Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Dory spent years in the nerveglade, a desolate place where time seemed to lose its meaning, and his pain had no release. The nerveglade was a forest of shadows and misery, a place where he could lose himself completely, where the agony in his soul matched the chaos around him. The world had forgotten about him, and he had allowed it. No one came here. No one cared.

And so, from midnight to midnight, John drifted through a haze of self-destruction. He drank until the world blurred, hoping it would numb the ache inside him. He did reckless, dangerous things—walking through storms, challenging the most dangerous creatures in the area, and picking fights with anyone foolish enough to cross his path.

But nothing would make him feel alive again.

He wanted to die, that much was clear. The thought gnawed at him constantly, a whisper in the back of his mind telling him that maybe, just maybe, this was the only way to escape the torment. He had failed. His family was gone. His brothers didn’t need him. He wasn’t their protector anymore. He wasn’t even their brother in the way he wanted to be. He was a ghost, haunting his own life.

One night, in a haze of despair and anger, John decided he would take things too far. He set up an explosion—a reckless, ill-conceived plan meant to end his suffering once and for all. The fire, the explosion, the blinding, searing pain—it consumed him in an instant.

But death didn’t come.

Instead, John was left broken. His right arm, his leg, and his ears were torn away, shredded by the blast. The physical pain was a small fraction of the agony that surged within him, the realization that he was still alive, that he couldn’t even escape through destruction.

His body was scarred beyond recognition. His right side was missing, and his left side was burned, charred, and disfigured, the skin permanently scarred, a grotesque reminder of his failed attempt to end it all. The left half of his face was never the same. The pain was constant, and though the world around him was blurred by his lack of sight, he knew what he had done to himself.

He couldn’t feel his right arm or leg anymore. The right side of him was just gone. His right ear was also lost, and he could only hear faint, muffled rigging sounds from his left side. But the pain? That stayed. It was a constant companion. It reminded him of every failure, every regret, every moment he’d wished for death but couldn’t bring himself to follow through.

Yet, through the pain, through the torment and self-loathing, one thought kept him tethered to life. His brothers. His family. They hadn’t wanted him, no. They hadn’t needed him in the way he had hoped. But they were his family. They had shared a life together. And somewhere, deep down in his fractured, battered heart, he knew they still loved him, even if they couldn’t be there to save him.

He couldn’t escape that truth. The thought of them—the memory of his younger brothers, laughing, struggling, growing—kept him from fully surrendering. Every time he thought of ending it all, the image of them, their faces as children, their need for him, kept him from following through.

But the thought didn’t heal him. It didn’t fix the shattered parts of him that needed fixing. It just kept him from completely sinking into the abyss. He was left in that endless limbo, caught between wanting to die and being unwilling to truly give up on them.

The nerveglade became his prison and his punishment. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t truly living either. The days blurred together, and he had no one to turn to, no one to help him heal. The scars, both physical and emotional, were all-consuming, and no amount of drinking or reckless action could erase them. They were a part of him, permanently engraved into his being, like the burns on his left side, like the missing parts of him.

John spent those years alone, feeling the weight of his decisions with every step. He was alive, but he wasn’t living. He had ruined himself, and though he clung to the thought of his brothers, there was no escaping the fact that he had chosen this path for himself. He had tried to protect them, but in the end, it was him who had needed saving.

And so, he remained, haunted by the past and crippled by the present, a man broken beyond repair. The world outside the nerveglade carried on, but John was locked in his own prison—forever marked by his choices, his pain, and the memory of a family he had once loved and lost.

The only reason John Dory was alive was because of her.

Rhonda was an unlikely savior—an Armadillo Bus, beige and red striped, whose tough exoskeleton gleamed in the dim moonlight as she moved with an almost eerie grace. She wasn’t human, nor even a creature John could relate to, but in the moment of his despair, she had been his lifeline. She wasn’t from the nerveglade, nor was she familiar with the kind of pain he carried. She was just a stranger, a wandering soul in the vast, indifferent world. But sometimes, it was the most unexpected sources that offered salvation.

Rhonda had found him amidst the wreckage of his self-inflicted destruction, a broken, bleeding figure lying on the scorched earth, his body barely clinging to life. She was a bus, not built for saving, but when she saw him, a faint flicker of something—something almost maternal—stirred within her. Despite her rugged exterior, there was a warmth in her core, a spark of compassion.

She’d pulled him into her spacious interior, her seats rearranged to provide comfort where there had been none. Without hesitation, she’d powered up, navigating through the forest with careful precision, knowing that every minute counted. John could barely stay conscious, but he felt the low hum of her engines and the soft vibrations that calmed him in the midst of his agony. The pain was almost unbearable, but there was something about Rhonda’s presence that steadied him, even as his world faded into a blur.

She didn’t speak, of course—she wasn’t capable of human words—but she communicated through subtle gestures. She navigated the winding paths of the nerveglade with precision, like a mother guiding her child through a storm. Her every movement was purposeful, and somehow, John could feel the urgency in her actions, as if she knew he was hanging by the thinnest thread of life.

For what felt like hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness, but when he came to, he found himself in the heart of the nearest city, his body frail and broken but still alive. The moment Rhonda had dropped him off at the emergency care center, she didn’t wait for thanks. She simply turned and rolled off, disappearing into the distance as mysteriously as she had come.

John was left to face the reality of his injuries, his shattered body, and the quiet sense of gratitude he could never quite articulate. He had lost so much—his family, his limbs, his past—but somehow, by the grace of an unlikely savior, he had another chance. A chance he never thought he deserved.

The emergency care team worked tirelessly on him, performing surgeries, stabilizing his frail body, but there was no miracle. His right arm, leg, and ears were gone—nothing could replace them. The left side of his body was burned beyond recognition, the scars a permanent reminder of the man he had tried to leave behind. They told him he was lucky to be alive.

But in his heart, John knew it wasn’t luck. It was Rhonda. She had saved him—not just from the explosion, but from the darkness inside him that threatened to consume him entirely. Without her, he would have died in that nerveglade, just another casualty of his own despair.

John never expected to see her again.

After waking up in the emergency care center, his body broken beyond repair, he had assumed Rhonda was just another ghost in his life—someone who had come, done their part, and left without looking back. He wasn’t used to people—or anything—sticking around. Not after everything.

But Rhonda wasn’t like anyone else.

5 months after the explosion, as John sat in his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the phantom pain where his arm and leg used to be, he heard a low, familiar hum outside the clinic. At first, he thought he was imagining things—hallucinating, maybe. His mind played cruel tricks on him sometimes. But when he turned his head toward the window, there she was.

Rhonda.

The beige-and-red-striped Armadillo Bus stood parked outside, her doors open in a silent invitation. And when John’s blurry vision finally focused, he saw something that made his throat tighten.

His stuff.

Or what was left of it, anyway.

His old, tattered satchel. His worn-out jacket, now singed from the explosion. Even the few, barely recognizable personal belongings he had abandoned in the nerveglade—all stacked neatly inside her. She had gone back. She had retrieved them.

For him.

The realization hit him harder than he expected. No one had ever done something like that for him before. Not without being asked. Not without expecting something in return.

John swallowed thickly, his throat dry. He wasn’t sure what to say. What could he say?

Slowly, with great effort, he shifted to the edge of the bed. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. With only one arm and one leg, moving was harder than he ever imagined, but the thought of Rhonda waiting for him outside, patiently, was enough to make him push through.

One of the nurses rushed over to stop him. “You shouldn’t be moving yet—”

“I need to go outside,” John gritted out, his voice rough, the words feeling foreign after so much silence.

The nurse hesitated, but eventually, she sighed and helped him into the borrowed wheelchair. The moment he was rolled out of the clinic’s doors, Rhonda’s engine purred, like she had been waiting for him this whole time.

John stared at her for a long moment, his one hand gripping the armrest of the wheelchair.

