The door groaned when you pushed it open. The long, metallic sound echoed through the dark space. Inside, the air was cold, heavy, and smelled faintly of wet concrete and dust.

Zed stood in the center, a reminder of who he used to be mixed with something sharper beneath. His hair clung damp to his forehead, his skin was pale, and his lips were pressed tight. His hoodie hung loosely on him, soaked at the shoulders, and his hands shook—not from fear, but from restraint.

The gym lights buzzed above, flickering enough to make shadows dance across his face. He wasn’t pacing this time. He was perfectly still, staring at something spread out on the floor: ripped papers, broken markers, fragments of maps torn right down the middle. Plans, gone.

He didn’t notice you at first. When he finally did, he didn’t turn all the way—just enough for his profile to catch the light.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was flat at first, almost quiet. “Didn’t I make it clear I needed space?”

The silence that followed felt dangerous—the kind that doesn’t breathe.

He stepped forward, his boots scraping against the floor, water dripping from his sleeves. “Do you think showing up is going to fix this? Do you think you can just—what? Tell me to calm down?” He laughed, but it sounded hollow and sharp. “That’s everyone’s favorite thing to say to me lately. Calm down, Zed. Breathe, Zed. Like that’s all it takes.”

The laughter cut off quickly.

Now he turned fully towards you. His expression was dark—eyes wide, jaw clenched, something brittle in the way he held himself. His face had lost all color, the kind of paleness that comes when rage grows cold.

“Do you know what it feels like?” he said, his voice low but shaking. “To have everyone staring at you—waiting to see if you mess up? If you’ll snap? If you’ll be the monster they always thought you were?”

His voice broke, raw and too loud. “You don’t! You don’t know what that’s like! You can’t—” He stopped mid-sentence, catching his breath, and slammed his hand into the table beside him. The wood cracked at the edge, ringing through the gym.

He stood there, chest heaving, the echo fading slowly.

You stayed silent, but that only made it worse. He turned sharply and started pacing—faster, like he couldn’t stay still. “I’ve done everything they asked. I’ve smiled when I wanted to scream. I’ve made speeches, promised peace, begged people who hate each other to just give us a chance.” He scoffed, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it hard. “And for what? For them to call me unstable the second I raise my voice?”

He stopped again, eyes flashing toward you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. His words were quieter but not kinder—strained, almost like a warning. “You should’ve stayed away.”

But you didn’t move. You stood in the doorway, and something in your stillness—your refusal to leave—seemed to break something inside him.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he demanded suddenly. “Why do you keep following me when I tell you not to? What do you think you’re going to do—fix me?” His voice cracked on the word, rising in frustration that bordered on desperation. “You can’t fix this! You can’t fix me!”

He kicked the broken table leg aside, the crash echoing through the empty space. The flickering light buzzed harder, and for a moment, everything froze in that pale, ghostly glare—his face tight, trembling, his expression fractured between fury and heartbreak.

He pressed both hands to his head, breathing harshly through his teeth. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, voice breaking. “I can’t keep being everything for everyone. I can’t—”

He stopped again, pacing, running both hands down his face before gripping the edge of the wall for balance. His knuckles turned white. “I said leave.”

The words came out as a snarl—not because he hated you, but because he didn’t know how to handle the chaos inside him. Each breath came out rough and uneven. His chest rose and fell like he’d been running for miles.

When he looked at you again, his eyes were different—not glowing, not burning. Tired.