4. The Last Breath

Ethan lay motionless, his broken body sprawled across the cold, rotting floor of the abandoned dormitory. The scent of blood filled the air, thick and metallic, mixing with the dust and mold that clung to the forgotten walls. His own blood. It seeped from his wounds, pooling beneath him, soaking into his tattered clothes.

His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a struggle. Every inhale sent fire through his ribs, every exhale felt like it would be his last. His fingers twitched, weak and numb. His vision blurred, the edges darkening like ink bleeding across paper.

He was dying.

Alone.

Forgotten.

The laughter was gone now. The footsteps had faded into the distance.

They had left him here.

Like garbage.

Like he was nothing.

Ethan's mind drifted between consciousness and the deep, suffocating pull of unconsciousness. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell anymore.

But the pain—oh, the pain—it kept him anchored to this cruel reality.

His ribs ached with every slight movement. His face was swollen, his right eye barely able to open. His lip was split, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue. His hands were scraped raw, the bones in his left wrist possibly broken. His legs… he couldn't even feel them anymore.

Would this be how he died?

Left to bleed out in this forgotten place?

Would anyone find him?

Would anyone care?

A cold breeze slipped through the cracked windows, sending a shiver down his battered body. The night air pressed against his skin like ice, numbing him further. He felt so small, so fragile, as if the world itself was swallowing him whole.

And maybe it was.

Maybe this was what fate had decided for him.

Maybe he was never meant to survive.

His eyelids grew heavier. His chest rose and fell in weak, stuttering motions. The darkness whispered to him, sweet and inviting.

Just let go, it seemed to say. It will be easier.

Yes… maybe it would be easier.

No more pain.

No more fear.

No more loneliness.

But then—

A voice.

Soft. Gentle. Full of warmth.

"My sweet boy… you must always be strong."

Ethan's breath hitched. His lips trembled.

His mother's voice.

"No matter how dark the world gets… you must never give up."

A sob tore from his throat, weak and broken. His mother. She was gone now. Long gone. But he could still hear her, clear as day, whispering to him through the storm of agony.

"You are not weak, Ethan."

But wasn't he?

Wasn't that why this kept happening?

Wasn't that why they never stopped?

Tears slipped down his bloodied face, mingling with the dirt and crimson that stained his skin.

"You are stronger than you know, my love."

He wanted to believe her.

He really did.

But belief meant nothing when you were lying in your own blood, waiting to die.

He tried to move, to lift his arm, but the pain roared in response, forcing him still. A broken whimper escaped him.

He was too weak.

He had always been too weak.

And they had known it.

Damian. Marcus. Logan.

Their faces burned in his mind, twisted with cruel laughter, filled with nothing but amusement as they broke him, again and again.

His stomach clenched. His fingers curled weakly against the cold wooden floor.

Why?

Why did they get to walk away?

Why did they get to be happy, to be powerful, to live their lives without consequence?

Why did he have to be the one suffering?

The one who was always suffering?

A fire stirred in his chest, small, flickering, but real.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair that they got to laugh while he bled.

It wasn't fair that they got to walk away without fear, knowing no one would stop them.

It wasn't fair that they would do this again. And again.

And again.

Because that was the truth, wasn't it?

Even if he survived this night, even if someone found him and took him to the hospital—

They would come back.

They would do it all over again.

Because they could.

Because no one would stop them.

Because no one cared.

His lips parted, a shaky breath slipping past them. His body screamed, begging for rest, for release.

But his heart—

His heart burned.

It was weak, barely beating, barely holding on.

But it was still there.

Still fighting.

If he had the power…

If he had the strength…

He would never let this happen again.

He would never be weak again.

His fingers dug into the floor, weak but determined. His breath came out in trembling gasps.

If he lived—

If he survived this night—

He would make them pay.

He would make them suffer.

The darkness pressed in harder, heavier, suffocating. His body trembled as the cold deepened, crawling into his bones, wrapping around his soul.

His heartbeat slowed.

His vision dimmed.

But in those final moments—

As the world faded away, as his body surrendered to the night—

He made a wish.

A desperate, final prayer.

"Let me live."

"Let me fight."

"Let me make them suffer the way I have suffered."

And then—

The last breath left his lips.

His body stilled.

His heartbeat—

Stopped.

Silence.

A long, endless silence.

The abandoned dormitory stood still, wrapped in the quiet of the night.

The wind whispered through the cracks in the walls, rustling the broken glass, carrying the scent of blood.

Ethan's body lay motionless, bathed in moonlight, cold and lifeless.

And then—

Something shifted.

Something unseen.

A ripple in the air. A pulse. A presence.

Something ancient.

Something hungry.

The darkness did not take Ethan.

It answered him.