The room was dim, lit by a single overhead panel that hummed faintly. The air smelled sterile—clean, controlled, unlike the lived-in warmth of Hale's home.
Frank arrived without urgency.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Just present.
Yura guided her father onto the bed, her hands steady despite the tremor in her breath. Valerine stood near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Airis lingered by the wall, distant, quiet—as if she had already retreated somewhere only she could reach.
Aren remained just outside the door.
Close enough to hear.
Far enough to stay unseen.
Frank placed his case down gently and glanced at Hale, already assessing more than just his physical condition.
"Stress-induced hemoptysis," Frank said calmly. "It's been worsening, hasn't it?"
Yura nodded. "He's been coughing blood more frequently."
Frank sighed softly. Not frustrated—concerned.
"I told you," he said, his voice low, "this environment accelerates deterioration. Chronic grief does that."
He moved with practiced efficiency, checking Hale's pulse, his breathing, the tension in his jaw.
Then his gaze shifted.
To Airis.
She stood still, eyes unfocused, fingers curled slightly inward.
Frank straightened.
"She's dissociating again," he said gently.
Valerine stiffened. "She hasn't said anything."
"She doesn't need to," Frank replied. "This is a pre-withdrawal state."
Aren's brow furrowed.
Dissociating?
Yura glanced toward Airis, worry tightening her expression. "She's been quieter since yesterday."
Frank nodded. "That's expected."
He turned to both Yura and Valerine now, his tone shifting—not clinical, not cold—careful.
"You both know Airis didn't grow up like others."
Silence settled.
"She had no parents," Frank continued. "No stable attachment figure. No early emotional anchor."
Aren leaned slightly closer.
"She was brought to me as an infant," Frank said. "There was no family to return her to. No records. No names worth trusting."
Yura swallowed.
"She created one," Frank added softly.
Valerine's jaw tightened. "Her… mother."
"Yes," Frank said. "A protective cognitive construct."
He spoke the words without judgment.
"When a child experiences prolonged isolation, the mind compensates. It builds a figure of safety—someone who soothes, guides, protects."
Airis shifted slightly at the sound of his voice.
Frank noticed.
"She doesn't see her as imaginary," he continued. "And we never correct that."
Yura frowned. "Because correcting it would—"
"—collapse her sense of stability," Frank finished. "Yes."
He paused before continuing.
"It's called Protective Imagery Response. Harmless. Necessary."
Aren felt something tighten in his chest.
Frank moved toward the console near the wall, activating a low hum.
"The same applies to the portals," he said.
Valerine glanced up sharply.
"They're not real," Frank said plainly.
Airis didn't react.
"They're symbolic thresholds," he continued. "Guided dissociative spaces."
He looked back at Yura.
"She believes she's meeting versions of herself. Past selves. Possible selves."
Yura's voice was quiet. "And that helps her?"
"Yes," Frank replied without hesitation. "It gives her meaning."
He let that sit.
"Trauma doesn't heal through denial," he said. "It heals through narrative control."
Aren's breath caught.
"She needs to believe she matters," Frank went on. "That her suffering leads somewhere. That she's… chosen."
Valerine's voice was sharp. "And if she stops believing that?"
Frank didn't answer immediately.
"When cognition destabilizes," he said slowly, "the mind searches for its origin."
He looked at Airis again.
"And hers… is not something she can face."
Silence pressed in.
Yura clenched her fists. "So this is treatment?"
Frank met her eyes steadily.
"This is survival."
He adjusted Hale's IV.
"If we strip her of these constructs," he said, "we don't cure her. We erase her."
Airis stirred faintly.
Frank's voice softened.
"She's fragile," he said. "Not weak. Fragile."
Aren stepped back.
His heart was pounding.
They're not treating her…
They're containing something.
Inside the room, Frank turned toward the door.
"We'll talk later," he said. "For now, let her rest."
Airis followed him without a word.
As the door closed behind Frank and Airis, Aren remained in the corridor, motionless.
A patient.
That's what he called her.
Not a leader.
Not a manipulator.
Not a weapon.
A patient.
The words echoed louder than any gunfire.
So this is what I've been hunting? Aren thought.
A girl being treated for a fractured mind?
His jaw tightened.
The one I believed was controlling these people…
might be the one being controlled.
His gaze drifted toward the sealed door.
Then why does it feel wrong?
Treatment didn't require secrecy.
Healing didn't need lies layered this deep.
And Frank…
A man who spoke with kindness.
With reason.
With answers that fit too perfectly.
If she is the threat, Aren thought,
why does everyone else seem afraid of her waking up?
His fingers curled slowly into his palm.
Something here isn't what it claims to be.
And I will find out what.