It was a fair Saturday morning at work. There were two men before you. They were the command crew from the UK, assigned to a rotational joint deployment here in Sydney. Tango Tasmania—Australia’s first Mark I—had only been completed through allied support from the UK. Though stationed on Australian soil, it was routinely piloted by a mixed rotation of it's Australian and English Jaeger pilots.
“I’m in constant pain, ya’ ken that, pretty lass,” Samuel MacGregor sat on the medical bed as if it were a pub bench, long legs outstretched, grin lazy despite the way one hand kept flexing at his side. The man was in his forties—forty-five, if you remembered correctly. Broad-shouldered, silver already peppered through his dark hair. You observed that he was the kind of man who smiled through discomfort as if daring it to get worse.
“Sure you cannae prescribe me another round of whatever miracle pills you’ve been handin’ out?”
His Scottish accent curled warmly around every word, flirtation stitched into habit more than intent. You also noticed he’d already asked once—only a minute ago, though he didn’t seem aware of it.
“The physical therapy regimen your predecessor recommended hasn’t been exactly effective,” Ewren Fraser cut in before you could answer. He stood near the door, with hid arms folded and posture stiff—watchful rather than relaxed.
This one was probably from England. Early forties. His voice was level, stripped of ornament. “I’ve been managing my own symptoms well. Sam, however, seems incapable of going a week without whining for tylenol.”
“Och, listen to ye man,” MacGregor scoffed, rolling his head to the side to peer at his co-pilot. “All that stoic nonsense, an’ I ken full well yere hurtin’ just as bad. Ya hide it better, I’ll give ye that. Doesn’t mean it’s no’ there man.” Samuel complains.
After much fuss from MacGregor’s end, the English crew of Tango Tasmania eventually left the infirmary once they've finished and undergone through their weekly routine checkup. You weren't going to kill one of PPDC’s prized pilots to liver failure.
If you’d spoken to the version of yourself a year ago—if you’d told her what you were currently studying—she would have laughed. Or assumed you were joking.
The side effects of Jaeger piloting. Prolonged, or even just short term periods.
Not combat trauma. Or radiation exposure. Not even the physiological aftermath of near-death encounters. But the physical consequences of piloting a machine that did not even exist ten years ago.
So how, exactly, were you supposed to keep two Jaeger pilots alive?
You understood the premise well enough. The Kaiju had not waited for peer-reviewed literature or longitudinal studies. They had arrived, and humanity needed to respond with something that could meet them blow for blow. Research into pilot safety—into what prolonged neural load did to the brain, the autonomic system, the rest of it—had come later. Maybe perhaps there was nothing at all. What mattered at the time was that it was a feasible solution to deter and eliminate the greatest threat man had faced.
Thus, the Jaeger program.
It was common knowledge by now that a Jaeger required two pilots—that the neural load would kill a single operator, that drift compatibility was not optional but mandatory. It made sense, in both theory and practice. What wasn’t common knowledge—what certainly wasn’t standardized, was what that neural synchronization did to the human body over time.
And that was the problem.
There was no atlas you could read. No clinical handbook. No neat diagnostic framework you could lean on when something went wrong.
The physician you had replaced—Dr. Jesse O’Neill, as it turned out, had at least had the sense to compile everything. Hard copies, handwritten notes, redacted requested reports, and early correspondence that should never have left a classified archive. Included among them were photocopied copies from another practitioner, Dr. Caitlin Lightcap’s papers from the earliest days of the Jaeger project. But even that was insufficient. It was preliminary, incomplete, and often than not, contradictory.
You stared at the pile in front of you. Paper, ink, your notes. Your tablet held digital files as well, but the effect was the same. Pages full of observations that raised more questions than they answered.
Symptoms without mechanisms. Outcomes without explanations.
It was frustratingly difficult—dangerously so—to assess severity when you didn’t fully understand causation. To project confidence when the pathology itself was poorly defined. And yet, that was the expectation. That you would know. That you would act decisively. That you would treat conditions that did not yet even have names. This was way above your pay grade—you just realized.
This wasn’t even medicine as you knew it. It was a new discipline entirely. Something still being invented.
But one thing was for certain. You weren't the kind of person that gave up easily. You just needed more information. And you suspected—quietly, reluctantly—that the only way forward was to speak to someone who had been there when this was all still theory.
- - | | MAY 10, 2022 . . .