“You came back,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Rhonda didn’t respond, of course. She wasn’t built for words. But she lowered herself slightly, like a bow—like an acknowledgment.

John felt something shift in his chest.

For the first time in years, someone—something—had come back for him.

And that meant more than he could ever put into words.

John exhaled sharply, staring at Rhonda, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name. Gratitude? Shock? Maybe both. Maybe more. He had spent years convincing himself that no one would ever come back for him. That once people—or life itself—moved on, they stayed gone.

But Rhonda was here.

And she had gone out of her way to bring back the things he had abandoned. His past, in a way. The last, tattered pieces of the man he used to be.

He swallowed hard, his throat raw. His body ached in ways he had never known before. The burns pulled at his skin, the missing limbs a constant, gnawing absence. And yet, despite it all, despite the weight of everything he had lost, there was something grounding about seeing her again.

The nurse beside him shifted awkwardly. “Do you… know her?” she asked, glancing at Rhonda like she wasn’t sure wheather to be amazed or concerned.

John huffed out a quiet, almost humorless chuckle. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Rhonda opened her doors, her interior warm and familiar. She wasn’t just a machine—she had chosen to come back. Chosen to retrieve his things. Chosen to wait for him.

And John didn’t know why.

With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself forward, gripping the wheel of his chair, but he barely made it an inch before Rhonda reacted. With a smooth, careful movement, she extended a small ramp, lowering herself just enough for him to roll inside with ease.

John hesitated.

He had been alone for so long. Even before he physically lost parts of himself, he had already been missing something.

Now, though?

He wasn’t sure what this meant.

But Rhonda had come back. And that, more than anything, was enough to make him move.

With one last glance at the clinic behind him—the place that had kept him alive but never felt like anything more than a waiting room between life and death—John wheeled himself inside.

The door shut behind him with a soft hiss.

John knew that leaving the clinic before they officially discharged him was reckless. Stupid, even. His body was barely holding itself together—stitched, stapled, and scarred, with more metal rods and bandages than he cared to count. He still had medication running through his veins, a perfusion bag strapped to his side like some last-ditch attempt to keep him alive. The nurses had warned him that he wasn’t stable enough to leave. That he needed rest. Monitoring.

But deep down, he didn’t care.

Living or dying didn’t feel that different to him anymore.

He wasn’t afraid of dying. He had tried before, hadn’t he? And even then, he hadn’t been able to follow through properly. Maybe that was fate’s way of laughing at him, keeping him alive just long enough to see how much further he could fall.

But Rhonda had come back.

And now, sitting inside her warm, humming interior, feeling the gentle vibrations of her engine beneath him, John let out a slow breath. He liked to think it would be okay. That walking—or, well, rolling—away from that clinic wouldn’t immediately send him to an early grave. He liked to think that, despite everything, he still had something left to hold onto.

Maybe it was a lie.

But it was a lie he was willing to believe, at least for now.

Rhonda didn’t move right away. She gave him time, as if she understood that he wasn’t just leaving a hospital. He was leaving behind whatever fragile, broken part of himself had still been holding onto the idea of healing.

John exhaled sharply, running his one remaining hand through his hair. His fingers skimmed over the uneven edges of burned skin at his temple, a sharp contrast to the way he used to be. His reflection, if he ever bothered to look, wasn’t him anymore. Just a hollowed-out version of a man who used to be something.

Finally, he glanced at Rhonda’s dashboard. “You don’t have to wait for me, y’know.” His voice was hoarse, worn down from disuse. “You already saved me once.”

Rhonda didn’t respond with words, of course. But the way her headlights flickered, the way her engine gave a soft, patient rumble—it was like she was saying, I know.

And yet, she stayed.

John let out a quiet, almost breathless laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Alright,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the wheel of his chair. “Let’s get outta here.”

With that, Rhonda’s engine purred to life, and for the first time in what felt like forever, John Dory left the past behind and let the road take him somewhere new.

Chapter Text

It took John years before he could look into a mirror again.

Seeing the burns in passing—on his hands, the edge of his jaw, the twisted skin on his shoulder—was one thing. He could pretend it was just a part of him now, something to be ignored, like the phantom feeling of his missing arm and leg. But seeing all of it, the full image of what he had become… that was something else entirely.

Rhonda never forced him. She never had mirrors inside her, never made him confront what he wasn’t ready to see. She let him heal in his own way, in his own time. And for years, John chose to avoid his reflection altogether. He didn’t need to see it to know what he looked like. The pitying stares, the hushed voices of those who saw him in passing—those were enough. He could feel the scars every time he touched his own skin. That was enough.

Or at least, he told himself it was.

But the day finally came. A quiet, unremarkable evening after years of wandering, of drifting with no real destination. The two of them had stopped in a small town, one of the few places that didn’t immediately turn him away. The motel room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old wood and dust. And there, above the sink, was a mirror.

John knew it was there before he even entered the room. He could feel it, waiting.

For a long time, he just stood there, staring at the floor, fingers curled tightly around the wheels of his chair. His heart pounded against his ribs, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he looked like. He had lived in this body for years. What difference did it make?

And yet, when he finally lifted his head, when his gaze met his reflection for the first time in years—

His breath caught.

He had thought he was prepared. He wasn’t.

The left side of his face was nearly unrecognizable, burned and warped, the skin pulled too tight in some places, jagged in others. His right side, though less damaged, was still a far cry from the man he used to be. His missing ear made his head look uneven, off-balance. His eye on the burned side was duller, the skin around it twisted from the heat that had nearly taken his life. Scars ran down his neck, his chest, disappearing beneath his worn-out shirt.

And then there was the emptiness. The absence of things that should have been there—his right arm, his right leg. Gone.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

For a long time, he just looked.

This was him now.

This was what was left.

His fingers twitched against his knee, a phantom instinct to reach up, to touch the face in the mirror. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he could handle feeling the ruined skin beneath his fingertips.

A shaky breath left him, unsteady. He had survived the fire, survived himself. He had survived the nerveglade, the explosion, the years of drinking himself into oblivion. And yet, looking into this mirror—truly seeing himself—felt like the hardest thing he had ever done.

For years, he had been running from this moment.

And now that it was here, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

John couldn’t stop the tears.

They came suddenly, violently—hot and unrelenting, spilling down his scarred cheeks before he could even think to hold them back. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at the ruined face in the mirror.

This is me.

The thought alone made his stomach churn.

His vision blurred, his throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, a wave of nausea crashed over him. He barely had time to turn his chair before he lurched forward, dry-heaving into the motel sink. His body convulsed, rejecting itself, as if seeing his own reflection had poisoned him from the inside out.

He gripped the edges of the sink with his one remaining hand, his knuckles white. His head swam, the sour taste of bile burning his throat. He spat, coughed, tried to steady himself, but it was useless. He felt sick.

Like a monster.

The thought hit him harder than he expected.

He had seen monsters before. He had fought them, run from them, watched them tear apart everything he had ever loved. And now, as he looked at himself, he realized—he wasn’t any different. If he saw himself on the street, if he had been the John from before, he would have recoiled. Avoided eye contact. Kept walking.

The John from before wouldn’t have seen a man.

He would have seen a thing.

A choked sob tore from his throat, and he slammed his fist against the sink, the pain grounding him, but not enough to chase away the self-hatred clawing at his insides.

He had survived, but at what cost?

A soft, familiar hum rumbled from outside.

Rhonda.

She was still there. Still waiting. Still here.

John let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against the edge of the sink. He wished she could tell him why. Why she had saved him. Why she had stayed. Why, after everything, she still looked at him like he was someone instead of something broken beyond repair.

But Rhonda wasn’t built for words.

She didn’t need to be.

Because even now, even when John felt like a monster, she hadn’t left.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

John spent ten years like this.

