Chapter 11: Day 1 Shadow Sapphire Part 3

The raw confessions hung in the air of the Amaranth living room.

Rose and Arya, though still bearing the marks of their tears, sat with a quiet solidarity.

Leo’s protective stance had softened into a concerned watchfulness.

Ash, as ever, observed, but the usual detachment in his gaze was overlaid with something more thoughtful.

My parents were gone for the day, Iris at school, both blissfully unaware of the true stakes.

The house was quiet.

Arya straightened slightly, her voice still holding a faint huskiness from her tears but already sharpening, deliberately shedding the weight of the last hour.

“So,” she said, the word clipped, pragmatic, perhaps a touch too bright as she met my gaze directly.

“We’ve all aired our… less flattering laundry, haven’t we?”

Her gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

A silent, almost challenging acknowledgment of whatever "ugliness" she had just confessed about her jealousy and unspoken feelings.

Then, it swept dismissively to the rest of the room.

“That’s dealt with.”

She then pinned me with a look that was all business.

The shift in her demeanor so swift it was almost jarring, especially if I was still processing the implications of her recent vulnerability towards me.

“Now, Rey. You were the one so adamant about Arthur Web today, about needing to do something different."

"The floor’s yours."

"What’s this master plan?”

All eyes turned to me.

That strange echo of peace and love, was a steadying presence.

It wasn’t a voice, but it was an undeniable pull.

“Yes,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “My conviction about Arthur Web, about the danger he poses today, and about his underlying motivations… it’s absolute.”

“I know he’s consumed by grief for his critically ill daughter, Emily, at St. Jude’s. I know he blames Iris.”

I paused, that echo of peace, lending weight to my next words.

"And I also know, and this certainty chills me to the core, that trying to handle Arthur now with the usual methods, like confronting his threats directly or involving the authorities without understanding the depth of his grief for Emily... those approaches won't just fail. They'll push him over the edge and guarantee disaster."

“My plan today is to try something completely different."

"Since we know his grief for Emily is consuming him, instead of confronting his anger, we need to offer him a path through that pain."

"A way that centers on her.”

My mind reeled.

Not just from the weight of trying to channel Arthur's immense despair towards a constructive outcome...

But also from the aftershocks of what I’d just learned about my friends.

Rose… those whispers.

It wasn’t just anxiety, not just the aftermath of trauma. It was an internal, insidious torment, actively poisoning her perception of reality, of us.

That’s what had been driving her towards the brink in the second timeline, far more than the medication error alone. The medication might have been the final push, but the whispers had loaded the gun.

A sickening clarity settled: her suicide hadn't been a simple consequence of a pharmacist's mistake; it was the culmination of a relentless, internal psychological assault.

The knowledge was a cold, hard knot in my stomach.

And Arya.

Her confession… wow.

That was something.

The jealousy she felt towards Rose, admitting that… it must have been hard for her to say.

But then, the other part…

The hint, no, more than a hint, that her feelings for me were… more.

When did that even start?

And how on earth did I never pick up on it?

For as long as I can remember, she’s just been Arya.

Leo’s sister.

Incredibly smart, yeah, sometimes a little intimidating with that sharp wit of hers, but always loyal.

A good friend.

That’s how I always saw her.

To think that all this time, while we were just hanging out, being us…

She might have been feeling something else, something deeper, aimed at me…

It’s a strange thought.

It’s like realizing someone you know well has been carrying this huge secret, and you had no idea.

It’s not that I’m… well, it’s not about being flattered, not really.

It’s more… I feel a bit like I’ve let her down, somehow.

If she was feeling all that, and I was just oblivious, wrapped up in my own world…

That couldn’t have been easy for her.

This is just another heavy layer on a day that’s already so much.

I really was blind to it.

Just completely missed what was right in front of me.

She must have been going through a lot, silently.

Rose’s hand found mine, her touch a silent reassurance, pulling me back to the present.

“What do you think we should do, Rey?”

I focused, pushing aside the swirling personal revelations. They would have to wait.

Arthur Web, Emily, this terrible day – that was the immediate fire.

“We go to him,” I stated, the words carrying the full force of that internal guidance. “At St. Jude’s.”

“But to try and reach the father beneath it. To offer… something else. Something that isn’t about blame or retribution, but about Emily.”

Leo frowned, the idea clearly challenging his more direct instincts.

