Silence pooled in the suite like a second atmosphere.
Sylus was still in the armchair beside the bed, long legs crossed, hands steepled loosely.
I kept my eyes on the ceiling, breathing carefully through the ache blooming under my ribs.
If I let myself look at him now, I wasn't sure what would slip — pain, irritation, the tremor I'd been holding down since the coughing started.
Silence stretched.
Eventually, it scraped too thin.
"If you wanted to know about my past," I said, still staring upward, "you could've just asked."
His breath changed a fraction. I could feel his attention sharpen like a blade turning.
"Would you have answered?" he asked.
No hesitation.
No accusation.
Just a clean, direct cut.
I let a breath out — shallow, slow.
He had a point.
Working under him meant disclosures were inevitable. Either I told him pieces on my own terms, or he'd extract them by inference, pressure, or sheer persistence.
I dropped my gaze at last.
His eyes were already on me — steady, dark, unreadable.
"What do you want to know?" I asked.
He didn't even blink.
"The scapular fracture."
Of course.
The one injury that required force most people never lived through.
The one that didn't fit the profile of a hacker or civilian contractor.
The one with a story I'd never planned to repeat.
His posture didn't change, but the room felt smaller.
"How did you break it?" He asked quietly.
I drew in a tight breath.
The memory flashed with the clarity of old bone pain — metal shrieking, fire blooming under the wing, the violent wrench of the harness, the ground rushing up too fast.
I chose my words with surgical precision.
"There was a mission. The aircraft took damage. I had to eject."
A beat.
"Landing didn't go well."
Truth.
Curated truth.
"How old were you when it happened?"
I stared at the ceiling again. The motherfucker knows exactly what he's doing.
"Twenty-two."
He asked it softer this time — a low, coaxing slide of a voice that felt designed to pull answers straight out of my spine.
"And what," he said, "were you doing at twenty-two that put you in the path of that kind of impact?"
I turned my head toward him.
"You don't need to use that tone," I said quietly. "I'm already answering."
A fractional shift crossed his expression — not guilt, not surprise.
Recognition.
As if he'd expected me to feel it.
As if he wanted to see whether I would.
"That wasn't a tone," he said, but there was the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth — so subtle it could've been a shadow. "That was a question."
"Mm-hm."
I didn't bother hiding my skepticism.
"It sounded like coaxing."
"And if it was?" he asked.
My pulse jumped. Treacherous thing.
I looked back at the ceiling.
"Then stop," I said. "I don't like it."
"Why?" he asked — too softly.
I didn't answer.
Because that tone was even worse.
"At twenty-two," I continued as if nothing happened, "I was working off a sentence."
His attention sharpened.
"I was caught in a sting. Someone decided my skills were worth salvaging, so instead of prison I got… a program. Training. A pipeline that didn't care how old I was as long as I could follow orders and keep my mouth shut."
My gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling.
"They tested us. Sorted us. I was assigned to aviation."
"And what were you doing when you got caught?"
I almost smiled. Dark humor. Dry at the edges.
"What I do best," I said. "Hacking. For governments. For syndicates."
A pause.
Then, deadpan: "Even a sheik once."
A small laugh escaped — thin, involuntary.
His gaze didn't waver. If anything, the faint humor at the corner of his mouth vanished — replaced by something sharper, colder, more analytic.
"And how long were you in this program?"
Of course.
Not what I did.
Not who I worked for.
Not even whether I'd killed anyone.
Just time.
Duration.
Because time told him everything:
How long I'd been shaped.
How long I'd survived it.
How long someone else had owned me.
My throat tightened, not with fear — with memory.
"Six years. More than I intended. Less than they wanted."
His eyes narrowed a fraction — not displeased.
"And after?" he asked. "They simply let you walk away?"
A humorless breath slipped out of me.
"No. They let me… drift. Under supervision. On a leash long enough I could pretend it wasn't there."
His fingers tapped once against the armrest — a quiet, thoughtful sound.
"And now?"
"Now?" I exhaled. "Now the leash is broken."
His gaze sharpened again — interest, tension, something I couldn't name coiling behind his eyes.
"Did you break it," Sylus asked softly, "or did someone else try to pull it too hard?"
My heartbeat stuttered.
Too close.
Too accurate.
