"Black-haired…" Ziven managed to say. The word came out weak and broken, barely more than air, but Olessia heard it clearly.
"Yes," she said softly, leaning closer. "It's me, the black-haired outsider."
She slid an arm behind his back and helped him sit up slowly, careful not to rush him.
His weight rested against her for a moment before he steadied. All the while, his eyes never left her face. They searched her, as if the harder he looked, the more questions surfaced. But the confusion in his gaze only deepened.
"What happened… and what are you doing in my room?" he asked, his voice sounding rough.
She froze for a heartbeat. Of all the faces he could have expected to see, hers was not one of them. Yet there she was, helping him, her hand firm at his back.
A dull heaviness pressed through his body. His limbs drained of strength. He searched his mind, forcing himself to remember anything. Pain, noise, a moment before the darkness, but nothing came.
