#fractsidus

Scar stood in a half-ruined building on the outskirts of Jinzhou, his silhouette stark against an unnaturally crimson sunset. His two-toned cloak billowed in the wind, which carried the scent of Tacet Discords, mingled with the acrid smell of the chaos he so adored. He didn't bother seeking out news. Chaos has its own resonance, and he felt acutely how something had just collided with reality, scattering into a harmonious cacophony amid the noise.

Your decision to leave and study in another region wasn't just a failure to him, but a personal insult. No, even as a joke — an exhibition of the very pathetic weakness he despised in people. You sought comfort when the world demanded survival.

—Such a boring little lamb, — he’d muttered back then, adding with a twisted smirk, — my lamb. The most fragile.

It was precisely your exceptional disregard for safety, your innocent, almost irritating belief in a normal life, that made you interesting. You were fragile, vulnerable, and that, in his warped worldview, was the most captivating weakness he could observe and, if necessary, protect. But not out of love; rather, like a collector guarding a rare, delicate exhibit.

And now you had returned, and the world had shown you what reality was.

He had received information about your return and, of course, knew about the attack. More than that, he had been watching your frantic escape. The tacets attack was expected, but the encounter with the exiles, ohhhh, that was interesting. Scar knew those vagrants well. He often played with them like ants, using their anarchy and base instincts for his own ends, observing their primitive cruelty which, he believed, was merely a pale shadow of true chaos.

He stood leaning against the cold wall when you finally dragged yourself home. He didn't go to greet you; he observed. He was curious.

When you literally stumbled into the house, your clothes torn, your face covered in blood and grime, and the hematoma on your forehead: dark, bulging, ugly. He felt a rush of burning, perverted ecstasy. Chaos. He loved how chaos revealed the essence of things.

You couldn't utter a word, just collapsed in tears into your mother's arms, and then passed out from the adrenaline overload and exhaustion. You were the epitome of the weakness he despised, yet simultaneously your weakness, which he treasured so much.

Scar chuckled quietly. It wasn't a merry laugh, but a dry, rasping sound, heavy with sadistic satisfaction.

—Magnificent, — he whispered, pushing himself off the wall. A ragged laugh, arms spread wide, head tilting toward the sky. —There it is, the true nature of humanity, its pitiful fragility. Your precious knowledge didn't save you, did it?

He had no sympathy, no anger towards your attackers, only a cold, analytical approval of the event as a lesson you were meant to learn. But for some reason, a feeling of... annoyance still gnawed at him.

Those exiles had damaged his property.

Allowing you to suffer was one thing. But allowing someone else to trespass on what he considered his own was entirely unacceptable. They didn't understand the rules of this life.

—Filth, — his voice hardening slightly. —Why leave such disgusting marks?

He hadn't come to console. He had come to savor the spectacle of your broken state. And now he had to teach a lesson to those who touched you. Properly. Thoroughly.

He took a step toward the edge of the roof and jumped. His goal was clear: those who dared to lay a hand on you would learn why he was called the perverted maniac. It would be a methodical disintegration, a true work of art executed purely for his own pleasure. He would ensure that when you woke up, rumors of a new, far more horrific and sophisticated chaos reached you, making you realize that even from the most merciless truth, you were only separated by another, even more dangerous predator.

—I'll await your waking, — Scar whispered, dissolving into the darkness. —Your weakness is so captivating when it's on the edge. And I will make sure that edge is sharp.

You left, despite his protests.

—Are you really certain about this? — In his voice there was none of the habitual sarcasm that usually surfaced when your upcoming studies were mentioned, only undisguised exhaustion. — Outside of Jinzhou, there's neither our protection nor our order. You know how dangerous it is,— Aalto said back then. He didn't believe in your academic departure, viewing it as a naive and unwarranted whim. Why exchange the safety of the city for an ephemeral education in another region that lacked such strong defense against Tacet Discords and active tacet zones?

Months later, your return was sudden. Your academic institution had closed due to the escalating discords active in the surrounding areas. You drove back, feeling a mix of shame and relief that you would soon see your young man. He would surely be very satisfied to know he was right, and would likely bring it up with a smile for some time while looking at you.

However, the bus never made it to the city. In the barren wastes, it was attacked by a Tacet Discord — not merely an Echo, but the very embodiment of a tear in the fabric of reality. The screams, the screech of metal, and the sickening, wet sound of tearing flesh drowned out everything. You only remembered the sticky terror, the smell of blood, and being thrown aside as the driver's cabin erupted in a fountain of red shreds.

You survived. And along with a handful of other passengers, you found yourself trapped in a nightmare.

Days blurred into one endless marathon spent in the grim, wind-scoured wastes. Every cry, every snarl in the night made your heart pound against your ribs. Wild animals, monstrously fused with echos, were everywhere. Adrenaline kept your body in an unnatural, feverish state of activity, but your strength was fading.

On the fourth day, just as you thought you might see the city lights, you were spotted. A roaming gang of marauders and scum. They didn’t preach the cult of destruction like the Fractsidus, but their human, grounded cruelty was no less repulsive, marking you as easy prey. You don't recall how it started, but your desperate struggle only incited a fit of aggressive amusement from them. A hard, dull strike against a concrete wall. Then a second one. Sharp, pulsating pain in your forehead, a wet trail of blood trickling down your temple, and a swollen, purpling hematoma on the upper part of your head. Laughter. Taunts. The blow was powerful, but apparently not enough to render you unconscious. And then, when they realized you had nothing left to take, purely for the sake of entertainment, the exiles inflicted a mutilation upon you, permanently taking away your voice. Pure senseless violence, fully reflecting their inhumanity.