A question that brushed against truths he had no business even orbiting.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't answer.
Not without unraveling everything.
The silence tightened, thin as wire.
Sylus's attention pinned me — patient, unblinking, waiting for the slightest crack in my restraint.
And then—
A soft chime.
The door slid open.
Dr. Hsu stepped inside with her tablet in hand, her expression composed, unaware that she'd just interrupted something that felt like standing at the edge of a precipice.
"Results are in," she said.
The tension snapped — not gone, just forced to retract, coiling back into the space between us like something living.
Sylus didn't look away from me immediately.
He held my gaze for one beat.
Two.
As if marking the unfinished question between us.
Only then did he shift, slow and deliberate, turning toward Dr. Hsu with the kind of controlled calm that made me wonder if he ever truly relaxed a single muscle in his life.
Dr. Hsu stepped closer, tablet in hand.
"Your imaging is processed," she said. "I've reviewed both the CT and the ultrasound."
Her tone didn't waver, didn't soften.
I braced without meaning to.
She glanced at Sylus briefly, then addressed me.
"First: the good news. The internal bleed has not progressed. The ultrasound shows no fluid pooling in the pleural cavity, and the CT confirms the bleeding hasn't expanded."
A breath left me — not relief, but something adjacent.
"However," she continued, "there was movement around the fracture margins. The exertion you described caused irritation to the surrounding tissue. That explains the blood in your cough."
"Is it dangerous?" I asked.
"Not immediately, but it can become dangerous quickly if aggravated again."
Behind her, Sylus went still in a way that was louder than any movement.
She scrolled her tablet. "Your bloodwork is reassuring. No significant drops in hemoglobin. No signs of systemic stress beyond what your injuries would already produce."
Another tap. Another page.
"You are stable, but you are not cleared for exertion, impact, twisting, or anything that would elevate your heart rate beyond mild activity."
A pointed look — not unkind, but unyielding.
"If you repeat whatever caused this episode, you will worsen it."
I nodded once.
Dr. Hsu continued, "I've already forwarded your images and clinical notes to Dr. Zayne."
Sylus's head turned fractionally at that — a subtle, assessing shift — as if measuring what Zayne's opinion would add to the equation.
"He asked me to notify him the moment your results were ready," she added. "You should expect him to contact you shortly."
Great.
Another physician in my ribs.
Dr. Hsu set the tablet aside.
"For tonight, you'll stay under observation. I want to repeat vitals in thirty minutes and reassess pain levels. If there are no changes, you can return to your… residence."
"Rest," she finished. "No exceptions."
When she left, the door sealed with its soft magnetic whisper.
And the silence dropped right back into place — heavier than before.
Sylus hadn't taken his eyes off me.
A faint vibration broke the air — muffled, coming from the bathroom where my clothes were folded.
My phone.
I exhaled, bracing a hand on the mattress to push myself upright—
But Sylus was already standing.
"Stay put."
He crossed the room in long, unhurried strides, disappeared behind the bathroom door, and returned a moment later. He placed the phone in my hand without a word.
Zayne's name glowed across the screen.
I swallowed and accepted the video call. "Hello, Dr. Zayne? I'm sorry to make you work in the middle of the night."
"It's alright. I wasn't asleep," he said, voice lower than usual but steady. "I'm glad you were able to get a thorough examination — and with Dr. Hsu, no less. You're in excellent hands."
His tone softened around the edges.
Calm. Professional. A measured concern pulsing beneath it.
Sylus moved to sit on the armchair again. The weight of his gaze, still as stone, watching every second of this exchange.
"I've reviewed the scans," Zayne continued. "You're stable. But, you are vulnerable. Any repeat strain will set you back, potentially severely. You need to keep your exertion minimal, avoid impacts, and monitor for recurrence of the coughing."
"I understand."
"I mean it, Diana. No pushing through discomfort. If anything worsens—pain, breathing, blood—you contact me or Dr. Hsu immediately."
"Got it."
He exhaled softly, a sound halfway between reassurance and insistence. "Rest. Let the tissue recover. And… try not to get into any fights for a while."
A huff of air left me — almost a laugh, if I'd had the energy.
"I'll do my best."
"I'm sure you will," he said, voice warm. "Get some sleep if you can."
"Thank you, Dr. Zayne."
