Chapter Text
It hurts even more today..
The moon was out in a way that felt wrong for the season.
It hung low and pale in the sky, too sharp, too clean, as if it had been cut from glass instead of stone. Summer was supposed to be soft—heavy air, warm nights, the kind that wrapped around your skin and made you forget where your body ended and the world began. But this night was different. The cold crept in quietly, like it hadn’t been invited but came anyway, slipping between the cracks of what people expected the season to be. It felt different, and somewhat wrong–-it felt not right, it felt incorrect, was a hint of something more happening sooner or later? Climate change was creeping in slowly but aggressively with floods, changing weather, and life changing events they’ll kill and hurt many..
The air had a bite to it. Not the dramatic cruelty of winter, not the kind that burns your lungs, but a subtle chill that raised goosebumps and made you pull your jacket tighter without realizing why. The grass looked darker under the moonlight, each blade outlined in silver, stiff with dew that felt closer to frost than moisture. Crickets still sang, stubbornly clinging to the calendar, but their rhythm felt slower, uncertain, as if even they knew something was off.
The moonlight spilled across rooftops and empty streets, illuminating everything with an almost judgmental clarity. There was no warmth in it—no romance. It didn’t glow; it exposed. Every crack in the pavement, every peeling sign, every boarded-up window stood out in stark contrast. Shadows stretched longer than they should have in summer, thin and angular, reaching like fingers toward places they couldn’t quite touch.
People looked up at the moon and felt uneasy without knowing why. It reminded them of winters they weren’t ready for yet. Of nights spent waiting for something to change. Of the sense that time was moving forward whether they were prepared or not.
And beneath that moon, beneath that wrong-season cold, the country itself felt like it was quietly unraveling.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… steadily.
It had started with promises. Big ones. Loud ones. The kind that sounded good when shouted into microphones and printed in bold letters. The new leader spoke of strength, of renewal, of making things “right” again—whatever that was supposed to mean. People clung to those words like they clung to the idea that summer would always feel like summer.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to rot.
Prices rose first. Not enough to cause panic, just enough to make people hesitate in grocery store aisles, calculating silently, putting one thing back and another thing forward. Then services thinned. Offices closed early. Phones rang longer before being answered. The kind of inconveniences that could be dismissed as temporary, as growing pains, as necessary sacrifices.
Rules changed, then changed again. What was allowed last month became questionable this month and punishable the next. The language used by those in charge grew colder, sharper, stripped of empathy and full of blame. It was always someone else’s fault. Someone weaker. Someone quieter. Someone who didn’t fit neatly into the story being told.
The leader appeared often, framed carefully, always certain, always confident. But behind the confidence was something brittle. Decisions were rushed. Experts were ignored. Loyal voices were rewarded, critical ones quietly removed. The country began to feel like it was being steered by ego instead of reason.
People argued more. Not the healthy kind of disagreement, but the exhausted kind—the kind that fractured families and friendships. Conversations became landmines. Silence became safer than honesty. The air itself felt tense, like it was holding its breath.
Under the moon’s cold light, protests formed and dissolved. Some were loud and hopeful, others angry and desperate. The streets carried echoes of chants one night and sirens the next. And still, nothing really changed—except things kept getting worse.
Infrastructure cracked. Trust eroded. Truth blurred.
The leader kept insisting everything was fine, that progress was being made, that the country had never been stronger. But strength doesn’t look like fear. It doesn’t look like people leaving if they can, or staying because they’re trapped. It doesn’t look like a summer night that feels like autumn pretending not to exist.
And the moon watched all of it.
Unmoving. Uncaring. Hanging in the sky like a witness that would never testify.
It shone on the people still trying to live normal lives—laughing too loudly at night, clinging to routines, convincing themselves that this was just a phase. It shone on the empty buildings and the full prisons, on the speeches and the silences, on the slow realization that something essential had been lost.
The cold lingered.
Summer didn’t leave all at once. It just stopped feeling like summer. And by the time anyone admitted it, the season had already changed.
Alfred was out, walking alone in the dark, tired and beaten. Where the hell am I again? He looked drained from everything. A new president that can’t help its citizens, those citizens start to get angry and start protesting, and on top of that, people getting taken from their loved ones, for what? It's not fair, this isn’t freedom anymore, this president didn’t want freedom, he wanted control. Control over the people, control over the government, control over a country that was for everyone different and same.
This wasn’t a dictatorship, this was a democracy.
The people wanted to be heard.
In democratic thinking, individuals are not just subjects who obey orders; they are citizens whose opinions, needs, and values matter. People wanted the right to speak openly about their lives, criticize decisions that affected them, and help choose leaders who represented their interests.
Under dictatorships, decisions are typically made from the top down, with little or no input from ordinary people. This often led to laws and policies that felt distant, unfair, or disconnected from daily reality.
Democracy promised something different. It suggested that governance should reflect the collective will, not the preferences of a single ruler. Voting, public debate, and representative institutions became symbols of dignity and participation. Even when democratic systems were imperfect, the idea that leaders could be questioned, replaced, or held accountable gave people a sense of ownership over their future.
Freedom was another major reason people rejected dictatorship. This was not only about grand political rights, but about everyday freedoms: the freedom to think independently, to learn, to create, to speak honestly, and to live without constant fear.
Dictatorships often rely on control—of information, media, education, and even personal behavior—to maintain power. Over time, this control can feel suffocating, limiting not just political life but cultural and personal expression as well.
People wanted freedom because it allowed them to grow as individuals. Freedom made it possible to explore new ideas, challenge old assumptions, and imagine better ways of living. Writers wanted to write without censorship. Students wanted to ask questions without punishment. Families wanted to make choices about their lives without surveillance or intimidation.
Democracy, while not guaranteeing total freedom, offered legal protections and social norms that made these freedoms more likely to exist and endure.
Another key motivation was the desire for diversity and inclusion. Human societies are naturally diverse: people differ in language, culture, religion, ethnicity, gender, beliefs, and ways of life. Dictatorships often treat diversity as a problem to be controlled or erased, promoting a single “official” identity or ideology. This can lead to exclusion, discrimination, and the suppression of minority voices.
