Reverie had a lot on his mind. Something sinister was going on in the city he swore to protect, and he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Purpled was being sold, Tubbo was unconscious until further notice, and Ranboo was secretly working with the Syndicate. Somehow, Dream and Minotaur were at the center of all of it, but Reverie couldn't really figure out how or why. It was one of the worst feelings in the world. Reverie knew that something horrible was going to happen very soon. He didn't know how to stop it. He didn't know which direction it was coming from. He didn't know who was all involved, or how he would beat the people that he knew were involved. Shit was hitting the fan, and Reverie didn't know how to keep anyone clean, let alone himself.

Despite all of that, Reverie had to go back to Dream's apartment. It was his agreement with Dream that allowed him the freedom to go anywhere he wanted at night. He would always have to come back. If he didn't willingly come, Dream would force him to. It was easier for everyone if Reverie just came back from his own volition. No one would get hurt that way, emotionally or physically.

It was quiet when Reverie slipped inside. He made sure to stay near silent as he tugged off his shoes, leaving them in the mudroom. As he walked into the apartment, he pulled down his hood and ripped off his mask. He continued stripping down when he realized that it wasn't entirely noiseless. Tommy looked around to find that someone was breathing slowly and deeply on the couch. As his eyes adjusted, Tommy noticed that Drista was passed out on the couch. She had one arm on her chest, the other hanging off the couch, and her legs were about to tumble off the edge bringing her whole body to the floor. She was breathing through her mouth meaning she was completely out, the farthest into the realm of sleep as she could go. Tommy nearly rolled his eyes as he shoved her legs back onto the couch. He slid one hand beneath her knees, and was about to slide his other hand underneath her shoulders. He stopped when something caught his eye.

Sidekicks were prone for injuries. The only heroes that didn't have some sort of scar or bruise were the new ones. Tommy and Drista both had their fair share of life-time abrasions. This was different. Drista's arm that was hanging off the couch was covered in thin red lines that seemed irritated. It was too methodical to be an accident. It was like someone had carved a pattern in Drista's skin, and Tommy felt a tug in his gut that was his body's way of telling his brain they knew what the pattern meant. Tommy searched his memory as he trailed some of the scars with his finger. He knew what it meant, he just needed to remember. The cuts were recent, like the last few hours recent. The memory he was reaching for was also pretty recent. Tommy had seen that same symbol carved on Drista's arm in the previous few days.

A sound startled Tommy into looking away from the scars. Clay meandered into the room with a slow, lazy walk, a loose smile spreading across his face. Clay didn't acknowledge Tommy in any way, but the blonde boy could feel the string around his throat tighten. Tommy watched Clay intensely as the man moved around the kitchen area. Before Tommy could figure out what was happening, the smell of bitter coffee struck his nose like an arrow finding it's bullseye. Clay poured himself a mug, moving the pitcher up and down like he was a bartender putting on a show for drunkards. When Clay was done, he took a long sip of his coffee. He gently set the mug down on the counter. All his attention was now on Tommy, making the latter shiver involuntarily. "Go ahead. Ask about the scars. Ask me where they came from, what they mean."

Tommy didn't say anything. This was a trap in every sense of the word, but there wasn't an easy escape in sight. Tommy hated when Clay did this. Tommy had claustrophobia. He didn't like small, tight spaces. He didn't like feeling he was in a small, tight space, either. It wasn't just a fear of a physical place. Tommy was terrified of the string around his neck. He was terrified of Clay's mind games. He hated the way the apartment's walls seemed to close in around him, threatening without saying a word that they would crush him until he was a smoothie of blood and flattened flesh and fractured bone. Tommy tried to keep his breathing steady. These were his thoughts. He could control those. He couldn't let Clay have anything to use against him.

Clay shrugged half-heartedly. "I suppose it wouldn't have been the right question, anyways." Clay takes another sip of his coffee, his grip light on the mug. When he set the mug down, he raised an eyebrow at Tommy, his eyes darting to the hallway where Tommy's room was. "You should get some sleep, Toms. If you're really that concerned, those cuts are supposed to make Drista stronger. It won't have much, if any, lasting damage. She'll be fine."

