Back at Avaros City...past the usual activity...
A shrill ringing slices through the dimly lit motel room. Darren stirs violently, his body jerking awake. His limbs flail as he blindly swipes at the alarm clock, missing entirely. In the struggle, he shifts too far and—
Thud.
He crashes onto the cold floor with a sharp grunt, the impact knocking the breath out of him. "Shit," he groans, rubbing his elbow as he pushes himself up. He glares at the still-ringing clock, finally managing to silence it with a firm press of the button. The abrupt silence leaves only the hum of the city beyond the motel's thin walls.
Darren yawns and scratches at his bare arm, blinking groggily as his vision adjusts to the dim light filtering through the stained curtains. He's wearing his usual worn-out t-shirt—a faded black one with a half-peeled-off slogan that reads:
"I Paused My Game to Be Here."
It's old, stretched at the collar, and slightly oversized, but it's comfortable. His curly, disheveled hair sticks out in all directions, flattened slightly on one side from sleep. His skin, a warm light brown, carries a dull sheen of exhaustion. His eyes—dark, sharp—move sluggishly around the cramped space.
Stacks of books are scattered across the floor, their spines cracked and worn. Comics are piled next to them, some open, pages slightly crinkled from late-night reading. His sneakers are tossed haphazardly near the edge of the bed, one sock lying in the middle of the room like it had been abandoned in battle.
His gaze shifts to the left.
A soft, rhythmic beeping fills the quiet space.
His grandmother.
She lies on the small cot across the room, her frail body draped in a thin, faded hospital gown—the kind with the tiny, indiscernible blue patterns on it. Her once-rich brown skin is pale, almost ashen, a stark contrast to the IV taped against the curve of her fragile hand. The nasal cannula in her nose rises and falls with each shallow breath, clear tubes running from her nostrils down to the oxygen machine beside her. Another set of tubes trails from her mouth, connected to a smaller device monitoring her vitals.
Darren sighs.
The room suddenly feels too small. The air, too thin.
He drags himself to his feet, rubbing his face. His mind replays the instructions the nurse had given him the last time they were at the hospital—the same nurse who had looked at him with pity after their insurance got declined, her hands lingering on his shoulder a little too long.
He mutters the steps to himself as he checks the machine. "Alright... oxygen level's good… IV's still flowing... the catheter…" His voice drops off as he carefully removes the old bag and replaces it with a new one. His hands work automatically, movements steady despite the tension in his chest.
When he's done, he pulls back, scanning her face. Her gray curls are unkempt, some strands sticking to her damp forehead. Gently, he brushes a stray lock away, his fingers barely grazing her skin. "Another long night, huh?" he murmurs.
She doesn't respond.
She never does in the mornings.
His throat tightens, but he forces himself to breathe. He tucks the blanket around her, making sure the corners are snug.
Then, quietly, he steps out of the room.
The motel's kitchen is barely more than a glorified closet. The linoleum floor is cracked, the sink leaks from somewhere underneath, and the dim light flickers intermittently like it's about to give up. The cupboards—chipped at the edges, doors hanging slightly off their hinges—are nearly bare.
Darren grabs two instant soup cups from the small counter, fills them with water from the tap, and pops them into the microwave. As he waits, he leans against the counter, rubbing his eyes.
...three weeks...
It's been three weeks since she got sick. Three weeks of this routine.
He sighs. He doesn't even remember what it's like to wake up without that first thought being "Is she still breathing?"
The microwave beeps. He grabs both bowls, not bothering with utensils. His own disappears in seconds—barely chewing, just swallowing, heat burning his throat. The other he carries back carefully, placing it on the small vanity next to his grandmother's bed.
His eyes drift to the old photo frame beside it. A picture of his parents. Young, bright-eyed, smiling. He barely remembers them.
But he knows they were his.
He adjusts the frame slightly, straightening it. A small, bittersweet smile tugs at his lips.
"Didn't know them at all… but I'm glad I have you," he thinks, glancing back at his grandmother.
The lump in his throat tightens.
He forces himself to swallow it down.
Brushing his fingers over the back of her hand, he whispers, "I'll see you later, Grandma."
As Darren heads toward the exit, he catches sight of his baseball cap hanging on the hook near the door.
His hand instinctively reaches for it—fingers just grazing the brim—when something stops him.
A strange, pulling sensation.
Not physical, but something deeper.
He hesitates.
For a second, he wants to take it. It's his dad's, after all. The only thing of his father's he ever got to keep.
But instead—
He pulls his hand back.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he steps past it, shoulders tense.
He doesn't look back as he pushes open the door.
The morning air is brisk, crisp with the early chill of autumn. The motel sign flickers overhead, the neon letters barely holding onto their glow.
Avaros City hums faintly in the distance, the sound of cars, of movement, of life continuing as if nothing is wrong.