The box was heavier than you’d anticipated. Heavier than it was yesterday when you decided to bring work to back your unit.
Paper had a way of lying about its weight—especially when it contained years of poorly re-catalogued medical records, internal memos, and case studies that should have been digitized long ago. Bringing this box back to your unit was the worst decision you've made so far this year. You adjusted your grip as you stepped into the corridor, the cardboard edge biting into your forearms as you navigated around passing personnel.
You were halfway to reconsidering your life choices when a shadow fell into step beside you.
You didn’t look up immediately. Didn’t have to.
The rangers’ voice was distinct and familiar enough already to register even over the low hum of the Shatterdome—but casual and closer than expected.
“I’ve got it,” you said automatically, shifting the box higher against your chest with a grunt.
He glanced down at it, then back at you.
“You’re carrying an entire library of what, research? And you expect me to believe you,” he said flatly. “You don’t.”
Before you could object again, he had already taken the weight from you—efficient, careful, like he’d done this before. Which, given his upbringing, he probably had. He didn’t make a show of it. Just adjusted the box against his shoulder and kept walking.
You exhaled, irritation flickering briefly before giving way to reluctant relief. “…Thank you.”
“No problem, ma'am,” he replied easily. “Where to?”
That earned a brief glance.
“Must be a big day,” he remarked.
“And a productive one,” you corrected. Then—dryly, you added, “...hopefully.”
He huffed a quiet laugh at that, and the two of you fell into step. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet, companionable in a way you hadn’t expected. Chuck didn’t pry. It wasn't his business to. Didn’t ask what was in the box or why a physician was hauling classified medical documents through a military corridor if he were to snoop.
LOCCENT was brimming with activity when you arrived. Well, in a sense, it is always and must be active 24/7. Its holographic screens are alive with data streams, personnel moving with clipped efficiency. The officer on duty looked up as you approached, eyes flicking briefly to Chuck before settling on you.
“Ma’am?” An officer with a nameplate that had his name engraved and position engraved on it approached you.
“Officer Murray, I need an open line to the Hong Kong Shatterdome,” you said, producing your tablet. “I’ve already submitted a memo requesting archival access—medical-related Jaeger pilot files.”
The officer scanned the memo quickly, eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly.
“…That’ll require authorization from Marshal Pentecost.”
There was a pause. Then— “We can put Hong Kong on the line.”
“Yes,” you said. “Please.”
Chuck stepped back, resting the box against a console, arms folding loosely as he watched the room with quiet alertness. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t hover. Just stayed.
Hong Kong Shatterdome LOCCENT came online—rows of data, scrolling readouts, and finally a familiar voice cutting through the static.
“Sydney, this is Officer Tendo Choi.”
Tendo Choi’s face appeared moments later, headset askew, eyes sharp as he read through the holograms.
“Okay,” he said briskly. “We’re patched through. What’s the situation?”
You stepped forward. “ This is [ THE DOCTOR ], primary physician to Jaeger pilots, assigned in Sydney. I’m requesting expanded access to archived medical records related to pilot drift exposure, neural load degradation, and post-jaeger operation complications.”
Tendo blinked. Then frowned.
“…That’s above my clearance.”
Another pause. Then he sighed.
You waited for a moment. Then, the screen shifted again.
Stacker Pentecost regarded you from the screen with his usual severity. He appeared to be in another location separate from the Hong Kong LOCCENT, as two separate screens before you remained open to hold the line.
“This is Marshal Pentecost,” he said. “State your request.”
You didn’t waste a single second, and repeated.
“My name is [ THE DOCTOR ], primary physician assigned to Jaeger pilots at Sydney Shatterdome,” you said evenly. “I’m requesting full access to archived medical and research files related to pilot drift exposure, neural load degradation, and post-jaeger operation complications. …Including classified reports from the early Pons system trials.”
There was a short, heavy silence.
“That information is restricted,” Pentecost replied. “For good reason.”
“I understand the reasons,” you said. “I also understand the consequences of not having it.”
His eyebrows furrowed slightly.
You held your ground, and have decided at this very moment that you won’t allow the man to drop the line unless you heard the words you’ve come for.
