Trigger warnings *nightmares, Dissociative Identify Disorder, destruction, violence, loss*
The dream starts the same way it always does. The walls stretch forever, their slick metallic surface humming with energy, warping and shifting like a living thing. My breath comes too fast, too shallow. The air is thick, pressing in on me, wrapping around my throat like invisible hands.
I know what's coming.
But this time, I'm not alone.
They're here.
I turn, and I see her.
The first one. The one who never flinches, never hesitates. She stands with her arms crossed, head tilted, lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. Her dark eyes burn with something vicious, something untamed.
My anger.
"Finally," she drawls, stepping closer, boots clicking against Dr. Amar's floor. "I was wondering how long you'd keep pretending."
My stomach clenches. "Pretending what?"
She grins, flashing teeth. "That you're not me. That you don't love it, the way it feels when you stop holding back."
I shake my head. "That's not—"
"Oh, spare me." Her voice sharpens, cutting through the stale air. "You fight, you burn, you break things—and you win. Stop pretending you don't like it."
I take a step back. And immediately regret it.
Because she's not the only one here.
A laugh—bright, careless—echoes through the space.
And there she is.
The second one. The one who smiles too wide, who shines too bright, who speaks in honey-coated words that drip with effortless charm. She twirls, arms outstretched like we're at some kind of grand event instead of a nightmare built from my own mind.
"You're always so serious," she sighs, flipping her hair. "No wonder people don't trust you. No wonder they doubt you."
My hands shake. "You're not real."
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Not real? Please. I'm the best part of you, darling. The one who knows how to make people love us. How to make them need us."
"No—"
"Why fight it?" She leans in, voice dipping into something conspiratorial. "It's easier when they adore you. When they hang onto every word you say." She smiles again, perfect and blinding. "Isn't it nice to be wanted?"
A choked sound escapes my throat.
And then—
A growl.
Low. Guttural.
The air shifts. The Cube darkens.
And my blood runs cold.
The third one doesn't speak.
She doesn't need to.
She moves in the shadows, a crawling, writhing shape that twists and breaks and reforms, a monstrous echo of something human.
Dr. Amar's masterpiece.
The thing he made me into.
She lunges.
I barely have time to react before she's on me, her hands wrapping around my arms, burning-hot claws digging into my skin. She doesn't have a face—not really—but I feel her breath against my cheek, sharp and ragged.
My own breath.
"You let this happen," she hisses, voice distorted, warped. "You let them make me."
I struggle, panic spiking through me. "Let go—"
"You never should have survived."
I hit the ground hard, but I'm not in Dr. Amar's lab anymore.
Not the monster. Not the others.
Her.
The last one. The weakest one.
She looks at me with wide, desperate eyes, her face gaunt, her hands trembling where they clutch at the fabric of my shirt.
"Please," she whispers. "I can't do this anymore."
My chest tightens, something breaking apart inside me.
"Please, Cherish." Her fingers dig in, clinging, like she's afraid I'll disappear. "Help me."
I open my mouth—
"Please, don't leave me like this. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Her sobs ring out so loud my ears hurt. My hands fly up to try and cover my ears, but she grabs me tighter, forcing me to look at her.
"You have to help me! You have to help me!"
"I'm sorry," I whisper, but it offers no comfort. "I'm trying—I—I don't know what to do."
She falls to her knees, her fingers clawing over her own eyes.
"Please stop."
Her sobs turn into screams, the same screams I made when Dr. Amar tortured me. "He's coming Cherish, and you can't stop him."
I wake up with a gasp, my chest heaving like I've just broken the surface of deep water. The air in my room is thick, cloying, the silence pressing in too tight.
Alone.
The bed is cold beside me. Miras isn't here.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push past the raw ache in my chest, but it doesn't help. The echoes of the nightmare cling to me, winding around my limbs like invisible chains, refusing to let go.
And then—
They start talking.
"That's what you get for relying on him."
The voice slithers through my mind, sharp and unforgiving. My angry self—the one who never hesitates, never apologizes—sinks her claws in first.
"You should've known better. He's not your keeper. He's not gonna hold your hand every damn time you fall apart."
"Shut up," I mutter, my voice hoarse.
"Oh, come on." A laugh—too bright, too airy—cuts in, overlapping the first voice like static. My charmer, always lurking, always watching. "You can't seriously be surprised, sweetheart. You keep asking people to save you, but all you ever do is drive them away."
I press the heels of my hands against my temples. "Stop—"
"You think you need them. But you don't." The first one growls, her presence pressing against the edges of my mind, dark and insistent. "You have me. You have us."
"No, no, no," the charmer sings, her voice dripping with amusement. "You've got it all wrong, darling. She doesn't need to push them away. She needs to keep them close—make them want her, make them stay."
"They never stay."
