But it doesn’t matter how much sharper his edges are or how darker his heart is. I still can’t cut him out of me. As much as I hate him right now, I still don’twantto.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that might shove the thought out before it settles too deep. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because even now, even here, even as my body starts shutting down…
He’s still the last thing I can’t outrun.
The monitor dips again. My vision tunnels, the edges turning black. The cold sinks all the way in.
The space between one pulse and the next gets longer as my heartbeat slows.
Slows.
Slows.
Then it stops.
Seven years ago.
Darkness doesn’t end. Itlingers.
For some time—minutes, hours, days, I don’t know—it feels like I’m still falling through it. No ground. No air. No pain. Just…nothing.
Then something drags me back.
It starts with pressure—a tight, crushing weight in my chest like something is trying to force its way out of me. My body jerks, lungs seizing, and suddenly…
I need air.
I gasp, and the sound tears out of me raw and broken, as though my throat isn’t used to working anymore. My hands claw at nothing as my lungs burn, dragging in air that feels wrong. Pain follows, delayed, my brain catching up. It hits all at once. My chest, my ribs, my lungs. I choke on it, breath stuttering as I try to make sense of what the fuck is happening.
I was shot.
The memory slams into place.
Gun. Impact.Cason.
My eyes snap open, and there’s nothing but white. The blinding light overhead forces them shut again immediately. My vision swims, spots bursting behind my eyelids as my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
I’m alive.
But I don’t think I should be. Because Ifeltit. I felt my heart stop. I felt…
Cason.
I felt his tears drip onto my cheek.
The last look on his face flashes in my mind. Shock, fear, and something else I didn’t have time to translate before everything went dark. Tears streamed down his face as he clawed at me, screaming.
My hand flies to my chest. There are bandages there, thick and tight. I press harder, searching for something—blood, a wound, proof that all of this makes any kind of sense—but all I feel is the dull ache of something that should have killed me. It doesn’t hurt as badly as it probably should.
My breathing comes faster. Machines beep somewhere to my right, sharp and incessant, reacting to the spike of my heart. I force my eyes open again, slower this time. Again, I see white. White ceiling, white lights.
It’s not the basement. It’s not where I died.
Where is he?
I push up onto my elbows, ignoring the way my chest protests, the way my vision tilts dangerously. The room comes into focus in pieces. More white walls, monitors, IV lines running into my arm, equipment I don’t recognize but instinctively don’t trust. It looks like a hospital room, but…that doesn’t feel right.
The machines continue their steady rhythm, tracking everyuneven breath, every spike in my pulse.
