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Damien let out a broken, wheezing breath as white-hot pain tore through him without warning. For a heartbeat he didn’t understand what he was feeling, only that the world had gone wrong somehow, tilted violently off its axis. Then his gaze dropped, slow and unbelieving, and he saw it.
The narrow tip of a glistening sword had burst from his lower abdomen, steel slick and darkening with his blood. Sunlight caught along the blade’s edge, cruel and brilliant, turning each trembling drop into liquid fire before it slid down and fell away. His mouth fell open in a soundless gasp, eyes wide, glassy with shock, as if his body were no longer his, as if this ruin belonged to someone else entirely.
His knees faltered. The taste of iron flooded his mouth though he hadn’t bitten his tongue. Every breath scraped through his chest like broken glass, shallow and wrong, and the world around him blurred at the edges, color draining, sound thinning to a distant roar.
All he could see was the blade and the impossible red blooming around it, feel the heat of his own life spilling out into the cold air, and wonder dimly how something so small and clean could hurt so much.
His vision swam, then slowly sharpened again, dragged back into terrible clarity by the relentless, pulsing agony in his gut. Each throb of pain seemed to echo with his heartbeat, heavy and wrong, as though his body no longer remembered the rhythm of living. The world tilted, brightened, focused, and in the warped mirror of the polished blade, he saw a face he had never truly stopped searching for.
Dark hair fell forward in familiar disarray, catching the light the same way it always had. Deep brown eyes stared down at him, the very eyes that once softened when they met his, now cold and flint-hard, emptied of warmth. Not even anger lived in them anymore, only distance. Only finality.
For a wild, foolish second, hope flared. Then it died.
“Archaeus…” Damien breathed the name like a prayer, like a wound, like a memory dragged from its grave. His voice shook, thin and broken around the edges, barely louder than the rush of blood in his ears. “What, why?”
The man above him did not flinch. Did not look away. If anything, his expression twisted, not with grief but with something close to disgust. His lip curled, teeth showing in an almost-snarl that made Damien’s stomach fall hollow.
“It’s time, Damien,” Archaeus said, his voice low and merciless, stripped of every softness it once carried in the dark. “You’re done.” Damien’s breath hitched painfully in his chest as Archaeus leaned closer, close enough that Damien could see the fine details on his face, the details he had lost sleep over tracing them in the dark.
“You’ve lost.”
The words landed heavier than the blade in his body, heavier than the blood soaking through his clothes. Lost. Not just the fight. Not just his life. Him. Forever.
Damien’s breath hitched sharply in his throat just as the sword was wrenched free.
A raw, animal cry tore out of him as the steel slid from his body, the brief, sickening relief replaced instantly by a fresh wave of agony that burned even hotter than before. Blood followed the blade in a dark rush, spilling over his hands as though his body were emptying itself all at once. His knees gave out beneath him and he crashed backward into the dirt, the impact knocking what little breath he had left from his lungs.
The world above him reeled. The sun hung high and merciless, its heat pressing down on him as though the sky itself wished to crush him into the earth. Light spilled across his face, catching in his lighter hair and turning it gold, almost holy, like some cruel imitation of a halo crowning him not in grace, but in ruin. Dust clung to his skin, to the wetness of his blood, to the salt of his tears he hadn’t realized had started to fall.
“Archaeus!” he choked out, his voice ragged and desperate, clawing its way out of his throat as though the name itself might pull the man back to him. His fingers curled into the soil, nails biting into the ground as if he could anchor himself to the world through sheer will alone. “Please!” The word broke on the air between them, small, helpless, and already dying.
But there was no answer.
Damien’s strength failed him again and his head fell back into the dirt. His eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pain seized him, radiating outward from the wound until his entire body felt aflame. Every breath was a battle now, shallow and sharp, each one scraping past pain like a blade dragged through what little life he had left.
The world narrowed to heat and blood and the echo of a name that no longer belonged to him and hadn’t done for some time.
With a trembling effort, Damien raised one arm and draped it across his eyes, as though he could block out the sun, or the world, by sheer will alone. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulls, each breath scraping through him like it might be the one that finally tore something beyond repair. The heat pressed into him from above and below, the sun burning his skin while the earth sucked at his back, cold and indifferent beneath the dust.
