.

Sam beamed. “Now that Taurtis has awakened, you can meet the others!”

Grian’s heart pounded. “What others?”

“It takes more than two to destroy Earth. I figured I’d force you all to help.”

He snapped his fingers.

“Grian, meet Igbar. And surprise—another Taurtis clone awakened. Meet Jerry.”

“Hello, mortal,” the edgy squid boy greeted.

“Hoi, I’m Jerry,” said the other.

Grian’s heart ached. They had no idea what they’d been dragged into. No idea what Sam planned.

He couldn’t let anyone else die because he ran.

He sighed. Guess he was staying, for now. At least until he could convince them all to run with him.

Grian pressed a kiss to the forehead of his dead friend and turned to Sam.

“What do we need to do?”

Sam smiled like a serpent.

“I knew you’d come around eventually.”

Chapter Text

He couldn’t believe Grian. That was all Beef could think as he watched Grian push a boy—no older than Grian—off a crane.

Grian was a murderer.

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

But then time froze. The footage looped—Sam, the boy, shoving Grian off the crane. Over and over again.

The deaths repeated.

And suddenly, Beef remembered. The boy on the screen—small, timid, hurting. The one he’d once met.

And Grian, despite everything, had been strong enough to go back.

Strong enough to stand up to someone twisted. Strong enough to fight.

So no—Beef still couldn’t quite believe the Grian he knew was a murderer. But he could believe Grian was brave.

Brave, kind, stupid.

They all went hand in hand.

At the end of the video, Grian had a chance to run. And Beef had seen it—just for a second—the look in his eyes. A choice made.

He stayed.

He helped.

The courtroom buzzed with whispers.

Once, Grian had been a name known across the worlds—Champion of MCC, a wildcard in Watcher broadcasts, an icon of rebellion. But not anymore.

Now?

He was a monster.

A murderer.

And Beef didn’t know if he agreed.

All he knew was this:

Grian had always been kind to him.

When Beef died in-game, Grian would show up with a Did-You-Die? box or a Perhaps-You-Perished parcel, grin wide and eyes crinkling. He’d laugh like the world wasn’t burning. He’d speak with respect. With warmth.

And when Beef looked at the Grian he knew—compared to the teenager on screen—there was one glaring difference:

Their Grian was happy.

Not perfectly. Not always. He still flinched at loud sounds. Still apologized too much. But he was healing.

He belonged with the Hermits. He belonged home.

So Beef made his choice. Not just for Grian, but for the Hermitcraft family he loved so deeply:

He would choose forgiveness.

He might be cautious.

Might keep his distance at first.

Might need time.

But when he was ready—

When it stopped hurting—

He would forgive Grian.

Again.

Then maybe, just maybe, they could go back to their silly little roleplay games. Grian, the fake permit office worker. Beef, one of the rebellious rule-breakers.

Because more than anything, Beef wanted to trust him again.

And he hoped, with everything he had, that the others would, too.

Chapter Text

“Sam!”

 “This isn’t funny, Sam!”

 “Let me out!”

Grian pounded on the padded door, tears blurring his vision. Stupid Sam. Stupid police. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He wasn’t crazy. There was nothing about him that was crazy. He knew that, and that was all that mattered. Right?

Sam was the crazy one—locking him away in this cold, colorless room that sucked the life out of everything. They’d both been arrested, but when they asked who hurt his wings, who killed those people, it was always Grian who took the blame.

And now... Grian hated more than just Sam. More than Yandere High. More than Tokyo. More than Japan. He hated himself. Because he had fallen for every trap, every manipulation.

He wasn’t crazy.

 Not yet.

But every stick breaks eventually under enough pressure.

Grian stopped pounding. There was no use.

He was just a broken bird trapped in a nest of vultures.

And he’d stay here until Sam said otherwise. Because Sam held all the power—glitched to a terrifying degree, flipping his charm on like a switch, shutting off all empathy.

Sharp, uncontrolled sobs ripped from Grian’s chest.

Two years. Two long years with Sam tormenting him. No Pearlie. No Timmy. No Mumbo Jumbolio. No Lizzie or Joel.

He was alone. In a foreign country. Surrounded by people who believed he was a mad murderer.

Sure, he was a murderer.

But he wasn’t insane.

He’d tried to tell them what Sam had done—the powers, the glitches, the deaths, the torment. But when he spoke privately, desperately, they just laughed. It was easier to believe Sam.

Grian was insane, they said.

Mad after the bus wreck.

Pretending to be Taurtis.

Killing for the Yakuza.

Getting Taurtis kidnapped.

Clipping his own wings.

Forcing Sam to rob a supermarket.

It was all his fault.

But they didn’t want to imprison him. No, they put him here—in the padded room.

Lucky they hadn’t strapped him into a straitjacket yet.

Maybe they would—if they caught what he was about to do.

Grian didn’t know how to trigger his glitch. The only time he’d done it was at the crane, and that had something to do with death.

So he took his shirt off.

If this didn’t work, at least he’d be free.

He tied the shirt around his neck and the door handle—a careless oversight on their part—and leaned back.

The air vanished instantly.

He fought to sit up. Pain unlike any breath-holding or drowning clawed at him. It was slower than falling, dragging seconds filled with one terrible realization:

He didn’t want to respawn.

Not again.

But he didn’t want to die either.

Suddenly, breath returned. Warm hands steadied him—firm but gentle.

Grian blinked. Blonde hair. A woman. Tears in her eyes.

Why was she crying?

He leaned into the warmth. Another hand braced his back—a black-haired girl looking away.

Then it hit him.

Okami. Silly.

The only family he’d ever had as a kid. The ones he’d betrayed, hurt, left behind.

“I told you he was crazy!”

Sam’s voice shattered the moment.

Reality crashed back like a wave.

He tried to move, but hands held him firm. Voices blurred. Sam stood above him, expression unreadable—eyes gleaming with warning and promise.

Grian shivered. He wasn’t allowed to run.

Sam knelt, pulling him close. Whispered into his ear:

“Never try to escape like that again. You’ll only be revived.”

Grian nodded slowly—not in understanding, but in surrender. He wasn’t agreeing. He was breaking.

Sam stepped back.

That’s when Grian saw it.

A straitjacket.

His breath caught. Cold flooded his chest. Wings flexed instinctively in panic.

“No.” The word barely escaped. “No, no, please don’t—”

His body twisted, wild, desperate, but Okami caught him. Held him like fragile glass. Like a dangerous child. Somehow, that was worse.

“Grian,” her voice was soft, apologetic. “You’re a danger to yourself. We have to do this. It won’t restrict your wings—I promise. I know how much you hate your wings being squished.”

She didn’t understand.

It wasn’t about his wings.

It was the jacket itself.

Like a verdict. A sentence. A symbol screaming:

You are no longer trusted to exist as a person.

An officer stepped forward, holding the jacket folded in his hands. White. Heavy. Limp and waiting. The sleeves dangled like severed limbs.

Grian whimpered—actually whimpered—as they slipped his arms into the sleeves. His muscles trembled, as if they knew what was coming and tried to flee.

