The bar was dim, tucked between an empty hardware store and a laundromat that hadn't been open in years. The walls were stained with age and the smell of smoke never quite left the place. A low hum of music buzzed from an old jukebox, but no one was really listening. Most of the patrons kept to themselves. Just like Nolan.
He sat alone in a corner booth with a half-empty glass of bourbon sweating in front of him. He hadn't said a word in the past hour. Kieran was silent. Quentin too.
And Nolan was grateful for that.
He swirled the glass once, slowly, then drank the rest in a single gulp. It burned on the way down, but not enough to distract him. Not enough to numb anything.
He raised two fingers to the bartender, and another drink arrived without a word.
His hand wrapped around the new glass, fingers twitching slightly. He stared down at the amber liquid, watching it ripple.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn't Quentin who spoke first.
"You okay?" The voice was deeper. Rough. Steady like a blade drawn across leather.
Nolan's eyes stayed on the glass. He didn't answer at first. Then, quietly:
A beat passed. The fighter didn't push.
"I thought I'd feel something," Nolan said. "Disgust. Anger. Regret. Something."
He took a small sip this time, eyes distant. "But I don't. Not really. And that scares me more than anything. That it just felt like… cleaning up a mess."
The fighter didn't speak. Nolan went on.
"Maybe my body's used to it. Maybe… after everything you've done while being me, I've stopped reacting to blood."
The ice shifted in his glass with a soft clink.
"I thought I'd feel like I crossed a line," he said. "But I don't even know where the line is anymore."
"You didn't cross it," the fighter replied, his tone even. "You just stopped pretending it was never there."
Nolan exhaled through his nose. "That's a hell of a thing to say."
"You've done what others wouldn't. What others couldn't. Not because you're a monster. But because you felt responsible."
Then Nolan leaned back in the booth, eyes on the ceiling like he was waiting for answers to fall from it.
"I don't understand something," he said. "And maybe it's stupid."
"I don't know your name."
The question hung in the stale air.
The fighter didn't answer right away.
"…I don't know if you want to have that conversation right now."
Nolan chuckled. It was quiet and dry. But real.
He downed the last of his drink and set the glass down gently.
"But we need to have that conversation sooner or later." ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ NovᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt
The fighter was quiet again.
"It's simple," he said and for the first time in forever Nolan saw the fighters image clearly, he saw his scraggly black hair and grey eyes, his tall muscled body with scars littering his skin
"Ahgrh!" Nolan groaned clutching his head
That was the first thing he noticed.
A low, electrical hum buzzing through the air like tension. The sound of sterile lights overhead. A blinding white room. The kind of white that erases shadows and makes people feel small.
But he wasn't himself.
His perspective hovered, uncertain, like someone peering in from behind a pane of thick glass. He wasn't standing in the room, but he was in the room.
He could see himself small, maybe no older than ten sitting on the ground, slouched against a corner. His face was swollen, bruised. Dried blood crusted at the corner of his lip. There were cuts along his arms, bandaged clumsily. Fresh wounds wrapped over older scars.
And someone else was kneeling next to him. A tall figure. Built solid. Maybe eighteen. Dark, scraggly hair hung just past his ears, tangled and unkempt. His jaw was clenched tight as he carefully peeled back one of the bandages and inspected a gash.
"You're tougher than you look, kid," the older boy muttered. His voice was low, gravelly but gentle. "It's gonna scar, but that just makes you meaner."
The younger versions of himself sniffled. "Nolan they said I failed the last test…"
The older boy glanced at him. His gray eyes were piercing. Striking.
"They're wrong," he said, dabbing the wound with a piece of cloth. "You're not a failure. You're still here."
A pause. Then softer, more fiercely:
"We're gonna get out of here. You and me. I swear it."
Nolan felt a lump in his throat as he watched. It was surreal this memory he didn't remember having. This warmth. This comfort. His younger self leaned into the older boy like a shadow chasing light.
He wanted to call out. Ask who he was. Ask what this place was.
The metallic slide of a door sent a sharp echo through the room.
Bright hallway lights spilled into the space, harsh and cold.
"N01AN. It's your turn for examination."
The boy looked up, alarmed. "Wait. He's still hurt I need to finish."
He stood quickly, shielding the younger one. "At least let me patch up—"
He turned back, eyes locking with the small boy, and said a name—
But the name was blanked out.
Like a scratched CD skipping at the exact second he said it.
Nolan the one watching felt a spike of cold run down his spine.
The guards didn't wait. They surged forward, grabbing the older boy. He resisted for only a second, not wanting to fight in front of the kid. But then he allowed himself to be taken.
Just looked back at the younger version of… of him.
And smiled like it was going to be okay.
The door slammed shut.
Nolan shot upright in the booth, breath ragged, sweat beading at his brow.
He was back in the bar.
The warmth from the bourbon was gone. He was cold now.
"So my names not even Nolan." He chuckled, "Why am I not surprised."
The fighter, now revealed as Nolan chuckled, "Please use my name it fits you better anyways, I quite like the name Vey."
"What's my name?" Nolan asked
It was suprising he wasn't freaking out.
"Honestly." Vey said, "I don't know, I'm not him Nolan. I'm a conjuration of him Nolan I'm sorry."
Nolan nodded and chuckled softly, "I'm sure Nolan is a better name anyways, now let's start planning these hotel imrovments."
A/N: I hope these last two chapters showed the growth Nolan had gone through as a character.