The last voice is softer. Hoarse. Strained.
And then—
The shadows shift.
The monster stirs.
I flinch as the weight of her presses down on me, slow and suffocating. No words—just the cold, twisting sense of something waking up deep inside my bones.
The thing Amar created.
The thing I let him create.
My breath catches, panic clawing up my throat.
"You let this happen," she whispers, her voice bleeding through the cracks of my mind, slick and awful.
I dig my nails into my arms, grounding myself in the bite of pain, trying to keep them out, keep control, but it's getting harder.
They're getting louder.
"You can't fight us forever," my anger sneers.
"Why would you even want to?" the charmer croons.
The monster doesn't speak.
She doesn't have to.
I feel her slithering through my veins, pressing against the inside of my ribs, waiting for the moment I slip.
Waiting to take over.
"Please," the last voice whispers, the real me, small and desperate. "I don't want to be like this. I just—I just want to be me again."
I press my forehead against my knees, my breath shuddering out in uneven bursts.
The moment my will falters, they rush in.
One by one, they push their way to the forefront, clawing for control like I'm just a cage for their chaos. My body goes rigid, unable to hold onto the little bit of myself I've been clinging to.
It's not me anymore.
I feel them, feel their hands on the reins of my mind, pulling in different directions, each one trying to make me do something, make me feel something. My breath hitches in my throat, and my heart pounds, as if I'm a passenger in my own body—watching but powerless to stop them.
First, it's the one I dread the most. The anger.
She surges to the front, her presence overwhelming and dark. I can feel the temperature in the room shift, the air thickening with the weight of something dangerous. Her voice is jagged and harsh in my mind, a snarling growl that shakes through my bones.
"This is all his fault, you know."
I can't stop her.
"All this weakness. All this—"
Smash.
My hand swings forward, slamming into the dresser by my bed. It leaves a dent, the sound of wood splitting ringing out in the silence of the room. I can't feel my own strength, only hers—the raw, unfiltered power that surges through me like wildfire.
Her voice laughs, bitter and cruel. "I should have done this sooner."
But before I can process it, she's pushed aside.
And then—the bright one.
The charmer.
Her voice floods my mind like a soothing wave, silky and sweet, like I've just taken a sip of something too sugary. Her smile is in my head, wide and all-knowing.
"You're so much better than this, darling." She purrs, almost teasing. "Don't let that angry little voice control you. You can be whatever you want. You can make them love you. You can make them beg for you."
I feel a tug at my lips, the twisted, fake smile taking over. My posture changes, my body becoming something it's not—something soft and inviting. I can feel the charm sliding into place, like a mask, like I'm playing a role.
"All they need is you, sweetheart."
But as her voice fades, something else presses in—sharp, jagged, familiar.
The monster.
My skin crawls, the sensation of her claws digging into my insides, tightening like a vice. There's no voice this time—just the crushing presence of her, the weight of what she is, what she represents. The coldness that lingers, the dread that follows.
Her laugh is like the last breath before a storm, hollow and endless. Her hunger, her rage—they're both mine.
She's quiet, but I feel the shift in my body as I move without thought. My hands clench, nails digging into my palms, the gnawing feeling of wanting something more stirring deep in my gut.
I want to rip something apart.
I want to break.
And then, a whisper—a soft plea, as fragile as glass.
"Please."
In the silence that follows, I feel myself drift, carried away in the current of my own chaos, unable to stop what I've become, unable to see what I'm doing.
I don't know how long it's been when I finally start to regain a sense of myself again. I blink, slow, disoriented, the quiet creeping back into my mind like the calm after a storm.
But when I look around, I realize I'm not in my bed anymore.
I'm standing in the middle of the room, my fists clenched, and my heart pounding.
And I don't know how I got here.
The anger surges like a tidal wave, and I don't even have a chance to brace myself. She's back, the one who rips through everything like it's nothing.
I don't have time to catch my breath. Her thoughts, her impulses—they're too fast, too overwhelming to stop.
"This is bullshit."
I can hear her voice, loud and clear, as if it's mine, but it's not. It's hers. The anger—the rage that I can't control, that's always bubbling just beneath the surface. It's the part of me that's always been there, even when I try to pretend I'm someone else. Even when I pretend I can be soft.
But I can't.
I'm furious.
I'm seething.
And she knows it.
"They've all been taking advantage of you. Letting you break. Letting you fall apart."
I feel her hand—my hand—ball into a fist. The nails dig into my palms, and the sharp sting sends a thrill through my veins.
I want to break something. I need to make it hurt.
I stalk toward the door, my steps heavy and full of purpose.
"He isn't here."
Her voice is cold, detached. She doesn't care.
"Doesn't matter, does it?"
