Chapter Text
“Stop right there,” a male voice ordered from behind him. It sounded threatening, though the faint tremor running through it betrayed the speaker’s nerves. “If you do anything I don’t tell you to do, I’ll kill you.”
The dry click of the weapon being gripped echoed in his ears. John Dory didn’t need to turn to know that the barrel of a shotgun was pressed against the back of his neck, resting against the helmet that covered his head. The hands holding it were shaking slightly.
He looked toward the stack of cardboard boxes in front of him and caught sight of a child hiding from the unknown person behind him. Their eyes met for a brief second, and in the boy’s pale blue gaze John saw pure, almost paralyzing fear.
He hadn’t meant to scare anyone.
It had been far too long since he had last seen another living person in the city of TrollsTopia. So when, a week earlier, he noticed someone slipping inside that warehouse, his curiosity had sparked immediately.
Besides, the color of that man’s hair felt disturbingly familiar…
He wanted to know more about him, but he hadn’t dared approach, knowing it could lead to a situation exactly like the one he was in now. So, he decided to wait until the human left his shelter inside the warehouse. The plan had been simple: go in, search through his things, and get out quickly before the other returned.
Of course, he hadn’t expected to find a child inside the hideout.
He froze when he saw him sitting on the floor, calmly drawing on an improvised little table made of cardboard boxes. Finding adult humans alive was already rare enough; finding a child felt almost like witnessing a miracle.
When the boy noticed his presence, his eyes widened at the unexpected visitor. John expected him to run or scream for help, but neither happened. He silently appreciated that —if the child made any noise, they would be in serious trouble.
The boy looked at him first with surprise, then fear, and finally cautious curiosity. John assumed that last reaction was due to his appearance: the biker clothes and gloves, and the helmet hiding his face. Items that had been a “gift” from a corpse. Not without discomfort, John hoped the former owner’s soul wasn’t angry about that small theft. After all, he doubted the man would be needing any of it anymore.
Slowly, John Dory lowered himself into a crouch to seem less threatening. The gesture appeared to work, though his body remained tense, ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He scolded himself internally. He used to be able to talk to anyone without difficulty; now, after months without speaking to another human being, it seemed he had lost part of that ability.
The boy simply stared at him, frozen in place, creating a tense and uncomfortable silence between them. What felt like hours passed, neither of them daring to speak or even move.
John Dory studied the child’s face carefully. Judging by his features, he couldn’t have been older than ten —far too young for this world. His face was already marked by a couple of scars: one on his left cheek and another on his forehead. His dull indigo-blue hair was messy and dirty. His blue eyes reflected fear and distrust… and something deeper, something that could only be born from the trauma of having seen too much at such a young age.
An uncomfortable tightness formed in John’s throat as he held that gaze. Those eyes felt painfully familiar and, at the same time, foreign. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to memories of a brighter, warmer time. A time when his life had been perfect —even despite everything he had sacrificed. When his family had still been close… when he had been certain they were all still alive.
“Raise your hands where I can see them,” the other man ordered again, his voice furious and authoritative, pulling John from his thoughts.
John Dory obeyed. He lifted his hands slowly, feeling his balance waver slightly.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, his voice rough, worn from disuse.
“We’ll see about that. Now stand up. Slowly.”
He did as he was told. With almost exasperating slowness, John Dory rose to his feet, keeping his hands raised and his eyes on the boy. His knees cracked dryly as he straightened; his muscles tensed with the effort, though the pain didn’t quite reach him.
Without lowering the shotgun from his head, the man began to search him. John felt hands patting down his legs, then his abdomen, his arms, and finally his back. It was obvious he was looking for a weapon. He found nothing, but the shotgun didn’t move an inch.
“Turn around.”
With a tired sigh, John Dory turned carefully.
“I already told you —I’m not here to hurt you.”
His gaze finally met that of the armed man. He was young —perhaps even younger than John. His blue eyes —the same color as the child’s— were hard, fierce, though beneath that aggression lay deep fear. Dark circles marked the skin under his eyes; sweat and not-so-old scars covered his skin. His hair, messy and slightly tangled, was a striking shade of purple.
The pressure in John’s throat returned, stronger this time. Every feature of the man and the boy struck memories John Dory had believed buried forever.
“What are you doing here?” the purple-haired man demanded, pointing the gun directly at his forehead. “How did you find us?”
