Glass Walls

"So… where do we even start?"

Rick didn't look at him.

He just stared at the board—jaw tight, eyes colder than before.

"Where we ended," he said flatly.

"You dumb fuck."

—

After the analysis, Rick passed out mid-snack.

"Good job, 777," Jennifer said. "What was it this time?"

777, still chewing a granola bar, shrugged.

"Sleeping pill. Dissolved it in his mango juice."

Jennifer raised a brow. "How long's he out for?"

"Six hou—"

Thud.

Jennifer stared down at him.

"…He drank the same juice, didn't he?"

Six hours later…

The room buzzed faintly with the hum of low lights and a fan rattling in the corner.

Rick jolted awake on the couch, eyes bloodshot, hair a disaster, shirt halfway tucked and twisted like he fought a ghost.

"The fuck happened last night?"

Jennifer didn't even look up from her tablet. "Nothing much. But you were out cold."

777 was snoring aggressively in a nearby chair, one arm dangling off the side, granola crumbs scattered across his chest like sad battlefield remains.

Rick squinted at him.

Then, in one smooth motion, he grabbed a half-filled cup of mango juice from the desk—still sticky, still warm—and launched it.

SPLASH!

It hit 777 square in the face.

He woke up mid-snore, sputtering, eyes wide, arms flailing.

"Sonnnn of a BITTCHHHHHHH—!"

He slipped off the chair and landed with a wet slap on the floor.

Juice dripped from his nose.

A granola bar stuck to his forehead.

"I going home get fresh then I will come back for talk" rick said to 777

"Yeah, come back. I will do cleanup here"

A few hours later.

Back at their base of operations, wires humming and the AC finally giving up on life.

"So where we headed?" 777 asked, cracking open an energy drink.

"We're going home first," Rick replied, voice stone-cold serious.

"Home? Like... Japan?" 777 blinked. "Didn't you say we're going where we ended?"

"Yeah. But there's something we might've missed."

"That's real random of you. What's the deal?"

Rick glanced at him, jaw clenched.

"Tobey's there."

777 shot him a side-eye. "Ok."

"No questions?" Rick tilted his head.

"…How you know?"

Rick grabbed his phone and waved it. "Someone used my credit card. That card's got, like, just enough in it to stay alive. And that someone is definitely Tobey."

"Oh damn."

"I'm gonna go top it up first. You prep the tickets and whatever else. Jennifer—load up."

Rick walked alone, hands in his coat pockets, the city's usual hum buzzing in his ears. Horns blared in the distance. Somewhere, a street vendor argued over change. Classic.

He passed by the hospital.

Paused.

The exact same one where Tobey was born.

The corner of his lip tugged up. "Man… that day."

The sky had been grey, crackling like it couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or just vibe. He'd bought a flat nearby to be safe, close, responsible—and the universe hit him with the dumbest traffic jam of the year.

Chapter 1 level chaos. The kind that makes you laugh only in hindsight.

"That was a headache," he muttered, shaking his head, the smile still lingering.

Right then, his phone buzzed.

777.

"We got time till 6 PM. Meet me at the airport."

"Okay, see you there," Rick replied, still staring up at the hospital windows like they held a memory hostage.

Flashback vibes lingered, but time was ticking. Tobey wasn't a baby anymore. And things weren't that simple now.

Rick got back to his home.

"This place has so many great memories," he muttered.

He entered his room, methodically packing his backpack. Then he walked into his work room—quiet, sterile, heavy with ghosts.

Rick sat alone at the edge of the operations table, the low hum of the server rack crawling under his skin. A desk lamp cast sharp shadows on the map Jennifer pinned up earlier. He didn't glance at it.

His eyes were locked on an old photo.

His hand trembled as he lowered it.

"Shit," he muttered. "This is my fault."

He stared at the glass wall. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and tired.

"I passed it down… Whatever that thing in me is. Obsession. That itch to solve what shouldn't be solved."

A bitter laugh slipped out.

"Even made it look cute. 'Mini me.' 'Little genius.'" He mocked his own voice with a deadpan sneer.

He exhaled through his nose—hard.

"And now the kid's out there building languages and walking through fire like it's Tuesday."

A pause.

"I should've stopped it. Should've seen it coming."

He turned sharply and slammed a half-empty glass across the table. It rattled, but didn't break.

Then, softer—shakier:

"I gave him the tools to become exactly what I swore I'd fight."

Behind him, hidden by shadow, 777 stood silently in the hallway.

No jokes. No one-liners. Just quiet.

He blinked once. Then gave a slow, sarcastic clap.

"Bravo. Emotion detected. You want a medal for that character development, or should I hug you and cry?"

Rick didn't flinch. Didn't even glance back.

Jennifer's voice cut in, flat and robotic:

"Emotional instability detected. Temporary. Processing expected behavioral loop: denial, sarcasm, repression."

Rick finally turned to them. "Shut it. Both of you."

777 snorted. "Can't. It's how I cope."

Jennifer, without hesitation: "Confirmed. Deflection pattern standard. Recommending coffee and suppressing trauma."

Rick grumbled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pack the research files and anything critical. Sending it to your place in Japan," 777 said, already swiping open cabinets.

Rick nodded slowly. "Good."

777 paused. Something shifted in his tone. Just a little.

"Oh, and... one more thing."

Rick looked up.

777 held up a sealed envelope. The edges were scorched, like it had survived something it shouldn't have.

"This just came in. From an address we wiped five years ago."

Rick took it without a word.

He flipped it over. No sender. Just one sentence written in Tobey's handwriting:

"You were wrong about the fire."