As if the world isn't crumbling, piece by piece...
Darren exhales, his breath curling into the cool morning air as he steps forward.
The motel they stay in—The Blue Iris—stands just behind him, its aging neon sign flickering intermittently, barely holding onto the last of its glow. It isn't much—just a two-story building with faded blue paint peeling in places, the windows clouded with a thin layer of city grime. The parking lot is half-empty, the cracked pavement littered with stray leaves and old cigarette butts.
He glances at the owner's office, a small shack-like extension attached to the main building. A faded "VACANCY" sign hangs crookedly in the window. He's glad the old man running the place knows them—otherwise, they'd be in serious trouble by now.
Beyond the motel, a wide road separates them from the rest of the city. Not a freeway, thankfully—just a large, rarely-busy street that stretches toward the more commercial areas of Avaros. If it had been a freeway, there'd be no way to cross without a car, and Darren can't afford to waste time waiting on the sporadic buses that run through this part of town.
His gaze drifts to the bike rack near the edge of the lot. He strides over, reaching into his pocket for the key to the cheap black bike he's been using for years. It's nothing special—just a little banged-up, with scuffed handlebars and a slightly rusted chain. The paint is chipped near the pedals, and the back wheel squeaks faintly when he rides too fast. He jingles the lock, twisting the key with a soft click as the chain unravels.
Chuckling to himself, he mutters, "Man, Obinai probably would've just stolen one of these damn things instead." The thought makes him laugh. It was the kind of stupid, impulsive thing his friend would have done—half out of necessity, half just to see if he could get away with it.
Swinging his leg over the seat, Darren pedals toward the crosswalk, the wind catching in his curls as he picks up speed. The city feels different in the early morning—quieter, more subdued. The usual hum of Avaros is still waking up, the distant sounds of traffic and murmured conversations growing steadily as he moves further into the denser parts of town.
He slows as he reaches the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change. His mind drifts.
Angel was frantic a minute ago.
Obinai... damn shame about him.
He doesn't even know what happened. Not really. Just that his place got wrecked, and no one's seen him since. Darren presses his lips together, staring at the red hand on the pedestrian light. Where the hell are you, man? Are you okay?
The light flicks to the walking symbol, and Darren pushes forward, pedaling steadily across.
He exhales sharply. Shit, a lot of the kids at school didn't like him either. Always getting into fights, pissing off the teachers. He smirks faintly, shaking his head. But man, was he fun. Shit just hasn't been the same.
He rolls past rows of buildings, the streets narrowing as they grow busier. The scent of street food and the distant clatter of shop shutters fill the air. Cars honk, and the occasional siren wails somewhere in the distance. More people are starting to emerge—business owners setting up for the day, students dragging their feet toward school, workers nursing steaming cups of coffee as they hurry along the sidewalks.
Darren sighs. Teachers are probably celebrating now that he's gone. Ain't gotta deal with him anymore. He snorts at the thought, though the humor fades quickly.
He pedals faster.
Something was always off about him, though... Always seemed down, even when he was laughing. Darren frowns, gripping the handlebars tighter. Jokes helped, sure, but… it was like he was always looking past everyone else. Like he wasn't really there.
His path becomes more familiar now. He knows these streets like the back of his hand—the alleyways, the shortcuts, the cracks in the sidewalk he has to avoid so he doesn't mess up his tires.
And finally—his destination.
His grandmother's restaurant.
It's a small place, wedged between two much larger buildings. The sign above the entrance is old but still legible—"Ms. Sue's ." The paint is chipping, and the wood paneling along the sides is starting to wear, but to him, it's always been more than just a restaurant.
Darren stops just outside, his foot tapping idly against the pavement as he takes it in.
Grandma was always stubborn as hell. Even when those shady-ass contractors came knocking, waving checks in her face, she never wavered. "This place means too much to me," she'd say. "It's got history."
He dismounts, walking his bike to the side and locking it up. His fingers linger on the metal for a second as a thought surfaces.
She used to say something else, too.
Something weird.
"It's helped others before me… and when the time comes, it'll help me too. A doorway to somewhere."
Darren chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. What did that even mean?
He reaches into his pocket, fishing out the keys. As he flips through them, he mutters, "A doorway to where, Grandma? You never explained that part."
Finding the right key, he presses it into the lock, turning it. Just before opening the door, he hesitates.
The song.
She always used to hum it under her breath while she cooked. A little tune, a soft melody that had stuck with him all these years. Without thinking, Darren sings it under his breath as he pushes the door open:
"Rest your weary head and stay,
In this home, you'll find your way.
Safe within, through dark or light,
The Sanctuary guards the night."
The words barely leave his lips before he stops himself, scoffing. "Man, I sound corny as hell."
With a final sigh, he steps inside....