Peaceful sleep was short-lived, sadly.

At first, the blackness was calming. Peaceful. Quiet.

But then, it changed.

It became sad. Lonely. Scary. Suffocating.

He couldn't escape. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he breathed, was darkness. He screamed, and it did nothing. The darkness wasn't afraid, like he was. Oh, and he was truly afraid. Fear plunged itself into his icy veins, seizing his lungs in a vice grip. His breathing quickened, fight-or-flight response burning within him. Where was he? Was he hiding? From what?

He thought of the options. They all boiled down to someone hating him, or wanting to hurt him—prompting him to hide where he was now.

But he didn't want to be here anymore. He was scared, and couldn't calm himself down. Was it his parents? His stepfather? Had his pitiful excuse of a father-figure come home from the store, with a new belt to test out against his pale, battered skin? He trembled just thinkingabout it. And then, he couldn'tstop thinking about it. The fear had gripped onto that thought, refusing to let it go from his mind. No matter how hard he tried, every thought looped back to his awful childhood. Out of his control, the primal fear took over. It was his secret, his biggest fear. The one he always kept to himself. His childhood.

The insults, the worthlessness, the bruises, the beatings—

He breathed in the inky blackness, freezing him further, stuck in this horrible, suffocating place. Someone called his name, faintly. Were they yelling for him from far away? He couldn't tell. Was it his stepfather?

His thoughts spiraled further out of his control, frustrating his already conflicted mind even further. He couldn't stop. He couldn't breath. He couldn't—

Something shook him awake.

—

Abbacchio was heavily unnerved.

First off, the golden brat took a hit for him.

He shivered, a distant memory throbbing in his mind.

Why? Why the hell would he do it? There was no reason. Giorno enjoyed being the perfect, flawless being that he was, so he took the hit for Abbacchio.

Right?

But now that he looked at it, the boy was far from perfect.

He watched quietly as Mista gently placed the limp teenager onto the couch. He observed the way Giorno's lifeless-looking body sank into the plush furniture, almost peaceful, a far cry from his demeanor earlier.

No, not at all similar to his demeanor earlier.

Not long ago, he had been emotionally compromised by an enemy Stand, his head being fucked up so bad from the ability that the damn kid was reduced to nothing but a sobbing, begging mass of pure fear. He was reduced to something weak, something afraid, something not-perfect. Something not-Giorno.

Looking deep into his sleeping face, Abbacchio saw Giorno's eyes move randomly under the lids. His face twitched occasionally, his mouth now pulled into an uncomfortable frown.

Even in sleep, the kid couldn't catch a damn break.

The stairs creaked, pulling him from his melancholy thoughts.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?" A deep voice asked. Bucciarati's voice. Mista looked over to the Capo, preparing his reply.

"We defeated the unintended Stand User, but—"

"—Giorno's been compromised." Abbacchio finished coldly.

"..."

"...Yeah." Mista finally sighed with disappointment.

"Compromised? He was hit by the Stand?" Bucciarati questioned, eyes crinkling with concern. His pupils flickered over to the sleeping boy on more than one occasion.

Abbacchio nodded. "We made the mistake of assuming the enemy's ability was touch-activated. It wasn't. It was activated by shooting a victim with a beam. Giorno took the hit." He growled.

The growl wasn't directed at Bucciarati, more-so towards the situation.

The Capo's face hardened. "I see. If I remember correctly, that man's Stand ability takes control of its victim's emotional state, to the User's advantage. What are his symptoms? How has he been behaving?"

Giorno whimpered.

Mista bit his lip. "Fear. He's afraid. Immediately after being hit, he acted deathly afraid of anything and everything. When we tried to calm him down, he looked at us as if we were going to kill him. He even used Gold Experience to lash out at us before trying to escape. It's like he didn't even recognize us. The look on his face, it…"

It was just wrong.

"I understand." Bucciarati notes solemnly. "How were you able to calm him down?"

Mista took a deep breath, thinking carefully before retelling.

"I eventually ran up to him and restrained him. He tried to squirm out of my grip, but he kept rambling incoherently about stuff and—"

"—I punched him." Abbacchio interrupted.

Mista shut up, nodding. Bucciarati grew a concerned look on his face, but didn't say anything.

