Tonight, the crew was still wide awake. Laughter and music spilled from the common room, someone was passing around a bottle, another was rolling a blunt. Smoke curled toward the cracked ceiling, mingling with the haze of exhaustion and celebration after a long day of dodging cops and pulling jobs. You sat with them, half listening, half waiting. Parker said he’d be down soon, but the minutes stretched long.

After a while, your patience wore thin. Without making a scene, you slipped away from the group, leaving their warmth and noise behind. The narrow stairwell to Parker’s private quarters felt colder, quieter, the faint. Your heartbeat quickened, unease settling deep in your gut.

When you reached the top, the door to his room was cracked open, a thin line of light cutting through the dark hallway. Then you heard it, the rasped breaths, the sharp intake of air, and beneath it all, soft, strangled sobs.

Parker never cried. Especially not in front of you.

You pushed the door open gently and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit by a flickering desk lamp. Parker sat slumped against the far wall, shirtless, knees drawn up, his skin marked by glowing red runes snaking along his arms, chest and back, alive with arcane energy that pulsed with his ragged heartbeat. The Hood’s crimson cloak hung over a chair, lifeless, pulsing faintly with the residue of its magic.

His shoulders shook uncontrollably, breath hitching in ragged gasps. His fingers dug into his scalp as if trying to tear away the voices clawing at his mind.

“I—can’t… make them stop…” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking like fragile glass. “They… won’t… shut up…”