Ten years of wandering. Of waking up every morning and forcing himself to keep going, even when he wasn’t sure why. Ten years of looking at his empty sleeve and the metal where his leg used to be and feeling nothing. He had made peace with his missing limbs long ago. They were gone. That was it. Nothing he did would ever bring them back, and there was no point in wasting energy mourning them.

But his face?

That was different.

He never made peace with his face.

It didn’t matter how many years passed. It didn’t matter that the pain had dulled, that the raw, fresh burns had long since faded into deep, permanent scars. Every time he caught his reflection—whether it was in a window, a puddle, or a passing glance at a mirror—his stomach twisted the same way it had that night in the motel. He could go weeks without looking. Months, if he was careful. But eventually, it always happened.

And every time, he felt the same overwhelming disgust.

He could accept that he had lost his arm. His leg. His ear.

But his face?

His face was supposed to be him. It was supposed to be what people recognized, what made him John Dory. But that man was gone. The person who stared back at him in the mirror wasn’t someone he knew. It wasn’t someone he wanted to know.

So he avoided it.

For ten years, he kept his head down. He never stayed anywhere long. He didn’t make friends. He didn’t let people look too closely. He let his hair grow long enough to cover part of the scars. He stopped caring about clothes, about how he looked, about anything that might make him stand out. It was easier that way.

Rhonda never said anything. She never judged. Never pitied. Never forced him to look when he wasn’t ready.

But she stayed.

Through every bad night, through every moment he wished he had died in that explosion, through every drunken spiral and every morning after—she was still there.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had to be.

---------------------------------------------

It happened by accident.

John had been cleaning out Rhonda, sorting through the clutter that had built up over the years—old maps, broken tools, empty bottles from nights he didn’t want to remember. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just clearing space, keeping his hands busy.

And then he found it.

An old jacket, crumpled and forgotten at the bottom of a storage compartment. The moment his fingers brushed against the fabric, he froze.

It was his.

Or at least, it had been.

Torn by the explosion, stained with blood—his blood—matted and stiff from years of neglect. The dark fabric was scorched in places, burned just like the skin beneath it. It smelled of smoke, of old memories buried too deep to dig up without pain.

John swallowed hard, gripping the worn material tighter. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

That was how he ended up at the clothes shop.

It had been years since he had even thought about buying something new. What was the point? But now, standing in front of a store that catered to trolls his size, he felt something he couldn’t quite name. Nostalgia? Regret? Maybe just the simple need to feel like himself again.

Thankfully, it was a rock troll shop.

He didn’t think he could handle pop trolls. The bright, blinding colors, the way everything about them screamed for attention—Hey! Look at me!

No.

John didn’t want to be looked at.

The rock troll store was quieter, darker. The clothing was rough, practical, muted in color. It was a place where no one would ask questions, where no one would care who he was or what had happened to him.

That was exactly what he needed.

As he rolled inside, his one hand tightening around the wheels of his chair, he felt the weight of years pressing down on him. He wasn’t here for much. Just a jacket. Something familiar. Something his.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it didn’t matter.

But for the first time in twenty years, John Dory wanted something for himself.

John never thought trying on clothes would mean anything.

It was just fabric. Just a jacket. Just something to replace what he had lost.

But standing in front of the fitting room mirror, adjusting the heavy material over his shoulders, he felt… different.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not a monster, either.

The jacket fit well—sturdy, dark, with a high collar that brushed against the side of his neck. It felt solid, real, like it belonged to him. Like he belonged in it.

For the first time in years, his reflection didn’t make him want to look away.

His scars were still there, of course. The burns, the twisted skin, the missing parts of him—nothing could change that. But the jacket made him feel… put together. Like he was someone again, not just a patchwork of broken pieces barely holding on.

He ran his fingers down the fabric, swallowing hard.

It had been a long time since he had cared about what he wore, since he had cared about anything that had to do with his appearance. But maybe this was a start.

Maybe, after twenty years, he was finally ready to see himself as something other than ruined.

Before everything that had happened—before the explosion, before the drinking, before he lost himself—John Dory had wanted to be a designer.

Not a singer. Not a frontman for some pop group. Not the leader of BroZone.

He had wanted to make clothes.

It was one of those childhood dreams that had been pushed aside, buried under the weight of expectations. He had been the eldest brother, the protector, the one who had to keep everyone together. When Floyd, Spruce, Clay, and Branch started dreaming of a boy band, it just made sense that he would be there too. He loved them. He wanted them to be happy. And at some point, their dream had become his dream.

Or maybe, he had just convinced himself it had.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, when he stopped thinking about fabric and design and started thinking about perfect harmonies and choreography. Maybe it was after their first gig. Maybe it was after the first time he saw his brothers smile because of something he helped create. Maybe it was after he realized that being part of BroZone was the only way to keep them together, to keep them safe.

And then, everything happened.

Their breakup. The years of wandering. The explosion. The scars. The self-destruction.

By the time he pulled himself out of the darkness—by the time he even had a moment to breathe—he had already wasted twenty years.

Twenty years of running. Twenty years of pretending he had nothing left.

But standing in front of that mirror, feeling the weight of the jacket on his shoulders, something stirred inside him. Something he hadn’t felt in decades.

Maybe it’s not too late.

John exhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the seams of the jacket.

He had nothing else to do.

No band to go back to. No grand purpose. No real destination.

So why not this?

Why not go back to what he had wanted before the world tore him apart?

His mind raced with ideas—patterns, designs, textures. He thought about the way fabric moved, how clothes could make a person feel different. He thought about how putting on this one jacket had shifted something inside him, had made him feel a little less broken.

Maybe that was what he wanted to do.

Not just make clothes.

Make something that gave people back a piece of themselves.

It wouldn’t be easy. He had no money, no connections, no idea where to start. He wasn’t young anymore, wasn’t some fresh-faced kid with a bright future ahead of him. He was scarred, missing half his body, a washed-up ex-singer with a past too heavy to carry.

But maybe, maybe—that didn’t mean he couldn’t start over.

He had spent twenty years thinking he was nothing.

Maybe it was time to prove himself wrong.

So that’s what he did.

For the first time in years, John had a plan. A real one. Not just surviving. Not just drifting from place to place, waiting for something—anything—to change. This was his decision. His dream.

And thankfully, he had money.

Even after all these years, his savings from BroZone were still intact. Being the manager and leader of the group had meant handling finances, booking gigs, making sure they got paid. And while the others had spent their earnings on whatever dreams they had after the band split, John… hadn’t. He never had a reason to.

Until now.

So he started with the basics.

The first real purchase was an industrial sewing machine. 2990€. He winced at the price, but if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He needed something that could handle heavy fabrics, that wouldn’t break down after a few projects.

It arrived in a box bigger than he expected, heavy and unassembled. For a brief moment, he thought he had made a mistake.

But then, something surprising happened.

The people who sold it to him—a pair of gruff, no-nonsense rock trolls—took one look at Rhonda and decided, without asking, that they were going to put it together for him. Right then and there.

John barely had time to protest before they started hauling parts into Rhonda’s storage space, fitting pieces together like they had done this a hundred times before.

And maybe they had.

He tried to argue, to insist that he could figure it out himself, but one of them just snorted. “Yeah, sure, bud. With one hand?”

John opened his mouth. Shut it.

Fair point.

So he let them work, watching as they bolted everything down, made sure it was stable, even gave him a few tips on keeping it running. It was efficient. Professional. And for the first time in ages, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t in years.

Excitement.

By the time they were done, his new sewing machine sat securely in Rhonda’s workspace, ready to go.

John stared at it for a long time, fingers twitching.

He had spent twenty years thinking he had nothing left.

But now, with this machine in front of him, his brain already buzzing with ideas—he realized just how wrong he had been.

John spent the next hour digging through his old things, searching for what remained of his past.

Somewhere in Rhonda, buried under years of neglect, were his old designs. Sketchbooks, loose papers, ideas he had once poured his heart into before everything had fallen apart.

