#deuce angst

Deuce never thought he’d feel this way again.

The helplessness. The rage. The unbearable frustration of standing there, fists clenched, while someone he cared about was suffering—and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He thought he had left that feeling behind when he changed. When he promised his mom that he’d be better. That he wasn’t that reckless, violent kid anymore.

But when Malleus’s overblot had raged like a storm around them, when the world itself threatened to end, that same feeling had come rushing back like a punch to the gut.

I should’ve done more.

Deuce sat on the floor of his dorm room, back pressed against the bed frame, staring at his scraped knuckles. He didn’t even remember when he hit something—the wall? His desk?—but it didn’t matter. The ache in his hands was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

He was supposed to be stronger now. So why wasn’t it enough?

His breath hitched. His mom’s voice echoed in his mind, warm and proud.

"You’ve grown so much, Deuce. You’re a good person now."

He wanted to believe that. He really did.

But during the overblot, when everything had gone to hell, all of that control, all of that growth, had nearly snapped.

The urge to fight, to break through the chaos with sheer force, had burned through his veins. He had wanted to punch, kick, scream—do something, anything to stop it. But what good were his fists against a monster like that? Against someone who could cast his Unique magic, break reality, steal away everything before you even knew it was gone?

Deuce gritted his teeth.

Maybe this was why people never really changed. No matter how hard he tried to be better, in the end, he was still that kid, weren’t he? The one who lashed out. The one who got into fights. The one who was too weak to protect the people he cared about.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against his knee. His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He wanted to move, run, hit something—anything to get rid of this feeling.