Chapter Text
The call of a robin echoed through the park. Following the sound, the sight of its flame-colored feathers inexplicably warmed the heart. The season was just right—not as scorching as summer, nor as bone-chilling as winter.
A gust of autumn wind swept away a little girl’s pale yellow hat, its color harmonizing with the crimson maple leaves scattered along the pathway, making the autumn scene even more vivid. Suddenly, a passing bicycle sent the fallen leaves swirling through the air before one gently settled onto a nearby lawn. A young boy picked it up, intending to take it back to the tent by the lake to show his mother. Winding his way through a few small paths, he remembered the public bench beside the tent as the most recognizable landmark.
On that very bench by the lake, two well-dressed men sat side by side, each gazing in a different direction, remaining silent for a long time. The quiet persisted until the younger of the two was overtaken by a fit of coughing.
“What’s wrong with you?” the older man asked.
“It’s nothing. I’ve just been smoking a bit too much lately.”
The younger man’s complexion was pale, and despite his efforts to conceal the dark circles under his eyes, they remained evident. He coughed again, barely suppressing the urge to retch.
“You should cut down on smoking, but more importantly, you need to take a few days off.”
“There’s no need,” he replied. “If I take even half a day off, the people at headquarters will be rushing to report to my father.”
“That is a problem.”
“When I get back, I’ll settle the score with them sooner or later.”
“I have to go now. See you next week, Rafe.”
“See you on Monday.”
Rafe gave a slight nod to his CFO and watched as he disappeared into the crowd. After another couple of coughs, Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes.
It was nothing more than clinging to memories, he mocked himself for his childish sentimentality, yet his fingers tightened around the box.
Tomorrow was Sam’s birthday. If he were still alive, he would be turning thirty-two. If he were still alive, they would be celebrating the night together—not Rafe alone, left to mark the occasion in solitude.
Rubbing his reddened eyes, Rafe heard a bird’s call close by, reminding him of the bluebirds from his dreams. They would land lightly on his shoulder, shaking off a few downy feathers, only to vanish without a trace after mere moments. He would squint against the distance, trying to follow them, only to find himself standing in a swamp. The muddy water was mixed with blood and snow, and the footprints behind him had already dried and hardened, leaving him stranded with no way forward or back.
Then the rain came—sharp as needles, piercing his skin until he was covered in wounds. He felt no pain, knowing he was dreaming, but he couldn’t break free, trapped in his own nightmare with no escape.
The downpour intensified, drowning him, stripping the oxygen from his body. With no choice, he let the rain flood his mouth until he lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes, he was freed, but his body was slick with cold sweat. Under the moonlight, his dark brown hair carried a silver hue.
The memory of that dream made his hands tremble as he lit a cigarette, desperately reassuring himself that the bird in his dream wasn’t Sam.
But how could it not be him? Sam was gone. He was never coming back. The worst part of it all was that Rafe had been the one to kill him. He didn’t know the exact details, but the outcome remained the same. Even if Sam’s brother refused to say it outright, Rafe understood the silent accusation.
It was his fault. He had killed the man who loved him—his Alpha.
If Sam hadn’t died instantly, would he have thought of him? Would he have started to hate him—for his recklessness, for botching the plan, for costing him his life?
Rafe’s vision blurred as the scenery before him grew hazy. He forced back his tears, trying to recall the moments when Sam was still with him. He remembered the way Sam would laugh, clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder, his voice warm and steady as he said, “Relax, Rafe. Don’t overthink it. We can handle this—just trust yourself.”
Trust? Rafe couldn’t help but scoff at himself. He had never done anything right. It was all his fault.
The same image haunted him, night after night—the moment Sam slipped from the rooftop, the bullets tearing through his body, the despair and agony in his eyes…
Every time he thought of it, all he could do was weep for what was lost. But there was nowhere to go, no grave to visit, no place to mourn properly.
“Sam,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, forgive me. Please, don’t regret loving me.”
Tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He clutched the cigarette pack to his chest, as if it still carried Sam’s scent, as if Sam were still holding him close, telling bad jokes just to make him laugh.
“I wish it had been me who died.”