In contrast, many people came to see diversity as a strength. Democratic ideals suggested that multiple perspectives improve decision-making and enrich culture. When different groups are allowed to exist openly and equally, society becomes more creative, resilient, and fair. People wanted systems where differences could coexist peacefully, where disagreement was not punished, and where identity was not something to hide.
The rejection of dictatorship was also shaped by lived experience and historical memory. In many places, people saw how unchecked power could lead to corruption, inequality, and abuse. When leaders could not be challenged, mistakes were repeated and suffering was often ignored. Over time, trust eroded. Citizens began to understand that stability imposed by force was fragile, while stability built on consent and cooperation was more lasting.
Democracy, freedom, and diversity were not seen as guarantees of perfection, but as tools for correction. If a policy failed, people could debate it. If a leader disappointed, they could be replaced. If a group was marginalized, there was at least a framework for demanding recognition and rights. This ability to adapt and self-correct made democratic systems appealing, even when they were slow or messy.
Ultimately, the desire for democracy over dictatorship reflected a broader vision of shared human dignity. People wanted to live in societies where power was not something imposed, but something entrusted; where freedom was not a privilege for a few, but a right for all; and where diversity was not feared, but respected.
This vision was rooted in the belief that no single person or group has all the answers, and that a just society must make room for many voices, many identities, and many possibilities.
In choosing democracy, freedom, and diversity, people were choosing a future shaped not by fear and obedience, but by participation, respect, and hope.
People here in the US weren't supposed to suffer and hurt from a president that can’t lead. These people wanted freedom, not to be controlled.
The families of immigrants that come to the US to get away from a bad country and bad leaders, do not deserve to get deported back to a place of even more hurt.
For many years, U.S. immigration policy has treated unauthorized border crossing and certain visa violations as civil or criminal offenses. When enforcement becomes stricter, the system operates less like family law and more like a law-enforcement pipeline. This means that people are processed as cases, not as families. When a parent is detained or deported, immigration authorities often do not have a built-in mechanism to keep families together.
Adults and children are frequently handled by entirely different agencies. Once this split happens, reunification becomes legally and bureaucratically difficult, even when the separation was never intended to be permanent.
In many cases, there is no immediate plan for what happens to the children next. Some are placed in shelters. Others enter foster care systems. Younger children may not be able to communicate who their parents are, especially if records are incomplete or lost.
Kids are left without parents, parents left with their kids taken.
A common misconception is that only undocumented families are affected. In reality: Mixed-status families are very common, where children are U.S. citizens but parents are not. Parents with temporary legal status can lose it suddenly due to policy changes. Asylum seekers—who are legally allowed to request protection—have still faced detention and separation.
This means legal status does not guarantee safety from separation, especially when enforcement policies become broader or more aggressive.
Then more news of the government shutdown, just great.
And now Alfred is left useless, he can’t really help those families, he can’t help get rid of the president, and can’t really do anything.
He carried a title of “America,” that once sounded like protection, a word that implied shelter, authority, and the power to intervene. It follows them everywhere—whispered in halls, etched into documents, spoken with hope by people who still believe it means something. Yet the title has become a weight rather than a shield. It presses against his chest each time he breathes, reminding him of what he represents and, more painfully, what they are unable to do.
He stands at the center of a nation that is hurting, not because he is blind to it, but because he sees everything. Reports arrive endlessly, stacked like quiet accusations on polished desks. Voices come through secure lines and formal channels—measured at first, then cracking, then breaking entirely.
Citizens speak of fear, of loss, of uncertainty, of days that no longer feel safe or predictable. Some plead with politeness, others with desperation, and some with an anger sharpened by the belief that someone with status should be able to fix this.
He listened. He always listened.
His face is trained to remain composed, a mask carefully constructed over years of public life. In front of advisors, cameras, and officials, he appears steady—controlled, thoughtful, deliberate. But inside, each word he hears leaves a mark. The pain of others does not pass through him cleanly; it lingers. It settles in the quiet spaces of his mind, replaying when the room is empty and the doors are finally closed.
The cruelest part is not ignorance or indifference—it is constraint. Every instinct urges him to act decisively, to step beyond protocol, to bend rules that suddenly feel small and meaningless compared to human suffering. But the systems that elevated them now bind him. Laws, alliances, consequences, and unseen pressures form an invisible cage around their authority. Every possible action carries risks that could worsen the situation, harm more people, or fracture what little stability remains.
So he hesitate—not out of apathy, but out of fear of choosing wrong.
Messages from citizens continue to arrive. Some are formal petitions; others are raw and unfiltered, stripped of courtesy by exhaustion. People speak as if reaching for the last solid thing they believe exists. They invoke the leader’s name like a lifeline. They ask why, when, how much longer. They ask for reassurance that someone is in control.
And the leader hears all of it, knowing that words alone feel hollow.
At night, when the noise of governance finally fades, the silence becomes unbearable. It leaves room for thoughts Alfred suppresses during the day: the awareness that their position gives them visibility but not freedom, influence but not omnipotence. He wonders how history will judge them—whether restraint will be seen as wisdom or failure, whether patience will be mistaken for neglect.
He does not sleep easily. Even rest feels undeserved when so many are awake with worry.
What hurts most is the disconnect between perception and reality. To the public, they are distant, powerful, almost untouchable. In truth, Alfred is surrounded by barriers, forced to choose between imperfect options while being watched by millions who believe there must be a perfect one. He absorbs anger meant for systems larger than themselves. He accepted blame because refusing it would feel like another betrayal.
Still, they remain at their post.
He continues to listen to the pleading voices, to read the letters filled with hope and despair, to stand beneath the weight of expectation. Because even if he cannot help in the way their people need—yet—he believes that abandoning them entirely would be the deepest failure of all.
So they endure: carrying status like a crown made of stone, hearing their citizens cry out, and holding onto the fragile belief that someday, the power to act will finally match the responsibility He already bears.
He hears the voices of the citizens hurt and plead, he listens and weaken as they continue, and continue.
Alfred looks to the ground as he walks, the voices in his head start to get louder and louder. He then thinks about Matthew…Arthur…Francis..and so may more that care for him, but wait, do they even really care?
