*Trigger warnings* Major character death, end of the world, mind control, heart break, fighting, sever injuries.
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Destroy the world. I don't even have to ask. I know it's what they want, what they've planned. The mission.
I can't breathe.
"With your power in full force, there will be no stopping you. The world will fall," Specter says, his voice smooth, like he's reading from a script. A script that was never meant for me.
I want to scream. I want to fight, to tear myself away from the pull of their control, but it's like the ground beneath me is shifting, collapsing. Every part of me is trembling with the weight of their words, the weight of what they want me to do. The power inside me, the energy I can't control, surges higher, sparking in the air around me like the world itself is on the brink of tearing apart.
I feel it, deep inside me. The raw, unrelenting force, calling to me, urging me to give in, to release it all and watch the world burn. This is what you were made for, the voice inside me says again, the cold echo of their manipulation curling through my mind. Destroy them all. You don't have to think. Just act.
"You will do this, Cherish," Specter presses, his voice a command now, more than ever.
The pressure in my chest is unbearable. My head spins. My body burns. I can hear the crackling power rising inside me, begging to be released. I can feel it, like the world is right on the edge of destruction, and I am the one holding the match.
This is what you were made for.
I want to fight it. I want to scream and tell them to leave me alone. I want to scream for Miras, for Dewey, for everyone I care about, but the words are trapped in my throat. The power surges again, uncontrollable, and my hands crackle with energy. I can feel it—I can feel the world in my grasp, its destruction waiting at my fingertips.
I'm suffocating under it. My body is shaking. My heart is racing. I want to break free. But as the command seeps deeper into my mind, I know… I know what they want me to do. I am their weapon.
"The world will fall, Cherish. You will be the one to end it."
My fingers twitch, and for a moment, the world feels like it's standing still—like I could just reach out and tear it apart with a single breath. I could do it. I could destroy everything. The power is mine. I just have to let go.
But I know the truth. I'm on the edge. The power, the world—everything—will burn.
"Move," Specter orders.
Without a thought, my feet are in motion. I walk with purpose, the floor beneath me trembling with each step. The air around me hums, distorting, like it's not quite ready to accept the sheer force of what's inside me. I don't want to do this. I don't want to destroy anything. But the orders are already inside me, a part of my very being, pushing me forward, urging me to obey.
Destroy.
I keep walking. Each step feels like a betrayal. I can almost feel the world waiting for me to unleash it. I'm not the same person I was, not anymore. Focus. Control it. You have to control it.
But the storm inside me rages. The world seems to distort in front of me, shimmering with the energy I can't contain. I can feel the hum of it, crackling beneath my skin, like it's begging for release.
The sky is changing. No, it's warping. It's like the world itself is unraveling. The clouds twist, black and angry, swirling together in a way that I've only ever seen in nightmares. And then… then it happens. The ground shakes violently, a deep rumble that spreads through my bones like a second heartbeat, rattling my teeth. An earthquake.
I'm causing an earthquake.
I look down at my right hand, but it doesn't feel like my own. The energy pulses under my skin, flickering in flashes of silver and blue, sparking like lightning. But this isn't the normal kind of lightning. This is raw, untamed, wild. The ground cracks beneath my feet, and I stumble back, my breath caught in my throat.
"No," I whisper, but it doesn't matter. The energy is beyond me now.
I can feel it deep in my bones—the rumble beneath me, the vibration in the air, the sudden, horrible stillness. It's like the earth itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I stand frozen, my body rigid, my hand still clenched at my side, but it's no use. The power inside me is already pulling at the seams of the world. I can't stop it.
The ground shakes again, harder this time, a deep, guttural tremor that cracks through the city like a jagged knife. I stagger, struggling to keep my balance, but the shaking is relentless. Every inch of the pavement trembles beneath me. Buildings groan as if the very foundation beneath them is being ripped apart. The air hums with the pulse of something ancient and dangerous, a force I can't control, a force that's beginning to rage through the earth.
I gasp for breath, but it feels like the air itself is shifting, as if it's been rearranged by something far larger than me. My heart is pounding in my chest, each beat a heavy reminder that I'm the one responsible for this—this destruction, this chaos. The power is surging through me, spilling out uncontrollably, and the city around me is already starting to crumble.
There's a distant crack, and I turn just in time to see the corner of a building collapse, the concrete and steel breaking apart with a deafening roar. It's like the whole world is falling to pieces in my hands, and I don't know how to stop it. I don't know if I even can stop it.
The streets buckle beneath me. Cracks spiderweb across the pavement, splitting it open, and the earth below seems to heave as though it's alive, gasping for air. People scream in the distance, but it feels like I'm too far gone to do anything, like I'm locked inside this bubble of power, unable to reach them. I want to run to them, to try to help, but the earth beneath me splits further, sending shockwaves out that knock me off my feet.