“Go to him? Rey, the man’s been stalking Iris, making threats. He’s clearly unstable. What if he just… snaps when he sees any of us, especially Iris? What if he’s dangerous on sight?”

“He might be,” I conceded. “But his focus, his Achilles’ heel, is Emily. If we can make this about her, genuinely about her well-being, it might be the only way to defuse him before he does something irreversible.”

“And what do we offer, Rey?” Arya asked. Her strategic mind was working, but her voice was a beat slower than usual, less sharp. When she looked at me, the usual confidence in her eyes was overlaid with a hesitant vulnerability.

“Not words,” I said. “Something more… real. A way to help with his despair for his daughter.”

“I have an idea… a way I might be able to… help Emily.”

I hesitated, the words feeling enormous even as I voiced them. "I mean… I think I might be able to… to heal her. Or at least, make a profound difference to her leukemia."

“It’s a long shot. It’s risky. I don’t even know if it’s possible. But it feels like the only way that doesn’t end with more pain and loss.” As I spoke, my Main Skill Menu solidified in my mind's eye:

Main Skill Menu
[Save & load S] [Point Transfer S] [Pocket Dimension S] [Third Eye A] [Alter Ego EX]

And there it was. Seeing the list, the raw potential of these skills… it wasn't just a vague hope anymore. A fragile, terrifying method started to take shape. I could see a path, a way these powers might actually work for Emily. It was still an insane gamble, the kind of thing that could go horribly wrong, but the feeling that this was the solution, the only one that mattered, settled in my gut with absolute certainty.

"I mean… I think I might be able to… to heal her. Or at least, make a profound difference to her leukemia."

A stunned silence greeted my words.

Leo was the first to break it, his voice incredulous.

“Heal her?” He stared at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “Rey, be serious. This is Emily Web we’re talking about, the girl Arthur’s been losing his mind over. St. Jude’s, top doctors, the whole nine yards – and her leukemia is terminal. You’re telling me you can just… what? Wave a hand and make it go away? That’s… that’s impossible, man.”

Arya’s expression was a mask of disbelief, her arms crossed tightly.

“This isn’t one of your father’s novels, Rey.”

Arya’s voice was sharp, laced with an almost desperate skepticism.

“People don’t just get miraculously cured of terminal cancer.”

“What medical training do you possess?”

Her arms were crossed tightly, a barrier against the sheer audacity of my claim.

“What scientific basis are you operating on?”

“You’re talking about something beyond a long shot;”
“You’re in ‘zero probability’ territory.”

Her gaze was intense, searching, almost pleading for me to offer something, anything, that made sense.

“To even suggest this to a grieving father,”
“To offer that kind of false hope if you can’t deliver,”
“It’s not just reckless,”
“It’s cruel.”

Even Rose, who had been my most steadfast supporter, looked deeply troubled.

Her hand went to her mouth.
Her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and concern.

“Rey…”
Her voice was soft, hesitant.
“I believe in you, I truly do.”

“But… leukemia?”

“When the best doctors in the world…”
She trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy.
…have failed.

“It feels…”
“It’s almost too much to hope for.”

Her eyes searched mine, a fragile plea for reassurance.
“Are you absolutely certain you’re not…”
“Taking on something that could break him, and you, even further if it doesn’t work?”

The weight of their doubt pressed down on me.

They were right, of course. From any rational standpoint, what I was proposing was absurd.

I braced myself for Ash’s inevitable, incisive dissection of my folly. He, of all people, would surely see the impossibility.

But Ash remained silent, his gaze uncharacteristically distant, as if fixed on something far beyond the confines of the living room.

Then, slowly, he straightened, and when he spoke, his voice, though quiet, cut through the room.

“He can.”

Leo, Arya, and Rose stared at him, dumbfounded.

Even I felt a jolt of surprise so profound it momentarily stole my breath.

Ash? Siding with this?

“Ash, are you hearing yourself?” Leo exclaimed, his voice tight with disbelief. “This is… this is fairy tale stuff! We’re talking about curing terminal cancer!”

Arya’s eyes narrowed, her focus shifting entirely to Ash. “With all due respect, Ash, that is an extraordinary statement. On what conceivable grounds do you base such a conviction? Rey himself said he doesn’t know if it’s possible.”

Ash met her gaze. His grey eyes held a strange light, a deep certainty that felt like it came from something he knew, something he'd seen before.

