He awoke in agony.
His breath hitched as a sharp pain stabbed through his side. His entire body screamed in protest, wrapped tight in fresh bandages that stung against raw, healing skin. His arm, the one he'd jammed into the snake's eye, was bound in a sling and braced with wood and cloth. Even moving his fingers sent jolts of white-hot pain lancing up his shoulder.
He blinked slowly, trying to adjust to the pale morning light leaking through the curtains.
It wasn't his first time waking up in this bed after nearly dying.
But this time… it was different.
He wasn't alone in that cave.
His eyes darted to the side.
The room was empty.
Silent.
He was alone now.
Toby wasn't here.
Knight's heart twisted. He turned his head away from the window, wincing from the motion. Every breath rattled in his chest like broken glass. He clenched his teeth, trying to suppress the noise crawling up his throat—some desperate, raw thing that wanted to escape.
Toby.
He remembered the way Toby's body had jerked, the sound of something snapping. The blur of red, the crunch of bone. One second, they were walking and joking. The next… Toby was on the ground, half-torn apart. That image—his best friend reduced to a corpse—burned into Knight's mind with agonizing clarity.
He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.
He didn't even have time to scream.
Knight dug his fingers into the sheets, his breath hitching again, sharper this time.
He thought—he really thought that things were finally starting to change. That maybe, just maybe, this world wasn't so bad. That he wasn't so useless anymore. He had started laughing. Feeling proud. Thinking he was growing stronger.
What a joke.
What kind of growth was this?
Toby was dead.
Because Knight wasn't fast enough. Strong enough. Good enough.
He stared up at the ceiling, his vision blurring as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
"…I dragged him into this."
He whispered it to no one. Just the room. Just the guilt that hollowed out his chest like a blade.
"I let him die."
He remembered how excited Toby had looked while pointing at the quest board, grinning like an idiot. How he always talked just a little too loud, always waved to strangers, always tried to make Knight laugh even when he didn't want to.
He remembered how Toby had stood in front of him during that ambush in the cave, taking the first blow.
Knight bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.
And now he was gone.
Just like that.
The sheets beneath his hands crumpled under his grip, but the pain didn't distract him this time.
He would never hear Toby call out his name again. Never hear another bad joke. Never complain about the pay. Never laugh at how serious Knight always was. Never talk about starting their own party, about becoming famous adventurers. About anything.
All of it—stolen. Gone.
Knight's breath shook. He wanted to scream, but it stayed locked in his throat like stone.
Why was he the one who survived?
Why did someone like him get to live?
He curled in slightly, every joint protesting the movement.
The silence in the room pressed in like a weight. For the first time since he arrived in this world, he didn't feel curious. Or grateful. Or even scared.
Just… numb.
He should've died instead.
Maybe it would've been better.
He didn't feel strong. Didn't feel like a better person. All that talk of growth, of changing, of finally doing something worthwhile—it felt like a cruel joke now.
He was still just a scared, useless shut-in.
Only now, he was one with blood on his hands.
Knight shut his eyes and let the grief rise until it drowned everything else.
There was no comfort in the pain.
Only the bitter truth:
Toby was gone.
And Knight would never be the same again.
His body was wrecked—every part of him bandaged, stitched, or splinted—but the damage inside ran deeper than anything magic could fix.
The food left at his bedside stayed untouched. The medicine too. Sometimes, someone knocked. Asked if he needed anything. He never answered. They left him alone eventually. Just like before.
It was almost funny.
He'd made it to another world—some fantasy land with swords and monsters and magic—and somehow, he'd ended up exactly where he started.
Alone. In a room. Staring at a wall.
Like he used to, back in that tiny, dark apartment.
Back when the blinds were always shut and the only sounds were muffled traffic and flickering screens. Back when the days bled together, and he stopped counting them because it didn't matter if it was Tuesday or Sunday or never.
He was right back there.
Except now… there was blood on his hands.
Knight lay on his side, curled slightly in the blankets like they might shield him from the memories. But they came anyway. Over and over again.
Toby, smiling with a tooth chipped from a bar brawl.
Toby, pointing at a goblin sketch and laughing.
Toby, saying "Don't worry. I got your back."
Toby, getting torn apart.
His throat tightened.
Back in the old world, he could just disconnect. Turn the screen off. Block everything out.
But here?
There was no screen. No door to shut tight and forget. No way to mute the guilt clawing up through his chest every time he blinked.
He'd survived a snake twice his size.
And he felt nothing like a hero.
He'd killed the monster. Saved others.
But all he could think about was how he wasn't fast enough.