“I saw you go in from the roof of the apartment building across the street,” he replied, nodding faintly in that direction. “It has a good view. I can show you sometime.”
He tried to soften his tone, to lighten the mood.
The look he received in response made it clear this was not the time for jokes. One wrong move and his life would end right there… if that was even what this could still be called.
“Stop talking nonsense and tell me what you’re looking for,” the purple-haired man hissed, nudging John Dory’s helmet slightly with the barrel of the shotgun, “before I run out of patience and decide to decorate that little head of yours with a nice hole right in the center of your face!”
He didn’t raise his voice, but anger saturated every word.
“We both know that if you pull that trigger, a horde of hungry zombies will come straight here,” John Dory replied seriously. “Even if you manage to get out of the warehouse, they’ll follow you until they get what they want.”
He heard a soft whimper behind him, coming from the child. It made him feel guilty.
“And what makes you think you won’t die along with us?”
John Dory held his gaze.
“I have my secrets.”
The purple-haired man looked him up and down, studying him carefully. His eyes lingered on the helmet’s visor, as if trying to see through it. The discomfort was immediate. That expression, heavy with restrained anger, painfully reminded him of his youngest brother the last time he had seen him.
“Why are you wearing a helmet?” he asked, a little calmer now, though he didn’t lower the gun.
John Dory hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t tell the truth—he shouldn’t. So, he improvised.
“I burned part of my face in a fire, back when all this infection started,” he lied easily. “There was no medical help, so it didn’t heal properly. My face ended up… pretty bad. That’s why I wear the helmet. I don’t want to get shot for being ugly.”
He let out a forced laugh, as if it were meant to be funny.
The purple-haired man’s reaction was horror, followed by unmistakable sympathy. John Dory clenched his jaw. He hated that look, but swallowed his anger. He couldn’t afford to provoke him. Not yet. He didn’t want to die —not yet.
He opened his mouth to add something else, but felt a light touch against his leg. Carefully, he looked down and found small fingers clutching the fabric of his pants. In the boy’s blue eyes shone genuine concern; his brows arched upward, as if he wanted to say something, as if he were trying to comfort him.
“Branch! What are you doing?” the purple-haired man scolded, making the child flinch. “Come here. Now.”
“…Branch?”
The name struck his chest like a blunt blow.
For a moment, John Dory felt the world stop, as if all the air had been sucked out of the warehouse.
Branch. It couldn’t be true. It had to be a coincidence. It had to be.
“But, Spruce…” The child’s small voice trembled slightly.
“I said, now!” he demanded, leaving the boy no choice.
“Spruce.” That name didn’t just cross his mind —it split it in two.
His hands, still raised, trembled almost imperceptibly. For a second, he feared the helmet wouldn’t be enough to hide the panic beginning to consume him.
Spruce and Branch. Together. Alive.
The pressure in his throat became unbearable. He wanted to speak to them. He wanted to shout. He wanted to say their names, to call them the way he used to with those affectionate nicknames; to laugh at the impossibility of this scene.
But he couldn’t.
If he said one word too many, if he let that past slip out, everything would collapse.
He remembered Branch at barely three years old, hiding behind him whenever something frightened him. He remembered Spruce arguing with him over the smallest things, yet always following him by the end of the day —even when he pretended not to.
They were there, right in front of him.
And they didn’t recognize him.
John Dory lowered his gaze for a second —not in submission, but to hide the abyss opening inside his chest. If he lifted his head, he feared the helmet’s visor wouldn’t be enough to keep his eyes from betraying him… or whatever remained of his heart.
He wasn’t ready for this. Not like this. Not this way.
He had spent months learning to live with the loneliness, with the silence, with the belief that his family was dead. And now two of his brothers stood before him.
Branch stepped back uncertainly until he reached Spruce’s side. The older one gently pushed him behind, instinctively protective.
The sharp ache in John’s chest was immediate when Branch pulled away. That brief contact had been enough to remind him, for a few seconds, of the warmth of another living body. Something real. Something that wasn’t decomposing. He suppressed the almost feral urge to rush toward them, to wrap his arms around them, to protect them as he had promised years ago.
Spruce kept the shotgun steady, standing between him and Branch like a wall dividing two different worlds.
And then John Dory understood.
He watched them in silence. The brother trying to be strong, even with fear trembling in his hands. The little one who still carried that spark of kindness intact, even in a completely broken world.
