*Trigger warnings* drug use, kidnapping, torture, mind control, fighting, violence.
The days bleed into each other, the minutes stretching longer than they should, and the tension never seems to ease. I try to ignore the way my body feels heavier, how my breath comes in shallow bursts sometimes, or the ache that's starting to creep back into my hand. I've been here before, but this time it's different—there's no one to help me. No doctors, no nurses, no one who can fix what's broken inside of me.
At first, it's small, almost easy to brush off. A twinge of pain in my chest when I move too quickly. A slight tremor in my right hand when I try to grip something. I push it aside, tell myself it's just the stress, the running, everything that's been building. But the longer we stay on the road, the harder it becomes to ignore. The breathing gets harder. The pain in my chest starts to feel sharper, like someone is pressing down on my ribs.
And my hand... it's not just the weakness anymore. There's something more. Something deeper. The muscles feel stiff, like they're not responding the way they should. I can feel the nerve damage pulsing through the bones, making every movement more difficult than it should be. I try to hide it, to push through it, but Miras isn't fooled. He's been watching me too closely since the Cube, knows me too well.
"You're not okay," he says one evening as we're sitting in a small diner—my hand hidden under the table, my fingers twitching more than I'm comfortable with. "What's going on, Cherish?"
I look at him, the weight of my own fear making it hard to breathe properly. I want to tell him it's fine, that it's just stress, that I'm handling it. But the lie feels too big, even for me.
"I'm fine," I manage, forcing a weak smile. But my hand trembles in my lap, betraying me.
He's silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, before his expression darkens. He reaches across the table, gently pulling my hand out from under the cloth, his fingers brushing over mine. "You're not fine," he repeats, his voice low, a quiet frustration threading through it.
The diner is almost empty, and the quiet hum of the air conditioning only highlights the strain between us. I don't know how to explain what's happening, what's wrong with me. How I can feel the slow deterioration creeping back, even without the constant care I had back home. Without the regular therapy. Without anything that could stop it.
"I don't have the medical support I need," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "When you were gone, I had a seizure, fried my dad's entire system, I forced Dewey to put me in a simulation. The only reason my NG tube is out is because I ripped it out the second I left."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I can feel the air in the room shift. It's like everything about Miras stiffens. His eyes, which had softened just a second ago, narrow, and the tense set of his jaw is something I'm all too familiar with. The silence that follows is thick with the weight of everything I just admitted, and I can't bring myself to meet his gaze.
When he finally speaks, his voice is like a storm building, low but full of fury. "Why didn't you tell me, Cherish?" he demands, his hands slamming down on the table between us like a warning shot. "Why didn't you tell me you were in that bad of a condition? Why the hell didn't you say something when you ripped out your NG tube? You've been silently falling apart, and I had no idea!"
I flinch at the volume of his voice, but I don't pull away. I want to explain, to say something that will make him understand why I kept it all hidden, but the words don't come.
"Do you realize what you've been doing?" His eyes flash with an anger that's sharp, and the heat radiating off him feels almost suffocating. "You've been lying to me, Cherish! You've been acting like nothing's wrong when your body is literally breaking down, and you're telling me you didn't think I'd notice?" His hand clenches into a fist, and I can see the tension in every muscle in his body. "You think I wouldn't see you pushing yourself to the limit, pretending you're okay? You think I wouldn't notice when you're barely holding yourself together?"
I swallow hard, the guilt burning inside me like a furnace, but I don't respond. I can't, not when I can hear the pain in his voice beneath the anger. The weight of his anger presses on me, and for a moment, I don't know how to respond. Part of me wants to argue, to tell him he doesn't understand, but another part of me... the real part... knows he's right.
Later that night, after another brutal stretch of hours where I barely can catch my breath without it turning into a coughing fit or a sharp pain stabbing through my chest, Miras pulls the car over again, but this time it's not for food or rest. He's already out of the car before I even realize what's happening, disappearing into the shadows of a run-down building. When he comes back, there's a small bottle in his hand, one that looks like it belongs in a pharmacy, not tucked away in the hands of someone like him.
I watch him as he approaches, my throat tightening in uncertainty. "Miras..." I start, but I don't know how to finish the sentence. What are you doing? It's a question that hovers in my mind, but I can't bring myself to ask it out loud.
He doesn't meet my eyes at first, his jaw tight, like he knows what I'm thinking and doesn't care. "This... this is going to help," he says, his voice rough. "It's not the best solution, but it's better than nothing."