I hit the ground, but it doesn't matter. The tremors keep coming. The sky darkens above me, thick clouds swirling in unnatural patterns, thunder rolling like the growl of some unseen monster. The buildings around me are breaking apart, and I can see the destruction unfolding in real-time: glass shattering, steel beams snapping like twigs, whole structures collapsing under the force of the quake.
I curl into myself, my hands pressed to my ears, trying to block out the sounds of the world falling apart. The cries of people, the screams of destruction, the crashing and grinding of metal and stone—all of it blurs together into a deafening cacophony.
I want to scream, too, but I can't. I'm just a passenger in my own body, watching as everything I've tried to suppress bursts out of me in an uncontrollable wave.
"I didn't mean for this," I whisper to no one, though I know no one can hear me. The ground trembles again, and I brace for the next impact. It's only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down.
And I caused it.
The apocalypse is no longer some distant possibility. It's here. It's me.
The earthquake's tremors have barely started to subside when I feel it—a sudden, sharp sting in the air, like a current of heat rushing through me, carrying with it the promise of something far worse. My breath catches in my throat. The ground beneath me is still shuddering, but now there's a flicker in the chaos—something burning.
At first, it's just the faintest warmth, a spark in the distance. But then, as if summoned by the power I can no longer hold in check, flames begin to rise, crawling over the rubble like a living thing, consuming everything in its path. It's like the air itself is igniting.
The heat becomes unbearable, suffocating. My lungs burn, but I can't pull in enough air. The fire spreads quickly, fed by the energy that crackles around me, rising higher and higher, turning the already charred ruins into a deadly inferno. It's as if the world is on fire, as if I've become the catalyst for the flames that consume everything.
I stagger back, but there's no escape. The fire is everywhere now, devouring the broken buildings, swallowing the street beneath me, wrapping its fingers around anything it can. The wind shifts, and the flames leap higher, licking at the sky, threatening to consume everything I've ever known.
I close my eyes for a moment, willing it to stop, willing myself to regain control. But when I open them again, the flames are inescapable. The heat presses against my skin, making my muscles seize up, and all I can hear is the crackling, the roar of the fire as it dances in the destruction. I can't see anything beyond the blaze. The city, the people—all of it—is disappearing in a storm of flames.
The fire feels like it's in me now, like I'm made of it. Every pulse in my body sends a surge of heat through the world around me. My chest aches with the effort of trying to breathe, but it's not enough. I can't stop it. I can't even control it.
I reach out instinctively, my right hand shaking violently, and the flames respond, twisting, expanding, rising higher in time with the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat. It's like I'm feeding it, but I'm not feeding it. The energy inside me, the same power that tore the earth apart, is now igniting everything I touch. The fire rages, and I can feel it coming from me, pulling everything into its grasp.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to disappear, but the fire follows, relentless and hungry. My legs buckle beneath me, the heat too much to bear, and I collapse to the ground, gasping for air that isn't there.
"Please," I whisper, but it's a plea to the universe, to whatever forces control this kind of chaos. "Please stop."
But there's no answer. Only the crackling of flames and the roar of destruction.
The world is burning, and I can't escape it. I've made it burn, and I can't stop the fire now.
The wind changes.
I don't notice it at first. I'm so consumed by the fire, by the flames that have become my only reality, that I can't see the shift until it's too late. But then it hits me—like a deep, bone-chilling current that cuts through the heat of the fire and the tremors beneath my feet.
A cold wind sweeps through the streets, sharp and unnatural. It's wrong—like the breath of something that shouldn't be here, something ancient, and it feels alive. The flames flicker, seem to hesitate, and for just a moment, there's a stillness, as if the world is holding its breath.
And then it hits.
The sky cracks open. No, it's worse than that—it's torn. A rip in the fabric of reality itself. Above me, the clouds swirl into a vortex of swirling blackness, pulling in everything around them. A storm unlike any I've ever seen, a violent, twisting fury that stretches beyond the horizon, reaching down like the claws of some monstrous beast.
It's not just the wind anymore. It's the sky—the heavens themselves seem to shudder in the wake of whatever force is rising from within me. The wind is no longer a breeze; it's a howling gale, tugging at my hair, pushing me to the ground. It pulls at the flames, bending them as if they're puppets in the grasp of something far stronger. The wind howls again, carrying with it the whispers of something else—something darker. The air smells of ash and ozone, but beneath it, there's the unmistakable scent of decay, like the world is rotting before my eyes. I can hear the distant groan of metal and stone as the structures around me continue to twist under the pressure of the storm. The world feels like it's coming apart at the seams, and it's all my fault. It's spreading. Spreading faster than I can comprehend.