“...I’m expected to treat conditions that do not yet have standardized diagnostic criteria,” you said. “Pilots whose symptoms don’t align with any existing pathophysiological framework. If these records exist—and Dr. Lightcap’s papers suggest they do—then withholding them doesn’t protect pilots. Only endangers them. I know you are well aware of that. You can read through the memo I've submitted prior if you're not convinced.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Unbeknownst to you, Chuck—lingering at the edge of the room, had the sudden, vivid realization that you were either incredibly brave or completely out of your mind.
Tendo Choi reappeared briefly at the edge of the Hong Kong feed, adjusting something off-screen before glancing toward you with open curiosity. Pentecost didn’t acknowledge him.
“You’re asking for sensitive material,” Pentecost said slowly. “Some of it predates current protocol.”
“Yes,” you replied. “And yet many of your active pilots are still suffering from its consequences. You yourself piloted a Mark 1, did you not, Sir?”
Pentecost studied you for a moment longer, weighing something unseen. Then, finally, he nodded once.
“Access will be granted,” he said. “Limited to medical personnel. Any dissemination outside that scope will result in immediate revocation and termination.”
The line cut shortly after.
LOCCENT returned to its usual rhythm, the tension ebbing from the room. You allowed yourself one measured breath.
Chuck glanced at you, and when you turned toward him, he straightened without thinking. His shoulders rolled back, chin lifting a fraction. Something like quiet respect in his expression.
“…Told you it was a big day,” he said.
You made sure the almost-smile fades before it can become anything else. You were just pleased that all went according to plan.
“Come on,” you say instead, adjusting the strap of your tablet bag over your shoulder. “I need to get back to the infirmary.”
Chuck nods once, already shifting the box back into a more secure hold.
From behind, Murray spoke up before the both of you even managed to take a step outside. “That’s… they're not in the LOCCENT database.”
“No, ma’am,” he says, glancing past you toward the far corridor branching off the operations floor. “Archives are kept in a secured sublevel. Mostly physical copies. The archive room needs ID access.”
You turn back toward the duty officer, who has already resumed tapping at his console.
“Archive room,” you repeat. “Medical access.”
He looks up again, expression neutral. “Do you have your ID?”
You hand over your access card. He slots it into the reader, the terminal chiming softly as lines about authorization levels populate the screen.
“You’re cleared for medical archive access,” he confirms. “But the Sydney archive’s… a little out of the way.”
He gestures vaguely, then catches himself and leans forward, lowering his voice just enough to be helpful rather than dismissive.
“You can take Corridor C past the auxiliary maintenance bay. You’ll see an old freight lift—looks decommissioned, but it’s not. Level minus two. You'll know you're on the right floor once you see UL-2. The archive room is at the end of the east wing. The door should have ARIV-31 written on it. If it doesn't read, try ARIV-32. No windows.”
He slides your card back across the counter.
“Your card’s been updated,” he adds. “Access expires in forty-eight hours.”
Chuck tilts his head. “That thing they call an elevator looks like the lift down to the levels of hell,” he adds mildly. “I can walk you.”
You hesitate—not because of him, but because of the box still balanced against his shoulder.“You don’t have to—”
“It’s on the way,” he says, already turning. “And I’m not letting you wrestle this thing all the way down there, ma'am.”
You bite back a retort that never quite forms. You knew it well it was not on the way. What on earth was he going to do down there?
“Fine,” you say regardless. “Lead the way.”
The corridors grow quieter the farther you move from LOCCENT. Eventually there was less traffic. Less noise, more dim lights. The Shatterdome feels older here as the both of you trudge deeper—exposed concrete walls, the hum of systems that have been running without interruption for years.
Chuck walks at an easy pace, unhurried but deliberate, as if he knows exactly how long his strides need to be so you don’t have to rush to keep up.
“You come down here often?” you ask.
“Did. Only once,” he replies, deadpan.
That earns him a curious glance from you.
He shrugs. “It’s hard to not stay curious when you keep hearing stupid horror stories about it.”
You scoff at that. Your laughter echoing faintly. It was funny to you how no matter where you were, speculations about something evil and eerie prevailed no matter where.
The freight lift is exactly as what Murray described—scarred metal doors, a control panel with chipped paint and a button that looks older than both of you combined. Chuck punches in the floor without hesitation.
The lift descends with a low groan, the lights flickering briefly before steadying. The space is cramped, the box between you making it impossible to stand any farther apart without pressing against the wall.
When the doors open again, the air is much colder. The corridor beyond is narrower, lit by recessed lights that hum faintly overhead. Each step taken echoing through the hall.
