Her eyes were wide open before her phone alarm even buzzed to signal daybreak, the shrill sound slicing through an apartment already thick with silence. She slapped the screen quiet immediately, chest tight, breath shallow. She hadn't slept more than twenty minutes at a time, every muscle coiled, ears straining for footsteps in the stairwell, engines outside, anything that meant Nexus Innovations had discovered her mistake and come for her.
They hadn't.
Not yet.
But the dread sat in her ribs like a stone.
Kayla pushed herself upright, wig laying beside her pillow from a night spent tossing, and pressed her palms over her face. "It's fine," she whispered into the darkness. "You didn't get caught. He didn't move. Nothing happened."
Except everything had happened.
Except storm-grey eyes had opened and pinned her to the wall like a butterfly under glass.
She dragged herself into the bathroom to wash up and came out clean twenty minutes later, the wig back into place and stumbled to Kyle's room.
He was awake, sitting up against his pillows, a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. His fever had broken a little, but his skin still looked waxy, and the dark circles beneath his eyes made him look older, worn thin.
He looked her over, slow, assessing, and frowned. "You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you," she shot back automatically. "Hypocrisy doesn't look good on you."
He blinked, too tired to roll his eyes. "Everything go okay yesterday?"
Kayla hesitated.
He noticed.
"Kay." His voice hitched. "Talk."
For a moment the image of Pod 47's occupant—of Kein—flashed so vividly behind her eyes she swore the room tilted. His gaze, the way he'd watched her… stillness had never felt so alive.
Kayla forced a shrug. "It was fine. Scary corporate men, blinking screens, boring stuff."
Kyle narrowed his eyes. "That's not what your face is saying."
"Well, my face is lying." She leaned over, tucking the blanket tighter around him. "Eat your soup later. And drink the meds. And don't get out of bed unless the building is on fire. Even then, crawl."
"Kay—"
"We can't afford another day of you gone," she cut in, more sharply than intended. "We just can't. So I'm going back, and you're going to rest."
His throat bobbed. "Be careful."
She pressed two fingers to her lips, then to her heart. Kyle mimicked the motion, worry darkening his already fever-bright eyes.
In the kitchen, their mother was pretending to be busy at the counter, but the way her shoulders trembled gave her away immediately. When she heard Kayla's footsteps, she turned, eyes already glossy.
"You don't have to do this, mija," she whispered. "We'll figure something else out."
Kayla swallowed. Then she stepped forward, wrapped her mom in a tight hug, and murmured against her shoulder, "There is nothing else to figure out."
"Just… come home to me," her mother whispered.
Kayla nodded, even though her stomach twisted with fear.
The commute was worse today. Every shadow looked like a guard in disguise. Every cough sounded like someone whispering her name. By the time she reached the Nexus tower, her hands were icy and her heart was doing its best impression of a runaway train.
But she walked.
She swiped the badge.
"Morning, Kyle," the guard muttered without glancing up.
She exhaled shakily.
Inside, she kept her head down, her slouch in place, hoodie tucked under the sterile overalls. Supervisor Harlan barely looked up when she entered his glass box, but his voice boomed all the same.
"Ramirez! Pod 47 again."
Her pulse stuttered.
Of course they'd give her the same one. Because of course the universe hated her.
"Routine vitals. Do not touch anything outside the checklist. Understand?"
She nodded, throat too tight to trust her voice.
The walk to Pod 47 felt longer today. The white corridor stretched endlessly, fluorescent lights humming like angry insects. When she reached the door with the red biohazard stripe, her palms were slick inside her gloves.
She scanned in.
The door hissed open.
And there he was.
Pod 47.
The not-man who looked too perfect, too still, too much like a statue carved by someone who understood desire.
The lid was sealed. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell in that slow, manufactured rhythm that looked human but wasn't.
Kayla approached the panel like it might bite. She kept her breathing even. She tapped each box of the checklist with deliberate calm. Oxygen flow—good. Neural interface—stable. Dream sync—active. Temperature—ideal. Pulse—slow, steady, unreal.
She didn't slip.
She didn't panic.
She didn't hit the wrong button.
The only moment she faltered was when her gaze flickered to his face. Soft shadows framed by overhead light. That same lock of black hair over his brow. His lashes rested peacefully, impossibly long.
He looked harmless.
Her skin prickled anyway.
When she finally stepped back and logged the completed report, her knees were ready to give out. She exited, sealed the door, forced herself down the hallway, and made it through the rest of the shift in a numb haze.
No alarms.
No supervisors yelling.
No cameras pointing directly at her.
