*Trigger warnings* Dr. Amar, descriptive scenes talking about trauma, heath issues, family angst, relationship problems.
The morning light filters through the curtains, soft and muted, as I slowly wake, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to my mind. My body aches in places I didn't know could hurt, but I'm not surprised. The weight of yesterday still lingers, and today feels like a delicate thing—fragile and uncertain. But something in the air feels different this morning. The tension in the room has softened, replaced with an easy stillness.
I sit up slowly, stretching carefully, my body protesting but not as much as before. My muscles ache, but it's more of a tiredness than a sharp pain. The chest tightness from last night is gone, and I take a deep breath, welcoming the cool, steady air. I'm still wary of my own body, still wary of the way it betrays me without warning, but right now, I feel like I can manage it.
As I adjust the pillow behind me, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching—slow, steady, like Miras's rhythm. Then, a voice, soft but unmistakable.
"You awake, Cherish?" Miras asks from the doorway, his head poking around just enough to make eye contact. "I brought Dewey to see you."
My heart stutters in my chest, and for the briefest moment, I'm unsure. I don't know if I'm ready to face anyone, let alone Dewey. But there's something in Miras's expression, something gentle in the way he looks at me, that makes me nod without thinking.
"Okay," I say, voice quiet, but not as strained as it used to be.
Miras steps in, Dewey trailing behind him, his wide grin already lighting up the room. Dewey's the same as always—full of energy, a little too loud for my liking, but in a way that feels comforting, like the chaos he brings is a part of the life I'm slowly re-learning to live.
"Cherish!" Dewey says, his voice a bright spark that cuts through the morning haze. "You're awake! I was wondering when I'd get to see you! I brought you some things!"
He holds out a small bag of colorful markers and a pad of paper, his excitement as boundless as ever. And for the first time in days, I can't help but smile a little. It's a small thing, but it's enough to loosen the tight knot in my chest.
"You didn't have to bring me anything," I say, though the words sound warmer than I expect.
Dewey doesn't listen, of course. He plops down at the foot of the bed, unzipping the bag and pulling out the markers with exaggerated care, like it's some grand treasure. "I thought you could use these," he says, flashing a grin as he offers them to me. "I know you like drawing, so I thought maybe you'd want to make something awesome."
I take the markers from him slowly, not sure what to say, but I can feel the edges of my world starting to shift. Dewey's presence, his simple, unfettered joy—it cracks something inside me, a small crack in the wall I've built around myself. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't push me to be anything I'm not. He's just... here.
"Thanks," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but the words come easier this time.
Miras watches the exchange from the corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest, but his eyes soft, like he's watching me wake up piece by piece. He doesn't say anything, just lets me have this moment, lets Dewey's energy work its way into the spaces I've been holding onto so tightly.
Dewey doesn't wait for me to start drawing; instead, he launches into one of his stories about a new game he's been playing, his words tumbling over each other in a rush of excitement. The sound of his voice is like a lifeline, pulling me out of my own head, reminding me of the things I used to love.
Dewey's voice cuts through the air, bright and curious, his innocent question taking me off guard. It hangs in the room like a weight I wasn't prepared for.
"So, what did it feel like?" Dewey asks, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. "Being tortured? Was it really bad?"
For a moment, the world seems to stop. The brightness of the morning, the soft hum of the room, all fade into a stillness that presses in on me. I feel my pulse quicken, my chest tightening as the memories rush in, uninvited and unforgiving. My hands tremble slightly, and I try to swallow, but my throat is dry.
Miras steps forward instinctively, like he's about to step in and protect me from the question, but I stop him with a look. I can see the hesitation in his eyes, the urge to shield me from reliving it, but something shifts inside me. Maybe it's Dewey's unguarded curiosity, or maybe it's the way Miras is watching me, like he's waiting for me to take the step myself.
I take a shaky breath, and the words spill out before I can stop them. It's like the floodgates open, and I can't hold it back anymore.
"Everything about it was... overwhelming," I begin, my voice quiet but steady, like I'm trying to anchor myself in the words. "It wasn't just the pain. It was the waiting for it, the not knowing when it was going to come, or what he was going to do next. It felt like I was always on the edge of breaking, like I couldn't breathe. And every time I thought it was over, it just started again, and I couldn't escape."