The air around me crackles one last time, a violent storm of energy that refuses to be contained. I can feel it—everything—pushing against me. My body is trembling with the effort of holding on, but I know it's futile. The world is breaking down around me, piece by piece, and I am the one who made it all fall apart. I'm not strong enough to stop it. The energy is too much, too powerful, too overwhelming.
The ground shakes beneath me again, but this time, it's different. It's not just the earth trembling. It's as if the very fabric of reality is shaking, the air itself bending and warping. The frost that covered everything begins to crack, the surface splintering like glass under the strain of the forces battling within me.
I feel something deep inside me, a final push—a sharp, searing pain that comes from somewhere deep within, twisting and warping everything in its path. It feels like my body is going to snap in half, my mind teetering on the edge of madness. The pain is unbearable. The power surging inside me has become a physical force, twisting everything within me until I can't breathe, can't think.
I close my eyes, desperate to block out the chaos. I reach for the last shred of control, but there's nothing left. The world around me spins, and the storm grows louder, the winds howling in my ears, the ice cracking, the flames roaring. My vision blurs, the edges of the world becoming a mess of light and shadow.
And then it's gone.
The power, the pain, the fire—it all vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sickening stillness that leaves me floating in empty space. For a moment, I'm weightless, my body suspended in the void, and I realize too late that I'm falling.
I feel the sharp crack of my skull against something cold, and then, like the snapping of a thread, everything goes black.
It creeps in slowly, dragging me out of the void, a dull throb in my skull that sharpens with every passing second. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish, as if I've been buried under the weight of something far greater than myself. There's heat and cold all at once, clashing inside me, seeping into my bones.
Then comes the sound.
The world hasn't stopped crumbling. I can hear it—the distant roar of fire, the sharp crack of splitting earth, the wailing wind that carries the screams of a dying city. The apocalypse hasn't ended just because I blacked out.
And then, the voices.
"She's waking up," someone says, and the words are strained, edged with something that feels like relief but isn't.
I blink against the haze, my vision swimming. There are shapes above me, blurred figures shifting in and out of focus. A face leans in—Imani. He looks exhausted, sweat-streaked and grim, but his hands are firm as he steadies me.
"Cherish," he breathes, like he's afraid I'll slip away again. "Don't move, you have a very serious head injury."
There's another presence to my left—Miras. His dark eyes are locked onto me, sharp with something unreadable. Protective. Hesitant. Afraid.
And then—him.
My father. He's kneeling in front of me, close enough to touch. His face is lined with worry, but there's something else beneath it—guilt. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands clench into fists as if bracing for whatever comes next.
The moment I see him, something shifts inside me. A pressure—cold, precise—tightens around my mind like a vice, squeezing out every thought, every ounce of resistance. My breath catches.
There is a command buried deep within me.
And suddenly, I know what I have to do.
My hand moves before I can question it. My fingers close around the weight of a gun—when did I get a gun?—but the question doesn't matter. It's already in my grasp, already rising, my arm steady in a way it never should be.
I see my father's eyes widen.
"Cherish," he says again, but this time, his voice is different. It's careful. Measured. Scared.
I can feel Miras move beside me, reaching, but he's too slow.
I squeeze the trigger.
The shot is deafening.
The recoil jerks my arm back, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything.
My father staggers, his expression frozen in shock as the bullet buries itself deep. For a split second, he doesn't move—just stares at me, like he can't quite believe it. Then his body crumples, collapsing to the broken ground.
Blood pools beneath him, dark against the ruined earth.
A scream rips through the air. I don't know whose it is.
My mind feels distant, separate from my body, like I'm watching this happen from behind a thick sheet of glass.
I should feel something. Horror. Grief. Regret.
But I don't.
Because I didn't pull the trigger.
Not really.
Something else is inside me, controlling me, pushing me, twisting me into something I don't recognize. I try to fight it, but my body won't move, won't obey. The gun is still in my hand, my fingers locked around the grip, and deep in the hollow of my mind, I can hear a voice that isn't mine.
Cold. Commanding.
"Good girl."
I can't move. Not the way I want to.
I can feel everything—the weight of the gun still clutched in my trembling hand, the blood seeping into the cracks of the broken ground, the heat of the fire still raging in the distance. My father lies motionless in front of me, but I can't even bring myself to look at him. I can't let myself.
Because if I do, I might break.
I hear voices, sharp and frantic, slicing through the thick, suffocating silence.
"She's gone, Miras." Imani's voice is tight, brimming with something I don't want to name. "That's not Cherish anymore."
He's close—I can feel his presence behind me, his warmth like a candle flickering in a storm. I want to turn to him, to let my body collapse into something familiar, but I can't. My fingers twitch, the only movement I can manage.