“The world holds possibilities,” he said, his voice resonating with a quiet, unshakeable authority,

“That don't always fit conventional logic. “

He paused, and for a fleeting instant, his expression subtly shifted, a shadow of something deep and distant passing across his features before his focus returned.

“When Rey displays certainty of this magnitude,” Ash continued, his eyes sweeping over Leo, Arya, and Rose, “about something so counter-intuitive… it suggests a factor we are currently missing. To dismiss it without investigation would be a greater mistake than considering an improbable possibility.”

“His conviction isn't born of naivety. There is a reason he thinks like that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his quiet voice now carrying a subtle but clear weight, a demand for their full consideration.

“We stand at a precipice. We’ve laid bare our deepest vulnerabilities to each other today. We have chosen to trust each other with truths that could shatter any one of us.”

“If Rey believes, with this intensity, that he has a chance – however slim, however improbable – to avert a far greater tragedy by offering a genuine hope for Emily Web, then our doubt is a luxury we cannot afford.”

He looked directly at them, his gaze unwavering.

“Our role is not to question the ‘how’ when we don’t have the answers. It is to support him. To believe with him.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged with unspoken anxieties and the sheer, unsettling power of Ash’s conviction.

Leo ran a hand through his hair, his expression a tumultuous mix of disbelief and a grudging respect for Ash’s stance.

“A miracle…” Leo muttered, shaking his head. “Man, Rey… if you’re wrong about this… the fallout…”

He didn’t finish, but the implication hung heavy.

Arya let out a slow, shaky breath.

“My rational mind is screaming bloody murder right now,” she admitted, her voice strained.

“Healing terminal leukemia like this, when the best doctors can’t…"

"Statistically, from everything we know about medicine, that kind of sudden recovery is an outlier so extreme it barely registers as a possibility.”

She looked from Ash to me, then back to Ash.

“But your certainty, Ash… it’s… unsettling.”

She sighed, a gesture of reluctant surrender.

“Fine. We go down this rabbit hole. We try. But if this starts to make things worse, if Web becomes even more unhinged because of this…”

Rose, her eyes wide, darted between me and Ash.

The immense weight of what was being proposed was stark and palpable in her gaze.

But now it was mingled with a fragile, almost frighteningly potent hope.

“If Ash… if he truly believes…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

As if daring to voice the thought was a risk in itself.

“Then maybe… just maybe…"

"There is a chance."

"A real one.”

I looked at Ash, a wave of gratitude washing over me.

Yet, his conviction… it felt deeper than just trust in me. There was a resonance that hinted at something more, something I couldn't quite grasp but felt profoundly.

The way he’d looked, the echo in his words.

A heavy silence settled as they absorbed this.

It was a radical departure from any conventional response.

“Okay,” I said, my voice stronger now, bolstered by Ash’s unexpected allegiance and the reluctant, wary agreement of the others.

The phantom warmth in my soul seemed to pulse in accord.

"Then let’s figure out how we approach this. How we get to Arthur Web at St. Jude’s, and how we try to offer him a hope that can pull him back from the brink.”

I looked at my friends – Rose, battling her unseen demons with quiet strength; Arya, confronting her own complicated heart; Leo, his fierce loyalty unwavering despite his fears; Ash, the unexpected, unshakeable believer – I knew, that we had to try.

A silent, charged understanding passed between us. No more words were needed for the immediate plan. We moved.

The car hummed, eating up the miles to St. Jude’s. My phone was already dialing Iris.

“Iris? It’s Rey. St. Jude’s. Now. It’s about Emily Web… and her father. Meet us at the main entrance. Fifteen minutes.”

Her voice, when it came, was tight with alarm. “St. Jude’s? Rey, is Emily… is she okay? What’s happening?”

“She’s critical, Iris. Just come. Please. It’s important.” I hung up before she could ask more, time is of the essence.

We pulled into the hospital parking lot. Rose gave me a grim nod from the driver's seat, her phone already pressed to her ear, the other end of the call live on mine. “Comms established, Rey. I’m your eyes out here.”

“Loud and clear.”

Arya, Leo, Ash, and I strode towards the main entrance. Iris was already there, a small, anxious figure pacing near the imposing glass doors. Her eyes, wide and searching, found mine immediately.

“Rey?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as I reached her. “What is all this? Is Emily… worse?”

“We need to see her father, Iris. Stick with me,” I murmured, taking her arm gently but firmly, guiding her forward.

