Chapter 1, Part 1 - The Part Before The Fall
The lights come alive like judgment.
One violent burst of white pours across the arena, swallowing the dark whole, and for a single disorienting second Requiem can’t see anything except the outline of five figures standing at center stage.
Then the screaming starts.
It crashes into him immediately.
Thousands upon thousands of voices folding together into something monstrous—something living. The sound shakes the stadium walls, rattles the floor beneath his boots, claws up through his ribs and settles behind his heartbeat.
HEARThrob.
His brothers and friends.
His family.
The world screams their name like prayer.
The screens ignite overhead.
Gold.
Crimson.
Black.
Close-ups flash in cinematic cuts: Ramses adjusting the rings on his fingers. Heaven lowering his gaze beneath silver lashes. Aerie grinning like he’s moments away from committing a crime.
Testament stands perfectly still in the middle of the storm.
Unmoving.
Unreadable.
Dangerous.
And then—
Epic.
Requiem’s chest tightens instantly.
Not because Epic looks bad.
That would almost be easier.
No—
Epic looks beautiful.
Radiant beneath the lights. Dark black and crimson hair carefully styled, stage makeup shimmering subtly beneath his eyes, expensive black fabric fitted against his body like whispered sin. The cameras adore him. The crowd adores him.
Everyone always does.
But Requiem notices things other people don’t.
He notices the way Epic’s fingers curl slightly against the microphone.
The way his shoulders rise a touch too slowly with each breath.
The way he hasn’t blinked in almost fifteen seconds.
The way he’s standing just slightly off-balance, weight shifted imperceptibly to one side like standing upright requires active concentration.
“Thirty seconds!”
The stage manager’s voice crackles through the monitors backstage.
Aerie whoops dramatically and Ramses shoves him with enough force to nearly knock him sideways. Heaven mutters something exhausted beneath his breath. Testament finally moves, adjusting the cuffs of his gloves with mechanical precision.
Normal.
All of it normal.
Practiced.
Safe.
Epic doesn’t react.
Requiem’s stomach twists so hard it hurts.
No.
Not now.
Not here.
The arena darkens further as the intro visuals begin to play across the screens. Massive gothic imagery floods the stadium—cathedrals burning upside down, shattered halos rotating slowly in black water, children’s lullabies distorted beneath orchestral static.
The fans scream louder.
They think this is part of the show.
Requiem wishes it felt like one.
Epic finally blinks.
Slowly.
Like waking up underwater.
Then he smiles.
And Requiem hates how relieved he feels.
Because the smile works.
It always works.
It slides perfectly into place—soft at the corners, beautiful enough to make cameras linger too long. The audience erupts the second it appears on the giant screens.
No one notices the exhaustion beneath it.
No one notices how carefully constructed it is.
No one notices how much effort it takes for Epic to look effortless now.
Requiem does.
He always will.
The opening note hits.
Low.
Heavy.
Wrong.
His head snaps toward the speakers instantly.
Something drags beneath the music for half a second, subtle enough nobody else would catch it. A warped distortion. Like a record player grinding over cracked vinyl.
The sound makes the hairs rise along the back of his neck.
Technicians don’t react.
The others don’t react.
Only Requiem sees Epic inhale sharply.
Too sharply.
Then the stage explodes into motion.
Ramses launches forward first, brutal and commanding beneath the strobes. Aerie follows like wildfire given human form. Heaven moves with terrifying elegance, every line precise enough to carve through the dark.
Testament steps into the center last.
The entire stage bends around him.
It always does.
Epic misses his entrance by half a breath.
Nobody notices.
Except Requiem.
It’s microscopic.
A fraction of a second.
The kind of mistake no audience would ever catch.
But Requiem has spent years memorizing Epic unconsciously—the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his footsteps, the exact timing of every unconscious habit.
So when Epic falls half a beat behind himself—
Requiem feels it like panic beneath his skin.
The crowd screams louder.
Phones rise everywhere, tiny artificial stars filling the dark. Millions of people watching. Recording. Loving.
None of them understanding how fragile this suddenly feels.
Epic turns during the chorus.
Laughs on cue.
Sings flawlessly.
Moves flawlessly.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Untouchable.
And somehow that terrifies Requiem more.
Because Epic only becomes that perfect when something is wrong.
The lights flash violently across the stage.
White.
Gold.
Red.
For one fractured second the entire performance freezes into broken snapshots beneath the strobe effects—
And Epic stops looking at the crowd.
He’s looking somewhere else.
Somewhere distant.
Somewhere unreachable.
Requiem’s pulse stutters.
Then—
Epic looks directly at him.
The arena disappears.
The screaming disappears.
Everything disappears except those glowing crimson eyes locking onto his own with terrifying clarity across the stage.
Epic’s smile never changes.
But something underneath it does.
Something tired.
Something resigned.
Something that almost feels like goodbye.
Fear crashes through Requiem so suddenly it leaves him cold.
Then the moment breaks.
The music surges.
The choreography snaps back into place.
The crowd keeps screaming.
And Epic keeps performing like nothing happened.
But Requiem can’t breathe properly anymore.
Because deep down—
beneath the lights,
beneath the music,
beneath the perfection—
he knows.
He knows with the awful certainty of instinct.
Something is wrong with his baby brother.
And whatever it is—
Epic already decided to face it alone.