"You don't know that." Miras's voice is raw, desperate. "You don't get to decide that."
There's a scuffle. I hear footsteps, a shift of fabric, and I know Imani is standing in Miras's way, blocking him from getting to me.
"She just shot her own father," Imani says, low and bitter. "And you think she's still in there? You felt it, didn't you? The way she moved. That wasn't her."
Something inside me twists, sharp and ugly.
Because he's right.
The voice in my head—the cold, precise command that slithered into my thoughts like a parasite—that was them. The organization. The people who have been waiting for this moment.
But it was my hands. My body. My bullet.
Miras's breath is ragged, his words spilling out like he's barely holding himself together.
"She's still in there."
"She isn't." Imani's voice is sharp now, almost cruel. "They got to her. They turned her, Miras. She's just another one of their weapons now, and you need to wake up and accept it before it's too late."
A pause.
Then, softer, almost pleading:
"If you don't, you'll get yourself killed. She'll kill the entire world."
Silence stretches between them. The fire crackles in the distance, the wind howls through the ruins, but neither of them moves.
I want to scream. I want to claw my way out of whatever this is, force my limbs to move, force my mouth to form words—tell them I'm still here, tell them I didn't want this—but the grip on my mind is like iron.
I can only listen.
Then, Miras speaks again, voice hoarse but steady.
"I don't care."
Imani exhales, sharp and frustrated. "Miras—"
"I don't care!" Miras shouts, and it's the closest to breaking I've ever heard him. "I don't care what they did to her. I don't care how far gone you think she is." His voice cracks, but he keeps going, forcing the words out like they're the only thing holding him together. "I won't give up on her. I don't care if I have to fight them, or fight her—" His breath shudders, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. "—I won't leave her behind."
Something inside me aches.
I don't deserve that kind of faith. Not when my hands are still warm from pulling the trigger. Not when my father is still bleeding into the earth beneath me. Not when I know what's coming next.
I want to scream at him to run. I want to beg him to let me go.
Because I already know the truth.
Imani is right.
The Cherish they knew is gone. And I don't think I can ever come back.
I feel the moment Miras steps in front of me. His presence is like a barrier, a shield between me and whatever comes next. I can't turn my head to see him, can't move my lips to whisper his name, but I feel him there—solid, unshaken, unyielding.
"You're not doing this," Miras says, his voice dark with warning.
Imani stands across from him, shoulders squared, jaw tight. His hands are steady at his sides, but I know him well enough to see the way they want to move—to reach for his weapon, to do what he thinks must be done.
And he thinks he has to kill me.
Imani stares at Miras like he's already bracing for the fight, like he knows this will break something between them, but he doesn't care.
"This isn't a choice," he says, measured and sure. "If she lives, the world ends."
I hear the weight of those words, but they don't feel real. Maybe because I already know them. I can still feel the fire I started burning in the distance, the ice creeping over shattered streets, the air itself wrong—twisting with power I never meant to unleash.
I did this.
I am the reason the world is dying.
And yet—Miras still stands between me and Imani like I'm something worth saving.
"You don't know that," Miras snaps.
"Yes, I do," Imani says, his voice sharpening. "Look at her. Do you really think she's still in there?"
Miras doesn't answer.
Because he does know. He knows something is wrong.
He knows I should be begging, should be screaming, should be telling him to run because the thing inside my head isn't me anymore.
But I don't. I can't.
And that silence is damning.
"Miras." Imani's voice softens, but the words are no less brutal. "She killed her father."
The words hit like a blade to my ribs.
I don't know what hurts more—hearing them spoken aloud, or knowing they're true.
I want to throw up.
Miras doesn't move.
"She didn't do that." His voice is rough, barely held together. "They did."
Imani exhales, frustrated. "And what happens next? Huh? What happens when they tell her to kill you?"
Silence.
And for the first time, I feel Miras hesitate.
It's like a knife carving into my chest.
Because he knows.
And still—still—he refuses to move.
"I don't care." Miras's voice is quiet now, but it doesn't waver. "I don't care what she's done. I don't care how much of her they've taken. I don't care if she does kill me." He turns to Imani, and even though I can't see him, I can feel the fire in his stare. "I am not killing her."
Imani curses under his breath. "For God's sake, Miras—"
"I won't." Miras's voice is steel.
"She's not Cherish anymore!" Imani finally shouts, anger and desperation bleeding into his voice. "She is not the girl you love, she is not your Cherish, and if you don't do what needs to be done, she will burn this world to the ground and take you with it!"
His words slam into me harder than the earthquake ever did.
Miras goes still.
For a long moment, he doesn't say anything. The wind howls through the ruins, the flames crackle in the distance, and I swear I hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Then, finally, Miras speaks.
His voice is quiet.