“They’re alive”, he thought. “And I don’t belong here.”
The painful truth settled inside him like a stone. He had spent so long controlling what he had become —pretending to be normal, hiding his nature, not letting the hunger or the coldness of his skin betray him— that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on.
Spruce looked at him like a threat.
And he had every right to.
“Listen to your brother,” John Dory said softly, without taking his eyes off Branch. “This world is dangerous, and he’s just trying to protect you. Don’t hate him for it.”
The silence that followed was dense, crushing. John Dory sighed, lowering his hands slowly, as if that simple gesture tore something out of his chest.
“I have to go…” The words felt heavy, as though someone were squeezing his heart. “It was a mistake to come here. I shouldn’t have.”
Spruce frowned at the sudden change in the stranger before him, though a flicker of relief crossed his face.
“Then go,” he spat. “And don’t ever come back.”
John Dory gave a slight nod. It was the right decision. He knew that.
So, why did it hurt so much?
Spruce and Branch would be fine without him. Spruce had learned to take care of himself —and of Branch— with a ferocity born of fear and necessity. The way he had reacted to a stranger in their shelter was proof enough that he would do whatever it took to survive.
Carefully, John Dory turned around, avoiding any sudden movement. Each step felt like walking on broken glass. His body screamed at him to stop, to turn back, to protect them as he had once sworn to do in another time, another life. But he forced himself to keep moving.
“Forgive me…” he thought, stopping in front of the warehouse door. “Forgive me for abandoning you again.”
“Take care of him,” he murmured without looking back. “It’s a cruel world out there.”
The other didn’t respond.
With a heavy sigh, he lifted his hand, ready to step outside and disappear into the city streets. He wouldn’t be able to stay in his old apartment —it was too close to this warehouse. If he did, he was sure he wouldn’t last long before running back to them.
He would have to go as far away from that warehouse as possible. He didn’t know where, but he would find another place comfortable and safe enough to keep living until his body finally rotted away completely.
“Wait.”
Spruce’s voice broke the silence with more force than he intended. John froze, his hand suspended in the air just inches from the metal door. For a second —one that felt endless— no one moved.
John Dory turned slowly, confused. The purple-haired man had lowered the shotgun a few inches —enough that it was no longer aimed directly at his head, but not enough to fully trust him.
“Branch,” Spruce said without taking his eyes off John. “Go to the other room and wait for me there.”
“But…” the boy murmured; his voice heavy with uncertainty.
Spruce crouched in front of him, forcing himself to soften his expression, to lower his tone. His hands trembled slightly as he rested one on the child’s shoulder.
“It’ll be okay, alright?” he said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Trust me.”
Branch hesitated for another second. He looked at John Dory, then back at Spruce. Finally, he nodded slowly. He walked away in silence, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway.
When his figure vanished, the warehouse seemed to shrink.
Both of them stared at the spot where he had disappeared, and the silence left behind grew thick, uncomfortable, almost suffocating.
“What do you want?” John Dory asked at last, forcing steadiness into his voice.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to get out before the pain showed too clearly. Seeing his brothers felt like digging into a wound that had never healed.
Spruce pressed his lips together, as if gathering courage. At last, he lowered the shotgun completely, letting it hang loosely in his hands.
“We need your help,” he blurted out.
John Dory blinked, startled.
“Excuse me? A moment ago, you were ready to blow my head off.”
Spruce swallowed. He lowered his gaze briefly, as if the words weighed on him.
“I know. And you probably won’t want anything to do with me after that,” he admitted. “But believe me when I say I wouldn’t be asking a stranger for help if I weren’t desperate.”
When he looked up, there was something in his eyes John Dory recognized immediately: fear. Real, raw fear.
“We need your help to get out of the city,” he added. “North.”
The request hit John Dory like a bucket of ice water. Spruce wasn’t demanding. He sounded like he was begging.
His chest tightened. The part of him that had always been the older brother jolted awake violently, urging him to step forward, to protect, to carry everything once again.
But another voice —colder, more aware— shouted that this was exactly what he shouldn’t do. If he truly wanted to protect them, he had to stay away.
John’s silence dragged on. For Spruce, it was agonizing.
“We were waiting for a rescue group,” he explained, his voice barely breaking. “They said they’d come for us, but I haven’t heard from them in a week. We have enough food and water for two days. Four… if I only eat once a day.”
