Trigger warnings *mentions of GWS's? trauma, family fighting, apocalypse is still apocalysing, backstory lore.
Miras stirs beside me, groggy. "What the—?"
Before I can say anything, the door to my room slams open, hitting the wall hard enough to rattle the medical equipment.
My father is standing in the doorway.
Standing.
Awake.
And somehow, barefoot and still in a hospital gown, looking like he just fought his way through hell to get here.
I stare at him, my heart lurching, trying to process the impossible.
"Dad?" My voice comes out weaker than I want it to.
His eyes lock onto me instantly, scanning me the way he always does—sharp, assessing, like he's cataloging every possible injury before I can even speak. Then he exhales, shoulders sagging just slightly.
"You're alive."
"You're awake," I shoot back, still trying to catch up to the fact that he's here. That he's real.
Behind him, Imani skids into view, looking wild-eyed and furious, his lab coat flaring out behind him. "Get back in bed!" he shouts. "You literally just woke up from a coma!"
"I'll rest after I see my daughter," my father says, not even turning around.
"You're bleeding from your IV!" Imani gestures wildly to his arm, where—sure enough—a very out-of-place needle dangles.
My father glances at it, unimpressed. "I'll live."
I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the completely inappropriate laugh threatening to escape.
Miras, now fully awake, groans beside me. "You have to be kidding me."
Imani marches forward, face red with frustration. "I swear to God, if you collapse in this room, I am not responsible for dragging you back—"
"I'm not going to collapse," my father interrupts, then promptly leans on the doorframe like he's seconds away from proving himself wrong.
Imani throws his hands in the air. "Unbelievable."
At this point, I can't stop the laugh that bursts out of me. It's weak and breathless, but it's real.
My father's attention snaps back to me at the sound, and some of the tension eases from his face.
He takes an unsteady step forward, like he's still testing his legs. "I heard what happened," he says. "To you. The surgery. The implant."
I swallow hard. "Yeah."
His jaw clenches. "They put something in your head."
I nod.
He exhales, slow and controlled, but his knuckles go white where he grips the doorframe. I recognize the look on his face—barely restrained rage.
"I'm going to kill them," he announces.
Miras rubs a hand over his face. "Okay, let's not have this conversation while you're actively disobeying medical orders."
Imani looks like he's going to combust. "I cannot believe this family."
Seraphine suddenly appears in the doorway, takes one look at the scene, and sighs. "Imani, let him see her for five minutes. Then sedate him if you have to."
Imani glares at her. "You deal with him then."
Seraphine shrugs. "Not my patient."
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing again.
My father finally makes it to my bedside, ignoring everyone else, his gaze settling on me like I'm the only thing that matters. He reaches out, hesitates, then carefully brushes his fingers against my shoulder.
"You're safe," he says.
I nod. "So are you."
Something shifts in his expression, something softer, and for the first time since he stormed in here like an overprotective madman, I see the exhaustion weighing on him.
"I am now," he murmurs.
I glance at Miras, who is watching us with an expression that's half relief and half this is the worst day of my life.
Imani crosses his arms. "Alright, are we done with the dramatics? Because if you die of sheer stubbornness, I will be putting that on your medical record."
My father waves a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine. You can put me back in bed after I talk to my daughter."
Imani glares at the ceiling, praying for patience.
Miras mutters, "I need a drink."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I smile.
The room settles into something quieter, something real. The chaos of my dad's dramatic entrance has faded, leaving only the low hum of medical equipment and the distant murmurs of Imani scolding someone down the hall.
My dad exhales sharply, shaking his head as he pulls the chair closer to my bedside. "You look like hell," he says, blunt as ever.
I huff out a weak laugh. "You're one to talk."
Across the room, Miras mutters, "I'm surrounded by reckless idiots."
Aunt Nayley snorts, shaking her head. "You get used to it, sweetheart." She's perched on the edge of the second chair, her arms crossed, watching us with that knowing look of hers—patient, waiting.
Dewey, who must have arrived in the middle of the chaos, is sitting on the windowsill, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, silent but watchful. He hasn't said anything yet, but his eyes keep flicking between me and my dad like he's still processing the fact that we're both here, alive.
The moment stretches, heavy but not suffocating.
I shift under my dad's gaze, my stomach twisting. The words have been pressing against my ribs since I woke up.
"I—" My throat tightens, but I force them out. "I shot you."
The room goes still.
Dewey straightens a little. Miras' fingers twitch where they rest against his arm, his jaw clenching slightly. Aunt Nayley doesn't move, but her face shifts—quiet understanding in her expression.