Dangerous.
"If you try to kill her, Imani—" A pause. A breath. And then, a promise:
"—you'll have to go through me."
Imani stares at him like he doesn't recognize the person standing in front of him anymore. And maybe he doesn't. Maybe neither of them recognize each other now.
Maybe this is the moment everything between them breaks.
But I can't focus on that.
Because even as Miras stands his ground, even as Imani clenches his fists like he's this close to making a choice he can't take back—
I feel something inside me stir.
A command. A pull. A whisper in my skull that does not belong to me.
And before I can stop it, before I can fight, my body starts to move.
I move before I can stop myself. The gun in my hand shifts. My fingers tighten around the grip. The command in my skull sharpens, seizing my body with invisible strings, forcing me to act.
Kill him.
My heart lurches. My breathing locks in my throat. My arm starts to rise—slow, mechanical, a marionette obeying its master.
Kill him now.
No, no, no.
I try to stop it. I scream inside my own head, try to force my muscles to resist, try to dig my heels into the ground and refuse to obey. But the force inside me is stronger. Overwhelming. It drowns me, smothering every ounce of resistance, bending me into something unrecognizable.
My gun levels at Miras's head.
He doesn't move.
He doesn't even flinch.
Imani reacts first. He lunges, his hand going for his own weapon, but Miras is closer.
"Miras, move!" Imani shouts.
But Miras doesn't.
He steps toward me.
His eyes lock onto mine, unshaken, unwavering, like he's searching for something in the storm raging behind them. Like he sees me.
My chest tightens.
"You won't do it," Miras says, voice steady, sure.
My hand shakes.
I fight harder. I pour everything I have into resisting, into clawing my way back from the edge of this void, from the command that is not mine. My lungs burn. My skin feels wrong, stretched over bones that do not belong to me.
I won't do this.
I won't kill him.
But my finger is on the trigger.
And I feel it start to press down.
Miras takes another step closer, his voice dropping to something softer.
"Cherish."
A plea. A prayer. A tether.
The crack of the shot splits the air like a thunderclap, deafening in the ruined silence.
My heart lurches. My vision tunnels.
But before I can process what I've done—before I can feel the recoil, before I can even breathe—Miras moves.
He's faster than he should be, faster than anyone has a right to be. One moment, he's standing in front of me, staring down the barrel of my gun. The next, he's gone—a blur of movement, shifting just out of reach.
A rush of air, the sharp scent of gunpowder—
And then his hands are on me.
The world tilts violently as he slams into me, driving us both to the ground. His body crashes into mine like a force of nature, knocking the gun from my grip, pinning me down with unrelenting strength. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. My skull bounces against the cracked earth. My vision swims, blurred shapes and firelight dancing in the chaos. I hear Imani curse somewhere behind us, hear the sharp clatter of my gun hitting the dirt.
Miras doesn't give me time to recover.
His hands lock around my wrists, his weight pressing me into the ground, holding me still. His breathing is ragged, shaking, but his grip is unyielding.
I struggle—instinct, desperation, the last threads of control slipping through my fingers—but he doesn't let me go.
"Stop."
His voice is raw, broken, barely more than a breath—but it hits me like a knife to the ribs.
I freeze.
Because I know that voice.
Not just the sound of it—but the feeling of it.
He's not afraid of me.
He's afraid for me.
Something inside me cracks.
My body is still not my own, my muscles still shuddering with the aftershocks of the command I couldn't fight. My vision still burns with the image of the bullet I fired, of the moment I lost control completely.
But Miras is here.
He stopped me.
I don't know if the bullet hit anything. I don't know if I killed anyone.
All I know is the weight of him pressing me down, keeping me anchored, his grip so tight it hurts, like he's trying to pull me back into my own skin. A sharp breath shudders out of me, and then another, and suddenly I can feel everything—the heat of his body against mine, the tremor in his fingers, the way his heart is racing just as fast as mine.
Miras leans closer, his voice dropping to something quieter, something desperate.
"Cherish."
My chest tightens, my throat locking up.
He's calling me back.
But I don't know if I can come back.
I don't know if there's anything left of me to return to.
Behind him, Imani exhales sharply, like he's trying to steady himself. His voice cuts through the firelight, low and edged with something I don't want to name.
"She fired," he says. "She tried to kill you."
Miras doesn't look away from me.
"She missed." His grip tightens, a flicker of something wild in his gaze. "And I don't believe for a second that was an accident."
Imani makes a frustrated noise. "Miras—"
"She's still in there."
Miras says it with the kind of certainty that shouldn't be possible.
Imani is silent for a long moment. Then, voice flat, "That won't matter if they get their hands on her again."
I want to speak. I want to tell them I'm here, I want to tell them I never meant for this to happen, I never meant to—
But I can't.