“It's getting late. Mattie is gonna be worried about me...I need to think about getting home.. not now-”
SHIT, Alfred hits the ground hard, coughing up dark, thick blood. He has been sick for the longest now, no one knows or should know, clearly he thinks that's best. He's the hero, he can't be weak… But as the people of the country that has been falling into despair, the anger and blood effects, and it kills him slowly. Alfred stays on the ground for a second, then he gets up and keeps walking.
Alfred was about 2 miles away from home, he really hoped Matthew wasn’t there and with Gilbert. Alfred needed to take his medicine after this stressful day, he couldn’t take this pain anymore, so he hoped Matthew was gone so he doesn't have to see him like this. Sure he trusted, and loved Mattie dearly, but there are some things he just couldn’t know, and he couldn’t know this secret too. As Alfred thought about it, no one could ever know, it’ll be even more stress on him, and more stress on his loved ones who actually care.
– – –
The streetlights hummed softly, casting pale yellow pools on the pavement, and his footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet, each one echoing just a fraction longer than it should have. He fumbled with his keys, hands stiff from the cold and from the long day that still clung to him like a heavy coat he couldn’t shrug off.
When the door finally opened, the familiar smell of home—dust, fabric softener, and something faintly metallic from the old pipes—wrapped around him. He locked the door carefully, twisting the deadbolt until it clicked, then stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Something felt… off. Not wrong in a way he could explain, not an obvious danger, just a subtle pressure in the air, like a room after someone had been standing in it for a long time and just left.
He listened.
The house answered back with its usual nighttime sounds: the refrigerator’s low, steady buzz; the distant rush of traffic several streets away; the soft ticking of the clock in the living room. Still, the feeling didn’t fade. His shoulders tightened as he slipped off his shoes, careful not to make noise, though he didn’t know who he was trying not to wake.
He flicked on a small lamp instead of the overhead light. Shadows stretched and rearranged themselves along the walls, familiar furniture briefly looking like something else entirely. He scanned the living room, his eyes lingering on corners, doorframes, the space behind the couch. Nothing moved.
A quiet, rhythmic sound reached him then—soft breathing, steady and content. He followed it to the armchair near the window, where his cat was curled into a perfect, compact shape. The cat barely acknowledged him, one eye cracking open just enough to register his presence before closing again. Its tail twitched once, lazily.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Just you,” Alfred murmured, more to himself than to the cat.
Still, the unease clung to him as he moved through the house. He checked the hallway, the bathroom, the bedroom. Everything was where it should be. No open windows. No unfamiliar sounds. No signs of disturbance. Logic told him he was alone.
His body didn’t seem convinced.
The kitchen light snapped on with a sharp click, bright and unforgiving. He squinted, rubbing his eyes, and leaned against the counter. This was part of his routine, one he followed carefully, especially on nights like this. He opened a cabinet that most people would overlook, pushed aside a box of tea, and reached toward the back.
The small container was exactly where he’d left it.
He hesitated before opening it, fingers resting on the lid. The medicine was something he didn’t talk about, something he took quietly, away from curious eyes and unwanted questions. He told himself it was practical, that privacy was easier than explanations. Still, the secrecy gave it weight, made the act feel heavier than it needed to be.
He twisted the lid.
A sudden movement cut through the air.
Before he could fully register what was happening, another hand appeared—fast, confident—and closed around the container at the same time his fingers did. The touch was unmistakably not his own. Cold. Solid.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The container was pulled slightly out of his grasp, not violently, but with intent, enough to make it clear that he was no longer the only one there. The kitchen seemed to shrink, the light too bright, the walls too close. His mind raced, scrambling for explanations that didn’t quite make sense.
The cat didn’t stir. The house remained otherwise silent.
For a split second, everything hung suspended: his hand half-curled in the air, the medicine no longer fully his, the quiet hum of the refrigerator underscoring the moment. Whatever was about to happen hadn’t happened yet—but the certainty that he was no longer alone settled in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
Time seemed to stretch thin, like glass pulled too far without breaking. His fingers hovered where the container had been, tingling as if the warmth of it had burned itself into his skin. He didn’t pull his hand back right away. He couldn’t. Every instinct told him to freeze, to not make whatever was sharing the space with him any more aware of his presence than it already was.
The hand holding the medicine didn’t rush. That was the worst part.
It stayed there, steady, almost thoughtful, as though the person attached to it was considering him just as carefully as he was trying not to think about them. The container made a faint plastic sound as it was turned slightly, the lid catching the light. His eyes followed it despite himself, tracing the unfamiliar shape of knuckles, the subtle tension in the wrist.
He swallowed. The sound felt too loud.
“Who—” The word stuck in his throat, unfinished, barely more than breath.
The kitchen smelled suddenly sharper: old coffee grounds, dish soap, something stale from the trash can. His heartbeat roared in his ears, so loud he was sure it must be audible. He became acutely aware of every part of himself—his tired legs, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his shirt clung faintly with dried sweat from the day. He was not prepared for this. Whatever this was.
Slowly, deliberately, the hand withdrew the container from his reach.
Not fast enough to be a snatch. Not slow enough to be gentle.
He took a step back without meaning to, his heel bumping softly against the cabinet behind him. The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen, and for the first time, the cat stirred. Somewhere in the living room, there was a soft thump as it shifted positions, followed by an annoyed, half-asleep chirr. Then silence again.
Nothing rushed out to help him. Nothing changed.
The person—because it had to be a person, he told himself—finally stepped just far enough into the light for a shape to separate itself from the shadows near the doorway. Not a clear face, not yet. Just a presence, darker against the bright kitchen walls, standing too comfortably in a place that was supposed to belong only to him.
“You’re late,” a voice said.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t threatening. That somehow made it worse.
His mouth went dry. “You… shouldn’t be here.”
The figure tilted their head slightly, a small, almost curious movement. The container was turned again in their hand, examined like an object of interest rather than something stolen. “And yet,” the voice replied, “here I am.”