I'm not sure what he's talking about until he holds out the bottle, and I recognize the familiar look of medication—something strong. I can see the desperation in his eyes. He's trying so hard to do something, anything, to help me. To make this better. But I'm not sure this is the way.
"Miras, what is this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The air feels thick, suffocating. "Where did you get it?"
He hesitates for a long moment, glancing around before his eyes lock with mine. There's an edge to his expression, something I've seen before when he's feeling cornered, like he's on the edge of losing control. "I found someone. They said it's what you need. It'll calm you down, help you breathe better. The seizure—the pain—this should help."
I stare at the bottle in his hand, the weight of it feeling like it's pulling me down, but part of me can see the fear in Miras's face. He's trying to help. His intentions are clear, but I'm not sure I can trust something like this, something off the street. Not when it feels like I'm one step away from losing control of everything. I've already been playing with fire by ignoring my condition, but this... this feels like it could burn everything to the ground.
"You can't just... give me something like this." My voice shakes despite my best effort to keep it steady. "Miras, we don't know what's in it. What if it makes it worse? What if—"
"I don't care, Cherish!" he interrupts, his voice raw, desperate. He steps closer, taking my hands in his, his grip tight but trembling. "You're suffocating, and I can't stand it. You're in pain every single minute, and I can't watch you fall apart like this. I can't just do nothing, okay? I know it's not perfect, but it's better than nothing, and I'm not going to let you just... suffer while I sit here and do nothing."
There's a fire in his eyes now, one that's not just anger or frustration, but something more—the depth of his care, his love. And it hits me all at once. He's terrified. Terrified of losing me. Terrified of seeing me break down in front of him and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He's doing what he can because he doesn't know how else to help.
I feel the hesitation in my chest, but part of me—the part that's exhausted, the part that just wants relief from the pain, from the suffocating weight of everything that's happening—wants to trust him. Wants to believe that this will help, that maybe, just maybe, it'll be the solution I need to hold myself together a little longer.
I take the bottle from him, my hand shaking, and Miras exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding. But there's no turning back now. I pop the cap off, take a quick glance at the label, and then, with a deep breath, I swallow the pill.
For a moment, nothing happens. The world feels frozen, like time is holding its breath. Then, slowly, a strange calm starts to settle over me. The tightness in my chest eases, the ache in my muscles dulls, and for a fleeting moment, I feel lighter. It's almost like I can finally breathe again, and I close my eyes, feeling the tension leave my body.
But even as relief floods in, a small part of me knows—this isn't the answer. It's a temporary fix, a patch over a wound that's only getting worse.
As the hours pass after Miras gives me the medication, I feel the effects starting to wear off. The calmness that had settled over me is slipping away, and the aches in my body are creeping back like a tide rising on the shore. The dizziness from the medication starts to dissipate, but it leaves me feeling drained—like a temporary fix for a much bigger problem that's still looming over us.
I can hear Miras in the background, pacing back and forth in the hotel room, the tension in his movements still palpable. Even though I'm not actively in pain at the moment, I know we're both aware that this relief won't last long. And deep down, I'm not sure if this is even the right way to be dealing with all of this.
"You okay?" Miras asks, his voice softer now, but the worry is still there. I try to offer him a reassuring smile, but it feels hollow.
Miras stops pacing, his gaze flicking over me like he's assessing every breath I take. He's always like this when I start feeling worse—watching, waiting for something to go wrong. His concern feels like a weight pressing into my chest, but I don't have the energy to shake it off.
"I'll be fine," I say, though my voice comes out weaker than I'd like.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his knees, his fingers laced together. "I don't like this," he mutters. "The way you just have to sit here and wait for it to get worse again."
I sigh and shift against the pillows, trying to ignore the creeping discomfort. "It's not like there's another option, Miras. We don't have anything else." I reach for his hand, wincing as the motion pulls at my ribs. "We'll figure it out. Just… sit with me for a bit?"
He exhales sharply, like he wants to argue, but instead, he nods and shifts closer, letting me rest against him. His arm loops carefully around my shoulders, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases.
It won't last. The pain, the uncertainty, the people hunting us—it's all still there, lurking beneath the surface. But for now, I let myself lean into his warmth and pretend, just for a little while, that we have time to breathe.
---
I don't remember falling asleep, but I wake up to a sharp knock at the door.
Miras stiffens beside me, his body going rigid in an instant. I barely have time to process what's happening before he's already moving, pressing a hand against my shoulder in silent warning. Stay still. Stay quiet.
