Ashes and Embers
Chance Breaks—Then Rebuilds
The gun sat untouched on the bed for hours after Chance put it down.
The weight of it lingered—not just in his bones but in his mind, an ever-present pressure in the hollow of his chest. He didn’t move.
Couldn’t. It sat there, black and motionless against the crumpled sheets, but it felt louder than anything in the room.
It should have been so easy.
But nothing ever was.
His fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants. He could still feel it. The cold steel. The weight of the trigger. The ghost of a recoil that had never come.
He hadn’t done it.
But the thought had been there. And that was enough to haunt him.
He exhaled, shaky and uneven, his throat tight. His body refused to relax, muscles coiled, nerves frayed to nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut, dragging in a breath through his teeth. It didn’t help.
Because sleep didn’t bring peace.
It never did.
---
The Nightmares Came.
Louder. Sharper. Unforgiving.
Guest’s blood on his hands. The weight of it, thick and warm, seeping into his skin. He could hear the echoes of his own ragged breaths, the frantic pounding of his heartbeat, the distant sound of footsteps that would never reach them in time.
And Guest’s voice.
Soft. But unshaken.
"Pull the trigger."
Chance gasped awake, lungs burning, body rigid as if bracing for impact. He stared at the ceiling, his breath uneven. His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight. It took him too long to realize he was still here. Still breathing.
But Guest wasn’t.
And waking up to that fact was worse than the nightmare itself.
---
The Days Blurred.
Chance pushed harder. Fought more. Spoke less.
He could feel the others watching him. Feel the weight of their stares when he walked into the room. The murmurs when they thought he wasn’t listening. The tension in their movements when he was near.
He didn’t care.
He trained harder. Stayed out longer. Stopped sleeping.
Elliot tried to talk to him. He shut him down.
Two Time cornered him. He walked away.
Because if he stopped moving, the grief would sink its teeth in deeper. If he let himself slow down, even for a second, Guest’s absence would fill every inch of space around him.
So he didn’t stop.
Not until stopping wasn’t a choice anymore.
---
The Mission Was Supposed to Be Simple.
John Doe had resurfaced. Same corruption in his veins. Same jagged claw where his right hand should’ve been. Same empty, soulless gaze.
The same killer who had taken Guest away.
Chance didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t tell anyone.
Didn’t wait for backup.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t care.
---
The Fight Was Ugly.
Brutal. Raw.
John Doe was fast. Inhumanly so. His movements were jagged and unnatural, a grotesque mockery of something that had once been human. The claw tore through the air, missing Chance’s throat by inches. He ducked, rolled, came up swinging.. Just like guest used to..
His fists connected—jaw, ribs, shoulder. But John Doe barely flinched.
Chance could feel himself slipping. Vision blurring at the edges. Blood dripping from his split knuckles, from the gash along his temple. His body ached, but the rage kept him standing.
This was it.
The moment he had been waiting for.
The moment he could finally end it.
He reached for the gun—the only weapon he had. The only thing standing between him and death.
But before he could pull the trigger—
Something hit him from the side.
Hard.
Pain exploded through his ribs as he crashed into the ground, air ripped from his lungs. A weight pressed against his chest, pinning him down. The barrel of the gun was still in his grip, but his hands shook too much to aim.
John Doe loomed over him, his claw raised—
And then—
A pizza flew through the air.
---
It Hit John Doe in the Face.
Square on.
The impact sent sauce splattering, cheese sticking to his corrupted skin like an insult to injury. The sheer absurdity of it stalled the moment, John Doe stumbling back, disoriented, swiping at the mess with an inhuman snarl.
The smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese filled the air.
And then—
??- "Are you insane?!"
Elliot.
He was there.
And he was furious.
Chance barely had time to react before Elliot was grabbing him, yanking him up by the front of his jacket.
- “What the hell were you thinking?!”
Chance coughed, still breathless.
- “I—”
Elliot didn’t let him finish.
- “You weren’t thinking! You went after him alone! Do you have a death wish, Chance?!”
Chance clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the gun. His body ached. His heart pounded.
John Doe was still standing. Still breathing.
Still alive.
And that was unacceptable.
He raised the gun again, but Elliot’s hand shot out, shoving his arm down before he could fire.
- “Stop.” His voice was sharp. Unyielding.
- “Move.”
- “No.”
Chance’s breathing was ragged. His entire body was trembling with exhaustion, with rage, with something dangerously close to breaking.
- “He killed Guest.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “He doesn’t get to walk away.”
Elliot’s grip didn’t loosen.
- “And if you kill him, then what?”
Chance’s jaw tightened.
- “Then it’s over.”
Elliot stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head.
- “No. It won’t be.”
The words hit harder than any punch ever could.
Chance’s grip slackened. The gun felt heavier than before. His chest felt tighter.
- “I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to live without him.”
Elliot sighed, his expression pained.
- “Then let us help you figure it out.”
Chance swallowed hard. His vision blurred. His hands shook.
And then—finally—he let go of the gun.
It hit the ground with a soft thud.
John Doe was already fading, vanishing back into the dark, but Chance barely noticed. His legs gave out beneath him. The fight drained from his body all at once.
And for the first time since Guest died—
He let someone catch him.
---
Chance Didn’t Heal Overnight.
But he started trying.
He stopped drinking himself into numbness. Stopped throwing himself into fights he couldn’t win. Stopped running himself into the ground just to feel something.
It wasn’t easy. Some nights were worse than others. The nightmares still came. The guilt never left.
But he wasn’t alone.
Elliot was there. Two Time, too.
They didn’t let him drown, even when he wanted to.
And slowly—painfully—Chance started to rebuild.
For Guest.
For himself.
For the story that wasn’t over yet.
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