Heather stared at him, the weight of his words pressing on her chest like a slow, heavy hand.
*Who are you?*
It didn't seem like a question. It was more like something she suspected deep down, but didn't want to acknowledge.
She blinked. Maybe she misheard. Or maybe he was joking. It was a sick, dry joke from someone who had spent too much time in a hospital bed.
So she laughed.
"Okay... we get it. You want a dramatic wake-up moment," she said, letting out a breath. She looked toward Adams, who was outside the room, expecting him to roll his eyes or smile, maybe start laughing and say, *Haha, we got you*.
But Adams didn't laugh. His face was still and sad. Not the kind of sad that came with grief, this was pity.
Heather didn't want pity. Not from him or from anyone.
When she turned back to Caius, his face looked the same; blank and guarded. Not cold or cruel. But... unfamiliar.