Another knock—louder this time. Then a voice, clipped and unfamiliar. "Hotel security. Open up."
My pulse stutters. Security? That doesn't make sense. We paid in cash. We didn't use our real names. We've been careful.
Miras is already on his feet, silent as a shadow. He moves to the window, peering through the thin curtains at the parking lot below. His shoulders go rigid, and that's all the confirmation I need.
They've found us.
I push myself up, but my body protests—my ribs aching, my limbs sluggish from exhaustion and the lingering effects of the medication. Not now. Please, not now.
"Miras—"
"Yeah." His voice is tight. Controlled. He moves fast, grabbing our things—his jacket, my shoes, anything important. "We're going out the back."
A sharp beep from the door panel makes my stomach drop. They're overriding the lock.
I stumble to my feet, ignoring the way my head spins, and Miras is already at my side, one hand steadying me as the other reaches for the gun tucked at the small of his back.
"Go," he says. Not a suggestion. A command.
The door bursts open just as we shove through the emergency exit, the cold night air slamming into me like a wall. Footsteps thunder behind us, voices shouting.
We run.
We don't get far.
The alley behind the hotel is slick with rain, the pavement uneven beneath my unsteady steps. Miras keeps a firm grip on my wrist, half-pulling me along as he scans for a way out. There's a chain-link fence at the end of the alley—tall, but not impossible. If we can just—
A van screeches around the corner, cutting us off. Headlights flood the alley, blinding in the darkness. Miras curses under his breath, yanking me back a step, already pivoting, already thinking of another way—
Too late.
A sharp crack splits the air. Something small and metallic clinks at our feet. My brain registers what it is just a second too late—
Gas.
The world tips sideways as a thick, acrid cloud swallows us. My lungs seize up, a raw burn scraping against the old scarring. My legs buckle. My vision tunnels.
I hear Miras shouting my name. Feel his arms around me, trying to pull me up—
A second van door slams. More footsteps. More voices.
Miras shoves me behind him, his gun raised, but even I can see he's outnumbered. I can barely make out the figures through the haze—five, maybe six men, dressed in dark gear, faces obscured. Prepared. Coordinated. They weren't just tracking us. They were waiting for us to slip up.
One of them steps forward, and I see the glint of a tranquilizer gun.
"Miras," I gasp, clawing at his sleeve. Run.
But he doesn't. He just tightens his grip on the gun, muscles coiled like he's ready to fight to the last breath.
I feel it before I see it.
A sharp sting in my neck. Cold spreading under my skin. My body failing me faster than I can react.
Miras turns just in time to catch me as my legs give out completely. I try to hold on to him, but my fingers won't obey.
"No—no, no, no—" His voice is raw, panicked, but already fading as the drug drags me under.
The last thing I see is his face, twisted with helpless fury, before they rip me from his arms and the darkness takes me.
****
I come to slowly, like surfacing from deep water. My limbs feel heavy, my head stuffed with cotton. The taste of chemicals lingers on my tongue.
The first thing I notice is the cold. Not the sharp bite of winter air, but the sterile, artificial kind—like the temperature has been deliberately set just low enough to be uncomfortable.
The second thing I notice is the restraints.
My pulse spikes.
Thick cuffs clamp around my wrists and ankles, their edges digging into my skin. A strap crosses my chest, pinning me to a chair—one that's built for containment, not comfort. I try to shift, but my body is sluggish, my limbs unresponsive. Sedatives.
The room is dimly lit, white walls stretching out in every direction. No windows. No obvious doors. Just me, the chair, and the weight of something watching.
I take a slow, shuddering breath. My lungs burn from the gas, and my ribs ache where Miras caught me before I blacked out. Miras.
Where is he?
Panic coils in my stomach. I pull against the restraints, a useless, desperate effort. If they have me, they have him too. But if they were smart—if they knew who Miras really was—they would have separated us immediately.
Which means I'm on my own.
A voice crackles to life over an unseen speaker. Low. Measured. The kind of voice that doesn't need to shout to be terrifying.
"You're awake."
I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. "Where's Miras?"
There's a pause, like they expected me to ask. Like they're pleased.
"He's alive. For now."
A chill runs down my spine. The restraints suddenly feel a thousand times tighter.
The voice continues. "You've been quite the problem, Cherish. And now, it's time we discuss exactly what we're going to do with you."
I glare at the walls, at the unseen presence beyond them. My hands curl into fists as much as the cuffs allow. I don't care how bad this situation is—I refuse to let them see fear.
