The Past

[Tobias's POV]

As we stumbled out of the factory, every aching step a reminder of the battle we had just underwent, Alicia came rushing toward us, her face tight with worry. Her boots thudded against the ground, urgency in every movement. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice breathless, eyes scanning our battered forms.

I forced a grin, though even I could feel how unconvincing it was. My face throbbed, my lips cracked and stinging with the sharp taste of blood. "Never better," I muttered, the words hollow, barely holding together the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders.

Her frown deepened as she took in the damage—the swelling along my jaw, the smear of crimson drying at the corner of my mouth. "What the hell happened?" she demanded, her gaze flicking past me toward Rowan, our so-called leader. "Who were those men?"

Rowan didn't answer right away. He turned to her slowly, his expression still shadowed by the same cold fury that had gripped him since earlier. His eyes—dark, unreadable, still gleaming with the remnants of something dangerous—met hers, and for a second, the air between them felt like the split-second before a storm hits.

But before he could open his mouth, another voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Yeah, Rowan," Talia snapped, her tone sharp with frustration. "What the fuck was that back there?" Talia's voice snapped me back to the present, but it carried echoes of what had just happened—of Rowan, always the composed one, unraveling in a way I had never seen before. He had lost control. Rowan never lost control. Whatever had set him off back there, it wasn't small. This was something big. Something dangerous.

"I'll tell you when we get back," he said finally, his voice stripped of its usual calm. It was empty now—hollow and edged with something cold.

I glanced at the others. Elias, standing stiff beside me, looked like he wanted to speak—to reach out to his brother, to demand answers—but fear held him back. Handy, on the other hand, wasn't hiding anything. His only fist was clenched, jaw tight with barely contained rage. He had lost the sword back there. That alone was enough to make him furious, but this was more than just failing the mission. This was a humiliation.

We moved through the slums in silence, our footsteps heavy against the cracked dirt, each step a painful reminder of the night's failures. The streets, narrow and winding, smelled of damp earth and distant fire smoke, but I barely registered any of it. Shadows stretched long in the dim glow of streetlights, flickering like ghosts against rusted metal walls.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

This mission had been important—a defining step toward the future we were trying to build. But now? Now, that future felt as unstable as the ground beneath our feet. Uncertain. Fractured. I wasn't sure where we stood anymore, what came next, or if there was some next to speak of.

All I knew was that the night pressed heavy against my shoulders, and with every step forward, the weight of it only grew. this carried on for a while, until we reached the place we called home. 

We gathered around Rowan in the main room, the dim light casting sharp angles across his face. He stood stiff, his arms crossed, radiating an icy stillness that made the space feel even smaller. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

"So," I started, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. "Care to share what the hell happened back there, bro?"

Rowan exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched as if bracing for the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was grim, the weight of old wounds pressing down on every syllable.

"Those men… they killed our mother."

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Across from him, Elias stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. "W-what?" His voice was barely more than a whisper, raw with disbelief.

The silence that followed was suffocating. My own stomach twisted as memories surfaced—of my own parents, gone too, though not in a way that left behind the kind of scars Rowan carried. Just sickness. Just death. Clean, in comparison to whatever this was.

Rowan's eyes flickered to his brother before dropping to the floor, his voice slipping into something distant, something hollow.

"I guess I should start from the beginning."

He took a breath, running a hand through his hair before continuing. "When we were kids, we lived in this tiny house—two rooms, barely standing, but it was home. Our father… he was a low-level thug in the Spiders, spent whatever dirty money he made drowning in booze. A real bastard, through and through. But my mother…" His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze going somewhere far beyond the room. "She was different. She was the only reason that place ever felt like a home. Smart, beautiful, kind—too good for the life she had. Too good for the man she was married to."

A shadow passed over his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, edged with something unreadable. "One night, we heard something outside—this rustling, like someone moving in the dark. Our father went to check. Next thing we knew, we heard a struggle, and then… then he was dead. Torn apart by a beast."

I swallowed hard, my pulse picking up. This was some sick shit.

Rowan took a shaky breath. "The thing is," he said, voice bitter, "if that bastard hadn't died that night, we might've had something close to a childhood. Might've been safe. As safe as you can be in the slums. But with him gone, we lost our protection. And that meant we were ripe for the taking."