Then—

The sleeves crossed.

The first strap tightened.

A sick, hollow gasp escaped him.

The second strap. The third.

Every inch of canvas rubbed his skin raw. The tightness pressed his heartbeat against his ribs. The fabric stole his shape, folding him into a bundled object. A package. A thing.

The pressure wasn’t just on his body—it crushed his mind.

He felt sick. Violated.

Like he’d been peeled open and stitched back wrong.

Each buckle tightened the message:

You are not trusted with your own hands.

You are not trusted with your own thoughts.

You are not real anymore.

They hadn’t bound his wings—but they didn’t need to.

He was already grounded. Stripped. Caged.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, but no sound came. His mouth was too full of dread.

He stopped fighting.

Not when they patted his head like a good child.

Not when they adjusted the straps like he was furniture.

Not when Sam watched nearby, quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

They patched his wounds. Told him to rest. Told him he’d feel better tomorrow.

He didn’t speak.

When the cell door clicked shut, Grian didn’t scream. Didn’t cry out. Didn’t beg.

He stood, arms crushed to his chest, head bowed, breath shallow.

He stared at the padded wall, willing it to blink back.

The lights went out.

And Grian stayed in the dark.

He wasn’t crazy.

But even he wasn’t sure of that anymore.

Chapter Text

Ren could hardly believe what he was seeing. The same people who had taken Grian—the same ones who had tormented him for so long by refusing to believe his truth. That Okami woman, nowhere to be found in the courthouse before, was here now. And Silly, the enforcer. Neither of them innocent of the emotional torment inflicted on one of the finest fliers in all of Hermitcraft—the funniest, peskiest bird, a prankster extraordinaire.

No, what Ren witnessed wasn’t right. He wished he could read Grian’s thoughts in that moment, but the raw panic and desperation in his eyes spoke louder than any words ever could.

Ren didn’t approve of murder. He didn’t condone anything Grian had done so far. But he refused to blame Grian alone—not when everything had been twisted and manipulated by Sam. Not when the man had tormented Grian with the very family Grian had once called his own.

“Man, this isn’t right,” Ren muttered.

Silly, sitting across from him, flinched at the words. She knew it too—and clearly didn’t want to be called out.

Ren sighed quietly.

A shuffle beside him caught his attention. Wels, clad in heavy armor, passed by, heading toward the restroom signs.

Guess everyone needed a break soon.

Chapter Text

Welsknight splashed cold water on his face, a shiver running down his spine. He couldn’t believe what had become of Grian. What honor did this man still have?

Wels was beginning to realize that the man he once believed truly honorable was nothing but a facade. The real Grian was a liar—a sinful murderer. A Polly, like the ones from the cautionary tales his parents told him and Hels as kids.

“Never trust a Polly,” they had warned. “They know no honor.”

Hels no longer cared about honor—only glory. But for Wels, his entire moral compass was built on honor and trust. That’s why he had cast aside his initial judgments about Grian, determined to discover the truth beneath the surface.

But all he found was a cover-up. Evil, twisted lies, and a man framed as a victim—when in reality, Wels believed Grian could have chosen differently.

“You could have chosen differently,” a voice echoed.

Wels flinched and spun around to face the speaker.

Before him stood a great warrior, eyes burning with righteous fire. A man of honor, of imposing stature.

“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Wels?” the monotone voice said. Wels’s heart pounded—this man knew his name.

Wels nodded. “It’s not right to call him innocent. Not with more blood spilled than he has in his body.”

The warrior nodded slowly, his long hair tied back but flowing gently as if stirred by an unseen breeze. “That may be true. But we’ve all spilled blood in the games we play.”

Wels clenched his fists. “Not permanently.”

“It’s still blood,” the man replied. “Now tell me, Wels—if you truly had the chance, would you choose differently?”

“I would. I— I—”

Before he could finish, the man lunged at him. Wels drew his sword, heart pounding in his ears. They clashed once, twice, then with a clank, Wels lost his weapon.

“If you fight back when I attack without a moment to think, surrounded and outnumbered, hurt and exhausted—would you truly choose differently?”

Wels sighed, staring at the sword’s tip pressed against his neck.

“No,” he admitted.

The sword withdrew before Wels could blink, the man turning away.

“Remember this lesson well. I won’t teach it twice. You are his friend—stand by his side, or he might shatter.”

Wels nodded. “Thank you for showing me the light.”

The man vanished.

Wels dried his hands and returned to his seat.

Chapter Text

He felt the telltale pull of his soul, grounded once more. For the first time in years. But it wasn’t right.

The ground felt too soft, the looks in people’s eyes too harsh. The sounds- ringing, drumming, in his head.

Grian looked down—his arm flickered, pixelated, distorted by code. He was glitching. It must have been from the stress of trying to leave Sam. Of leaving Taurtis alone to hide while he tried to make himself a server. It would be a lot harder to do while glitching.

Chronos would be called soon to deal with the issue. Grian would never be free again if caught. Grian grumbled to himself before straightening his collar and sitting up straight. If he was going to be thought of as dangerous, he might as well own up to it.

Grian mimicked a wicked smile. The ones he had seen on Sam’s face many times before. He spread his wings out. Finally free, finally able to fly. He took off with a maniacal laugh.

Time to get himself a server for him and Taurtis to hide in.

- - -

He didn’t know exactly where he was—just some back alleyway. A dark corner of a city he thought he’d never return to.

Tokyo.

Grian’s eyes began to water. He thought it was all gone. But here it was. The school. The back alleys. Dom.

All still here. Still alive.

Dom leaned against the alley wall, smirking like he’d been expecting Grian all along.

“Finally did it, huh?”

Grian nodded solemnly. He wasn’t quite sure what it was anymore.

“Good riddance,” Dom said, then raised a brow. “So. I take it you need something?”

Grian crossed his arms. “I need a server. Evolution SMP. Something that looks harmless enough for CHRONOS not to notice.”

Dom smirked. “Sure thing. I’ll get that to you as soon as possible—for a price.”

There was always a price.

Grian pulled out a stack of photos—photos of Mr. Dorito—Dom’s father, the man he loved to torment

“Here,” Grian said, passing them over.

Dom grinned. “A pleasure as always. Give me a few days. I’ll text you the IP. But I’m not helping you get past CHRONOS server security.”

Grian nodded, his glitch flaring on purpose. “That won’t be a problem.”

And with that, he launched into the air and vanished.

- - -

Grian was being chased through the streets of London.

He thought leaving the country would throw CHRONOS off his trail.

He was wrong.

And she was there.

“Grian! Stop!” Silly called out.

But Grian couldn’t stop. He had to finish delivering the invitations. The server had to look official. He couldn’t get caught. He couldn’t stop now.

He knew exactly where he was heading.

The Orphanage for Gifted Individuals.

That’s where his friends were—Salem, Zee, Lizzie, Joel, Mumbo, BigB. Everyone except Jimmy and Pearl. Pearl was out of the country. Jimmy... Jimmy had already said yes.

That was how CHRONOS found him in the first place.