A single tear slipped free from the corner of his eye and traced a slow, burning path down his temple and into his hairline. It cut clean through the dirt and blood on his cheek, leaving a pale, shining track in its wake before disappearing into the folds of his collar. He didn’t sob. There was no strength left for that. Only that quiet, devastating surrender that came when the world had taken everything and asked for more.
Behind his closed eyes, memory stirred, unwanted, unmerciful. Flickers of laughter echoing in half-lit rooms. The warmth of a hand in his. The soft certainty in Archaeus’s voice when he once spoke his name like it meant forever. He saw moments he had thought were safe from ruin: promises whispered in darkness, futures planned in careless murmurs, a trust built piece by fragile piece.
And now here he was.
Bleeding into the dirt beneath an empty sky. The same name that once steadied his heart now echoing hollow and cruel in his mind. The same eyes that once looked at him with devotion had watched him break without flinching.
His fingers twitched weakly against his face as if he might wipe the memory away along with the tear, but it clung to him just as the pain did, inescapable, intimate, destroying him from the inside out. A broken, helpless sound slipped from Damien’s throat, neither a cry nor a breath, but something in between, something emptied of hope. It trembled out of him as his body finally seemed to understand what his heart already had. His jaw tightened, his lips parting on a sound that spoke of surrender more than pain, of a soul too tired to keep fighting.
Behind his closed eyes, the darkness did not bring rest. It brought memory.
Memory One - First Meeting
Archaeus lingered in the shadowed corner of the common room, back pressed to the cool wall as he pretended to read, gaze drifting more than his mind truly followed the words. The Center was always the same, sterile greys, quiet hums of machinery behind the walls, the muted shuffle of people who had long since learned to keep their heads down. Everyone looked identical after a while: drab grey jumper, matching loose bottoms, blank eyes that said they had already begun to surrender to the routine.
But when the door hissed open, and this latecomer stepped inside, Archaeus’s attention sharpened immediately. He was… different.
Handsome, unmistakably so. The kind of handsome that didn’t belong in a place like this. The overhead lights caught in his hair, golden, almost shimmering as though the sun itself had reached through the barred window just to touch him. The contrast against the dull grey fabric made him stand out even more, like a fragment of color stubbornly refusing to be dulled by the Center’s sameness.
Archaeus found himself staring before he could stop it.
The latecomer paused mid-step, taking in the room with a guarded, assessing look, and Archaeus let his gaze travel, slow, deliberate. From the strong line of the man’s jaw, to the faint strain of nervousness in his posture, down to the plain jumper that couldn’t quite obscure the shape beneath it. Everything about him drew the eye, pulled attention like a gravity all its own.
It wasn’t until Archaeus’s gaze drifted further, to the metal pin fastened neatly to the latecomer’s chest, that the air caught in his throat.
The number glinted in the light. 192. For a second, the world tilted.
A cold shiver raced up Archaeus’s spine as that familiar sequence burned itself into his mind. His breath stalled halfway through an inhale, chest tightening with a sudden, inexplicable certainty he couldn’t explain even to himself. 192 His number. His birthday.
Of all numbers… of all people… here.
His grip on the book faltered, fingers tightening until the spine creaked. He swallowed hard, heart thudding far too loudly in the quiet room, a sound he was sure someone else could hear. A strange sensation washed over him, part recognition, part dread, part something else entirely. It was as though the universe had shifted, just slightly, nudging something into place he hadn’t even known was missing.
Slowly, almost involuntarily, Archaeus lifted his gaze back to the newcomer’s face. And this time, he didn’t look away.
Not long after taking in the room, the latecomer paused. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, just enough to reveal that prickle, that animal sense of being watched. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head.
Their eyes met. It was instant. Sharp. Direct. As though the man’s gaze snapped onto Archaeus like a lock catching. Archaeus felt heat flood his cheeks before he even had time to blink. Mortified, he jerked his eyes away for half a breath, but curiosity, and something deeper, pulled them right back. He was staring. He knew he was staring. And now the newcomer knew it too.
Before his brain could talk him out of it, before the anxiety could sink its teeth in, Archaeus shut his book with a controlled, almost artificial calm. He set it down with far more confidence than he felt, smoothed the front of his jumper, and forced his legs to move toward the man.
Every step felt too loud. Too obvious. Too hopeful.
By the time he reached the latecomer, his heart was pounding high in his throat like it wanted to claw its way out. But he smiled anyway, a bright, earnest smile that warmed his whole expression, the kind he hadn’t worn in weeks inside this grey, suffocating place.
