Wounds That Doesn't Heal

Darkness.

Brendon's knees were soaked in blood — thick, coppery, congealing over the cracked tiles of the underground lab. The low hum of broken machinery echoed in the chamber like the whisper of something long dead.

Before him lay Amelia Hudson — the girl he was sent to find. Her lifeless eyes stared upward into nothingness, her delicate frame twisted, her chest torn open. One of her arms was missing entirely. What remained of her torso was caked in blood and scorched tissue. She didn't look human anymore. Just like he hadn't looked human anymore.

Brendon stared at his own hands. They were monstrous — thick claws dripping crimson, fur matted to the bone, muscles unnaturally tense. He'd been in his feral form — the beast that had been forced out of him in the final battle at Lagooncrest.

I didn't want to.

He whispered it to the silence. But the darkness answered.

"You were supposed to save her!" roared a voice.

Brendon turned, and there stood Mr. Hudson, Amelia's uncle. His expensive coat was torn, his face contorted in grief and rage.

"I trusted you!" he shouted, spit flying from his mouth. "You mongrel! You have killed her in cold blood. You were supposed to bring her back!"

Brendon opened his mouth, but no words came out from his mouth. Only the wet, suffocating scent of blood and the stillness of death. He tried to say her name. Amelia. But even her name felt like it was buried under layers of guilt.

"You're a monster, a FUCKING MONSTER!" Hudson hissed. "Nothing more than that."

---

"Brendon."

A voice again — closer, softer.

"Brendon, wake up."

His eyes snapped open.

It was the street lamps light that greeted his eyes first. The sharp scent of city air rushed back into his senses. He blinked, disoriented. Paris. Christopher's car. Parked. The driver's door was open. Christopher stood outside, leaning in.

"You fell asleep," Christopher said, looking at him.

Brendon sat up straight, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Yeah. Sorry."

Christopher gave a nod. "Umm... was it a rough dream?"

Brendon didn't answer. He stared straight ahead at the brick wall outside.

The image of Amelia's broken body still lingered in his mind, overlaid on every flickering surface. He remembered only fragments — turning, snarling, the control slipping from his hands. Amelia had been mind-controlled, yes, but that didn't change the fact that it was his claws that tore through her.

And Dr. Grimm… his skull crushed under Brendon's monstrous paw. Brain brought out.

But it wasn't a victory. There has been no victory all together. Only survival. And loss. A harsh reality of conflicts.

Brendon exhaled slowly and stepped out of the car. "Let's go."

---

Christopher's apartment was modest but tidy — third floor, overlooking a quiet street lined with sycamore trees. Inside, it was surprisingly warm, with old wooden floors, bookshelves along the walls, and a faint scent of black coffee still lingering from the coffee machine. Another tenant of there is brewing the coffee to drink. He can also hear sound of music from the nearby studio.

As Brendon set his coat down, Christopher moved to the small kitchen counter, opening a drawer and retrieving a sealed box. He walked back over and placed it in Brendon's hands.

Brendon frowned. "What's this?"

"Your new phone," Christopher said, crossing his arms. "Official product. Issued by government."

Brendon blinked. "Wait — I am getting a phone.... now?"

Christopher gave a slight smirk. "You've been cooperative. Impressive, actually. No running away, no aggression, specifically no public disturbance so far. They saw potential in this deal with you..... and it seems like you have proved them right. So, they're giving you limited access to communication."

Brendon looked down at the sleek device inside the box. Brand new. Still in plastic.

"But don't get excited," Christopher added. "You'll be under strict surveillance. Every call, every message — will be logged. You won't be able to delete anything, and the microphone embedded into it can be activated remotely."

Brendon raised an eyebrow. "You guys, really know how to make a gift feel warm and fuzzy."

"I'm not your friend to be honest," Christopher said plainly. "I'm your handler.... just like a babysitter. But I don't want to see you go back in chains, either. So make this work."

Brendon stared at the phone for a moment longer, then picked it up and turned it on. The screen blinked awake, asking him to set up a PIN.

"What if I call someone you guys don't approve of?" Brendon asked as he tapped through the setup.

"You won't be stopped," Christopher said, "but they'll know. And so will I."

Brendon didn't respond.

He stared at the lock screen. Blank, minimal. No contacts. No messages. Just empty space.

Just like he felt inside.

---

Later that evening, Brendon sat on the edge of the guest bed Christopher had offered him. The phone lay beside him, idle and silent. He hadn't made any calls. Didn't know who to call, even if he wanted to.

Radley was gone.

Amelia is dead.

Everyone who once mattered felt like a ghost now. His only real companions had been chaos and survival. The phone felt alien in his hand — a symbol of connection he didn't believe he deserved.

Outside, the Paris night had begun to stir again. He could hear laughter in the streets below. Music from a café down the road. Life. The kind that moved on, even when people didn't.

Brendon looked down at the hairpins in his jacket pocket. Still there. Still cold.

He remembered Radley's voice again.

Never abandon your people. Because you can't survive alone forever.

But what if he already had?