His thoughts scrambled. Had he forgotten to lock the door? Had someone followed him? Every explanation felt thin, brittle, unable to support the weight of the moment. He tried to remember if he’d ever mentioned the medicine to anyone, even accidentally. Tried to remember who knew about his schedule, his habits, the quiet routines he followed so carefully.
“Give that back,” he said. The words came out steadier than he felt, more reflex than courage.
The figure didn’t move right away. Instead, they set the container down on the counter—just out of his reach—and rested their hand beside it. A deliberate choice. A reminder of control.
“You keep this hidden,” the voice said, almost conversational. “You’re very careful. Cabinets, timing, silence. Like if no one sees it, it doesn’t exist.”
His stomach tightened. That feeling from when he’d walked in—the sense of absence that wasn’t really absence—clicked into place. Someone had been here before he arrived. Someone had waited.
“That’s none of your business,” he said, though the words felt thin even to him.
A soft sound escaped the figure then. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to make his skin prickle. “Everything becomes someone else’s business eventually.”
The refrigerator kicked on with a sudden mechanical whirr, making him flinch. The light flickered once, briefly dimming, then returned to full brightness. For a moment, the figure’s outline sharpened—enough for him to see that they weren’t wearing anything unusual, nothing dramatic. Just clothes that blended into the night. Ordinary. That might have been the most unsettling detail of all.
“What the hell are you doing here at my house…” Alfred spoke.
This time, the figure stepped fully into the light.
He–Ivan, was closer than he’d expected. Close enough that he could see the rise and fall of their chest, the way their eyes stayed fixed on him, alert and assessing. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look kind either. He looked like someone who had already made up their mind.
Their fingers tapped once, lightly, against the counter near the medicine.
“At two in the morning,” Ivan said, “people are usually honest. They’re tired. Sloppy. Real.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the living room, toward where the cat slept, oblivious. “I wanted to see which one you’d be.”
The silence that followed pressed in on him, thick and heavy. The kitchen no longer felt like part of his home. It felt like a stage, a place where something important was unfolding whether he wanted it to or not.
His routine was broken. His secret was no longer just his.
And whatever had stepped out of the shadows wasn’t finished yet.
“But let's calm down Америка, may I ask what these are for? Let's talk about these, да?” Ivan smiles at Alfred, then his gaze turns into a stern glare.
Alfred looks to the meds, and then glares at Ivan. Then a thought, a vision of something so bad, something he wouldn’t want to come true..
– – –
The ballroom was a cathedral of excess—vaulted ceilings ribbed with gold, chandeliers like frozen constellations spilling light in careful, calculated cascades. Every surface gleamed as though the room itself were complicit in what was about to unfold, reflecting faces, movements, and half-truths from a thousand angles. Music swelled from the orchestra pit, a waltz stretched thin with dramatic pauses, its rhythm steady but never fully comforting. It was the kind of music that suggested order while quietly inviting chaos.
They, Ivan and Alfred, entered the floor together, as custom demanded, as appearances required.
To the watching crowd, they were simply two figures perfectly matched by height and posture, their steps aligned with enviable precision. To anyone else, it looked like harmony. But harmony was only the mask.
Ivan—he—carried himself with an easy confidence that bordered on carelessness. His expression never quite settled into a smile, yet it hinted at one, as if amusement were always just a breath away. His eyes, sharp and attentive, missed nothing. They had already memorized every exit, every reflective surface, every listener who pretended not to listen. More importantly, they held something invisible and heavy: knowledge. Secrets not meant for public air, secrets that could shatter reputations as easily as glass goblets dropped from a careless hand.
Alfred—his partner—was tension given form. From the outside, the stiffness could be mistaken for elegance, the taut control of someone trained to move flawlessly under scrutiny. But beneath the practiced poise was urgency, coiled and restless. Every step was deliberate not just because the dance required it, but because a single misstep—verbal or otherwise—could unravel everything. Their gaze flickered too often, darting from his face to the crowd and back again, as though expecting the walls themselves to begin whispering.
They took their frame. Hands met—not tenderly, not harshly, but with the exact pressure needed to maintain the illusion of balance. The music began its first full turn, and they moved.
Around and around they went, sweeping arcs across the polished floor. The choreography was elaborate, full of spins that brought them dangerously close before flinging them apart again. Each rotation felt like a negotiation. Each pause, a threat.
“You dance well,” Ivan murmured, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the strings. It was not a compliment. It was a reminder.
Alfred did not respond immediately. His jaw tightened, and for a fraction of a second, their steps faltered before recovering seamlessly. “You always did enjoy games,” he said at last, lips barely moving.
The dance carried them past the mirrors lining the walls. In the reflections, they multiplied—dozens of versions of the same pair, all circling, all trapped in the same endless motion. It became difficult to tell which reflection was real, and which was merely possibility. That, too, felt intentional.
He led a dramatic turn, guiding them into a spin that forced their partner’s back briefly to the crowd. In that stolen moment, his grip tightened—not painfully, but pointedly. A punctuation mark in physical form.
“You know,” he said softly, “how easily a story can change once it’s told.”
The words struck harder than any misstep could have. The other dancer’s breath hitched, just once, just enough to betray them. He leaned in closer than the choreography strictly required, their voice urgent now. “You gain nothing from ruining me.”
He laughed—quietly, politely, the sound of someone who knew the audience would never hear it. “On the contrary,” he replied, “I gain everything from watching you try to stop me.”
The music grew faster, more frenzied, as if the orchestra sensed the unraveling tension. Their movements followed suit. What had begun as a stately waltz transformed into something almost manic—steps sharper, turns tighter, the space between them shrinking and expanding with violent unpredictability. It no longer felt like a dance designed to please an audience. It felt like a struggle carefully disguised as art.
Sweat beaded at the edge of the Alfred hairline, though the room was cool. Each time they spun away, it was with the desperate hope of escape; each time they were pulled back, it was a reminder that escape was an illusion. The floor itself seemed endless, a loop with no true beginning or end.
Around them, the crowd applauded at particularly daring turns, unaware that each flourish was fueled by fear or cruelty rather than joy. Applause rose like a tide, encouraging them onward, deeper into the performance. The room demanded spectacle, and they were delivering it at the cost of themselves.
