THE alarm clock rattled against the wooden nightstand with a hollow, mechanical sound tearing through the thick stillness of the room.
Archer Creed's eyes opened to the ceiling, expressionless. The faint red glow of the clock read 5:30 a.m., the digits pulsed in the darkness like a dying heartbeat.
He didn't groan, didn't stretch, didn't curse the early hour. He simply swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, shoulders hunched, hands draped loosely between his knees, breathing the heavy, stale air of the apartment.
The cold floorboards kissed his bare feet, bringing a reminder that the world beyond the covers was just as uninviting as the one within his dreams.
He rose slowly, moving with the careful precision of a man stitched together by habit rather than desire.
The kitchen was only a few steps away. In the gloom, it looked almost abandoned cracked tiles, a humming old fridge, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling that flickered once, then went dark for good.
Archer didn't bother flipping another switch because darkness suited him more than ever.
He opened the cabinet blindly with his fingers finding the chipped mug without thought. The coffee pot was already set from the night before, it was a ritual he hadn't broken in years. The scent of strong, bitter brew filled the air as he poured it out, the steam curling into the cold morning like ghosts rising from graves.
He stood there, sipping black coffee, letting the bitter heat sear a path down his throat. His eyes drifted toward the wall. There, half-swallowed by shadow, hung an old photograph, the only one he had kept.
It showed two figures, one young and one older. The boy, no more than sixteen, awkward in a second-hand jacket.
The man, stern but smiling in a way that didn't quite reach his tired eyes.
In the older man's hand, held almost carelessly, was a badge, a heavy iron plate stamped with the image of a cracked skull.
It was James Creed. Archer's father, protector and his last real friend. Archer's grip tightened around the coffee mug, the porcelain whining softly in protest.
He exhaled through his nose and set the cup down before it shattered in his hands not in shards but in something else.
The badge in the photo was more than a trinket. It was a mark, the emblem of Justice Holders, the underground brotherhood his father had served until the end.
The badge meant loyalty, sacrifice, blood and in the end, it had meant death.
Archer moved closer to the photograph, standing barely an arm's length away.
The young version of himself stared back at him, hopeful and blind.
He barely recognized that boy anymore. The apartment around him was silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood.
Outside the window, the city was still draped in darkness, streetlights throwing long, skeletal shadows across the cracked sidewalks. The sun hadn't risen yet, it felt like it never would.
Archer rested his forehead lightly against the cool wall beside the picture frame. He stayed that way for a long time, letting the weight of everything he had lost press down on him.
He remembered the hospital room with the weak beeping of machines. The way his father's hand had felt in his own, cold, limp and mainly... already half gone.
Another sip of coffee, colder this time, metallic against his tongue. He didn't bother warming it, didn't bother doing a lot of things anymore.
The old wooden floor groaned under his feet as he moved toward the window, mug still in hand.
Down below, a few restless souls shuffled through the city streets, they were workers, drunks and wanderers.
Their lives continued. Their burdens were their own.
He envied them, in a way. Archer Creed lived in a museum of ghosts, and every morning he woke up, he opened the doors again, letting them roam.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
The clock ticked forward — 5:47 a.m.
The world would wake soon, noisy and indifferent. But for now, there was still time to stand in the silence, to remember what it felt like to be a son rather than a weapon.
Archer turned back to the coffee, took one last sip, and set the mug down carefully, as if noise itself would disturb the thin line he walked between yesterday and today.
Outside, somewhere beyond the cracked windowpane, the first hints of gray light stretched their fingers across the sky.
Archer Creed drifted away, his movements are slow, almost reluctant. The world outside could wait. For now, there was something else something heavier than memory.
He stepped into the narrow living room, where the faded carpet muffled his footfalls and the air smelled faintly of old wood and forgotten days.
The revolver sat there on the scratched coffee table, exactly where he'd left it the night before. It almost looked like an offering, a relic placed on an altar of dust and grief.
Archer sat down heavily on the worn leather couch, its springs groaning beneath him.
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the revolver's handle. The metal was cold against his skin, colder than the morning air, colder than the sunless sky outside.
He turned the gun over in his hands, feeling every scratch, every dent, every story carved into its battered frame.
This wasn't just a weapon.
It was the last thing his father gifted him before his death. Archer tried to pull back the hammer. It stuck halfway, refusing to lock into place.
He worked the cylinder, but it ground stubbornly, resisting his touch like a wounded animal. It was Jammed Completely.
He looked at it as if by looking hard enough, he could will it back to life. But things broken by time and violence don't heal just because we want them to.
Some things stay broken but they aren't meant to be forgotten. A slow, bitter breath escaped him. Not anger, not even frustration. Just sorrow.
Outside, the gray light grew stronger, creeping through the dirty windows, touching the corners of the room with cold, indifferent hands.
He closed his eyes and for a moment, it felt like the whole world was jammed, stuck, rusted beyond repair. Just like the revolver in his hands.
He took a suitcase that was placed near the coffee table... He needs to repair it, he needs to make the last gift of hisfather be alive to remember about what it shared, because it's the only thing that keothim close to his father.