The song ended.
It didn't really end so much as evaporated. The last chorus trailed off like smoke through a crack in the wall. No final bang. No resolve. Just... gone.
And with it, the pressure in Darren's skull loosened.
Not gone gone, it was still there, buzzing quietly like a fridge you couldn't unplug, but quieter. Fainter. Like the storm had moved offshore.
He let out a shaky breath.
His hands were still twitchy. His spine still felt like it had been vibrating. But he wasn't on the edge of exploding anymore. Now he was just… frayed.
He wasn't ready to uncurl yet.
So he stayed in his hunch, elbows on knees, face buried in his sleeves. Hoodie like armor. Headphones like a wall.
Eventually, his stomach did what brains couldn't: demanded attention.
He rummaged through his bag until his fingers found The Emergency Granola Bar™ — the one that had probably been in there since last semester.
It tasted like dust, depression, and possibly regret. There was definitely a raisin in there, but it crunched like betrayal.
His brain helpfully chimed in:This expired?
Pretty sure.
You gonna die?
Eh. Might not be the worst outcome.
Wait, what even IS granola?
Is granola even real food?
Why is it always stuck together like birdseed and wood glue?
I should Google that later. I should—
"Stop." he muttered aloud, cheeks full of sadness-crunch.
He forced another bite. Focused on texture. Crunch. Chew. Weird chewy bit. ]
Then he counted tile cracks across the stall wall like it was a sacred ritual.
One. Two. Three. Three again. Wait, is that a crack or just dirt? Four. Four-ish.
The lights overhead buzzed like they were judging him.
Loud. Sharp. Familiar. Kinda comforting in a terrible, fluorescent migraine way.
He sighed. Sat up straighter. Pulled his hood down.
Body: aching.
Legs: pins-and-needles.
Brain: less blender, more fizzing soda can someone forgot to open.
Still fizzing. Still shaking. But manageable.
He stood slowly. Everything cracked like bubble wrap.
Stumbled to the sink, turned the tap, splashed his face.
Cold. Sharp. Immediate.
Like someone slapped his brain across the face and screamed "Reboot, ya gobshite!"
The world snapped back into ultra-HD for a second, too sharp, too cold, too loud, then dimmed into something tolerable.
He looked up. Stared at himself in the mirror.
His hair was a disaster. Eyes bloodshot. Hoodie wrinkled. His hand had a bite mark on it.
"Okay," he muttered. "Okay. You're not dying. You just feel like it."
Hands still under the cold water, he watched the stream swirl over his knuckles like it might wash the noise away.
Bubbles gathered in between his fingers.
He fixated on that. Tiny, dumb, real.
It felt like something he could control. Something that didn't shout or judge or repost him to Reddit.
He dried his hands. Adjusted his hoodie.
He dried off, adjusted his hoodie, ritual complete, and pulled the mask back on.
Fake smirk. Easy swagger. Shoulders up. Posture chill.
Pretend your brain wasn't exploding a couple minutes ago
Smile. Just a flicker. Just enough.
He stepped out of the bathroom like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just had a full-on I'm-going-to-scream-until-my-lungs-explode moment ten minutes ago.
"Alright lads," he muttered under his breath, mimicking a cocky swagger as he passed a few students by the vending machines. "What's the craic?"
None of them looked up.
Good.
But the second he was alone in the corridor, the exhaustion hit like a bus.
Every fluorescent light felt like a migraine.
Every shoe squeak made him flinch.
Every conversation was a dull knife at the edge of his hearing, trying to carve its way back in.
He wasn't fixed. He was just functioning.
And even that felt like a bloody miracle.
Outside, near the bike racks, Liam was halfway through a Lucozade and looking like he'd just come from a minor scuffle with a Philosophy lecture.
He spotted Darren and grinned. "Yo."
"Yo," Darren rasped, trying to match the grin and missing by a margin of 'I haven't slept in six years.'
"Define sleeping," Darren said, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. "Because if you mean lying in bed reading One Piece till 4AM while slowly becoming part of the mattress, then yeah. Absolutely thriving."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "That's not sleep, that's a cry for help. And bro, why are you still reading One Piece? I've been telling you, Tower of God. Peak webtoon. Gas storyline. God-tier fights."
Darren groaned. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But the art, man. The early stuff looks like it was drawn with a calculator."
"Yeah well, so did One Piece back in the day. You powered through Alabasta. You can survive some dodgy linework."
"Still," Darren muttered, eyes narrowing. "That rabbit thing in the early chapters haunts me."
