Well's heart dropped cold.
His hands trembled. His legs went numb. His lower half was exposed to no one but himself—and in that fragile moment, that vulnerability felt like proof of being alive.
"W–who's there?" Well asked.
His head spun, vision blurring. Fighting the dizziness, he wiped away the mess he had made, shoving the soiled napkins into the bathroom trash before the person outside could suspect anything.
"Is everything alright?" the voice asked.
The sound struck him—painfully familiar.
"Noor?" Well whispered, sweat pouring down his face. He was nearly finished cleaning the white stress splattered across the floor, but the instant he heard her voice, his hands froze.
"I might be, brother," the voice replied.
His shaking worsened as he struggled into his pants.
"I'll ask again," the knocker said. "Are you alright?"
"I don't know," Well answered, unlocking the door. "Are you really her?"
The door creaked open.
A small figure stood before him—about fifteen years old. Blond hair. Pitch-black eyes.
Life rushed back into Well's dead stare. Tears spilled freely as a smile twisted across his face—ugly, desperate, unbearable to anyone but her.
She smiled back.
"Hello, big brother."
"Where were you all this time?" he breathed. "I needed you. I searched everywhere. I even dug your grave… and still I couldn't find your smile."
Noor opened her arms.
"How numb of you," she said lightly. "Won't you hug your lost sister?"
Well stepped forward.
Laughter tore through the moment.
Behind her stood the dark figure—his father—watching from a distance, smirking, laughing, existing all at once.
Well ignored him and rushed toward his sister.
The embrace never came.
Pain exploded across his face as a fist shattered his nose, sending him crashing onto the filthy bathroom floor.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
"I'm not your damn sister!" the voice snarled. "Are you high or something?"
Well gasped and opened his eyes.
The hallway was empty.
No father. No sister.
Only Rain stood over him—the dead-eyed girl.
He clutched his nose, but the pain wasn't there. It sat deeper, heavier, lodged in his chest.
He wished the illusion had been real.
He wished it desperately.
"Are you listening?" Rain asked.
Well laughed weakly as consciousness slipped away.
"I'm sorry—for both of you," he murmured as blood pooled beneath him. "No… all three of you."
"What the hell do you mean, all three of us?" Rain shouted.
Everything went dark.
—
He was back in his old school.
He sat astride a boy his age—twice his size—driving a wooden pencil into the boy's eye. His smile was wide. Wet. Alive with blood.
He kept thrusting.
He ignored the screaming. The begging. The hands pulling at his shoulders.
His world narrowed to the ruined eye—no longer an eye, only a swollen mass of red.
Laughing. Rocking. Thrusting.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Well?" the dark figure asked.
A mirror appeared in his hands.
"Look closely."
Well stared.
His father's face stared back.
"No—!" Well screamed. His body shook as tears streamed down his face.
The world fractured, splintering like glass.
"What's wrong, Will?" the dark figure mocked. "You don't like honesty?"
"That's not me!" Well shouted. "Shut up!"
"And yet," the figure said calmly, "you're still holding the pencil. You're still sitting on him."
Well dropped the pencil and grabbed the boy's shoulders.
"Wake up!"
"I'm sorry!"
"It was a mistake—I swear!"
"It's useless," the dark figure said coldly. "He's dead."
Well shook the body harder. Blood spread beneath them.
"Wake up!"
The voice changed.
"Wake up."
Rain's voice.
Well jolted awake.
He was back on the bathroom floor, staring up at Rain's face.
"My anchor," he whispered.