Brennan was lying face down on the cracked concrete, his face pressed against the cold and rough ground. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, mixed with dust and dirt. For several seconds, he couldn't move — he just breathed, slow and painful, each breath sending sharp stabs through his ribs.
The pain came in waves. The ribs on his left side felt like they were on fire, as if someone had hit them with a hammer. His right shoulder throbbed violently, swollen and hot. His head… his head was a constant pounding, a low buzzing that wouldn't stop, as if an old engine were trapped inside his skull. His hands, open against the ground, were covered in dried blood — blood that wasn't just his. The ferrous smell rose strongly, stuck to his skin, on the sleeves of his shirt, on the edges of his nails.
He tried to lift his torso. A hoarse groan escaped his throat when his ribs protested. The world spun. He fell to the side, gasping, his fingers digging into the concrete as if he could anchor himself to reality.
Flash. The sound of glass breaking. A glass falling on the hallway floor. Violet eyes full of terror. Sylara's small body flying against the wall.
Brennan choked. His stomach contracted violently. He dragged himself until he was on all fours and vomited everything that was still inside him. The vomit burned his throat, but the physical pain was almost welcome. Anything was better than the images that kept coming back.
When he managed to breathe again, he slowly raised his head.
The abandoned courtyard stretched around him like a forgotten industrial cemetery. Old factories, built by the Terrans decades ago, rose like rusty skeletons against the still-dark night sky. Broken neon panels flickered irregularly above him — bloody red, sickly purple — casting intermittent flashes over the debris. Long strands of black ivy snaked through the cracked walls and fallen cables, pulsing faintly like living veins in the darkness. The smell of burnt metal hung heavy in the air, mixed with the damp and sweetish odor of the enchanted ivy.
Absolute silence. No drone buzzing. No distant demon howl. Just the cold wind cutting between the rusty towers and the weak sound of Brennan's own irregular breathing.
He stayed there, on his knees, his chest rising and falling with difficulty, staring at his own bloodstained hands. The memories came in pieces — violent, disordered, impossible to ignore.
The demon. The rift in the hallway wall. The body that no longer obeyed. Lirael's gaze at the moment she broke the crystal.
Brennan closed his eyes tightly, but the images didn't stop.
He still saw everything. He still felt the exact moment when control slipped away.
And, worse than anything, he still heard Sylara's short and sharp scream when the blow hit her square in the chest.
His shoulders began to tremble. Not from cold. The physical pain was brutal, but nothing compared to the hole that was slowly opening inside his chest.
He was alive. And that was, at that moment, the worst punishment possible.
The sharp beep cut through the silence like a thin blade.
Brennan was still on his knees, his body bent over his own vomit, when the auditory device implanted behind his left ear emitted a short and insistent sound. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was low, almost inaudible to anyone more than two meters away, but inside his head it felt like a hammer hitting the bone directly.
He blinked slowly, trying to focus. His vision was still blurry at the edges. With a trembling hand, he touched behind his ear, activating the link with a weak gesture. The connection established with a soft click, almost harmless.
— Brennan? — The voice that emerged was little more than an urgent whisper, hoarse with tension. — Brennan, are you there? Answer, please…
It was Ada.
He immediately recognized the tone, even though she was clearly trying to keep her volume low. Ada never whispered like that. Not the Ada he knew — direct, sarcastic, always with a sharp reply on the tip of her tongue. This voice was loaded with something he rarely heard from her: pure contained panic.
— Ada…? — The word came out dragged, hoarse, as if his throat had been sanded from the inside. Every syllable hurt. — Where… where are you?
On the other end of the line came a shaky sigh, almost a muffled sob.
— I'm home. I'm using an independent anonymous link. I hope it doesn't go through the CUMR system. If they find out I contacted you… — She stopped for half a second, as if she were looking over her shoulder. — Never mind. I needed to talk to you. Brennan, for God's sake, where are you? What happened last night?
Brennan tried to sit up better. A violent stab in his ribs made him groan softly. He leaned his back against a piece of cracked concrete wall, feeling the ivy brush coldly against the back of his neck. The broken neon above him flickered at irregular intervals — red, purple, red again — illuminating for fractions of a second the dried blood on his hands.
— I… don't know — he murmured, his voice failing. — I woke up here. In a courtyard… old factories. I don't know exactly where. The last place I remember… was the apartment. The hallway. A rift in the wall…
On the other side, Ada took a deep breath. He could almost see her: probably huddled in some dark place, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her own voice.
— The apartment… — she repeated, as if testing the words. — Brennan, listen. Things are bad. Really bad. The entire CUMR is looking for you. They issued a maximum priority alert since the early hours of the morning. You are listed as missing, possibly taken by the demons that came out of the portal. But there are people inside command who are already talking about "suspect." They don't know what really happened yet, but… they're putting the pieces together. The cameras in the hallway of your floor captured part of it. They saw you leaving the apartment after Lirael and the girls fled.
