The medical corridor was quieter at night.
The urgency of earlier had settled into a tense stillness — the steady rhythm of machines, the low hum of filtered air, the faint scent of antiseptic. The lights were dimmed to a softer glow, casting long shadows along the walls.
Leah hadn't left.
Not when the doctors recommended rest.
Not when Dante quietly suggested she sleep for an hour.
Not when Elias told her they would call her if anything changed.
She stayed.
She sat beside Izana's bed, one hand wrapped around his, the other resting lightly against the mattress near his shoulder.
He looked smaller somehow.
Not physically.
But vulnerable.
The antibiotics had been started. The wound had been cleaned and properly sutured. But the infection had already taken hold.
His temperature had climbed steadily over the past hour.
"He may develop a fever," one of the doctors had warned. "It's not unexpected."
Not unexpected.
That didn't make it easier.
Leah brushed her thumb gently across his knuckles.
"I'm right here," she murmured, even though he was unconscious.
His skin was too warm.
His breathing — uneven.
At first it was subtle.
A small twitch in his jaw.
A faint tightening of his fingers.
Leah straightened in her chair.
"Izana?"
His head shifted slightly against the pillow. A quiet sound left his throat — not quite a word.
The monitor showed a rise in heart rate.
His brow furrowed.
Then his fingers curled suddenly around hers.
Tight.
Too tight.
"Izana," she said softly, leaning closer. "It's okay."
His lips parted.
"No…"
The word came out hoarse. Barely audible.
Leah's stomach dropped.
"It's just a dream," she whispered immediately. "You're safe."
He turned his head slightly, as though reacting to her voice — but his eyes remained closed.
His breathing became shallow.
"I'll… be better…"
Her heart cracked.
"I can be better…"
"You don't have to be anything," she said quickly, her voice trembling now. "You're fine. You're enough."
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
"Don't—."
His voice strained.
"Don't call me that…"
Tears burned in Leah's eyes.
She stood quickly and reached for the small basin and cloth the nurses had left nearby. Running it under cool water in the attached wash area, she wrung it out and returned to his side.
His forehead was damp with sweat.
She pressed the cool cloth gently against his skin.
"It's just the fever," she whispered. "It's not real. You're here with me."
His head turned slightly toward her touch, even in sleep.
"They said…"
His voice cracked.
"Monster…"
The word felt like something sharp lodged in her chest.
Her hand froze for half a second before she forced herself to continue gently cooling his skin.
"No," she said firmly, leaning closer. "No, they're wrong."
His breathing hitched.
Sweat dampened the collar of his hospital shirt.
Without thinking, she reached for the buttons at his chest.
He was overheating.
She needed to cool him down.
Her fingers worked carefully, unfastening the top few buttons, then lower.
The fabric parted.
And there it was.
She stopped breathing.
Carved into his chest — just below his collarbone, cutting across the upper part of his chest in jagged, permanent scar tissue — was a single word.
monster
It wasn't fresh.
It had healed long ago.
The scar was old. Faded slightly with time, but still deeply etched into his skin. Jagged lines. Uneven pressure. A permanent reminder of what he once believed about himself.
She didn't gasp.
She didn't freeze.
She had seen it before.
Touched it before.
Kissed it once, years ago, when he had told her the truth.
She had just…
Forgotten.
Or maybe she had buried it somewhere in her mind because it hurt too much to remember.
Two years without seeing him.
Two years without seeing that word.
And somehow she had allowed herself to pretend it wasn't there.
Her fingers hovered over it briefly.
"You idiot," she whispered, but there was no anger in it. Only sorrow.
He shifted, sweat sliding down his temple.
"I tried…" he muttered. "Tried to be what he wanted…"
Her jaw tightened.
"You were never the problem," she said softly.
She gently wiped his chest with the cool cloth, careful around the scar — not because it would hurt him physically, but because touching it felt intimate. Vulnerable.
She didn't linger.
She didn't stare.
She simply made sure the sweat was gone.
Then she buttoned the shirt back up.
Not to hide it from herself.
But from anyone else who might walk in.
Especially Caesar.
No one else would see that word and think they understood him.
They didn't earn that right.
She pressed the cloth back to his forehead.
His breathing slowly began to steady again.
The tension in his face eased under her touch.
"You don't get to call yourself that anymore," she murmured quietly. "Not after everything you survived."
His fingers moved weakly.
They brushed against her wrist.
Then curled.
Just barely.
Even unconscious, he responded to her voice.
Her eyes filled.
"I'm here," she whispered. "And I'm not leaving."
The fever hadn't broken yet.
But he had stopped fighting whatever nightmare had taken him.
The machines continued their steady rhythm.
And Leah stayed exactly where she was —
Guarding him.
Guarding the scar.
And silently promising herself that the next time he looked at that word…
He wouldn't see it alone.