This wasn't the first item Eli had brought to Level 9.
Out of all the tools he'd managed to sneak into his hospital room, this syringe was just one of many.
In total, he had five Level 9 items—three syringes, a scalpel, and a pair of scissors.
They all shared similar traits: low defense, high attack—hovering around 500—and attributes like Blood or Cutting.
Dangerous things.
Opening his hand, a pale blue light began to pulse, covering the item.
The upgraded syringe floated shakily into the air, its movement unsteady.
Controlling his Mind Shards was far easier than this.
That could be fixed—with practice.
He just hoped he had the time.
Suddenly, the lock on the door clicked.
The syringe dropped into his palm with a soft thud, and he reacted on instinct—shoving it beneath the dirty pillows before sitting up straight, trying to look unbothered.
The door creaked open.
It wasn't anyone he recognized.
Not Ms. McCall.
Not his mother.
A woman stepped inside, offering him a courteous smile.
She didn't look like a nurse. She wore a badge, and moved like someone who knew her way around authority.
"Hey, Eli. How are you doing?" she asked warmly.
He returned the courtesy with a polite, "I'm okay."
He could talk to anyone—as long as their profession wasn't serial killing.
"I'm Detective Megel. I work with the FBI."
After Megel, Eli didn't really register anything else.
Megel? That was a boy's name, wasn't it? Maybe it was her last name. Should he ask?
But wouldn't that be weird?
If it was a woman, asking might sound like he was calling her a man.
If it was a man, asking would mean he thought he looked like a woman.
So… Miss? Mister?
Steam was practically rising from Eli's ears.
Detective! Right—they said Detective.
He shook the thoughts from his head and looked back at the person, now sure how to address them.
With a slightly bigger, awkward smile, he tuned back in—just in time to hear the last few words:
"...so I'm just here to ask you about that."
That? Eli blinked.
What was that?
Did the detective say what the detective was asking about?
He definitely didn't hear it.
His mind immediately jumped to the accident from last night.
The serial killer.
The one pretending to be a mother of a teenage girl.
In Eli's opinion, pretending to be her grandmother would've raised less suspicion.
"That must be it, then," Eli said, perking up.
"You mean the serial killer, Detective?"
He smiled like he'd just won a war.
"The one who hit me with a car."
Detective Megel blinked. "They hit you with a car?"
She quickly jotted something into a small notebook.
Eli stared at her, stunned.
Seriously?
This is what taxpayer money is going toward?
You didn't even know why I'm in the hospital?
Seeing the confused look on his face, the detective gave him a nervous smile.
"I guess… that would explain some of your injuries."
Then she leaned forward slightly.
"Do you remember what they looked like?"
That wasn't the question she meant to ask.
Not at all.
What she really wanted to ask about were the jars.
If the boy had seen them.
If he recognized any of the faces.
This was personal.
Too personal.
Why else would she risk questioning a child without a guardian present?
She had to know.
For her brother's sake.
"Well," Eli said, oblivious to the weight in her voice, "she was old… and had a kid with her. Maybe 17 or younger."
Detective Megel's pen stopped mid-scratch.
"Wait—what do you mean she? A woman?"
Her voice jumped. "All previous reports said it was a man."
Eli almost laughed.
Seems like we're both confused about genders today.
Wait.
And the child…
Who was the kid?
Just as Eli was about to answer, the door flew open.
A tall, broad-shouldered Black man stepped in.
"Detective Megel. What are you doing?"
His voice was firm. Not loud—but iron-solid.
"Sir, just give me a few more minutes," she said quickly, gesturing toward Eli.
"He's talking—"
"I said, get out."
Her shoulders slumped. For a second, Eli thought she might argue.
But she didn't.
She walked toward the door, and as she passed, the man leaned down and whispered something to her.
Whatever it was, her posture sank even lower.
She didn't look back as she exited.
Then the man turned to Eli and slowly closed the door behind him.
What a strange two, Eli thought, taking the syringe from under the pillow and continuing his practice.
Lorraine opened her eyes.
The ceiling felt just a little further away today—like she had a bit more room to breathe.
Sitting up, the room spun. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she swayed, light-headed.
Her hand reached out, finding the small table beside her bed.
Fingers brushed against the drawer.
She hesitated.
Just as she was about to pull it open, laughter filled the room.
She winced.
Too loud.
Her hand fumbled across the nightstand, silencing the alarm labeled "Eli's Laughter – 8 AM."
She stared at the screen for a moment, her chest tightening.
Looking back at the drawer—wanting to open it—she paused.
Not today.
She took a few deep breaths, calming the tremble in her hands.
Pushing off the table, she slowly stood. The walls tilted. Her fingers found the wall, steadying herself.
Step by step, she made her way to the bathroom.
Now leaning over the sink, she stared into the mirror.
Dark, sunken eyes stared back.
And for a fleeting moment… she saw Eli.
Splash.
Water ran down her face, cool and sharp. She pressed her palms against the basin, breathing hard.
She just wanted to see her son.
But she couldn't miss work.
Not since then.
Her phone buzzed.
"Hey mooooom!"
Lorraine blinked, lips twitching into the smallest smile.
She really needed to change her ringtone. Now that Eli was actually awake.
She glanced down. A new text lit up the screen:
"Some strange woman just barged into ur son's room. I think u should get here."
Her stomach dropped.
She gripped the wall as the world tilted again—sharper this time, like it wanted to throw her to the floor.
She didn't even remember leaving the house.
But suddenly—she was in the car.
Driving.
The world blurred past her windshield.
She knew she shouldn't be driving like this.
But it didn't matter.
Nothing could happen to Eli.
Not again.
Beside her, in the passenger seat, her handbag sat silently.
She didn't remember grabbing it.
But of course she had.
She always did. Ever since that night.
She never opened it unless she had to.
Like the drawer beside her bed, the bag was always there.
Always just within reach.
Some things you carried.
Others, you buried.