Brennan closed his eyes. His chest tightened so much that he thought his broken ribs would pierce his lung.
— Lirael… — he whispered. — The girls… did they make it?
Ada hesitated. The silence lasted only a second, but it was enough for Brennan to feel the cold rise up his spine.
— They managed to reach the mages' headquarters — Ada finally answered, her voice even lower. — Lirael called me a few hours ago. She was… destroyed. Crying so much she could barely speak properly. She told me everything. The portal opening in the hallway, the demons, you… you changing suddenly. The way you attacked.
Brennan felt a fragile and painful relief invade his chest, immediately mixed with the guilt that burned like acid.
— But are they okay? — he murmured, his voice choked. — Sylara… Is she okay?
Ada didn't answer immediately. When she spoke again, there was something different in her tone — heavier, more broken.
— Brennan… I need you to prepare yourself.
He swallowed hard. The taste of blood was still strong in his mouth.
— What?
— Small portals started appearing randomly on both planets. Qy'thalor and Earth. Dozens of them. Some in residential areas, others near security posts, even inside a school. Soldiers, mages and even armed civilians joined to contain them. It was coordinated chaos… or at least it seemed so. Some portals closed on their own after a while, as if they had fulfilled what they came to do.
Her voice became even tenser, almost a thread.
— But that's not all. Lirael told me everything she saw. Everything you did while… while you weren't you. And she… she is safe and well now, but…
Ada stopped. Brennan heard the sound of her breathing shakily, as if she were gathering courage.
— Brennan, I'm so sorry. Really sorry.
He felt his entire body go rigid.
— Ada… what are you saying?
Her voice came out almost inaudible, loaded with tears she was clearly trying to hold back.
— Sylara didn't survive the injuries. She's gone, Brennan. Your eldest daughter… died this morning.
The world seemed to stop.
The neon continued to flicker above him, but Brennan no longer saw anything. The air got stuck in his lungs. The pain in his ribs, in his shoulder, in his head… everything disappeared for a second, swallowed by a much greater emptiness.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Only a hoarse, broken sound began to rise from inside his chest.
Brennan felt the world collapse in silence first.
The broken neon continued to flicker above him, but the colors seemed distant, as if they were behind thick, foggy glass. Ada's voice still echoed inside his head, repeating the same words over and over: "Sylara didn't survive the injuries. She's gone, Brennan. Your eldest daughter… died this morning."
For a long and suffocating moment, he didn't react. He just stayed there, sitting against the cracked wall, his bloodstained hands motionless on his thighs. The air didn't enter his lungs properly. His chest felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand, bigger than any physical pain he had felt upon waking.
Then came the first sob.
It was torn, animalistic, as if something inside him had been ripped out by force. His throat closed, his eyes burned, and the tears came hot and thick, mixing with the dried blood on his face. He tried to hold them back — he tried to be the man he had always been, the CUMR agent trained to endure anything —, but his body no longer obeyed.
— No… — he murmured, his voice failing in the middle of the word. — No… it can't be…
Ada tried to say something on the other end of the line, but he barely heard her. The memories exploded inside his mind like shattered glass.
Sylara's small body flying backward with a short and sharp scream when his fist — the fist that was no longer his — hit her square in the chest. The brutal impact against the wall. The blood running from the corner of the girl's mouth as she slid to the floor, her big eyes full of terror and incomprehension.
Lirael screaming her name, her voice breaking into a lament. "Sylara!" His wife's pale face, blood running from her wounded shoulder, while she tried to protect the girls even knowing she couldn't win.
Brennan let out a hoarse, guttural scream that echoed through the abandoned courtyard between the ruined factories. He slammed his closed fist against the cracked concrete with all the strength he still had. The skin on his knuckles split open, fresh blood mixing with the dried blood. The physical pain was nothing compared to the hole opening in his chest.
— It wasn't me! — he shouted into the void, his voice broken, desperate. — It wasn't me! Get out of me! Get out of me, you bastard!
He dragged himself forward, falling on all fours again. His entire body was shaking. The tears flowed uncontrollably, dripping onto the dirty ground among the debris. He banged his forehead against the cold concrete, once, twice, as if he could expel the images with brute force. It didn't help. The memories kept coming, clearer, crueler.
"Sylara didn't survive…"
He curled up in the middle of the deserted courtyard, his knees pulled against his chest, his arms wrapping around his head as if he wanted to disappear. The sobs came violent and uncontrollable, shaking his entire injured body. Every breath was a broken moan. He saw her little face — her shining eyes when she told school stories, the way she threw herself on him on the couch to make a pile of hugs, her innocent little voice calling "Daddy? What are we going to play today?"
And he had been the monster who took that from her.
— I'm sorry… — he whispered between sobs, his voice almost inaudible. — I'm sorry, my little one… Daddy didn't want to… I couldn't stop… I tried… I tried…
The crying turned into a low and continuous lament, the kind of sound a man shouldn't make. He squeezed his arms around his own body, feeling his broken ribs protest, but he didn't care. The pain was welcome. Anything was better than the emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.