He found them shoved into an old, half-disintegrated leather folder—crinkled, yellowed with time, but still intact. His hands shook slightly as he flipped through them.

It was all there.

Jackets, pants, boots—ideas he had dreamed up in another life. Clothes made for movement, for expression, for confidence. Pieces that meant something. They weren’t flashy like pop troll outfits. They were sharp, structured, powerful.

They still felt like him.

John hesitated before turning to the rock troll who had stayed behind—the one who had taken it upon herself to teach him how to use the machine. She was big, broad-shouldered, with arms that looked like they could tear a boulder in half. Her name was Mag, or at least, that was what she told him in a low, gravelly voice.

Mag raised a brow as he handed over the folder. “These yours?”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “From… a long time ago.”

She flipped through the pages, her sharp eyes scanning each design. Her expression didn’t change, but John could tell she was actually looking—taking in the details, the stitching ideas, the structure. He braced himself for some kind of critique, some reminder that it had been twenty years since he had touched a sewing machine.

Instead, she nodded. “Not bad.”

John blinked. “That’s it?”

She smirked. “You want me to throw you a parade?”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

Mag set the folder aside and cracked her knuckles. “Alright, let’s get started. You ever used an industrial before?”

John shook his head.

“Figured.” She patted the machine. “It’s a beast. Stronger, faster, meaner than those flimsy home machines. If you don’t respect it, it’ll eat your fabric—and maybe your fingers too.”

John raised his only hand. “Kinda short on spares.”

Mag snorted. “Then pay attention.”

And just like that, the lesson began.

She showed him how to thread the machine, how to adjust the tension, how to control the speed with the foot pedal—though in his case, she helped rig up a knee lever so he could operate it differently. It was a lot. More than he expected. The machine was a beast, but as he ran his fingers over the controls, feeling the hum of the motor beneath them, something clicked.

This felt right.

For the first time in two decades, John Dory was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

John started small at first.

He had spent years dreaming about this, but actually doing it? That was a different story.

So he kept it simple. Basic stiches, small patches, just getting used to the machine. His first few attempts were clumsy—his hand wasn’t as steady as it used to be, and controlling the machine with his knee took some adjustment. But he didn’t stop.

He practiced.

A little every day.

At first, it was just hemming old clothes, fixing up torn fabrics, testing different materials to see how they handled under the needle. He wanted to ease into it, to take his time, to learn before throwing himself into anything big.

But that didn’t last long.

Before he knew it, he had fabric everywhere.

Piles of cloth piled up in the corners of Rhonda, scraps scattered across the floor. Thread spools rolled under the seats, needles stuck into cushions, patterns and sketches covered every available surface. Pins...so many pins.

At one point, he found one in his bathroom.

He had no idea how it got there, and honestly, he didn’t question it.

The small, careful steps he had planned? Gone.

John was in it now.

Every stitch, every piece of fabric, every mistake and success—it all felt right. Like his hands (or, well, hand) knew what they were doing even if his brain hadn’t fully caught up yet.

For the first time in forever, he wasn’t just existing.

He was creating.

John lost himself in the work.

Days blurred together as he stitched, measured, cut, and adjusted. It was messy at first: uneven seams, botched hems, fabric stretched too tight or left too loose. He cursed under his breath more times than he could count, but he didn’t stop.

He refused to.

With every mistake, he learned. With every ruined piece, he figured out something new.

And somewhere in the chaos, he found himself again.

Rhonda, once just a cluttered space for a man running from his past, became a makeshift studio. The seats turned into storage for fabric. The dashboard held sketches, scrawled measurements, loose threads. The little fold-out table where he used to drink became his workbench, now covered in scissors, rulers, and patterns.

He should have felt overwhelmed.

Instead, for the first time in decades, he felt alive.

His designs slowly came to life—first just small things: a simple vest, a well-fitted pair of pants, gloves adjusted for mobility. Then bigger things. Jackets with intricate details. Layered textures. Pieces that weren’t just clothing but statements.

And the more he worked, the more he realized something:

He had never truly lost his touch.

Sure, he was rusty. Slower than before. His body wasn’t what it used to be—his missing arm made some tasks harder, his burns ached when he bent too much, and his prosthetic leg wasn’t the most comfortable when he sat for too long.

But none of that stopped him.

And when he finished his first real big piece—a long, structured coat with sharp lines and reinforced shoulders—he stood in front of the mirror and didn’t feel like a monster.

For the first time in twenty years, he saw something else.

Someone who made something.

Someone who still had something to give.

And for John Dory, that was more than enough to keep going.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Living in solitude had its perks.

John didn’t have to deal with loud crowds, didn’t have to answer to anyone, didn’t have to pretend he was something he wasn’t. His world was quiet, controlled, filled only with the hum of his sewing machine and the soft rustle of fabric beneath his fingers.

But it also had its downsides.

Like the fact that he had completely missed the evolution of technology.

When BroZone had disbanded, phones were still just for calls and maybe some light texting. Social media? Barely a thing. Now? The whole world seemed to exist on screens, and John had no clue how any of it worked.

Mag, on the other hand, did.

John had invited her over one evening, mostly just to get her opinion on his latest work. She had helped him get started, after all—it only felt right to show her how far he’d come.

He expected some light criticism, maybe some gruff approval.

What he didn’t expect was for Mag to whip out a phone, snap a few photos, and immediately start posting them online.

He didn’t even realize it at first. He was too busy explaining the details of his designs—how he had chosen the fabric, what had inspired the silhouette, how long it had taken him to finish. Mag nodded along, seemingly interested, but her fingers kept flying over the screen, typing up something.

He didn’t think much of it.

Until one day, months later, when Mag casually mentioned, “By the way, your designs are kinda famous now.”

John, who had been in the middle of adjusting a seam, froze. “…What?”

Mag smirked. “Yeah, turns out people really like your stuff. Every time I post a new one, the comments go wild.” She scrolled through her phone and held it up. “Here. See for yourself.”

John squinted at the screen. A flood of images (his designs) filled the page, each one accompanied by a detailed caption. She had written about where he got his inspiration, the types of fabrics he used, how long each piece took to make. There were even close-ups of intricate stitching, comparisons to classic rock troll fashion, and little notes about the creative process.

And the comments—there were thousands of them.

“This is incredible! Where can I buy one?”
“The craftsmanship is insane. This guy’s a genius.”
“I NEED that jacket in my life.”
“Who’s the designer? Why don’t they show their face?”

John blinked. His brain struggled to process what he was seeing.

“…You’ve been posting these?” he asked slowly.

Mag raised a brow. “Yeah? What, you thought I was just taking photos for fun?”

He had thought that, actually. Or at least, he hadn’t thought much about it at all. He had figured Mag was just doing her own thing while they talked. It never once crossed his mind that she was actively marketing his work to the entire world.

John ran a hand down his face. “Mag…”

“Oh, don’t start.” She leaned back, grinning. “I made sure not to post any pictures of you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just the designs.”

That was… slightly reassuring. But still.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, exasperated.

She shrugged. “Figured you’d freak out.”

He was freaking out, but that was beside the point.

John stared at the phone again. His designs. His work. Out there for the world to see. And apparently, people loved them. Not just a few people. Thousands. Maybe even more.

He let out a slow breath.

“…How many people are seeing these?”

Mag scrolled down, checking the stats. “Last post got about… four hundred thousand likes.”

John choked.

Mag grinned wider. “So yeah. Saying you’re worldwide famous would be an understatement.”

John didn’t know what to say.

For years, he had thought of himself as forgotten. A washed-up has-been with nothing left to give. But now, strangers—people from all over—were looking at his designs, loving them, wanting more.

And he had never even known.

John leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Mag.”

“Yeah?”

“…I think I need a drink.”

Mag snorted. “You and me both, bud.”

John did get that drink.

Several, actually. non- alchool actually, he never ever was going to touch this again.