The other man did not smile back. Instead he regarded Archaeus with a cold, analytical focus, eyes flicking over him as though cataloging threats, angles, weaknesses. His posture didn’t shift, didn’t soften; he simply waited, unreadable.
Archaeus swallowed, but held his smile. “Hey, uh,” he began, pointing awkwardly over his shoulder to where he had been pretending to read. “I noticed you from over there-”
He gestured next to the railing, then toward the newcomer’s chest, toward the small metal pin gleaming against grey fabric. “Your number caught my attention. Nineteenth of February.”
He tried to chuckle, but it came out thin with nerves. “Uh, coincidentally… my birthday.”
A tiny beat.
“I’m Archaeus, by the way.”
Silence.
Not harsh, just… heavy. Considering. The newcomer’s eyes flicked from his face to the floor, then back, as though measuring something only he could see.
The quiet stretched. Archaeus felt his chest tighten, breath quickening under the weight of it. His palms grew warm, fingers fidgeting at the seam of his sleeve. A familiar narrative roared to life in his head, Too forward. Too eager. Too much. Again.
Had he been stupid? Reckless? Had he just ruined any chance, any sliver, of connection with the only interesting person to walk into the Center in months?
His heartbeat hammered louder, faster, a frantic thrum in his ears. Did I mess this up already? he wondered, stomach curling with dread. Did I scare him off? Did I ruin it again?
After a few agonizing moments, seconds that stretched and twisted into what felt like entire years inside Archaeus’s tightening chest, the newcomer finally moved. It was subtle at first: a small shift of weight, the faintest exhale, his gaze lowering just slightly as though reconsidering something. Then he lifted his eyes again, meeting Archaeus’s properly this time.
When he spoke, his voice came out low, rough-edged, as though it hadn’t been used in a long while or was scraped raw from something he didn’t talk about. “Damien.”
The single word landed with unexpected weight. His tone wasn’t unfriendly, just restrained, controlled, like someone who had learned to measure every syllable. He paused, as if deciding whether to continue. Archaeus barely breathed.
Then, with a small incline of his head, a gesture that was almost old-fashioned in its formality, he added, “I’m Damien. Nice to make your acquaintance, Archaeus.”
The way he said his name, slow, careful, deliberate, sent a strange warmth flickering through Archaeus’s chest, small but bright. As though Damien were tasting the syllables, committing them to memory, giving them importance. Archaeus felt his heartbeat stutter, relief and surprise colliding until he nearly swayed where he stood.
Damien wasn’t rejecting him.Damien wasn’t walking away. He had answered. He had introduced himself.
And something in the way Damien’s eyes held his, still guarded, still cool, but no longer dismissive, told Archaeus that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t ruined this fragile moment after all.
His smile returned, softer this time, blooming with cautious hope. “Nice to meet you too, Damien.”
Memory Two - First Sparks of Something More
Weeks slipped into the slow rhythm of Center life, grey mornings, regimented tasks, the soft chime that divided their days into predictable, numb segments. The novelty of arrival faded quickly, replaced by the quiet sameness that wore on everyone eventually. And in that sameness… nothing much seemed to change. Nothing dramatic. Nothing transformative. Nothing like Archaeus had quietly hoped for.
But he did gain one thing, one person, really.
Damien.
A constant presence in the corner of the common room. Someone who didn’t mind sitting beside him while he read, silent and steady. Someone who would nod thoughtfully while Archaeus rambled about vague plans for the future, plans that Damien rarely commented on, but always listened to with his intense, sharp-eyed focus that felt like more than politeness.
They fell into an easy, comfortable pattern. Reading side by side. Eating in the same quiet corner during mealtimes. Walking the prescribed laps around the courtyard, sometimes talking, sometimes not.
Yet despite those first bright sparks of attraction that had hit Archaeus like a blow the day they met… nothing moved. Nothing shifted. Damien was calm, distant in a way that wasn’t cold, just… careful. And eventually, after weeks stretching into months, Archaeus felt his hopes thinning like worn fabric.
Maybe Damien didn’t feel anything. Maybe Archeaus had misread that first moment entirely.
Maybe this, companionship, routine, safety, was all they were meant to have. And Archaeus tried to accept that. Tried to quell the flutter that rose every time Damien’s sleeve brushed his. Tried to swallow down the longing whenever he caught Damien looking at him with that unreadable expression.