I lift my chin, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Yeah? Well, I hope you've got a good plan. Because I don't go down easy."
A chuckle. Slow. Amused.
"We're counting on that."
The waiting is deliberate. They want me to stew in my own thoughts, to let the fear settle in.
I refuse.
Instead, I focus on testing my restraints, shifting my wrists just enough to feel the give in the cuffs—not much, but something. My right hand is weaker, the nerve damage making my grip unreliable, but I still have control over my left. If I can just—
A metallic hiss breaks the silence.
A door slides open, seamlessly blending into the walls. Two figures step inside, dressed in dark tactical gear. Their faces are covered, but their body language tells me everything—calm, controlled, unbothered. They've done this before.
I tense as one of them approaches, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small syringe. The liquid inside catches the dim light, pale blue.
"No," I snap, yanking at the restraints. My heartbeat spikes.
The second figure speaks—deep voice, authoritative. "We're past negotiation, Cherish."
The first one grips my arm, fingers digging into my bicep. I thrash, but my body is still sluggish from the last round of drugs. I can't stop them as they press the needle into the side of my neck.
A cold rush floods my veins, ice spreading under my skin. At first, nothing happens. Then—
Fire.
Not literal flames, but something inside me—something coiled deep in my nerves—reacting. It's like an electric current surging under my skin, twisting and pulsing. My breath catches, and suddenly I can feel everything.
Not just the pain.
The energy.
My vision blurs, but I swear I can see flickers of light dancing along my arms, a ghostly shimmer trailing my skin.
They step back, watching, studying.
They knew.
I gasp, trying to suppress whatever is rising inside me. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. This isn't just a sedative. This is something else. Something meant to push me past my limits.
"Good. It's starting to work."
The realization hits like a slap to the face.
They're not just holding me.
They're experimenting on me
The energy writhes under my skin like a living thing, unpredictable and barely restrained. My breath shudders as I try to clamp it down, to stop it from spiraling out of control—but whatever they injected me with is forcing it to react.
My skin prickles. The room feels too small, the air electric with something unseen.
The voice over the speaker hums in approval. "Interesting. You're resisting. That's good." A pause. Then, almost amused, "But let's see how long that lasts."
Another door opens, and a new figure steps inside. Not masked like the others. A scientist—or something worse.
White coat. Cold, clinical expression. And in their hand, a small tablet, fingers swiping across the screen.
A heartbeat later, my world erupts.
A surge of heat, of raw power, crackles through my veins, so sudden and intense that I arch against the restraints, my muscles locking. The energy inside me is being pulled—manipulated—like someone just flipped a switch in my body.
I choke on a breath, my lungs burning. My vision fractures at the edges, like light is bending, distorting around me.
I realize with horror—
They're controlling it.
****
Miras keeps his breathing steady, even as his restraints dig into his wrists. Every second he spends sitting here, locked down, is another second I'm at their mercy. Unacceptable.
The man across from him—some kind of handler, judging by the way he sits with casual authority—taps his fingers against the metal table. "You should know, she's already begun the process."
Miras doesn't react, but his stomach knots. The process. He doesn't need them to spell it out.
His muscles coil, but he forces himself not to pull against the cuffs. Not yet. Losing control now won't help.
The handler tilts his head, studying him. "We expected resistance from you. But we also know you're a realist. She's already changing, whether you like it or not. The only question is—" He leans forward slightly. "Are you going to help her survive it?"
Miras meets his gaze, cold and unblinking. "What makes you think she won't survive on her own?"
The handler chuckles, shaking his head. "You've seen what happens when people like her lose control." He pauses, letting the implication settle. "And you, of all people, should know how this ends if she doesn't learn to harness it. You were trained to clean up these kinds of messes, weren't you?"
Miras goes still.
They know.
Not everything. Not his full history. But enough. Enough to use it against him.
The handler smiles, like he's already won. "Help us guide her, and she doesn't have to break."
Miras lets the silence stretch, lets them think he's considering it.
Then he shifts, testing the weight of the cuffs, the strength of the chair's bolts against the floor. "She's not just going to get out of here. She'll tear this place apart."
****
The syringe lies discarded on the floor, its sharp metal gleaming in the dim light like some kind of twisted omen. I don't trust it—not anymore. Not after everything they've done.
My pulse is too loud in my ears, a ragged, frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else. My body feels wrong—like I'm slipping, like something is crawling into the spaces between my thoughts, prying them apart with cold, invisible fingers.
No.