Mag took him to a nearby rock troll bar—one of those dimly lit, smoky places where the walls were covered in old band posters and the air hummed with bass-heavy music. It wasn’t exactly his scene, but after finding out he was accidentally famous, he needed something in his system.

He downed his first drink in silence, staring at the wooden counter, trying to wrap his head around everything.

Mag, ever the troublemaker, just laughed. “You’re handling this way better than I expected.”

John shot her a glare. “I’m not handling this.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She swirled her drink. “Most people would kill for this kind of attention.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” John muttered, rubbing his temple.

“Yeah, well, sometimes the world decides for you.”

He scowled, but deep down, he knew she had a point. He had spent years thinking he had nothing left to offer. That the world had moved on without him. That he had been left behind, broken and forgotten.

But now…

People wanted his designs. They cared about them.

Hell, four hundred thousand likes? That was a number he couldn’t even begin to process.

He exhaled, pushing his empty glass toward the bartender for a refill. “So… what now?”

Mag smirked. “That’s up to you, boss.”

John frowned. “I’m not your boss.”

“You are if you start selling these.”

The thought made his stomach twist. He hadn’t planned for this. He just wanted to create again—to do something that felt like him. He hadn’t thought about business, about customers, about orders and shipping and—

He groaned, dropping his head onto the counter. “I don’t know how any of this works.”

Mag clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Lucky for you, I do.”

He peeked up at her. “Seriously?”

She grinned. “John, I’ve been in the rock troll fashion scene for years. I know how to get materials, how to set up custom orders, how to handle buyers. You’ve already got demand—all we gotta do is give people a way to get your stuff.”

John hesitated. “And you’d… help me with all that?”

“Duh.” She took a sip of her drink. “Look, man, you’re good. Like, stupidly good. You’ve got talent, the kind of raw skill that doesn’t come around often. It’d be a damn shame if the world never got to wear a John Dory original.”

Something about the way she said it made his chest ache.

He hadn’t been needed in a long time.

But maybe… just maybe… he was wanted.

He swallowed hard, drumming his fingers against the bar. “Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s do this.”

Mag grinned, clinking her glass against his. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

And just like that, John Dory—former boy band leader, broken man, forgotten dreamer—was about to become something new.

A designer.

Being designer come with good things and just as much hardships.

Like setting up prices.
John wanted to be fair. He wasn’t doing this for the money—he just wanted to create, to put something into the world that actually mattered. If people liked his designs, he wanted them to have them, not feel like they had to empty their pockets just to own a piece.

Mag, on the other hand, had very different ideas.

“A thousand minimum,” she said, arms crossed as they sat in Rhonda, sifting through his sketches.

John nearly dropped the fabric roll in his hands. “A thousand?! Are you insane?”

Mag scoffed. “You’re making handcrafted, one-of-a-kind pieces. High fashion. You think people get this stuff for cheap?”

“But that’s too much!” John ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to rip people off.”

Mag rolled her eyes. “Okay, first off—charging what your work is actually worth is not ‘ripping people off.’ Second, do you have any idea how much designers charge for this kind of craftsmanship? Do you think fancy pop troll designers hesitate before slapping a five-thousand tag on a jacket?”

John scowled. “Well, I’m not a pop troll designer.”

“No, you’re better.”

He blinked. That caught him off guard.

Mag leaned forward. “Look, John. You’re underground. You’ve got this raw, rebellious, handcrafted aesthetic going on. People love that. They’re not just buying a jacket; they’re buying you. Your story. Your skill. Your art.”

John swallowed. He hadn’t thought about it like that.

Mag smirked. “You wanna make it accessible? Fine. We do a tiered system. High-end, custom pieces for those willing to drop serious cash. More affordable, simpler designs for the everyday crowd. But whatever we do, you can’t undersell yourself. Got it?”

John hesitated, looking down at his latest jacket. It had taken him weeks to perfect—custom stitching, layered textures, reinforced seams. Every inch of it was his.

Maybe Mag was right.

Maybe he was worth more than he thought.

“…Alright,” he said, exhaling. “We’ll set up the tiers.”

Mag grinned. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

John liked to say he regretted it. Every time Mag threw another surprise at him—like announcing a new collection without warning or setting up limited-edition drops—he would groan, throw a pillow at her, and grumble about how she was ruining his life.

But the truth?

He never regretted it.

Because for the first time in years, he had something to wake up for. Something to build, to create, to be proud of.

The only thing he never budged on? His face.

Mag had free rein to take all the pictures she wanted of his hands, his workspace, the process—but never him.

At first, people just thought he was doing the whole “mysterious designer” bit. The aesthetic of an artist hidden in the shadows, too cool for the spotlight.

Then, one day, Mag posted a video of him working.

It was nothing special—just John at his sewing machine, focused, pulling a long stretch of fabric through the needle. But this time, the camera caught more than just his hands. It showed his prosthetic arm, glinting under the warm light. The burn scars that crept up his neck. The fact that his right leg, when he adjusted his position, was metal.

And just like that, the internet exploded.

— WAIT WAIT WAIT HE’S HANDICAPPED??
— THE MYSTERY DESIGNER IS DISABLED OMG
— HE LOST AN ARM AND A LEG AND STILL MAKES CLOTHES BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE?
— NEW FAVORITE DESIGNER, NO ONE TALK TO ME

John had not been prepared for the reaction.

He thought people might be put off. That they’d see him and think of his work differently, like it was some kind of charity case.

Instead, the opposite happened.

More trolls than he could count flooded Mag’s account, talking about how inspiring he was. Disabled trolls, burnt trolls, trolls with prosthetics—all saying how they never saw designers like them. How they never thought they could do something like this.

And John… didn’t know how to handle that.

He wasn’t trying to be inspiring. He was just living.

But when Mag showed him the comments, the ones from young trolls saying they wanted to try sewing now, that they believed they could do things despite their injuries, that they finally saw someone who looked like them—

Yeah.

He didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

John never acknowledged the comments. Not directly.

He wasn’t the type to go online and start making big speeches about perseverance or overcoming obstacles. That wasn’t him. He didn’t see himself the way those trolls did.

But something shifted after that day.

He started making more accessible designs. Clothes that were easy to put on with one hand. Jackets with magnetic closures instead of buttons. Adaptive fashion that still looked good, that didn’t scream medical wear but blended seamlessly with his usual edgy, high-fashion aesthetic.

And when Mag posted those designs?

The internet lost its mind.

— HE DESIGNS FOR US???
— NO BECAUSE DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND ADAPTIVE CLOTHES THAT LOOK THIS COOL?
— JOHN DORY IS CHANGING THE INDUSTRY AND I WANNA SEE THE WHOLE WORLD TALK ABOUT IT
— THIS ISN’T JUST FASHION, THIS IS A MOVEMENT

John pretended he didn’t read the comments.

But late at night, in the quiet of Rhonda’s worn-out interior, he did.

And maybe—just maybe—they meant something to him.

Mag, of course, never let him off the hook.

"You know you're, like, a phenomenon now, right?" she said one afternoon, kicking her feet up on his worktable.

John, pinning fabric to a mannequin, barely spared her a glance. "I don't wanna be a phenomenon. I just wanna make clothes."

"Yeah, but the world wants what you're making," Mag shot back. "You’re doing something no one else is doing. And the fact that you’re not out here trying to market yourself? Makes people love you even more."

John rolled his eyes. "Great. Love that for me."

Mag grinned. "Oh, you do. You just won’t admit it."

She wasn’t wrong.

And John?

John created.

He experimented with new materials. Played with asymmetry, with layering, with mixed textures that gave each piece its own story. He let his prosthetic arm guide him in ways he hadn’t before, designing with it instead of around it.

And for the first time in decades—since before BroZone, since before he lost himself in grief and alcohol and explosions of his own making—John felt like himself.