But Timmy had said yes. That made it worth it.

Now, a group of CHRONOS enforcers were on his tail—one of them being his ex, who’d just landed an internship with CHRONOS.

He was proud of her. Truly.

Just... not while being chased by her.

Grian took a sharp right, then launched into the sky. He dove hard into the orphanage courtyard, clutching the letters like lifelines— he only had minutes.

He knocked frantically. Come on. Come on.

The door opened with a click. “He—”

Grian rushed past the nanny. “Grian?!”

He didn’t stop. Up the stairs, fast. He slipped letters under each of his friends’ doors.

He heard Silly yelling from outside. Not much time.

Just one left.

Mumbo.

Despite the late hour, light shone beneath his door. Grian paused, took a breath, and knocked.

“Come in!”

Grian pushed the door open. His eyes met Mumbo’s.

Mumbo gasped. “You’re alive!”

Yelling downstairs. Grian moved fast.

“Not for long. Here.” He passed the letter. “I’m inviting you to my server. Just come soon.”

Mumbo looked down at the letter, then back up—sadness in his eyes.

“Grian, I can’t. I have—I’m going to be a Coder.”

Grian froze.

The word echoed in his skull like a bell toll. Coder. Not glitch. Not like him.

One of them.

A Coder. Someone who could manipulate code on Earth. Not a glitch—that corrupts and hurts.

An enemy of what he was.

He knew Mumbo wouldn’t see him that way. But still... Grian was scared.

“Grian?”

“I’m fine. Just—”

The voices were getting closer. Grian turned to the window.

“Just be there. At that time. Or never see me again.”

They were coming up the stairs.

He jumped.

“Grian!”

He landed on the ledge beside the window and pressed himself against the wall as Mumbo’s door burst open.

“Where is he?”

Grian heard the pain in Mumbo’s voice. “Not here. Not anymore.”

Grian’s chest tightened. Guilt pierced him. He was sorry.

But he had to disappear.

His body glitched painfully before stabilizing. He climbed to the rooftop and vanished into the dark.

The tail was lost.

Chapter Text

Skizz could not believe it.

Even after everything—after the trial started, after the evidence was presented, after Grian himself admitted it—Skizz still couldn’t believe Grian was glitched.

He’d been there when Grian revealed it. Had watched the memories play out on the screen like reruns from a life he thought he understood. The missions. The secrets. The flickers. The pain.

So many moments that had seemed like stress, or grief, or just Grian being Grian—now he saw them for what they were. Errors. Warnings. Corruption creeping in at the edges.

How could someone he held so dear be sick, truly sick, and say nothing?

How could Grian hide, vanish, run from CHRONOS itself, because of it?

Skizz sat stiffly in the gallery, jaw clenched, arms folded over his chest like they were the only things keeping him from coming apart. Grian sat in the defendant’s box ahead—too far to reach, too close to ignore. His form flickered like bad signal, corrupted particles dancing around him in weak, half-hearted spirals. He looked small. Not the confident builder, not the trickster friend Skizz knew. Just... broken.

Beside him, Impulse exhaled softly and leaned closer, voice low.

“I had a friend who was glitched.”

Skizz turned slightly, startled. Impulse never talked about his past.

“When I was a kid,” Impulse continued, eyes fixed on the courtroom floor, “they were fine. We played together. Grew up together. But trauma triggered the glitch. Same as now, I guess.”

 A pause. His knuckles were white around the bench rail. “CHRONOS took him soon after. Said it was containment. Said it was for his own good.”

He swallowed.

“I never saw him again. Because he died. Not saying it’s related, but—”

“They killed him off to protect the greater good,” Skizz said, voice bitter.

Impulse nodded, barely.

Silence settled between them like dust.

Skizz looked forward again, at Grian.

His fingers itched to do something. To fix this. To stand up, to shout, to punch a wall, to rewind time.

“Then what do you think would’ve happened to Grian?” Impulse asked. “Glitched. A criminal. Already on their list.”

Skizz didn’t answer.

He couldn’t imagine a world without Grian in it. The silence of it. The absurdity. The ache.

He closed his eyes briefly. Thought about Grian’s laugh. About how he always made the worst situations feel manageable. About how he made Skizz feel like he mattered, even when everything went sideways.

“I understand why he didn’t tell us,” Skizz finally said, voice rough.

Impulse nodded, quietly grieving something neither of them could name.

Skizz opened his eyes again.

Grian sat still in the defendant’s box, barely holding his shape. Flickers of light swam through his limbs, like fireflies in static. His eyes were open, but distant, as if staring into a place beyond the trial. Beyond the fear. Beyond them.

So much weight on one glitching frame.

Poor Grian.

Chapter Text

Feet hit puddles.

Water splashes feet.

Feet hit puddle—a sound. His pursuer.

He sounds to be ten feet away.

Feet hit puddle.

Grian turns sharply right, into another alleyway.

He freezes, staring at the wall in front of him.

Feet hit puddles.

Splash.

Splash.

Three feet.

Two feet.

One.

Grian spins on his feet, turning to face his pursuer.

The man is tall, broad, blonde hair, dark eyes, dressed in a green CHRONOS enforcer outfit.

He’s huffing in air, but slower than Grian’s panicked gasps.

He was in shape.

Grian was a sickly glitch.

It wasn’t fair.

The man looked at Grian with disdain and dismissal. Like he was barely worth his time.

“When the scanner pinged such a large dot, I was expecting a powerful glitch. Not you.”

Grian smiled sardonically.

 “And I was hoping you’d be weak. Guess neither of us gets what we want today.”

The enforcer growled. “You all talk a big game until you fade into the code like you should have to begin with.”

Grian backed up. “I thought you’d just take me in.”

The enforcer shook his head.

“No. Blue enforcers take people in. Green enforcers are slayers. We take care of people before they become enough of a problem to be brought in.”

Grian shivered. Dying wasn’t part of the plan.

He held out his hands defensively as the enforcer slowly pulled out a needle.

“Look, kid. I don’t really like doing this to people so young. But orders are orders.”

Grian looked around desperately for anything—anything—to get out of this. He didn’t want to die.

“It’s glitches, not you. But a glitch has caught you, and you need to be free. Or you’ll suffer for eternity.”

Grian bowed his head and closed his eyes.

A hand touched his. “What are you, like seventeen? You’re the youngest I’ve had to do. You’re weak, but your glitch is powerful.”

The hand pulled Grian’s arm outward.

Tears slid down his face. “Please. Not yet. I haven’t redeemed myself.”

The rain seemed to still around them, silent except for the pounding in Grian’s chest.

His heart jumped as the hand touched his face, gently wiping the tears.

“I have a kid your age. I—”

The hand dropped.

Grian opened his eyes.

The man in front of him grabbed his chest.

“I—”

 “I-i-i love-i-love-son—”

The man twitched violently as his body fragmented into pixels, floating and vibrating.

Grian felt a pit open in his stomach.

He’s doing this. He needs to stop it.

But he didn’t move, fear froze him.

He begged his glitch to stop.

But the glitch didn’t care as it took hold of the man.

