Chapter 68: Voices Come to Light – Part XIV

Aaron wasn’t hard to find. He sat hunched on the curb outside a corner store, a bottle swinging from one hand and a plastic bag of groceries spilled across the pavement. A can of soup rolled lazy circles by his boot until it clattered against the curb. His hoodie was pulled low, shoulders sagging, every inch of him radiating exhaustion.

Noah slowed as they spotted him, pulse jumping. The last time they’d seen Aaron, he’d had fire in him—sharp words, a door slammed. Tonight, the fire smoldered into something darker. “He’s worse,” Noah whispered.

Silas studied him in silence, eyes narrowing as if measuring a crack spreading across stone.

Aaron noticed them with a crooked smile that never touched his eyes. “Persistent,” he slurred. “Like gnats. Thought I told you to disappear.” His words stumbled but carried venom, the kind of anger sharpened by too many drinks.

Noah took a careful step closer, crouching just enough to meet his gaze. “We’re not here to push. Just to check in.”

“Check in?” Aaron barked a laugh that turned into a cough. He lifted the bottle in mock salute before letting it hang heavy again. “What are you, parole officers? Priests? You think I’m gonna confess, spill the story, so you can pat yourselves on the back and call me saved?”

The bottle tipped, liquor spilling into a thin stream across the concrete, sharp fumes rising. “This is all you’ll get,” he muttered. “Me, rotting slow. You want details, dig ‘em out of her grave.”

Noah flinched at the bitterness, but Silas’s voice came steady. “If you wanted to rot quietly, you’d be inside with the door locked. Instead, you’re out here bleeding where anyone can see.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. His hand clenched on the bottle, then loosened again, a muscle in his cheek twitching. For a moment, his mask slipped—the defiance flickered, and underneath it was something raw, something breaking.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the sound of a man balancing on the edge of his own collapse.

Aaron pushed himself upright with a grunt, swaying slightly. The bottle dangled from his hand as if he couldn’t decide whether to drink or throw it.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “You think because you’ve seen one broken man, you’ve seen them all. But you don’t know what she did to me.”

His voice cracked, sharp but shaking. He took a step closer, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight. “She didn’t just hollow me out. She made me useful. A puppet, dancing when she pulled the strings. And the worst part? I danced. I smiled while she carved me up, and I told myself it was love.”

Noah’s stomach clenched. He wanted to say I know, but the words caught. This wasn’t the moment for him to reveal the truth. Aaron’s fury wasn’t looking for comfort; it was tearing its way free.

Aaron jabbed the bottle toward the street. “You want details? Here’s one. Every time I hear a woman laugh, I flinch. Every time someone offers me kindness, I feel the leash tug. That’s what she left me with—reflexes I can’t cut out.”

Silas stayed rooted, hands at his sides, calm as stone. “And yet you’re still here. Still fighting her even when you think you’re lost.”

Aaron’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “Fighting? This isn’t fighting. This is bleeding in public.” He lifted the bottle again, drained what was left, and hurled it into the gutter where it shattered in a spray of glass.

For a long second, the street was silent except for his ragged breath.

Aaron stood there a moment longer, chest heaving, shards of glass glittering at his feet. His hands shook, though whether from drink, rage, or memory was impossible to tell.

Noah stepped forward, voice low. “Aaron—”

“Don’t.” Aaron’s snarl cut sharply, but his eyes betrayed him. They were wet, rimmed red, fury and grief tangled into something rawer than either. “You don’t get to speak her name at me. You don’t get to stand there like you understand.”

“We do,” Noah tried again, softer. “You’re not—”

“I said don’t!” His voice cracked, the anger splitting under its own weight. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “I can’t—” His breath hitched, jagged. “If I give you more, she’s in the room again. She wins again.”

The words fell like confession despite the bite in them. Noah froze, throat tight. Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. He’d seen men bleed out before—not from wounds on the body, but from places deeper, harder to stitch closed.

Aaron turned abruptly, grabbing the grocery bag still half-spilled on the curb. He shoved the cans inside with trembling hands, one clattering to the ground again. He didn’t pick it up.

“Stay away from me,” he muttered, not looking back. “You want stories, go write your own. I’m done being anyone’s file.”

He stalked off into the night, groceries bumping against his leg, steps uneven but fast, as if chased by shadows only he could see.

Noah stood rooted, chest aching with the echo of Aaron’s words. He’d heard the crack in them, the slip that proved the wall wasn’t unbreakable.

Silas finally spoke, voice even. “He gave us more than he meant to.”

Noah swallowed hard, staring at the dark where Aaron had vanished. “Then why does it feel like we’re losing him?”

The night swallowed Aaron’s figure until only the sound of his retreating steps lingered. Noah stayed still, fists clenched at his sides, the image of Aaron’s shaking hands burned into him.

“We’re losing him,” Noah said at last, the words hushed, almost to himself.

Silas shook his head slowly. “No. Men who are gone don’t bleed like that. What you saw was pain, not absence.”

Noah turned on him, frustration sharp. “Then what do you call storming off? Shattering bottles in the street? He doesn’t want us anywhere near him.”

Silas’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice carried weight. “What he wants doesn’t matter. What he can’t stop matters. And he can’t stop remembering. That’s leverage, even if he hates us for it now.”

The words landed heavily, and Noah hated how true they felt. He followed Silas back toward the car, every step thick with doubt.

Upstairs, in a narrow apartment that smelled of smoke and spilled liquor, Aaron dropped his groceries onto the counter and collapsed into a chair. His hands pressed into his face until the skin around his eyes felt like it was burning. The silence roared, too loud, too sharp.

He wanted to drown it, to drink until the edges dulled, but his body rebelled. The bottle was gone, smashed on the street. All he had left was memory—and tonight it clawed too close.

“Lucas,” he whispered, the name breaking past clenched teeth before he could stop it. The sound hung in the air, heavy as a prayer, heavier still as a wound.

He slammed his fist against the table, breath ragged, as if punishing himself for letting it slip. But the word remained. He couldn’t take it back.