The secrets hovered between them, unseen but ever-present, shaping every movement. They were the third partner in the dance—heavier than flesh, sharper than words. The one who knew wielded them like invisible blades, never striking, always threatening. The one who feared them moved as though trying to outrun a shadow that clung to their heels.
As the final measures approached, the dance reached its most frantic point. Spins blurred into one another. The chandeliers overhead seemed to sway, or perhaps it was just dizziness setting in. Their breaths came faster now, no longer synchronized. Control was slipping, and with it, the fragile balance that had kept disaster at bay.
When the music finally crashed to a close, they froze in a dramatic final pose, exactly as rehearsed. The crowd erupted in applause, convinced they had witnessed something brilliant, something passionate, something alive.
Only the dancers knew the truth.
They stood there, still locked together, smiling for the audience while the consequences of their game loomed just beyond the footlights. Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had been saved. The dance had not freed them—it had only tightened the knot.
And as they released each other and stepped apart, the ballroom seemed suddenly smaller, its glittering beauty revealed as a gilded cage. The game would continue long after the music faded, spiraling onward, dragging them both toward the same inevitable downfall—one secret at a time.
The applause lingered longer than it should have, clapping hands echoing like hollow percussion against the marble walls. It followed them as they separated, as though the room itself refused to let the moment die. Even when the music fell silent, something continued to hum beneath the surface—an aftershock of tension that refused to settle.
They did not leave the floor immediately. Etiquette demanded composure. Appearances demanded smiles.
Ivan bowed with theatrical grace, a flourish that earned approving murmurs from the crowd. It was the bow of someone who knew exactly how much admiration he commanded and enjoyed bending it to his will. When he straightened, his eyes met Alfred’s again, and in that glance was a promise far more dangerous than any spoken threat. A promise that the dance had not been an ending, but an opening move.
They curtsied in return, flawless, controlled. Yet the moment stretched too long, their balance wavering on an invisible edge. Inside, panic gnawed relentlessly. Secrets had weight, and he felt heavier now than ever, swollen by the certainty that they were no longer contained. They had been exposed—not to the crowd, not yet—but to inevitability.
As they left the floor together, tradition still binding them side by side, the ballroom seemed to close in. The chandeliers glimmered with cruel indifference. Silk gowns brushed past like whispers. Laughter rippled nearby, carefree and oblivious. The contrast was unbearable.
“You enjoyed that,” Alfred hissed under their breath as they moved toward the edge of the room.
“Immensely,” Ivan replied. “You were spectacular. Fear suits you—it sharpens your movements.”
They stopped near a column wrapped in gold filigree, half-shadowed, just removed enough from the crowd to allow honesty to breathe. Ivan’s hand lingered at Alfred’s elbow longer than necessary, a silent assertion of control. Not ownership—never that—but proximity. Influence.
“You don’t have to do this,” He said, voice low and strained. “You could walk away.”
Ivan tilted his head, studying them as one might study a puzzle already solved. “And miss watching you destroy yourself trying to keep the pieces together?” He smiled faintly. “No. I think I’ll stay.”
The orchestra began another piece, slower this time, heavier with mournful notes. Somewhere else on the floor, another pair took their place, unaware they were stepping into the echo of something rotten. The dance continued without them, as it always would. The world, cruelly, never stopped spinning.
Time stretched strangely after that. Conversations blurred. Faces lost their clarity. Every sound seemed too loud, every laugh too sharp. The secrets followed them through the room like a stain no amount of charm could hide. They imagined hearing their name whispered in corners, imagined eyes narrowing with suspicion. Paranoia took root, blooming fast and wild.
Ivan, meanwhile, thrived.
He drifted through the ballroom with effortless ease, engaging guests with charm and wit, occasionally glancing his way just to remind them he was still there. Still watching. Still holding the truth like a coin he could flip at any moment. Each glance was a tug on invisible strings, pulling tighter, tightening the noose of anticipation.
Eventually, inevitably, he returned.
“Another dance,” he said lightly, extending his hand once more. It was not a request.
Alfred stared at his hand as though it were a blade offered hilt-first. To refuse would draw attention. To accept would mean surrendering again to the game. Either choice felt like loss.
He placed their hand in his.
This time, the dance was different.
There was no pretense of elegance now, no careful illusion of harmony. The steps were aggressive, daring, filled with sudden stops and sharp turns that felt like arguments made physical. He pushed boundaries deliberately, forcing movements that required trust he did not deserve. Each lift felt like a test: Will you let me drop you?
“You’re unraveling,” he murmured as they spun. “People notice things like that.”
“Then why not end it?” Alfred snapped. “Why not tell them and be done?”
He pulled them closer, breath warm against their ear. “Because endings are boring. Watching you fight the inevitable—that’s art.”
Alfred foot caught for just a second. A tiny mistake. Barely perceptible. But Ivan felt it, and his smile widened.
The music surged, pounding now, almost frantic. The dance floor blurred into streaks of color and motion. The room felt unreal, like a dream stretched too thin, on the verge of tearing. Alfred’s lungs burned. His thoughts scattered. Control slipped through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched.
And in that moment—just before the final turn—Alfred understood.
The downfall was not something waiting in the future.
It was already happening.
Every step he took to preserve the secret twisted them further into his grasp. Every moment of silence fed his power. The dance was not a metaphor anymore; it was a mechanism. A slow, grinding machine fueled by fear and knowledge, dragging them both forward whether they wished it or not.
As the music crashed to its end for the second time, there was no applause this time—only stunned quiet before polite clapping resumed. Something about the performance had unsettled the room. People smiled uncertainly, unsure why their chests felt tight.
They released each other abruptly.
For the briefest instant, their eyes met—not with hatred, not with triumph, but with shared recognition. This game would not end cleanly. It would not spare either of them. Secrets had a way of poisoning even those who wielded them.
Ivan stepped back first, melting once more into the crowd.
They remained where they were, alone at the center of the floor, surrounded by glittering witnesses who had seen everything and understood nothing.
Above them, the chandeliers burned steadily on, illuminating the beginning of the fall.