I feel my hands clench at the memory of the restraints, the isolation. The darkness of the Cube.
"And the worst part…" I pause, not sure if I'm ready to say it out loud. But Dewey's eyes are still on me, waiting, and I know I need to say it. "The worst part was knowing that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I fought, it didn't matter. I couldn't stop it."
I can feel Miras's presence behind me, his eyes intense, like he's bracing for the weight of it. I don't look at him. Not yet.
Dewey's silence is the only thing that fills the room for a moment, and I'm grateful for it. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't ask more questions. He just listens. And that's what I need right now.
It's not easy to keep talking, not easy to let the words flow out when every part of me is screaming to keep it locked away, but something about Dewey's quietness makes it easier. His simplicity. His way of just accepting what I'm saying without any judgment.
When I finally finish, I feel a strange sense of release, but it's also like a weight has been lifted off my chest—and replaced by something else. Something tender.
Miras doesn't say anything at first, but I can feel his emotions swirling behind me, like he's fighting against something that's too big for him to handle. I know he's close to breaking, close to tears, and I wish I could take that away from him.
But I can't.
"I didn't want to make you relive it," Miras says, his voice thick, like he's choking on his own words. He's standing there, still in the same place, but I can feel the shift in him, like he's holding back something powerful. "I... Cherish, I wish I could've spared you from all of that."
I can hear the edge in his voice, the desperation, and I realize that this is harder for him than it is for me. I wish I could tell him that I'm okay, that I've gotten through it, but I know he'll never be okay with it. Not really.
"Miras," I say, my voice a little hoarse, but not as weak as I thought it would be. "I'm okay. Really. I wanted to talk about it. I needed to say it out loud."
He doesn't respond right away, but I can feel his breath hitch, like he's struggling to hold it together. He looks away for a moment, his hands clenched at his sides.
"I think… I think I need to step out for a bit," Miras says finally, his voice tight. "I can't… I can't stay here while you're talking about that."
I nod, understanding without needing to explain more. I know what he's feeling.
Miras turns and walks toward the door, his steps slow, almost as if he's in a daze, and I can feel the ache in my chest as he goes. It hurts to see him go, but I also know that this—this moment, this conversation—it's not something he can bear to witness right now.
As he leaves, Dewey looks up at me, his expression soft and surprisingly mature for him. "I'm glad you talked about it," he says, his voice quiet but full of understanding. "It's good to let it out, right?"
I can't help the tear that slips down my cheek, but this time, it's different. It's not from pain, but from the release, from the quiet comfort of knowing that Dewey, of all people, sees me. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I've said something that matters.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. "For letting me talk. I needed that more than I realized."
Dewey just smiles at me, that same innocent grin lighting up his face. "Anytime, Cherish. I'll always be here."
The room falls into a comfortable quiet after Miras leaves. Dewey sits next to me, his legs dangling off the side of the bed as he fiddles with the markers he brought, making quick doodles on the edge of a piece of paper. His energy is infectious in a way that, for the first time in days, doesn't feel overwhelming. It's just... a little comfort.
I find myself watching him for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. He's different from me—so much more open, so much easier to be around without the weight of everything else pressing on him. It makes me wonder how much I could learn from someone so unburdened by everything I carry.
But it's not his innocence that pulls me from my thoughts, not really. It's the way he looks up at me, catching me watching him with that innocent curiosity that only kids can possess.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice gentle, even though his hands are still moving quickly with the markers.
"Yeah," I say, the word slipping out more easily than I thought it would. "Just thinking."
Dewey nods, his expression thoughtful, but he doesn't press me for more. Instead, he picks up another marker, testing it with exaggerated care before glancing back at me, his eyes curious in a way that makes me feel like I can tell him anything.
"I was wondering," I say, my voice quiet, like I'm still unsure of myself. "When I was... when I was in the coma, what was Miras like? I mean, I know he was there... but what was it like for him?"
Dewey stops, the marker hovering over the paper, and his expression shifts—becoming more serious, more thoughtful. He looks at me like he's weighing how much he should say. After a moment, he shrugs, as if the words aren't heavy for him.
"He didn't leave much," Dewey says, his voice softer now. "He'd sit by your bed all the time, and when he wasn't sitting there, he was out looking for anything that might help you wake up. I think... I think he felt like he couldn't fix it, you know?"
