*Trigger warnings* family angst, amnesia, end of the world, mind control
The world spins. I feel the hard ramp beneath me as they drag me inside, the jet sealing shut with a mechanical hiss. Imani shouts something to the pilot, but his voice is distant, drowned out by the war inside my head.
The mind control—the infection, the corruption, whatever it is—is still sinking its claws into me, pulling me deeper, deeper—
Miras's hands grip my face again. "Cherish, look at me!"
I swallow, my throat raw. "My dad." My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Where is he?"
Imani doesn't answer right away. His gaze flicks to the side, toward the cockpit. The sound of the engines starting up masks the silence stretching between us.
Finally, he exhales sharply. "Alive."
A slow breath leaves me, but it's not relief. Not really.
"How bad?"
His jaw tightens. "Bad enough."
I try to sit up, but the pain flares immediately, white-hot. I inhale sharply, and Miras moves instinctively.
Imani watches, unmoving.
I steel myself. "I need to talk to him."
"No."
The answer is flat, immediate.
Anger flickers to life beneath my exhaustion. "No?"
Imani leans forward, focusing his weight on the bed where Miras is laying me down. His gaze is sharp, cutting straight through me. "You're compromised."
I stiffen. "I'm fine."
He scoffs, shaking his head. "You weren't fine when I found you bleeding out in the dirt, barely hanging on. You weren't fine when Miras had to keep you from slipping into a mind-controlled coma." His eyes darken. "And you sure as hell aren't fine now."
Miras sits up straighter, clearing his throat. "Imani—"
"No," Imani snaps, cutting him off. "She doesn't get to act like nothing happened. Not after that."
Something tightens in my chest. "I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You almost killed him." The words are cold. Calculated. "Your father. If I had been ten seconds later, he'd be dead."
I swallow hard, but the weight of it—the truth—lodges deep in my throat.
Miras tenses beside me. "She wasn't in control."
Imani ignores him. His stare doesn't waver.
"I get that you want answers, Cherish. I get that you think talking to him will make things better." He leans back. "But until I know for sure that you're not still a ticking time bomb? You're not going anywhere near him."
The finality in his voice is suffocating.
I'm still slumped against the bed, my body too weak to move, but I can feel the heat of Miras's frustration radiating beside me. His grip on my hand hasn't loosened.
Across from us, Imani sits with the same unreadable expression he always wears, his arms crossed like he's waiting for something.
Miras doesn't make him wait long.
"You need to get the bullet out."
Imani exhales, slow and measured. "She's stable enough to make it back to the tower."
"She's not stable." Miras's voice is sharp, cutting. "She's burning up, Imani. Her body is already fighting off—whatever the hell that was—" He gestures vaguely at me, his throat tightening. "She doesn't need to be fighting off an infection, too."
Imani finally looks at me. His gaze flicks to my shoulder, to the hastily bandaged wound just beneath my collarbone. His jaw tightens.
"I didn't have a choice."
Miras lets out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "No? You shot her."
Imani doesn't flinch, doesn't shift, doesn't even blink. He just stares at Miras, as unreadable as ever.
I force myself to take a slow breath. "Imani." My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Just—just do it."
His gaze shifts back to me. His lips press into a thin line.
Then he nods.
Miras's shoulders are still tense, but he exhales shakily, relief flickering in his eyes for the first time since we got on this damn jet.
Imani stands, moving toward the storage compartment where they keep the medical supplies. When he returns, he sets down a metal tray with a pair of forceps, gauze, and a syringe filled with anesthetic.
"I need space," Imani says, rolling up his sleeves.
Miras doesn't move.
Imani sighs through his nose. "I wasn't asking."
"I don't care." Miras folds his arms. "I'm not leaving."
Imani tenses, and for a moment, I wonder if this is going to turn into a thing—if they're actually about to fight right here, over my half-conscious body.
But then Imani just mutters something under his breath and turns his attention back to me. "Fine. But if you get in my way, I will break your arm."
Miras doesn't react.
Imani kneels beside me, reaching for the syringe. "This'll numb the area, but it's still going to hurt like hell."
Like everything else hasn't already.
I nod weakly. "Just—just do it."
The needle slides in, a cold pressure spreading through my shoulder.
I bite down hard on my lip as the sharp sting of the scalpel cuts into my shoulder. The numbing agent barely does anything—it dulls the pain, but it doesn't erase it. I can feel every tug, every shift of metal against flesh as Imani digs into the wound.
A strangled gasp escapes me, my body jerking involuntarily. Miras's grip on my hand tightens.
"Stay still," Imani orders, his voice steady but firm.
"Easy for you to say," I hiss through clenched teeth. Sweat beads along my forehead, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My whole body is shaking, torn between tensing against the pain and surrendering to it.
Miras leans closer, his free hand pressing gently against my other shoulder, keeping me grounded. "Just breathe, Cherish," he murmurs. "You're okay."
I let out something between a laugh and a sob. "Not really."
The voice inside me stirs.
Why fight it?
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking. Not now. Not now.
Imani mutters something under his breath, his hands moving with precise, mechanical efficiency as he digs for the bullet. The metal presses against something deep inside me, and I choke on a scream.
The voice sharpens, growing louder, more insistent.
Let me in.
The pain surges, and something inside me snaps.
My body jerks violently.
The world distorts.
For a moment, I'm not me.
A shadow slithers through my veins, curling around my thoughts, twisting through my mind like a vice. My vision tints at the edges, dark and unnatural. The pain fades—not gone, but distant, as if it belongs to someone else.