– – –
Alfred came back to reality after that sudden vision of him and Ivan together, dancing under the light with secrets Ivan should’ve never known. He quickly grabs the meds, walks off to the living room, and sits on the couch with a tired breath.
He started putting two and two together.
He knew the world meeting was gonna be in the US this time, and he knew that the nations would slowly start coming to the US, but the meeting was in 2 weeks so why in hell is he here so damn early. And most importantly, why in hell is he at Alfred's house and not at the nations hotel.
“To be honest to you, I knew you were hiding something, I just didn't know what. Lets say, you can’t hide secrets from me Америка,” Ivan chuckles, and walks over to Alfred, getting in his face so Alfred could see his mocking smile.
“Why the hell are you here anyway, get out-” Alfred was gonna say but then got a finger to his lips.
“Shh, you're talking way too much for someone who has to take secret medication. Just look at you, you look sick and a bit pathetic. You're a living disaster. Do you really care for yourself, about others around you, and your country? It's in ruins because of how stupid of a president you have, see, it’s a bit pathetic, it's really almost funny.” Alfred just looks into Ivan's eyes, seeing the cruelty and truth. But Alfred thought differently, he thinks that Ivan is lying. That all Ivan wants is to get in his head, and like hell he was gonna let Ivan do so, he was the hero after all, and Ivan was the villain trying to corrupt him..!
“Shut up you stupid commie, I know what you're trying to do, and it’s not gonna work.” Alfred glares back at Ivan.
“You're getting weak Америка. If you're taking medicine now, because of the state of your country, you're not gonna survive for very long. We nations may die and come back, but because of your country's situation, will you really come back? Isn’t that scary, да?” Ivan tilts his head to the side as his smile widens. Ivan backs up to get a good look at Alfred. “I know your little secret Америка. I won’t tell anyone, but we’ll see if you stay strong, or maybe fall, just like how your country is doing now. See you soon, пока!”
And with that, Ivan disappears into the darkness, leaving Alfred to think deeply on the couch, alone, and about what he has said.
What did he just say…? The US will not fall, it can’t fall. Sure a few big things happened, but there has to be some way to fix it…oh wait he can't fix a thing. Fucking Russia can’t be right with his dumb brain He could do something, yeah he could just go to the president and…oh wait that won’t work, his president only listens to himself and no one else. Then he could just ask for work and secretly help pass things that…oh wait the government shutdown.
no..no, there must be something I can do-...Oh wait, the meeting was in 2 weeks, he hasn’t planned a thing, and hasn't done anything because of the stress. Shit, this is bad… Plus almost all the nations dislike him now because of the things the president has done. They get mad at him every meeting now, and they even mock him, make fun of him, and shame him.
He stood at the center of it without ever having chosen to step there, like someone pushed onto a stage with the lights already burning hot and unforgiving. The accusation had not come from his own actions—everyone there knew that, at least on some level—but knowledge did nothing to soften what followed. What mattered was that something had gone wrong, and he was the most convenient place for their disappointment, their anger, and their hunger to assign blame.
At first, the mockery arrived quietly, almost politely, disguised as questions. “Why were you involved at all?” someone asked, their tone falsely curious. Another added, “Did you really think you were helping?” The words landed lightly, but each one carried an edge. He tried to explain—slowly, carefully—how he had only stepped in to assist, how his intentions had been plain and harmless. His voice was steady, but it felt small in the open air, like it couldn’t travel far enough to reach anyone’s ears before being swallowed.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
The questions stopped pretending to be neutral. Someone scoffed openly, the sound sharp and dismissive, and that single noise seemed to grant permission to everyone else. Smiles twisted into smirks. Eyebrows lifted in synchronized disbelief. It became less about what had actually happened and more about the performance of judgment. They spoke over him now, not to him, repeating fragments of the story in exaggerated tones, bending the facts just enough to make him look foolish, naive, or secretly responsible.
He felt the shame bloom slowly, starting in his chest and spreading outward like heat under the skin. His face grew warm, then hot, then burning. Every time he opened his mouth, someone interrupted with laughter—not joyful laughter, but the hollow kind that exists only to signal superiority. Each laugh felt like a finger pointing directly at him.
What made it worse was the contradiction gnawing inside him: he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. He could replay every moment clearly—his decision to help, his careful words, his effort to prevent exactly the outcome they were now blaming him for. But certainty offered no protection here. The crowd had already decided on a narrative, and truth was inconvenient.
The mockery became more creative, more personal. Someone mimicked his earlier concern in an exaggerated, sing-song voice. Another shook their head dramatically, announcing how “helpful” people like him always made things worse. The group reacted in waves—snorts, chuckles, murmurs of agreement—each reaction reinforcing the last. It felt endless, like being trapped in a feedback loop of ridicule that fed on itself.
He became acutely aware of his body in space. His hands didn’t know where to rest. His posture stiffened, then collapsed slightly, as if trying to shrink without moving. His eyes flicked from face to face, searching—not for approval, but for neutrality, for even one expression that wasn’t amused or contemptuous. He found none. Even those who said nothing avoided his gaze, their silence another form of judgment.
The shame deepened into something heavier and more suffocating. It wasn’t just embarrassment anymore; it was the sense of being misseen in a way that felt irreversible. As if this version of him—the foolish helper, the unintentional cause—was being etched into everyone’s memory. He imagined this moment replayed later as a joke, his name attached to it, his intentions erased entirely.
He tried one last time to speak. The words came out quieter than before, not because he lacked conviction, but because he could already feel them being dismissed. And they were. Someone rolled their eyes. Another sighed loudly, as though tired of his existence in the conversation. The message was clear: explanation was no longer welcome.
When it finally began to taper off, it wasn’t because anyone felt satisfied or remorseful. It ended because they grew bored. The group drifted on to other topics, other targets, leaving him standing there with the residue of their laughter still clinging to the air. No one acknowledged the damage. No one corrected the story.
He was left with a silence that felt louder than the mockery had been. The shame didn’t disappear when the voices stopped; it lingered, replaying their words in his own mind with cruel accuracy. Even as he walked away, he carried the weight of being blamed for something he had tried—earnestly, sincerely—to prevent.