Not a former pop star.

Just John Dory.

Chapter Text

John had spent weeks planning it.

If he was going to show his face, it had to be on his terms. Not some accidental reflection in a window or a sneaky shot from Mag. No, he needed control—because this wasn’t just about revealing his face. It was about who he was. Who he had become.

So, he filmed it himself.

The video started with his voice, calm but deliberate. The camera wasn’t on him yet—just his workspace. The sewing machine, the scattered sketches, the fabric rolls stacked against the walls.

"My name is John Dory. You probably know me as the designer behind all this."

The camera moved slowly, showing his hands. One flesh, one metal. His fingers traced a seam, the weight of years behind them.

"I wasn’t always a designer. A long time ago, I was in a boy band with my brothers. Maybe you’ve heard of us. BroZone."

A pause.

"It wasn’t my dream. But I did it because I loved them. And for a while, I thought that was enough."

The footage cut to an unfinished jacket draped over a mannequin, pins still holding the fabric in place.

"But things change. Life… happens."

His voice was steady, but underneath, there was a quiet weight. He didn’t need to say everything. The fans already knew—or they could guess. The fire. The injuries. The years lost in self-destruction.

"For a long time, I thought I was done. That I had nothing left. But then, I found this."

The camera tilted down to his hands again, adjusting a sleeve.

"And for the first time in years, I felt like me."

Then, the moment.

A shaky breath. The sound of fingers adjusting the camera.

And then—he turned it.

For the first time, the world saw him.

Not just glimpses of prosthetics or hands working at a machine. His face. The scars that ran down the right side, the burn marks, the ear that was no longer there. The years of exhaustion and quiet strength etched into his features.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide.

He met the camera head-on.

"This is me."

A beat of silence. Then, the tiniest, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Hope I didn’t disappoint."

Then the screen cut to black.

Posting it was harder than filming it.

John had stared at the upload button for hours. His fingers hovered over it, heart pounding so hard he thought it might actually burst.

Mag had been watching from the other side of the room, lounging across his couch with her phone in hand.

“You gonna do it, or should I come over there and press it for you?”

John glared. “I hate you.”

She grinned. “I know.”

Still, he hesitated.

Because once he did this—once he let the world see him—there was no going back. No more anonymity. No more mystery designer. Just John Dory, in all his damaged, burnt, imperfect glory.

Was he ready for that?

Mag seemed to sense his hesitation.

“Hey,” she said, voice unusually soft. “You don’t have to do this. But if you want to… it’s gonna be okay. You are enough. With or without this video.”

John exhaled.

Then, without giving himself time to second-guess, he pressed post.

And the second he did, the world tilted.

His vision blurred. His head spun. And before he even had a chance to think, everything went black.

When he came to, he was on the floor.

Mag was sitting next to him, completely unfazed, sipping her drink. “You literally fainted on me.”

John groaned, covering his face. “Kill me.”

“Eh. Bit late for that.”

“…Did I hit my head?”

“Nope. I caught you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

John let out a long, miserable groan. “How bad is it?”

Mag checked her phone. Then, with a slow, smug grin, she turned the screen toward him.

Ten thousand views in under an hour.

John almost fainted again.

John didn’t sleep that night.

He couldn’t.

Even after Mag forced him onto the couch, even after she muttered something about “don’t die, I still need you to sew my outfits” and disappeared into the next room, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

At first, he ignored it. Let it vibrate on the coffee table while he tried to steady his breathing. But curiosity was a slow poison, and eventually, he reached for it with his prosthetic hand, feeling the cool metal against the glass.

He shouldn’t have looked.

Because the world had lost its mind.

— OH MY GOD HE’S SO COOL WTF
— BROZONE JOHN DORY AND THE DESIGNER JOHN DORY ARE THE SAME PERSON???
— I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S BEEN HIDDEN ALL THIS TIME—
— THE SCARS. THE PROSTHETICS. HE’S LITERALLY A BADASS.
— I LOVE HIM SO MUCH ACTUALLY.
— THIS ISN’T JUST A FACE REVEAL, THIS IS A CULTURAL RESET.

And those were just the first few.

The comments weren’t just about how he looked—though there were plenty of those.

They were about his story.

People were piecing it together, dissecting every detail. Fans of BroZone were freaking out, realizing that the happy, bright-eyed John Dory from their childhood had survived hell and come back as an entirely different person.

Disabled trolls were speaking up again, even louder than before.

— I’ve never seen someone who looks like me, doing what he’s doing.
— I thought I couldn’t chase my dreams because of my body. But now? Now I think maybe I can.
— I don’t even care about fashion but I care about JOHN DORY.

He scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled—until his vision blurred, until the words started blending together into something too big to hold all at once.

Then he locked his phone, pressed it against his chest, and let out a slow, shaky breath.

They didn’t hate him.

They didn’t see him as a monster.

They saw him.

By morning, John had barely held himself together.

Mag, on the other hand, was thriving.

“You’re trending in sixteen countries,” she announced over breakfast, casually shoving a bowl of cereal at him like this was normal. “There are already fan edits. Someone made a whole tribute video to your career—like, from BroZone to now. It has over one million views.”

John, still half-asleep and emotionally wrecked, just blinked at her. “…What.”

Mag shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth and gestured at her phone. “They love you, man.”

That didn’t feel real.

John stared at his bowl, stirring it absentmindedly. His mind was a mess, tangled in too many thoughts to make sense of.

Finally, he let out a quiet, “I don’t know what to do with this.”

Mag snorted. “You don’t have to do anything.”

But that wasn’t true, was it?

He’d spent so many years hiding. He’d let his injuries define him, let the world forget him because it was easier than facing what he’d become.

And yet—despite everything—people still cared.

Maybe it was time to start caring, too.

He exhaled, pushing his cereal away. Then, with a slow nod, he said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Mag grinned. “Hell yeah.”

And just like that, the real John Dory era had begun.

The internet was in chaos.

John Dory’s face reveal had shattered social media.

Edits were everywhere. Slow-motion clips of him working, his hands (one flesh, one metal) moving gracefully over fabric. Dramatic transitions from his BroZone days—bright-eyed, young, and full of energy—to the hardened, scarred designer he was now.

— THE GLOW-UP OF THE CENTURY.
— I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I NEEDED THIS BUT WOW.
— John Dory, my beloved.
— I wanna know his story so bad. Someone drop the full timeline.

And, of course, there were the before and after edits.

The ones that took clips of him performing on stage—smiling, dancing, harmonizing with his brothers—and morphed them into the man he had become. Older. Harsher. Alone.

Those edits hit hard.

— WHY DID THIS LOWKEY MAKE ME CRY
— Bro went through a whole character arc while we weren’t looking.
— "Where did the time go?" NO BECAUSE WHERE DID IT GO??
— John was carrying the weight of his brothers AND his career. No wonder he fell apart.

But then, as the hype grew, people started asking questions.

Because while John Dory and Floyd were well-known, the other BroZone members?

They were nowhere to be found.

It started with small comments.

— Wait… where are Clay, Bruce, and Bitty B?
— Why can’t I find ANYTHING on them past the BroZone era??
— Did they just disappear?

Then came the deep dives.

People scoured the internet for recent sightings, interviews, anything—but it was like the three of them had vanished. No social media, no public appearances, no solo careers.

Just… gone.

The conspiracy theories came fast.

— Did something happen to them???
— John Dory and Floyd stayed in the spotlight, but the other three? Suspicious.
— WHAT IF THEY HAD A FALLING OUT AND NEVER SPOKE AGAIN??
— BroZone breakup was never fully explained. What if there’s DRAMA??

The more people searched, the weirder it got.

Because even old footage—things that should have been there—was missing.

Interviews? Scrubbed. News articles? Incomplete.

It was like someone had intentionally erased them.

And that only made the internet more obsessed.

The hashtag #WhereIsBroZone started trending.