“They’ll come,” John Dory replied quickly. “I’m not going to risk you on something that dangerous. Being near me is dangerous enough.”
Spruce shook his head, desperate.
“You don’t understand…” he murmured.
He glanced toward the hallway where Branch had gone. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper.
“They’re already dead.”
John Dory went rigid.
“Yesterday, when I went out looking for some sign of the rescue group, I… I recognized one of them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, releasing a trembling breath. “Or what was left of him. Now his broken body wanders out there with those monsters.”
At the word ‘monsters’, John Dory felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach, but he ignored it as best he could.
Silence fell between them again. Spruce opened his eyes, slightly red, staring at a fixed point on the floor.
“You seemed pretty sure when you said you had secrets to keep the zombies from attacking you,” he said at last.
He looked up. There was something almost pleading in his expression, though he was trying to remain firm.
“They work for me,” John Dory replied, scratching the back of his neck, uneasy. “If you try it—”
“You’re our last hope,” Spruce cut in, stepping forward. “I… could pay you.”
The words came out weak, almost ashamed.
John Dory raised an eyebrow, confused. Pay him? There wasn’t much Spruce could offer. His gaze instinctively drifted to the shotgun, and he knew —even before fully thinking it— that he would never ask for it. It was the only thing his brother had to defend himself.
Money wasn’t an option either. Bills and coins had lost all meaning when countries —and with them, their economies— collapsed under the virus. Now the world ran on barter, on favors, on things that hurt to give up.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.
Spruce was approaching slowly. His movements were no longer defensive, but cautious, almost fearful. He had left the weapon forgotten on the floor, as if he no longer remembered what it was for. A softness appeared on his face that John Dory hadn’t seen before; a fragile, pleading expression, as if he needed John to look at him… to truly see him.
He stepped close.
Too close.
Until his face was only inches from the helmet’s visor. John’s body tensed immediately, confused, alerted by a different kind of danger.
“What are you—?”
He didn’t get to finish.
Spruce’s trembling hands rested against his chest. His fingers clumsily traced the fabric of his jacket, slowly sliding down toward his abdomen, searching for something he didn’t know how to ask for with words.
“I can pay you like this,” he murmured.
He forced a seductive tone that cracked at the end of every syllable, like a poorly rehearsed lie.
“If this is what you need to help us… then take it.”
John Dory went completely still.
Through the visor, he looked at Spruce with brutal clarity. The terror hidden behind that false confidence. His reddened eyes, shining with tears he refused to let fall. The faint tremble of his lips, fighting not to break.
He hated it.
He hated that Spruce had to lower himself like this.
He hated the world that had convinced him his body was a valid form of currency.
How many times had he had to do this before?
How many times had he swallowed his shame to get food, protection —one more night alive for himself and for Branch?
John Dory felt sick.
With a sharp movement, he shoved him away. Spruce stumbled back awkwardly, nearly falling, startled by the sudden violence of the rejection.
Spruce looked at him, confused.
“Don’t ever do that again,” John Dory said, his voice heavy with pain.
The confusion shifted into anger. His cheeks flushed with humiliation, and the softness in his eyes vanished, hardening in seconds. If looks could kill, John was sure he would have lost his head on the spot.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” the purple-haired man spat, hurt and furious. “No man would turn this down. Not when it’s offered that easily.”
He grabbed the shotgun from the floor with trembling hands and aimed it at him again —this time with more desperation than steadiness.
“What the hell are you, really?!” he demanded, his voice breaking.
The gun began to shake. His hands could no longer hold it the way they had before.
“What are you?” he repeated, quieter this time, as if the question itself was too heavy to keep raised.
John’s silence was what finally broke him.
Spruce clenched his teeth, trying to hold onto that mask of toughness he had worn for months —but this time it failed. His shoulders began to tremble. The shotgun lowered a few inches.
He dragged a hand over his face, fingers rough against his skin, as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion and fear carved into it.
“A week,” he let out a humorless laugh. “A whole damn week telling Branch everything’s going to be fine. That someone’s coming to save us. That he doesn’t need to worry about food.”
The laugh cracked in half and dissolved into an involuntary sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could force it back inside.
“Do you know what it’s like to carry this alone?” he continued, his voice growing more unstable. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up every day thinking this might be the last one and still have to pretend everything’s okay so he won’t be scared?”
His breathing turned uneven, ragged. Each word seemed to cost him twice the effort.
