The mansion was unnervingly quiet. Every creak, every whisper of wind outside, every distant hum of the lights pressed against Izana's ears, making the emptiness sharper than it should have been. For four days, he had been trapped in that silence, staring at the same pale walls of his hospital room, restless and frustrated.
His body ached—ribs, muscles, stitches tugging at every move—but even worse was the hollow space left by her absence. The chair beside his bed had remained empty.
"She'll come back… she always does…" he muttered, fingers clutching the sheets, pressing the fabric into his palms. His white blindfold rested over his eyes, but it couldn't dull the awareness of the empty room, the distance to her bedroom, the way the mansion itself seemed to mourn with him.
Every soft step, every distant creak, made him flinch, expecting her to appear with that stubborn, determined look of hers. But she never came. He remembered the argument—the sharpness of her voice, the vivid scars he had seen. The memory pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. A faint burn flared beneath his skin—a whisper of the curse, irritated by his emotional vulnerability.
"…Don't leave me… don't leave me…" he whispered, voice cracking slightly.
Across the mansion, Leah sat in her room, staring out the window. Her shoulder still throbbed from the warehouse, the lingering pain a constant reminder of her own stubbornness. She had barely slept the first night, haunted by guilt.
"He's… he's in pain," she murmured, voice low. "And I left him… alone."
Her fingers hovered near the aching shoulder. Pride kept her from moving. Fear kept her rooted. But guilt gnawed relentlessly.
She asked the servants quietly, almost automatically:
"Is he awake yet?"
"Did he take his medicine?"
Every answer she received, every small reassurance, only tightened the ache in her chest.
By the second day, Izana's restlessness had grown. He replayed the argument in his mind over and over, her sharp voice echoing with every thought. He pressed a hand against the faint mark left by the curse.
"Shut up," he whispered, the word rough and low. The faint pulse of the curse pressed against him, irritated by his emotions. "…I can't stop thinking about her…"
Pain flared through his ribs with each movement, but he ignored it. His mind lingered on her presence, on the gentle touch she had offered, the warmth of her hand near his chest, the way she had watched over him when he woke.
Leah, meanwhile, had restless dreams. Shadows of the warehouse and the curse haunted her sleep, yet fragments of Izana's face appeared—steady, calm, familiar. She whispered to herself, voice barely audible, "He just wanted to help… I shouldn't have walked out…"
By the third day, Izana felt a shift deep inside him. The emptiness of his room pressed harder against his chest, heavier than any physical pain. Every memory of Leah's presence, every small gesture, weighed on him in her absence. He slowly stood, ribs flaring, stitches tugging, leaning against the walls for support.
The curse stirred sharply in response to his attachment, coiling faintly as though warning him. But he ignored it. "…I don't care," he muttered, voice strained, pressing a hand against the faint mark on his chest. "…I need her."
And then it hit him, quietly but undeniably. The longing he felt, the constant ache to have her near, the way her absence gnawed at him—it wasn't just attachment or gratitude. "…This… this is different," he whispered under his breath. "…I can't stop thinking about her… I can't ignore her…"
For the first time, he realized: this is what longing, what need, really feels like. The truth settled in his chest, heavier and warmer than the pain in his ribs, more urgent than the burn of his injuries.
Leah felt something similar. She paced in her room, hands pressed against the window, chest tight. Thoughts of Izana dominated her mind—the quiet moments, his stubbornness, the care he had shown. She remembered his words during the argument:
"I was scared… when I saw how you moved."
Her voice trembled as she whispered to herself, "I hurt him… I shouldn't have left…" Pride and fear battled with guilt, rooting her in place. She wanted to go to him, to step into his room and apologize, to be near him—but she couldn't. Not yet.
By the fourth day, Izana's patience was gone. He had been lying awake through the night, muscles trembling from exhaustion, every breath a reminder of pain. His longing had grown unbearable, a constant, sharp ache in his chest. He could no longer wait.
Slowly, agonizingly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared sharply, stitches tugging, muscles screaming at every movement. He gritted his teeth and leaned on the walls, inching forward. Every step was torture, every breath a challenge, but he pressed onward.
"…I don't care… I need her…" he whispered to himself, voice low and hoarse. The curse pulsed briefly in irritation, sensing his emotional attachment, but he ignored it, focused only on her.
The hallway stretched before him like an endless battlefield. The pale shapes of the walls blurred through his blindfold, but he could make out the door at the far end. Each step made his ribs ache, his stitches tug, his body protest. Yet the longing in his chest drove him onward.
"…Just a little more…" he whispered, forcing another shaky step. "…Just a little…"
Leah, seated by her window again, froze at the sound of slow, uneven footsteps drifting down the hallway. Her breath hitched. She knew that gait—deliberate, cautious, pained. Every step resonated in her chest.
"He's here…" she whispered under her breath. "…He came for me…"
A faint, weak knock echoed. Her heart skipped. She knew who it was before even seeing him.
Outside the door, Izana pressed his forehead lightly against the wood. Every inch of the journey had been a battle. Pain lanced through his body, stitches tugged faintly, but he did not stop.
"Leah… it's me…" His voice was hoarse, trembling slightly. "…I'm here…"
His hand hovered near the door, trembling from fatigue, from pain, from desperation. "Please… just… let me in…"
Leah's chest tightened, hands clenching. Pride, fear, guilt, and longing tangled inside her, rooting her to the spot. She could feel his presence, the weight of his determination, and the pull of his emotions—even without opening the door.
The mansion held its breath. So did Izana.