I press my palm against the floor, fingers trembling as I push myself upright. My right hand barely obeys, a dull throb echoing through the damaged nerves, but that pain is real. It anchors me. Keeps me in my body.
Breathe.
But breathing is getting harder. The weight of something foreign coils in my chest, thick and suffocating, twisting around my ribs like a parasite burrowing deep. My lungs burn, not just from old scars but from something new, something I can't fight with force alone.
Their voices slither through the cracks in my mind. Soft. Coaxing. Familiar.
I shake my head, biting my cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Get out," I whisper.
It only makes them laugh.
I try to stand, but my legs buckle, my balance tipping sideways. My shoulder slams into the wall, and I gasp as pain jolts through me. It should clear my head—it should shake this thing loose—but it doesn't. The voices press closer, curling around my thoughts like smoke, suffocating.
You're fighting for nothing, Cherish.
The words slide into my mind, but they don't feel like mine. I didn't think them. I know I didn't. My pulse spikes, panic clawing at my throat.
I stagger forward, reaching for the door. My fingers barely brush the handle before my arm locks up, muscles going rigid, frozen in place. My breath shudders. My body isn't listening to me.
Don't leave.
It isn't a suggestion. It's a command.
A sharp, electric pulse tears through my skull, and suddenly I'm falling, the floor rushing up to meet me. My knees hit first, then my hands, the impact jolting through my bones. My right hand screams in protest, but it's distant—fading. Like the pain belongs to someone else.
It's easier if you don't fight.
The voices curl into something warm, something sweet, threading through my mind like silk. My breath slows. The fear dulls.
I blink, and for a moment, everything is fine. The room is still. The tension in my limbs eases. I can breathe again.
A trick. I know it's a trick. But my body is still betraying me, my limbs sluggish, my willpower dissolving like ink in water.
I have to hold on.
I have to—
My fingers twitch against the floor. The tile is cold beneath my palm. The only thing that still feels real. I dig my nails in, the sharp press of pain snapping through the haze.
I am Cherish Battle.
I am not theirs.
With everything I have left, I force my head up. My vision swims, but I can still see the syringe. Its metal tip gleams in the dim light, like a viper waiting to strike.
And beside it—boots. A figure standing in the doorway.
Watching.
The boots don't move.
Neither does the figure wearing them.
I try to lift my head higher, but it feels like I'm dragging an anchor with every inch. My breath shudders through my lungs—too slow, too controlled, like someone else is measuring each inhale and exhale for me.
They want me calm.
They want me compliant.
No.
I grit my teeth and force my fingers to curl into a fist, the sharp sting in my right hand barely cutting through the fog swallowing me whole. I can feel it—something foreign creeping deeper into my mind, coiling through my thoughts like roots breaking through old stone. I'm losing ground.
The figure steps forward. A slow, deliberate movement. They crouch beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of their presence, but I still can't focus. Their face is blurred, shifting in and out of my vision like a mirage.
"You always fight so hard," they murmur, almost fondly. "It's admirable, in a way."
Their voice slithers through my skull, brushing against the inside of my mind like a hand trailing across silk. A chill races down my spine.
"Get out," I rasp, barely above a whisper.
They sigh, tilting their head. "You don't really want that, do you?"
I do. I do.
But the words knot in my throat. I can't say them. I can't move. I can't even look away.
A gloved hand lifts, fingertips ghosting over my temple. A jolt of something cold spikes through my skull, and suddenly my thoughts aren't my own. Memories flicker—flashes of pain, of fire, of the Cube and everything it stole from me.
I feel them shifting through my mind like pages in a book.
"Poor thing," they murmur. "So much damage."
My stomach turns. My hands shake. But I still can't move.
They lean in, their breath warm against my ear. "Let go, Cherish. Just for a moment."
Something pulls. I feel myself slipping.
Darkness.
It moves through me, becomes me. The fight drains from my limbs like water spilling through open fingers. I should hold on—I should fight—but the pressure in my skull is suffocating, pressing down until there's nothing left but silence.
And then—nothing at all.
The tension in my muscles eases. The pain fades. A deep, encompassing stillness settles over me, quiet and warm, like sinking into the depths of an ocean. My breath slows. My mind stills.
A voice—his voice—echoes through me, rich and steady, threading through my thoughts like a command written into my bones.
That's it. No more struggle. No more fear.
I don't fear. Not anymore.
The weight of my body shifts, and I rise without hesitation. My movements are fluid, precise, effortless. My breathing is steady. My pulse is calm. Every sensation that once screamed wrong now feels right.