When her tablet chimed END OF SHIFT, she nearly cried.
The moment she got home, she tore off the wig, unbound her chest, and inhaled the first full breath of the day. Kyle was asleep. Her mother was in the kitchen again. Kayla kissed her cheek, whispered a greeting, and darted to her room.
Because she was late.
Always late.
She grabbed her backpack, exchanged the hoodie for jeans and a long-sleeved top, tied her real hair into a low ponytail, and sprinted out of the apartment.
School was a chaotic blur. Anatomy lab. Pharmacology review. A mandatory lecture she absorbed none of. She'd planned to go home afterward, but the hospital paged for student assistance—Kayla had always volunteered more than most, worked harder than anyone else, and had earned a reputation for competence.
Unfortunately… competence attracted the wrong kind of attention.
When she stepped into the resident's hall, Dr. Brice was waiting. Tall. Thin. Surgical mask pulled under his chin. His eyes swept her—calculating, irritated, predatory in the way only medical authority could be.
"You," he snapped, pointing at her like she was a misbehaving intern.
Kayla stiffened. "Yes, sir?"
"You're assisting in OR 3."
Her stomach dipped. "OR—sir, I'm still a student. I thought we weren't allowed to—"
He cut her off with a sharp flick of his wrist. "The attending is unavailable, and we're not postponing this case. We're short-staffed. You have steady hands. You're doing it."
Her pulse kicked hard.
"Doing what exactly?" she asked carefully.
Dr. Brice's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
The kind of expression someone wore when they enjoyed exerting power.
"Surgery," he said plainly.
Then, leaning closer, voice low:
"You're performing the surgery."
She lifted her head and stared at him. "I can't do it… I won't."
"You… you—" Dr. Brice stuttered, genuinely stunned that she had dared to speak back. His shock lasted only a second before his face twisted. He grabbed her wrists hard enough to bruise and dragged her down the hallway, shoving open the door of an empty ward.
She stumbled, catching herself too late—her knee slammed into the tile, and her elbows scraped as her palms slid out beneath her.
"You didn't seem to understand me," Dr. Brice said, voice low and cold. "I wasn't asking you. I was telling you." Then turned and walked out.
For a moment she stayed on the floor, breath trembling, vision blurred at the edges with the threat of tears she refused to let fall. She forced herself upright, dusted off her scraped arms, and waited until the trembling in her legs passed. It took longer than it should have for her breathing to settle.
When she stepped back into the hallway, no one even looked at her.
Typical.
A folder was slapped against her chest as soon as she reached the nurses' station. "The report for your surgery," someone muttered, already walking off.
Her surgery.
The one she had just refused.
The one she was apparently still doing.
She opened the file.
It was worse than she expected.
Brain surgery—deep lesion resection with a sub-20% survival projection. The patient wasn't just anyone: the son of a high-ranking politician whose name was whispered more than spoken. He was the type of man that could end careers -or a life with just a word.
So that was the plan.
Let the student trainee fail.
Let her take the blame.
Let her be the offering to keep everyone else safe.
Her throat tightened.
When she and her brother were four, they discovered what they were. What they could do. They easily solved problems that would take months for others, fixed broken electronics, dissected patterns like adults in miniature.
Their father—gentle, terrified—had warned them again and again:
Hide it. Never show anyone. Genius is not a gift in this world. It is bait. And bait is used.
Her brother had listened. She usually did too.
Usually.
As Kayla the trainee, this surgery was impossible. Laughable. A death sentence.
But as Kayla the genius…
She exhaled long and slow.
Do badly, and she would go to prison or simply disappear.
Do it well, and she would be noticed—dragged into a spotlight she had spent her entire life avoiding.
She stared at the consent forms, at the scan films, at the risk charts highlighted in red.
Then she closed the file.
Her hands were steady.
She changed into her surgical gown with the calmness of someone walking toward execution. The sterile smell was sharp in her nose as she stepped into the operating room. The overhead lights hummed softly, indifferent.
Dr. Brice's voice cut through the air, announcing commencements, his tone triumphant in a way that made her stomach twist.
She looked around.
The attending physicians avoided eye contact. Their stiff posture and resigned expressions said everything—they had already accepted failure. They had already moved on to deciding how to word the report.
Then she looked at Dr. Brice.
His eyes mocked her openly.
As if she deserved this.
As if being used as a scapegoat was the natural consequence of daring to exist in his space.
Kayla closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.
When she opened them, something in her had settled.
She stepped forward—past their doubt, past their expectations, past the fear clawing at her ribs—and walked to the head of the room.