“I have to lie to him every damn day.”
His shoulders started to cave in, as if the weight he’d been carrying had finally taken physical form.
“When I saw that man…” He swallowed hard. “When I recognized him among those things… I knew no one was coming. That I was alone. That we were alone.”
The shotgun finally pointed at the ground, hanging uselessly from his hands.
“I promised him we’d head to a special survivor base in the snowy mountains of Symphonyville…”
The anger collapsed, leaving only fear. Raw, childlike, desperate fear.
“I have to protect him,” he said, almost pleading. “He’s the only thing I have left in this disgusting world.”
He looked up at John Dory. His eyes were red, flooded with tears he could no longer hold back.
“If I have to offer my body, if I have to humiliate myself, if I have to do something I hate…”
His voice broke completely.
“I’ll do it.”
Because love, in a broken world, sometimes looked far too much like self-destruction.
“But don’t leave me alone with this,” he asked. “Please. I don’t know what else to do.”
It wasn’t a proud plea. It wasn’t steady. It was a tired whisper, heavy with fear and exhaustion —of someone who had already given everything he had and still needed more strength than he had left.
John Dory didn’t answer right away.
He felt something crack inside him —not all at once, but with a slow splintering sound, like a structure that had been holding more weight than it could bear for far too long. Something he had kept under control with discipline, with distance, with cold and necessary decisions.
He had survived the hunger that twisted his stomach and clouded his thoughts.
He had survived the loneliness that forced him to learn how to exist without anyone speaking his name.
He had survived the guilt of continuing to walk when others had fallen —of breathing when he no longer should.
He had learned to live with all of it.
But seeing his brother like this…
Seeing Spruce fall apart without drama, without anger, without masks. With slumped shoulders, a broken voice, that childlike fear peeking through the cracks of the adult he had been forced to become far too quickly.
It hurt in a place John Dory had been sure he’d lost long ago. A place he thought was dead, dry, useless.
And yet it was there —beating with painful strength.
For the first time since he had become what he was now, John Dory truly hesitated.
He didn’t doubt his ability to survive. He didn’t doubt his control. He doubted the decision he had repeated like a mantra: leaving is what’s best.
Maybe leaving wasn’t protecting them. Maybe disappearing wasn’t an act of love, but a cowardly way to avoid facing the harm he could cause… and the harm that was already happening without him.
Maybe leaving them alone, believing it was the right thing to do, wasn’t saving them at all —maybe it was simply condemning them to die miserably. And that possibility —that single thought— weighed more than the hunger, more than the guilt, more than the fear of losing control.
John Dory took a slow, careful step forward. He didn’t try to touch the man standing before him; he simply closed the distance enough for Spruce to understand he wasn’t going anywhere.
Spruce tensed as he saw him approach. His body reacted before his mind did. Instinctively, he tried to raise the shotgun… but he couldn’t. His hands were shaking too badly, betraying him.
“Don’t come any closer…” he murmured. There was no strength in the warning. Only fear.
John Dory stopped about half a meter away. Close enough to be heard. Far enough not to invade his space.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I never could.”
Spruce let out a broken, bitter laugh.
“That’s what they all say,” he replied. “And when you lower your guard, when you trust them, they take advantage of you and hurt you.”
John Dory looked at him, concern tightening his expression. Spruce’s words made his chest ache. How much had the purple-haired man truly suffered?
John Dory drew in a deep breath, even though he no longer needed to.
“Listen. If I’m going to help you get out of the city,” he said calmly, “then you’re going to have to trust me.”
Silence wrapped around them again —but this time it felt different. For the first time, Spruce truly looked at him. Not like a threat. He looked at him the way you look at someone exhausted —someone who has been carrying too much for far too long and doesn’t know how to put it down.
“Take off the helmet,” Spruce said suddenly.
John Dory went completely still, his eyes widening. It was as if his body had frozen before his mind could even process what he had just heard.
“Spruce…” he murmured. The name felt heavy on his tongue.
He lowered his gaze. His fingers curled and uncurled slowly, over and over, as if searching for something to hold onto. He didn’t want to do it. Not like this. Not in front of him.
If he took off the helmet, Spruce would see the truth —he would see what was left of him. And John didn’t know if his brother was ready for that.
“Take it off,” Spruce repeated, almost pleading. “If I’m going to trust you… I need to see you. I need to know who you are.”