His hands curled into fists, knuckles white. "The rival gang took their chance. At first, they acted friendly—feeling things out, testing the waters. And then…" His voice cracked, and for a second, it seemed like he might not continue. But he forced himself to. "Then they came. Four of them. Masks. They stormed our house like we were nothing, like she was nothing."

The room was dead silent.

"We hid under the bed." His voice was barely there now, brittle, shaking with restrained fury. "We hid while they took turns. While they… while they—" He cut himself off, his whole body trembling, his fists clenched so hard they might've drawn blood.

I felt sick. My throat was dry, my stomach twisted into knots.

"When they were done, they just left," Rowan whispered. "Like it never even happened." He exhaled, slow and unsteady. "She couldn't take it. She died in my arms." His voice broke on the last word, and he shut his eyes for a moment, as if trying to keep something buried deep where no one could see it. "We were just kids. Just fucking kids."

He let out a breath, long and ragged. "After that, we barely survived. Lived like rats, scraping by in the streets."

His words lingered in the air like a specter, refusing to fade. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, pressing down on all of us as we struggled to absorb the weight of his confession. No one knew what to say, what to do. It felt wrong to speak, but even more unbearable not to—until Elias broke the silence.

"Is it true?" he asked, his voice small, uncertain. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked onto his brother's face.

Rowan's head snapped toward him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned with something sharp. "What do you mean, is it true?" His voice was low, almost disbelieving. "You don't remember?"

Elias hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under his brother's stare. "Well… you remember how I told you that Father Gideon's mind manipulation messed with my memories?" His words were slow, careful. "The truth is… I don't remember much of our childhood." His voice softened, almost apologetic, like he was admitting to something shameful.

Rowan let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "It might be for the better," he muttered, his voice dark, as if he truly meant it.

Talia, who had been silent up until now, took a step forward, her gaze steady. "We'll get th—"

"Stop." Rowan's voice cut through the room like a blade. "We should go to sleep. We'll decide tomorrow." His tone left no room for argument. "Good night."

And just like that, it was over. Or at least, he wanted it to be. One by one, the others drifted away, their footsteps heavy with unspoken thoughts. I lingered, waiting until the last of them had disappeared down the hall before stepping forward.

"Hey, bro," I said quietly.

Rowan turned, his expression still distant, still unreadable. "Hey, Tobias." His voice carried the same restraint, as if he wasn't quite here with me.

I took a breath, choosing my next words carefully. "I know this might sound inconsiderate," I started, watching his reaction, "but I don't want you to do something you'll regret. You need to focus on the present. Not the past."

His lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, bro, don't worry," he said, but the words felt hollow, like an automatic response rather than something he truly believed. "I'd never let anything happen to Elias."

Dismissive. Guarded.

I stepped closer, closing the space between us, forcing him to meet my eyes. I had to tilt my head up to do it, but I didn't look away. Not this time. "No, Rowan, you don't fucking get it!" The words ripped out of me before I could stop them, my voice raw, my breath shaking. "Today, we almost died. All of us. Including Elias, for god's sake!"

I was in his face now, too close, my frustration boiling over. His eyes sharpened, a warning flickering in them, but before he could snap back, I tried to deescalate. 

"Bro, I'm sorry," I exhaled, my voice cracking under the weight of it. "It's not your fault. It's just…" I hesitated, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Every time I see you with Elias, I get envious of you. Of your bond. Because…"

The words caught in my throat. I wasn't sure if I could say it—if I should.

But the silence between us stretched, and something in me cracked open.

"Because after my parents died," I forced out, voice quieter now, "I was left to take care of my sister. Just me and her. And we survived… for a while." My hands curled into fists at my sides. "But then she got sick. And no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried…" I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. "She died."

Rowan's breath hitched, his expression shifting—shock, then something deeper, something I couldn't name. Before I could say another word, he moved.

"Bro, it's okay." His voice was soft, steady. Then his arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a hug—solid, unyielding.

I let out a shaky breath, my chest tight. I was glad he didn't let me keep talking.

Because I wasn't sure I could handle it.