I reach the doorframe, and my fingers curl around the wood. I don't even think about it—I just do it. I rip the door open, slamming it against the wall. The sound is deafening, but it feels so goddamn good.
I want to shatter.
I want to make everything around me break.
The hallway's dark. Too quiet. Too still.
But that's exactly what makes me feel alive.
"Where the hell is he?"
I stalk down the hall, my mind racing, thoughts twisted in a mess of anger and frustration. I don't even know where I'm going, but I need something. I need to make this stop.
I feel the heat in my chest—the simmering fire that always threatens to burn me from the inside out. It's building, growing, and I can't control it.
Every shadow in the hallway feels like it's watching me, every creak in the floorboards feels like it's mocking me. I can't take the silence anymore.
"You don't need him."
Her voice again. That voice that tells me what I don't want to hear but know is true.
"You can handle this alone. You've always been alone."
I reach the bottom of the stairs, the tension in my body nearly unbearable. My legs ache from the restraint, from holding onto the last thread of something that feels human. But it's slipping, and I know it.
The house is too still. Too empty.
I want to scream.
I want to break it all.
I push open the door to the living room, the sound of the hinges groaning as if they, too, are warning me. But I don't listen. I never do.
The space is dark, but the shadows don't bother me anymore. I can feel them, shifting, almost alive. Almost waiting for me to let go completely.
And that's what she wants.
She wants me to lose it.
To shatter into a million pieces.
She wants to destroy.
"You don't need to be fixed," she murmurs, as though soothing me, as though she's right. "They're the ones who need fixing. You're perfect the way you are. You've always been perfect."
I stare at the empty room, the silence, the calm that feels so unnatural after the storm inside me.
And it's then that I realize—
I'm not alone.
They are always with me.
Even when I want to be free. Even when I beg to be myself.
But I can't. Not while she's here. Not while the anger has control.
And when I let myself think, I don't know if I even want to be in control anymore.
I take a step forward, unsure of where it's going to lead, but it feels inevitable.
The moment is thick with tension, and I feel like I'm about to snap.
"Just let go." The voice inside me is insistent, coaxing, dark and tempting.
And I can't help but listen.
The moment the thought settles into my mind, the pressure in my chest breaks open, and it's like I've just unleashed everything I've been holding back for months—everything that's been building inside me since the Cube, since Dr. Amar.
I can feel it—rising, surging. The heat, the crackling energy, the power that I barely understand but can feel at my fingertips.
"Let it out."
The anger laughs, her voice a twisted anthem in my head, spurring me on.
I lift my hand without thinking, and the air ripples in front of me. Crack. The sound of something breaking.
I don't even look back.
A flash of light erupts from my palm, and I watch in a daze as the furniture in the room begins to disintegrate. The couch, the tables, the shelves—all of it just vanishing, breaking down into dust and splinters. The sound of it crumbling, of the world around me unraveling, is almost… beautiful.
It feels like I'm standing in the center of a storm, watching everything I've known fall apart.
I feel powerful. I feel unstoppable.
"You were right," the voice sneers, the anger purring with satisfaction. "They never deserved you. Not the way you deserve this."
A wave of energy crackles through the room, and the walls seem to vibrate with it. I can't stop it. I don't even want to stop it.
"More," the voice urges, its hunger insatiable.
I take another step forward, my hand outstretched, and the world around me shatters. The floor cracks, the walls buckle under the force. The windows explode outward, sending shards of glass into the night air. It's chaotic. It's raw. It's everything I've ever wanted in this moment of destruction.
"Cherish!"
The door slams open, and Miras steps into the room, his expression tight with fear.
Imani's right behind him, eyes wide, scanning the damage with frantic intensity.
But it's too late.
The air is thick with energy. I can feel the surge of it—how the room trembles, how the very foundation of the house seems to bend beneath my power.
I don't want to look at them. I don't want to hear their voices. Not now.
But I can feel them, both of them, their eyes locked on me. They know.
They know it's me, but not the me they want.
"Cherish, stop!" Miras says, his voice low and urgent. He takes a step forward, his eyes flickering with something I don't want to acknowledge. Fear. Concern. A mix of both.
His hand reaches out, but I don't move.
I can't move.
"You're scaring me," Imani says, his voice shaking. He's not yelling. He's not trying to control me. His tone is softer than I expected, like he's trying to calm me, to reach the person still buried beneath this rage.
I laugh, but it's not my voice. It's the anger's. The words come out jagged, like glass. "I'm beyond saving, Imani. You know that."
The room shakes again, and the walls groan in protest.
Miras steps closer, his eyes never leaving me, and I can see it in his face. He's not just worried about the house. He's worried about me. About the person I've become in this moment.
I want to yell at him. To tell him to leave, to stop trying to fix something that's beyond repair. But instead, the power flares—uncontrolled.