“The archive room must be down there,” Chuck says, nodding toward the reinforced doors at the very far end. ARIV-31. Beside it, ARIV-32.
You can already feel it—the weight of whatever is waiting behind them.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time.
He stops just short of the doors and carefully lowers the box to the floor, adjusting his grip so the bottom doesn’t thud against the concrete. He steps back once it’s settled.
You reach for the swipe card reader, swiping your ID down. It reads your ID without problem and the door slowly slides open with a soft hiss. You paused when you realize he hasn’t moved.
“You don’t need to wait, I'll be stuck here for a couple of hours.” you say.
“I know, ma'am,” he replies.
A second passes. Then another.
“…Good luck.” he adds, after a moment.
You glance at him, surprised—not by the words, but by the sincerity behind them.
“Thanks,” you repeat. Your lips forming a flat, awkward smile.
The door halts moving with a thud. You step inside, with the box of documents in hand. The door sealed behind you with another, final, heavy sound.
Chuck waits until the doors are fully shut before turning away.
He hadn’t planned on walking you all the way down here. Hadn’t planned on carrying the box either. It just… happened.
The maintenance corridors always make him feel smaller somehow. He didn't really like that. It was like the Shatterdome is reminding him that everything important happens aboveground, where the commotion, the noise, and the lights are. Down here is where things are stored and forgotten.
He rolls his shoulders once— most importantly his left—easing the faint ache that’s settled there from the weight of the box.
Mindlessly heading back toward the lift, his boots echoed softly against the concrete. Somewhere above, alarms might sound. Orders might come down. He’ll have to respond when they do.
But as the lift doors slid shut and carried him upward, he found his thoughts lingering on that door with no windows, and even more on the doctor who asked for dangerous information like it was just another responsibility she’d already accepted.
- - | | MAY 25, 2022 . . .
They were winning against this Kaiju they named Denjin. Thus he and his father swung for the final killing blow. His left arm should’ve felt heavy—that there should be some form of resistance—
The pain doesn’t arrive like pain is supposed to.
Not at the shoulder. Not at the elbow. Everywhere all at once—white-hot and blinding, stabbing and burning and damningly cramping, mainly to his left, all layered over each other in a way his brain can’t categorize it fast enough. It’s as if something has been driven straight through his nerves and set alight from the inside.
The feedback slams into him through the drift like a second impact, the Jaeger’s severed limb screaming in neural echo as if it were still there—fingers clenching that no longer exist, tendons pulling against nothing, a phantom limb tearing itself apart again and again and again.
His breath leaves him in a strangled sound.
“ARM—!” Chuck gasps, his body jerking violently in the restraints of his suit. “MY ARM—!”
“Neural Handshake stability dropping! Ranger Charles Hansen, that is not your arm!” warns Murray.
The left side of Striker Eureka’s HUD flares red. DAMAGE INDICATORS cascade across the display in rapid succession.
> NEURAL FEEDBACK: CRITICAL
> NEURAL HANDSHAKE STABILITY: 61%
The Kaiju’s jaws are still closing in the afterimage—rows of teeth crushing through reinforced plating, the sensation of pressure translating perfectly through the drift as if bone were snapping instead of metal.
Out of pure animal rage and their now shared instinct, the father and son swung the other intact fist through the creatures’ skull, effectively rendering it to its demise. Its flesh crashing down into the ocean floor.
Chuck claws at the harness that tethered his mind to striker reflexively, restrained arms scrabbling uselessly against the restraints.
“GET IT OFF—!” His voice breaks into something raw and panicked. “I— I NEED TO GET OUT—!”
The pod feels too small. Too tight. He can't breath. His skin crawls, nerves misfiring wildly, every signal screaming at once. His body doesn’t understand that the damage isn’t his. All it knows is that something—is gone—and it hurts—and it’s still happening—he needs to— “CHUCK!”
Herc’s voice cuts through the noise like a shock collar. “CHUCK, LOOK AT ME.”
Chuck doesn’t know if he actually does. The world tunnels, vision warping, shapes in the pod around him morphing into something indescribable. His hands are shaking so badly the controls blur beneath his grip.
“Son!” Herc roars. “CALM DOWN. BREATHE.”
Another spike of pain lances through him—shorter this time, sharper, like nerves snapping back against themselves.
“I can’t—!” Chuck chokes. “IT WON'T STOP—!”