Grian didn’t even breathe.

The glitch just kept unraveling the man.

He collapsed to the floor.

“S-sorry. So-so-sorry, s-son. No—no f-fault—yours—”

Then, he faded into the deepest depth of code.

The only thing left behind was the shining CHRONOS badge. The name gleamed: Xelqua.

Grian picked it up and placed it into his inventory. His fingers shook, cold metal in his palm, heavy with meaning.

He would remember the name. Forever. 

Xelqua.

He stared at the badge a moment longer, the weight of a life taken settling like a stone in his chest. This was no longer just survival — it was a reckoning.

Chapter Text

Tango felt viscerally sick. The kind of sickness that gripped his whole body—like he could vomit, collapse, or even die from the weight of it.

Grian.

The same Grian who laughed at his jokes.

 The same Grian who always tried his best.

 Kind. Caring. Familiar.

 Just like on screen.

And yet…

A murderer.

 A glitch.

 Something deeper still, buried in layers Tango didn’t understand.

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t reconcile what he saw with the person he thought he knew.

It was terrifying to watch.

But Grian looked terrified too.

 Scared nearly to death.

 And so small.

He could have died.

And if he had—this friendship, this bond they were only just beginning to build—would’ve been snuffed out before it even had a chance.

Sure, this was all messed up.

 But Grian didn’t deserve this.

Tango had been where he was: a blaze hybrid. Small. Alone. Scared.

 Moments from dying just for existing.

The voices of reason had fled. In their place, panic. Rage. Fear of the future—with him in it.

 They’d surrounded him.

 Backed him into a corner.

 And someone had to die for him to walk away alive.

He hated it.

That was what disgusted him.

 Not Grian.

Because this should never happen.

 Not to kids. Not to teens. Not to anyone.

 Not because of how they look, or act, or what they believe.

Death is not the answer.

So Tango made a decision.

He would fight for Grian to live through this trial.

Because Grian was a victim.

A survivor.

Traumatized.

And now forced to relive it all in front of strangers with power over his fate.

And if the judge dared twist that truth?

Tango might just handle that problem himself.

 No more victims. Not today.

From now on, Grian wasn’t going through anything alone.

Not while Tango was still breathing.

Chapter Text

“Go on, Yuki’s dad, say hi.”

Sam grinned, shoving Grian forward. His wings were bound. His body stiff in a too-clean suit. A hastily scribbled name tag labeled him Yakuza Boss. A mockery.

He didn’t look like the boss. Not the one with the secretly kind eyes. The one who’d given Grian a way out—

 The one Grian had taken out with his own hands.

Now, he was that boss.

He looked down at the girl approaching. Shorter, older. Pink hair curled just right. Blue eyes glittering with affection that didn’t quite reach sanity. Beautiful, if not for the madness lurking in her smile.

Yuki. Sam’s ex. Still obsessed. Still dangerous.

Her eyes trailed up Grian, dissecting him.

He wasn’t her father. She knew it. But then she looked at Sam—

 And love made her lie.

“Dad! What are you doing at school?”

 She hugged him. Grian flinched.

Her voice dropped to a whisper that sliced straight into his heart:

“You are so dead. You. Taurtis. I will avenge my father. I’ll take Sam. Lock him with me. Make him beg for freedom. And I’ll free you—in eternity.”

She drew a knife from beneath her skirt hem. Grian backed away.

“You are not my father!”

She lunged.

He dodged—barely—bumping into Sam.

 Her blade swiped again, wild. It slashed across Sam’s shoulder.

For the first time, fear lit Sam’s eyes.

 “Yuki?”

Grian didn’t wait. He grabbed Taurtis’s hand and bolted, Sam stumbling after them. The hallway blurred around them—

 Somber. Confused. Angry.

They raced toward the gym. Inside, Officer Rowan was teaching PE. Grian shoved the door open with a crash.

Sam halted at the threshold. “We can’t ask him for help!” he hissed.

Behind them, footsteps echoed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A singsong voice drifted toward them.

 “Oh, Saaaammie~”

Grian didn’t hesitate. “Then reveal you’re a glitch. Die. Let them all see the monster you’re hiding.”

Sam cursed and followed him in.

“Rowan!” Grian cried out.

His father figure turned. For a second, he just looked at Grian—in the suit, the bindings, the blood on Sam’s shirt. His eyes softened.

Rowan walked over, calm. Protective.

 “Problem child,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around Grian. “I’ll hide you.”

Then his expression hardened.

He turned to the class. “Everyone. Back of the gym. Now. We’ve got a breach.”

Silly didn’t ask questions. She herded the students with quiet authority, her gaze never leaving Rowan.

Grian stayed rooted. “I can’t go with them. If Yuki sees me, she might hurt someone.”

Rowan pointed toward the equipment closet.

 “Then stay in there.”

Sam and Taurtis ducked inside without hesitation. Grian lingered, his heart aching.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Rowan didn’t flinch. “Love you too, Grian.”

That warmth—his name, spoken with care—made Grian’s breath hitch. He hesitated only a moment before darting into the closet, pulling the door shut behind him.

The gym fell silent.

Then the entrance creaked open.

“Officer Rowan~”

“Yuki,” Rowan said sharply. “Put it down.”

Grian held his breath. The closet was too dark. Too small. He hated this.

“I just want to avenge my father,” Yuki said sweetly. “You’re a father. You understand, right?”

Silence.

Then—whack.

A sickening sound.

“Hmm. Guess not,” Yuki sighed. “Bye-bye, Rowan.”

The door slammed shut. Footsteps retreated.

Grian burst from the closet, racing to Rowan’s crumpled form.

“Rowan!”

The officer smiled faintly, blood dripping from his mouth. He pulled the knife from his side and offered it to Grian.

“Avenge your father, if you would, son.”

Grian’s breath stuttered. That word—son—wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. He took the knife with shaking hands as Rowan’s eyes slipped shut.

The gym doors banged open again.

“Dad, I want to he—” 

Silly froze.

Her gaze landed on Grian, the bloodied knife in his hands. Then to her father—still.

“Silly—” Grian stepped forward. “This isn’t—”

She shoved him aside, falling to her knees beside Rowan.

“I hate you, Grian,” she whispered. Tears streamed down her face. Grian stumbled backward, glitching involuntarily. The heartbreak split him open.

“You… you don’t mean that,” he rasped.

Silly didn’t look at him.

“Glitch. The next time I see you—you’ll be in chains.”

Grian didn’t argue. He believed her.

Sam appeared beside him, grabbing his hand.

“We have to stop Yuki. I don’t want her to die.”

“What?” Grian looked up, dazed.

Sam pointed to the roof.

Through the gym windows, the last sun rays were slipping behind the clouds. Yuki stood alone, silhouetted by the coming storm.

The rain was beginning.

Sam pulled him. “Come on.”

And Grian let him.

 No one else would die today.

Chapter Text

The rain ran in streaks down Grian’s face, carving illusionary tears into his skin.

But he wasn’t crying.

He didn’t feel sorry for Yuki.

A father for a father figure.