I don't even know if it would be true.
Miras must see something in my expression—something fractured and lost—because his hands ease just slightly, no longer holding me down but holding me together.
His voice is quieter now. Barely more than a whisper.
"I'm not losing you."
His eyes burn into mine, fierce and unshakable, as if sheer willpower alone will be enough to pull me back from the abyss.
Miras doesn't let go.
Even as the fires rage.
Even as the world cracks apart beneath us.
Even as Imani stands over him, silent, waiting for a decision that Miras will never make.
He just stays there, pressed close, pinning me to the shattered ground—not to trap me, not to hurt me, but to keep me here. To make sure I don't drift away again.
His breath is uneven, his heart pounding so hard I can feel it where our bodies press together. But his grip doesn't falter.
"Come back," he murmurs, voice low, raw. "I know you can hear me."
I do hear him.
But his words feel distant, muffled under the static in my skull, beneath the wreckage of my own mind.
Because I almost killed him.
Because I wanted to.
No—not me. Not me. That wasn't me.
But it felt real. It felt like my own hands lifting the gun. My own fingers tightening on the trigger. My own mind whispering—shoot, shoot, shoot—
I tremble, my throat locking up with something ragged and gasping, something that doesn't know if it should be a sob or a scream.
I feel broken.
I feel wrong.
Miras shifts, his forehead pressing against mine. It's such a small thing, but it slams through me like a shock to my system, cutting through the static, through the weight pressing me down.
I can smell the smoke in his jacket, the gunpowder on his hands. I can feel his pulse hammering against my skin.
"Look at me," he says, and his voice is softer now, pulling at something deep inside me. "Cherish. Look at me."
I don't want to.
Because if I do, he'll see it.
He'll see what I did.
He'll see what I am now.
But I don't have a choice.
Because he won't stop until I do.
Slowly, shakily, I drag my eyes up to his.
And—
God.
There's no fear in them.
There should be.
He should be afraid of me. He should be furious. He should be looking at me like I'm a monster, like I'm something that should have been put down the moment the world started ending.
But he's not.
He's just—here.
Looking at me like I'm Cherish.
Like I'm still me.
Something inside me shatters.
The breath I've been holding collapses out of me, sharp and uneven. My fingers twitch against the dirt, aching to grab onto something, to find purchase in a world that won't stop slipping away.
Miras must feel it, must know, because he moves.
He lets go of my wrists.
And he takes my hand instead.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Cherish," he says, my name like a tether, like something I can hold onto.
I squeeze his hand back before I even realize I'm doing it.
It's small.
Barely anything at all.
But Miras feels it.
A sharp, shattering crack—louder than the fire, louder than the wind howling through the ruins.
For a moment, I don't feel it.
For a moment, all I hear is the ringing in my ears, the breath catching in Miras's throat, the way the world seems to pause—
And then the pain hits.
A white-hot, searing agony bursts through my shoulder, setting every nerve alight. My body jerks back, a strangled sound tearing from my throat before I can stop it.
I collapse against Miras.
His arms tighten around me instantly, instinctively, his grip turning almost crushing as if he can hold the wound closed with sheer force alone.
I hear Imani suck in a breath. "Damn it—"
But Miras doesn't look at him.
He doesn't even react.
His focus is entirely on me, his hands pressing against my shoulder, warm, solid and shaking.
My vision swims, black creeping in at the edges, but I force my eyes to stay open.
I force myself to look up at him.
Miras's face is pale, his jaw clenched so tight I think his teeth might break. But his eyes—God, his eyes—
He looks at me like he just watched the world end.
Like he knows this wasn't an accident.
Like he knows Imani pulled the trigger because he doesn't believe I can be saved.
I try to speak, but all that comes out is a shuddering breath, something weak and uneven.
Miras snaps.
His head whips toward Imani, rage rippling through his entire body, and when he speaks, his voice is so low and dangerous that it doesn't sound like him at all.
"You shot her."
Imani doesn't lower the gun. "I told you. We can't risk this. She isn't—"
"Don't." Miras's voice wavers, but not with weakness. With something feral. "Don't you dare say she isn't her."
"She was about to kill you, Miras!" Imani's voice rises, raw and frustrated, but there's something else under it now. Guilt. Doubt. "You're acting like that didn't just happen."
"She's fighting it." Miras's hold on me tightens, his breath uneven. "I saw it. I felt it. She's still—"
"She's a threat," Imani snaps. "And you're letting your feelings blind you to what she's becoming."
Miras lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, but there's no amusement in it. Just fury. Just pain.
"She's bleeding out in my arms, and you still think she's the biggest threat here?" His voice turns cold. "Tell me, Imani—do you think that bullet helped her? Do you think you just saved the world?"