Arya, radiating an aura of brisk authority she probably didn’t feel, led our small procession towards the ICU reception desk. Her heels clicked decisively on the polished floor.

“Excuse me,” she addressed the stern-faced nurse, her voice smooth and confident. “Arya Sharma. My mother, Anjali Sharma, is a benefactor. We’re here regarding Emily Web. Urgent family friend matter.”

The nurse’s eyes, magnified slightly by her glasses, didn’t soften. She consulted a screen. “Emily Web’s visitation is strictly immediate family. I have no Sharma on the approved list, and the Dr. Sam , who might know your mother, is currently in surgery.” Her gaze flicked to Iris, whose breath hitched audibly, then back to Arya, a wall of polite, unyielding protocol. “ICU access requires prior clearance.”

The air crackled. Arya’s confidence wavered for a moment. Our clean entry just slammed shut.

Before another word could be spoken, Leo, who had been hovering just behind Arya, let out a strangled gasp. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in theatrical agony.

“Urgh… my heart!” He staggered, lurching dramatically towards a nearby decorative water feature, his arm flailing as if for balance, and then “tripped,” crashing spectacularly into a tall, mobile cart laden with neatly stacked linen bundles.

The cart went over with a clatter, linens exploding outwards like a cotton avalanche.

“Chest pains!” Leo wheezed, collapsing onto the floor amidst the scattered sheets. “Can’t… breathe! Doctor!”

Chaos erupted. The stern nurse’s attention snapped to Leo. Another nurse and an orderly rushed forward.

“Sir! Are you alright?”

“Help… need help…” Leo gasped, drawing every eye in the vicinity.

In that orchestrated bedlam, my phone buzzed almost imperceptibly in my pocket. A single, short vibration. I glanced down. Ash’s text: ICU. Left of commotion. Room 3B. Go. He was already gone, vanished into the hospital’s labyrinth.

“Iris, now!” I hissed, grabbing her hand. Iris looked from Leo’s sprawling form to me, her eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and confusion. "Rey, what are we doing?"

“No time! Arya, handle Leo! Make sure he’s miraculously ‘recovered’ once we’re clear!”

Arya shot me a tight, understanding nod, already turning to play the concerned bystander for Leo.

I pulled a protesting but compliant Iris past the distracted knot of staff, veering left as Ash had indicated, into the hushed, beeping corridor of the Intensive Care Unit.

“Are we even allowed back here?” Iris whispered, her grip tightening on my arm as we hurried.

“We have to be,” I replied grimly. Every footstep seemed to echo. We moved fast, adrenaline a live wire in my veins.

Room 3B. The plaque was stark.

My hand hesitated on the door. This was it.

I pushed it open.

The room was dim, filled with the quiet hum and beep of machinery. A small, fragile form lay in the bed. Iris gasped softly beside me, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Emily…” Tears welled in her eyes instantly. Her mother, Martha, a woman worn thin by grief, sat beside her, holding a tiny hand, her shoulders slumped.

Standing by the window, a silhouette against the muted light, was Arthur Web.

He turned at the sound of the door.

His eyes, hollowed and bloodshot, found me first. Then they landed on Iris, who flinched, instinctively shrinking back a little. A flicker. Recognition. Then, a wave of raw, dangerous agony washed over his face, twisting his features.

“You…” His voice was a low, guttural growl, vibrating with suppressed fury, aimed squarely at Iris.

Martha startled, her head snapping up. “Arthur? Who is it?”

Arthur didn’t look at his wife. his burning gaze fixed on Iris, then back to me. The air in the room became thick, charged, ready to ignite. He didn't want this here. Not in front of Emily. Not with Martha.

His jaw worked, a muscle pulsing. He took a ragged, shuddering breath, a man wrestling with a storm inside.

Iris looked at me, her eyes wide with fear. "Rey...?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

When Arthur finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft, a mere whisper that carried the weight of an avalanche.

“Not here.” He jerked his head sharply towards the door, his eyes still locked on mine, though the venom was clearly meant for Iris too. “You. Me. Parking lot. Now.”

I gave Martha a brief, reassuring glance I didn't feel. "Mrs. Web, we'll just step outside with him for a moment."

Arthur was already moving, a man possessed, pushing past us without a word, his shoulders rigid. I placed a steadying hand on Iris’s arm.

