Bennett didn't move. Didn't flinch. His back stayed stiff against the unfamiliar bed, spine half-rigid like a man caught in a wrong moment. He didn't know her. Not really. But there was something undeniably familiar in the grief that clung to her, the kind that squeezed tight at his chest.
Her hands, trembling like leaves in a windstorm, held him with a desperation that could crack stone. He didn't return the hug - didn't resist it either. Maybe he was too tired to push away, too confused to understand why the hell this woman, whoever she was, seemed to have a claim on him.
Grief, at least, he understood. He could feel it in her fingertips as they brushed against his skin, in the subtle shift of her arms holding him tighter, as if he might dissolve into nothing if she loosened her grip.
He opened his mouth, but the words felt like dead weight on his tongue. Nothing that he could say would fit.
His vision remained a blur, the details around him fading in and out like distorted shadows. The world was there, but it was off - colors bled into each other, shapes indistinct, and everything felt slightly out of reach. He couldn't make sense of the room, not with his eyes at least. The familiar contours of walls or any defining features of the space were vague, leaving him to rely more on sound than sight. He could hear the woman's voice, her breaths, and the soft rustling of fabric as she shifted, but beyond that, it was all a haze, like trying to catch glimpses through foggy glass.
The place felt strangely detached, though. Not empty, but distant, as if it existed just outside of his grasp. There were things around him - he was sure of that - but he couldn't tell where they were or what they were. His ears picked up on the smallest shifts in the air, but nothing seemed concrete enough for him to place.
So, he didn't know where he was, or why the hell he couldn't see.
Great.
And then, as if to pull him back into reality, the sound of a door creaking open.
Footsteps followed, slow, deliberate. A voice - low, steady, unfamiliar - cut through the dark.
"My lady. I told you to let him rest. This - "
She moved, her grip tightening again, just a little. Maybe she was trying to shield him from whatever was coming, maybe she was afraid of letting go. Bennett couldn't tell. The disorientation had his sense of direction skewed. All he could focus on was the voice that followed, cold and calm. "Francis," she said, her voice ragged, "He spoke. This time… I heard him."
Confusion spread in him. Spoke? What the hell was she talking about? I didn't say anything special.
Francis sighed, a sound full of weariness and something else. Maybe disappointment. "Fine. But I'm warning you, my lady. It won't change anything."
She stiffened at that. He could feel it. Her arms trembled in a way that made his stomach knot. She was afraid, but of what?
Regardless, she whispered, "Thank you."
And then, just like that, she let go.
It was as if someone had pulled the plug on him all at once. The warmth that her embrace had sparked began to fade, slipping away like steam off cold skin. A chill crept into the space, crawling up his spine, prickling at the back of his neck and settling behind his eyes.
He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to groan. It felt like even the smallest sound would cost him too much, like his body couldn't afford to do anything but remain still.
Wonderful. Now I'm the emotional center of some woman I don't know, and to top it of, this random dude's showing up to check on me.
But there wasn't time to stew in that. Not with Francis - some strange man now walking toward him like the woman had given him some sort of command.
Bennett could feel the shift in the air even before the footsteps started - slow, deliberate, and yet disturbingly calm. The kind of calm that didn't ask for permission, but simply existed.
"Well, then," Francis said.
He flinched at the suddenness of the voice. It was right next to him, without warning. No buildup. Just there.
Damn it.
Panic shot through his gut, the instinct to move - to flinch, to shove, to do anything - screaming inside him. But nothing. His body stayed stiff, useless, like someone had severed the strings holding him together.
His breath caught, his mind scrambled for anything to hold onto, but it was like trying to stand on ice. Nothing around him was stable. Nothing held its shape. His vision was still a swirling soup of gray, static.
If I could just see clearly -
Then, out of nowhere, a flash of white, searing and blinding, exploded across his vision. He winced, instinctively recoiling, the light so intense that it forced his eyelids shut before his brain could process what was happening.
A groan escaped him this time - raw and thick, like something had been stuck in his chest for too long. He pressed his hands against his face, rubbing at his eyes in a futile attempt to undo whatever had just happened.