Silence.
A long, crushing silence.
I can't think, can't breathe past the fire burning through my shoulder, but I feel the tension between them, crackling like lightning in the air.
Then—
Miras moves.
With slow, deliberate care, he shifts me in his arms, lifting me, ignoring the blood soaking into his clothes. His grip is steady, strong—like he's carrying something fragile.
Like he's carrying something worth protecting.
His gaze never leaves Imani's.
And when he speaks again, his voice is soft.
Dangerously soft.
"If you try to kill her again," he says, "I will stop you."
A warning. A promise.
A line drawn in the ashes of the world.
And then he turns.
And he carries me away.
****
The world blurs. The fire, the ruins, the sound of Imani's footsteps behind us—it all fades into something distant, something I can't fully hold onto.
All I know is the pain.
It's burning through my shoulder, spreading down my arm, curling into my ribs like something alive. My body is too weak to fight it, too drained from everything I've done, from everything I've become.
But Miras doesn't let me go.
He moves with purpose, his grip on me unwavering even as my blood soaks into his jacket, even as my weight slumps against him.
"Stay with me," he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple.
I want to answer. I want to tell him I'm here, that I hear him—but my throat feels thick, clogged with something heavy, something that tastes like iron and regret.
I force myself to move, to shift even slightly in his arms.
His hold tightens in response.
"That's it," he breathes, his voice softer now, like he's afraid of breaking me. "I've got you, Cherish. Just—just hold on."
I don't know where he's taking me.
Away from Imani. Away from the fire. Away from the place where I almost—
My stomach twists. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Miras feels it. I know he does.
Because his grip shifts, adjusting me so that I'm pressed closer, so that I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek.
I cling to it.
To him.
Because I don't know what's left of me anymore.
Because I don't know if there's anything left to save.
But Miras does.
And he refuses to let me go.
The world tilts, shifts, then settles.
I don't remember how we got here.
One moment, I was in Miras's arms, the firelight flickering against his jaw, the weight of Imani's gunshot burning through me. The next—darkness.
Not the crushing, all-consuming dark of unconsciousness, but something quieter. Something contained.
The smell of smoke and blood still lingers in the air, but it's mixed with something else now—earth, damp and cool. The whisper of wind through something wooden, the faint creak of shifting boards.
I know this place.
A hideout.
One of ours.
The old storage barn on the outskirts of town. Abandoned. Hidden well enough to be overlooked, forgotten by anyone who wasn't searching for it.
Miras must've brought me here.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, tangled up with something I don't have the strength to name.
Miras.
Miras, who carried me when my body was too broken to move.
Miras, who chose me over Imani's warnings.
Miras, who still—still—refused to give up on me.
I shift, wincing as a fresh jolt of pain flares through my shoulder. My fingers twitch against rough fabric—blankets, maybe. Someone must have wrapped me up.
A voice stirs nearby. Low, tired, watchful.
"Don't move too much."
Miras.
His presence is close, sitting near me, but he doesn't touch me. Not yet.
I force my eyes open. It's dim, the only light coming from the crack in the old wooden doors, casting a thin glow across the space. I can make out his silhouette beside me, the tired slope of his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched into fists against his knees.
Like he's keeping himself from reaching for me.
Like he's afraid of what I'll do if he does.
I swallow hard, throat raw. "Miras—"
He exhales sharply, like my voice alone is enough to knock the air out of him.
Then, finally, he looks at me.
And I see it all at once—
The exhaustion. The weight of everything that's happened. The silent war still raging behind his eyes.
But most of all, I see relief.
Like the fact that I'm awake, that I'm still here, is the only thing keeping him together.
"You're alive," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. Then, after a pause—softer, more careful, "Do you know where you are?"
I hesitate. Then nod. "The barn."
Something in his posture eases, just barely. "Good."
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, before his gaze flickers back to mine.
There's a question there.
Not spoken. Not pressed.
But it lingers between us, unshakable.
Are you you?
I don't know how to answer.
I don't even know if I can.
I look down at my hands, at the dried blood staining my skin—some of it mine, some of it not.
I feel the weight of what I did.
What I almost did.
I shake.
Miras notices.
And this time, he doesn't hesitate.
His hand finds mine, warm and steady, fingers curling carefully around my own.
Not forcing, not demanding—just offering.
Something small. Something real.
Miras doesn't let go.
Even as the silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, he keeps his hand around mine, grounding me. Keeping me here.
But it's not enough to stop the truth from sinking in.
I shot my father.
The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist.
I barely remember pulling the trigger—only the distant, detached sensation of my finger tightening, the cold steel in my hand, the force of the recoil snapping through my arm.
It wasn't me.
But it was still my hands.
Still my bullet.
