The voices in Zarion’s mind surged like a storm, cruel and relentless. You’re already dead, they hissed. Why keep dragging around this lifeless shell? Just let go.

The words clawed at him, sharp and unforgiving. His fingers twisted violently into his hair, a desperate anchor against the chaos raging inside. The pressure burned — a fragile tether to reality — but the darkness clawed deeper, whispering promises of silence, peace, and release.

For a moment, Zarion let himself be seduced by that quiet promise. The idea of escape hovered just beyond reach, seductive and terrifying all at once. His body trembled, his breath catching like a trapped bird’s, his heartbeat pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Slowly, almost in a trance, he reached toward the dresser. His legs felt heavy, as if wading through invisible waves pulling him under. The keys lay there — cold metal, familiar, always with him. But this time, they were more than just keys. The small blade concealed within the keychain glinted in the dim light, waiting.

His hand shook as he flicked it open, the blade slicing through the silence. It pressed cold and sharp against his skin, and without hesitation, Zarion dragged it across his wrist. A searing pain exploded through him, raw and vivid.

Blood welled up immediately, dark and warm, spilling slowly onto the pale tiles, staining the floor in spreading pools and rivulets. The pounding in his chest faltered, the cacophony of voices dimming into a hollow quiet. But the emptiness that filled its place was colder, heavier — a weight that crushed the soul.

Zarion’s back was to the door, unaware of the thin, sinister line of blood snaking its way across the floor, reaching out like a silent scream.

One crew member, passing by with casual curiosity, paused and squinted at the spreading red stain.
“Hey, is that part of some stunt? Fake blood or something?” he called out, voice light but tinged with confusion.

Kieran looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. No mention of fake blood in the schedule. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“A line of... red liquid is creeping out from Zarion’s—” The crew member’s words caught in his throat as both Kieran and Alaric bolted toward the green room, urgency turning their steps into a race.

The door flew open, and they stumbled inside, breathless. The room felt suffocating, heavy with dread. There, pooling beneath Zarion’s feet, was a dark, spreading stain — unmistakably blood.

Kieran’s stomach twisted, his mind struggling to accept what his eyes confirmed. The cold reality hit him like a physical blow. Alaric froze, face pale, his gaze locked on Zarion’s bleeding wrist. The sight was raw, cruel — a painful confession made flesh.

Kieran’s voice trembled as he whispered, “Zarion... why?”

The silence that followed was thick, shattered only by the soft, ragged breaths they all struggled to control. Zarion’s reply was hollow; the words were almost lost in the charged air:
“To feel alive.”

The truth of that admission struck Kieran like a knife. A single tear escaped his eye, sliding down his cheek as if it carried the weight of Zarion’s torment. The invisible chasm between them momentarily shrank, bound by a shared, silent suffering.

Alaric, overwhelmed, staggered toward the door, eyes glazed, the edge of fainting threatening to pull him under. Kieran appeared suddenly, his hand firm and urgent, blocking the way with an unspoken command.

“Alaric, close the door,” Kieran ordered, his voice steadier now, edged with determination.

Without hesitation, he moved to Zarion’s side, pulling the chair gently toward the dresser. From his pocket, Kieran withdrew a small medical kit—candles wrapped in plastic, antiseptic, a needle, thread, bandages—all prepared for moments just like this.

The candles flickered to life, casting trembling shadows on the walls. Kaelith swabbed the area meticulously, pouring antiseptic over the raw flesh. Zarion hissed sharply, a deep, guttural sound torn from the depths of his pain.

Kieran glanced sideways, catching the quiet anguish in Zarion’s eyes. Despite the wound’s depth, the nerves still screamed with every touch.

“Why?” Kieran whispered again, his voice breaking.

“To remind myself I’m still here. Still breathing.”

With practiced hands, Kieran loaded the syringe with local anesthetic and injected it slowly, watching Zarion’s face contort as the numbing spread.

Then, with trembling care, he stitched the wound closed—each stitch a silent prayer for healing. But as the final knot was tied, Zarion’s sharp wince revealed the anesthetic’s faltering power. Pain surged anew, fierce and unyielding.

The room hung heavy with regret. This was a punishment none deserved — Zarion’s pain, and their failure to see it in time.

They all understood, beneath the surface, that Zarion wasn’t seeking death. He craved the edge, the jagged line between existence and oblivion — pain as proof that he still felt something real.

As Kieran finished bandaging, his hands steady despite the turmoil in his chest, helplessness wrapped around them all. Zarion’s struggle was his alone to face, and yet, it fractured them too.

Outside, the stadium thrummed with life, a sea of chanting fans, their light sticks swaying like stars in a darkened sky. Yet inside, Zarion lay hooked to an IV, exhaustion written in every line of his body.

Makeup artists flitted around, their brushes gentle as they transformed him into the shining star the crowd adored. But Kieran never left his side, a constant shield against the crushing weight of silence and expectation.

The countdown on the screen blinked down — 10... 3... 1... — and Zarion rose, a bandaged wrist hidden beneath his sleeve, but his spirit burning bright.

Then, suddenly, the jewel at his throat pulsed with a deep, violet glow. The light surged, warm and powerful, sending shivers racing down his spine. Fear flickered in his eyes, but he forced himself to mask it, unwilling to show the trembling beneath the surface.

The entire stadium was bathed in purple light, waves of energy radiating from Zarion’s silent companion, mingling with the sea of color from the fans’ glowing sticks.

In the front row, Alden watched, breath caught, heart pounding. Every note, every movement etched itself into his memory — the brilliant facade masking the broken soul beneath.

This moment was etched in time — fragile, fierce, and impossible to forget.