It didn't hurt, exactly. But the suddenness of it left his head ringing, a sharp, dull throb pulsing behind his eyes. It felt as though lightning had cracked open his skull, leaving him blinking after the aftershock.
He had to say something. Anything. Maybe a plea would cut through this chaos better than silence.
"Please," he rasped, the word barely more than gravel in his throat. "Stop."
And to his surprise, it worked.
The white-hot light dimmed. Not all at once, but slowly, like someone was pulling a heavy curtain closed. The blinding brightness receded, replaced by a softer, murkier haze. It was still blurry, still unclear, but at least it was something he could breathe through.
Bennett blinked, hard, hoping to clear the fog in his vision. Instead, it seemed to make things worse. Shapes twisted in the air. His pulse thundered in his ears, a constant reminder of just how out of control everything felt.
Still, he stayed still. Waiting. For a voice. For a reaction. For anything.
But silence stretched on. Tense. Intentional.
He ground his teeth, irritation buzzing beneath his skin.
Again? Is this some kind of joke?
But this time, it didn't drag on forever.
There was movement. Not footsteps, but breathing. Steady. Too steady. The kind of breathing that felt controlled, measured - like someone was forcing themselves to stay calm.
Then Francis spoke. But his voice was different now. There was hesitation in it, uncertainty.
"... how?" he muttered under his breath, as if he didn't even realize he was speaking aloud.
The words barely carried, but they were enough to make Bennett pause. The man who had seemed so confident just moments ago now sounded as if he had been struck by something beyond his comprehension. He stood in silence after that, his stillness hanging heavy in the air, like his mind was still trying to wrap itself around what it had just witnessed.
Next to him, Bennett could hear a soft breath hitch. Then a sob. The woman had started crying again.
He stayed still, listening, unsure of what to do. His confusion was only growing. The weight of everything - the strange room, these unfamiliar people treating him like he was something precious, the fact that his body barely seemed to respond - was crushing.
He gripped the blanket beneath him, trying to anchor himself.
What the hell is going on?
He tried again. "What… happened?"
The woman leaned forward, as if she hadn't expected him to speak again. Her eyes were wide, and her lips trembled, but she didn't answer.
Francis glanced at her, his earlier certainty slowly creeping back into his voice. "We should... I need to speak to the Count," he said, his tone clipped. "Now."
Bennett's mind spun again. Count? What kind of place is this?
Francis seemed to notice the confusion, and after a pause, he turned back to him. "You… you understand me, don't you?"
He blinked at the man, still fighting to make sense of everything. "Yes," he muttered, barely a whisper. His throat still felt raw.
Francis studied him, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Then, I will make this quick," he said, his voice laced with something like disbelief. "You were in a vegetative state. And now, you are here, in your bed... in the Count's chambers. However..." Francis paused, the hesitation clear in his voice, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "You... seem to still be in a state of delirium. Am I correct?"
He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes."
There was no need to hide his disorientation and weakness; after all, it was probably painfully obvious in the first place.
Francis stood a little straighter, as if satisfied by the confirmation. "Then continue resting. You haven't used your body correctly for... well, it's been a long while. Rest for now. A few servants will bring you food and water. Afterward, I want you to sleep again."
"Servants?" Bennett repeated, the word hanging in the air like a bad joke.
Does this hospital have some sort of castle role play? What kind of place was I admitted to?
Francis opened his mouth to respond, but it was the woman who answered.
"Yes, don't worry, Ben. I'll bring the food myself. Don't worry. Just rest," she said softly.
"Ben?" Bennett echoed after a bit of hesitation, his breath catching in his chest. The name hit him like a forgotten memory trying to claw its way back into his consciousness. He froze, eyes wide. Why do you call me that? But the question was stuck, lodged in his throat, and no matter how much he tried to process it, his mind was too tired to make sense of anything.
But before he could say more, she leaned in a little closer, her voice as soft as a voice can get.
"Just rest. Please."
Her insistence made him relent. He was too tired anyway.
With a weak nod before sinking into the bed, eyes shutting once more, his head full of questions and the faintest flicker of something he couldn't quite name.
Whatever this is... I need to get some water before I lose my mind.