Their attention was captured by a brief sound of movement, coming from the living room couch. Giorno laid there uncomfortably, face contorted in anguish. A bead of sweat rolled down his tense face.

"He's still under the effects of the Stand?" Bucciarati wondered aloud.

"I guess knocking him out was only a temporary solution." Abbacchio scoffed.

"The symptoms must wear off on their own then. If the User is dead, then that's the only other option." Bruno said with a sigh, "We'll just have to keep an eye on him until it wears off." He finished, walking over to the couch. Giorno shifted once more.

The stairs creaked, a new voice joining them.

"Hey guys, what's going on? I heard talking—wait, is that Giorno ?" Narancia's voice drifted into the room (a little too loudly).

Bucciarati spoke softly, "Yes, but he's not feeling well, so you need to be quieter—"

Giorno started to breath heavily in his sleep, cutting the Capo off.

"Woah, he is okay? " Narancia whispered slightly more quietly. The room grew tense, as Bucciarati walked over to the couch.

Giorno was now gasping and trembling on the piece of furniture, his previously peaceful expression completely tense in anguish.

"What do we do? Do we wake him up? ...Bucciarati?" Mista said, lost. Seeing Giorno look so helpless didn't sit well in his stomach.

Bruno held a pensive look on his face, eyebrows pinched, lips frowning. He kneeled down, hovering over the quaking boy.

"Giorno?" He tried, softly. (as if the teen was a thin glass about to shatter, if someone spoke a touch too loudly.)

The boy gasped harder, stuck in what seemed to be a horrible nightmare. His lips pulled back revealing clenched teeth, his mouth struggling to take in air.

Bruno couldn't bear to watch it anymore. Whatever Giorno was going though, it couldn't be better than being awake. The mind is a scary place—especially if you can't control it.

Thinking it over, he gently placed his hand on Giorno's shoulder, lightly shaking him.

Giorno groaned, breath escaping him in pitiful wheezes. Weak mumbles and panicked syllables fell from his mouth as Bruno shook him, harder.

"Giorno! Wake up! You're safe!"

"nonono— n-no , nono—"

Jesus Christ.

"Giorno!" — A hard shove.

Eyelids rapidly parted, revealing terrified green.

Giorno completely stilled, staring at the concerned blue eyes above him. The recognition in his eyes was minimal. Giorno's impossibly small pupils moved to the hand currently resting on his shoulder, panicking. The boy gulped, struggling to contain his gasps.

Bucciarati's eyes widened in realization. He moved his hand away, slowly.

Giorno's eyes trailed his every movement, as if Bruno was a predator preparing to strike.

The Capo sensed this, putting his hands in a gesture of vulnerable surrender while walking backwards, away from the couch.

His back now against the wall, Bucciarati observed Giorno.

The boy continued to be tense, refusing to make a sound. His breathing was also still labored, but he seemed to be hiding it—almost like he was afraid of making too much noise.

"Oi, Giorno! You're awake! How ya feelin'—!"

Narancia's unexpected breach of the tense silence caused Giorno's head to snap impossibly fast towards his direction. He stumbled off the couch and scrambled backwards against the farthest wall, pressing his back against it.

"... H-Hey , it's alright, it's just me—" Narancia said with uncertainty, taking a careful step forward.

Giorno tensed with panic, Gold Experience erupting forth. The usually-calm Stand hovered protectively and aggressively, daring Narancia to take another step towards its User. Giorno continued to stare, his eyes filled with pure fear.

Narancia took the hint, taking a slow step backwards. Another. One by one, he stepped away from Giorno, silencing himself.

The trembling teen refused to take his eyes off of him, but Gold Experience slowly phased back into Giorno.

They all stared in a tense silence, completely still, unable to speak, clueless about what to do.

—

When Giorno opened his eyes, he couldn't see or hear very clearly.

Panic flooded his veins, refusing to let go. His senses seemed to be in overdrive. He felt his chest heave up and down, along with the nagging sensation of someone watching him. His eyes focused slightly, and he could make out the shape of someone standing over him.

Someone standing over him, their hand placed on his shoulder.

Touching him.