John Dory looked down, clenching his hands into tight fists, feeling anxiety crawl through his body.
“You’re not going to like what’s under this helmet…” he said at last, his voice low, edged with warning. “It’s not… it’s not easy to look at.”
It was a simple truth, but it cost him to say it. Because it wasn’t just fear of scaring Spruce. It was fear of confirming out loud what he himself saw every time he caught his reflection in a shattered surface: that he was no longer someone who could be looked at without fear.
“I’ve seen things since the pandemic started,” Spruce replied, his voice firm despite the tremor beneath it, “that could have come straight out of hell.”
John Dory clenched his jaw.
It’s not the same, he wanted to say. It’s not the same to see faceless horrors as it is to look at someone you love and realize they’ve become something completely different from the way you remember them.
The silence stretched between them. John Dory felt the anxiety climbing up his chest, his thoughts piling up and crashing into one another.
What if Spruce stepped back?
What if he grabbed the gun again?
What if he looked at him with disgust… or worse, with fear?
The helmet had been his refuge. His last line of defense. As long as he wore it, he could pretend to be normal. He could choose when to reveal himself. Taking it off meant complete exposure. Not just his face —but what he was now. Suddenly the helmet felt heavier than ever, as if it weren’t just metal, but a barrier separating him from rejection, from horror, from losing them all over again.
For a moment, he considered refusing. Making up some excuse. Saying it wasn’t the right time, that he would do it later —maybe pretending to forget and never honoring the request. He thought about how easy it would be to slip back into the mask of the stranger, the anonymous survivor, and leave before everything exploded.
Because if Spruce saw him like this… if he looked at him and no longer saw his brother…
John Dory wasn’t sure he would survive that.
Spruce’s blue eyes never left him. There was no challenge in them. There was need. A need for the truth.
In the end, with a heavy sigh, John Dory slowly raised his trembling hands and brought his fingers to the clasps of the helmet. Each click echoed too loudly in the empty warehouse, as if the entire place were holding its breath.
When he finally removed it, the cold air brushed against his lifeless skin —and Spruce’s eyes flew open as he finally saw the other man’s face.
His complexion held a pallor that wasn’t natural, that couldn’t be blamed on exhaustion or the dim light of the warehouse. There was a cold, muted tone to his skin, as if warmth had never fully returned. In some places it turned grayish, almost translucent. The scars stood out too sharply; and if one looked closer, there was an ugly wound at his neck —partially hidden by the fur lining of his brown jacket, just enough to escape notice at first glance —right over the jugular, as if someone had torn away a piece of flesh.
His face remained still, rigid, in a way that made the skin prickle. A stillness that should have been enough for Spruce to pull the trigger without hesitation.
And yet he didn’t look like just another walking corpse —because of those unmistakable turquoise-blue eyes that seemed to carry a faint glow.
It wasn’t a warm or vibrant light. It wasn’t life pulsing with strength. It was something subtler. More unsettling. A dim, stubborn gleam, like a spark that refuses to go out even when everything around it has already burned away. They looked at him with painful intensity, with something that went beyond instinct. There was thought behind that gaze. There was recognition.
Spruce felt the air leave his lungs.
Because he knew that look.
He had seen it when he was little and hid against his only older brother’s chest after a nightmare. He had seen it when that same brother pretended he was fine, even while everything was falling apart. That quiet sadness, that way of carrying the world in silence… it was there.
His heart began to pound violently, as if it wanted to break through his ribs and escape. The shotgun suddenly felt twice as heavy in his hands. Part of him screamed not to look any longer, that this was some cruel trick of his mind, that he was projecting memories where none should exist.
But…
Why couldn’t he look away?
Horror pierced him all at once, because he wasn’t just looking at a zombie…
He was looking at his brother.
The recognition hit him like a slap, forcing him to stumble half a step back. His hands began to shake uncontrollably, and the shotgun slipped from Spruce’s fingers, striking the floor with a dull thud. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. And at the same time, some fragile, desperate part of him wanted to lunge forward and make sure he wasn’t imagining it.
“No…” he whispered, but the name was already forming in his throat.
His eyes burned again. The reality was too brutal to hold all at once: the thing standing in front of him shouldn’t have that look in its eyes. It shouldn’t know who he was. It shouldn’t be looking at him with that mixture of pain and care.
And yet it was.
“…John Dory?” Spruce whispered. The name barely made it past his lips.
“Hey, brother…”