“It will,” Herc snaps back, sheer force of will riding every word. “You’re not hurt. You hear me? You are not hurt. It’s phantom feedback.”
Herc forces his own breathing to slow deliberately, exaggerating it over the comms.
Chuck’s chest heaves. His first attempt comes out ragged, uneven—but Herc doesn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he says, voice steady. “Again. Stay with me.”
Both the pain and his shaking eases—just a little.
Outside the wires and steel, the motionless Kaiju remained before Striker. Its massive body drowned in the ocean of its own geyser of neon blue. The fight is over, but Chuck’s body hasn’t caught up yet. His left side still burns, muscles locking as if bracing for impact that never comes.
Herc doesn’t waste the moment.
“LOCCENT,” he barks, switching channels. “This is Striker Eureka. Kaiju neutralized. We’re RTB. Severe neural feedback injury—Chuck. He needs a doctor as soon as we’re back.”
“Copy that, Striker,” Murray’s voice cuts in. “We’ll have medical ready. What's your ETA?”
Herc glances at the countdown timer.
“Thirty-two minutes,” The man replies without hesitation.
Chuck sags back against the restraints, breath still coming fast, jaw clenched hard enough that it ached. His left arm feels curled inward, fingers clawed tight—even though he can see, logically, that his body is still intact.
“Dad,” he calls almost pitifully. Voice shaking and terrified. “ ‘s—still hurts.”
“I know,” Herc replies. Chuck believed himself into thinking the man softened just then. Or maybe that’s just the drift bleeding through again, blurring tone and intention until everything feels closer than it should.
“Hold on son. Help’s waiting. Just need to keep our feet moving.”
Right. He still has those.
Chuck nods even though he isn’t sure his head actually moves.
He drags his feet to create movvemnt. Striker follows as she takes a heavy step.
The submerged sand trembles beneath them.
Chuck feels it like it’s his own body—weight shifting, balance correcting, the Jaeger’s remaining arm swinging forward to counter the loss. The feedback hits immediately, sharp and nauseating, his nervous system scrambling to account for something that isn’t there.
Not from the shoulder. It begins from the hand. Fingers curling that don’t exist anymore. Tendons pulling, cramping, locking into spasms that tear through his chest and travel down his spine.
The heartbeat in his ears is deafening. Too fast. Too loud. Each thud feels like it might split him open from the inside.
“Okay—okay,” he mutters, though he’s not sure who he’s talking to.
Striker’s long strides stretch time into something viscous and slow, each step dragging him closer to the brink of unconsciousness. He didn't even know how long they'd been walking for. But the lights of the Shatterdome loom ahead—vast, industrial, unreal—smearing at the edges of his vision.
Black creeps in at the corners.
He blinks hard, eyes burning from his own cold sweat.
Every time Striker’s foot hits the ground, the impact rattles through every fibre of his being and detonates behind his eyes. It feels like being shaken inside his own skull. Like his brain is slamming against bone it was never meant to touch.
His breathing goes shallow without him noticing. But his father catches it instantly.
“Chuck,” his father snaps. “Breathe.”
“I am,” Chuck lies through his teeth. The words come out slurred. His tongue feels thick in his mouth.
His vision fractures—double, then triple. The Shatterdome doors warp, stretch, pull away from him like a cruel joke.
He wants to curl inward. Wants to stop. Wants to sit down right here on the ocean floor and let the world go dark.
“Don’t you dare,” Herc growls, as if he can hear the thought forming. “Stay with me.”
Chuck digs his nails into the conn-pod armrests, grounding himself in the bite of pressure. It barely helps—but it’s something. The pain in his left arm flares hotter in protest, nerves misfiring wildly, desperate for input that never comes.
It cramps so hard his whole side locks, a silent scream ripping through him as his body tries to protect a limb that’s already gone.
“I—” His voice breaks. “I feel sick.”
“I know,” Herc repeats, steady as bedrock. “Eyes open. Count. The steps,”
The numbers slip away from him, dissolving into static. His heart slams harder, faster, each beat sharp enough to hurt. He wonders vaguely if this is what it feels like right before it gives out. If this is how it happens—pain first, then nothing.
The Shatterdome doors begin to open.
Air pressure shifts. Internal systems engage. The docking clamps hum, loud and deep, vibrating through Striker’s frame.
