The doors again slid open.
For half a second, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
Muscles tightened. Breath stalled. My weight shifted subtly—defensive, instinctive.
For a moment, I thought it was more trouble.
Then I saw the pink hair.
Emma stepped inside, tablet hugged to her chest. She stopped short the instant her eyes met mine.
"Oh—" she breathed softly.
Recognition.
Her bright orange eyes flicked over me in quick, involuntary passes—bandages wrapped tight beneath my clothes, the tension in my shoulders, the way I stood slightly angled like I was ready to move if the floor disappeared again.
"You're…" She hesitated, then corrected herself.
"You're the one from earlier."
Her eyes lingered for a moment longer than politeness required.
Not curiosity.
Confirmation.
Like she was mentally aligning what she'd seen earlier with what stood in front of her now — the distance between those two images small, but important.
Whatever conclusion she reached, she didn't share it.
The pause bothered me more than questions would have.
Questions could be answered.
Assumptions couldn't.
I'd learned that the hard way.
Jacklin had never asked questions either. She'd observed, smiled, adjusted — like she was collecting data instead of trust. I hadn't noticed the difference back then. I hadn't known how to.
Now, every quiet look felt heavier than words.
My fingers flexed unconsciously at my side, the phantom memory of blood still clinging to my skin. Not Emma's fault. Not her responsibility.
But trauma doesn't care about fairness.
It only remembers patterns.
I nodded faintly.
"Yeah."
Her grip tightened on the tablet.
For a heartbeat, it looked like she wanted to say more—questions pressing at the edge of her mouth—but professionalism snapped into place like a switch being thrown.
"Emma," Leon said calmly. "Support unit."
She turned immediately toward Renya.
And her expression changed.
Not forced. Not practiced.
Softened.
Something in her posture lowered as she knelt in front of him slowly, careful not to invade his space, careful not to make sudden movements.
"Hi," she said gently. "I'm Emma. I'm going to stay with you for a while, okay?"
Renya looked at her.
Then back at me.
His fingers tightened around my sleeve.
My chest tightened with them.
My first instinct was no.
Not because of Emma.
Because of memory.
Jacklin's smile. Jacklin's voice. Jacklin holding him like it was natural.
That memory didn't arrive gently.
It came with weight — the remembered warmth of trust turning sour in hindsight. The way something familiar could disguise intent. The way safety could be rehearsed.
I hated myself for the suspicion.
But hatred didn't erase instinct.
And instinct was screaming.
The betrayal hit before logic could intervene.
What if this happens again?
The thought was ugly. Unfair.
But it was real.
My hand twitched.
For a split second, I wanted to pull Renya closer, put my body between him and the world, and never let anyone touch him again.
Trust had become expensive.
"Director Leon," I said quietly, my voice lower than before. "Can you ensure his safety?"
The room felt smaller all of a sudden.
Not physically — but in the way options quietly disappear when decisions are made for you.
I realized then that Galactors didn't ask permission.
It waited until permission stopped mattering.
Leon didn't hesitate.
"Don't worry," he said evenly. "In this dimension, no one can reach him."
In this dimension.
The phrase echoed in my head longer than it should have.
Not here.
Not now.
In this dimension — as if safety was conditional. As if it expired the moment the rules changed.
As if Leon wasn't promising protection…
But containment.
The words carried weight I didn't fully understand yet—but I clung to them anyway.
"Thank you, Director," I said.
Leon gestured once, subtle and dismissive, as if the matter had already been decided.
I forced a smile.
It barely held.
"It's okay," I said softly, more to myself than anyone else.
"She's… she's good."
Emma glanced up at me.
Just for a second.
"I'll take care of him," she said—not loud, not emotional.
Certain.
That mattered.
I nodded.
That was enough.
Emma extended her hand, palm open, waiting.
Her hand was steady.
No tremor. No urgency.
The kind of stillness that didn't demand trust — only made space for it.
Not demanding. Not rushing.
Renya hesitated.
Then slowly, he loosened his grip on my sleeve.
The fabric slipped free of his fingers, and the sensation hit me harder than expected—like something important had been taken away.
I hadn't realized how much pressure I'd been applying.
Not to him.
To the world.
As if holding on tightly enough could prevent the next tragedy.
As if letting go meant inviting loss.
But loss didn't ask permission.
It happened whether you clenched your fists or opened your hands.
Renya had trusted me to hold him.
Now he was trusting me to let him go.
That terrified me more than any blade ever had.
He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding on — not just to Renya, but to the idea that if he never let go, nothing else could be lost.
Letting go didn't feel like trust.
It felt like surrender to uncertainty.
He reached out.
Emma took his hand carefully.
Like it mattered.
Like he mattered.
As she helped him stand, Emma leaned closer to me and spoke under her breath.
"You don't look like someone who gives up," she said quietly.
"So… don't."
The words landed deeper than they should have.
Because she wasn't telling me to be strong.
She was telling me to stay.
And staying, I was learning, hurt more than fighting ever had.
Before I could respond, she guided Renya toward the door—slow enough that he could turn back.
He lifted one small finger toward me.
I swallowed.
"Yeah," I said softly, forcing a calm smile I didn't feel.
"I promise. I'll come back soon."
Renya nodded.
Then waved.
Emma gave me a small, reassuring smile before the doors slid shut.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
The silence afterward wasn't quiet.
It rang — hollow, exposed — like a space that had lost its purpose and hadn't figured out what to become next.
The room felt emptier immediately.
Not quiet.
Hollow.
Like something essential had been removed and the space hadn't adjusted yet.
I stood there for several seconds, staring at the door.
My hands felt wrong.
Too empty.
I took a slow breath.
In.
Out.
My body still shook — not visibly, not dramatically — but internally, like something had been rewired and hadn't settled yet.
Avoidance would be easier.
Delay would feel safer.
But answers don't disappear just because you refuse to look at them.
They wait.
Finally, I exhaled and turned back toward Leon.
"Director," I said. "Can we… continue where we left off?"
Leon looked at me.
Really looked.
"…Yes."
I swallowed.
"Who are they?" I asked.
I rolled my shoulders once, grounding myself in the ache still threaded through my body. Pain was easier than anticipation. Pain obeyed rules.
"The ones who came for us."
The words scraped on the way out.
"And why," I continued, my voice tightening despite myself,
"did they try to assassinate my family?"
The room lost depth.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
Yuna shifted beside me.
Her jaw tightened.
Leon didn't answer right away.
Which was answer enough.
The silence stretched.
And somewhere deep in my chest, the truth settled in before it was spoken—
This wasn't over.
It hadn't even properly begun.
✦ END OF CHAPTER 24 — THE HAND ✦