The floor beneath my feet cracks open, and I feel a shockwave pulse through the room, knocking Miras back.
"Miras!" Imani shouts, reaching out to grab his arm.
I watch, horrified, as Miras stumbles, his feet catching on the broken pieces of the floor. He doesn't fall, but it's enough to make the anger inside me flare. I did that. I hurt him.
But the rage doesn't care.
"You're not strong enough to stop this."
The air is thick with tension, crackling with the energy I can barely control. It feels like my body is being pulled apart, each voice inside me fighting for dominance. The energy pushes outward, seeking release, but I don't know how to control it. I don't know how to stop.
Miras stares at me, his voice cutting through the haze of power and fury. "Cherish, listen to me. You have to stop. You're not alone in this."
His words reach me, just a sliver of clarity breaking through the storm. But it's not enough. I can't stop. I can't pull it back.
And then—I hear it.
The soft, pleading whisper of the last piece of me.
"Please… please, stop."
But it's drowned out by the others. The rage. The hunger.
And I'm left, suspended in the chaos I've created. The destruction surrounding me. The power—wild and uncontrollable.
It might be too late to stop it now.
"You know this isn't the way out." The voice that's not mine, but is a part of me, sneers. The anger is growing, feeding on itself, wrapping around my heart, squeezing harder with every second.
"Do you really want them to see you like this? Weak? Broken?" The voice urges, and my hands twitch, eager to lash out, to feel the release.
"You're too much for them." The words are seductive, like poison on my tongue. "They'll never understand."
I can't stop the fire that's consuming me, spreading from my chest to my hands. It feels like the very air around me is charged, crackling with too much energy, and it's all pouring out of me, too fast. Too powerful.
Smash.
The next wall cracks open, the wood splintering like paper in my hands. The pieces fall to the ground in slow motion, and I can feel a twisted sort of satisfaction in it. The destruction is beautiful in its chaos. The power is intoxicating.
Break. Destroy. Let it all burn.
A loud crash sends shards of glass scattering across the floor, and I feel another surge of power. I barely register it as I take another step, my mind swirling with the chaos, the voices, the desperate pleas that are getting quieter and quieter in my head.
"Cherish!"
I don't know who it is at first. My mind is too foggy. But then I hear Aunt Nayley's voice, sharp and panicked. She's standing in the doorway now, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and fear.
I barely recognize her, standing there frozen. Her usual calm, her gentle presence is gone, replaced by something else. Something worried.
"Cherish, you have to stop. You're not... you're not like this." Her voice trembles, but it's firm, filled with concern.
But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.
I turn away from her, my hands lifting once again, the energy building, the power crackling around me like a force I can't control. It feels good. It feels... right.
Behind me, I hear Dewey shout, his voice sharp with urgency. "Stop it, Cherish! You're going to kill someone!"
I whip around to face him, my chest heaving. He's standing in the corner, eyes wide, hands raised in a defensive posture, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness that cuts through me like a knife.
But I can't hear him. I can't hear any of them.
Aunt Nayley moves closer, her hands outstretched, pleading. "Cherish, we're here. Please, come back to us."
I feel the pull to tear everything apart again, the power is so close, just within reach.
And then, my father's voice.
"Cherish, no!"
His voice cuts through the haze of my fury like a rope, pulling me back for just a second. He's standing in the doorway now, the look on his face unreadable, but I can see the worry, the pain, the fear. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest as if he's trying to protect himself from what's coming.
But I can't stop.
The rage takes over again. I feel it crash through me like a tidal wave, and my powers flare, throwing everything in my path. The walls tremble, the furniture groans under the strain of my energy, and I know—I know—it's only a matter of time before it all comes down.
"I am alone!" My voice rips through the room, filled with anger and desperation. "You all left me. You abandoned me!"
I hear Aunt Nayley take a step back, but Dewey doesn't move, his hands still up as if he's trying to calm me down. But it's no use.
The power is overwhelming, and it feels like it's all I have left now.
Miras is still there, but I don't look at him. I can't.
They're all still calling my name, but it's all so distant, so far away. I can feel my grip slipping on everything that used to matter.
"Cherish, please!" Dewey yells, the panic clear in his voice. "You don't have to do this! This isn't you!"
But it is me now.
I raise my hand again, and the energy surges, violent and uncontrollable. I can feel it pushing out of me, the surge of power enough to make everything around me shake. It's like the air itself is alive, trembling under the weight of it.
"Enough!"
My father's voice cuts through the air, commanding and fierce.
For a split second, everything stops. The power falters. The storm inside me hesitates.
I turn to face him. His eyes are locked onto mine, but they're different now—filled with pain, filled with guilt. I see it in the way his hands tremble, how his shoulders sag under the weight of everything.
"You don't have to be like this," he says, his voice quieter now, raw with emotion. "You're not alone. We're here. Please."