"Goodnight, Diana."
The call cut off with a soft electronic click.
Silence followed. But I didn't want to stay in it.
I pushed a controlled breath through my nose and shifted slightly on the bed.
"I need to use the bathroom."
Not a lie.
The contrast was already working its way through my system.
I closed the bathroom door with the softest click I could manage.
I braced a hand on the counter, exhaling through a tremor I hadn't let myself feel before now. My reflection looked… drained. Eyes slightly glassy. Skin too pale except for the flushed blotches from pain and contrast heat.
Headache pulsing behind my temples.
Stomach hollow.
Limbs heavy.
Right.
I hadn't eaten in hours.
I'd fought, bled, been scanned, interrogated, and focus could only outrun biology for so long.
When I finished and washed my hands, I lingered another moment — letting the cold water steady me, trying to reel myself back in before facing him again.
It helped. A little.
I stepped back into the suite and scanned the room slowly, found a tall cabinet near the far wall, and crossed to it. Inside were neatly folded supplies — linens, towels, and a thick, soft blanket. I pulled it out and wrapped it around my shoulders.
The weight settled along my arms, my spine.
Better.
Not fixed.
But better.
Behind me, Sylus's voice came low, even: "I can adjust the thermostat if you're cold."
"I'm not cold," I said, pulling the blanket tighter. "It's… psychological. The weight helps."
A truth I hadn't planned on offering.
His attention followed me as I made my way slowly back to the bed and eased myself down. The blanket cocooned around me as I carefully lay back.
Another breath.
Another tremor.
"Here's another piece of information about me," I said quietly. "I'm not cool or collected like you. I'm extremely anxious. My emotions just… lag."
I swallowed, the words scraping on the way out.
"All the fear and anxiety I should've felt at that table? It's arriving now. With interest. And monetary correction."
A thin, humorless breath slipped out as I pulled the blanket up.
"I need a few minutes of darkness to feel safe."
I started to slip my head under the fabric—
—when the lights went out first.
I froze.
A heartbeat of ice locked my lungs.
Every nerve braced for the wrong man in the dark — for the pattern Viktor loved: extinguish the world, then send the message.
I forced my fingers to unclench from the blanket. Forced my pulse to obey.
Only then — after a few seconds too long — did Sylus's voice cut through the fear, low and even: "There's a light switch beside the bed."
The tension in my chest eased in increments, not all at once.
"Oh…" I murmured, settling back under the blanket. "That's… much better. Thank you."
Darkness wrapped around me like a shield — finally, mercifully — cutting off the weight of observation, the bright clinical surfaces, the sense of being seen.
My breathing steadied.
The ache under my ribs dulled.
Exhaustion loosened bolts inside me I usually kept locked.
"…Sylus?"
A soft beat.
"Hm."
The sound was low enough to warm the dark.
I swallowed.
"Do you think Viktor has a chance of getting to me?"
Silence — but not hesitation.
He was selecting the correct shape of truth, like a blade being fitted back into its sheath.
"As long as you stay by my side, Viktor won't touch you."
The certainty in his voice landed like a barrier dropping into place — immovable, absolute.
My fingers tightened in the blanket.
Behind my eyes, unbidden, the image flared—
The girl.
The one Viktor made sure I saw.
Her body arranged like a message.
Her ruined face shaped into something that looked like mine.
Not rage. Not impulse.
Communication.
A warning written in flesh.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My voice frayed.
"You won't regret helping me," I murmured. "I know why you brought me in. Why you keep me close."
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
"You see value. A tool you can use."
My breath shook once. "That's fine. I don't mind being used as a weapon."
A pause — small, trembling, real.
"I might even prefer it."
I swallowed against the pressure rising in my throat.
"I wouldn't survive what he wants from me," I whispered.
The dark felt heavier now.
Not suffocating — anchoring.
A place to speak a truth that daylight couldn't touch.
"I'll die for you, Sylus."
"Just keep him away from me."
The words fell into the darkness like a vow sealed in blood.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then — barely audible — I heard the faintest shift of his breath.
Not surprise.
Not discomfort.
Something heavier.
He didn't speak, but the air tightened — charged, altered — as if the room itself had registered what I'd just given him.
A pact neither of us named.
A fault line quietly, irrevocably drawn.