The sleek black car sliced through the dim streets of Westdentia, tires hissing against the wet pavement. Giselle gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles pale, her breathing shallow.
The city blurred past her, towering buildings and flashing streetlights nothing but meaningless colour in her frantic haze. It was still dark outside—morning had not yet broken—and yet the world seemed heavier, cloaked in a tension she could taste at the back of her throat.
Seagull was awake.
Weeks of silence. Weeks of unanswered questions. Weeks of unbearable waiting... and now, one phone call had ripped the wound wide open again.
Hang on. Just hold on a little longer, she silently pleaded.
The hidden medical facility was tucked deep inside an old government building that few remembered existed. No signs, no gates, no guards posted at the obvious entrances. Only those who needed to find it ever did.
Her car screeched to a halt near an unmarked concrete entrance. Giselle stumbled out before the engine even stopped humming, her boots splashing through puddles as she raced toward the heavy security doors. Her security badge trembled in her hand as she slammed it against the panel.
The door buzzed and creaked open, revealing sterile white hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting harsh, cold beams over the polished floors. The scent of antiseptic stung her nose immediately, and something deeper, something metallic slithered beneath it.
Her chest tightened, her steps uneven as she pushed forward.
Pull yourself together, she told herself. He needs you.
But her hands shook. Her vision blurred. Every step toward the VIP section felt heavier, more impossible.
You're hissister. You're supposed to protect him.
Giselle stumbled against the wall briefly, catching herself, forcing the tears back. She couldn't lose it—not yet.
But as she neared the VIP wing, her body froze.
The hallway, silent a moment ago, now seemed to breathe. An ominous, too-familiar pressure curled around her, cold and suffocating. A sensation she hadn't felt in years—not since—
Her instincts screamed at her.
Without thinking, Giselle shoved the door open with a loud slam, rushing inside.
"Anthony!"
The sight that greeted her shattered what little control she had left.
There he was—propped halfway against the bed, weak and trembling, struggling stubbornly to sit up. His face was a mosaic of old bruises and healing cuts, his frame gaunt and pale under the thin hospital gown. Tubes and wires clung to his arms like vines, machines softly beeping in the background.
He looked up at her with a weak grin, the same reckless spark in his bruised eyes that he'd always had.
"You're late," he rasped, voice rough like sandpaper but teasing.
Giselle's legs gave out. She rushed to his side, almost tripping over herself as she cradled his face carefully between her hands.
"You absolute idiot," she scolded, her voice shaking. "Couldn't even bother sending a message? A note? Smoke signals? Anything?"
Anthony chuckled weakly, coughing immediately afterwards. "Had... a bad signal," he joked.
Giselle shook her head fiercely, the tears finally spilling over. She tried to scold him again, but her words crumbled into broken sobs.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, forehead resting gently against his. "I'm so sorry..."
Anthony leaned into her touch, exhausted beyond measure but smiling anyway. "Hey... Don't cry, sis. I'm the one who's ugly now."
Giselle half-laughed, half-sobbed, brushing his tangled hair back from his forehead. His skin was burning hot, fevered.
"You're still uglier than me, so don't get cocky," she said with a watery smile.
He managed a weak snort, but even that simple sound rattled in his chest.
After a few quiet minutes where the only sounds were the monitors' soft beeping and Giselle's occasional sniffle, Anthony tried to shift again, his body protesting.
"I have to tell you something," he murmured, gripping her wrist with surprising strength. His face was too serious now. Too strained.
Giselle frowned, sensing the weight behind his words. "Not now," she said firmly, easing him back onto the bed. "You need to rest. You're not leaving this room until you're better."
"But it's important—"
"It can wait," she whispered, tucking the blankets around him. Her voice was gentle, but firm in the way only younger siblings could be. "It has to wait."
Anthony's mouth opened again, but when he saw the pain carved into her features, he closed it reluctantly. His hand slackened, and he drifted back into uneasy sleep.
Giselle sat there long after he'd fallen silent, refusing to let go of his hand.
Watching.
Guarding.
Her mind was a storm of what-ifs and fears she dared not voice aloud.
She would keep him safe.
No matter what.
...
Outside the facility, the night clung thick and cold against the city.
A woman stepped silently into a waiting black car, her high heels clicking faintly against the wet pavement. She moved with a predator's grace, her coat immaculate, her posture effortlessly regal.
The driver didn't greet her. He simply opened the door and then disappeared into the shadows.
She slid into the back seat, the interior swallowing her whole.
Her reflection shimmered briefly against the glass as the city lights bled by outside. Elegant. Beautiful. Impeccable.
And utterly ruthless.
Her lips curled into a faint smile—not one of warmth, but of calculation.
Everything was moving now. The dominoes had been lined up years ago. All that remained was a gentle nudge.
Soon, everything would fall.
The car disappeared into the night, leaving nothing but the whisper of wheels against wet concrete.