So it seems like I took another hiatus...but fear not, I live, and I whipped up a short little tale that seems to be a mixture of angst, ennui, and noir.

But before we delve into a deep, "feels" filled world, I'd like to acknowledge:

tea-with-emilia,CrimsonRain101, and HoneyGoddess57 for loyally reading all my installments, and nobly reviewing!

tea-with-emilia: Ahaha, thank you so much! ;) Like you, I've always felt compelled to give Theresa a backstory, and especially focus on her relationship with her mother! Also, I absolutely adore your new username. It's so symbolic, and props to you for creatively sending a message with something as seemingly trivial as a username. (Also, I'm super honored that you even squeal when I update o: )

CrimsonRain101: Thank you, man! (By the way, we're officially bros now)

HoneyGoddess57: I love how every author can vary a backstory and make it unique, and I think yours is a pleasant twist. Apparently I take these things to dark extremes. Nonetheless, thank you again!

One last side note: I already developed and wrote another installment that I crafted specifically for Halloween, so if you'd like to get into the spirit of it Class of the Titans style, watch out for it on October 31st! (Wow, that's literally just two days away...)

And now, onto the show!

Midnight had finally overtaken the sleazy little town, and darkness was evidently looming, making it relatively impossible to see. Unlike the rest of urban New Olympia, the southern edges usually lacked illumination. Why spend thousands of dollars on street lights if that specific region wasn't home to any night life? the politicians of the city would argue time and time again. Most of the south side's residents had to suppress their argumentative hubris; after all, it was true- the south was just lined with clusters of "affordable housing" projects, nothing special that would require lights during the wee hours.

Yet, the lack of lighting took a toll on the locals. Hardly anyone - if anyone, at that- would rack up the nerve to saunter into the streets at night. Lest they want to be deemed crazy or a nefarious gangster by the rest of the neighborhood. The moment darkness began to blanket the quiet streets, it seemed like parents would whisk their children away to the safety of their homes. Perhaps they were the crazy ones, allowing the iterating media and overzealous news coverage of scarce crimes to get them. They'd never bothered to consider this, though. In fact, it seemed like everyone in New Olympia lacked a critical mentality. Question nothing and keep on smiling seemed to be their recurring motto.

So it would always strike the insomniacs living near the plain little building aptly called "The Brownstone" that well before the crack of dawn, a dim little light would appear on the top floor every night, and had done so for the past two years.

It seemed like no one had the courage to show that they were still up in such a dark, vulnerable little place. Except for whoever sat behind that little cracked window on the top floor.

Some claimed that they saw a purple-haired teenager hastily peer out of it before disappearing just as quickly. Some believed it, others snickered at the idea.

It angered a handful that someone would be so brazen to turn on a light at that time; whoever did it was just asking to be shot and killed by mobsters.

Though they'd never admit it, the majority of the residents felt an odd mixture of curiosity, awe, and gratitude. No one else ever got the courage to break the spell of gloom.

Except for whoever lived behind that cracked little window.

Pretentious as it sounds, they thought it was a symbol; a tiny, flickering symbol of courage, rebellion, and maybe idealistic revolution.

Then one day, the light simply went out; the insomniacs waited restlessly for it to quietly radiate, but that time never came. And it would never come.

The residents almost felt a pang of loss. A loss of their glowing symbol of insurgence and courage. Little did they know that at the same time, six other teenagers were mourning over the person that used to dwell behind that cracked little window.