"I don't give a damn about Drista. I sure as hell don't give a damn about what she's doing to be fucking stronger," Tommy spat, forcing himself to release Drista's arm. Even though nausea was threatening to force his stomach's contents up his throat, Tommy stood up to his full height. He was scared. More than that, actually. He knew that, and Clay knew that. Tommy could pretend, though. He could pretend that Clay didn't affect him. He could pretend that Drista meant nothing to him. It's what he's been doing his entire life. He could do it for a few more moments until Clay got bored of performing his mind games on Tommy.

Clay laughed. It didn't sound malicious. It sounded like Clay was amused with this whole situation. Tommy resisted the overwhelming urge to tremble as the noise rang in his ears. That wasn't good. "I'm sorry for assuming. I often forget that the two of you don't get along." Clay stopped speaking for a second, as if debating his words. Tommy knew better. Clay already had this entire scenario mapped out in his head. Clay was just building suspense. Clay shrugged before speaking again. "It's Drista's choice, after all. Not yours. She wanted to become something more."

That was bait if Tommy ever saw it. Clay was trying to rile him up, to elicit a reaction he already knew Tommy would give him. The best course of action would be to remain silent, or to reaffirm that he didn't care about Drista or her choices. Tommy really did try not to care. It would be better for everyone if he didn't care. He couldn't help himself from asking. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I thought you didn't care about Drista or her decisions?" Clay said, his tone shifting drastically as he looked Tommy up and down. The boy swallowed harshly. He stared at the ground like it would fall away to allow him to sink into the earth without any problems. He would rather be anywhere than here. He hated this. He hated these games that were designed for him to fail. He hated the way Clay got into his head, tearing it apart with the meticulous attention of a surgeon who had years of experience. Clay could play Tommy like a fiddle, and Tommy couldn't do a single thing to stop it. He hated himself almost as much as he wanted to hate Clay. The problem is that Tommy didn't hate Clay. He disliked a lot of the things the man did. He despised all the mind games and the string wrapped around his throat like a permanent noose, warning him that one wrong step would result in death. Tommy couldn't hate Clay. The man had some good qualities that Tommy clung to in order to rationalize everything. Clay saved Tommy from Banshee. Clay gave Tommy the opportunity to help people. It was because of Clay's careful attention that Tommy was able to gain some semblance of control over chaos. Clay was the person who introduced Tommy to a lot of other people that were important to him. It was by Clay's mercy that he and Drista were doing more than surviving. They were thriving in one of the best districts in a spacious apartment with food on the table every night. Tommy wished he could make up his mind. The conflicting emotions of love and hate were starting to wear him down until he could barely feel the pain anymore. If he didn't figure out his feelings, he might not continue having them. Not if Clay suspected that Tommy sometimes thought about rebellion or hatred.

Clay didn't say anything. He had won, and they both knew it. There wasn't anything more to be said after such a flawless victory. Tommy looked at Drista. She was still so far into sleep. She could wake up that very moment, and be none the wiser about how Tommy felt about her and how Clay would use that against the both of them. Tommy and Drista tried so hard not to care about each other. It worked for a few years. They could argue like cats and dogs. They made sure to amplify the dissonance until there was a point where they couldn't even remember why they were acting. They had been doing well. Tommy supposed that he couldn't stand it anymore. His close friendships with Purpled, Tubbo, and Ranboo had changed him. He wasn't sure if that was for the better considering everything happening now. Tommy was tired of hating others. He was tired of keeping people at a distance. He wanted to love and be loved. Clay was going to kill him, if he didn't kill the others first.

Clay poured the rest of his coffee in the sink. His back was to Tommy as he intently stared at the dark liquid spinning down the drain. Clay snapped his fingers after he washed his mug. He turned around to Tommy with a half-smile on his face. Almost like an afterthought, Clay said, "By the way, we have a mission later, just the two of us. Drista will stay here and rest. Take a nap, and get suited up when you wake up. Come find me after that."