"I'll see you all on the other side…" Jax managed a smile—thin, tired, but real. It was the first genuine smile he'd worn in what felt like forever, and it almost surprised him when it tugged at his face. For once, the ache in his chest wasn't dread, but something closer to relief. The torture was ending. The last thing he saw were the others: clustered together, tense and uncertain, trying so hard to look hopeful. Then the world folded in on itself, the colours bleeding out, sound collapsing into a dull roar—and then nothing. Black.

Jax—Felix—shot upright, waking up with a sharp gasp. White light burned into his eyes, harsh and unforgiving, and he squeezed them shut with a groan. The smell hit him next; antiseptic, plastic, something sterile and lifeless. When he dared to open his eyes again, blinking rapidly, the room swam into focus, and he found himself in a hospital. Beeping monitors, pale walls, a stiff bed beneath him. No bright colours, no warped physics, no familiar voices bickering nearby.

Felix turned his head slowly, only to see an empty chair, and an untouched side table. There were no flowers or note. Hell, not even a cheap get-well card. Just him. A hollow laugh slipped out of his throat before he could stop it. "Figures," he muttered, his voice hoarse. Jax didn't exist here. Felix did. The weight of it crashed down on him all at once—memories, guilt, the things he'd said and done before the circus, the life he'd failed to live properly. He was human again. Breakable again. Accountable again. He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but it only made his chest tighten. Alone. Just like before. Only this time, there was no mask to hide behind, no cartoon grin to deflect the pain.

Felix leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, shoulders curling inward. "…I shouldn't have come back," he whispered.