SIN slammed the rolled up bill on the plate full of a better half of a brick of cocaine.

"Damn man you been hitting them lines hard," his friend jested.

SIN shot him a dirty look, narrowed eyes full of judgement as he cocked a brow, "what's that supposed to mean?".

"Nothing bro just-".

"Just nothing. You want all this blow to yourself you greedy bastard, what am I to you-the only thing standing between you and a line?!" SIN screamed, he rushed to his feet, flinging the plate across his bedroom and spilling powder everywhere, "you're just using me, just like the rest of them!" he erupted as he grabbed his friend roughly by the shoulders and shoved him out and slammed the door behind him.

Turning around he fell to his knees in front of a pile of that sweet white powder, shaky hands chopped lines as he done another; bitter tears streamed down his face as the buzzing started: an adrenaline rush of potent poison, an electric energy that left his nerve ending screaming for more stimulation.

But above all else it made him numb in a cruel world. He felt an outcast, unable to fit in and confused. Ever since Beelze was killed in front of him something changed, something inside of him died with his lover.

He felt alone. He couldn't trust his friends, he couldn't trust anyone. Love was just heartbreak waiting to happen, so he closed himself off and shut down-the only way to be safe.

He heard the wasp of knuckles on his door, "we've brought you a present!" it was the familiar husky voice of his father, he left his powder to slide on a pair of sunglasses to hide his puffy, bloodshot eyes.

Opening the door a gagged and bound prisoner of war was revealed, a form rebel identifiable by their rebellion insignia tattoo.

His father looked to him, expectant and exuberant, "wanna kill him with us?" he asked.

SIN silently shook his head.

"Oh c'mon, for Beelze?-".

As soon as Beelze's name left his lips he greeted his father with a slammed bedroom door, but this time he locked it-shutting the world out, he couldn't face the world. He didn't want to be around people, he couldn't trust them to not hurt him, and he didn't need anything but his cocaine.

"You're being preposterous SIN, you have to do this-it'll cheer you up I promise!".

"Fuck off!" he cried, his voice cracking from the raw strain of his yell.

He was no longer himself, simply a ghost haunting the world. He wasn't like the other rich demons he once would've said he was one of. He had seen an unfiltered, dark underbelly of darkness that had made him, forced him, to grow cold and suspicious of the world. He didn't see a world full of hope and opportunity anymore-only a broken world without a heart, one fuelled by cruelty, one that could only end in pain. He wondered what could drive them all to lose their compassion and become such monsters.

Nowhere was safe from the heartbreak that had leaked into every aspect of his existence. Whether it was having dinner with his family, railing lines with his so called friends or crying himself into a numb comatose state every night. Everything ended, everything hurt. Nowhere was free from pain, and he was his alone and a prisoner of his own heartbreak.

He grazed the scar of his suicide attempt against the roof of his mouth-his only way out. He felt overwhelmed, he couldn't take it anymore. He missed being numb, not even the cocaine could properly numb him like before. He just wanted Beelze back. All he can hear at night as the sound of his dying lover choking on his own blood, all he can smell is the rotting corpse bloated with maggots and flies no matter how much he obsessively cleaned.

Grabbing a switchblade still stained with white flakes of powder he brought it to his throat, willing himself to severe his jugular as he pressed deeper and deeper, the blood bubbling and then flowing in a steady trickle.

Whilst he slowly applied pressure the sun was going out in a blaze of glory, the sky was drenched blood red and the clouds were black and stormy.

Elsewhere Halone was in her animals form to draw on its strength, dragging executed prisoners of war onto a gloriously blazing funeral pyre, the smell of cooking flesh filling the encampment.

Alexis passed by on her way to the river for a drink of water, "you're sick," was all she could think to say as she watched the tangled mess of bodies burning and Halone's bloodied face.

Halone only snapped back as she wore the twisted grin of a maniac, "watch you tongue or you'll burn too,", while from afar a stranger watched the exchange.

Meanwhile the halls of parliament echoed with the counselling discussing the impending war. Deciding what their next move should be when they decide to make it.