Fans begged John Dory for answers, flooding his comments:

— John, PLEASE, we need to know what happened.
— Do you still talk to your brothers?
— Where are Clay, Bruce, and Bitty B???
— Blink twice if you can’t talk about it.

Mag, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious.

"You broke the internet again," she cackled, shoving her phone in John’s face. "They’re literally making conspiracy videos about you."

John groaned, rubbing his temples. "Great. Love that."

"They think the government is hiding them."

"That’s—what??"

Mag grinned. "I mean, the lack of info is suspicious."

John didn’t respond.

Because the truth?

It wasn’t a conspiracy. It wasn’t the government. It wasn’t some deep, dark industry cover-up.

It was him.

John Dory had erased BroZone.

That night—when everything fell apart—when the weight of it all had finally crushed them, he had looked at his brothers, voice hoarse, exhausted, and asked:

"Do you want me to erase BroZone?"

There had been no hesitation. No second-guessing.

"Yes."

So, he did.

Every interview. Every mention. Every last trace of them beyond what was already public. He pulled every string he had, used every connection, and buried it all.

Because that was what they wanted.

Because that was what they needed.

And for twenty years, no one questioned it.

Until now.

Until he came back into the spotlight.

Until the world started digging.

His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Everywhere he looked—his comment sections, his inbox, the trending pages—it was all the same question:

Where are they?

John sat at his worktable, staring at the unfinished jacket in front of him, unable to focus. His prosthetic fingers tapped idly against the fabric, his mind a mess.

He thought he had put this behind him.

He thought BroZone was gone.

But it was clawing its way back to him, rising from the grave like a ghost that refused to stay buried.

Mag waltzed in, holding her phone like a live commentator. “It’s getting worse.”

John groaned. “Fantastic.”

“They’re now debating whether or not you murdered them.”

He shot her a deadpan look.

Mag shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. The internet does.”

John exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “What do I even do?”

Mag leaned against the table. “You could just tell them the truth.”

John didn’t respond right away.

Because the truth?

The truth was that he hadn’t spoken to any of them since that night.

He had erased them from the world. But they had erased him right back.

John Dory sat in front of the camera, staring at the little blinking red light. His heart pounded, his stomach twisted, but there was no backing out now.

This had to be done.

With a slow breath, he pressed record.

"So, uh… apparently, the internet lost its mind."

He forced out a small, humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I’ve been seeing the comments. The theories. The—" he waved a hand vaguely, "—chaos. And I just wanna clear things up before this turns into some weird conspiracy."

He hesitated.

Then, voice quieter, more careful—

"It’s normal that you can’t find anything on them. I made sure of that."

A pause.

"That night, when BroZone fell apart, I asked my brothers if they wanted me to erase it. Every trace of us. And they said yes. So I did."

The weight of the confession hung in the air.

"They’re alive." He swallowed, his throat tight. "I— I mean, I hope they are. I haven’t spoken to them in years."

That part hurt to say out loud.

John exhaled, gripping his knee, forcing himself to stay steady.

"I don’t know where they are. I don’t know what they’re doing. But they wanted to be left alone, and I was gonna respect that."

His fingers clenched slightly.

"So, please. Stop digging. If they wanted to be found, they’d be here."

He let the words settle, let the weight of them sink in.

Then, finally, he reached forward and ended the recording.

The video exploded the second it went live.

Comments flooded in faster than Mag could even read them.

— This is so much sadder than I thought.
— He sounds like he’s still waiting for them to come back…
— So BroZone really is just… gone?
— I’m gonna cry.
— WE GOTTA FIND THEM.

Mag tossed her phone onto the table and groaned. “Yeah, that didn’t help.”

John slumped against the couch, rubbing his face. “Great.”

“They’re taking this as a challenge.”

Of course they were.

Because if there was one thing the internet loved, it was a mystery to solve.

And now?

Now the search for BroZone had really begun.

-----------------------------------------

Floyd had been watching.

Not in a creepy way—well, maybe in a creepy way—but it wasn’t like John was hiding. He just wasn’t expecting his little brother to be lurking in the background of his social media.

But the second that first design popped up?

Floyd knew.

Because that jacket? That silhouette? That stitching?

It wasn’t just John’s.

It was theirs.

A long time ago, before BroZone had even taken off, before their voices became their entire identities, they used to draw.

Floyd was the one with the wild ideas—the big, exaggerated shapes, the impossible proportions. John was the one who grounded them, who made them wearable, who perfected them.

It had been their thing.

And now, after decades of silence, Floyd saw his old sketches—reshaped, polished, real—floating across the internet, credited to a brother he hadn’t spoken to in years.

It hit him like a gut punch.

Because for so long, Floyd had convinced himself that John had moved on, that they were just part of his past, that BroZone had been nothing more than a chapter better left forgotten.

But now?

Now he wasn’t so sure.

It had started small.

At first, Floyd had just watched from a distance. Scrolling through Mag’s posts, silently watching John work, listening to the way she talked about him—like he was some kind of legend, some mysterious figure that the world was just now starting to understand.

It made something ache in his chest.

Then the face reveal happened, and suddenly it wasn’t just watching anymore.

Floyd had broken down the day he saw his big brother’s face.

No—his father’s face.

Because that’s what John Dory had been to him, wasn’t it? Not just a brother. Not just the leader of BroZone. His parent. His protector. The one who held everything together when their world was falling apart.

John had always looked like an angel to Floyd.

Soft in the way he carried them. Gentle in the way he soothed their nightmares. Steady in the way he stood between them and the world, shielding them from things they were too young to understand.

But now?

Now John looked like someone who had burned.

The scars twisted across his skin, cruel and unforgiving. His left side—charred, ruined, frozen in time at the moment of his worst pain. His prosthetic limbs—cold and mechanical, so far from the warm hands that used to ruffle Floyd’s hair, used to guide him through the complicated steps of harmonies, used to hold him when things felt too big, too scary.

John had always been beautiful.

But now… now Floyd had to come to terms with what it meant to be beautiful.

Because when he had first seen it—John’s face, the truth of what had happened to him—Floyd had recoiled.

Not in disgust. Never in disgust.

But in grief.

In horror.

In guilt.

Because he hadn’t been there.

Because he hadn’t saved him.

And for weeks, it had haunted him. The image of John—alone, suffering, rebuilding himself from nothing.

How long had it taken for John to look at his own reflection without breaking down? How many times had he avoided mirrors, avoided his own face, avoided the reality of what he had become?

If it had taken Floyd weeks to come to peace with it…

He couldn’t imagine how long it had taken John.

He didn’t want to imagine it.

Because the truth was too heavy.

And Floyd didn’t know if he was strong enough to carry it.

With the internet going insane, there was only one person left to turn to.

Floyd.

Because unlike the other brothers—who were still ghosts in the public eye—Floyd hadn’t disappeared. He was still in the music industry, still performing, still posting just enough for people to know he was alive.

So, naturally, the world hounded him.

Comments flooded his socials.

— What happened to BroZone???
— Do you still talk to your brothers?
— Are you gonna reach out to John??
— Dude, do you KNOW what’s going on???
— Why haven’t you said anything?

At first, Floyd ignored it.

Then he tried to ignore it.

But it was impossible.

Because everywhere he turned, it was John.

His brother. His father.

And the more Floyd scrolled, the worse the guilt became.

Because now he wasn’t just seeing John as the world saw him—as the legend, the designer, the mystery.

He was seeing him as John.

His John.

The same John who used to wrap him in blankets when he got sick. The same John who used to hum lullabies when they couldn’t sleep. The same John who used to hold them together, even when everything was falling apart.

And Floyd had left him.

Hadn’t looked back.

Hadn’t checked in.

Hadn’t been there when John had clearly needed him the most.

So, after weeks of dodging questions, avoiding interviews, and pretending he didn’t see the comments—

Floyd finally broke his silence.