An eye for an eye.

It was fair in her eyes. But fairness didn’t make it right.

Not when Grian had loved Rowan like a real father.

 Not when Rowan had loved him back.

Yuki stood at the edge of the roof, rain matting her pink hair to her face. Her eyes burned bright beneath storm-dark clouds. Two of her men flanked her—guards, unwavering. Just like she’d once been for her father.

 Just like Grian had been for Rowan.

Sam stepped forward, slipping slightly on the wet concrete. His face was twisted in desperation.

“Yuki, please. Come down.”

She didn’t move.

“She’s not a glitch,” Grian muttered under his breath. “She doesn’t get second chances.”

Sam flinched, but didn’t argue. Didn’t look back.

Yuki raised her arms to the sky like she was greeting the storm itself, rain dripping down her fingertips like blood. She looked wild. Free.

 Grieving.

“I thought I could make it right!” she screamed over the wind. “I thought if I took him away—”

 She jabbed a trembling finger at Grian,

 “—then my father could rest!”

Her voice cracked.

“But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough!”

Grian stepped forward, steady in the storm.

 “You wanted revenge?” he said, voice low. “You got it. Rowan’s dead. And you’re still empty, aren’t you?”

Yuki trembled.

“Because this wasn’t justice,” Grian said, softer now. “It was just loss.”

One of her guards glanced at her, uncertain. Sam took another step. Then another.

“Yuki,” he said, voice breaking, “I don’t want to lose you too.”

She turned toward him—just slightly. Her lips parted. For a moment, her expression cracked. Softened.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. “Just him.”

Sam held out a hand. “Then let me help you. We’ll get through this. Okay? You don’t have to die up here.” Grian stood motionless, watching. Waiting.

The rooftop was a tightrope pulled thin. One wrong move, and everything would fall.

Yuki’s fingers twitched.

Then—clatter—her knife slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete with a soft metallic sound.

One of her guards stepped back.

"Okay."

Yuki drew a shaky breath and lifted one foot—

 Her balance shifted. Her ankle slid.

Sam lunged.

Grian moved without thinking—running, reaching—

But Sam got there first. His hands caught hers just as she slipped.

Yuki dangled over the ledge, sobbing.

“I didn’t want to be a monster,” she cried.

“I know,” Sam whispered, clinging to her wrists. “I know.”

Her hand slipped.

She fell, silent as the rain.

Sam dropped to his knees at the ledge, hands reaching for air.

For a girl already gone.

The rain kept falling. Uncaring.

Grian stood frozen, soaked and shivering, as Sam crumpled to the ground—broken for the girl who had taken the only father figure Grian had left.

“Yuki!!” Sam screamed, voice raw with regret.

And in all the years that would follow,

 This would be the only moment Sam ever truly regretted his actions.

Chapter Text

Grian.

What had he gotten himself into?

He’d built a web of lies and silence so thick he could no longer breathe through it. The courtroom felt too big. Too open. Every breath caught in his throat, as if judgment itself had weight.

All this death. All this hurt. All this pain.

And still, somehow, Grian was the one standing trial.

Okami sat quietly in the back of the courtroom, clutching the visitor pass like a lifeline. She wasn’t supposed to be here—not officially. But a few strings had been pulled. She didn’t want to be here for Grian. Not really. Nor for Silly.

No. She had come for herself. To try and make sense of the pieces she had left.

Because both of the children she once knew had vanished long before this trial began.

Silly sat several rows ahead, her posture stiff, hands white-knuckled in her lap. From behind, she looked older than she was—like a soul that had burned too hot for too long. Okami had seen that kind of grief before. Had felt it, once. It left marks you could never scrub clean.

Silly had blamed Grian for her father’s death for years—maybe from the very moment he died. She’d locked her heart up tight, building walls too high for Okami to scale. She’d shut out Grian, then her mother, and finally, even herself. Somewhere along the way, her laughter had gone silent.

And Grian—void, Grian had never learned to stay.

He’d run, over and over again. Run from CHRONOS, from Taurtis, from her. Too scared to ask for help, too ashamed to be weak. Every time she’d tried to hold him, he’d slipped through her fingers like water.

He wasn’t a villain. But he wasn’t blameless either.

Okami was his mother. Maybe not by blood, but by heart. She had bandaged scraped knees and soothed nightmares, dried tears and offered guidance. But none of that had been enough to keep them from breaking.

And that—that—was what made her angry.

Not at Grian. Not at Silly. Not even at poor Taurtis, who had loved too gently in a world that didn’t deserve him.

She was furious with Yuki. With Sam.

The ones who had twisted the knife and smiled while doing it.

They had walked away with clean records, clean hands. One was dead, the other left grieving. But that didn’t erase the damage. It didn’t erase the fact that, when it mattered most, they had abandoned the people who trusted them.

Grian was still trapped in CHRONOS’s sights—not because he was dangerous, but because Silly wanted closure. Justice, she said.

But the look in her daughter’s eyes, the haunted way she stared at the floor?

That wasn’t justice.

It was regret.

Okami wanted to be a mother again. To walk forward, take both their hands, and pull them into her arms where it was warm and safe and silent. To kiss their brows and tell them that forgiveness was still possible. That they were still loved.

But she couldn’t.

Because the children she had raised—her fierce, loyal daughter, her clever, stubborn boy—

They weren’t hers anymore.

Not really.

The darkness had stolen them. Not all at once, but piece by piece. Until all that was left were shadows wearing familiar faces.

So she sat in the back. Alone.

 A mother with no one left to mother.

 A witness to a tragedy she could no longer fix.

And she wept silently, where no one could see.

Chapter Text

Poor babes.

Cleo looked around the room, her eyes catching on the tears brimming in her friends’ eyes. It was like watching a movie—painful, surreal, distant.

But this wasn’t a movie.

This was a life.

 A bruised, broken, bleeding life.

 A secret no one had known—but maybe, just maybe, they should’ve guessed.

The sun was beginning to dip low beyond the courthouse windows. They’d been there all day, watching trauma unravel memory by memory, like skin being peeled away from a wound.

Just a few more clips, the judge had said. Just a few more memories.

But Cleo wanted it to stop. Now.

Her eyes drifted to Mumbo—half-collapsed beside Grian’s unconscious form, as if he could shield him by sheer will alone.

 Lizzie sat frozen, guilt twisted into her features like she'd been the one holding the knife.

 Impulse. Tango. Zedaph. All broken in their own quiet ways.

 Poor Bdubs was trembling in Etho’s arms, and Etho, for once, wasn’t hiding behind his mask of aloofness. He was holding on like Bdubs might shatter if he let go.

This wasn’t just hard on Grian.

It was hard on all of them.

How were they supposed to reconcile the bright-eyed prankster they knew—the one who blew up bases with a laugh and fell off cliffs just for fun—with the cold, terrified boy now flickering across the screens in front of them?

A boy who flinched at shadows.

 Who begged for his life.

 Who never cried for help because he never believed it would come.

It was too much for some.

Wels had gone still. His eyes vacant, as if his mind had checked out to somewhere safer.

