Since you all love him so much. I decided itâs finally to to end his pain (heâs not going to die) this is the last angst fanfic, after this, all smiles and love
9/17
Ink in the Rain
Colt | Pre-Gang | Angst-Riddenn
â ď¸ CW: Death of a partner, child loss, suicidal thoughts, heavy grief
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The rain didnât let up.
Didnât care that there were corpses in the mud, or that blood pooled where footprints should be, or that Colt hadnât blinked in what felt like hours.
His coat hung heavy off his frame. Soaked. Torn. Red.
The dead didnât matter. Not to him.
They were just bandits. Not traffickers. Not even worth the bulletsâbut heâd gutted them anyway.
Heâd needed something to scream at.
The world didnât answer.
⸝
The memory played like a film loop, grainy, burning, endless.
Oriel coughing. Again. The kind of cough that painted linen black with thick, shimmering ink. Colt would rush to wipe it away with trembling hands, whispering comforts he didnât believe in.
âBreathe for me, bud. Just⌠breathe.â
Orielâs little hands had gripped his shirt, wet with fever sweat. Eyes so much like Mekshaâsâsharp, too clever, full of too much pain for a kid who still counted stars on his fingers.
He didnât want to eat anymore. Didnât want to sleep unless Colt held him. Didnât talk much except to ask:
âDad⌠is Papa still waiting for me?â
Colt lied. âNot for a long, long time.â
The next morning, Oriel didnât wake up.
⸝
He buried him under the wind tree, right next to Meksha.
Two graves. One too wide. One too small.
Colt hadnât cried. Not at the funeral. Not when he carved their names into metal slabs with shaking hands. Not even when he held Orielâs favorite toyâsome dumb robotic beetle that still lit up if you twisted the back.
He just⌠stopped being anything.
⸝
The blood on his boots felt like oil.
The rain hadnât stopped. He stood over the bodies, tail dragging in the mud, his breathing shallow.
There was no high anymore. No vengeance worth savoring. No peace in killing.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to be held. He wanted someone to rip him open and see how much was gone inside.
Because he tried. He tried to be good. Tried to survive. He clawed his way out of hell, found love, built a home with it, gave it a sonâ
And the universe crushed it in its fist like a cruel child snapping a toy.
âWhy?!â His voice cracked, half-growled, half-sobbed.
He dropped to his knees, mud splashing, rain beating down on his skull like it wanted him to sink into the ground with the rest of the dead.
âWhy canât I keep anything?!â
Silence answered.
Colt stayed there, unmoving.
His tail coiled around his legs like it was trying to hold what little was left of him together. But his handsâthose calloused, blood-worn handsâtrembled.
He could still feel Orielâs weight in his arms.
Still feel Mekshaâs blood on his cheek.
Still feel the absence like a void pulling teeth from his soul one by one.
He didnât know how to live past this.
He didnât want to.
⸝
But in the end, he stood.
Wiped his face.
Because grief didnât kill him. It never did. It just hollowed him out enough to make room for more rage. More survival. More silence.
Colt walked away from the corpses.
And the rain followed.