I nod, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. That sounds like Miras—always thinking he has to fix everything, always carrying the weight of everything on his shoulders.
"He used to talk to you," Dewey continues, his eyes flicking down to the paper as he draws little shapes absentmindedly. "Sometimes, he'd talk like you were awake. Like you could hear him, even when you couldn't."
I close my eyes for a second, feeling a strange lump form in my throat. I don't know why it hurts to hear that, but it does. Miras talking to me when I couldn't respond—when I couldn't even hear him—feels like something sacred, something he might've kept to himself.
Dewey doesn't look up, but I can feel his attention on me. "He was worried. I think he was scared you weren't gonna wake up."
I clear my throat, the emotion welling up inside me threatening to spill over. "Was he... okay? I mean, after everything... was he alright?"
Dewey seems to think about it for a moment, his eyes distant as he remembers. "I think he was okay when you woke up. But... I don't think he really knew how to act around you after, you know?" He glances at me, his expression soft. "He doesn't want to push you, but he also doesn't want to make you feel like you're alone. So... he's always trying to be there for you."
There's a heaviness to Dewey's words, something about Miras's struggle that I hadn't fully realized. I'd been so consumed by my own fight to survive, to deal with the aftershocks of my trauma, that I hadn't thought about how much Miras was holding onto himself.
"Thanks for telling me," I say, my voice quieter now, softer. I feel like I've learned something about Miras, something that might make it easier to understand him.
Dewey shrugs, a wide grin spreading across his face. "No problem. I like helping." He picks up another marker and continues his drawing, completely unfazed by the serious conversation we just had.
I reach for my own markers, the smooth plastic cool against my fingers. It's been getting easier to hold them, easier to control the way my fingers grip. They still tremble a little, the strength in my right hand barely enough to hold a marker for long periods, but it's better. Every day, it's better.
"Can I add something to that?" I ask Dewey, nodding toward his drawing of a cartoon dragon. He's in the middle of shading it in, but he tilts his head, considering for a second before passing the paper to me.
"Sure! I can't wait to see what you do with it!" Dewey's grin is wide and bright, and I can't help but match it, even if it feels foreign.
I move my hand carefully, my fingers adjusting to the grip, the muscles in my palm and wrist still sore from the strain, but it's manageable now. I draw a small, whimsical cloud above the dragon's head, adding a little swirl of smoke from its nose. The motion feels smoother than it did yesterday. My hand doesn't feel quite as weak, and though it's not perfect, I'm proud of it.
Just as I finish adding the last detail, the door creaks open, and Imani steps in.
The sudden change in atmosphere is immediate. The quiet hum of our creative space dies the moment he enters, like the room itself holds its breath. Dewey's head snaps up, his focus flickering from Imani to me.
Imani doesn't immediately say anything—he just stands there, taking in the scene before his gaze lands on my hand, still holding the marker with a surprising steadiness.
Imani's eyebrows furrow, his expression unreadable at first. But then it shifts. His gaze lingers on my hand, a quiet disbelief settling in his eyes.
"That's... You're using your hand," he says, the words slow, almost cautious, as though he's not sure if he's seeing things clearly.
I pause, feeling my heart rate pick up just a little at the sudden attention. I glance at my hand, the one I've been so afraid of, the one that never felt like it could be useful again. But now... Now it's holding the marker with ease, the shapes I've drawn flowing more naturally than they have in days.
Imani steps further into the room, eyes never leaving my hand. His gaze shifts between me and the drawing, like he's trying to reconcile what he's seeing with the memory of how I couldn't move my fingers just days ago. "Cherish... I didn't think you'd be able to do this so soon," Imani says, his voice quieter now, almost to himself. "The way you're holding that marker... the way your hand's moving. I thought..." He trails off, not finishing the thought, but the words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken concern and surprise.
I swallow, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. It's one thing to notice the changes in myself, but to have someone else notice, to have Imani—always so guarded, always so focused on me and my progress—acknowledge it... it feels like a strange kind of weight.
Dewey pops up from his seat, leaning over to show Imani his dragon drawing with an exaggerated flourish.
"Look, Mr. Imani! Look how awesome Cherish made it! She gave him a cloud!"