 Ren—sweet, intense Ren—looked torn between fury and despair.

And Cleo—Cleo was angry.

She cared deeply for her fellow Hermits. All of them. Every weirdo, every builder, every redstoner, every chaotic soul in this community of theirs.

And now they were all hurting.

All of them.

Because of CHRONOS.

Because of what they’d done. Not just to Grian—but to everyone who cared about him.

Yes, this was Grian’s life. His pain, his scars.

But CHRONOS had turned it into a weapon. Had forced them to watch, to bleed with him.

Cleo clenched her fists.

She was going to get Grian therapy after this. That was non-negotiable.

But more than that?

CHRONOS had made an enemy.

Because no one—no one—had the right to do this to someone she loved.

And she loved all of them.

Chapter Text

They were falling.

Endlessly.

Down through the cold, endless nothingness of the void. Pixels tore loose from their edges, falling with them like snow.

No stars. No ground. No light.

Only the hollow sound of their own breath caught somewhere between panic and resignation.

Up in the wariness tangled deep inside their minds.

Taurtis.

Jerry.

Igbar.

Sam.

Grian.

They were falling.

Falling through the void, and then—without warning—they weren’t.

- - -

A house remained.

A small, lonely house with cracked tan walls and no roof, no sky—only the oppressive black of the void pressed all around it like ink.

It was the last scrap of the world, shattered and remade into a twisted monument to their failure.

Sam stood at the edge of the crumbling porch, a wide, manic grin spreading across his face like a knife’s edge.

“We finally did it,” he said, voice thick with triumph and something dangerously close to madness.

 “We fulfilled our destiny. Destroyed the world.”

Igbar shifted uncomfortably. Even his bravado, his tough exterior that mimicked eldritch horrors, faltered here. There was no glory in this desolation.

Sam’s laughter broke the silence—bright, sharp, and bitter. He wrapped an arm around Grian and Taurtis, pulling them close as if binding them to this new reality.

“No more pain. No more suffering from being glitched,” he whispered, almost tenderly. “Did you know… my mother was a glitch? She died because of it.”

Sam’s eyes flickered dark for a heartbeat, then lit up again. He spun in wide, wild circles, dancing across the small island, a child lost in ruin.

“Now we are free!” he declared.

And then, suddenly, his footing gave way.

Sam slipped.

Fell.

Plummeted into the void.

No one screamed.

No one called after him.

Only the slow, heavy sigh of relief hung in the air.

Igbar’s voice trembled as he broke the silence.

“We got rid of him, right? He’s gone? So… what now?”

The emptiness pressed down on them. The vast nothingness swallowed every hope.

They stared into the void.

Starvation was the only thing left.

Then, a sudden movement shattered the stillness.

“What chu’ lookin’ at?”

Grian jumped. Taurtis screamed. Jerry spun around. Igbar’s fist flew out—and landed with a sickening thud on Sam’s chest.

But Sam was not dead.

His eyes snapped open, glowing faintly with eerie light.

Sam’s laugh was low and twisted, dripping with a cruel kind of joy.

“Did you miss me? Looks like the void has a loop.”

Grian’s breath caught.

Now, how could they escape?

He reached into his inventory—fingers trembling—and pulled out the potion.

The one that could weaken Sam.

But there was no escape route.

The central hub was gone.

Sam had destroyed it.

There was nowhere left to go.

- - -

Days. Months. Years. All the same. The house provided; the house consumed.

Time no longer made sense here.

They had not starved.

They had not aged.

They had not died.

Because the house provided.

Because Sam wouldn’t let them die.

- - -

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Sam’s grin stretched wider than sanity.

 “We’re on a server.”

Grian closed his eyes and sighed.

“I told you that months ago.”

Sam’s laughter echoed off the void walls.

Grian’s hands clenched tight.

He hurled the potion to the ground.

It splashed over Sam—who shuddered, snarled, and weakened.

Without wasting a second, Grian grabbed Taurtis, Jerry, and Igbar.

He began to glitch—his form flickering with raw power as he forced admin access.

Logout…

 But where to?

The Earth was blocked. The anti-virus defenders would never let them back.

No Central Hub.

He scrolled the list—servers flickering like dying stars. 

One remained. 

Hypixel. 

Not safe. 

Not stable. 

But it was something.

A place to hide.

A place to fight.

A place to survive.

A place to build.

A place to make money—enough to fight the glitch and maybe, just maybe, make an SMP of their own.

Confirm.

And just like that, the four were pulled away, ripped from the cursed server—leaving Sam behind, alone in the endless void.

Ping: unstable. Player count: unknown

Chapter Text

This was just terrible.

Joel had never witnessed such cold manipulation—such cruel torment inflicted on innocent teens—simply because of glitches they never asked for.

He had never felt so disgusted with himself for not being there with Grian.

For not standing beside him.

For spending time relaxing, marrying Lizzie, letting Grian slowly fade from their lives.

But Grian had cared. Deeply. Fiercely.

It was because he cared—too much—that he couldn’t leave until everyone was free.

And even then, when he finally did, that wasn’t the end of the story.

Grian’s memories flickered across the cracked screen—glitching, unstable, fragments of truth and chaos.

Back in the void—the house hovering in endless black—Sam sat alone on the edge of the crumbling porch.

Then, from the darkness, a warm glow pulsed.

A voice—ancient, regal, dripping with authority—echoed through the void:

“My child forged of fire. Glitched are you. Worthy are you. For you have destroyed a world.”

Sam bowed his head deeply.

“Thank you, Watcher King. I have fulfilled your commandments. Therefore, I hope to make a wish.”

The Watcher King’s voice softened, yet it carried the weight of absolute power.

“Of course, my child. Speak. What do you wish?”

Sam smiled—a slow, knowing smile that chilled Joel’s blood.

“I’d like to be a Watcher,” he said quietly. “And be over the Watchers I make myself.”

A silence stretched—thick and heavy.

“That is more than reasonable. Very well—come with me.”

Sam reached out a hand—towards thin air, towards the invisible, towards something no mortal should see.

He muttered under his breath, “I’m coming for you, friends.”

The memories snapped back to normal.

The screen flickered violently as the system searched for the next piece of evidence.

Joel’s heart pounded.

Were Watchers really involved?

The divine beings of myth—their enemies—were they pulling strings in ways no one had dared imagine?

Joel swallowed hard, the weight of dread pressing down.

He hoped with everything he had that they weren’t.

But deep down, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Chapter Text

Going into the End alone wasn’t something Grian was used to. Not in any sense. Everyone with any sense knew: the first trip to the End should be with friends. Fighting the Ender Dragon solo was a nightmare.

He had planned to go with his Evo friends. This was supposed to be a new chapter. But something had felt off from the start.

Now, he stood alone on a hard substance, suspended over the void. Pale, powdry, dry. The surface felt like it should crumble under his weight. The stale air carried a staler mood. The place felt too cold to be welcoming—and too heavy. The air pressed against his body, thick and wrong, grounding his wings. Flight was impossible here.

It stole the one advantage he had in a fight.

