Breathing.

It seemed quite simple at first, striding into the Crafted tower after years of simply disappearing from the organization. He wasn't unwelcome to visiting from time to time, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure if his presence was even wanted. Regardless, he was given no choice in the matter, being dragged by none other than the traitor himself, Mitchell Hughes, into a party of victory.

"Oh, Brice!" Jordan had been among the first to notice the artist's visitation. Behind his red and black frames, his crystal eyes flashed happiness, along with his lips curved up into a wide smile. Brice simply nodded, giving him a firm hand shake.

"Hello, Mr. Maron," the blond would greet monotonously.

"Don't call me that, doll!" Jordan exclaims in a slur, rolling his eyes. A glass of red wine lazily spills from his fingers onto the white, shaggy carpeting, causing Brice to hold back a scowl of disgust. "You're always so tense, kid! I'm not your superior anymore, and hell, I'm fine with you calling me 'Jordan' anytime of day, organization or not! Lighten up!"

"Jordan, I think that's enough," another male interrupts, clearing his throat. Brice doesn't immediately recognize him, but he somehow recalls his voice, as well as his amulet, somewhere deep within his hazy memory. AntVenom?

"Come on Taylor, I was just joking!" Jordan would hiccup profusely, leaning against the older. Yup, definitely AntVenom.

Taylor takes a brief glance at Brice, muttering a pitiful 'sorry' before tugging his friend along nearest to the balcony to get fresh air. He can't help but chuckle: the stoic Jordan he once knew was heavily intoxicated from wine, out of all the plentiful types of alcohol aligned at the bar. He struck him as a vodka kind of guy, but then again, who was he to judge? He could barely down a drink without his face feeling flushed and icky.

Regardless, the short encounter didn't deter him from finding a seat on the couch, anxiously swirling a wine glass filled halfway with lite beer. It looked like some sort of bubbly, white wine nonetheless — he was trying to match with the hopelessly drunk 'heroes' moping around hideously on the floor, wine glasses and all. He doesn't understand his purpose on even attending in the first place. Hell, he still couldn't believe he received a personal visit from Adam, as well as a handwritten invitation, about the event. A small sigh of restlessness escapes his chapped lips as he attempts to take a sip of his drink.

It's bitter tasting and sour despite being claimed as lite, having the equivalence to a dirty gym sock had excreted itself down his throat. It burns like hell, almost like those familiar flames that drowned out his screams those faithful years ago. Brice attempts not to appear so childish, keeping a blank slate on his face in case anyone else decides to take notice of him. Luckily, no one does.

Bored, he sets the concoction onto the coffee table and scans the room. There's a plethora of familiar faces, some unfamiliar as well, chatting. His heart aches a little as the realization of being alone finally settles in. Despite being in a room brimming with life, he couldn't have felt more isolated.

Adam, Ty, and Jason all stood together near the bar, radiant smiles all plastered on their faces. Jason didn't have his space suit on for once, giving Brice the opportunity to get a glance at his overall appearance — something he rarely got to do. He's nothing interesting, really, just another blank slate with some horrid backstory that isn't worth bragging about. You'd expect something more from the mysterious 'space man' the media buzzed about, but he looks to be just a regular adult (more so teenager, he has quite the babyface).

Adam and Ty are the same as usual, bantering about some frivolous topic that both have grown blasé about. Jason's giggling like a teenage girl, disgustingly happy compared to his state years earlier. It's frightening how the trio's dynamic work — they're like a well-oiled machine. Especially in battle, they're not a force to be reckoned with.

More towards the corner stood Tyler and Kyle, leaned against the wall with color-coordinated outfits and red solo cups. Their romance is somewhat new; Brice had read about it recently on some celebrity gossip magazine. The two were always somewhat close, sickeningly to say the least. It was about time they'd tie the knot.

"There's the man of the hour!" a voice, to which Brice recognizes as Mitch's, exclaims almost too ecstatically as if he was rehearsing it. He quickly plops down next to Brice on the leather couch, placing a friendly arm around his shoulder. Almost too exaggerated, Brice rolls his eyes.

"What's up, Mitch?" Brice replies, swallowing down his salvia.

"You seem a bit too lonely over here, come join the party," he suggests, mocha brown eyes softening and throwing in a smile that lightens up the atmosphere. It almost makes Brice's heart skip a beat. Emphasis on the almost.

"I don't get it," the blond frowns, a pang of jealousy rippling through his heart, "you seem to fit in so easily."

It was truly unfair. Mitch had somehow managed to betray everyone who worked under the Crafted alias, but somehow managed to apologize to all of them consecutively, followed by steady relationships? Brice formally resigned on good terms and he could barely get through a handshake without receiving some sort of judgmental glare! Possibly, it could've been his anxiety hazing over his memory, but it's frightening nonetheless.

"Here, I'll introduce you to someone new!" Mitch exclaims, dragging him to who-knows-where at this point because, fuck, he's always been unpredictable.

Through the crowds they venture, up the winding staircase onto the second floor. It's not as densely populated as the first, but still brimming with activity. Brice could've sworn they'd just brushed past a glaring Shelby and Dawn, which truly sent shivers down the blond's spine. Were his eyes always uncooperative by consistently playing tricks on him, or did that actually happen?

"Sorcerer Supreme!" Mitch hollers through the noise as he comes to an abrupt stop. "Man of the hour!"

"Would you stop calling me that stupid nickname?" a voice, eerily similar to Taylor's, groans.

"It's cute! Really makes you sound important," Mitch grins from ear to ear, pulling the 'Sorcerer Supreme' from the crowd.