Graft was slow to respond, the words not coming easily. Truth be told: they never did. His fractured mind trying to take in what he had witnessed. He was crouched low beside a crumpled section of the corridor wall, hands trembling against the floor slick with blood and saltwater residue. His breath came shallow, not out of physical strain, but as if every inhale had to fight against the weight of memory. Something ancient behind his eyes, glassy and half-vacant, tried to surface and swallow him whole.
It took Sight speaking again—that voice, low and deliberate like someone coaxing a stray dog from under a wrecked car—for Graft’s head to jerk slightly. The sound reoriented him. His nose twitched, registering Sight’s scent first: familiar, chemical-clean, tinged faintly with coffee and gunpowder. He smelt different than the Faith Agents. Graft always noted that.
"…Not my blood," he rasped, though the evidence smeared under his nose suggested otherwise. His voice was thin, cracked around the edges, like his throat had been rubbed with sandpaper.
He didn’t take the napkin right away. His eyes scanned it, then flicked to Sight’s hand—assessing not the offer, but the risk behind it. The instinct was still there, buried under the rubble: protect, survive, isolate. Don’t let them touch you. He winced, but not from pain—more like the recoil of someone caught crying in a warzone.
“I was trying to put someone back together,” he finally said, voice still faint. “Didn’t work. Not enough left to… tether.”
A thin trail of blood curved from his nostril. He didn't wipe it.
Somewhere beneath the surface, he’d already started running diagnostics. That was the only good thing about this horrifying ability—his nerves were traitorous, yes, but also efficient. Hyper-accurate. Every damaged cell screamed its status to his cortex, cataloguing the severity like a list written in pain. Minor fractures along the clavicle. Lacerations through soft tissue—no infection risk. A strain in his left orbital socket, blood vessels ruptured under stress. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing new. It was all repairable.
Ezra’s suggestion of medical pulled a small laugh from Graft. Or something like it. Hollow, humorless, a sound made of tired teeth and static. “I'm... fine. Don't need medical. Damage is minor.”
He drew in a breath, shaky but stabilizing, bracing one hand on the wall to begin pushing himself upright.
“I can still help,” he muttered, more to himself than the older agent. “I have to. There are bodies that haven’t been found yet. Nerves still firing. Traces I can pull from. I can hear them, Sight. They're still screaming. They're... stuck.”
His fingers flexed unconsciously, as if reaching through the air for something unseen. He looked up again, expression stark—haunted, yes, but alive with an unshakable urgency.
“I’m not going back to my room. Not yet.”
“…I'm sorry, but... I can't.”
He didn’t look at Sight when he spoke. Just stared at the blood pooled at the cracked tile seam, as if it might rearrange itself into a name he could save. His hand hovered over the napkin now—still undecided. Still human enough to want the help.
Then, with hesitant precision, he extended a hand.
Tentatively he took the napkin from Sight, every movement deliberate to avoid contact. His fingers brushed just the edge of the cloth, and he brought it to his nose, holding it there in silence for a moment. No words. Just the faint tremble of effort, or restraint. Or both. "You don't... have to be scared of me." He paused, a knowing look in his eyes. He knew that was a weak attempt at assurance. "I understand why you... and everyone else are though. I'm like... one of those deadly jellyfish or something. I don't mean to harm people... it just... happens because I exist. Kind of fucked up... isn't it?"
