Mac dreamt of Darkness.

He dreamt of the darkness of night. He dreamt of pinpricks of light, hanging far above tall forests of dangling vines. He dreamt of moonlit paths winding through the trees and underbrush, and he was happy. 

But like all things in his world, dreams do not last. Their decay is quick in the face of a ringing clock. As the tension rose in his shoulders, and the dream fled to memory, he arose to a complete darkness. This darkness lacked the clarity of night, but instead brought the suffocation of mind and body with it. It was a darkness of a lightless room in a lightless box in a dark alley, hanging beneath the void. 

He rose silently, deftly dodging the shattered glass and broken doorframe of his house. For he didn't need light to see where they were, and he stepped into the light of the alleys, leading to a third and final darkness. 

This darkness weighed on his soul, its oppressive presence always remembered by the adage every denizen learns, Don't look up. No matter how much light one brought in, this darkness never fled, it never retreated, and it never abated.