Imani's eyes flick to Dewey, a soft chuckle escaping him as he bends down to examine the drawing. "Nice work, Cherish," he says with a wink. "Looks like Dewey's got some competition now."
I give him a small smile, the most interaction I've given him in days. Even though it's small, I can see his expression change. He's trying to hide it, but I can tell—he's hoping I'm starting to forgive him.
"I should go tell your dad the good news. You staying for dinner Dewey?"
I give Dewey a glance, still trying to shake the lingering tension in the room. The air feels a little lighter now, with the quiet acknowledgment of progress between me and Imani. It's a small step, but for me, it feels like more than that.
Dewey grins, oblivious to the complexity of the moment between me and Imani.
"Can I! I love having dinner here–I mean I've only had it once—and Cherish got kidnapped, but I don't think we should end this experience on a bad note."
Imani glances at me, taking a small breath before his eyes find mine again. "Alright, I'll go let the chef know." He hesitates for a second, as if there's something else he wants to say, but then he just gives a quick nod and heads for the door, his footsteps sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the room.
I watch him leave, the quiet left in his wake feeling heavier than I expected. There's something about the way he's acting—something that feels like he's tiptoeing around me, waiting for me to make the first move. I can almost hear the unspoken questions hanging between us: Will she forgive me? How long will it take?
The table is set with all the food my dad's made—lasagna, salad, garlic bread—and the familiar smell fills the air, making my stomach twist uncomfortably. I know I should eat, but the idea of it makes my chest tighten. It's like I can't quite bring myself to do something as simple as putting a fork to my mouth. Control. I need control, and if I can't have it over everything else, I'll at least have it here.
The conversation flows around me—Dewey's excitedly talking about some game he's been playing, my dad chuckling at the way Dewey's enthusiasm is always so infectious. Imani listens, occasionally adding something here or there, but his eyes keep drifting toward me, like he's waiting for me to break the silence, to join in.
But I don't. I don't touch my food, just pushing it around on my plate, making it look like I've eaten some. I can feel Miras watching me, but I can't bring myself to look up.
Eventually, dinner ends, and my dad starts clearing the table. I barely even notice the movement, too caught up in the war I'm waging in my own head.
When it's just the four of us left in the room, I finally glance at Miras. His eyes are narrowed, but his expression is careful—he's trying not to push too hard. But I can see it. The frustration. The way he's holding back, his jaw tight.
"You didn't eat."
It's a statement, not a question. But it still makes me flinch.
"I'm fine," I say, even though I know it's a lie.
"No, you're not," Miras says softly, his voice almost too calm. "You need to eat, Cherish. You can't keep doing this."
"I'm not hungry," I reply, the words sharp, even though my chest is tightening. The argument's familiar now—familiar enough that it almost feels like a routine. The same way I avoid eating, the same way I shut them out when they push me.
He doesn't argue at first. I can see him trying to hold back, trying to choose his words carefully. But then, just as my father and Dewey leave the room to give us some space, Miras finally speaks again, his voice quieter now, but heavy with the weight of everything he's holding back.
"Why?"
I feel my shoulders tense, but I don't say anything.
"Why won't you let me help you?" Miras presses, his gaze piercing, as though trying to figure out why I can talk to Dewey so easily, but not him. The words hang in the air, and I can almost see the pain flicker across his face, even though he's trying so hard to mask it.
"I don't need you to," I reply, but my voice cracks slightly, betraying the lie.
"Cherish…" He sighs, his frustration building now, no longer contained. "You talk to Dewey about everything. About what happened. About how you're feeling. But when it comes to me, you shut me out. Why?"
I swallow, my throat dry. I don't want to tell him. I don't want to admit how much it hurts, how hard it is to even consider letting him in. I don't want to give him that power over me.
"I'm just…" I start, but I don't know how to finish. I want to say I'm scared or I'm angry or I don't know how to trust you anymore, but none of those words are the ones that come out. Instead, all I manage is, "I can't, Miras. I can't do this right now."
His eyes soften, just for a moment, before that frustration returns, sharper now. He takes a step toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, like he's trying to gauge whether I'll pull away. I don't. But I also don't meet his eyes. The truth is, I don't know. I don't know why it feels easier to talk to Dewey, to open up to him about things I can't even explain. Maybe it's because he doesn't expect me to be strong. Maybe it's because he's never looked at me like I'm broken.