I stand before him, awaiting my orders.
"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is warm, coaxing, a whisper against my consciousness.
I do.
I belong to them now.
"Good girl."
Pleasure hums through me at the words, the warmth of approval settling deep into my chest. A smile flickers at the edges of my lips—small, controlled, perfect.
A gun is pressed into my palm. My fingers close around it without question. The weight is familiar. Natural.
I don't need to be told what to do.
I already know.
I step forward, moving with mechanical precision. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, no guilt. That part of me is gone now—peeled away like old skin, discarded and useless.
I am not Cherish anymore.
I am theirs.
And I am ready.
The room is cold. Bright, sterile light hums from above, casting everything in sharp, clinical clarity. I stand in the center, feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders squared. My posture is perfect. My breathing is steady. My expression is blank.
The door hisses open.
I don't react.
Even when I hear his footsteps. Even when I feel his presence like a storm rolling in, crackling with unspoken rage and disbelief.
Miras.
Something inside me shudders at the name, like a chord struck too hard, but the sensation is buried beneath layers of something heavier. Something unmovable.
I lift my head slowly. Blink.
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a fraction of a second, I think I see the moment his heart breaks.
"…Cherish?"
His voice is hoarse, like he barely trusts himself to speak. Like saying my name out loud might shatter whatever fragile hope he's clinging to.
I feel the words forming in my throat before I even think them. A programmed response, smooth and rehearsed. "I am operational."
Miras flinches.
That's wrong. He shouldn't—
No. That thought isn't mine.
I smother it before it can take root.
"You—you don't talk like that." His voice sharpens, cutting through the thick fog pressing against my thoughts. "What did they do to you?"
Nothing.
Everything.
I don't answer. I don't need to answer. A voice presses against the walls of my mind, quiet but insistent. Obey. Do not waver. Hold your position. My fingers twitch at my sides. My body listens before my mind does.
Miras takes a step closer. "Cherish, look at me."
I do. It's mechanical. Unthinking.
He's staring at me like he's searching for something—like he needs to see me, the real me, underneath all of this. And for a second, just a second, I want to let him.
But the weight inside me presses down harder, an iron grip squeezing the breath from my lungs, flooding my mind with a command I cannot refuse.
You do not belong to him.
Miras steps closer.
His hands are trembling. I shouldn't notice—I shouldn't care—but something deep inside me stirs at the sight. His eyes, wide and desperate, search my face for something that isn't there anymore.
For me.
He won't find me.
He can't.
I don't flinch when he reaches out, fingertips brushing against my wrist. I should pull away. I shouldn't let him touch me. But I stay still, because I am supposed to observe. To analyze. To wait.
His fingers curl, gentle, hesitant, like he thinks I'll break if he holds too tight. He swallows hard. "Cherish… please."
My lips part automatically. The response is already carved into me, waiting to be spoken. "I do not recognize that designation."
Miras goes still.
For a moment, there's nothing—no sound, no movement, just the echo of my own words hanging between us like a blade.
Then he lets out a sharp, broken laugh. "Bullshit."
His grip tightens. Not painful. Just there.
"You don't get to say that," he breathes, shaking his head. "You don't get to pretend like you don't remember—" His voice catches. "Like you don't know me."
I do.
The thought slams into me like a shockwave, shattering through the stillness in my head. It's buried deep, forced into the darkest corners of my mind, but it's there.
I know him.
Miras.
My Miras.
I feel something snap inside me, something straining against the weight pressing me down. My hands shake. My breath stutters. A war rages beneath my skin, my own thoughts crashing like waves against an unmovable force.
But then—pain.
A crushing, suffocating pain clamps down around my mind, squeezing until everything else disappears. My knees nearly buckle. My vision goes white at the edges.
Obey.
I exhale, slow and measured, and the resistance crumbles. The pain vanishes. The calm returns.
Miras notices.
His grip on my wrist falters, and I watch the realization dawn in his eyes—the slow, dawning horror of it.
I am gone.
And he knows it now.
"…No," he whispers, barely audible. "No, no, no—"
His free hand moves—toward my face, my shoulder, anything to pull me back—but instinct takes over before I can stop it. My fingers close around his wrist, fast and precise, twisting hard.
Miras gasps in pain, but I don't let go. I step forward, closing the space between us, forcing him back. He's taller, stronger, but I am efficient. My movements are calculated. Engineered.
His back hits the wall. I pin his arm beside him, my grip like steel. His chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged breaths, but I am steady. My pulse does not waver.
