The door behind me opens.
I don’t turn immediately. I’m watching his face through the glass, watching the way the shift has almost settled to human.
“Healer Marsh.” A male voice. Firm. “Your time with the subject has exceeded the authorized observation window. I need you to come with me.”
I turn. An Aurora staffer. Mid-thirties, square-jawed, the professional blankness of someone following orders he didn’t write. He’s standing just inside the door with a tablet in one hand and his other hand resting at his hip.
“I’m not done,” I say.
“The window was sixty minutes. You’ve been here ninety. Director Parlance authorized observation, not open-ended contact.”
“He’s responding. Look at the monitors. His heart rate has dropped twenty points since I started talking to him.”
“That’s noted. But the protocol—”
“The protocol is going to undo everything I’ve just accomplished. If you pull me out now, his vitals will spike within seconds.”
The staffer’s jaw sets. “Ma’am, I have my orders.”
“Then get Viktor on the phone and let me change them.”
“Director Parlance is in meetings and is not to be disturbed.” He steps forward. “I need you to come with me. Now.”
I look at Rafael through the glass. He’s watching the staffer. His body has gone still; the dangerous kind, the kind that comes before something breaks. The shift is pushing at his jaw again. His claws are half out, pressing into the tile.
If this man touches me and Rafael sees it, he’s going to lose it.
“Fine.” The word tears out of me. “I’m coming.”
I turn back to the glass. Press both palms flat against it one last time. His eyes find mine. His hand comes up to match my palm on the other side.
“I have to go,” I say. My voice cracks on the second word. “They’re making me leave. I’ll come back. I’ll—”
I can’t finish. The tears come before I can stop them, hot and humiliating, blurring the glass between us until his face breaks into pieces.
His hand is on the other side, fingers spread against mine with two inches of warded reinforcement between us. I want to press harder, as if pressure could become touch if I wanted it badly enough.
“I’ll come back,” I manage. “I promise. I’ll come back.”
This is the promise I can make. Not freedom. Not safety. Not a door I don’t have the authority to open.
Only this.
I will come back.
I pull my hands off the glass.
Rafael’s fingers stay where mine were.
For one second, I nearly turn back.
Then the staffer shifts by the door, impatient, one hand close to his comms unit, and I remember what happens if Rafael sees me fight. If I resist, Rafael breaks the glass. If Rafael breaks the glass, they stop talking about recovery and start talking about containment.
So I turn toward the door with my eyes blurred and my hands empty.
I walk. A sob breaks free. Then another.
Three steps from the door, the glass cracks.