The storm inside me isn't just a storm anymore—it's a tsunami. It's overwhelming, suffocating, and every cell in my body is screaming for release. My hands are shaking with the power I can't control, with the anger that's clawing its way to the surface. It's not just a feeling; it's a force—a dark, pulsating thing that demands to be let loose, and every inch of me is rebelling against the idea of holding it in any longer.
The rage rises again, filling the room, the house, and everything around me with the heat of destruction. I hear the crash of walls giving way, the groan of metal bending and breaking, but I don't feel the destruction. It's like a haze. It's necessary.
"Let it go. Let it all burn."
The voice that is not mine but somehow is a part of me whispers, coaxing, urging, convincing me that the only way to find peace is through this—through this chaos. And I start to believe it. Every ounce of my being tells me that the only way to stop feeling this—this pain—is to destroy everything around me. The anger wants to stay. It wants to burn everything, to consume it all.
I can feel the tremors through the tower as the foundation shifts, cracking under the weight of the energy that is pouring out of me. The walls buckle, the windows shatter, and all I can do is stand there, my body locked in the grip of a rage I can't fight anymore.
"Cherish…" Miras's voice is a distant thing now, like an echo in the chaos. His voice is strained, a mixture of worry and fear, but I can barely hear him over the thunder of my own heartbeat, the pounding pulse in my ears that matches the rhythm of the destruction.
And then, I hear it.
"It's not enough."
It's the anger's voice again. The more I give into it, the stronger it gets. The more I release, the more it demands.
I turn, a flash of red in my peripheral vision. I see my father—his face full of concern, his arms raised, as if he's trying to reach me. But I can't stop. I can't even think.
"Let it go."
Everything inside me is tearing apart, all my control unraveling as the tower begins to groan under the weight of the energy. Every floor feels like it's about to collapse beneath me. I can't stop it, and even if I wanted to, I don't know how to anymore.
I raise my hands, a final surge of power gathering in the pit of my chest. My fingers crackle with energy, and the floor splits wide open, the very foundation of the tower beginning to give way.
"You're stronger than them. Stronger than all of them."
The voice laughs, cruel, triumphant, egging me on as the walls begin to crumble. The windows shatter into a thousand pieces, and the ceiling cracks. I'm breaking everything. I'm bringing the tower down, piece by piece.
But then—
A sudden pressure.
It's like something inside me snaps. My breath catches in my throat, and for just a moment, the rage falters. I feel a crack in the energy around me, a sharp, painful lurch in my body.
My knees buckle. The power inside me is still pushing, trying to tear its way out, but my body can't keep up. It's too much. I feel my legs give out beneath me, and I stumble, almost falling to the floor.
I try to steady myself, to hold it together, but my body is betraying me. My muscles are burning, and it's like my bones themselves are turning to ash. I'm too weak.
I hear Miras's voice, this time clear and panicked. "Cherish!"
His arms are around me before I even know it, pulling me back from the edge. But I can't focus on him. I can't focus on anything but the pain and the exhaustion flooding my body, drowning out everything else.
The energy is still there, crackling, clawing to get out, but I can't move. I can't do anything. I feel like I'm suffocating under it.
"No, not now."
The voice, the anger—it's still there, pushing, trying to take control. But I don't have the strength to fight it. My body can't handle the weight of this rage anymore.
I try to take a breath, but it feels like my lungs are collapsing. The room tilts around me, spinning as the world falls away. I feel the heat and the pressure in my chest, but it's fading, slipping away like sand through my fingers.
And then I fall.
Miras catches me, but everything is blurred, my vision swimming as my body goes limp. I hear him shouting something, but it's too far away. The energy is still there, hovering just beneath the surface, but I can't hold it anymore. I've given everything, and my body just can't take it.
The last thing I hear is Imani's voice, shaky but determined, "Cherish, stay with us. You're not alone."
The world is a blur.
I can feel myself drifting, slipping in and out of something I can't name—it's like floating between dreams and waking, between control and chaos. My body feels too heavy, like it belongs to someone else, and the sharp, jagged cracks in my mind threaten to split me apart. Each time I try to focus, the pain rips through my thoughts, tearing everything to pieces.
Snap.
A crack. And then another. It's like my brain is a puzzle, its pieces shattered, scattered across a place I can't reach. Every time I try to pull myself back together, the pieces slip further away, like water running through my fingers. And the anger... the rage... it's still there, festering in the back of my mind, ready to break out again. It's a pressure that won't let me breathe.
I can hear them.
Imani's voice, steady, but there's an edge to it, like he's fighting to keep himself together. "We need to get her stabilized. Now."
But even as his words reach me, they sound muffled, like I'm underwater. I feel the cold against my skin, fingers brushing against me, trying to ground me—but all I can feel is the weight of my mind threatening to pull me under.