My dad, though, doesn't even blink. He exhales, shaking his head like it's nothing. "That wasn't you, Cherish."
I swallow hard, my chest tightening. "It felt like me. I pulled the trigger."
His expression softens. "No. They did. They took your hands and used them as their own." He leans forward slightly. "I never blamed you. Not for a second."
I shake my head, pressing my lips together, trying to hold back the sting in my eyes. "But I hurt you."
My dad smirks faintly. "You didn't kill me. That's something."
Dewey makes a choked sound, somewhere between a cough and a nervous laugh, while Miras groans, rubbing his temples. "Can we not joke about that?"
Dad raises an eyebrow. "Would you rather I get sentimental?"
Miras gestures vaguely at me. "Maybe just acknowledge that she feels guilty?"
Dad sighs and turns back to me, his gaze softer now. "Cherish, listen to me. You are not at fault. No part of this is on you."
I shake my head again, fingers curling into the blanket on my lap. "I just—I don't know how to let it go."
Aunt Nayley reaches over and smooths her hand over my leg, her touch warm, grounding. "Baby, listen to him." Her voice is gentle but firm. "We've all done things we regret. But this? This isn't yours to carry."
I let out a shaky breath. "Then why does it feel like mine?"
Dewey finally speaks, his voice quieter than usual. "Because you're you." He exhales, running a hand through his curls. "And because you're always going to care too much." His lips twitch into something sad, something knowing. "Even when you shouldn't."
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears slip free anyway, hot against my cheeks.
My dad's hand settles over mine, warm and steady. "Then let me carry it instead."
Something inside me cracks.
I let out a shuddering breath, my fingers tightening around his. Miras' hand is still on my shoulder, steady and unshaken. Aunt Nayley stays close, her presence like a constant anchor. And Dewey—he doesn't say anything else, but when I meet his eyes, there's something solid in them, something unspoken but there.
"You're my kid," my dad says, voice low, unwavering. "That's never going to change."
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.
Which, of course, means Imani has to ruin it.
"Amazing," he says from the doorway, voice thick with sarcasm. "A real Hallmark moment. Love that for you guys." He claps his hands together once, loud enough to startle me, and levels a deadpan look at my father. "But now that the smartest man in the world is awake and alive, maybe we should focus on how to stop the world from imploding."
The room collectively sighs.
My dad leans back in his chair, expression unimpressed. "We're already at the end of the world part, huh?"
Imani stares at him, unimpressed right back. "What, did you think we weren't dealing with an existential crisis while you were sleeping beauty?" He crosses his arms. "Yes, the world is crumbling. No, it hasn't actually ended yet. But at the rate things are going, we've got weeks at best before everything collapses."
Miras mutters, "Great. Love the optimism."
Dewey groans and rubs his temples. "Can we maybe ease into the apocalypse talk?"
Imani scoffs. "We don't have time to ease into it." He gestures toward my dad. "He's been lying there unconscious while everything falls apart, and now that he's awake, we need a plan. Immediately."
My dad sighs, rubbing his temple like this is already exhausting. "Alright. Fine. I'll save the world." He raises an eyebrow. "But I'd like a few minutes to spend with my daughter before we dive right into doomsday strategies."
Imani looks like he's two seconds from throwing something. "I swear, if this family doesn't start taking the apocalypse seriously—"
Dewey stands abruptly, stretching. "You want serious? Fine." He glances at my dad. "We've got an underground organization that wants Cherish and Miras dead, mind control chips that are still a problem, and—oh, yeah—the world's kinda on the brink of collapse." He tilts his head. "So. Welcome back, I guess."
Dad exhales slowly. "Sounds like I missed a lot."
Imani pinches the bridge of his nose. "You think?"
Miras rolls his shoulders, looking at me. "You up for this?"
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything settle onto me again. I squeeze my dad's hand once before letting go, straightening. "Guess I don't have a choice."
Imani gestures toward my dad like he's presenting a game show contestant. "Then let's get to work."
The conversation moves fast. Too fast.
One second, my dad is groggily piecing together the state of the world, and the next, the entire room is deep into strategy. Imani paces, rattling off threats and calculations like he's running through a doomsday checklist. Miras chimes in with counterpoints, his arms crossed so tight he looks like he's holding himself together through sheer will. Dewey sits on the windowsill, chewing his lip as he processes it all. Aunt Nayley listens with that sharp, assessing look, her eyes flicking between each of us, already working through possibilities.
And me?
I sit in my damn hospital bed, listening.
