Adrian hadn't been sleeping.
Nights blurred into dawn with him sitting upright on the sagging couch, eyes pinned to the faint cracks in the ceiling. His body was in the safehouse, but his mind stayed caught in those shadowed chambers where Fallon's voice was law.
When the Rebellion stirred each morning, Adrian moved like a ghost, shoulders slouched, smile rehearsed. He ate little, spoke less. But inside, he kept asking the same question on repeat:
Did Fallon let me go?
The thought was a parasite. If Fallon wanted to rebuild Providence, what better distraction than baiting the Rebellion with his disappearance? He wasn't a survivor then. Instead, he was a decoy, a loophole she'd designed.
That morning, Amara found him staring at his reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror. He'd been there for ten minutes, unmoving. She leaned on the doorway, arms folded, her silk blouse draped like armor.
"You're going to burn holes in your own face at this rate."
Adrian blinked, startled. His eyes were rimmed with red. "I can't stop seeing her."
"Fallon?"
He nodded once. "It's like… she's still pulling strings. Even now."
Amara stepped closer, softer than usual. Her perfume smelled of Jasmine and smoke that cut through the damp of the tiles.
"You're here because we fought for you. Don't reduce that to one of her calculations."
But Adrian shook his head, gripping the sink.
"What if I was the calculation? What if she wanted this? Me out, you distracted, her free to expand?" His voice cracked, splintering into something raw. "What if I was the delay she needed?"
Amara opened her mouth but stopped. She hated silence and it was Toni's weapon, not hers.
Later that afternoon, Toni cornered Adrian in the war room, laptop open and blue light hard on her face. She was combing through Fallon's new subsidiaries, scrolling so fast her fingers blurred.
"Adrian," she said without looking up. "Sit."
He obeyed, sinking into the chair opposite.
"You think Fallon planned your disappearance," she began, matter-of-fact. "You think you were a pawn."
He stared at her. "And you don't?"
Toni finally lifted her eyes. They were cool, calculating, like chess pieces already in motion. "You were leverage, yes. But you were also proof. Proof she isn't untouchable. You escaped."
"That wasn't me," Adrian whispered. "That was all of you."
Toni closed her laptop with a decisive snap. "No, Adrian. You underestimate yourself. That's dangerous for you, and for us."
The words should've been grounding. Instead, they sliced. Adrian saw the truth behind them: if he couldn't steady himself, he wasn't just fragile, he was a liability.
His jaw tightened. "So that's what you really think. That I'm a risk."
For once, Toni's mask cracked. A faint crease formed between her brows. She didn't deny it.
The room's silence pressed heavy, broken only when Amara stormed in, her earrings swinging. "You two are whispering like conspirators. What's wrong now?"
Toni rose, brushing past her. "He needs to decide whether he's with us or with his ghosts."
Adrian flinched. Amara's glare followed Toni out the door before she crouched by him, voice gentler. "Ignore her. She buries her feelings in blueprints and tactics. It doesn't mean she's right."
But Adrian didn't answer. Her words washed over him like water on stone.
That night, the Rebellion gathered around flickering screens again Kiru, Mrs. Nwando, a half-dozen exhausted allies from Crestmore and beyond. The map of Providence subsidiaries had grown, red dots multiplying like an infection.
Toni stood at the head, rattling off coordinates, patterns, predictions. Her voice was steady, every sentence crisp. Amara jumped in with strategies for media coverage, her passion sparking the group into restless agreement.
Adrian just listened.
Every time his name came up his insights, his role he felt the parasite thought crawling back: What if Fallon counted on this? What if me being here is part of her script?
Halfway through, he excused himself. Nobody stopped him.
In the courtyard, the night air hit cold. Adrian pressed his forehead against the wall, fists clenched. His chest ached with guilt so sharp it felt like metal lodged under his ribs.
Fallon's voice came back, vivid as ever: You were never theirs to save, Adrian. You were mine. Still mine.
He punched the wall once, skin scraping stone. The sting grounded him, but only barely.
Amara found him again. She always did. Her shoes clicked against the concrete as she approached. "You can't keep bleeding alone like this."
He laughed bitterly. "What if Toni's right? What if I'm just… cracked?"
Amara knelt beside him, hand on his arm. "Then let me remind you of something. Cracks let light through. And Fallon, you know she's terrified of light."
Adrian met her gaze. For the first time in days, he let the words sink, not as comfort but as a challenge.
Somewhere inside, the knife-edge of his guilt dulled. But the fracture between him and Toni had widened, invisible yet dangerous.
And Fallon, wherever she was, would only need to press once to split them apart.