A sharp gasp. It's my own breath, shallow and frantic, and it pulls me back just enough to realize that something is happening. I can feel hands on me—Miras, Dewey, Imani—they're all here, but I can't focus enough to make sense of it. My body tenses, but it's not mine. My body is somewhere far away, and I can barely hold on to it.
The cracks in my mind widen, and every breath I take feels like it's pulling me apart. I can hear their voices, feel their hands on me, but they all sound like they're coming from a distance, muffled by the thick fog closing in around me. I try to reach out, to grab hold of something, anything that will keep me from breaking completely, but my limbs feel like they belong to someone else, heavy and unresponsive.
Stay with them. Stay with me.
The world fades in and out like a broken film reel, flickering between moments of clarity and heavy, suffocating darkness. I can feel the weight of my own body pressing down on me, sinking me deeper into the mattress. My limbs won't move the way I want them to, and my breath—shallow, ragged—barely reaches my lungs before getting caught in my throat.
I know they're still here.
I can hear Miras' voice, low and steady, somewhere to my left. Aunt Nayley murmurs something soft, something comforting, but the words don't quite reach me. Dewey is quieter, for once, but I can feel him shifting, restless. They're all still here, still hovering too close.
Too close.
They shouldn't be here. They shouldn't stay.
I try to push myself up, but my arms give out before I can even lift my head. The frustration bubbles up, weak and useless against the exhaustion dragging me down, but I refuse to let it stop me.
"Go." My voice comes out like sandpaper, barely more than a whisper.
Everything goes still.
"Cherish—" Miras' voice is sharp, but I cut him off before he can argue.
"You need to go." I force the words out, ignoring how my throat burns with the effort. My fingers twitch against the sheets, frustration buzzing under my skin. "All of you. Just—leave."
No one moves.
Aunt Nayley is the first to break the silence. "We're not going anywhere, sweetheart." Her voice is gentle, but firm, and I hate it. I hate the softness in it, the unshaken determination. Like she thinks she can fix this. Like she thinks I can be fixed.
"You don't—" I gasp as my breath catches again, the air getting caught in my lungs. My heart is pounding, too fast, too erratic, and my vision swims. "You can't stay."
Dewey snorts, arms crossing. "Yeah, not exactly taking orders from you right now, sunshine."
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the rising panic. "I almost—" I swallow against the tightness in my throat, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "I almost killed all of you."
Miras moves before I can protest, shifting closer, and suddenly his hand is on mine. Warm. Steady. A contrast to the trembling in my fingers. "But you didn't."
The words sting. "Not for lack of trying."
"You think that matters?" His grip tightens, just slightly. "You think we're scared of you?"
"You should be." I open my eyes, locking onto his. Even in the dim light, I can see the exhaustion etched into his features, the weight pressing down on him just as much as it is on me. But his gaze is unwavering, dark and steady and unmovable.
"No," he says simply. "We shouldn't."
I shake my head, or at least I try to. "Miras…" My voice is fraying, cracking apart like everything else inside me. "You don't get it. I—I can't control it. Next time, I might not stop."
The memory of it still lingers—power tearing through me, ripping at my control, the overwhelming, suffocating rage that almost swallowed me whole. It's still there, waiting, just beneath the surface. And if it comes back—if I lose again—
Miras doesn't look away. "Then we'll stop you."
My breath stutters.
"We're not leaving, Cherish." Aunt Nayley's voice is soft but unyielding. "No matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push us away. We're staying."
My fingers curl weakly into the sheets.
"You should be scared of me," I whisper.
Dewey scoffs. "Oh, trust me, I'm terrified." His voice is light, but there's something underneath it, something real. "But I'm also not stupid enough to leave you alone when you're clearly about three seconds away from self-destructing, so, guess you're stuck with us."
The murmuring voices blend into the static ringing in my ears, distant and fractured, like a conversation happening in another room—another world. I can barely make out the words, but I don't have to. I know what they're talking about.
Me.
Imani's voice is sharp, clipped, barely containing his frustration. "We don't have time to argue, Maurice. She's already losing control faster than we can keep up."
My father doesn't answer right away.
Maybe he's rubbing his face, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when he's thinking too hard. He exhales, low and exhausted. "You think I don't know that?"
Something cracks.
Not in the room. Not in the walls. Inside me.
I can hear it—deep in my skull, a sound like splintering glass, like something coming undone at the seams.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No, no, no, not again—
Imani keeps talking, his words punctuated with the urgency of someone who already knows we're running out of options. "The pressure is getting worse. The more it fractures, the harder it'll be to bring her back. At some point, she's not going to recover at all."
My father's voice is quieter, but no less desperate. "We can't just force it back together, Imani. The mind doesn't work that way."
