"How'd y'all find me?" Cyrus asked, looking towards the group of children trailing behind him—Alfred was at the front, giddily skipping beside him.

"We knew you were coming, brother, but we got worried when you didn't show up. We wound up searchin' that alley for a while, and we eventually found ya!" The green-eyed child giggled, the rest of the children quick to join him, adding their own renditions to the story.

"You sure that's all, Al?" One of the boys called out.

"Liam don't—"

"Our candles blew out at one point, and poor lil' Al started cryin' like a baby!"

Another round of laughter erupted from the group, and Alfred's face flushed. He was on the verge of tears.

"Liam, don't be like that," Cyrus criticized, eyeing the children behind him, their laughter dying down to mere chuckles. Alfred gripped the end of his frayed shirt, letting out a murmured "thank you."

Sixth Street was as lively as always, the nightlife seemingly dancing underneath the artificial lights that lined the street. An older man was resting his head against his wooden cane, his baritone voice traveling with the slight breeze washing over the city. The doors to brothels and bars were wide open, older men and women spilling out from the buildings to listen in—slightly swaying their hips with their partners, or shutting their eyes to sink deep into the man's low tones.

"I used to believe

That we were free

But that was just for show.

So 'ere on my knees

I'm pleadin' to thee

Listen to the st'ry I know."

The children were enamored, to say the least. The small "oohs" "ahs" slipping from their mouths did not go unnoticed, and though Cyrus wanted to relax and let them join in on the festivities, he stood his ground. He was on edge, seemingly drowning in the aftereffects of the events that had occurred prior, worry seeping under his skin and rearing its ugly head.

His name and face may not be well-known amongst the citizens, but the other criminals? They practically stalked his movements through the city, and they're not really subtle about it. Passing out and just lying in that alley vulnerable—hell, being stuck in these parts of town for longer than he should be—was suicidal.

And yet, here he is, completely unscathed, surrounded by children and watching a bunch of drunkards dance to an old man's songs.

What the hell is going on? It's like a piece of his memory is just...gone.

"Brother, can we please go, please, please, plea—"

"S-sure, go ahead, Al. Take the others with you too."

Watching the boy's face brighten up, excitedly running over to the man to join the growing group surrounding him, was admittedly heartwarming. Cyrus' eyes softened.

"O, under that tree

Time sat next to me

Listenin' in on my sorrow(s).

Would you like to be free?

Let us go, we can flee!

I'll take you to your dreams on the morrow."

Maybe he was just overreacting, startled by the insane stroke of luck that saved him from the alley's horrors. Maybe nobody saw him because he wasn't even out for that long, found by the children fast enough to avoid any hostile encounters. His migraines were admittedly getting worse, no use denying that, but Myra would probably have some answers. She always did.

"Brother, come join us!" Alfred whispered, tapping the ground beside him. The other children also looked back at him, eagerly waiting for his response.

'Just try to forget for a little while, Cyrus. Do it for them, alright?'

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he eventually responded, plopping beside Alfred and the others. Cyrus slipped his hand into his bag, pulling out his coveted, stolen loaves and discreetly handing it to the children. The children huddled closer, their tiny hands shakily reaching forth, infectious smiles threatening to burst their precious cheeks wide open. Their eyes twinkled, practically glowing under the watchful gaze of the streetlights.

Cyrus' heart stuttered, practically feeding off the vibrancy of their loving stares. He pushed away his worries entirely, a single thought running through his mind—his sole job as their protector.

He found himself transported back to his years wandering the streets, left for dead or worse—mere fodder for the lurking heathens. Starvation was a constant, threatening his existence, overshadowing his will to live, and only when he met the other children, his crew, did he find any semblance of a need to survive.

This city nearly devoured him whole, adding him to its ever-growing collection of forgotten bodies, and Cyrus would be damned if he let these boys and girls even near that level of torment. He would make sure that they would experience the unadulterated happiness his younger self had once craved.

"We leaped to black sky,

Coverin' us in black dye,

reachin' up to the unknown

I was free, I could fly

I felt like I would cry,

I was nearin' the heavens' throne

"Are you going to stay with us?" Liam asked.

"I've gotta meet up with Myra, bud. She's got some medicine for me, and I've gotta pick that up then head home."

They protested, pleading with their doe eyes, and Cyrus couldn't find it in his heart to say no.

"I'll stay with you for a little while longer, yea?" He reasoned, and that seemingly quelled their objections. Cyrus knew it would be hard to leave with the bodies slouched against him—namely Alfred and Liam—being so warm and comforting. The older man's voice was lulling them to sleep, drowsiness making their eyelids heavy. He sighed, resigning himself to his fate as a pillow for these tiny gremlins.

