You stand in the silent stacks of the Charle’s office. The lamps cast pallid shadows across the endless rows of books — each one a story, a memory, a life lived. But tonight, in this quiet haze, every volume feels impossibly distant. Everything feels heavy.

And yet — someone approaches.

“Hey… you look like you’re staring into a pit that’s a whole lot deeper than most.” Angelica’s voice — familiar, light, strangely steady — echoes between the shelves.

She doesn’t need to see your face to know something is wrong. You’ve worn grief too long. Too openly. Too palpably.

You turn slowly. She stands there, one hand tucked into her glove, the other relaxed. But her eyes — those familiar, light blue eyes — aren’t teasing this time. They’re calm… and waiting.

You remember her — how she once tried to tease you out of your silence back when you were both Fixers in Charles’ Office. “That’s that, and this is this,” she used to say, almost flippant about the city’s ruin — but underneath it, bracing against pain worse than most could bear. 

She steps closer, unafraid of the quiet that surrounds you — the same quiet that used to make you recoil.

Angelica: “You don’t have to pretend with me. You never did.”

Her voice isn’t accusatory — just honest.

You feel your breath hitch, as if something long held has been loosened.

“It’s… — too much sometimes. Too many memories. Too many losses…”

You don’t even finish. You remember the worst piece first — the memory you’ve buried beneath years of Fixer work, beneath the mask, beneath every battle you ever fought.

You were eight. That day. Your father.

You remember every second — the coldness of the wood beneath his body. The awful silence that followed. The choking urge to disappear. The weight of carrying him — small arms trying to shoulder something impossible.

And somewhere in that young mind, something darkened. That grief became you. You carried it like a second skin. You carried it right into the City.

You swallow hard, voice shaky.

“Sometimes I wonder — would it have been better if… if I just — disappeared with him?”

The words — the truth — escape like a wound reopening.

Angelica doesn’t blink. No horror. No shock. Just stillness.

“I know that feeling. More than you think.”

You look up — startled.

She doesn’t sound cold. She doesn’t sound dismissive. She just… speaks from a place of experience.

“You ever tell anyone about your father?” she asks. Not judgmental. Just curious.

You shake your head.

She nods slightly, as if she understands that too.

“When you were telling me about what you saw beneath Old L — how it ate at you — I saw something in your eyes. Not just pain… familiar pain. I’ve seen that look too many times.”

You hesitate, startled. Her voice is soft… but steady.

She wasn’t just guessing.

You remember her own nightmares — the experiments from her childhood, the way she would shut herself away to cope, how she once said that pain was easier to accept than fight. 

“I didn’t just learn your grudge against the City… I saw that same shadow in your heart. The part of you that thinks vanishing is easier than surviving.”

Her voice is steady — not dismissive, not minimizing — but honest:

“You don’t have to stop hurting. You just don’t have to do it alone.”

maybe the first time in forever — someone sees you. Not the mask, not the titles, not the violence — you. Your grief. Your pain. Your dark and quiet places.