Mine doesn't work at all.
The cracking gets louder.
I clutch at my head, but it's inside—inside—and no amount of pressing my fingers to my temples will hold it together. It's like my brain is pulling apart at the seams, breaking off into pieces, each one trying to fight for dominance.
Too many voices.
Too many versions of me.
They're clawing for space, fighting, pushing, screaming.
My hands tremble against my skull, my breaths coming too fast, too shallow. The pressure builds, a weight behind my eyes, in the center of my forehead, in the base of my skull where something deep and wrong keeps twisting tighter and tighter—
I bite back a cry.
No one notices. They're too busy trying to solve a problem that can't be solved.
"Then we find another way," Imani says. "A suppressant, a mental stabilizer—something to keep her together long enough for us to figure this out."
My father lets out a heavy breath. "We don't even know if there is a solution."
There isn't.
I already know that.
Because I can feel it happening.
The way my thoughts slip and slide, struggling to connect, to stay cohesive. The way my memories shift, rewriting themselves every time another version of me tries to take control. The way the anger, the fear, the exhaustion all war within me, each one trying to claim whatever's left.
I let out a shaky breath, barely more than a whisper. "It's already too late."
The room goes silent.
I force my eyes open, and for a moment, the world tilts. The edges blur, like I'm looking at too many versions of reality at once. Like my mind hasn't quite decided which one is real.
Imani is watching me, his jaw tight. My father's face is drawn, paler than before.
I swallow hard and grip the sheets beneath me like an anchor. "I can hear it," I murmur. "I can feel it. It's coming apart." My voice wavers, raw and hoarse. "And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
Imani crosses his arms. "You don't know that."
A humorless laugh scrapes out of my throat. "I think I do."
The cracking sound is still there. Beneath the silence. Beneath my skin. Beneath everything.
Imani and my father might be trying to put me back together.
But I already know—
There's nothing left to fix.
I stare at the ceiling, my breath shallow, my limbs too heavy to move. Miras is beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, but not touching. He hasn't moved in minutes, hasn't spoken, like he's afraid that if he does, I'll shatter completely.
Joke's on him. I already have.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. "Miras."
He stiffens. "Yeah?"
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him in the dim light. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes are wrecked.
I should lie to him. Tell him I'm fine. Pretend I'm not breaking apart at the seams.
But I can't.
Not to him.
Not now.
"I can hear it." My voice is barely above a whisper, but the words cut through the silence like a knife. "My brain. It's—" I swallow hard. "It's splitting apart."
Miras flinches, just barely, but I catch it. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, his voice is too careful, too controlled. "What do you mean?"
I close my eyes for a second, trying to steady myself. "It's like…" I exhale shakily. "Like glass breaking, but slow. Like something pulling apart piece by piece, cracking down the middle." My fingers twitch against the sheets. "And I feel it, Miras. Every fracture, every split, like my own mind is turning against itself."
The mattress shifts as he moves, like he wants to reach for me but stops himself. "Cherish…"
I don't let him finish. "I don't know how much longer I can hold on." My voice wavers, raw and quiet, but I know he hears it. "I don't know if there's even anything left to hold on to."
Miras inhales sharply, and when I force myself to look at him again, his expression is tight, controlled—but his hands are clenched into fists, like he's holding something back, like if he doesn't, he'll break too.
"You're still here." His voice is rough, almost desperate.
I let out a bitter laugh, but it comes out more like a breath. "Am I?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
I shake my head slightly. "You don't get it. There's not just one of me anymore. There's too many, and they're all fighting, and I don't know who's going to win." I let my head rest against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "And what if—what if it's not me?"
Miras exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, but his hands are shaking now. He looks at me like he's trying to memorize me, trying to find the part of me that's still me underneath it all.
Then, suddenly, he moves.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubs a hand down his face before pressing his fingers against his temples like he's trying to force himself to think. Like if he just thinks hard enough, he'll find a way to fix this.
He won't.
But I don't have the heart to tell him that.
A long silence stretches between us. Then, finally, his hands drop to his lap, clenched tight. He doesn't look at me when he speaks.
"I don't know how to help you." His voice is hoarse, low. Almost like a confession.
I blink at him, something sharp twisting in my chest. "Miras—"
"I don't know what to do," he says, and this time his voice breaks. He finally looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression, something open and vulnerable in a way Miras never lets himself be. "You—you tell me this, and I just—" He lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "I can't fix this, Cherish. I can't fight it. I can't protect you from it." His hands flex, like they're itching to grab something, someone, but there's nothing there. "And I don't—I don't know what to do with that."
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I don't know what to say.
Because he's right.
He can't fix this.
And we both know it.
But still—he's here.
Even when it's killing him to watch me fall apart. Even when he can't do anything but sit beside me and watch.
