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a soft ache with no name.

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Fury moved through the day like a ghost. Langdon was gone. one of his dads, the quieter one, the one who always touched his shoulder before speaking. the news landed like a bruise that grew deeper by the hour. what unsettled him more was his dad Rage's silence. no details. no explanation. nothing but a flat statement that left Fury staring, waiting for more that never came. and that silence twisted into suspicion. if there was nothing to hide, why wouldn't Rage tell him what had happened?

by the time he reached Armin, the weight had grown too heavy to carry alone. he told him everything. that Langdon was dead, that he didn't know how, that Rage refused to speak. Armin listened without interrupting, and Fury felt both exposed and relieved.

he wondered aloud if he should try to find out what really happened, dig into the truth and force answers from the silence. but the thought shifted into something darker. what good would it even do? life felt like a joke played by the universe, a trick with no meaning at the end. finding out wouldn't bring Langdon back. it wouldn't fix the loneliness threading itself through his ribs.

yet Armin's presence eased the sharpest edges. Fury hated that it helped. hated that part of him felt slightly lighter just because Armin was there again. it felt wrong to feel anything close to comfort now, stupid even, but the warmth settled anyway. grief didn't loosen, but it stopped clawing for a moment, and that was enough for him to breathe.

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