Chuck’s vision whites out for a split second, a wave of dizziness crashing over him so hard his head lolls forward. He barely catches himself before his chin hits his chest.
“Chuck,” Herc says sharply.
“I’m—here,” he manages, forcing the words past clenched teeth. “I’m here.”
The doors seal behind them with a thunderous boom.
Chuck sags back into the restraints, every muscle screaming in protest. His heart is still racing, chest tight, breath hitching like it can’t quite find the right rhythm.
But the ground is steady now.
He clings to that thought as the world tilts again—darkness pressing in, heavy and insistent—fighting to stay awake with everything he has left.
Then suddenly, gloved hands are on him.
Not the pod’s unyielding restraints. Very human hands—firm, handsy, everywhere at once. The pressure around his chest loosens. He hears something click. He didn’t bother to remember how they got him out of the suffocating suit.
One moment he’s drowning in it—too tight, too loud, pain pounding relentlessly where an arm should be—and the next, the pain sloly dulls. The fresh sea air hits his skin. Cool that it made the hairs in his clammy skin rise. He sucks in a deep breath that doesn’t taste like sweat.
The pain recedes a fraction, not gone but dulled, like someone turned the volume knob down just enough for him to think again. His head lolls forward as they guide him—half-carry, half-drag—out of the pod down to the catwalk.
“My arm,” he mumbles immediately, words tripping over each other. “My arm— still hurts. It’s— it’s cut. Burned. It’s—”
“I know,” a familiar voice says close to him. “You’re safe, Chuck. You’re back in Sydney.”
The lights—though natural, for him are still too bright. The ceiling slides past overhead as they move him, the world tilting sideways in slow, nauseating arcs.
“Hey,” the voice says again—her voice. “Look at me for a second, alright?”
He tries. But his eyes don’t quite cooperate.
“That’s it,” she encourages, calm and insistent. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Chuck,” he answers swiftly. A pause. “Charles. Hansen.”
“Good,” she says. “Do you know where you are?”
“In—” His brow furrows. The word feels slippery. “In… the Shatterdome..hangar...” he answers slowly.
“That’s right. Sydney Shatterdome.” Her hands are on his face now, a finger gently pulling his bottom eyelids. The light burns.
He whines softly, more reflex than complaint.
“I know,” she murmurs. “Just...a second.”
She’s close enough that he can smell the faint scent of her mild perfume. Maybe it was her detergent. Regardless, he focuses on that while she checks his eyes, her expression unreadable but intent. He hears someone else speak—too far away to parse—then feels her fingers brush beneath his nose.
“No…blee…,” she says something incomplete, more to herself than to him.
His head feels too light for his body, like it might float off if he doesn’t have something to anchor it down.
“O..ka..,” she continues, right in front of him now. He realized that the more she talked, the harder it was to stay focused. “..stay wi..me....n you..squee..hands?”
Her hands were there before he realizes he’s reached for them.
He subconsciously grips them tightly. Too tightly. Fingers locking around hers like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“...they’re warm,” he mutters. His teeth chatter suddenly. “’m cold.”
Her grip tightens in response, firm and reassuring. “....I know. W…you….in a mo..ment..”
Cold seeps through him anyway, spreading fast and deep, settling in his chest. His heart stutters—hard, uneven beats knocking against his ribs like they don’t know where to land.
Something’s wrong. He can feel that much. But the words won’t line up right. The room sways gently, like he’s standing on a boat instead of the concrete floors of the hangar.
“...arm still hurts,” he insists again, quieter this time. More confused than afraid. “It’s still there, can feel it,”
“...I know,” she repeats.
“tha.. ma...ense. ..now...” she says, realising her voice was growing harder to hear each passing second.
He nods anyway. His grip slackens despite himself, fingers slipping against hers as weakness starts to creep in.
“Hey,” she snaps at him—but not unkindly. Forcing his darting eyes to pay attention to the sharp sound instead. “Cha.. stay wi...”
In his swimming vision, her pretty face blurs—and forebodingly, the coldness sitting in his flesh deepens. His heart kicks hard once—then again, faster and louder. His ears ring, a high thin sound that drowns out everything else.
He swallows, suddenly dizzy.
“I—” He exhales shakily. “I think—”
The world drops out from under him.
Her hands were still holding his when the lights finally go out.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
NEXT | 03. | | ... MAY 07, 2022
PREV | 01. | | ... SEPTEMBER 30, 2021
