𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘, the originals

two.

Chapter-Two
under the surface

❝WE PREFER TO CALL IT RESEARCH.❞
❝WAR.❞
❝I KNOW. IT'S A GIFT.❞

ACT-1, REBIRTH IN RUINS

          Everyone runs from something. Some run from love, others from pain, but no one is still━not really. Stillness is a lie we tell ourselves, a mirage painted over a sprinting soul. Fear, shame, regret━they’re not just shadows chasing at your heels. They’re hurricanes, tearing at your lungs, twisting your thoughts into knots so tight you choke on the weight of your own excuses. And what do we run to? Safety? No. There’s no such thing. Safety is a promise whispered by a thief who robs you blind the moment you pause. We don’t run to; we run away, always away, with hearts pounding like war drums, legs burning like bridges, minds fraying like the threads of an old, worn-out coat. Even the earth runs━spinning itself into endless circles, as though trying to outpace the universe’s slow, crushing indifference. The stars run too, fleeing from each other across the yawning void, scattering light that fades long before it reaches us. The air itself is running, slipping in and out of lungs, pushing itself toward something it can never touch.

Running isn’t just human; it’s existence. To stop is to fall, to fall is to break, and to break━well, that’s the end, isn’t it? No, everyone runs, because if you stop, if you stand still, the thing you’re running from will catch up. And what then? What then? That’s the question no one wants to answer. Not because they don’t know, but because they do. Because the thing we run from isn’t out there, chasing us down with teeth and claws. It’s inside, stitched into the fabric of our being, breathing down the back of our necks no matter how far or how fast we go. You can run to the ends of the earth, to the highest peaks where the air grows thin and unforgiving, to oceans so vast they swallow the horizon, but it doesn’t matter. The fear, the regret, the truth━they’ll hitch a ride in your chest, pumping through your veins with every beat of your cowardly heart. They’re not shadows; they’re roots, tangled deep in the soil of your soul, growing stronger the more you try to cut them loose. 

Some people run so hard they forget what they’re running from. They tell themselves they’re chasing a dream, a new beginning, a better version of themselves. But deep down, they know the truth. They’re sprinting in circles, a cruel marathon where the finish line is always the place they started, staring at the same gnawing emptiness they’ve been trying to escape.  And the worst part? Running becomes a kind of comfort. The burn in your legs, the pounding in your chest━it’s easier to bear than the weight of standing still. Movement feels like progress, even if it’s just the illusion of it. And so you run, and run, and run, until the thought of stopping terrifies you more than whatever’s giving chase. But nothing outruns the inevitable. The thing about running is, eventually, you fall. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s your own trembling knees giving out under the weight of all the things you’ve refused to face. And when you fall, the thing you’ve been running from will be there, waiting, patient as a predator. It doesn’t matter how fast you were. It always knew this moment would come. It always does.

Savannah Mitchell was running too. She had been running since the moment her hands first closed around the hilt of a knife and her life split in two: before and after. Running from the heaviness of it, the memory of blood slick and warm on her fingers, the sickening give of flesh, the gurgled gasp of a life ending because of her. It didn’t matter that it was self-defense. It didn’t matter that she’d had no choice. The blood didn’t care. It soaked into her soul, leaving a stain nothing could erase. Blood is blood, and hers was no longer clean.