Wily

The darkness around Wily began to change. He could feel it—something pulling at him, something trying to twist his sadness into something frightening. The shadows whispered about Phase 2, about glowing eyes, sharp smiles, and becoming a monster instead of a memory. Wily shook his head, tears falling faster. “No… please,” he whispered. “I don’t want that.” He didn’t want to be scary. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He didn’t want his pain to turn him into something unrecognizable. He dropped to his knees in the dark, clutching his chest as the pressure grew stronger. The world wanted him to snap, to scream, to transform. That was easier. That was louder. But Wily chose to cry instead. His sobs were soft, trembling, human. He stayed in Phase 1—broken, scared, but still himself. Even as the darkness begged him to change, he held onto the last piece of who he was. “I just want the pain to stop,” he said quietly. “Not to become a horror.” The shadows paused. Because sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t turning into a monster— it’s refusing to, even when you’re drowning in the dark.