Still his blood spilling onto the ground.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My breath shudders out of me. "Is he—" My voice cracks, hoarse and unsteady. I swallow against the lump in my throat and try again. "Did he—"
"He's alive."
Miras's voice is quiet, steady. Like he already knew what I was going to ask.
My eyes snap open.
Alive.
The word crashes through me like a tidal wave, leaving me breathless, disoriented.
I let out a shaky exhale, relief flooding through me so fast it makes me feel sick. My vision blurs, but I don't know if it's from exhaustion, pain, or the sheer weight of what I almost did.
"Imani's with him," Miras adds. "Trying to keep him stable. He's…" His grip on my hand tightens slightly, just for a second. "It's bad, but if anyone can save him, it's Imani."
My chest tightens.
Imani.
After everything—after the fight, after the gunshot, after he nearly killed me—he still chose to stay behind. To help my father.
After all of it, he still thought my father was worth saving.
But did he still think the same about me?
My throat locks up. I try to swallow past it, but the words feel thick, poisoned. "I did this."
Miras doesn't answer right away.
When I look up at him, his expression is unreadable—his jaw clenched, his eyes shadowed with something I can't quite place.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"You weren't in control."
I let out a hollow, humorless laugh, though it barely sounds like one. "It was still my hand on the gun."
Miras shakes his head, a flash of something sharp crossing his face. "That wasn't you, Cherish. You know that."
But do I?
Because it felt like me.
It felt like something inside me, something dark and twisted and wrong, waking up and pulling the trigger before I could stop it.
And now—
Now my father is bleeding out somewhere in the ruins of a world I helped destroy.
I drag my free hand over my face, gripping my forehead as if I can physically hold myself together. "What if—" My voice wavers, breath unsteady. "What if that part of me is still there? What if I can't stop it next time?"
Miras doesn't let me look away.
His hand shifts, moving from mine to my cheek, fingers barely touching, barely brushing against my skin—gentle.
"Then I'll stop you," he murmurs. "I'll pull you back. Just like I did today."
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking.
I want to believe him.
I want to believe that I can be saved, that there's still something in me worth saving.
But when I think about my father lying somewhere between life and death—when I think about Imani, who had to choose between saving him or killing me—
All I feel is the weight of my own guilt, crushing me from the inside out.
Miras doesn't let go. Doesn't pull away, even as I tremble beneath his touch. His presence is steady, grounding—like an anchor keeping me from slipping into the abyss I know is waiting for me.
"You're not a monster, Cherish." His voice is quiet, but there's no hesitation. No doubt. "Whatever happened back there, whatever you think this thing inside you is—it's not you. It's not all of you."
I shake my head, throat tight. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Because I know you. I know the girl who dragged me out of a fight before I got my ass kicked. The girl who hates losing but still lets me win sometimes. The girl who—" He stops, jaw tightening, something flickering across his face before he exhales sharply. "The girl who missed the shot when she didn't have too."
My breath catches. "That's different." A wave of dizziness crashes into me. I barely feel Miras shift, one hand fumbling to keep pressure on my wound while the other brushes against my cheek, forcing my gaze to his.
The world tilts beneath me, shifting in and out of focus. My limbs are heavy, my head a fog of pain and something else—something pulling, clawing at the edges of my mind.
Miras's voice is the only thing keeping me tethered.
"Stay with me, Cherish," he says, his hands pressing down on my wound, slick with blood. My blood. His face is pale, his eyes wide, but his grip is firm, desperate. "Help is coming. Just hang on."
I want to answer him, to tell him I'm trying, but the pressure in my skull builds, drowning out everything else. The voice is back. Soft. Familiar. Poisonous.
Let go.
"Don't listen to it," he says, his voice breaking. "It's not real."
I blink up at him, my vision swimming. "It feels real."
"Then fight it." His hands tremble, but his grip on me doesn't waver. "You are stronger than whatever this is, do you hear me?"
The roar of engines cuts through the chaos. A gust of wind sweeps over us, dust and debris swirling as the sleek black jet descends onto the field beside the barn.
Miras barely reacts—his focus is on me, his grip unrelenting. His hands are slick with my blood, his face streaked with it, but he doesn't let go.
The jet's ramp lowers, and through the haze of my fading vision, I see him—Imani.
He moves like a force of nature, boots pounding against the ground, his gun raised, scanning for threats. When his gaze lands on us, on me, his face darkens with something sharp. Something angry.
"Get her up!" Imani barks, already moving.
Miras is shaking. "She's barely—"
My body barely registers it when they lift me, Miras keeping my head against his shoulder as Imani hauls us both toward the jet. My limbs are lead, my breath rattling in my chest.
The darkness inside me is laughing.
You're already dead.
No.
You're too weak to stop it.