“Stay close to me,” I murmured. Her skin was cold. Then, I followed him out, Iris a trembling shadow beside me.

The fluorescent brightness of the ICU corridor felt harsh, almost accusatory, after the dim intimacy of Emily's room. Arthur didn’t slow, his strides long and furious, a bull charging through the sterile maze. We passed the area of Leo’s earlier ‘incident’ – now, thankfully, quiet, Leo and Arya presumably having extracted themselves. He didn’t stop until we burst out into the comparatively dim, humid air of the multi-story parking structure.

He stopped abruptly near a grimy concrete pillar, the sterile scent of the hospital still clinging to the air, now overlaid with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes. He spun to face us, his chest heaving, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated torment.

“You!” he spat, his venomous gaze fixed solely on Iris. She flinched as if physically struck. “You dare show your face here? After what you did?”

Iris, though trembling visibly, met his glare. Her voice was small, barely a whisper, but surprisingly steady. “Mr. Web, I am so, so sorry about Emily. I… I never wanted any of this to happen.”

“Sorry?” Arthur’s laugh was a jagged, broken thing, echoing unnervingly in the concrete space. “Sorry doesn’t bring back the sleep she lost! Sorry doesn’t undo the stress, the fear she felt!” He took a menacing step closer, looming over her. “Do you have any idea what that wave of hatred you unleashed did to her? All those angry fans, whipped into a frenzy by you! She saw it, you know! She saw what they were saying online, the threats, the vitriol! It terrified her! It weakened her! She was already fighting, and you… you pushed her further down!” His voice cracked, raw with a father’s unbearable anguish. “You might as well have put a knife in her yourself! You’re a murderer in my eyes, little girl! A murderer!”

The accusation, brutal and direct, hung heavy in the air.

Iris recoiled.
Her face paling to a ghastly white.

Tears, which had been welling, now streamed down her cheeks unheeded.
But her chin came up.

Her voice, when she spoke, was laced with a steely resolve I’d never witnessed in her before.

“That’s not true, Mr. Web!”
“And it’s not fair!” she cried.
Her voice shaking but defiant, her small fists clenched at her sides.

“I would never, ever intentionally harm Emily!”
“What happened online… it wasn’t my doing!”
“I didn’t create that hate!”

“Oh, spare me your innocent act!” Arthur sneered.
He advanced another step, his towering frame casting a shadow over her.
“It was your game, your mess!”
“Your responsibility!”

“No, Arthur,” I interjected.
Stepping slightly in front of Iris.
My voice calm but firm, cutting through his tirade.

“It wasn’t.”

“We both know who fanned those flames.”

“It was you who wrote those words, from your daughter’s account.”

“You stoked that fire.”

“The question isn’t what Iris did, but why you did it.”

“Why would you deliberately try to turn people against her, knowing Emily was a fan?”

My words seemed to pierce through Arthur’s rage.
Hitting a raw, unexpected nerve.

His eyes, blazing with fury, shifted to me.

The grief, the anger, the confusion –
It all coalesced into a singular, explosive point.

“You… YOU DARE, ” he roared, his control completely shattering. He lunged, not at Iris, but at me, a desperate, grief-fueled explosion of movement.

“Rey! What was that? Are you okay?” Rose’s voice crackled urgently in my earbud, sharp with alarm.

“It’s okay, Rose. Stand by,” I said, my voice preternaturally calm even as I moved.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but a strange calm, born from the desolation of the previous timeline, settled over me.

This wasn't the chaotic, dust-filled ruin of our home. I wasn't injured, disoriented, my friends weren't buried under rubble. There was no gasoline-fueled inferno, no element of surprise working against me.

Here, now, Arthur Web was just a man consumed by grief, his rage a raw, predictable force, not an ambush.

This time, I could meet it on my own terms, with skill, not just desperate power.

There was no need for superpowers.

Arthur’s wild, telegraphed swing, fueled by blind rage, not skill, came as expected. It was almost pitifully easy to read.

I didn't even need to attack.

A slight shift of my weight, a subtle pivot, and his furious momentum carried him past me, his fist punching empty air.

He spun, lashing out again, a clumsy, overextended haymaker. I met his forearm with a gentle, redirecting Pak Sau, a soft palm deflecting the blow harmlessly upwards and away, letting his own force dissipate into the sterile corridor air.

