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Fog trailed behind Martin's feet as he made his way down the hospital hallway. He expected the worst—hell, something deep within him knew the worst—but he still needed to make sure. Just in case that wasn't the case.
Just in case Jon was alive.
Martin entered Jon's hospital room almost silently. Jon had been in a coma for about two months now, but now, he looked even colder and frailer than he had ever before. There was a doctor standing near Jon's bed, and Martin noticed that the heart monitor had flatlined.
It seemed to take the doctor a few seconds to notice Martin was there, since she seemed startled when she did see him. But her expression quickly turned into one of sorrow.
"I'm so sorry," she muttered. "He's gone."
Martin could do nothing but subtly nod as he looked over at Jon—his body, Martin realized now.
Jonathan Sims was dead—and yet, Martin couldn't find it in him to be too surprised by this.
"Thank you for trying," Martin said to the doctor, so quiet it was almost a whisper. The doctor looked at him with concern, but he didn't say anything else before he walked away.
—
As Martin walked out of the hospital to go to his flat, he couldn't help but to notice a sense of…freedom at Jon's death. It wasn't right to feel this way, though. He and Jon had been quite close, and he should be grieving him…
And yet, Martin knew that he would never have to return to his job at the Magnus Institute. He wasn't sure exactly how he knew, but it was certain in his mind that he was free now.
Minutes later, Martin was on the tram. He didn't remember getting on the tram, but as fog curled around his feet and rested on his shoulders, he couldn't bring himself to care about the odd memory loss.
He was free from the Magnus Institute now. Free from the Ceaseless Watcher. That was a good thing…right?
But Jon was dead.
A tear slid down Martin's pale face, landing on his pant leg. He wrapped his arms around himself—he suddenly felt quite cold.
Nobody noticed Martin quietly sobbing on the tram, which made him grateful that he was the most unremarkable person on it.
Soon enough, Martin was in his flat. The flat that was as unremarkable, boring, and worthless as he was. Again, he didn't remember walking into the door or lying on his bed, but that didn't matter.
It was so, so cold.
Martin was the only one left, he realized. Sasha was dead, Jon was dead, and Tim had undoubtedly died in that horrible explosion.
Martin was the only member of the original archives crew left alive.
Why did it have to be him? He was by far the most worthless, expendable person in that group of four—why did the other three have to die instead?
He found it difficult to breathe through his tears soon enough. The room in front of him became blurry as he sobbed and sobbed, and the fog became thicker and the air became colder. Martin could feel himself gradually disappearing from reality, becoming more and more of a ghost, perhaps he was dying and that's what he deserved—
"Hey. Martin."
Martin opened his eyes to see somebody unfamiliar standing in front of his bed. She had dark skin and white, curly hair, as well as spider legs on her back. Immediately, Martin got a strange feeling from her…and yet, she compelled him.
"Wh-who are you?" Martin stammered, voice still choked with tears.
"My name is Annabelle Cane," the woman said. "And I can help you escape the Forsaken. Become a better version of yourself."
Martin furrowed his eyebrows in mild confusion, but slowly stood up and walked towards Annabelle.
In the back of his mind, there was a voice. A very, very quiet voice. It was familiar, achingly familiar, and it was telling Martin not to approach this woman.
She's dangerous, the voice said. You shouldn't trust her.
It took Martin a few seconds to realize that this was Jon's voice.
But by then, he had already shaken Annabelle's hand.