Maybe it's because he didn't strap me down.
The air in the corridor was thick with the stale scent of metal and antiseptic. My stomach churned—not from what I hadn't eaten, but from what I was about to do.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
The reinforced doors loomed ahead, a reminder of the hell I had barely escaped. Dr. Amar's cell was at the end of the hall, isolated, locked away like a nightmare I should have left buried. And yet, I pressed forward, each step sending a pulse of fire through my leg, up into my ribs. My right hand trembled against the cool wall, the weakness there a ghost of his work.
I had to know.
Why had he done it? Why had he given Miras the information to save me when he had spent days ensuring I never left that damn Cube alive?
The keypad flashed red, waiting for a code I didn't have. But I had spent enough time watching Imani navigate security to know how to force an override. It took longer with only one good hand, my breath growing unsteady as I worked. Every second, my body reminded me of my limits—tightening my chest, sending icy prickles through my fingers.
Finally, the lock clicked. The door hissed open.
Dr. Amar sat in the dim light, his wrists bound, his expression unreadable. His gaze flicked up, settling on me with a slow, infuriating calm.
"Cherish," he murmured, as if I were an old colleague rather than the woman he had broken. "It's such a surprise to see you, how are you feeling?"
I stepped inside, letting the door seal behind me. "Why?" My voice was hoarse, strained. "Why did you help Miras save me?"
"Because once I found out you were still alive, I'd realize I had accomplished something much bigger than the cube. I couldn't let that go to waste."
A shudder ran through me, a deep, marrow-deep kind of revulsion. "You used me."
"I gave you something no one else has ever survived." His voice was calm, clinical, like this was a simple experiment and not my body, my life. "The Cube wasn't just draining you. It was giving you energy. Raw, unfiltered, powerful."
I shook my head, the denial instinctive. "No. It was killing me."
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze dragging over me as if searching for something. Then he spoke, quiet but certain. "You still feel it, don't you?"
A chill crawled up my spine.
"I saw your vitals before they dragged you out of there, Cherish," he continued. "Your heart should have given out. Your lungs were failing. But something was still keeping you tethered to life, long past the point of no return."
I swallowed hard, but the taste of metal lingered on my tongue. "You're lying."
"You don't believe that." His voice was maddeningly even. "Tell me, when you close your eyes at night, do you still feel the hum of it? Like something just beneath your skin, waiting?"
The Cube. The suffocating darkness. The constant pull of energy that had left me hollowed out and barely alive.
Except…
Except I had felt something. Small, lingering. A whisper beneath my skin, like an ember that refused to die out. I had chalked it up to trauma, to the way my body hadn't fully healed. But now—
The world tilted suddenly, my chest tightening like a fist had wrapped around my ribs. A warning. A cruel, familiar pain blooming where my heart still fought to function.
"I take it you're not supposed to be here," Dr. Amar said, watching in amusement as I slowly lowered myself to the floor. "Seeing as you're bordering on cardiac arrest."
I gasped, staggering back against the wall, my fingers clutching at my sternum. The air thinned, my pulse stuttering. My body wasn't just failing—it was reacting.
Dr. Amar leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You're destabilizing."
"Yeah I gathered, asshole. What is the energy going to do to my body?"
Dr. Amar tilted his head, watching me with something too close to satisfaction. "That depends," he said smoothly. "On whether you fight it or let it take its course."
My vision blurred at the edges, the pressure in my chest tightening like a vise. My pulse hammered unevenly, a sick, disjointed rhythm. "Not an answer," I rasped, forcing myself to breathe through the suffocating weight. "You said the Cube left something in me—what does that mean?"
He exhaled through his nose, the way a teacher might when a student was slow to grasp the lesson. "The Cube wasn't just a machine, Cherish. It was a conduit. And you were its link. For days, it fed off you. But did you really think that energy wouldn't leave something behind?"
My stomach twisted. I had spent every moment since escaping trying to forget what it had done to me—the constant pull, the way it had drained me until I was barely a shadow of myself. I had felt it tearing me apart. But now—now it felt like something was igniting inside me.