And what hurt most was not that they misunderstood him, but that they never tried to understand at all.
His own family aren’t really talking to him much after the president got in office, Matthew has been ignoring him lately as well. How many times has Matthew even checked on me since the president got in office? Nearly 4 times, he hasn’t gotten any calls from friends either.
He was already sweating, though the room was cold. The floors are twisted like rope around his legs, and for a moment he only lies there, chest hammering, listening to the last echo of the voices fade. They never speak in unison anymore; they layer, they overlap, they climb on top of one another until every syllable is a shriek inside a shriek. Tonight they have been rehearsing the same sentence for hours—you did it, you did it, you did it—and each repetition is a little sharper, a little more certain, until the words no longer feel like words but like the edge of a blade being drawn slowly across the soft part of his skull.
He sits up on the couch. The house is dark except for the sodium streetlamp bleeding through the half-shut blinds, painting long orange ladders across the floor. The air smells of old take-out and the sickly sweet corrosion of the radiator. His shirt is glued to his back; he peels it off in one motion, fabric rasping over skin that feels sunburned from the inside. The voices do not recede. They merely relocate, swirling now behind his eyes, pressing at the bridge of his nose as if they could shove their way out through the tear ducts.
He stands. The floorboards give their familiar whimper. Three steps to the bathroom, a distance he could cross blindfolded, but tonight the geometry feels wrong, the hallway lengthening like elastic, the door handle retreating an inch for every inch he reaches. When his fingers finally close around the metal it is shockingly cold, colder than the January night outside, and for an instant he imagines the cold traveling up the bones of his arm and freezing the voices solid, locking them in columns of ice. But the moment he turns the knob they roar back even louder, as if angered by the attempt at escape.
The bathroom bulb is forty watts and flickering, but the mirror over the sink still manages to throw light like a accusation. He flicks the switch anyway, because darkness would be worse; in darkness the voices start to sound like other people in the room. The mirror is an old rectangle of mercury-backed glass, mottled with black creep around the edges where moisture has been seeping in for years. A previous tenant cracked it diagonally—he remembers noticing the fracture the first day he moved in, a hairline that ran from top right to bottom left like a careless signature. Tonight the crack looks wider, or maybe the voices are simply telling him it is wider, and he believes them because believing anything else would require energy he no longer owns.
He grips the edge of the sink. Porcelain, iron-enamelled, stained rust-brown where the faucet has dripped for months. The voices rise to a cheerleader pitch: Look. Look at yourself. There he is. There’s the one who did it. His reflection is a smear of pallor and stubble, eyes bloodshot, the left one twitching in a tiny Morse code that nobody will ever translate. The sink is wet; water has been beading on the surface so long it’s developed a skin of cold slime. It soaks into the hem of his sweatpants and climbs the cotton toward his knees, but he doesn’t feel it because the voices are now screaming inside the bones of his face, vibrating the sinus cavities so hard he expects dust to sift from the cracks in the plaster.
He tells them—silently, because speaking aloud would mean hearing his own voice break—to stop.They answer with laughter constructed from the sound of every door he ever slammed in anger, every bottle he ever threw, every sob he swallowed when he was eight and his father told him men don’t cry. The laughter grows, folds in on itself, becomes a single word repeated so fast it loses consonants: faultfaultfaultfault. He can feel the syllables punching little dents in the soft palate, drumming against the roof of his mouth until he tastes metal, as if the word itself is made of galvanized nails and is trying to claw its way out.
He lifts his right hand. It trembles, but not from fear—fear is a room he left behind hours ago. This tremor is mechanical, the oscillation of a machine asked to perform one final operation before total seizure. The fingers curl inward until the nails—bitten to the quick—dig crescents into the palm. He watches the knuckles blanch, watches the veins rise like blue twine under the skin, and the voices approve, the voices purr, the voices chant yesyesyes in escalating semitones until the sound is no longer inside his head but inside the glass itself, vibrating the mirror so hard the forty-watt bulb flickers in sympathy.
He does not cock his arm back like in the movies; there is no dramatic wind-up. Instead his fist simply goes from being beside his thigh to being in flight, a linear piston driven by every erg of torque his shoulder can generate. The distance is maybe twenty inches, but physics stretches it into a tunnel. Time dilates so that he can catalog every detail: the way the air parts around the metacarpals, the way the skin on the top of his hand ripples like a flag in high wind, the way the crack in the mirror seems to widen in anticipation, a mouth preparing to receive communion.
Impact is not a single moment but a succession of
micro-explosions. First comes the glass itself: the outer skin flexes inward maybe two millimeters, long enough to transmit a shockwave back through the radius and ulna, a high-frequency buzz that rattles the carpals and climbs the elbow like fire ants. Then the glass yields. The diagonal crack bifurcates—he sees it happen, sees the reflection of his face split into two unequal halves that slide a millimeter apart—and suddenly there are a thousand more cracks radiating outward, a spiderweb in fast motion. Each fracture line carries a sliver of his face: left eye here, right cheek there, the corner of a mouth fragmented into eight separate shards. The bulb overhead strobes once, twice, as if taking crime-scene photographs.
The second layer is the silver backing. It flakes away in glitter-sized chips, exposing the dark behind the mirror, the void where the real world used to be. Those chips swirl in the air like metallic snow, catching the orange streetlight and turning it into molten copper. Some of them land on the back of his hand, embedding in the thin skin so that for weeks afterward he will find tiny mirrors in his pores, catching sunlight at unexpected angles and flashing reminders he cannot scrub away.
The third layer is the drywall beneath. His fist does not stop at the glass; momentum drills him straight through the thin sheetrock, into the two-by-four stub that frames the medicine cabinet. He feels the wood kiss the second metacarpal, feels the bone bow under the load, and then—sickeningly—he feels it rebound. The recoil travels back through the skeleton in a wave, a percussive echo that reaches the shoulder just as the glass finishes falling. Shards rain into the sink, into the toilet, into his hair. One triangular dagger grazes the bridge of his nose and leaves a line of fire that instantly beads with blood. Another lodges in the soft rim of his ear; he will discover it later, days later, when he finally dares to shower and the water nudges it free, a delayed stinging receipt.