No.
No, I won't do this again.
"I'm helping." The words snap out of me, sharp and immediate.
No one responds.
They heard me. I know they heard me.
"I said, I'm helping."
This time, they react.
Miras' head snaps toward me first, already shaking his head. "No."
Imani scoffs. "Absolutely not."
Dewey groans. "Oh, come on, Cherish—"
Aunt Nayley sighs like she saw this coming a mile away. "Baby—"
Dad holds up a hand. "Okay. Everyone, pause." For a second, I think he's going to take my side. He turns to me. "You're in no condition to play superhero right now."
My stomach twists. "I don't have a choice—"
"The hell you don't," Miras cuts in, voice tight. "You just got out of surgery, Cherish. You shouldn't even be sitting up right now, let alone planning to throw yourself into more danger."
I grind my teeth. "I almost ended the world. I have to help fix it."
Imani gestures wildly, as if I've just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "You getting involved is the exact opposite of fixing anything! You need rest, not a redemption arc!"
I shoot him a glare. "I don't need a redemption arc. I need to do something."
"No," Miras snaps, stepping closer. "You need to heal. We're not doing this again."
I clench my fists against the blankets, my pulse pounding. "I'm not just going to sit here while the rest of you go off to save the world!"
Dewey throws up his hands. "You need to sit here! That's the point!"
I turn to Aunt Nayley. "You believe in me, right?"
Aunt Nayley exhales slowly, rubbing her forehead. "I believe you've been through enough." Her voice is gentle but firm. "And I believe you should listen when people who love you are telling you to slow down."
The words hit me like a slap.
I open my mouth to argue again, but my dad speaks first. "Cherish." His voice is quieter, but it cuts through the chaos like steel. "They're right."
For a second, I let the silence stretch, let them think they've won. Let them believe I'm going to just accept being left behind while they run off to stop the world from burning.
Then I pick my moment.
I cross my arms, leaning back against the pillows. "So I guess Imani was in perfect condition to keep fighting after he shot me, then?"
The room freezes.
Miras closes his eyes like he just felt a migraine punch him in the skull.
Dewey mutters, "Oh, shit."
Aunt Nayley inhales sharply through her teeth. "Lord have mercy—"
Imani's whole body tenses. "Cherish, don't—"
Too late.
I watch as my dad's face goes completely, entirely blank.
His head tilts slightly. "I'm sorry." His voice is calm, dangerously calm. "Did I hear that right?"
Imani lifts his hands. "Okay, now, context—"
Dad turns to him so fast I swear the air shifts. "You shot my daughter?"
The color drains from Imani's face. "Wait, wait—"
"You shot my daughter?"
Imani takes a half-step back. "Technically—"
"Technically?" My dad is already moving, pushing to his feet like his coma and injuries mean nothing anymore.
Miras groans. "Here we go."
Dewey—traitorous, wonderful Dewey—leans back against the window, arms crossed. "No, no, let him cook."
Imani throws him a betrayed glare before turning back to my dad, holding his hands up in a please don't murder me gesture. "It was non-lethal! And she was out of control—"
"She was mind-controlled!" Dad's voice sharpens. "And your first thought was to shoot her?"
Aunt Nayley sighs, shaking her head. "And here I thought we were all going to be civilized today."
I bite back a smile. This is so much better than losing an argument.
Imani turns his glare on me. "You did this on purpose."
I shrug, not even trying to look innocent. "I just thought Dad should be included in the conversation."
Dad crosses his arms. "So let me get this straight," he says, voice deceptively even. "First, she was tortured and experimented on. Then, she was implanted with a mind control device. And then, while she was under someone else's control, you shot her?"
Imani exhales sharply. "You're making it sound so much worse than it actually was. This was right after she shot you."
"It was that bad," Miras mutters.
"Not helping, Miras."
Dewey hums. "I mean, he's not wrong."
Imani glares at all of them before turning back to my dad. "She got better. I took the bullet out myself."
Dad stares. "You shot my daughter."
Imani groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Yes! And if I hadn't, she probably would've killed someone!"
Dad's jaw clenches.
For a second, it looks like he's actually considering murdering Imani with his bare hands.
Aunt Nayley claps her hands together. "Alright, that's enough near-homicide for one day." She looks at my dad. "He didn't kill her, and she's sitting here just fine now."
Dad takes a slow, measured breath, nostrils flaring. Then, finally, he turns back to me, eyes narrowing. "You really brought this up just to win an argument, didn't you?"
I smile, all teeth. "And it worked."
