Sorry it's been so long. Life's been a bitch lately, and this chapter was hard to write.

I answered all my reviews as normal, put ups a nice long AN about what's been going on and my browser just flipped out and I lost it all. Not gonna fucking do it again, so let me just say that I love you all and I will respond to your comments when I am less annoyed.

Happy Holidays, and please enjoy.


When people envision hell, they often imagine a fiery pit filled with devils and pitchforks. But I know better. Hell is not a place below the earth, or even a place at all. Hell is an insidious entity that lurks among us, crawling within the shadows. Hell is circumstance that surrounds and envelops us, waiting to strike us down. Waiting to drain us of everything meaningful and leave its victims nothing but numb. Powerless. Cold.

Hell is a cold, colorless existence.

Hell is the realization that nothing will ever be the same again.


On the fourth day since my world came to a halt, I woke up, feeling the same vague sense of nausea and foreboding that had yet to cease since the first. At least it was better than the nightmares.

On the fourth day since everything changed, I got out of bed, dragged on some clothes and distantly wondered why I owned so much black. Black was an awful color. Then again, it reflected my awful mood, so I guessed it was only appropriate.

On the fourth day since I stopped moving forward, I skipped breakfast and went outside, finding the same slick black car waiting for me, as it had been on all previous days. I got in as casually as I could, trying not to flinch at the slam of the car door.

On the fourth day, I thought of my mother.

On the fourth day, I wondered if I would live to see the fifth.


"Envy?"

"I think so…"

"Why didn't you fucking say anything sooner?"

"I don't know…I didn't think it was important…"

"It's fucking important now, isn't it, punk? It's always important after it's too late."


I walked into the building, a teenager on a normal Wednesday night. HQ was dark. Ominous in a way that it hadn't been, Before. Faces that were present were grim. Faces that weren't present flashed in the back of my mind in an attempt to make me sick.

Greed was no longer stunned like the first day, nor was he the terrifying sort of livid that had followed on the second day.

He was quiet. Calculating and murderous.

I was probably the scariest emotion I'd ever seen him display.

I wanted out. I wanted to throw my watch down and call it quits.

But there was no way. I'd lashed myself too firmly to this bed of nails, and if I tried to move now, I'd be run through.

I was scared, but the pervading numbness halted the terror.

Few words were spoken between the time I arrived and the time the troops moved out. There wasn't much that needed to be said.

I walked out of the building, a soldier heralding the onset of war.


I didn't throw up this time.

The only thing that came out of my mouth was a scream. And then another. I screamed and screamed until my voice was hoarse and my throat was raw. I tasted tears and blood and dirt.

Everything felt heavy.


Brass knuckles were actually super uncomfortable to wear. But I dealt with it.

The Glock 9mm hiding within the folds of my jacket was heavier than it looked. But I ignored it.

The handle of the switchblade in my pocket dug into my thigh. But I didn't bother moving it.

My memories were horrible. But I didn't know how to get rid of them.


It was late afternoon. The setting sun spilled through the windows. Fletcher was laughing at his brother for doing something stupid and the Chimera Triplets were off sulking in a corner. All in all, a normal day.

There was only a single shriek to warn us before the gunshots went off. We all looked at each other in panic before everyone started to move at once.

There was only one of us not present.

I prayed for the first time in years.

I stopped bothering with hope as soon as I got outside.

I fell to my knees in the growing pool of blood and stared in horror at the scene before me, fixating on the scrap of paper lying nearby.

The only thing on it was a picture of a dragon eating itself.


There was no funeral. No investigation. We couldn't risk calling the police. We took the bodies way out where no one could interrupt. The bodies were burned in memorial style, the remains buried under an old oak tree.

Watching that little body crumble was the hardest thing I've ever done.

At least she got to hold her dog in the end.


I shivered and pulled my jacket around me tighter.

I was standing in the rain in the middle of the night armed with weapons that I knew how to use and a failing will to not use them.

I wondered for the millionth time why it had to be this way. Why, out of everyone involved with the S.A., did it have to be her?


"Why? I don't understand…" Fletcher sobbed.

It was quiet a moment before Greed answered.

"Some old associates of mine have crawled out of the woodwork. Apparently," Greed's eyes flashed to me, sharp and cutting, "the water hydrant fight was started by them. But that didn't go as planned, so they resorted to this."

"But…wouldn't it have made more sense to attack one of us? Why did it have to be..." the poor boy trailed off, too distraught to continue.

"Why kill Alexander and Nina?"

I started at the crime being laid out so starkly. Noa's face held no emotion, but her eyes were dark as her words.

"They aren't aiming to cripple us. They're playing a psychological game. They want to get back at me, and they want it to hurt." Greed sneered.

"But who are these people and why are they targeting you personally?"


Why anyone would wish to take a life simply to strike out at a gang was beyond me, but…

But taking the lives of a little girl and her dog was just wrong.

Those dragon-people (Ouroboros, I knew now,) had gone too far.

Inside, I knew I had too much to loose to be involved in a gang war. I had things to protect.

But those bastards took Nina. Murdered an innocent little girl. I couldn't just let it be.

The best I could do was put everything important at an arm's length and wish for their safety.

Even if wishes were for the weak, it was all I had left.

All hope for myself had been scattered on the wind among the ashes.