He looks at me, and I see it—something breaking in his eyes, something cracking open.
I press a hand flat against his sternum, right over his heart. Feel it hammering against my palm.
His voice is barely a whisper. "Cherish, don't do this."
But I don't hesitate.
Because I am not Cherish anymore.
I shove him back and watch him fall.
Miras hits the ground hard. His breath punches out of him in a sharp exhale, but he doesn't stay down. He pushes up onto his elbows, wincing, but his eyes—his eyes—stay locked onto me.
I wait.
He doesn't understand yet. But he will.
I take a step forward, my movements smooth, calculated. My hand reaches for the weapon at my side, and I draw it in one fluid motion. The weight is solid, familiar. I level the gun at him, finger resting just outside the trigger guard.
He sees it. But he doesn't flinch.
"…You're serious," he says, voice hollow.
It isn't a question. He's looking at me, at the perfect posture, the blank expression, the steady grip on the gun, and he's finally, fully understanding.
I am not her anymore.
I tilt my head slightly, the motion precise, effortless. "Orders have been given."
Miras swallows, and for the first time, I see it—fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
"Don't do this," he murmurs, shifting carefully into a crouch. I let him. He's still beneath me, still vulnerable. He knows it. I know it. "Cherish, I know you can hear me. You have to fight this."
Fight?
I do not fight. I comply.
But something tugs at the edges of my mind, something distant and weak—his voice, his presence, the way he's looking at me. Like I am something precious. Something worth saving.
The thought is a fracture in the stillness of my mind. A flaw in the seamless control. It aches, something twisting deep in my chest, but the pressure returns harder this time, cold and suffocating.
Do not waver. Do not hesitate.
I don't.
I exhale, slow and steady, and lift the gun a fraction higher. "Stand down."
Miras clenches his jaw. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but he doesn't move toward me. "And if I don't?"
There's only one response. I don't hesitate.
"You will be eliminated."
I watch the words gut him. Like I've driven a knife straight through his ribs.
For a second, he doesn't breathe. Doesn't move.
Then—his expression hardens. His shoulders square.
And I realize something too late.
Miras isn't going to run.
He's going to fight me.
The moment Miras moves, my body reacts before my mind does.
He lunges, and I fire.
A calculated shot—center mass, designed to stop him in his tracks. But he knows me. Knows my tactics. He twists at the last second, the bullet barely grazing his side as he barrels toward me.
Impact.
He slams into me, and for the first time in this fight, my body stumbles. It's unfamiliar—losing ground—but I adjust instantly. My weight shifts, my stance corrects. His hands grasp for my wrist, trying to knock the gun away, but I let him think he has it before twisting out of his grip.
He curses under his breath. "Damn it, Cherish, fight it!"
I do not fight. I execute.
I feint left—he moves to counter—then strike right, slamming my elbow into his ribs. I feel something give beneath the force, hear his sharp inhale of pain. He staggers, but I don't let him recover. My heel sweeps low, knocking his legs out from under him.
Miras crashes to the floor.
I don't hesitate. I pivot, knee pressing hard against his chest, pinning him in place. He thrashes, but I seize his wrist, twisting until he gasps, the tendons in his arm straining.
His free hand snaps up toward my throat. I block it easily, my grip unyielding.
He's losing.
And we both know it.
I shift my weight forward, pressing down harder. His breathing turns ragged, pain flickering across his face—but his eyes. His eyes don't break away from mine.
"Cherish," he gasps, his voice raw. "This isn't you."
I feel the words like a punch to the ribs, something deep inside me recoiling—but the control holds firm. The pressure in my head is suffocating, pressing down, forcing my body to comply.
Obey. Do not waver. Finish it.
I raise my gun. The barrel presses against his chest, right over his heart.
Miras stills. His chest rises and falls beneath me, every breath a quiet defiance.
"Go ahead," he rasps, blood staining his teeth. "If this is all that's left of you… then do it."
My finger tightens on the trigger.
Do it.
I should.
I will.
But the pain in my head spikes, tearing through me like a white-hot blade, and suddenly—I can't breathe.
Something inside me is screaming, thrashing, breaking—
I grit my teeth. I can't hesitate. I can't.
With a snarl, I rip myself away from him, my pulse roaring in my ears. The gun is still in my hand. My body still obeys. But my mind—
My mind is slipping.
Miras groans, dragging himself upright, one hand clutching his side where my shot grazed him. His lip is split, blood dripping down his chin, his breaths uneven. He is battered. He is broken.
