The room was dim.
Caesar hadn't slept.
Eighteen years stolen from him, and yet the exhaustion now wasn't physical — it was restless. Calculating. His red eyes stared at the ceiling, replaying the nurse's trembling confession.
Two years gone.
Izana had left.
But something else bothered him.
Something older.
When Elias entered the room that morning, Caesar didn't greet him.
Instead, he asked quietly:
"Where is she?"
Elias paused mid-step.
"Who?" he asked carefully.
"My wife."
Silence fell like a dropped weight.
Dante, standing near the door, stiffened.
Elias didn't answer immediately.
Caesar turned his head slowly.
"Why are you silent?"
Leah stepped in behind Elias. She hadn't meant to walk into this, but she immediately felt the shift in the air.
Elias finally spoke.
"She died."
The word was simple. Clean.
It didn't feel real.
Caesar blinked once.
"No."
"She died eighteen years ago," Elias continued, voice steady. "The same night you went into the coma."
Caesar stared at him as if he'd spoken nonsense.
"That's not possible."
Leah's chest tightened.
Elias didn't look away.
"It is."
Caesar's jaw hardened.
"How?"
The question was controlled.
Too controlled.
Elias exhaled slowly.
"You remember Izana's first malfunction."
The word malfunction seemed to echo in the room.
Caesar's expression shifted slightly.
He didn't speak.
"You had pushed the neural acceleration too far," Elias continued. "His body reacted violently. His system overloaded."
Caesar's breathing slowed.
"I stabilized him," he said.
"No," Elias replied. "You tried."
The room felt smaller.
Leah looked between them, confused.
"What malfunction?" she asked quietly.
Elias hesitated.
Caesar's voice cut through.
"Tell her."
Elias' jaw tightened.
"He was ten," Elias said. "When it happened."
Leah's stomach dropped.
"The mutation destabilized," Elias continued. "His cognitive control collapsed. He didn't recognize anyone. He didn't understand what was happening."
Leah's voice trembled.
"What are you saying?"
Elias' gaze shifted to her briefly.
"His mother tried to calm him."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Leah's eyes widened slowly.
"No."
Caesar's fingers dug into the sheets.
"She stepped between him and his father," Elias said quietly. "She thought she could reach him."
Leah's voice cracked.
"And?"
Elias swallowed.
"He lashed out."
He didn't describe it.
He didn't need to.
Leah's face went pale.
"No…"
Caesar's breathing changed.
"He was a child," Elias added. "He didn't know what he was doing."
The words hung in the air like a verdict.
Leah stepped backward.
"You're saying… Izana…?"
Elias nodded once.
"It was the malfunction."
Leah shook her head slowly.
"He would never—."
"He didn't mean to," Elias said firmly.
Caesar's voice was low.
"And me?"
Elias looked at him.
"You nearly died. The impact. The collapse of the lab. You never regained consciousness."
Fragments began to surface.
Glass.
A scream.
Red light flickering violently.
His wife shouting Izana's name.
Then darkness.
Caesar closed his eyes.
"She told me to stop," he murmured.
No one responded.
"She said I was pushing him too far."
Leah's breathing was uneven now.
"She begged you," Elias said quietly.
That landed.
Harder than anything else.
Caesar opened his eyes again.
Not furious.
Not wild.
Still.
Cold.
"Did he remember?" he asked.
Elias hesitated.
"A bit."
Leah turned sharply.
"He doesn't remember all of it?" she whispered.
Elias shook his head.
"His memory fractured under the overload, but he only remembers what he did. We contained what we could. We told him it was the curse destabilizing."
Leah's hands trembled.
"So he's been living with nightmares… and he doesn't even know why."
Silence.
Caesar's voice returned — distant.
"The neurological spike… did it exceed the predicted threshold?"
Leah stared at him.
"Are you serious?"
He didn't answer her.
Instead, he looked at Elias.
"Was it a strength surge or a cognitive rupture first?"
Leah stepped forward, fury igniting.
"She died," Leah shouted. "And that's what you ask?"
Caesar's red eyes shifted to her slowly.
"That data matters."
Leah's face twisted in disbelief.
"She was your wife."
"She was an obstacle," Caesar corrected automatically.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
And for the first time — he seemed to realize what he had said.
The room went dead quiet.
Leah's voice dropped.
"Is that how you justify it?"
Caesar didn't answer.
Leah's anger dissolved into something else.
Horror.
"He was ten," she whispered. "He was ten years old."
Elias stepped closer to her.
"He's been carrying something he doesn't understand," Leah continued, voice breaking. "All this time."
Caesar's gaze hardened again.
"He survived."
"That's not the same thing!" Leah snapped.
"He evolved," Caesar replied.
Leah recoiled as if struck.
Elias placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
Leah shook her head, eyes glossy.
"No. He deserves to know everything."
Elias' expression sharpened.
"Not like this."
Leah's voice trembled.
"He deserves to know what happened to him."
"And if that knowledge breaks him?" Elias countered.
Silence.
That question lingered painfully.
Caesar leaned back slowly.
"He will not break."
Leah looked at him.
"You don't know that."
His red eyes met hers.
"He is mine."
Leah's expression hardened.
"No," she said quietly. "He isn't."
Elias gently guided her toward the door.
"Come on."
She resisted for a second — then let him lead her out.
Dante remained for a moment longer.
He looked at Caesar carefully.
"You built him," Dante said. "But you didn't build what he became after."
Then he followed them out.
The door closed.
Alone, Caesar stared at the ceiling again.
His wife's voice echoed faintly in memory.
"You're going to lose him."
He whispered into the empty room:
"I didn't lose him."
But even he wasn't sure if that was true anymore.