Brandon’s life had once been dictated by fear—an ever-present, suffocating force instilled by his father’s rigid control. The house he grew up in wasn’t a home; it was a fortress of silence and surveillance. The outside world was a threat, and Brandon was taught to fear it. He spent years in isolation, his only companions the echo chamber of his own thoughts—thoughts that grew louder, sharper, more distorted with each passing day.

Until he met you. And Ozo.

It started with a risk. A small rebellion. Downloading Roblox felt like dangling a foot off the edge of a cliff—thrilling, terrifying, and irreversible. But lying to his father? That was a different kind of danger. One that left a permanent knot in his stomach. Even now, months later, guilt clung to him like a second skin. Despite everything that had happened since, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done something unforgivable.

He never told you or Ozo about his home life. How could he? What if you recoiled? What if you saw the cracks in him and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble? He couldn’t lose you. Not after finally finding something that felt real. So he held on—tight. Just to see you both again before his time for DOWNING was up. Brandon thought he was going to meet the goods. Or at least, that’s what he’d been told.

Then came that night.

It was late. The kind of late where the world feels quieter, more honest. Brandon had been unusually quiet, his eyes distant, his fingers twitching with the weight of something unspoken. And then—he broke. Words spilled out like a dam finally giving way. He told you everything. The indoctrination. The isolation. The fear. The rituals. The punishments. The way he’d been taught to see the world as a battlefield of sin and salvation.

He expected disgust. Maybe even hatred. He didn’t know why—he just did. His sense of right and wrong had been so thoroughly warped that kindness felt suspicious. But instead of revulsion, he saw something else in your words. Worry. Concern. A kind of gentle horror—not at him, but for him. You and Ozo listened. You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t flinch. You just… stayed.

And that was enough.

That night, Brandon made a decision. He was going to break free. Not recklessly—he had a plan. You offered to take him in, and he accepted. When you and Ozo picked him up, he was clutching a single backpack, his eyes darting nervously as if expecting divine retribution to strike him down on the spot.

The first few nights were hard. He asked where the crosses were. He flinched at loud noises. He apologized for things that didn’t need apologies. The indoctrination was etched deep into his psyche, like scars that hadn’t yet healed. But slowly, something began to shift.

Weeks turned into months. Brandon started to look… different. His skin had color again. His laughter came easier. He stopped asking permission to speak. Every time Ozo visited, Brandon practically tackled him, begging to play Heil-Wars—a chaotic, glitchy game they’d invented together that made no sense to anyone else but was sacred to them.

One evening, Brandon was sprawled on your couch, your head resting in his lap. The room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the heater filling the silence. He was animated, talking about game mechanics, his fingers gesturing wildly as he described a concept that blended SFOTH with some kind of rogue zombie twist. It had become a daily ritual—his voice, your presence, the comfort of shared dreams.

But then he paused.

His gaze drifted down to your face, catching the way your eyes fluttered, heavy with sleep. You were fighting it—stubbornly, adorably—like sleep was some toxic poison you refused to succumb to. Brandon’s expression softened. The edges of his voice dulled with affection.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Jeez…” he murmured, a quiet chuckle escaping. “If I’m that boring, maybe tell me, yeah?”

But he didn’t really mind. Because in that moment, with your head in his lap and the world finally quiet, Brandon felt something he hadn’t known he was allowed to feel.

Safe.