A sudden noise on the horizon, — perhaps another echo, perhaps a patrol, gave you a chance. You exploited their momentary distraction and bolted forward, never looking back. Blood streamed down your face, and every step echoed inside your head, but primal fear propelled you onward. You managed to hide in a labyrinth of destroyed buildings and ran until you finally collapsed, trembling, just inside the walls of Jinzhou. You knew where to go. The only place where you were expected, even if with an unvoiced accusation.

The door burst open, and you stumbled into Aalto's office, stopping dead. You looked like an animated corpse: torn clothes, dried grime, blood mixed with tears. It just really luck that his office was on the ground floor.

He was there. Not at his desk, but standing by the tea table, discussing something with a tall, broad-shouldered man with a predatory gaze, whose clothes were rough but expensive, and whose hands bore the unhidden marks of ancient battles. Perhaps another leader of the exiles group terrorizing the wasteland. And, apparently, he was here as a client.

The broker's usually unflappable face, always hidden behind a mask of light charm, contorted into an expression of pure, instant horror. It lasted a fraction of a second before he forced himself to take a step forward.

Encore, clutching her fire-breathing plushies Black and White, let out a frightened peep, staring at your wound. A sharp pang of guilt struck you; you knew how dreadful you must look now — a walking disaster, a bloody wreck, and this nightmare was now before a child's eyes. A man simply turned his head, his eyes sweeping over your ravaged appearance, and not a single muscle twitched. No recognition, no remorse, just bored contempt. He'd seen enough poor, broken souls like you, having quite often participated in their torture himself.

You wanted to tell Aalto you were back. You wanted to apologize, to say he was right. You wanted to tell him that the bus... that the tacets... that the bandits...

You opened your mouth, struggling to push out a single word, but only a hoarse, wet, silent sound escaped your throat. In that moment, you grasped the full extent of your misfortune and your injury. Your body, which had been running on pure, desperate adrenaline for the past few days, suddenly shut down. The office was too quiet, too warm, too safe. Your body finally understood that the battle was over. The pulsating pain gave way to a deafening heaviness, and your legs buckled. Your eyes focused on his face, the very face you had thought about the entire way.

For the first time, you saw him without his self-control, without his defenses, exposed and utterly terrified.

You didn't even have time to fall to your knees. Before his hand could catch you, the world dissolved, plunging into the deep, merciful darkness brought on by exhaustion, stress, and a critical crash in terrible episodes whose were behind.

Aalto held you close, feeling how weightless you were, how frantically your heart beat.

—I told you, — he whispered, and his voice broke, dissolving into something between an exhale and a moan as he realized you were unconscious. He ignored the terrified Encore who rushed over to help. His usually cold, calculating fingers trembled as he carefully pushed your hair away from your forehead, touching the bruise.

At least yes, he was right, and it brought him no satisfaction whatsoever.. Only a burning, incinerating fury directed at the entire damned world outside. And at himself, for having let you go.

He wouldn't have said much. Lin is a man of action, not empty words, especially when it comes to pain. You recall his gaze the day you left to «find yourself» and «study away from the eternal threat of Jinzhou».

How naive.

How trustingly.

How foolish.

—You're willfully going where I wouldn't be, where the rangers couldn't reach. Study, then. But don't forget that your vulnerability is my responsibility, or, more accurately, was.

The last words were spoken quietly, but they chilled your blood. His disappointment was heavier than any words.

You blink. The dim light of the headquarters, the smell of dust and disinfectant. You slip into oblivion, and your last, desperate thought, before consciousness fades, summons his image.

Geshu Lin.

In that moment, his reaction comes alive in your mind, so real you feel the icy air of his presence. He stands over you, not in his worn field uniform, but in a perfectly clean uniform, like on the day of your farewell, his usual impassive expression on his face, his eyes boring into you. You feel them register every bruise, every torn piece of fabric, every scratch. He lowers his gaze to your head. The swollen, purplish-yellow hematoma on your forehead, a gift from the exiles, is like a brand on your tormented face.

Silence.

This isn't a reproach. It is merely a necessity, compressed into silence so as not to explode into fury. He gently brushes the back of his fingers across your forehead, just touching the swelling.In this hallucination, you feel the pain recede.

—I should have locked you in the barracks, — he finally pronounces. His voice is low, even. But there is such steel, such pain in it, that it's worse than a shout. He isn't angry at you.

—The discords tore the bus apart. They simply can't be stopped. But you made it through that, through the roar, — his finger slides down, touching your dirty chin. —Across the wastes. And you survived.

His gaze turns murderously cold as he thinks of those who inflicted your injuries. He doesn't ask what happened. The details don't interest him. Seeing is enough.

—Then the dregs of society. Those who were people, but became... — He cuts himself off. Geshu Lin never allowed himself curses, but now he looks as if he is preparing to personally wipe the entire faction from the map of Huanglong.

—I told you. The wild world is worse than the monsters. The wild beasts at least act on instinct.

His hand tightens over your shoulder. You feel his heart pounding despite his outward calm.

—You thought you would grow stronger by running from me and from Jinzhou. But look what they did to you. All you gained is merely proof that your place is here. Next to me. And if I'm forced to chain you to my barracks to protect you from the consequences of your foolishness, — he falls silent again, and then his eyes close from the agonizing tension.

He leans down and touches your forehead with his. You feel the coldness of his skin, the bitterness of his guilt.

—You survived. That's all that matters, — his voice becomes a barely audible whisper, drowning in the rush of your head-dizzy. —Those degenerates will be found. I'll personally see to it that they feel every single impact your head took against that wall, as soon as I return.

...as soon as I return.

You fall into sleep. The hallucination disperses like smoke. Geshu Lin isn't there. He's missing in action after the battle with the Ovathrax. And you are left alone with your dream, in which his steel gaze is the last thing you saw.