The argument technically ends, but the tension lingers like smoke. My dad keeps cutting Imani side-eyes like he's still deciding whether or not to throw him out a window, and Imani keeps shifting like he wants to argue more but knows he's lost too much ground.
I should feel victorious.
I don't.
Because despite getting the upper hand for exactly one moment, I'm still stuck in this damn hospital bed while they get to go save the world.
Miras sits on the edge of the mattress, arms crossed. He's not touching me, but he's close—close enough that I know he's watching for any signs of me pushing too far. He probably saw through my little stunt before I even opened my mouth.
Aunt Nayley shakes her head with a tired sigh. "Alright, now that we've all had our fun trying to kill each other with words, can we get back to the part where we stop the world from burning down?"
"Some of us weren't taking a break from that," Imani mutters.
Dad exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose before waving a hand. "Fine. Let's get back to work. What do we actually know about the state of things?"
Dewey leans against the windowsill. "Bad news? Everything's getting worse. Good news? It's not unsalvageable. Yet."
"That's not much good news," I point out.
"Didn't say it was a lot of good news."
Miras shifts beside me. "The underground still has resources we don't understand. And whatever's happening with the energy Cherish is carrying, it's not staying quiet. They will come after her."
"Which is why I should—"
"No," five voices say at once.
I huff, slumping back against the pillows.
Dad studies me for a second before exhaling. "Okay. How about this? Instead of arguing in circles, let's figure out what you can do."
Imani snaps his fingers. "Nothing. She can do nothing."
Aunt Nayley tilts her head. "You know she's not going to sit still, right?"
Imani groans. "I hate how well you people know her."
Dewey shrugs. "I mean, she's stubborn as hell. Might as well put that to good use."
Dad nods. "Cherish, if you had to contribute, what's the safest way you can help without putting yourself directly in danger?"
I open my mouth, fully prepared to lie through my teeth.
Miras side-eyes me. "If you say anything involving 'fieldwork,' I'm personally locking you in this room."
I scowl. "Maybe I could—"
He levels a look at me, the kind that says I will not hesitate to physically stop you if you lie right now.
Damn it.
I huff, crossing my arms. "Fine. Research. Strategy. Testing my energy in a safe environment."
Dad nods, satisfied. "That's more reasonable."
Imani mutters, "Still don't like it, but whatever."
I glare at him. "Do you ever like anything?"
"Peace. Silence. A world not falling apart." He gestures vaguely. "But apparently, I don't get any of those things."
Miras sighs, rubbing his temples. "We need a real plan."
Dewey sits up. "And we need to move fast. Because the underground isn't just waiting around for us to catch up."
I grab a notebook from the bedside table—one Dewey probably left for me—and flip it open, clicking a pen against my palm. If they won't let me fight, then I'll make damn sure I help in the only way they'll allow.
"Alright," I say, rolling my shoulders. "If the underground is tracking my power, that means they already have the means to detect it. We need to figure out how they're doing that and whether we can disrupt it." I tap the pen against the paper, frowning. "If they're using energy signatures, then—"
Imani lets out a quiet snort. "Well, good to know brain surgery didn't tank your IQ."
I flick my gaze up at him. "And yet you're still struggling with sarcasm and basic social skills. Tragic."
Dewey coughs into his fist to cover a laugh.
Aunt Nayley sighs. "Children."
Imani puts a hand to his chest. "Me? I'm the child?"
Miras doesn't look up from where he's rubbing slow circles into his temple. "Both of you."
Imani scoffs. "I am a grown man trying to prevent our imminent destruction."
Aunt Nayley raises a brow. "And still losing an argument to an injured teenager."
Dewey leans over. "I mean, at this point, it's not even a fair fight."
Imani glares at all of them. "Are we here to strategize, or are we here to roast me?"
Dad gestures vaguely. "We can multitask."
Miras sighs and refocuses. "Cherish is right. If we can disrupt their tracking system, it buys us time." He glances at Imani. "Think we can rig up something for that?"
Imani mutters something under his breath about being the only competent person here but nods. "It depends on what kind of tech they're using, but yeah, I can whip up a disruption device if we get the right materials."
"I can help with that," said Dewey.
I tap my pen again, thinking. "We also need to plan for when they show up, not just if. They're watching, which means they're waiting for an opportunity."
"Or creating one," Dewey adds grimly.
Dad sighs. "So that means traps. Countermeasures. Defenses."
Aunt Nayley shakes her head. "Sounds like we're building a war room."
I flip to a clean page, already mapping ideas. "Then let's make it a good one."