He was stronger now, sure. He could swing a sword, read a little, even survive a dungeon crawl.
But none of it mattered.
Because Toby was still gone.
And Knight was still the same person who sat in his room day after day, too afraid to live and too stubborn to die.
"Some progress," he muttered bitterly, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling. His voice was hoarse from disuse.
He wasn't angry at this world. Or at the snake. Or even the guild for sending them out there.
He was angry at himself.
For letting Toby down.
For letting himself believe—just for a moment—that he could change.
He let his hand fall against the side of the bed, fingers trailing against the floorboards.
If this was growth, it didn't feel like it.
He was still trapped. Still broken.
Still hiding.
Just like before.
But this time, no one was knocking on his door to drag him outside.
No one was saying, "Come on, man. Let's go do something stupid."
No one was calling him "partner."
Knight closed his eyes.
And for the first time in this new world, he wished he hadn't come here at all.
The days blurred together.
Knight didn't count them. He didn't mark the window light. Didn't ask what day it was, or what happened while he was out. The outside world felt like it belonged to someone else—a movie playing in another room, muffled through a locked door.
The meals kept coming. So did the medicine. He never touched them. Not because he wanted to die, but because it didn't feel like it mattered if he didn't.
Once, someone tried to come in. He didn't recognize the voice.
"You in there? You should eat."
He didn't respond. Just curled tighter under the blanket, as if that could muffle the ache behind his ribs. Eventually, they left.
He didn't deserve concern.
He was the reason Toby didn't walk out of that forest.
Sometimes, he thought he heard Toby's voice in the hallway. A laugh. A knock. That dumb little whistle he always did when he came back from errands. Knight would sit up, eyes wide, heart clenching—and then realize it wasn't real. Just his brain playing tricks. Just silence echoing too loud inside his skull.
Once, he forced himself to sit up. Just to reach the table and touch the bowl of soup that had gone cold beside his bed. His hand trembled so hard it spilled before he could lift it. He just stared at the mess, then lay back down. He didn't even have the energy to be frustrated.
Another time, he tried to stand. Just to stretch, just to walk two steps toward the window.
He collapsed the moment he got his foot on the floor.
His legs weren't the problem.
It was something deeper.
A heaviness that wrapped around his chest like chains. A whisper in the back of his mind that said, Why bother? Who are you trying to prove something to?
You thought you were changing. You thought you were getting better.
But people who get better don't let their only friend die.
People who change don't freeze up when it counts.
That voice—his own—never stopped.
He remembered the old apartment. The silence there wasn't peaceful either, but it was familiar. Artificial light glowing off a monitor. Takeout boxes piled on the desk. A stack of unopened mail in the corner. He used to think the worst part of that life was the stillness.
He was wrong.
The worst part was that it was easy.
You could forget the world existed if you just stayed inside long enough.
But now, he couldn't forget. The weight of Toby's death dragged him down like an anchor.
And despite everything—despite the agony in his bones and the disgust in his gut—he knew this couldn't go on forever.
He had felt that silence before.
He knew where it led.
He didn't want to go back there. Not completely. Not again.
On the seventh morning, the sun came in bright.
Too bright.
Knight opened his eyes and winced, groaning softly. His body still ached, but it was healing. Whether he wanted it to or not.
He sat up slowly, biting his lip as his shoulder throbbed. The sling held, even if his arm barely moved. He looked around the room.
Still quiet. Still gray. Still too clean.
Toby's pack was gone. So were both of their quest tags.
Only Knight's bag remained, untouched.
That was when he saw it.
A small piece of parchment, tucked under his sword—what was left of it. Someone had left it there.
Just a simple note.
"He died fast. Probably didn't suffer.
You made it back.
That counts for something."
No name. No signature.
He didn't know who wrote it.
But it was enough.
It didn't lift the weight. Didn't fix anything. But it reminded him: someone saw him out there. Someone dragged his broken body back. Someone thought he was worth saving.
He hated that they were wrong.
But maybe… he needed to prove it.
Not to them.
To Toby.
To himself.
His breath hitched again—less from pain, more from the swell of something he couldn't quite name. Anger? Grief? Shame? All of it, tangled into one mess that lit a fire in his chest.
He stood.
Not fast. Not steady. But he stood.
Each step toward the door felt like dragging boulders behind his ankles.
He hesitated, hand hovering over the knob.
It would be easier to go back to bed.
To sink. To rot. To let the world pass by again.
But Toby wouldn't have let him.
Toby would've kicked this damn door open, called him an idiot, and dragged him outside even if he was on death's door.
Knight clenched his jaw.
And opened it.