Weeks turned to months. Archaeus almost convinced himself that the spark he felt had been nothing more than imagination. Until. It happened so quickly he didn’t understand it at first.
They were both leaning over the same book, Damien asking about a line he didn’t understand, Archaeus stepping closer to point out the passage. Damien shifted at the same moment, turning slightly to adjust his footing.
Their bodies collided, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. A soft, accidental brush. But the effect was instant. Electric. A rush of heat surged up Archaeus’s spine so fiercely he gasped. The air sparked as though someone had struck flint inside his ribs. His heart lurched, stumbling into a frantic rhythm.
Damien stiffened beside him.
Not in discomfort, no, this was something else entirely. His breath caught sharply, and a thin flush crept up his neck, staining the tips of his ears. His eyes widened in a way Archaeus had never seen, not calculating, not guarded, but startled… almost vulnerable. For a moment, neither breathed.
The space between them hummed, alive, charged, impossibly warm. Archaeus felt the hair on his arms rise, felt something deep in his chest flare to life again, something he had tried so hard to let go of.
Damien swallowed, eyes still locked on his, pupils blown wide with a shock that mirrored Archaeus’s own.
The spark hadn’t been in Archaeus’s imagination, it had been real. And Damien had felt it too.
Memory Three - First Flickers of Disagreement
The months that followed slipped past with a dangerous kind of ease, as though time itself had decided to stop paying attention to them. Days blurred together, then weeks, then entire seasons marked only by subtle shifts in the light through the common room windows. And somewhere in that quiet passing of time, the small, startling spark that had once flared between Archaeus and Damien took root.
It grew. Carefully at first, glances held a fraction too long, hands brushing and not pulling away, shared silences that felt full instead of empty. Then more boldly: whispered conversations after lights-out, fingers entwined beneath the table where no one could see, the comfort of leaning into one another during long, exhausting hours of compliance.
What had started as coincidence became choice. What had been attraction softened into trust.And then, without either of them quite realizing when it happened, it became something far more dangerous.
Love.
It was fragile in the way all forbidden things are, delicate, glowing, easily shattered. A thing made of stolen moments and quiet promises, of Damien’s rare smiles meant only for Archaeus, of Archaeus’s laughter coaxed from Damien when no one else could manage it. Love that lived in the in-between spaces, unseen and therefore precious.
But as Damien settled more fully into that warmth, accepting it, relying on it, something uneasy began to twist inside Archaeus.
The programme. At first, it was just a whisper of doubt. A question that lingered too long after mandatory sessions. A pattern that didn’t quite sit right. Archaeus began to notice how often people disappeared without explanation, how instructions shifted subtly but never allowed questions, how compliance was praised while curiosity was quietly punished.
He watched the way Damien stiffened during certain evaluations. The way his jaw tightened when the instructors spoke about progress and outcomes. The way the Center framed obedience as improvement, and silence as success.
The more Archaeus looked, the less he liked what he saw. What terrified him most was how alone he felt in seeing it. When he finally voiced his concerns, hesitant, careful, almost apologetic, Damien had stared at him in open disbelief.
“Bad?” Damien had repeated, brows furrowing. “Archaeus, this programme is supposed to help us. It’s structured. It’s monitored. It’s-”
“-wrong,” Archaeus had interrupted quietly, his voice trembling despite himself. “It feels wrong.”
Damien hadn’t known what to say to that.
And that was the problem.
Archaeus could feel the fault line opening beneath them, between trust and doubt, safety and truth. He loved Damien fiercely, desperately… and yet the more Damein loved him, the more frightened he became.
Because if Archaeus was right, if the experiments they were part of were harmful, cruel, or irreversible, then love wasn’t just fragile anymore.
It was in danger. And so were they.
Memory Four - The Argument that Ended it All
The first cracks had been small, barely visible, easy to dismiss. A disagreement here, a hesitation there. But once the fault lines formed, they did not stay still. They crept outward, silent and patient, widening with every unspoken fear and every word left unsaid.
Damien changed.
Not abruptly, not in a way that could be named and confronted, but gradually, like a door closing one careful inch at a time. He laughed less. Touched Archaeus less. Where he had once leaned in, he now kept a measured distance, shoulders drawn tight whenever the subject of the programme surfaced. His silences grew heavier, his gaze more guarded, as though he were bracing himself for something Archaeus couldn’t see.