We split off into pairs, everyone gravitating toward what they do best. Dewey and Imani immediately claim one of the workstations, already deep in rapid-fire techno-babble that makes my head hurt just listening to it. Miras and my dad take the other corner, discussing reinforced materials, suit schematics, and exactly how much armor we can wear before it slows us down.
That leaves me and Aunt Nayley.
I lean my head back against the pillows, rubbing my temples. "So, it's just us, then. The only two with enough sense to keep these idiots from getting themselves killed."
Aunt Nayley chuckles, taking the seat beside my bed. "Looks like it." She glances over at Dewey and Imani, who are already arguing over wire conductivity. "Lord, help me. That one's going to blow something up before the night's over."
"Statistically, it's more likely to be Imani," I point out.
"I heard that," Imani calls without looking up.
I smirk but don't argue.
Aunt Nayley nods toward Miras and my dad. "And those two?"
I watch as my dad gestures wildly about some high-tech defense mechanism, and Miras—completely deadpan—nods like this is all completely normal.
"They'll work well together," I say. "Dad needs someone who can actually execute his ideas, and Miras…" I trail off, tilting my head. "Miras doesn't hate being given a purpose."
Aunt Nayley hums knowingly. "And what about us?"
I sigh, "they're not going to be happy about it, but we're going to figure out how to keep the world from literally splitting apart."
The elevator hums as it descends, a slow, steady drop into the depths of my father's lab. Aunt Nayley stands beside me, arms crossed, watching the numbers tick down. I grip the armrests of my wheelchair, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. It's not just the dim fluorescent lighting or the faint antiseptic smell clinging to the air—it's the fact that, for the first time since waking up from surgery, I'm about to confront the thing inside me.
The power that nearly tore everything apart.
Aunt Nayley glances at me. "How's the head?"
I huff out a breath. "Sore. But at least it's still attached."
She snorts, shaking her head. "Smart mouth."
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing the lab in all its chaotic brilliance. Towering stacks of research binders, tables covered in half-finished prototypes, and whiteboards filled with my dad's barely legible scrawl. A wall of monitors hums softly, flashing lines of code I don't understand.
I roll myself forward, scanning the room. The lab feels like a museum of my father's mind—a collection of everything he deemed too important or too dangerous to keep anywhere else.
"Alright," Aunt Nayley says, following close behind. "Where do we start?"
I don't answer right away. My gaze lands on a reinforced glass case in the far corner, thick metal locks securing whatever's inside. It's not the usual tech or armor schematics. It's something older. Something more important.
I roll toward it, my heart thudding. The case holds a single, aged notebook.
I recognize the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
Aunt Nayley lets out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
I swallow hard, barely breathing as I reach out and press my palm against the glass. A faint hum runs beneath my fingers. A lock tied to biometric security. Dad didn't just keep this hidden—he kept it sealed tight.
I glance up at Aunt Nayley. "I think I know where we start."
Aunt Nayley watches me carefully, arms still crossed. She's waiting for me to say something, but I don't know where to start.
My mother has always been more of a ghost than a person in my life. A name spoken in hushed tones. A memory buried under years of avoidance.
I take a breath. "My mom was a scientist. Like my dad, but… different."
Aunt Nayley raises an eyebrow. "Different how?"
I tap my fingers against the glass, collecting my thoughts. "Dad builds things. Machines, weapons, armor—tangible, practical stuff. But my mom? She studied things no one else wanted to touch. Energy sources, theoretical physics, the kind of research that makes people nervous. The kind that gets buried."
Aunt Nayley's gaze flicks to the locked notebook. "And you think whatever's in there might help with your… situation?"
I laugh dryly. "I don't think— I know." I tilt my head back against the wheelchair and exhale. "She was researching energy anomalies. Power that shouldn't exist, forces that shouldn't be possible. She used to call them 'fractures'—weak spots in reality where things bleed through."
Aunt Nayley frowns. "Bleed through?"
I nod. "She had a theory that the fabric of reality wasn't as stable as we thought. That certain people—certain forces—could disrupt it, even without meaning to." I hesitate before adding, "She believed there were people who could manipulate those fractures."
Aunt Nayley stares at me for a long moment, and I don't need to read her mind to know what she's thinking.
Because I am living proof my mother was right.
"I think whatever power is inside me," I continue, my voice quieter now, "it's connected to those fractures. Maybe even made of them." I swallow hard, feeling my pulse pick up. "And if I don't figure out how to control it, I think I'll be the one that finally rips everything apart."