The rain over Central fell without mercy.
It soaked the stone streets, muted the voices of passersby, and painted the sky in shades of mourning. Somewhere deeper in the city, beneath official halls and military silence, the sound of metal boots echoed along a narrow corridor.
Roy Mustang stood at the far end of it, unmoving.
A photograph trembled in his gloved fingers. The corners were worn. The ink slightly faded. In the image, a man stood with his arm around his wife, their little daughter perched on his shoulder, giggling mid-snap.
Maes Hughes.
Roy's closest friend. His shield. His reminder that the world wasn't always cruel.
Now dead.
Murdered.
The funeral had taken place three days ago.
Roy hadn't spoken during it—not beyond the sharp, efficient lines required by military etiquette. He had stood beside Riza Hawkeye, barely blinking, barely breathing.
But the one who made his hands clench, the one who haunted his dreams, was a child.
Elicia Hughes had sobbed into her mother's coat, her small fists pounding against the air as they lowered the casket.
"Why are they burying Daddy?" she had cried out. "He still has work to do!"
The sound had sliced through Roy's chest like a blade.
She didn't understand.
She shouldn't have to.
Now, standing in the hallway where Hughes had once cornered him with photos and bad jokes, Roy felt everything collapse inside.
He wasn't angry.
Not yet.
He was hollow.
Until a whisper found him.
It didn't come from a voice. Not one he could hear.
It came from the absence.
The Shadow had followed grief before, but this was something deeper—an emotional crater carved by loyalty betrayed.
It didn't try to possess Mustang.
It didn't dare.
But it fed, quietly, at the edges.
Riza appeared behind him.
"Colonel," she said gently, eyes soft. "You've been here for hours."
"I know."
"Would you like to go home?"
He didn't look at her.
"No," he said quietly. "I need to remember what this feels like."
Elsewhere, Aeon stood under a covered awning, watching the city bleed rain into its gutters.
He had not interfered with Hughes' death. He had been too far away. Too removed. Too… afraid.
And that feeling returned now, stronger than before.
Regret.
He watched Roy Mustang from a distance as the man exited the building later that evening, drenched but upright, every step measured.
The divine in Aeon knew the danger of that kind of restraint.
It was the kind that boiled.