Rock Bottom Ain’t a Place, It’s a Process

"I said I want a refill!"

Some jackass yelling from across the bar. Typical. Everyone's got their own little tragedy they think deserves more booze. Ronin doesn't even bother looking up. Just stares into his half-empty glass like it's gonna offer him something besides a reflection of a life circling the drain.

His hand tightens around the glass.

That day… It didn't just change things. It tore 'em apart. Burned the foundation down and pissed on the ashes.

It was right after the second awakening bullshit. One minute Lyra was by his side, smirking, teasing—normal. The next? Whisked away by suits with shiny badges and faces too smooth to be human. He stood there holding that pathetic E-rank card, while she vanished behind a wall of tinted glass and polished boots.

No calls. No messages. Two goddamn days of silence.

He remembers pacing the apartment like a madman, calling every number he could find, even showing up at the Evaluation Center demanding to know where his wife was. All he got were fake smiles and stone walls.

And then, just like that, she came back. Middle of the night. No warning. No knock. Just walked in like she hadn't disappeared for forty-eight hours and shattered his fucking nerves.

He should've been angry. Should've asked questions. Instead, he just held her. She cracked a tired joke about procedures and how "being S-rank comes with a mountain of red tape." He laughed. Like an idiot. Just glad to see her again. Just glad she was still... her.

But that didn't last.

Next morning, she sat him down. Eyes sharp. Voice flat. Told him she was joining the fight. Real gates. Real monsters.

He laughed, at first. Thought she was kidding. She wasn't.

The argument that followed felt like ripping stitches from a wound still fresh. He reminded her of the deal—they weren't gonna be heroes. No glory-chasing, no diving into the damn gates. They were supposed to live. Quiet, boring lives. Together.

But she had that look. Like she was staring at something far beyond him. Said he didn't understand. Said this was bigger than both of them. He called bullshit. Called her selfish. She didn't flinch.

Then came the knock.

Those same stiff bastards in black standing at the door. He told them to fuck off, that his wife wasn't going anywhere. They ignored him like he wasn't even there.

And Lyra? She didn't argue. Didn't even hesitate.

Just turned to him and said, "We'll talk later."

Then walked out.

Didn't hear him. Didn't look back.

Clink.

The bartender sets a fresh drink in front of him. Ronin downs it in one gulp, the burn a dull echo compared to what's clawing at his chest.

Forehead hits the counter. Elbows wide. Another breath, another trip down the goddamn rabbit hole.

After that day, nothing got better. It just kept unraveling. She'd vanish for days on missions. Come back looking haunted. He'd try to get through to her, to understand. But every time he pushed, she shut down. Locked up tight like a vault.

They fought. Over and over. He wanted her safe. She wanted purpose. He asked why the hell she needed to throw herself into death zones. She never answered. Just kept saying, "You wouldn't get it."

Eventually, she told him they needed space. That he needed to sort himself out.

Then she left—for real this time. No suits. No drama. Just her decision, cold and clean.

And Ronin? He spiraled.

Joined a diver squad. One of those cheap, low-rank scrape-the-bottom crews who'd take anyone with a pulse and a spark of mana. Said he wanted to fight monsters, too. Truth? He just wanted to catch up. To matter.

What followed was a series of ass-kickings so brutal, the monsters probably started recognizing his scent. Slashed. Crushed. Poisoned. Left for dead more times than he could count. Every gate felt like a suicide mission. Every mission got him dropped by another team.

Hospitals became second homes. Painkillers, his candy. Shame, a constant companion.

But even then, even at his lowest... it wasn't rock bottom.

No.

That came later.

And when it hit?

It made all of this look like the warm-up.