Macon jolted awake.
Not gradually, not peacefully—he exploded out of sleep, as if ripped from another world. His back arched off the mattress, lungs dragging in a sharp gasp like a drowning man breaching the surface. Sweat plastered his shirt to his skin. His heart slammed against his ribs.
For a split second, he couldn't tell where he was.
The screams of soldiers still echoed in his ears.
The metallic stench of blood clung to his nostrils.
The clang of steel rang in his skull.
His bedroom blurred, flickering like a mirage. Cream-colored walls melted into scorched stone battlements. Posters wavered, charred banners soaked in soot. He could still hear them—men shouting his name.
General! Hold the line! General Macon, we await your order!
His breath caught. He didn't dare blink.
It wasn't a dream.
It never was.
Slowly, terrified of confirming the truth, he lowered a trembling hand to his side.
His fingers brushed the old scar along his ribs.
Warm. Wet. Raw.
No. No, no—
Not again.
He yanked his hand back. Red smeared across his palm. His chest tightened; frantic breaths tore from his throat. Memories surged forward—swords slashing, searing pain, blood streaming down armor he didn't remember putting on.
I felt it. I bled. I was there.
He threw off the blanket and forced himself to look.
The wound had reopened. Not a small scratch. A deep gash ran across his ribs, pulsing faintly as if alive.
"What—what's happening to me?" he whispered.
Panic flared.
He stumbled to his desk, yanked open the first aid kit. Pills and gauze clinked like bones in a coffin.
"Calm. Just—clean it. Pretend it's normal."
The moment the cotton touched the wound—
A white-hot pain exploded through his body.
"AGH!"
The bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
"Macon!"
Vivian's voice. His sister.
No. Not now.
She burst in, eyes wide with panic. "What happened?! I heard you scream—"
He slammed a hand over the wound, kicking the first aid kit under the bed.
"Nothing! I'm fine," he rasped.
Vivian stared, chest heaving. "Fine? You were screaming."
"I—I stubbed my toe."
Her gaze lingered on his sweat, shaking hands, the faint blood on his side. "…I hope it's not what I'm thinking. Something's wrong, Macon."
He recoiled. "I said I'm fine!"
Silence.
Her brows furrowed—not in anger, but hurt. "…Okay," she murmured. "I'll go to work. We'll talk when I'm back."
She left.
Macon didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Only when her footsteps faded did he allow himself to shake. He slumped beside the bed, one hand clutching the wound, the other digging into the carpet.
The pulsing beneath his skin continued. Throbbing. Beating. Something alive slithering through his veins, spreading outward in branching patterns.
Cell clustering.
He had no idea where the term came from, but it echoed sharply in his mind. The flesh around the wound tightened unnaturally, like invisible tendrils were pulling it apart.
He stumbled forward, clutching his side. Knees buckled. The room tilted. His ears rang.
This time—he didn't catch himself. He collapsed. Cheek hit the cold floor. Vision blurred.
Voices echoed somewhere in the distance. Not Vivian's. Not human.
He returns… The bridge awakens… General… come back to us…
"No…" he whispered. "Leave me alone…"
The voices grew louder. The wound pulsed.
Then—
Everything went quiet. Darkness swal
lowed him. No sound. No pain. No breath.
Just one faint whisper curling against his ear:
"Wake up…."