And Archaeus, who had once felt light, hopeful, grew tense in response.
He watched the experiments continue with growing dread, noticing patterns that made his stomach churn: participants pushed past their limits under the guise of progress, compliance rewarded while resistance was quietly corrected, faces growing more hollow even as reports praised improvement. Every instinct in him screamed that something was wrong.
But every time he tried to speak, even gently, even in fragments, Damien recoiled.
A simple, “Doesn’t this seem… extreme?” A quiet, “Have you noticed how they don’t explain what happens after phase three?” Even a whispered, “I don’t feel safe anymore.”
Each attempt was met the same way.
Damien’s body would tense, muscles going rigid as if struck. His eyes would slide away. His answers, when they came at all, were clipped and final. Don’t start. You’re overthinking. This is what we signed up for.
And then he would withdraw, physically, emotionally, leaving Archaeus standing alone with words that had nowhere to land. It hurt in a way Archaeus hadn’t known pain could hurt.
His heart ached constantly now, a deep, persistent ache that throbbed beneath his ribs. Love was still there, fierce and undeniable, pounding against his chest as though it could force its way through Damien’s defenses if it only beat hard enough. He loved him just as much as ever. Maybe more.
But love, Archaeus was learning, did not mean being seen.
Damien seemed oblivious, willingly or not, to the wrongs unfolding around them. To the quiet cruelty masked as care. To the way people were being shaped, stripped down, repurposed under the language of healing. And worse still… to their own participation in it.
How can you not see it? Archaeus wanted to scream.
Instead, he swallowed his fear and held his tongue, watching the man he loved slip further away, not because the love had faded, but because Damien had chosen not to look.
And that, more than anything else, broke Archaeus’s heart.
Memory Five - Rosalyne
Unbeknownst to Damien, during one of the stretches when he had been away, gone for meetings, evaluations, or whatever official duty the Center demanded, Archaeus had found someone else. Someone who, like him, questioned the foundations of this place.
Her name was Rosalyne. She moved through the Center with quiet grace, eyes always alert, sharp enough to notice the smallest injustices that others ignored. And just like Archaeus, she had begun to see cracks in the carefully constructed veneer of the programme. Ethics, morality, the so-called progress they were being asked to submit to, it didn’t sit right with her either.
At first, their bond formed out of necessity: a shared glance during meals, hushed comments in hallways, small acts of camaraderie in a world built to suppress individuality. But when Damien was upset with Archaeus, over something small, something trivial, or simply because he was having a bad day, the barrier that normally held him back from seeking comfort from anyone else crumbled. Rosalyne was there. Steady, patient, offering an ear when Archaeus felt he could not speak to Damien, offering words when he felt hopelessly trapped in the Center’s routines.
Their friendship developed quickly, easily, with the kind of intensity that only forms when two people recognize themselves in one another in a world that refuses to allow it. For Rosalyne, there was even more, a flicker of something unspoken, a small spark that might have grown into affection. Archaeus, however, refused to acknowledge it. He loved Damien, still, desperately, fiercely, and that loyalty, that devotion, kept him tethered in a way he could not yet betray.
As the weeks turned into months, Rosalyne’s influence became more tangible. She began whispering about plans, hints of escape routes, murmured strategies, fragments of hope of a world outside the Center’s walls. Archaeus listened, heart lurching each time, feeling a spark of possibility he hadn’t allowed himself in years. The Center’s walls, the constant supervision, the experiments, they weren’t the limit of the world. They didn’t have to be.
And yet, with each plan whispered, each strategy hinted at, the chasm between him and Damien seemed to stretch farther. Damien, so steadfast and focused on the program’s rules, seemed to care less for the small flickers of rebellion, less for the moral doubts Archaeus could no longer suppress. Archaeus’s heart twisted at the thought: maybe he would have to leave this place. Maybe he would have to see the world without Damien by his side, without the man whose presence had once made the Center bearable, without the love that still beat fiercely against his chest.
Rosalyne’s whispered words became a lifeline, a dangerous yet irresistible possibility. But each time she suggested leaving, each time she painted the world beyond these walls in vivid color, Archaeus’s gaze flicked to Damien, remembering, longing, aching. Love, loyalty, and hope all collided inside him, a storm he could neither control nor suppress. The path forward seemed impossible, and yet, tantalizingly close, if only he had the courage to step into it.