Liam snorted. "You haunt me."
They stood there for a bit, not saying anything. Just existing.
Liam gently kicked the stone wall with the toe of his shoe, the scrape echoing off the courtyard.
Darren spun his fidget ring absentmindedly, click, twist, reverse, repeat, eyes flicking across the grey sky, too tired to focus, too wired to relax.
And weirdly, that silence, that aimless, brain-empty, sky-watching silence, felt more like a lifeline than anything had all day.
Liam tossed him the last bit of his Lucozade.
Darren drank it. Didn't puke.
Win.
His brain, for once, stayed quiet.
No pressure. No questions.
Just two dumbasses and a bottle of Lucozade.
That night...
The city murmured quietly beneath a blanket of drizzle, streetlights smudging pale halos into the darkness. Darren perched atop the ledge, hoodie zipped tight, mask snug, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air. Every muscle felt restless, jittery, ready for anything.
Too quiet.Too still.
Then, a sharp laugh, a muffled scream.
Below, in a damp, graffiti-scarred alley, two men cornered a woman. One held a blade, the metal catching a brief glint from the flickering streetlamp.
Darren didn't think.Couldn't, really.
He dropped, silent as mist, landing with barely a whisper of boots on pavement. His breath steadied instinctively. Hoodie snug. Eyes narrowed.
"Oi."
One man spun, startled, directly into Darren's rapid combination: jab, jab, cross, sharp hook, and a crisp teep kick square to the chest. The thug wheezed sharply, crumpling forward. Darren caught him, pivoted, slammed an elbow into his temple, then gently eased him to the ground. One tap to the jaw, lights out.
"Sleep tight, mate," Darren muttered, adrenaline humming hot beneath his skin.
A scuffle behind him, a wild slash of metal. Darren twisted sharply, parried roughly, blade skittering against brick. His body took over, effortless: clinch tight, controlled knee shot to the ribs.
A sharp crack. The man buckled, gasping.
"Ah shit, sorry, didn't mean that," Darren hissed, flipping the guy into a rough pin. He pressed firmly against his sternum. "Just stay down, eh?"
He glanced quickly at the woman pressed against the alley wall, frozen, eyes wide as streetlamps. Early twenties, red hair damp in the rain, backpack half-torn from her shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked urgently, breathing rapid, eyes darting back to the downed attacker.
She nodded frantically, trembling. "Yeah… just… holy shit."
He stood slowly, stretching slightly, joints popping with faint relief. Blood rushed hot through his veins, and the alleyway wobbled a little with the aftermath of rapid-fire movements.
Suddenly the pinned guy snarled and lunged upwards, knife back in hand, eyes wild with desperation.
"Oh c'mon..." Darren ducked sharply beneath a wide slash, jabbed swiftly twice into the ribs, nothing. A quick roundhouse kick snapped sharply into the guy's thigh, earning a muffled yelp. Still standing. He pivoted again, delivered a heavier kick to the body, thud, then a clean hook caught the thug's jaw with an ugly crunch.
He collapsed, finally down.
Darren knelt instantly, heart skipping, fingers seeking a pulse. Strong, steady, thank fuck.
The woman was still frozen, mouth open in shock, shaking visibly, phone clutched tightly.
"Hey, you're safe," Darren reassured gently. "You should probably go. Call someone."
She hesitated, staring intently, barely breathing. "Are you… actually him? Sentinel?"
"Yup," Darren muttered awkwardly, suddenly hyper-aware of himself.
"Can, can I just get one photo?" Her voice was tentative, almost pleading. "No one'll ever believe me."
Every sensible voice in his head screamed don't be stupid, but his impulsive side had already decided.
"Ah, feck it, sure." He stepped closer, tugged her into a quick side-hug, her phone flashed once sharply, lighting up his masked face, eyes glowing white in the sudden burst.
CLICK.
Oh, Christ.
Regret surged instantly, heart thudding painfully. His stomach dropped.
"I… posed. Like an absolute gobshite, I posed for a feckin' photo."
Too late now.Way too late.
That picture was going to be everywhere in under an hour. Guaranteed.
He retreated swiftly, melting back into shadow, heart hammering as if he'd just sprinted a marathon. He shook his head slightly in self-disbelief.
"Feck it," he muttered. "Worth it, right?"
Somewhere in Berlin, an alert pinged.
New image. High confidence match. Dublin city centre.
The analyst flagged it, tagged it, and added it to the file.
Subject 4-1B.
Still active.