It reminded him of that moment. Of Him. The one Grian had left behind two years ago. The one he still couldn’t bring himself to speak about.

No. Not now. He couldn’t fall into that trap.

Grian shook his head and pulled cobble from his inventory. Just a normal player today. Not glitched. Not hybrid. No tricks. No code. Just cobble and instinct. Just bridge to the main island.

He placed block after block, each one clicking into the void with calculated precision. When the last piece was down, he jumped the final gap—he couldn’t afford to lose blocks.

He nearly missed.

His hand snatched the ledge at the last second. He clung there, breath held, heart thundering. Another inch and that would’ve been it. He’d heard void deaths were the worst kind. He didn’t want to confirm it.

Grian hauled himself over the ledge and finally stood face-to-face with the legend.

The End Island.

It loomed above him, vast and ancient. Obsidian obelisks rose like sentries—ten of them, at varying heights. Each one was crowned with a radiant, explosive light. End Crystals. Beautiful. Deadly.

Grian flicked his wings. A nervous tick. They wouldn’t work here.

And then, with a rumble like thunder shaking loose from the stone, the Ender Dragon stirred.

Grian exhaled and pulled out his bow.

Time to dance.

He raised the weapon. One shot—shatter. Another tower fell silent. He aimed again, following the dragon’s path. Every time it paused to heal, he struck. Shot after shot. Tower after tower.

Ten arrows. Ten towers. The crystals gone.

The dragon screamed in fury. A tear hung in one wing. It spiraled down, landing with a snarl on the bedrock fountain at the center of the island.

Grian charged.

Sword drawn. Arrows at the ready. Slash after slash. Two more arrows yanked back from the stone, reused mid-fight. The dragon reared, roaring—just a quarter of its health left. It fled to the skies.

Perfect.

Grian waited until it climbed high enough, wings fully spread. Then—

One.

Two.

Black-inked arrows hit their mark.

The dragon let out one final cry before vanishing, its body unraveling into glowing orbs. The sound of experience, soft and sad, rained around him.

In its place, a dark egg settled on the fountain.

“It was a girl,” Grian whispered. Regret curled under his tongue.

But life was survival. And he had survived.

he silence returned.

And then—

the air shifted.

It thickened. Warped. Heat pulsed through the void, crawling across his skin like fireflies burrowing under flesh.

Too warm.

 Too sudden.

Too wrong.

A ripple split the air—and they stepped through.

Two Watchers.

Not new. Not strange. Familiar.

Their robes were a nauseating shade of purple, their masks smooth and blank—except for the horrible eyes behind them. Green and glowing on the taller one, electric blue hidden under the smaller’s headphones.

They were wrong in the way broken things are—familiar shapes warped into masks of mockery.

Grian's legs collapsed beneath him.

The taller one smiled. “Hello, Gree-on. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Something pierced his chest. Not a blade—a memory.

His body shuddered. Glitched.

 A flicker. A flaw. A frame missing.

The tall one reached out—but the smaller one caught him instead, cradling him in its arms like a doll plucked from the floor.

“Sorry, Grian,” it said gently. “But this is just how it was meant to be.”

He wanted to scream. To beg. To run.

But there was no voice. No air. No body.

Only terror.

Only silence.

No one could hear him scream.

- - -

It was dark.

So dark.

He floated in a void between thoughts, between years, between selves. His memories flickered in and out like old VHS footage—color warped, tape dragging, sound fuzzed. His body no longer his. His mind fraying at the edges.

Where was he?

Watcher 1: Oh, hello everyone. They’re here, friends.

Watcher 2: It’s about time. I was beginning to think they might not ever find us.

Watcher 1: We’ve been watching you for a very long time, Evolutionists.

Watcher 2: From the start, in fact.

No.

Please.

He wasn’t safe? Not even here?

Grian tried to shake his head, to protest—but something was holding him down. Still.

Watcher 1: Indeed. From when we dropped you in Beta 1.2 all the way to now.

Watcher 2: We watched you struggle to craft old recipes, build with limited blocks and walk absolutely everywhere.

Watcher 1: But most of all, we watched you have fun.

Watcher 2: We watched empires rise and Dirt Cheap fall, the antics that you all got up to over the last eleven months have been legendary.

Watcher 1: Oh, remember the time Zee made a giant squid in Grian’s base?

They had no right.

No right to speak like that. No right to call SystemZee “Zee.” Not like they knew him.

Watcher 2: Yeah, Squiddy was great. Shame he had to burn... At least he made a return later on. And what a day it was when Taurtis joined the server!

Taurtis. His Taurtis.

Gone now. Replaced with a clone. Replaced with a Watcher.

Watcher 1: And a sad day when he decided to leave... We’re getting sidetracked. We need to tell them the news—good and bad.

He didn’t decide to leave! Grian wanted to shout. You took him!

But his voice was frozen. His tongue, still.

Not yet, something whispered.

Watcher 2: But I don’t want to. I want to talk about the good times. Remember the property police and mafia war? Who won that in the end?

Not Sam.

He lost the Yakuza war. He lost everything.

Grian’s soul cracked. So Sam was listening.

Watcher 1: There are no winners in war, friend. Only losers. There certainly were some great alliances on the server. The Property Police... The Mafia... The Empire.

Watcher 2: Don’t forget the Private Investigators! Who knew Tom and BigB could build well?

Watcher 1: That’s debatable. They definitely got pranked a lot. They all did. Mainly by one person though...

Watcher 2: He also got in trouble with us a good few times too, taking rewards that were meant to be shared.

Watcher 1: He even took blocks from our temples! We got him back though. Remember when we put obsidian over his chests?

Grian hated that prank.

Watcher 2: That Grian sure was a nuisance. But he did create an entire town and help bring people together.

Watcher 1: Only so he could have an easier time blowing them up! I think he trolled just about every streamer going... Poor Solidarity.

Not his brother…

Watcher 2: Solidarity wasn’t exactly innocent though, was he? Remember when he killed Salem’s chickens?

Watcher 1: Yeah, she didn’t like that at all. At least she had Netty as a friend... They got up to so many hijinks.

Watcher 2: Overall though, they did a lot of good things. Remember she made the “communetty” centre? I do enjoy a good pun.

Watcher 1: They all have their quirks... Mini’s attempts at making dirt cheap a success were... Admirable. Oh! And Pearl’s base is stunning! I wish I could build like that…

They dare talk about his sister! They were dead. Grian felt his heart shred at the threat.

Watcher 2: Uh, I think we’re missing the point of this conversation now, friend.

Watcher 1: Right, right. Well as you all know, you have just killed the ender dragon.

Watcher 2: One each, to be exact. The portal you all jumped in was not the same as the one we create for you to jump between versions.

Watcher 1: Indeed. The portal you jumped in will create a fundamental change to the evolution server.

Watcher 2: It is a powerful thing, to have a conversation with us. Our worlds briefly collide, and we are able to speak freely without song or rhyme.

He would rather die. The image of Grian dying over and over played in his head. A tormenting reminder that they could make that happen.