And yet—he looks at me like I'm the one who's been hurt the worst.
My grip on the gun trembles.
I don't understand. I shouldn't understand.
I should finish this.
But my feet are already moving backward.
Retreat.
The voice in my head hisses, but it allows it. I have done enough.
Miras watches as I step away, my gun lowering. He doesn't chase me. He doesn't call after me.
He just watches.
And for the first time, I don't know who won this fight.
The room is silent.
Not the comforting kind. Not the kind that soothes.
This silence presses. It suffocates. It waits, heavy and expectant, like the space before a blade falls.
I stand in the center of it, spine straight, shoulders squared, my hands clasped neatly behind my back. My head is bowed—not out of shame, not out of regret, but because I am told to.
Because I failed.
The door hisses open, and the weight in my skull tightens, like a hand curling around my mind. A presence enters—steady, measured. I do not lift my gaze.
I do not waver.
And yet, my hands tremble behind my back.
Footsteps circle me, slow and deliberate, each one scraping against the cold, sterile floor.
"You disobeyed."
The voice is calm. Not angry. Not cruel. Just a statement of fact.
I say nothing. There is nothing to say.
A gloved hand brushes against my temple—light, careful, almost gentle—and suddenly my body locks up, every nerve burning with unseen fire.
Pain—pure, exquisite, all-consuming—explodes through my skull.
I do not scream.
I will not scream.
But my knees buckle, and I hit the ground hard, my body folding in on itself as agony digs in, a thousand needles piercing through my mind, tearing through every thought, every memory, every piece of me.
"You hesitated."
I know.
My breath shudders out of me, my fingers clawing at the floor, but I make no sound. I can't.
The pain coils, tightens—teaches.
"You let him live."
I know.
I know.
"Do you remember why that was a mistake?"
A command. An expectation. My lips part automatically, the words escaping in a breathless whisper.
"Disobedience weakens efficiency."
"Good girl."
The words slither through my skull, warm and approving, but the pain doesn't stop.
It deepens, twisting something sharp into the very fabric of my mind, pulling at the raw edges of my fractured self.
A lesson. A punishment. A reminder.
I will not make the same mistake again.
The words echo in my mind, cold and unrelenting. "Infiltrate. Disable. Extract." They don't feel like my own. I try to focus, try to push through, but the weight of their command, their control over me—it's suffocating.
I'm standing there, listening to Specter, nodding, pretending I can still hear through the white noise in my head. My body moves like it belongs to someone else, the chains of their control tight around me. I want to fight it. I want to scream, to rip away from this suffocating grip they have on me, but it's like every part of me is bound in invisible ropes, unable to break free.
"Activate her," Specter commands, his voice cold and impersonal.
Before I can process the words, before I can even think about the consequences, it happens. My skin tingles, and I feel it—like a pulse of electricity running through my veins, sizzling beneath the surface. My power surges to life with a ferocity that makes my breath catch in my throat. It's not me doing it; it's them. The pull of the organization's control is a heavy, pressing force, like a fist inside my chest, squeezing until the energy bursts free.
I gasp, my hands trembling, not by my will but by theirs, as the energy crackles through my fingers. The air around me seems to distort, a shimmer rising off my skin. This isn't me, I want to scream. I don't want this.
But I can't stop it. It's like they've flipped a switch, and the power that was dormant, that I thought I could control, is now a raging wildfire inside me. The ground trembles beneath my feet, and the lights flicker. I feel it, all of it—the rage, the chaos, the overwhelming weight of their will driving my every action.
My breathing hitches as my vision blurs, and I struggle to focus, to push back against the control, but the power's taking over. It's making everything inside me raw, primal. I feel my heart thud in my chest, and each beat is like a war drum, louder, faster. It's not just my powers now; it's them, forcing me to use them, to bend my will to their command.
The world around me is warping, bending, flickering in and out of focus, and all I can hear is the voice, the cold satisfaction in it. "Do it. Do what you were made for."
No. No, I'm not a weapon. I'm not their tool.
But the energy surges higher, the pull of it nearly drowning out the last whispers of resistance inside me. The crackling power bursts from my hands, blue and wild, like lightning shooting out uncontrollably. I scream, a ragged, broken sound, but it's swallowed by the force inside me.
This is not me, I think again, but the thought is so small, so insignificant against the flood of energy that's overtaking me.
The room goes still, and for a moment, it feels like everything pauses, like time itself is holding its breath. I can hear Specter's voice again, softer, approving. "Perfect. This is what we need."