Ada was still on the line. He heard her voice in the background, distant, trying to call him, trying to calm him, but the words no longer reached him. There was only the cold concrete, the neon flickering red and purple, the smell of burnt metal and black ivy… and the crushing weight of knowing that he had killed his own daughter.
Even if it hadn't really been his hand. Even if the demon had taken control.
For Brennan, at that moment, it made no difference.
He was the father who failed to protect her. He was the monster she saw before she died.
And nothing — not pain, not guilt, not tears — would ever erase that.
Ada was still talking. Her voice came choppy, distant, as if it were coming from very far away.
— Brennan… Brennan, listen to me! — She tried to keep her tone firm, but the tremor gave everything away. — I know it's too much. I know. But you need to breathe. Don't break down now, please. Lirael is safe at headquarters. Elyndra too. They are being cared for by the best healing mages. I… I'm going to try to help you. I'm going to find out what really happened that night. I'm going to find a way to clear your name or at least get you out of this manhunt. But you can't stay there motionless. They'll find you if you don't move.
Brennan barely registered the words. The sobs still shook his body, weaker now, but still painful, as if every breath tore a piece out of him. He remained curled up on the cold ground of the courtyard, his knees against his chest, his forehead pressed against the cracked concrete. The dried blood on his hands stuck to his skin, a sticky and constant reminder.
— Ada… — he managed to murmur, his voice hoarse and broken. — She was just a child… My little girl… I saw the look in her eyes. She didn't understand… she didn't understand why her father…
His voice failed again. Another sob escaped, dry and hoarse.
On the other end of the line, Ada swallowed hard. He heard the sound of her clearing her throat, trying to compose herself.
— I know. I know, Brennan. And I'm so sorry. Truly. But you can't give up now. The demon… whatever entered you… it may still be nearby. You need to hide. Find a safe place. I'll try to contact you again as soon as possible. Stay alive, you hear me? Stay alive for them. For Lirael. For Elyndra. They still need you.
There was a sudden crackle in the connection. The anonymous link flickered, Ada's voice distorting for a second.
— The signal is unstable… shit… Brennan, I don't know how much longer I have. If the CUMR traces this channel…
Another crackle, stronger. Her voice became choppy.
— …be careful… don't trust anyone… I will…
And then silence.
The final beep sounded low in the auditory device before everything went completely dead. The line died.
Brennan was left alone.
The abandoned industrial courtyard seemed even emptier. The broken neon continued to flicker lazily above him — red and purple flashes that illuminated the debris for instants, the black ivy pulsing on the walls like sick veins, the concrete stained with his own vomit and blood. The silence was absolute again. Just the cold wind cutting between the rusty towers and the irregular sound of his own breathing.
He didn't move for a long time.
The weight of Sylara's death pressed on his chest like a stone slab. Every time he tried to breathe deeply, he felt her name echoing inside his head. Sylara. His little girl who told exaggerated stories on the couch, who threw herself on top of him to make a pile of laughs, who was proud of the light seal she had learned from her mother. Now she was dead. Dead by his hands.
Or at least by the hands that had once been his.
Brennan slowly opened his eyes. He looked at his own palms — dried blood, dark, cracks in the lines of the skin. Lirael's blood, the neighbors'. Sylara's blood. The smell was still there, ferrous, sickening.
And then, in the back of his mind, the feeling came again.
That cold presence. Hungry. As if something were still coiled at the base of his spine, testing the chains, waiting for the right moment to pull again.
The demon might still be inside him.
The idea made his stomach churn. He clenched his fists hard, feeling the recent wounds on his knuckles burn. The physical pain came back full force — ribs, shoulder, head pounding —, but now it mixed with something else.
Something hotter. Something sharper.
The guilt was still there, overwhelming, but slowly, like a flame gaining strength in the dark, it began to transform.
Rage.
A dull, deep rage that rose from his chest to his throat. Rage at whoever — or whatever — had done this to him. Rage at the Rift. Rage at the portal. Rage at the demon that had used him as a puppet. Rage at himself for not being strong enough to resist.
He wanted to find the thing responsible. He wanted to tear apart whoever had opened that rift in the hallway of his apartment. He wanted to destroy whatever had turned him into the monster that killed his own daughter.
Brennan slowly uncrossed his arms and sat up, his body protesting with every movement. The blood on his hands felt heavier now. He looked at the dark sky of Neo-Qy'thalor, where distant drones traced silent routes.
The tears still ran down his face, but his eyes were different. Harder. Emptier.
— I will find you — he murmured into the void, his voice low, hoarse, loaded with a cold promise. — Whoever you are. Whatever you are. I will find you… and I will make you pay.
The neon flickered one last time, deep red, before plunging the courtyard back into gloom.
Brennan stayed there, sitting in the dark, with the weight of his dead daughter on his chest, innocent blood on his hands, and a rage that was beginning to burn stronger than any pain.