"Energy doesn't just disappear," he continued, his voice calm, measured. "It transforms. Adapts. And in your case, it has no blueprint to follow. That's why your body is rejecting it."
Rejecting it. That word sent a new kind of fear spiraling through me.
Dr. Amar's voice cut through the haze, measured and cold. "You're fighting it. That's why you're unstable."
I forced a breath through my teeth. "Fighting what?"
His lips curved slightly. "The power the Cube left inside you. If you let it take over—truly let it in—you might find it grants you something extraordinary."
My stomach churned. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He watched me with something close to fascination. "Tell me, have you noticed the way your body reacts differently now? The way your heart stumbles, your breath catches—not from failure, but from something trying to break through?"
I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell him he was wrong.
But deep down, I knew he wasn't.
"I can help you, Cherish. I saw what you did to my machine. Back then, it was only a response to pain, but I can teach you for it to be something much more."
"Let me guess," my laugh came out as a painful rasp. "I help you escape and you'll be my mentor?"
Dr. Amar's smile widened, slow and knowing. "Oh, no," he said smoothly. "I don't need to escape. Not yet."
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me, the weight in my chest pressing harder, like something inside me was clawing to get out. I gritted my teeth, forcing the sensation down. "Then what do you want?"
"To see what you're capable of." His gaze flicked to my trembling hand, the one that had never fully recovered from the Cube. "I saw what happened when you lashed out before. That wasn't just survival, Cherish. That was potential."
I sucked in a sharp breath. I had seen it, too. The way the Cube had ruptured around me, the way the machines had reacted to me. Back then, I thought it had been some last-ditch failure of the system. A glitch. A coincidence.
But what if it hadn't been?
"You're afraid," Amar murmured. "Not of the pain. Not of me. But of what happens if you stop fighting it."
I pressed my palm against the cold wall, steadying myself. "If I let it in, what happens to me?"
He tilted his head, as if considering the question. "That depends. Do you become something more? Or does it consume you whole?"
Something inside me twisted at his words. I wasn't sure which terrified me more.
Before I could respond, the pain sharpened, my heart slamming against my ribs in a wild, stuttering rhythm. My breath hitched—too short, too tight. The world tilted.
Dr. Amar's voice was a murmur now, distant but insidious. "I can teach you to control it."
The door burst open.
"Get the fuck away from her."
Miras.
Then hands—warm, solid—grabbing me before I could collapse, pulling me against him. His scent—smoke, steel, something real—cut through the sterile air, grounding me.
"You absolute idiot," he whispered, his voice tight, furious. "What the fuck do you think you're doing talk to her!"
Dr. Amar barely reacted to Miras' fury. If anything, he looked mildly entertained. "I was simply answering her questions," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "She came to me."
Miras' grip on me tightened, his body braced between us like he was ready to rip Amar apart. "Yeah? And now she's not even standing." His tone was razor-sharp, but underneath it, I heard the fear.
I tried to steady my breath, but my heart was still fighting against itself, its rhythm erratic, unpredictable. Every pulse sent a flicker of something through my veins, a raw, unfamiliar energy coiling under my skin.
Dr. Amar tilted his head slightly. "She needed to know the truth." His gaze flicked back to me, assessing. "Didn't you?"
Miras didn't let me answer. "She needs to rest, not listen to more of your bullshit."
Amar exhaled, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Ah. I see. You'd rather she stay afraid of what's inside her than learn to control it."
Miras stiffened, and I felt it—his restraint, the barely checked rage simmering beneath his skin. "She isn't afraid."
I swallowed, pulse still thrumming out of sync. Was that true?
Dr. Amar's eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before he leaned back against the wall. "Then we'll see, won't we?"
I didn't get the chance to respond before Miras was moving, carrying me outwith him, his arm steadying me as we stepped away from the cell.
"You're done here," he muttered, his voice still edged with anger.
The world blurred around me, my vision narrowing to the pounding in my chest, the erratic stutter of my pulse. Too fast. Too uneven. My body wasn't keeping up, wasn't regulating.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard footsteps—urgent, pounding against the floor.
Then voices.
"Cherish!" My father.
"Shit—what happened?" Imani.
Miras didn't stop, didn't slow, just pushed forward, his jaw tight. "She talked to Amar," he snapped. "We need to stabilize her—now."