Watcher 1: When you return, nothing will be the same. You will have to find a new way to survive.

Watcher 2: But you will also have to go on with one less of you. Ten will become nine.

Watcher 1: That’s right. Evolution will continue, progress will be made but without the empire. Grian will have to be taken.

Watcher 2: It was not an easy decision to make. But we have our reasons. Maybe one day you will understand them.

Watcher 1: Yes, perhaps they will. But one person does not make a server. I for one am excited to watch what this rejuvenation will bring!

Watcher 2: As am I, friend. But I will miss Grian on the server.

No.

Watcher 1: We all will, not least The Evolutionists themselves.

Watcher 2: Well, he won’t really be leaving will he? He’ll still be watching.

Watcher 1: Of course he will. He’ll be joining us.

Please.

Watcher 2: Maybe we should take him now?

Stop!

Watcher 1: Let’s wait until the end.

Watcher 2: Alright. Evolutionists, it is time for you to move on to the next chapter of this server.

Watcher 1: Yes, best of luck to all of you. And remember...

Watcher 2: We will always be watching.

Watcher 1: While we may not be the best of listeners, we certainly do enjoy everything you do.

Watcher 2: Be wary of the things to come, and enjoy your time together.

Watcher 1: Grian, I think it is time for you to come with us now.

Watcher 2: Yeah, I think so too.

Watcher 1: ...

Watcher 2: …

By the end, Grian could feel it. The hold tightening around his soul.

Watcher 1: Welcome, friend. Would you like to send them on?

His body no longer his. His mind slipping.

They were taking him.

They had always been taking him.

And now they asked him to speak. To send them off.

He didn’t want to.

He wanted to scream. To run. To fight.

But his lips moved anyway.

Watcher 3: It would be my pleasure. Good luck everyone, I am sad that this is my fate... But I want you to remember my heart will be with you all, and I will still be on the server in your hearts and in spirit... Good luck in the next chapter of Minecraft Evolution. I look forward to watching you all.

And just like that—he was gone. 

He’d never see them again.

Chapter Text

Poor Brian. All this time.

When Keralis watched the footage, he was afraid. No—petrified. Not of the poor baby Brian. Of Sam.

Keralis had seen what that man—who deserved worse than death—had done to his friend.

To his kid.

And now Papa K wanted nothing more than to run up there and hold him. Just one hug. One word. Something to stop the unraveling.

He began to stand.

But Xisuma grabbed his hand and tugged him back down. His voice low, steady.

“What do you think you’re doing, K? You can’t go up there. They’d arrest you.”

Keralis hesitated, biting his lip. He sat back down with a sigh. “I k-now, Shashwammy. But—he’s all alone.”

Xisuma shook his head. “If you go up there, it might trigger something. The memories. Of how we found out. Of what he is. Of why we’ve been protecting him all this time.”

Keralis squeezed his hand tighter. “If they find out we k-new—”

“They’ll arrest us too,” Xisuma finished. His voice was cold. Final. “And then Hermitcraft goes down with us.”

Keralis looked down at his lap. His voice trembled. “Brian’s just a baby bird with broken wings. How’re we supposed to just watch him fall?”

Xisuma didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, helmet casting shadows over his expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with grief.

“We can’t save him, K. He dug the grave. We helped hide it. And now it’s been found.”

Silence stretched between them. Keralis leaned into his friend’s armor and closed his eyes.

“M’kay,” he whispered. “I guess you’re right.”

 His voice cracked. “If we all get in trouble... Hermitcraft ends.”

Xisuma gave a solemn nod.

Neither of them moved again.

They just sat together, helpless, as their secret burned.

END OF PART ONE

Chapter Text

The judge sighed, eyes drifting to the window where the sun dipped low on the horizon, bleeding gold across the sky like it, too, had seen enough for one day.

He had sat here for hours, watching this kid’s memories unfold—each one worse than the last. His tea had gone cold sometime after the third scene.

It was clear now: the boy was a victim.

But CHRONOS didn’t care about that.

Protocol stated that even victims who commit crimes must be punished. There were systems, rules, balances. No one was exempt—not even children shattered by the world long before they knew what guilt was.

Still, Grian wouldn’t be sentenced to death.

But sometimes… that was worse.

This kid had spent 27 years running. Hiding. Being unwanted, unloved, passed around like an error in a codebase no one wanted to debug. 

But he was stubborn. He lived. Even death hadn’t stopped him. It had just made him harder to find.

Nothing about his life was normal. None of it was okay.

Abandoned by his parents before he was even conscious of the concept of shame, tossed into the world broken, a name that wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud. He was just glitched. Disposable.

Taken to Japan by a butler who’d once sworn to protect him, only to watch that man—the only father he had—die. Then killed a man. 

And the boy? He escapes. Alone. Traumatized. Friend kidnapped.

That was the start of his life.

Then came the rest: the killings, the manipulation, the coercion. Torture. Being turned into a pet.

None of it was right.

But this was CHRONOS.

And he had to look at it all subjectively. Objectively. Mechanically. Cold.

There was a bored look on his face now—he practiced it, for decorum. But inside, he was crumbling like decaying leaves.

What could be done for punishment?

Crimes had consequences. CHRONOS needed satisfaction. Otherwise they’d order a retrial.

And retrials for Glitches? That was a death sentence in disguise.

They barely survived one trial, with recess in between,  in the Dream Simulator before their code began to unravel. A second cycle would shred him. Collapse his identity from the inside out. He’d fade into static, a 0 in the binary.

If the judge went soft, he’d kill the kid by accident. Because CHRONOS would demand a retrial.

If he went too harsh, he’d kill him by design.

Wonderful system, the judge thought bitterly. Justice wasn’t blind. She was gagged, chained, and forced to wear a CHRONOS badge.

He considered crowd-sourcing it for a moment. Post a poll: What should happen to Grian? After all, the trial was public. It streamed live across dimensions. Who’s to say who was watching—or when?

He pictured a blinking light on some strange server in a distant realm. Pearl and Jimmy huddled in horror. Even Xisuma, fists clenched.

But it couldn’t be up to them.

It had to be him.

He was the one holding the gavel. He was the one who would decide how Grian’s story would end.

A flicker of movement caught his eye—just a ghost in the sim projector. For a split second, a younger version of the boy appeared at one of the benches. Small. Hunched. Silent. Just trying to take up as little space as possible.

The judge flinched.

He stood, breathing in deep, and slammed the gavel onto the wood with a sharp CLANG that echoed off the cold courtroom walls.

“Recess will now be called for the next two days,” he announced, voice steady. “There will be food provided in the adjacent chamber. Doctor, please release the prisoner from the dream simulator.”

There was no response, just a faint hum as the immersion chamber began its reversal sequence.

The judge turned slowly toward the door, pausing just before leaving. He looked once more at the empty defendant’s chair, now glowing faintly with remnant dream-data.

Please, kid.

Don’t get trapped in the simple.

Don’t fade into the static.

Don’t make me watch this again tomorrow.

Just survive this trial… so you don’t need another.

He closed his eyes.

You can do this.