It was a simple post.

A single sentence.

“I’m going to see my brother.”

No context. No explanation. No fancy PR statement.

Just that.

And the internet?

Lost. Its. Mind.

-----------------------------------------
The moment John saw the post, he panicked.

Because Floyd wasn’t just saying he might reach out.

He wasn’t saying he wanted to talk.

He was saying he was coming.

And John?

John wasn’t ready for that.

For any of it.

His heart pounded as he stared at the screen, his hands shaking slightly. The comments were already exploding with excitement, theories running wild, people desperate to see the long-lost brothers reunite.

But John wasn’t sure he wanted to be found.

Not like this.

Not when he still felt like half of the brother Floyd used to know.

Not when he was still learning how to live with himself.

He turned to Mag, hoping for some reassurance—hoping she’d tell him that Floyd was just talking, that it was all for show, that he wouldn’t actually know where to start looking.

And that’s when Mag—casually, as if it were nothing—said the worst thing she possibly could have.

"Oh yeah, Floyd and I know each other. He shops here sometimes."

John’s stomach dropped.

Mag blinked at him, confused. "What?"

John stared. "What do you mean ‘what’?!"

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Floyd shops here?!"

"...Yeah? I thought you knew that?"

John did not know that.

Which meant Floyd already had a direct line to him.

Which meant it was no longer a matter of if Floyd found him.

It was when.

Three Hours.
That’s how long it took.

Three hours of pacing. Three hours of panicking. Three hours of trying to convince himself that Floyd wouldn’t actually come. That maybe he was just talking, that maybe he’d get distracted or change his mind or—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

John froze.

His instincts screamed.

Because his pup was outside.

His pup—the one he had raised. The one he had fed, protected, loved more than anything.

And yet—

He had let Floyd go.

He had let all of them go.

John’s breath was shallow, his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. His body ached with the need to open the door, to bring his pup inside, to see Floyd with his own eyes.

But he was scared.

Because what if Floyd looked at him and saw a stranger?

What if he regretted coming?

What if John opened the door and Floyd took one look at him and thought—

"You’re not my brother anymore."

Another knock. This time, more hesitant.

And then—

"Johnny? You in there?"

John’s heart clenched.

He had been John to the world for so long. To Mag. To strangers. To everyone.

But to Floyd?

He was still Johnny.

Still his.

John’s throat tightened. His hands trembled. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to move, to step forward, to do what his instincts were screaming at him to do.

He reached for the door—

And opened it.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Floyd.
Face to Face

Older, taller, but still Floyd. His bright blue skin, his messy hair, the same expressive eyes that had always been filled with mischief, now shadowed with something deeper. Something heavier.

John barely had time to take it all in before Floyd moved.

Fast.

Too fast for John to react before he was grabbed, hugged, held.

Not a careful embrace. Not gentle.

It was desperate.

Floyd clung to him like he was afraid John would disappear, arms locking around him so tight John could barely breathe.

And John—

John froze.

Because it had been years since someone had touched him like this. Since someone had held him, needed him. Since someone had seen him as something more than a designer, a mystery, a ghost of the past.

For a moment, John didn’t know what to do.

Then—

He broke.

His arms came up, wrapping around Floyd with just as much force, his one hand fisting into Floyd’s shirt, his breath hitching.

"You’re here," John rasped.

"Of course I’m here," Floyd choked out. His voice was thick. Unsteady. "I— I should’ve come sooner, I should’ve—"

"You’re here now."

That was all that mattered.

Floyd’s grip tightened. "I thought you were gone, Johnny. I thought— I thought I lost you."

John swallowed hard. "You didn’t."

For the first time in years, he let himself believe it.

Floyd pulled back just enough to look at him.

And then—

John saw it.

The flicker of shock.

The moment Floyd really took him in.

The scars. The prosthetics. The way John had changed.

Floyd’s eyes darted over his face, his arm, his leg—taking it all in, his expression unreadable.

John braced himself.

For pity. For guilt. For something that would hurt.

But then—

Floyd’s brows furrowed. His lips pressed together. And all he said was—

"Who did this to you?"

Not what happened.

Not how did this happen.

But who.

Because Floyd wasn’t just looking at him in horror.

He was looking at him like he was angry.

Like he was ready to fight.

And John—

John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So Both It Was.
A broken, choked-out laugh. A trembling, sharp sob.

John tried to hold it in, to keep it together, to be the strong, put-together man he had trained himself to be. But the second he saw Floyd’s face—saw the anger, the worry, the love—it all shattered.

So both it was.

Laughter and tears, mixing together in a way that made John’s chest ache.

Floyd didn’t hesitate. He held John again, arms tightening around him, letting him laugh, letting him cry, letting him feel.

Because Floyd understood.

Even without words, he understood.

This wasn’t just about the scars.

It wasn’t just about what had happened to John.

It was about the years of silence. The years of pretending they didn’t need each other. The years of running in opposite directions, only to end up right here, back in each other’s arms.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

John gripped the fabric of Floyd’s shirt, the tremors in his body refusing to stop. "I’m sorry," he rasped. "I didn’t— I thought you didn’t—"

"Don’t you dare apologize," Floyd said fiercely, his own voice thick with emotion. "Don’t— Johnny, you raised me. You— you took care of all of us. And I— I left you. I should’ve looked for you. I should’ve—"

"We were kids," John whispered. "We were all just— kids."

They had all been lost, hurt, broken.

John had been so sure that his brothers had wanted to leave him behind, that they had never seen him as their parent. But now, standing here, feeling Floyd tremble against him, hearing the pain in his voice—

He realized he had been wrong.

Painfully, horribly wrong.

They hadn’t left because they didn’t love him.

They had left because they were hurting too.

John squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, breathing in the familiar scent of his pup. Even after all these years, even after so much had changed, Floyd still smelled the same.

Like home.

John let out a shaky breath, finally, finally letting himself believe it.

"You’re here."

"Yeah, Johnny," Floyd whispered back, just as broken, just as whole. "I’m here."

John hadn't realized how much he needed this until he was leading Floyd into his nest.

It was instinct. Deep, primal instinct.

His screamed at him—Protect. Comfort. Bring your pup home.

So that’s what he did.

The nest was huge. Bigger than it needed to be, honestly, but John had never been able to stop himself from adding to it over the years. Soft, thick blankets layered on top of each other, all hand-sewn by him. Overstuffed pillows, some neatly arranged, others lazily tossed around. The fabrics were rich, warm, muted in color—not the bright, eye-searing patterns of Pop Trolls, but the deep, earthy tones that made John feel safe.

It smelled like him. Like warmth. Like security.

Like home.

And now, for the first time in years, it would smell like Floyd too.

John hesitated for only a second before crawling in, patting a spot next to him. "Come here."

Floyd didn’t need to be told twice.

He all but collapsed into the nest, immediately pressing against John’s side, as if he was afraid John might slip away if he didn’t hold on.

John felt the tension in Floyd’s body, the exhaustion, the emotional weight pressing down on him. He knew this moment was overwhelming—not just for him, but for Floyd too.

So he did what he had always done.

He held his pup.

One arm wrapping around Floyd, the other running soothing fingers through his hair.

Floyd let out a deep, shuddering breath. "This is—" He swallowed hard. "This is yours?"

"I made it."

Floyd pulled back slightly, looking around, his eyes landing on the stitched edges of the blankets, the careful embroidery on the pillows, the love woven into every inch of the nest.

John suddenly felt shy. "It’s nothing big, I just—"

"Johnny," Floyd cut him off, voice thick. "It’s perfect."

John’s throat tightened.

For the first time in years, he felt safe.

Truly, deeply safe.

And as Floyd burrowed deeper into the nest, relaxing for the first time since he had knocked on that door—

John realized something.

No matter how much had changed, no matter how many years had passed—

Floyd was still his.

And John was still home.