Persona: Breakout

The Garden's Light, Part 2

(Scene 1)
Third Person POV

Morning light crept through Michael's window, touching his face with gentle warmth. His eyes snapped open, heart racing in his chest. The ceiling above looked normal now - just white paint, no twisting shadows or impossible angles. He sat up slowly, muscles aching like he'd run for miles. His black jacket and purple shirt felt stiff, crusty with something he didn't want to think about. "Just a dream," he whispered to the empty room. "It had to be a dream." But his hands shook as he unbuttoned the jacket, letting it fall onto white sheets. The purple shirt underneath was whole, no tears or rips showing. That meant nothing had happened, right? He pulled the shirt over his head, holding his breath.

Red lines crisscrossed his chest and stomach. Not bleeding wounds anymore, but scars - fresh and pink, raised slightly above his skin. They ran in perfect parallel lines, exactly where the creature's claws had torn into him. Michael traced one with trembling fingers, feeling the smooth ridge of healed tissue. His throat went tight as panic clawed up from his stomach.
"It was real," he said to the quiet room. "All of it was real. The garden, the doors, that thing in Gabriel's room..." His thoughts spun faster and faster. How was he alive? He remembered bleeding out in the hallway, remembered finding that contract in the first aid kit. After that, nothing but darkness and distant music. He should be dead. The wounds had been deep enough to kill him ten times over. So how was he sitting here now, with nothing but scars to show for it?

"Michael!" Sarah's voice drifted up from downstairs, cheerful and normal. "Better hurry up! Bus will be here soon, and breakfast is getting cold!" Michael's hands clenched into fists. How could everything be so normal? His blood had been all over the hallway last night. Had Sarah not seen it? Had it vanished like everything else? The morning light suddenly felt too bright, too harsh against his eyes. His head throbbed with exhaustion - he couldn't have slept more than an hour or two. He needed to calm down. Think about something else. Anything else. His eyes landed on his old backpack, slumped in the corner where he'd dropped it yesterday. The black canvas was worn thin in places, showing grey underneath. White thread stuck out where he'd sewn up tears. Patches covered most of the front pocket - bands Gabriel had liked, anime characters, random designs picked up at conventions. The straps were fraying at the edges, but the buckles still worked. Michael pulled his purple shirt back on, wincing as the fabric brushed against new scars. His black jacket followed, buttons clicking into place one by one. The familiar weight settled on his shoulders, armor against the world. He grabbed the backpack and headed downstairs, each step careful and quiet. The dining room table held plates of scrambled eggs and toast, steam rising in lazy curls. Sarah had even cut up fruit, arranged in rainbow arcs across white china. His stomach turned at the sight of food.

"I'll eat later," he said, voice rough. "Don't want to miss the bus." Sarah frowned, green scarf bright against her dark skin. "You sure? You need-" Michael hugged her tight, cutting off her words. She smelled like coffee and strawberry shampoo, real and solid and normal. Then he was out the door, letting it click shut behind him. The school bus waited at the corner, yellow paint gleaming in morning sun. Black letters spelled out "Ryotori District" along the side, slightly faded. The doors folded open with a hiss of hydraulics, rubber steps worn smooth by countless feet. Michael climbed aboard, keeping his eyes down. The bus hummed beneath him, engine idling. He found an empty seat halfway back, sliding in next to the window.

Metal groaned as the bus pulled away from the curb. Houses slid past outside - white walls, green lawns, trees reaching toward blue sky. The engine's rumble vibrated through the seat, almost soothing. Michael's eyes grew heavy as exhaustion pulled at him. His thoughts drifted backward, falling into memory like sinking into deep water.

He was thirteen again, sitting next to Gabriel on their old house's roof. Shingles pressed rough against his legs. Stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt. His voice shook as he told Gabriel about that day - about the person he'd seen at the market, about the hole in their head that no one else could see, about the way people had looked at him when he tried to get help. "Am I crazy?" The words came out broken, scared. Gabriel cleared his throat, turning to face Michael fully. His green eyes were serious, cold almost. "Do you believe you're crazy? Do you believe your eyes tell the truth or deceive you?" "I believe what I saw," Michael said, voice stronger. "That person was real. I know it." "Then you're not crazy." Gabriel's voice was firm. "Do you believe ghosts exist in our world? The true remains of those who die?" "Yes." "Do you believe in the afterlife?" Michael shook his head. "No. I believe ghosts are real, but no ghost of a once living being ever leaves their home. They always remain. There is no afterlife. The ghosts always remain until they reincarnate back into life."