Imani was already moving, sprinting ahead, yanking a med kit from the wall. My father was beside us in an instant, eyes scanning me, his face a mask of barely contained panic. "Her heart?" he asked sharply.
"Out of rhythm," Miras bit out. His arms tightened around me like he could will me to stay conscious. "It's bad."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My heart slammed against my ribs in a frantic, uneven rhythm, like it couldn't decide whether to keep going or give up entirely. My fingers twitched against Miras' shirt, but I couldn't hold on.
Somewhere in the haze, I heard voices. Urgent. Panicked.
"Get her on the table—now."
Then cold metal beneath me, the distant pressure of hands checking my pulse, the rush of movement around me. But none of it felt real. The only thing I could focus on was the burning hum beneath my skin, something twisting through my veins, something alive.
"She was with Amar," Miras' voice cut through the fog, sharp, furious. "And now her heart's failing—again."
More footsteps. Someone new. "What happened?"
Dewey.
"She's destabilizing," Imani snapped. "We need to bring her heart rate down before it crashes."
"She's reacting to something," my father muttered.
No. Not something.
I struggled to speak, to tell them that it wasn't just my body giving out—it was fighting. Against itself. Against me.
My body jerked. A sharp, painful twitch that had nothing to do with the hands holding me down. My chest tightened, my pulse erratic. A sickening pressure built under my ribs.
"Beta-blockers," my father's voice cut in. "It'll regulate the arrhythmia."
I felt the sting of a needle in my arm, the cold spread of medication seeping into my bloodstream. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—slowly—the erratic pounding in my chest eased.
I gasped sharply as my body finally settled, my pulse finding an even rhythm. The tension in my limbs drained, my head rolling to the side as exhaustion crashed over me like a wave.
"What were you thinking?" Imani's voice sliced through the air, sharp and raw. "You can barely stand, and you go running off to Amar's cell? Do you have any idea what you're putting yourself through?"
I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the sting of his words. My legs trembled, but I held my ground. "You don't understand," I whispered, my voice thin but steady. "I had to. He's still there… I couldn't just let him—"
"No," my father's voice interrupted, loud and unyielding. He stepped closer, anger burning in his eyes. "You're not thinking straight, Cherish. This is about more than stubbornness. You're falling apart. Your body's falling apart, and you—"
The pressure on my chest tightened, and I struggled to keep my voice steady. "I don't need you both yelling at me," I shot back, my voice shaking, but defiant. "I'm not fragile. I'm not helpless. I'm still me. I had to see it for myself."
Imani's anger flickered, just for a second. His jaw clenched, and his eyes softened, but then it was back—the frustration, the worry. "Seeing it's not going to fix anything, Cherish," he said, his words low and firm. "You need to heal. You need to let us help you."
I looked at him, at both of them, but the weight of their words felt like chains tightening around me. "You're not getting it," I muttered, feeling the tears prickle behind my eyes. "I have to keep fighting. You can't stop me."
My father's voice dropped, quieter now, but just as hard. "We've already lost so much. Don't throw away what little we have left."
Miras stepped in behind Imani and my father, his expression darker than I'd ever seen it. His eyes locked on me, and there was no hiding the storm brewing in them. He didn't say anything at first—he didn't need to. His presence was enough to fill the room with heat, with fury that made my skin crawl.
"Cherish," he said finally, his voice cold, cutting through the tension like a blade. I looked up at him, meeting his gaze, but it felt like I was staring at someone I didn't recognize. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the muscle in his jaw twitching with every word he spoke. "What the hell were you thinking?"
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening, but I wasn't going to break. Not in front of him. "I had to see it for myself, Miras. You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," he snapped, stepping forward, his voice rising with each word. "I understand that you're putting yourself in danger, that you're not the person you were before. You can't just run off like you used to, like you're invincible. You're not! I don't care how much you want to prove you can still handle everything—look at you. Look at what you've done to yourself."
His words stung, slicing through me like a cruel reminder. I could feel my legs shaking again, but I held myself up. Just barely. I had to. "I'm not broken," I said, more to myself than to him. "I'm still me."
"Stop lying to yourself," Miras growled. His voice cracked with frustration, the anger in his eyes giving way to something darker—something I wasn't sure I wanted to see. "You're barely standing, Cherish. You can barely walk a few steps. And you're out here playing hero like you can fix everything. You're not invincible, damn it!"
