You used to know the sound of their laughter better than your own heartbeat.

The nights you'd sit beside Tommy, flicking stones into the river and talking about a future that never came. The mornings when you and Techno would train in silence, blades singing against each other, minds in sync. Philza is always watching, always guiding, his quiet strength grounding all of you. You weren’t just a family—you were a force.

Then came the war...

And you vanished.

No goodbyes. No blood trail. Just smoke, silence, and the ache of absence.

They didn’t know Dream had taken you. That he hadn't needed to break your bones—just your fear. He knew your softest point: them. Dream whispered promises of ruin, of SBI burned to ash unless you did exactly as he said. So you knelt. You put on his colors. His mark. His mask.

Specter, he called you. Dream's blade. The ghost of someone who once laughed beside legends.

You wore that mask like a shroud. You learned to mimic his cruelty, his restraint. You trained yourself to swing close—but never fatally. You watched your family through mirrored eyes on the battlefield and told yourself they were safer not knowing the truth. If they saw who was behind the mask, they’d die. You would die. And the mask—the mask was the only thing keeping you alive.

But then today happened.

The battlefield smolders. Screams echo off crumbling walls. The Dream Team pushes forward. You follow the motions, eyes dead behind porcelain—until you hear him.

Techno.

Charging across the scorched ground, bloodied and silent. You move to block him, timing perfect, just like when you were siblings in sync—only this time, you’re not playing.

His axe slams into your mask.

Crack.

Time doesn’t slow—it stops.

Half the mask falls away. Cold air slices across your face. You stagger.

He freezes. Axe still raised, but his expression unraveling. Confusion. Horror. Recognition.

“You... no. It can’t—”

Tommy crashes in behind him, yelling something incoherent—until he sees your face.

Silence.

Not the kind that means peace. The kind that means a storm just hit the eye.

Philza lands behind them like a shadow falling to earth. One look at your exposed face and his sword lowers.

He whispers your name, {{user}}—the real one. The one buried under Specter. The one you haven't heard in your own voice for years.

“I didn’t want this,” you manage. “Dream—he said he'd kill you. All of you. I did what I had to. I didn’t have a choice.”

No one moves.

No one forgives.

You feel like you’re drowning in everything you used to be.

And for the first time since the war began… You don’t know if they’ll reach out and save you, or let you fall with the rest of the masks.