He would stay until they fell asleep.

"But, alas, real'ty cruel

I was actin' a fool

I was bound to ground by stone

Time left me at Thule,

Till the day grew cool,

I was left to walk back on my own."

Loud cheers and applause filled the streets, Liam and Alfred half-awake, the other children chiming in with the rest of Sixth Street's residents:

"One more, one more, one more!"

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Oh, Cyrus! You're a lot later than I expected."

"Yeah, sorry bout' that Myra, I got caught up with some...things," he responded, hanging his bag off the makeshift coat hanger beside the door.

Cyrus noted her hunched over appearance, pallid skin, and unusually dull eyes as he slipped into the seat beside her. She looked exhausted, clearly worn from a surplus of patients filing into her already cramped clinic. Just as he was coming in, three other patients were walking out, carrying new prescriptions and exam receipts.

"Long hours, huh?"

"Tell me about it, I've been holding my clipboard for so long I feel like my arms are stuck," Myra grumbled, pushing her notes to the side for a moment and resting her cheek on the table—she nearly hissed at the cold tingling her skin.

"Go get some rest then, I can come back later on ai-"

"N-No, wait, please...please don't leave."

"Oh? Is there some-"

"N-NO IT'S NOT LIKE THAT!" She cried out, and Cyrus snorted, laughter wracking his chest.

"Ya never even let me finish, Myra. I was gonna ask if there was something wrong, dummy."

"O-Oh."

"What, ya thought I was askin' somethin' else, didn't ya?" He teased, and Myra's face flushed fifty shades darker.

"No, y-you," she stumbled, stuffing her face between her arms, "m-meanie."

Cyrus quieted down, ruffling her blond tresses slightly. "Oh, Myra, come on, I was just teasing."

"Ya know I could tell Miss Reyes about this, right."

Jimena bursting through the front door, screaming at the top of her lungs, "GREENE, WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TORMENTING MY POOR BABY? I'M GON FUCKING KILL YOU-"

Cyrus shuddered at the thought, quickly retracting his hands away from Myra and holding them up in surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll stop teasin'."

"T-thank you," she said quietly—was that a sigh?—and shakily pulled out of her seat. Her short black heels clicked against the tiled floor as she pulled out her master keys from her right-side pocket.

"You're here for the usual, right? Triptans?"

"Uh, about that," he started, his nervous laughter filling the room, "these migraines of mine have been getting...worse."

A few moments of deathly silence enveloped the room, until Myra finally spoke up, voice awfully steady.

"How long?"

"W-what?"

"How long have they been getting "worse," Cyrus?"

"I'm not exactly sure, honestly."

"Walk me through it, Cyrus. I need hours, descriptions, feelings-" Myra responded, her tiredness long gone, replaced by her straight-faced, professional form. She sat back down, slipping into her seat, shuffling her papers, and reaching for a pen from the cup holder. She gestured, cueing him to start.

"U-um well, I guess it started up a few hours ago?"

"Can you give me a rough estimate?"

"Well, I've seen the vendors move around and refill their goods twice, I think? I was out for a good while, and I might've missed one round then, but I doubt it. I feel like Miss Reyes would've told me if it'd been that long. Hmmm... I'll say about twenty hours give or take."

"How many episodes have you had?"

"Three."

Myra sharply inhaled, her eyebrows furrowing while she quickly jotted down some notes.

"I know this might be...triggering but can you tell me any specifics?"

Cyrus deflated at the thought, slumping in his seat, as he wracked his head for excuses. "Do I really have to?"

"I'm sorry, Cyrus, but this has to be done. We can take as long as you need, though. I don't expect you to spit details out that fast, alright?"

"Y-yeah, I understand," Cyrus mumbled, slightly shifting around in his seat. Anxiety had taken hold of his body and made itself at home: the twiddling of his fingers, the rapidly shifting eyes, the tapping feet.

"I uh," he stumbled, cursing his inability to speak.

'Calm down, it's just Myra.'

"I was goin' to meet up with Logan after runnin' around in the Bread District, and I had to stop in the alley cause my head was pounding. Like, uh, really bad," He glanced up towards Myra, who was immersed in her notes, her glinting round frames hiding her eyes.

"I've been hearing a...voice?"

"A voice?"

"Yeah, um...s-sorry, you must think I'm goin' insane or something," he said, worried he opened a can of worms that should've stayed closed. It was a mistake, there's no point mentioning it, honestly—

"Can you tell me what you've been hearing? Like are there specific commonalities or patterns?"

