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Killer sat hunched in Nightmare’s chair, skull bowed into his hands as if he could squeeze the noise out. It wasn’t just sound- it was everything. Rage, envy, grief, shame. A thousand lifetimes of swallowed-down feelings pressing inside his skull until he thought he’d crack wide open.
His claws dug furrows into the desk. Something real, something solid. But even the sting of splintering wood wasn’t enough to drown it out.
“Goddamn it…” His voice came out raw, more a growl than words. “How the hell did Night live like this for centuries?”
The door creaked. Killer jerked his head up, sockets glowing faintly with strain. Dust leaned against the frame, arms crossed, unreadable. He didn’t come closer right away. Just watched. Then, quiet:
“You’re loud.” A pause. “Not out here. In here.” He tapped his temple. “You don’t gotta sit with it alone.”
Killer barked out something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t cracked right down the middle. “That’s the problem, Dust. I do. It’s mine now.”
Dust didn’t argue. He just dragged a chair close and sat, silence steadying the air. No pressure. No demands. Just there.
The heavy thump of footsteps followed. Horror appeared with a plate in his massive hand, the warm smell of cinnamon cutting through the static for half a heartbeat. He set it down on the desk without a word, then rested one big hand on Killer’s shoulder. Not forcing, not moving. Just solid weight. A reminder that he wasn’t floating away.
Cross slipped in last, stiff posture and sharp gaze betraying how much he hated this kind of thing. Still, he came. He lingered by the desk, muttering, “You don’t have to prove you’re as strong as he was. We’ll hold some of it with you.”
The words cracked something deep in Killer’s chest. His breath rattled out, shaky and uneven. The storm inside didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Their presence pressed against the chaos, easing it, anchoring him.
His voice dropped low, barely audible: “…Guess I’m really stuck with you guys, huh?”
Dust snorted, lips quirking. “Damn right.”
Killer stared at them, at Dust’s steady patience, Horror’s grounding hand, Cross’s awkward defiance, and for the first time since the corruption dug its claws into him, the noise dulled enough for him to believe it.