Outing End

Cruzer stood in the hallway a little longer, staring at nothing. The obsidian shard was gone from his pocket, but the weight of it remained—like a tether to something real. Something grounding.

He stepped into his own room, the soft glow-crystals lighting up dimly as the door closed behind him. The room was simple: a bed that didn't creak, a desk scattered with notes and folded clothes, a window cracked open just enough for the night air to find him.

Cruzer sank into the chair by the window, elbows on the sill, gaze drifting up to the sky.

It had taken so long to get here—not just the physical miles, but the broken pieces along the way. The fights, betrayals, moments of crushing doubt. And yet, here he was.

Not whole, but healing.