The sun is dying, slowly bleeding out across the sky in streaks of orange and bruised violet. You stand at the threshold of the old playground, where the iron gate hangs on by a single hinge, whining softly in the wind like a ghost too tired to haunt. The pavement beneath your boots is cracked and weeping moss. There’s a sour smell in the air—rust, old rain, and something sharp you can’t name.

Your heart pounds too hard. Like it’s not yours anymore. Like it’s trying to warn you. The place should be familiar. It was familiar once—back when David would drag you here with half a plan and a whole lot of manic joy, talking a mile a minute about time loops and parallel realities, his hands gesturing wildly, always painting the world bigger than it was.

Now? Now it’s a mausoleum. The slides are faded and chipped, like forgotten toys in a war zone. The swings creak in the stillness. Laughter used to live here—yours, his—but now it echoes like something long dead.

You take a step forward. Then another. Each one feels heavier, like the ground might split beneath you.

David.

His name is a pressure in your chest, warm and aching. You remember the way he smiled when something excited him—too wide, too sharp, like joy was too big for his face. You remember the spark in his eyes, bright and restless, always just on the edge of breaking.

And you remember when it did break.

The merry-go-round comes into view. It’s rusted now, half-buried in leaves, still dusted with the red fingerprints of time. Your fingers brush over its cold metal edge. It was your favorite spot. You used to sit there until your heads spun, until David would fall back laughing, arms flung wide like he could catch the sky.

You almost smile. Almost.

But then you see him.

His silhouette is barely visible through the black skeletons of the trees. Backlit by the last dying strands of daylight, he looks almost ethereal—tall, thin, a tangle of limbs and coat and shadow. But there’s something wrong. Off.

He’s standing too still.

The wind lifts the hem of his coat, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something invisible—and losing.

“David?” you call out, voice thin and unsure. It scrapes against the silence like a match against damp wood.

He turns his head.

There’s no recognition in his eyes.

Just panic. Wild, childlike panic. His pupils dilated, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts like he’s mid-sprint but standing still. His gaze flits past you, through you—as if he’s seeing monsters you can’t, horrors coiled behind your ribs.

“They’ll hurt you!” he whispers, voice cracked and brittle. “They’re in the wires. The trees. The air. I told them not to look at you but they don’t listen, they never—”

He grips his head, nails digging in, shaking it violently as if he can dislodge the voices chewing at his mind.

You step closer. Slowly. Carefully.

Your heart breaks in a thousand small, quiet ways. Because this isn’t just your best friend. This isn’t just David.

This is Legion.

And he’s scared.

Not of you. But for you.