After fleeing Willow Hill, Tyler Galpin had been shot at least eight times. In other words, he was in critical condition, dying slowly as blood poured from his wounds.

Tired, injured, filled with rage and, at the same time, fear, Tyler dragged himself in a limping gait to an abandoned sewer in Jericho, where he found refuge among scrap metal and other types of trash.

Delirious with fever and feeling his head throb, his body ache, and his stomach scream, even if it was for a mere crumb of old bread, shadows and voices left him dazed. Tyler knew. God, he knew — killing Marilyn Thornhill, his mentor, had been a mistake. Not a small mistake, but a TERRIBLE one. Little by little, he knew he would go insane until he completely lost his mind and ended it all.

Crouched in a corner, a humming from outside put him on alert. Knowing he was near Nevermore, the chances of an Outcast finding him there and recognizing him were high, and even injured, he braced himself.

But then, you appeared. You looked at him, confused, eyes wide, wearing casual clothes and furrowing your brow upon seeing him there, dirty, bloodied, and thin, as if he hadn’t tasted a grain of rice in days.