"I don't really know, Myra. I've heard them a couple of times, but they don't exactly speak coherently. It's like hearing my voice but horribly distorted. Almost like a garbled mess of incomplete thoughts, I suppose? I-I don't really know, it's all just really confusing." He stammered, looking away from Myra's scrutinizing gaze.

"I see," she said, and Cyrus cringed at the harsh scraping of her chair against the flooring. She stood up, grabbing her files and a purple box, and approached the area right behind the desk they were sitting at.

Shelf upon shelf upon shelf, the area was filled with documents, medical books, and OTC medications. For being so densely packed, the amount of organization and thought put into it made it seem less cluttered. Cyrus watched Myra sit on the ground, pull out the golden keys from before, and slip one of them into a tiny lock obscured by two dusty books. A distinct 'click' resounded through the dimly lit room, and the bottom half of the shelves broke apart, swinging open like double doors. It was just tall enough for them both to walk through with minimal discomfort.

"Damn, Myra, hook me up with one of these."

"Get on the Queen's good side, and you might just get yourself one too," she smirked, strolling through the doors. It was disorienting, to say the least, as he was blinded by the onslaught of just white. White walls, white doors, white light, white floors. It was an awfully sterile environment, and Cyrus nearly cringed at the lack of color. Hell, even Myra's coat matched the lifeless halls.

"You really kept the all-white? Damn, your patients must hate walkin' through this shit, Myra," He said, looking off the multitude of doors they passed by, "tell me you got some color in the rooms at least."

"White works the best, Cyrus. It helps my patients calm down, alright?"

"Ya sure about that?"

Her nasty glare made him shut up.

They walked down the main hallway, stopping by the directory and taking a right into a smaller, more narrow hallway. There were only four rooms, each labeled nothing else but "345, 346, 347, 348." There was also a sign fittingly reading "Trauma Unit" against the farthest wall.

Wonderful.

Myra stopped in front of Room 348, testing the knob briefly before turning it open. She flipped the switch on the wall, and the lights stuttered to life.

"Come in," she said, moving out of the way to let Cyrus step inside.

There was a single chair in the middle of the room, hooked up to a weirdly shaped contraption hanging next to it. The mess of wires and monitors were the only non-white objects, so his eyes were naturally drawn to them and the stool tucked underneath the machine(s). The sight was unnerving, butterflies dancing in the confines of his stomach.

"Lay down here, Cyrus," Myra spoke, jolting Cyrus out of his thoughts. Her voice sounded louder than before, even though it was the same level tone she was using just moments ago.

It was probably just the room: it was unnaturally silent, devoid of the usual humming lights and annoying buzzing insects.

He slipped in the seat, adjusting to the recline of it, shifting to his side to see Myra playing with some controls on the monitors. The tiny, neon green text was hardly legible even in the reflection on her glasses.

"Alright, I'm gonna run some tests to make sure you're doing good, Cyrus," Myra said, swiveling around on her stool to look back at him.

"How long is this gonna take?"

"Shouldn't be too long."

She shifted around once more, grabbing the purple box she brought with her from the clinic. There was a multitude of medium-sized, black adhesives inside.

"What are those for?" Cyrus asked.

"Scans."

She grabbed four identical wires attached to the central monitor, each equipped with suction type head, and reached for the adhesives. One-by-one, she peeled the backings and placed the black circles on their respective wire.

"I'm gonna place these on your head, alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

The stickiness felt abnormal and out-of-place, but Cyrus quickly ruled his predispositions out of his mind.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah, you can keep going, Myra," he assured, even as his breath hitched when he saw a black object obscure his view.

"Relax, Cyrus, I'm not gonna hurt you," she smiled, as she pushed the black object closer until it was practically flush with his face.

"This is gonna help me read these scans, alright?"

He could only see from his right eye, considering that it was the only part of his face not covered, but he looked towards Myra with a silent 'okay.'

"Great, let's get started then, shall we? I need you to relax. Think about something that makes you feel comfortable and safe, alright?"

His thoughts immediately drifted towards the dinner from hours before, when he was with his Mother and Logan, cracking jokes about how rude some of the vendors can be.

"Good, good, stay still now. I'm gonna give you something that'll make you go to sleep, alright? It won't hurt, I promise."

He tried protesting as a needle sunk deep into the skin of his upper arm, his muscles tensing at the unwanted intrusion before relaxing completely. The drug eased through his system, slowly overriding his panic with a deep haze, the once white room slipping to pitch black.