He growled in frustration, a wounded animal sound, charging forward, a flurry of desperate, uncoordinated strikes. Each one was met with a similar, yielding defense – a slight sidestep here, a brushing block there, a smooth parry that turned his aggression into wasted motion.

I was a willow branch in a storm, bending but not breaking, guiding his raw power away from me without needing to exert much of my own.

He began to pant, his movements growing sloppier, his earlier explosive energy visibly waning. Frustration and exhaustion etched deeper lines on his grief-stricken face.

This was the opening.

As he launched another ragged, breathless punch, I flowed with his movement. My left hand adhered to his incoming arm, not blocking, but guiding it slightly off course, like water around a stone.

Simultaneously, my right hand, with practiced precision, slipped under his extended arm to gently cup his elbow.

While my right leg executed a swift, low, circling foot sweep – not a damaging strike, but a carefully calibrated disruption of his balance.

He went down with a surprised grunt, more from the sudden loss of equilibrium than any real impact, landing heavily on his side against the rough concrete of the hospital corridor.

Before he could even process the fall, let alone attempt to rise, I was there. Not with force, but with control.

One knee lightly settled on the floor beside his shoulder, effectively pinning it without applying crushing weight. My hands moved with practiced economy, securing his wrists in a gentle but firm hold, neutralizing any further attempt to struggle.

He thrashed for a bare second, a final, desperate surge of adrenaline.

Then, as if the string holding him upright had been cut, the fight drained out of him completely.

A wave of utter, crushing despair washed over his features.

A choked sob escaped him, then another, and his body sagged against the concrete, trembling violently with the force of his unfettered grief.

“Why?” he gasped.
The word a ragged exhalation, his face turned towards the grimy floor.

Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the dust.

“She… Emily…”
“She loved Stellaris.”
“So much.”

His voice was thick with unshed grief, muffled against the ground.

“The doctors… they said she needed rest, to conserve her strength.”
“But the game… the updates… the community…”
“She’d stay up, excited, reading everything.”
“Losing sleep.”
“Getting weaker.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.
Fresh tears forcing their way out.

“I saw her fading…”
“And I was so angry.”
“Angry at the game,”
“Angry at the world,”
“Angry at… at everything that was taking her from me.”

“I saw those posts, people arguing…”
“And I just…”
“I snapped.”

“I wrote those things.”
“I wanted to lash out, to hurt someone, anyone, the way I was hurting.”

He looked up at me then.
His eyes filled with a self-loathing that was painful to witness.

“I never thought…”
“I didn’t realize what it would do, the backlash…”
“I just… I wanted it to stop.”
“I wanted her pain to stop.”

He choked on a sob.
His shoulders shaking.
“My Emily…”

Iris watched.
Her earlier defiance completely gone.
Replaced by a profound, aching pity.

The anger she must have felt at his accusations was overshadowed by the raw, unfiltered grief of the man before her.

She took a hesitant step closer.

I looked at Arthur, his chest still heaving. “I’m not going to hurt you, Arthur,” I said, my voice low and steady. “And I’m not here to fight you. I’m here because I have a solution for Emily.”

A strangled, incredulous laugh escaped Arthur’s lips. It was a broken sound, devoid of humor, full of despair. “A solution? You? You’re a child! What solution could you possibly have that St. Jude’s doesn’t?” He spat the words out, contempt warring with utter exhaustion.

I held his gaze. This was the moment. No grandstanding, no theatrics. Just the quiet, terrifying truth.

"Mr. Web," I began, then paused. Discretely, I activated my skills.

[Third Eye A]
[Alter Ego EX]

The world sharpened. Probabilities and pathways flickered at the edge of my perception. This combination… the one that had bypassed me before, creating that psychic horror for Rose and me. Perhaps it was exactly what I needed now. I needed him to see, to understand the stakes not just for Emily, but for himself, for Iris, for everyone if he continued down this path of blind vengeance.

I focused on the memory, the vivid, horrific imagery of our last confrontation from the previous timeline – the one where his grief led to catastrophic violence, ending in tragedy for him and terror for Iris, and no salvation for Emily.

I projected it. Not as a taunt, but as a stark, brutal warning.

Just for one second, as his fight dissolved into a choked sob against the cold concrete, his eyes unfocused.

And he saw it,

Not the sterile hospital corridor, but the vivid, tormenting reel of his own real nightmare.

A rapid succession of inescapable flashes:

Emily's face, alight with innocent adoration, watching a Stellaris stream on her small hospital laptop. The vibrant colors of the Vtuber a stark, cruel contrast to her own fading vitality.

