The darkness closed in.
It was heavy. Cold. Endless.
Trevor had felt the abyss before—had spent years dancing along its edge.
But this…
This wasn't the abyss.
It was something else.
Something worse.
The weight pressed against his chest, sinking into his very being.
Then—light.
A dim glow, flickering like candlelight.
The scent of parchment and aged wood filled the air, tinged with the unmistakable trace of dried blood.
Trevor blinked.
And suddenly—
He was home.
Sitting in his chamber, a heavy silence stretching between him and the boy in front of him.
Not just any boy.
Dexter.
But younger.
Sixteen years old.
His posture was stiff, his crimson eyes unreadable, but Trevor could see it—the exhaustion hidden beneath the cold exterior.
Trevor exhaled slowly.
He knew this day.
The day after Elena had killed their parents.
The day everything changed.