Grant sat on the cot, hunched forward, his hands knotted in his hair. He tried to breathe, to remember Aldus's voice, calm, steady, like she had all the answers. But her words only circled back to the same empty place.
Weeds. Hunted. Not for what we've done, but for what we are.
His throat closed. A flash of his dad's hand, calloused, steady, shoving him behind the counter the night of the raid. Spencer's face in the doorway, too brave, too stupid. The crack of rifles. The way the air itself had burned.
Grant pressed his fists to his temples. "Stop," he whispered. "Stop, stop—"
But the memories didn't stop. They multiplied, sharper every time, until his chest felt like it was tearing in half. His nails raked down his arms. His skin split under the pressure, blood welling hot across his forearms—then knitting closed again before it had even dripped.
The regeneration mocked him. Every wound was a lie, pain erased only to bloom again when he dug deeper, harder.
He slammed his knuckles into the wall. Stone cracked. Bone cracked. Then both mended in the same heartbeat, leaving him shaking, panting, staring at the smear of blood already gone.
"Why not him?" he shouted into the air. His voice bounced off the walls and came back smaller. "Why me? Why me?!"
The cycle tightened. He clawed at his chest until his ribs splintered and popped back together. His body was a cage of endless hurt, refusing him the release he begged for.
When the scream finally ripped out of him, it was raw enough to shred his throat, but even that knitted smooth again in seconds.
He dropped to his knees on the cold stone, trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The silence afterward was worse than the pain. It was like the room itself was watching him, waiting for him to burn himself hollow.
The door hissed open with the faint sigh of hydraulics.
Grant flinched, jerking upright from the floor. His arms were streaked with drying blood that wasn't blood anymore, only pale scars fading as quickly as they formed. His chest rose and fell like he was drowning.
A figure filled the threshold.
Kudin stepped through, his cloak brushing the stone floor. The white lines of his suit glowed faintly in the dark, converging at the Ampers' emblem across his chest. His gauntlets pulsed with a slow rhythm, clock-face patterns turning like hands marking time. The lens on his forehead glimmered pale and unblinking.
Grant scrambled back until his shoulders struck the wall. "Who—who are you?" His voice cracked.
The man did not answer at once. He only tilted his head slightly, the gesture strangely gentle despite the armor. His voice, when it came, was low and steady.
"I heard you."
The words carried no judgment, no threat. Yet they landed heavily in Grant's chest.
"Don't touch me!" Grant shouted, slamming his fist into the wall. Bone cracked, skin split, blood ran—then sealed itself almost instantly. He struck again, and again, every blow pulling him deeper into the cruel loop of healing and breaking. His breath came ragged, his own body betraying him.
Grant clawed at his shirt, his voice tearing with him. "I don't care! Let me break—let me die!"
The man lifted one gauntleted hand, palm outward. The glowing clock-face upon it turned, its hands ticking faster, faster—then stilled.
Grant froze. Not fully—but the air itself thickened around him, sound dulled, motion slowed. His chest still rose, his fists still trembled, but the spiral of regeneration stilled into a painful, bearable rhythm.
The man knelt in front of him, cloak pooling at his feet. He did not touch, but the closeness carried weight, as though the chamber itself had quieted to hear.
His voice was certain. "I am here to hold the time that you cannot."
Grant's tears blurred the lens and lines into glowing shapes. He tried to protest, to push the man back, but the strength left him. His body sagged, trembling.
The gauntlet's clock-face pulsed once, twice—then slowed, hands aligning at twelve. The heaviness in the air deepened, wrapping Grant in stillness, drawing his eyelids down like lead weights.
The last thing he heard before darkness took him was the man's quiet voice, almost a prayer:
"Rest, child. The hour is not yet yours to spend."
The storm inside Grant finally broke. His body lay slack on the cot, breath evening out, chest rising steady for the first time since the raid. The angry cycle of tearing and healing slowed, then stopped, leaving only faint scars that faded into smooth skin.
For a moment, silence reclaimed the room.
In the doorway, a few of the Ampers lingered. Their faces carried a weight Grant couldn't see unease, sorrow, even fear. They had seen men die and soldiers fall, but what they had witnessed here was something else entirely: a boy tearing himself apart faster than the world could manage it.
Kudin let his cloak fall back into place, the pale lens on his forehead glinting in the half-dark.
"This boy will burn himself to ash before the world touches him."
No one answered. They only followed when he turned, footsteps fading into the stone halls. The door slid closed with a hiss, leaving the chamber in heavy quiet.
For a while, Grant slept alone.
Then, the door cracked open again. A sliver of light fell across the floor, and Anna slipped inside, her thin frame dwarfed by the vastness of the room. She closed the door softly.
Her boots tapped lightly on the floor as she crept closer. She stopped at the cot, staring down at him. In rest, Grant looked defenseless.
Anna's gloved hands fidgeted in her lap. She hesitated, chewing her lip.
Her breath shook, but she leaned closer anyway.
Slowly, carefully, she reached out. Her hand hovered above his, trembling, before she forced it down. The leather of her glove pressed against his skin, a barrier between them, but it was still contact, still a risk.
Her whisper cracked the silence. "You're not alone… I'll stay."
She shifted onto the cot's edge, her shoulders tight, eyes locked on his face in case the sleep broke. Grant didn't stir. His breathing stayed calm, steady.
So she held on. One hand clutching his, as though the grip alone might anchor him to the world.
The chamber seemed softer then.
Two children holding hands in silence.