The damning chat logs. The ones he had typed under Emily's "StarBrightSeeker" account. The deliberately provocative words designed to bait a reaction, now burning like acid in his mind's eye.

Stellaris's face on screen during that stream. Not taunting, but perhaps righteously angry. Her words (which Emily had shown him, distorted by her own hurt) echoing now with a different, accusatory light that targeted him, the instigator.

The chilling photographs he'd commissioned or taken of Iris. Her everyday moments stolen and twisted by his grief into evidence for an imaginary crime. His obsession laid bare.

His hands gripping the steering wheel. Iris's image, no, Stellaris's, a furious, superimposed phantom in his vision. His foot slamming the accelerator not in calculated revenge, but in a blind, self-destructive surge of unbearable pain and blame.

Then, the cold, stark realization washing over him: Emily's death. Not a direct result of Stellaris's words, but a tragic culmination of illness. Exacerbated by the very stress he had orchestrated. His misguided "protection" becoming the catalyst for her final decline.

The flashes were gone as quickly as they came.

Leaving him shuddering, his breath catching in raw, tearing gasps.

The brief, terrible vision of his own culpability, the intricate web of his own destructive choices born from grief, was more devastating than any physical blow.

Arthur’s eyes, locked on mine, widened in sudden, stark terror. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp. The color drained from his face, leaving it a waxy, sickly grey. He blinked rapidly, a violent tremor running through his entire body. The immediate grief was momentarily eclipsed by a dawning, visceral horror, as if he’d stared directly into the abyss.

“Do you want that future, Arthur?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, the echo of the projected memory thrumming between us. “The one where your pain consumes everything, and Emily still…?” I let the implication hang, heavy and chilling. “If not, then believe me. Believe that I have a solution. Believe that I can do more than what you just saw, more than anything you can imagine right now. For Emily.”

Iris stared, utterly bewildered, her gaze flicking between my intense focus and Arthur’s suddenly terrified, unseeing stare. “Rey? What… what just happened?” she stammered, her voice laced with confusion and a new kind of fear. “Mr. Web? Are you… alright?”

Arthur didn’t respond to her. His eyes, now cleared of the vision but forever haunted by its shadow, slowly refocused on me. The fight, the anger, the blame – it was all gone. All that remained was a broken man, staring at an impossible hope, desperately recoiling from an abyss he’d just glimpsed.

A strangled sound tore from Arthur’s throat, a sound that was part sob, part groan, part the breaking of a soul. His entire demeanor shifted. The last vestiges of defiance, of aggression, crumbled away, leaving behind only raw, unadulterated desperation.

His hand, trembling violently, shot out and clamped onto my arm. Not with the force of an attacker, but with the desperate, crushing grip of a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. His fingers dug into my flesh, heedless of the pressure.

“Please,” he choked out, his voice cracking, dissolving into racking sobs. He lurched forward, his forehead almost touching my chest as he clung to me, the fight completely gone, replaced by an agony so profound it was physically painful to witness. “Please… if there’s any chance… any chance at all…”

Tears streamed down his face, soaking the front of his shirt, his body shaking uncontrollably. The proud, angry man was gone, replaced by a father stripped bare, his heart laid open and bleeding on the cold concrete of the parking garage.

“My daughter… Emily…” he wept, his voice thick and hoarse, each word a shard of glass. “She’s my everything… my little girl… Please… please, if you can do something… anything… I’m begging you… Save her. Please, save my Emily!”

His grip tightened, his knuckles white. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, his eyes squeezed shut as if against an unbearable pain, his entire being focused on this single, desperate plea, pouring every ounce of his shattered will, his hope, his terror, into those words. The sound of his weeping was a raw, elemental force, the sound of a heart breaking into a million pieces.

Iris stood frozen, tears silently tracing paths down her own cheeks, her earlier fear and anger completely eclipsed by the overwhelming spectacle of Arthur’s utter devastation and his desperate, soul-wrenching plea.

Arthur’s desperate pleas filled the garage. He clung to my arm, shaking with sobs. The weight of his impossible hope, now entirely on me, settled heavily in my chest. Iris watched, tears streaming, no longer for herself but for the raw pain before her.

The anger and accusations had vanished.

The fight with Arthur Web was over.

Now, the true battle, to save Emily, was about to begin.