I flinched, the force of his words hitting me harder than anything I'd faced in the Cube. My breath caught in my throat as the pain flared up again, but I refused to let him see it. I'd already let Imani and my father see me falter. I wouldn't let Miras break me, too.
"I'm not trying to be a hero," I whispered, my voice raw. "I just… I just need to do something. I need to know that I'm not just… waiting around. I can't be useless. Not again."
Miras didn't soften, his glare still a fierce storm. He stepped closer, his voice barely above a growl. "You think you're useless? You think running off to Amar's cell is going to make a damn difference? It's not, Cherish. You're hurting yourself. You're making everything worse."
"I'm doing what I have to do," I said, struggling to hold back the anger that was rising in me. "I don't need you to tell me what's best for me."
"You're going to be under constant surveillance. I'll have someone with you at all times—whether you like it or not." My father's words fell like a heavy weight, suffocating me from all sides.
"What? You can't be serious," I said, the disbelief in my voice making it sound like I was already losing my mind. "I'm not some child, Dad. I don't need to be watched every second of the day. I'm not a prisoner."
My father's expression didn't change, his brows drawn together in that familiar way when he was trying to make a point. "You don't get to make decisions about this right now. Not after what you've done. You could barely make it back to your room, Cherish. You're not in any shape to go wandering off again. You don't have the strength. And if I can't trust you to make the right choices, then I'll make them for you."
I felt a sharp pang in my chest, something like betrayal, but also… exhaustion. I hadn't asked for any of this—this weakness, this constant fight to stay upright. I hadn't asked for my body to betray me every time I tried to move. And now I couldn't even have a moment of peace, not even a second of independence.
"I'm fine," I hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him. "I don't need you watching me like some… some prisoner. I'm not a liability, I'm not some broken thing that needs to be coddled."
"You're not fine, Cherish," he shot back, his voice hard as steel. "And I'm not going to let you get yourself killed just to prove a point. You've already risked enough. You want to keep fighting? Fine. But you're doing it in a way that doesn't put everyone else at risk. I'm responsible for you, and right now, I don't trust you to make decisions that don't endanger yourself."
I felt a flood of frustration rush through me, but I bit it back. "I don't need protection. I don't need constant babysitters!"
"I'm doing this because I care about you," my father said, his voice softening just slightly. But the look in his eyes didn't change. "I don't know what's left of you after all of this, Cherish, but I won't let you disappear without a fight. I won't."
I looked away, clenching my fists at my sides as I fought to keep the tears in check. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to see me fall apart, to see how deeply his words cut. "I don't want to be your responsibility," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I want to stand on my own."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "I wish I could let you. But right now, I can't."
There was no argument, no room to breathe. My body was already a prison, and now my mind had to be chained up too. The suffocating weight of it all settled over me, and I wanted to scream—to tear everything apart. But instead, I just stood there, feeling the walls close in even more.
"I'll have someone here soon," my father added, his tone final. "You don't have to like it. But you'll obey."
I didn't say anything. What was the point?
The cold, sterile air in the hospital room felt like a constant reminder of everything that had changed. Outside the door, two guards sat in silence, their presence a heavy weight pressing down on the room. The constant surveillance, the lack of privacy—it all felt suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in on me.
I couldn't stand it.
I didn't look at Miras as he sat beside me, not even as he shifted slightly in the chair, his eyes flicking toward the door before settling back on me. I could feel his presence, like a shadow in the corner of my vision, but I kept my focus straight ahead, my thoughts swirling with frustration, bitterness, and a deep, aching resentment.
Everything felt so small now, and it was all because of him. Because he was right, and I hated it. Because he'd been there, looking at me like I was some fragile thing that needed to be protected, while I couldn't even find the strength to fight back. I didn't want him here, I didn't want his pity, and I sure as hell didn't want his concern.
I wasn't broken. I didn't need to be watched—not like this. Not with guards standing outside my door, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
And so, I gave him the silence. The same silence I had been giving everyone lately.
Miras shifted in his seat, letting out a frustrated sigh. He clearly didn't understand, but then again, he never had. "Cherish," he said, his voice low, but I didn't look at him. "Come on, don't do this."