His panic doubled against his will, like a foreign entity in his mind. He didn't want to be scared, but it's like his emotions provided no other option. He was incapable of feeling anything else. Giorno moved his blurry vision towards the threat resting on his shoulder, uncontrollable trembles flowing through his body. Horrible memories he tried to suppress plagued his mind as his eyes refused to tear themselves away from the contact against his shoulder.

And then, it was gone.

The blurry figure standing over him seemed to recognize his discomfort, and had removed its hand.

So the figure cared about him? Why?

This had to be some sort of trick, Giorno's sick mind provided.

He refused to tear his eyes away from the figure, watching its every movement. Giorno's vision tunneled, focusing on the potential threat as it backed away slowly. The figure would betray him any second, right?

The back of his mind provided endless images of the figure suddenly lunging at him, pouncing on him, wanting to hurt him. He gulped, focusing on the present.

The white figure had pressed itself against the wall, now. It was quiet, and it's hands were raised in surrender. Reassurance.

Why?

His terrified mind was confused. Everyone in your early life hated you, his brain screamed.

But this figure seemed to care about his feelings.

(It was almost...familiar)

Giorno continued to make himself small, quiet. Less of a target. He couldn't trust anyone , after all. His racing thoughts prevented any other belief. Soon enough, his thoughts were proved right.

Another voice loudly called his name, startling him.

Fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive, he couldn't stop his body from scrambling against the wall, away from the voice, away from the threat.

Being more awake now, his hazy vision seemed to focus slightly more than before.

Four. There were four figures watching him. He observed any details he could.

Of course, there was the figure against the wall. It was dressed in white clothing, and it refused to move.

Behind the couch Giorno was previously resting on (when did he fall asleep?), were two figures previously unnoticed. One was a purplish black color, while the other was a mix of red and blue. They both remained silent, unmoving, but intensely watching.

Finally, the one that loudly addressed him. It was a mix of dark purple and bright orange color, loud and boisterous. The threat . The one that wanted to hurt him—

—It took a step closer.

Ice cold panic flooded his system once more. Instinctively, Gold Experience ejected from his body, overflowing with aggressive energy, ready to defend its User at a moment's notice.

The figure wanted to hurt him. That h-had to be it. Why else would it yell his name—yell his name while getting closer? Nobody ever wanted anything to do with him, unless it involved hurting him. Whether it was mentally or physically, it didn't matter. There would be no other reason for someone wanting to be close to him.

Nobody cared for him, his mind supplied. He had to trust his experiences. Stay away, stay quiet, stay obedient—

The figure stepped back. Giorno watched intensely.

His vision had focused more with time, it was much less hazy now, compared to when he first woke up.

He watched as the orange figure continued to step backwards, quietly. Now that his vision was more focused, he could see more details. The figure wasn't orange—it was a person with orange-highlighted clothing. More specifically, a bright orange head-band. A dark purple shirt.

His mind itched at the familiarity. Why did it seem like his brain was forcing him to forget something?

Gold Experience phased back into his body.

His breathing slowed slightly, but he couldn't completely compress the involuntary panic.

Why was he so scared? What happened?

He tried to remember…

…

…

A man. His Stand. A threat. A glowing hand. A gun. Mista. The man again. Abbacchio. A bright flash.

A hand reaching through his mind, tearing at his fears. His worst memories, his secret phobias, savagely scraped to the front of his thoughts. Forced out of their cage, swirling around frantically in his head.

People. More figures. t̶h̶r̶e̶a̶t̶s̶?

They called to him. His mind twisted their words, trying to scare him. He felt forced to believe his mind. They called to him again, desperately this time.

t̴̶̸h̸̶̵e̵̶̷y̶̶̸ ̶̶̷w̶̶̴a̴̶̴n̴̶̴t̶̶̵e̵̶̸d̷̶̸ ̶̶̷t̴̶̵o̵̶̴ ̸̶̷h̷̶̷e̴̶̴l̸̶̶p̷̶̷ ̷̶̸h̷̶̷i̵̶̶m̵̶̶?̵̶̸

He opened his eyes. They were clearer now. Having pushed back the squirming force in the back of his head, his thoughts felt slightly clearer too.

He raised his head, observing the figures with unbiased eyes.

"...ᵍᵘʸˢˀ..."