Memory Six - The Breakup™
Only a few days had passed since Rosalyne had last whispered her plan to escape, but in that short stretch of time, the tension between Damien and Archaeus had grown unbearable. Damien’s silent treatment had stretched into its usual long, suffocating hours, leaving Archaeus to wrestle with his frustration and heartbreak in the quiet corners of the Center. Each glance from Damien, so cold and withdrawn, each unspoken reprimand felt heavier than the last, pressing down on him until patience and hope alike were fraying.
Archaeus had had enough. The decision didn’t come suddenly, it simmered in him, taut and insistent, until it could no longer be ignored. He moved with quiet determination, gathering the few possessions he had permitted himself in the sterile confines of the Center. A single backpack, simple and worn, became the vessel of both necessity and defiance. He packed quickly, each item a small assertion of autonomy: a notebook, a few personal items, a folded jumper, a pen. Each object was a step toward freedom, each weight in the bag a silent act of rebellion.
When the time came to leave, he paused at the threshold of the common room where Damien lingered, rigid and still, eyes fixed on the muted floor. Archaeus’s heart hammered painfully in his chest, caught between love and self-preservation. He looked at Damien one last time, and the words he had rehearsed a thousand times spilled out in the smallest, most devastating of doses.
“I love you,” he said softly, voice trembling just enough to betray the ache beneath it, “but we’re done.”
The words hovered in the air, sharp and final.
Damien’s face betrayed nothing. No flicker of hurt, no hesitation, no glance back. His eyes, dark and impenetrable, remained fixed ahead, expression unreadable, as though he had already anticipated this moment and accepted it with cold inevitability.
Archaeus swallowed hard, forcing himself past the wall of emotion that threatened to pull him back, and stepped forward.
And then he was gone, walking out alongside Rosalyne, the weight of the unknown ahead, leaving Damien behind. The silence Damien left in his wake was immense, echoing through the empty room, and yet somehow it was lighter than the heaviness Archaeus had carried for months.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Archaeus could breathe without restraint. But the cost of that freedom, the knowledge that Damien, the one person he had loved more than anything, remained unmoved, untouched by the separation, pressed into his chest with a sorrowful weight. Freedom was here, but it was bittersweet. The Center, the routine, the experiments, they no longer held him. But neither did the warmth of the love he had once thought would carry him through anything.
Back in the clearing, Damien dragged in a harsh, rattling breath as he tore himself free from the depths of memory. The present crashed back into him all at once, the smell of earth and blood, the weight of the sky above, the relentless throb of pain where steel had torn him open. His chest heaved, each breath a battle, as though his body were unsure whether it was meant to keep going at all. He hadn’t said a word when Archaeus had walked away.
The truth of that cut deeper than the blade ever had. Damien squeezed his eyes shut as the sharp, searing pain of immortal healing surged through him, knitting flesh and bone with a cruelty all its own. It burned, white-hot and merciless, ripping a groan from his throat as his body repaired what his heart could not. Healing had never been gentle, it demanded to be felt, demanded payment in agony.
He welcomed it. He deserved it.
Because he had never stopped loving Archaeus. Not for a single moment. Not during the silence. Not during the distance he had so carefully constructed around himself like armor. He had told himself it was protection, that if he didn’t speak, if he didn’t question, if he didn’t hope, then nothing else could be taken from him.
Silence had been his shield. And it had cost him everything.
Regret coiled tight in his chest as the memories replayed with brutal clarity. Archaeus standing there with a packed bag, eyes shining with resolve and heartbreak in equal measure. The words, I love you, but we’re done, echoing endlessly in the hollow space Damien had left unanswered.
He should have spoken.
Should have told him he was afraid. Should have admitted his doubts. Should have reached out instead of pulling away.
But he hadn’t. And so Archaeus had left.
When Damien had eventually walked away from the programme himself, long after the damage had already been done, Archaeus had been the only thing he carried with him. The only constant. The name etched into every thought, every choice, every quiet moment of regret.
He had looked for him.
And when he finally found him, Archaeus had turned away. Arm in arm with a woman.
Not coming toward Damien. Not looking back.
The memory crushed down on him now, heavier than the weight of his own healing body. Damien let out a raw, broken breath, fingers digging into the dirt of the clearing as if he could anchor himself there, as if he could stop the past from pulling him under again.
He had lost Archaeus that day.
Not because love had failed, but because he had been too afraid to speak it aloud.