I opened my eyes—
and white burned into them.
A hospital room.
Again.
Not the Specials' wing.
For a few seconds, my mind was empty.
Nothing.
No thoughts. No memory.
I felt… fine.
Too fine.
No pain.
No trace of the gunshot wound.
I ran my hands over my body—
nothing.
No scars.
Not a single one.
Which meant only one thing.
Samantha.
I threw the blanket aside.
A hospital tunic.
Nothing underneath.
I got up and walked to the mirror.
My face—
smooth.
No scar.
My shoulder—
clean.
My hair—
freshly washed, still damp.
My body—
clean.
Of course it was clean.
They even washed me.
Of course they did.
Why the hell was I in the elite wing?
Why was I being treated at all?
I frowned, forcing myself to think—
and then it hit.
Like ice water poured straight into my skull.
Memory.
Not whole.
Fragments.
Sharp.
Broken.
Each one worse than the last.
My arms wrapped around myself before I even realized it.
I started shaking.
The humiliation—
the pain—
the hands—
all of it came rushing back at once.
And there was nothing.
Nothing on my body.
No marks.
No bruises.
No blood.
Nothing.
That made it worse.
If I could feel it—
if it still hurt—
maybe it would make sense.
But this—
this felt like remembering something that wasn't allowed to exist.
Like it had been erased.
Like it didn't matter.
My legs gave out.
I barely made it back to the bed before collapsing onto it, curling in on myself.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
My fingers dug into my skin hard enough to hurt—
trying to anchor myself.
Trying to stop the panic clawing its way up my throat.
The door creaked open.
"Alan…?"
Andrew.
I hadn't heard him come in.
Shock.
Panic.
Fear.
I scrambled back—
fell off the other side of the bed.
"No—don't come closer!" My voice broke into something thin and desperate.
"Alan, it's me. You're safe," he said softly, stepping inside.
I dragged myself into the corner, curling tighter, making myself as small as I could.
"Please—just go. Don't come near me. Don't—" The words tangled, looping, slipping out of control.
He kept coming anyway.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
My whole body was shaking.
No.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
Why did it have to be him who saw me like that?
The memory slammed back in—
not just images—
my body remembered.
The pressure.
The pain.
The helplessness.
And worse—
he had seen.
All of it.
I screamed.
"Calm down, Alan. It's over. You're safe," Andrew said, dropping to his knees and pulling me into his arms.
I fought him.
Hard.
I didn't want him touching me.
I was filthy.
Disgusting.
Used.
Weak.
I had no right to be anywhere near him.
If I looked at his face—
if I saw even a hint of disgust—
I wouldn't survive it.
That thought made me thrash harder.
I hit him.
Kicked.
Even bit down on his shoulder.
He didn't let go.
Not once.
He just held me tighter.
"It's okay. It's over. You're safe."
Lies.
But I wanted to believe them.
Eventually—
my strength gave out.
My body just… stopped.
And for a few seconds—
I let myself believe him.
My fingers twisted into his shirt.
I pressed my face into his chest—
and broke.
Completely.
I don't know how long it lasted.
Minutes.
Maybe longer.
He kept running his hand over my back—slow, steady, grounding me every time I started shaking again.
Keeping me from falling apart completely.
—
When I finally quieted, he pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands still on my shoulders.
"Does anything hurt?" he asked quietly.
I shook my head.
"No… but it should," I said, my voice rising, cracking. "I should feel it. Why don't I feel it? Why did you heal me? Why did you erase everything?!"
"Alan…" he whispered.
There was fear in his eyes.
Real fear.
"Still throwing a tantrum?" Clyde's cold voice cut through the room.
I looked up.
"Silius—enough," Andrew snapped. "He needs time."
"Time?" Clyde let out a quiet, humorless laugh as he crouched beside us. "How long are you planning to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, Holivan?"
"Shut up!" I shouted. "Shut up! Why did you bring me here? Why did you erase it?! Those scars mattered! I needed them!"
"A reminder?" Clyde laughed again, colder this time, grabbing me by the front of my tunic and yanking me up.
"Silius, what the hell are you doing?!" Andrew growled, trying to pull him off me.
"Stay out of it, Storik," Clyde snapped. "Or do you want this broken thing to spend the rest of his life rotting in a corner?"
Andrew's hands fell away.
He stepped back.
Head lowered.
Clyde turned back to me and shook me hard.
"So what now?"
"I'm leaving the academy," I said.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
But once they were there—
I knew they were true.
I couldn't do this anymore.
What they did—
it broke something in me.
And Samantha erased every trace of it.
Every reason to keep going.
"So everything you've done up until now was for nothing?" Clyde's voice dropped, sharp and cutting. "That's what you're saying? They won? Answer me, Holivan."
"Yes!" I shouted. "Yes! Is that what you want to hear?! I'm done! I give up! Nothing's going to change!"
"Nothing's going to change?" he repeated, his voice colder. "Weren't you the one talking about fixing this rotten system? Making sure no one else ends up like you?"
"Or was that all just talk? One bad experience—and you break?"
"One bad experience?!" I stared at him. "You— you— go to hell, you bastard!"
"Alan," he said more quietly now, gripping my chin and forcing me to meet his eyes. "You're stronger than this. Do you hear me?"
He didn't look away.
"I swear to you—every one of them will die screaming. Anyone who touched you—I'll tear them apart."
My breath caught.
I had never seen that look before.
That certainty.
That hunger.
Not just anger.
Something deeper.
Something predatory.
And it was terrifying.
"What do you want from me…?" I asked, exhausted. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stay," he said.
"Finish the academy with me."
"I want you to see what happens to them."
"I want you to understand you're not alone."
"That there are people willing to give everything for you."
"Stand up."
"Pull yourself together."
"And help us tear this rotten world apart."
"For the future."
"For ourselves."
—
Clyde was rarely serious.
And almost never like this.
I didn't understand why I mattered to him.
Didn't understand what he saw.
But—
he wasn't wrong.
Running wouldn't fix anything.
It would just bury me deeper.
There were only two choices left.
Die—
or fight.
And I hadn't been given a second life for nothing.
"…Give me time," I said quietly. "Just… let me get my head straight. One week. Alone."
He studied me for a moment.
Then nodded.
"If that's what it takes—I'll give you anything you ask. One week, Holivan. No more."
I nodded.
And he left the room.