Sound arrives late, as if embarrassed. A brittle, crystalline crunch, followed by a lower wooden thud as the fist meets the stud. Then the tinkle of aftermath: fragments slipping off the frame, sliding down the wall, chiming against the porcelain like wind chimes made of knives. Underneath it all, the voices pause—just long enough for the ringing in his ears to climb the scale from A to C-sharp to a whistle so pure it feels like it could cut glass all over again. In that pause he hears his own breathing, ragged, wet, astonished. It is the first time in hours he has been able to hear anything that does not originate inside his skull other than Ivan's bullshit.
He pulls the hand back. It emerges decorated: blood from a dozen micro-cuts, drywall dust graying the hair on the knuckles, slivers of silver leaf stuck to the skin like primitive jewelry. The middle knuckle is already swelling, the skin stretched so tight it shines. He flexes the fingers; they respond sluggishly, as if the tendons have been replaced with damp string. Somewhere inside the wrecked wall a nail head scrapes across bone and he feels it vibrate like a tuning fork against the median nerve, a nauseating note that travels straight to the stomach and flips it.
The mirror is gone. What remains is a jagged frame of glass teeth around the edges, each tooth holding a fragment of the room behind him: the shower curtain, the towel bar, the open doorway where the hallway light now pools like spilled milk. His reflection has been distributed among those teeth—an eye here, the curve of a shoulder there—so that he is simultaneously present and obliterated, a human jigsaw assembled by a sadist. The voices, denied their canvas, regroup inside the hollow space where the glass used to be. They whisper from the darkness between studs, from the insulation that looks like dirty cotton candy, from the copper plumbing that carries away other people’s wastewater. You did that. You did that to yourself. You always do that. The words are softer now, conversational, almost tender, as if they are comforting a child who has finally accepted punishment.
He looks at his ruined hand. A triangle of mirror, no bigger than a thumbnail, is still stuck in the meat just below the thumb web. It catches the forty-watt bulb and throws a tiny spotlight onto the ceiling, a wandering star that drifts with every pulse of blood. He watches it for a long time, long enough for the swelling to close around the shard so that the star dims, long enough for the blood to reach the wrist and drip—plink—into the sink, joining the glass confetti already there. Each drop lands on a sliver and bursts into smaller droplets, each droplet holding a curved reflection of the bulb, a universe of forty-watt suns.
He becomes aware of the cold again, of the sweat drying on his spine, of the way the floor is now littered with glass daggers pointing upward like a miniature city of skyscrapers built from razor blades. He shifts his weight and the glass grinds under his heel, a sound like teeth being ground in sleep. The voices are almost gentle now, crooning, See what you made us do? See what you always make us do? They sound like lullabies, like the songs his mother hummed when she thought he was asleep, except every note is slightly flat, every syllable scraped across the edge of a hidden blade.
He raises the hand—the one still intact—and touches the place where the mirror used to be. The wall is soft, pulpy, damp from years of steam. His fingertips disappear into the drywall up to the first joint, and for a moment he imagines pushing further, through the studs, through the insulation, through the vinyl siding, until he emerges into the night air and keeps reaching, reaching, until the entire building is a sleeve he has shrugged off. Instead he draws a line in the dust, a crude smile that spans the width of the cavity. The gesture feels like signing a confession in a language he was born knowing but never taught.
Blood drips faster now, pattering against the porcelain like summer rain on a tin roof. He counts the drops—one, two, seven, twelve—because numbers are safer than words, because numbers do not rearrange themselves into accusations while you are looking at them. At twenty-three the swelling closes over the glass shard entirely and the tiny star winks out. He thinks, absurdly, that he has lost a witness. He thinks, even more absurdly, that the mirror has taken a piece of him hostage and will carry it forever in whatever landfill it is destined for, a shard of his reflection buried under banana peels and diaper wipes, winking at seagulls whenever the sun angle is perfect.
The voices, sensing metaphor, stir again. You’ll never get it back. You left part of yourself in there. You always leave part of yourself. They are right, he realizes; even if he could somehow reassemble the glass, the silver, the frame, the image would still be incomplete—because the moment of impact is now part of the mirror’s history, a stress fracture in time that cannot be polished away. From now on every reflection in every mirror will be missing that sliver, will be subtly wrong, like a photograph developed in contaminated chemicals. He will grow older, but the missing piece will stay the same age, a ghost knuckle haunting every future glass.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bathtub, glass crunching under the seat of his sweatpants. The enamel is cold against the backs of his thighs. He cradles the injured hand against his chest, rocking slightly, not in pain but in the aftermath of pain, the way sailors rock on shore after months at sea because their bodies still expect the deck to heave. The bulb flickers once more and steadies. Somewhere in the circuitry a loose connection has settled, or perhaps has surrendered. He listens to the drip of blood, the tick of cooling glass, the faint hum of the building’s arteries. The voices have exhausted themselves; they mutter now, repetitive and unintelligible, like neighbors arguing behind too many walls.
Outside, the city keeps its own heartbeat—sirens, elevated trains, the late-night delivery trucks with their diesel lullabies. None of it reaches him. He is inside the wound now, inside the cavity where the mirror used to live, and the dimensions of that cavity are exact: the width of a man’s shoulders, the depth of a man’s reach, the height of a man’s reflection on a night when the voices finally won. He stays there until dawn starts to gray the window, until the blood has clotted into a dark glove, until the glass dust has settled into every fold of his clothing like glitter from a party no one remembers inviting him to. When he finally stands, he leaves a perfect imprint on the bathtub enamel: two buttocks, a spine, the hollows where blood has dried in ovals like tiny maps of vanished lakes. He does not look at the frame again. He does not need to; the image is etched on the inside of his eyelids, a negative he will carry forever, developing slowly in the darkroom behind his eyes whenever he blinks.
“He was right, you are pathetic. You can’t help yourself, others around you, or your country.” that was said by one of the voices.
“Useless, useless, useless.” said another voice.
“Can’t you see me and my family suffering, WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING US!?”