I close my eyes, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "You don't have to do anything, Miras."
His breath catches.
I turn my head toward him, meeting his gaze again. "Just—stay." My voice is quiet, pleading. "Even if I'm breaking. Even if I'm not me." My throat tightens. "Just stay."
My father leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. He's been quiet for too long, thinking, calculating.
And then he sighs.
A deep, resigned sound.
"There's one thing we haven't tried." His voice is steady, but I can hear the weight behind it. "A last-ditch effort."
Imani stops pacing. His gaze snaps to my father. "Explain."
He exhales, running a hand down his face before straightening. "The fractures in Cherish's mind are widening. We don't have time to experiment with suppressants or gradual treatments. If we wait, we lose her." His jaw tightens. "So we don't wait."
Something in his tone sends a chill down my spine.
I shift, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "What are you saying?"
He meets my gaze. "I'm saying we remove the damage."
Imani stiffens. "What?"
My father's face is unreadable, "The trauma—the fractures—all of it stems from one source. We target that source. We erase it."
Silence.
Aunt Nayley's brows furrow. "You mean memory suppression."
My dad nods, "We take her back. Before the Cube. Before the bracelet. Before any of this started."
The words land like a physical blow.
Miras tenses beside me, his entire body going rigid.
Imani's expression darkens. "That's not an option."
Maurice exhales sharply. "It's the only one we have left."
Miras speaks then, his voice low and controlled, but there's something raw underneath. "How much would she forget?"
Maurice doesn't look at me when he answers. "Months." He pauses, considering. "Maybe more."
The room is dead silent.
I force my lips to move. "I'd still know all of you, though?"
"Yes," he says. " But it would reset you to a point before Miras gave you the bracelet. Before you ever touched the Cube."
Before my powers. Before the voices. Before the fractures.
Before us.
I glance at Miras, at the way his hands flex like he wants to grab onto something—onto me.
I breathe in. "And if it works?"
Maurice meets my gaze. "Then the trauma, the fractures, the split identities—all of it would be gone."
I press my fingers into the blanket beneath me, grounding myself. "And if it doesn't?"
Maurice hesitates.
Imani answers instead, his voice grim.
"Then you don't wake up at all."
Miras inhales sharply.
Dewey mutters, "That's a pretty big 'if.'"
I barely hear them.
Because my father is looking at me, waiting.
Waiting for me to decide.
The weight of it presses down on my chest, suffocating.
If I do this, I lose months of my life. I lose Miras.
Not completely. Not in the way that matters most.
But I lose us.
The warmth. The trust. The way he looks at me now, like I'm something he refuses to let slip away.
I close my eyes for a moment, listening—really listening—to the cracks in my head, to the way they deepen and spread, pulling me further and further from myself.
If I don't do this, I lose everything anyway.
I open my eyes and meet my father's gaze.
"…How do we start?"
The room is too quiet.
Too still.
My father is giving me a moment—giving us a moment—before everything is erased. Before I forget the months that broke me. Before I forget the months that built me.
Miras hasn't let go of my hand since my dad left the room. His grip is tight, like if he holds on hard enough, I won't slip away. Like he can anchor me here, in this moment, before it all disappears.
I don't know what to say to him.
What do you even say when you're about to forget the person you love?
Miras is staring at me, his jaw clenched, his breathing slow and controlled—but I can see it, the storm behind his eyes, the cracks forming under the weight of something he doesn't know how to carry.
I swallow hard. "Miras—"
"Don't." His voice is hoarse. "Don't say anything like it's the last time."
I stare at him, my chest tightening. "But it is."
"No." His grip on my hand tightens. "No, it's not."
I let out a shaky breath. "Miras—"
"I'll find a way." His voice is raw, desperate. "Even if you forget, I'll remind you. I'll make you remember." His hands move to cradle my face, his thumbs brushing against my skin like he's memorizing me, like he's afraid I'll slip away right here in his arms. "This isn't the end, Cherish."
A lump rises in my throat. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." His voice wavers, but his grip is steady. "You loved me once. I know you did. I know you do." He exhales sharply, forehead pressing against mine. "And I'll make you love me again."
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
I squeeze his hand. "What if I never remember?"
Miras' breath hitches. He doesn't answer right away.
But when he does, his voice is soft. Steady.
"Then I'll fall in love with you again anyway."
My heart cracks straight down the middle.
I don't want to forget him. I don't want to lose this, us.
But I can already feel it slipping.
I close my eyes, leaning into him, breathing him in. "I'm scared."
Miras exhales shakily, his fingers tightening against my skin. "Me too."
A beat of silence.
Then he tilts my face up, his lips brushing against mine, soft and lingering, like he's pouring every promise, every I love you, into the space between us.
And I let him.
Because in a few moments—
It'll all be gone.