The melancholy of boyfriend

The void was usually a place of confrontation, a neon-lit stage where the rhythm governed all of existence. But today, the rhythm had stopped. In its place stood a monolithic television screen, its glass surface humming with a static that felt heavier than any bass drop.

Gathered before it was a gallery of the surreal and the dangerous. Daddy Dearest stood with his arms crossed, his demonic purple skin glowing faintly, while Mommy Mearest leaned against him, her expression one of bored disdain. Girlfriend sat on her speakers, her eyes darting nervously toward Boyfriend, who stood at the front of the crowd, his signature cap pulled low over his eyes. Behind them, the others lingered—Pico gripped his Uzis with a restless twitch, Sky hovered with an obsessive gaze, and even the likes of Whitty and Agoti stood in the shadows, drawn by a force none of them could explain.

The screen flickered to life.

A grainy, warm-colored video began to play. It showed a living room that looked painfully ordinary. In the center of the rug sat a toddler with a shock of messy blue hair. He was clutching a plastic, bright red toy microphone, babbling nonsense rhythms into it with a wide, toothy grin.

"Ugh, is this a joke?" Daddy Dearest scoffed, rolling his eyes. "We’re being forced to watch home movies of the brat? I’ve seen enough of his face to last a thousand lifetimes."

Mommy Mearest chuckled, a sharp, cold sound. "He was just as annoying then as he is now, it seems. Look at those oversized shoes. Tacky even in the cradle."

"Oh my god, look at him!" Sky shrieked, her hands pressed to her cheeks. "He was so tiny! Look at his little cheeks! I want to kidnap him and take him back to my dimension right now!"

Girlfriend didn't join in the laughter. She watched the screen with a soft, melancholic smile, her heart aching at the sight of her brave, beep-boxing knight as a defenseless child. "He was sweet," she whispered, though her voice was drowned out by the others.

On the screen, the little boy giggled, tapping the toy microphone against his forehead. But the warmth of the video suddenly curdled. The lighting in the recorded room seemed to dim, turning a sickly, jaundiced yellow.

A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed through the television speakers—the sound of boots on hardwood.

"KEITH!"

The voice didn't just come from the TV; it felt like it shook the very foundation of the void. It was a thunderous, jagged roar, laced with a level of malice that made Pico’s hand fly to his holster and Whitty’s fuse spark instinctively.

Boyfriend flinched. It was a small movement, barely a hitch in his shoulders, but Girlfriend noticed. She reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve, but he was frozen.

The man who entered the frame was a blur of shadow and towering aggression. He didn't look like a person; he looked like a nightmare draped in a flannel shirt. Before the toddler could even drop his toy, a massive hand descended.

The beating that followed was not a cinematic struggle. It was a one-sided erasure. The screen jolted with every impact. The sound of the plastic microphone shattering against the floor was followed by the sickening, wet thud of flesh hitting flesh.

The gallery went silent. The air in the void seemed to vanish.

"Wait," Sky whispered, her obsessive smile vanishing into a mask of horror. "Stop. Why isn't anyone stopping him?"

The little boy was thrown against a wall like a ragdoll. He tried to crawl away, his tiny hands slipping on the polished floor, but he was dragged back by his ankles. The camera, seemingly knocked over during the struggle, filmed the scene from a low angle, capturing the relentless, rhythmic violence.

It lasted for what felt like hours. When the shadow finally stomped out of the room, leaving a trail of heavy breaths behind, the camera lingered on the rug.

The blue-haired child was curled into a ball. He was no longer recognizable as the happy toddler from moments ago. His face was a map of purple bruises and jagged cuts; his white shirt was soaked through with a deep, visceral crimson. He didn't scream. He couldn't. He just let out a low, broken whimper, his small body shaking with a trauma too large for a heart that young to hold.

"Jesus..." Pico muttered, his voice uncharacteristically thin. He looked away, his grip on his guns tightening until his knuckles turned white. He had seen war, he had seen schoolyard massacres, but this—this was a betrayal of the most basic form of protection.

Girlfriend’s eyes were no longer red with demonic energy; they were shimmering with tears of pure, unadulterated rage. Her hair began to float, the speakers beneath her vibrating with a low, dangerous hum. "I'll kill them," she hissed, her voice distorted. "I will find whatever hell they are in and I will tear them apart."

Even Daddy Dearest looked shaken. His bravado had evaporated, replaced by a grim, stony silence. He looked at the broken child on the screen, then looked at the back of the boy standing before them. For the first time, the Demon King didn't see a nuisance or a rival. He saw a survivor of a war he hadn't known was being fought.

"I... I didn't know," Mommy Mearest said softly, her hand trembling as she reached for her husband’s arm.

The screen didn't stop there. It began to fast-forward, a montage of the years that followed.

It showed a seven-year-old Boyfriend sitting in a dark closet, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing while muffled shouting happened behind the door. It showed a twelve-year-old Boyfriend standing in front of a mirror, clumsily taping a bandage over a cracked rib, his face a mask of stone.

In every frame, the light in his eyes was fading. The vibrant, bubbly child was being replaced by a hollow shell. He didn't speak. He didn't cry anymore. He just existed in the spaces between the blows.

The montage slowed down as it reached his teenage years. He was shown sitting on a curb, a beat-up cap pulled over his eyes, clutching a cheap, second-hand microphone. He was rapping to himself, the words coming out in rhythmic beeps and boops—a language he had created because the world had taught him that real words only brought pain.

In those clips, the "Boyfriend" they knew began to take shape, but the context was devastating. The "beep" wasn't a quirk. It was a shield. It was a wall he had built to keep the screams inside.

The screen finally went black, leaving the group in a heavy, suffocating darkness.

Sky was sobbing openly now, her head buried in her hands. Sarvente, who had been watching from the back, was clutching her cross, her eyes closed in a silent, grieving prayer. Even the most chaotic of his former opponents—the ones who had tried to kill him or trap him in video games—stood in a funereal silence.

Girlfriend stepped forward. She didn't care about the screen anymore. She walked up to Boyfriend and wrapped her arms around him from behind, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his jacket. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that alone."

Boyfriend didn't move for a long time. He remained as still as a statue, staring at the blank screen that had just laid his soul bare to the people he fought every day.

Then, slowly, he raised his hand. He didn't use words. He didn't beep. He simply placed his hand over Girlfriend’s, squeezing it gently.

Pico walked up to his side, leaning his shoulder against Boyfriend’s in a silent show of solidarity. "Hey," the ginger-haired mercenary said, his voice gruff. "If they're still out there... you just give me the word. I've got plenty of ammo."

Daddy Dearest cleared his throat. The sound was awkward, lacking its usual theatricality. He stepped closer, looking down at the boy who had beaten him time and time again.

"You're a stubborn little pest," Dearest said, his voice low. "But I suppose... I suppose I understand now why you never back down from a fight. You've already survived the worst one."

Boyfriend finally turned around. His eyes were still the same deep blue, but for the first time, the others saw the exhaustion behind them. He looked at the gathered crowd—his enemies, his rivals, his friends—and he gave a small, tired nod.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his microphone. He tapped it twice, the sound echoing through the void.

"Beep," he said softly.

It wasn't a challenge this time. It wasn't a taunt. It was a statement. He was still here. The light had been dimmed, the spirit had been bruised, and the blood had been spilled, but he was still standing on the stage.

And as Girlfriend held him tight, and even the Demon King stood guard, it was clear that he would never have to fight in that silence again.