Imani doesn't stop working. "Stay still," he orders.
But I can't.
Because suddenly, my hands aren't mine.
Before I can stop myself, my free hand lashes out—faster than I should be able to move in this state. Miras barely reacts in time, his grip tightening to hold me back before I can reach Imani's throat.
"Cherish—hey!" His voice cuts through the haze, sharp and desperate.
Imani's reflexes are just as fast. He jerks back, eyes narrowing as he registers the sudden shift in me. "Shit."
My breath comes in sharp gasps, my chest rising and falling too quickly. My limbs tremble violently, but it's not from the pain.
It's from something else.
I feel wrong.
Like something else is inside my skin, forcing my body to move. My own thoughts are distant, tangled in a thick fog.
Miras grips my face, forcing me to look at him. "Stay with me, Cherish."
The voice inside me laughs.
He's afraid of you. They both are. And you know why? Because they should be.
My vision blurs. My fingers twitch, clenching against Miras's sleeve.
I don't want this. I don't want to hurt them.
But my body isn't listening.
Imani doesn't hesitate. In one swift movement, he presses something cold against my neck.
A syringe.
I barely have time to react before the sharp sting of the injection burns through my veins.
The darkness snarls—writhing, lashing out—before everything crashes back into silence.
My body slumps. My breathing slows.
The last thing I hear is Miras murmuring my name.
At first, there's nothing but darkness—thick, suffocating, endless. Then, sound. The low hum of the jet's engines, steady and constant. The faint rustle of movement nearby. A voice—muffled, tense, familiar.
Miras.
I try to move, but my limbs feel heavy, my body weighed down like I'm sinking in quicksand. A dull, throbbing pain pulses through my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the strange numbness in the rest of me.
I force my eyes open.
The dim lighting makes everything hazy, but I see him immediately. Miras is slouched in the seat beside me, head in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. He looks exhausted, his jacket stained with dried blood—my blood.
I shift slightly, and the movement makes him snap upright. His eyes, red-rimmed and sharp with worry, lock onto mine.
"Cherish?" His voice is hoarse, cautious—like he's afraid I might disappear if he speaks too loudly.
I try to swallow, my throat dry and raw. "Still here." My voice barely comes out, but it's enough.
Miras lets out a breath—shaky, uneven. His shoulders sag, the tension in his frame easing just slightly.
Imani is standing near the cockpit, arms crossed, watching. He doesn't say anything, but the unreadable weight in his stare is unmistakable.
I ignore him. I focus on Miras. "What… happened?"
Miras exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. "You—" He hesitates, glancing at my bandaged shoulder before meeting my gaze again. "You lost it for a second."
frown, my mind sluggish. The memories are hazy, tangled between reality and whatever that was. "I… I tried to—"
Miras nods stiffly. "You tried to kill Imani."
The words hit like a gut punch.
I swallow hard, looking down at my hands. They feel foreign. Like they don't belong to me anymore. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," he says quickly. "I know, Cherish. That's why I stopped you."
But I can still see the lingering tension in him. The way his fingers twitch, the way he keeps glancing at me like he's bracing himself for something.
Like he's not sure it's really me sitting here.
I suck in a sharp breath, my fingers clenching against the blanket draped over me. The voice in my head is gone—for now. But it was there, and for those few terrifying seconds, I hadn't been able to stop it.
I press a hand to my temple, squeezing my eyes shut.
I don't know what's worse—the fact that I tried to hurt them.
Or the fact that a small, sinking part of me is terrified it'll happen again.
The jet lands smoothly, the slight jolt shaking me out of my thoughts. Imani moves first, unbuckling his harness and heading toward the exit without so much as a glance in my direction.
Miras stays seated. His knee bounces restlessly, but he doesn't let go of my hand.
"We're home," he murmurs, though his voice lacks relief.
I barely hear him. My mind is stuck on the last few minutes—on the way he looked at me. Like I was dangerous.
I force myself to sit up, hissing as pain flares through my shoulder. Miras instantly moves to help, his hand pressing against my good arm to steady me.
"I've got it," I mumble, but I don't push him away.
The ramp lowers with a mechanical hiss, letting in the cool night air. Beyond it, the estate looms—glass windows reflecting the dim lights of the landing strip, the familiar shadow of the tower stretching against the dark sky.
Home.
Except, it doesn't feel like home anymore.
Miras helps me to my feet, his arm hovering close as I take an unsteady step forward. I don't miss the way Imani watches—always watching—from the side, his stance rigid, assessing.
Like he's still deciding if I'm a threat.
I bite down on the bitterness rising in my throat and move forward. I can feel Miras's eyes on me, but he doesn't say anything. Not yet.
The moment we step off the jet, a voice cuts through the air.
"Miss Battle."
I turn to see a team of security personnel waiting at the edge of the strip, all dressed in black, all standing at full attention.
My breath catches. "I need to see him."
"Not yet."
Frustration flares, sharp and immediate. "He's my father."
"And you are still under observation."
The words hit harder than they should.
Miras stiffens beside me, stepping forward slightly, like he's prepared to argue. But Imani is the one who speaks first.
"She's not going near him until we know for sure that she's stable." His voice is calm, unwavering.
Something cold curls in my stomach.
I glare at him. "I'm fine."
Imani meets my stare with one of his own. "That's not your call."
I open my mouth to argue, but Miras steps between us before I can. "Enough." His voice is tight, exhausted. "Can we just—get inside first? Please?"
My father's head of security nods after a long pause. "We'll escort you."
The sterile smell of the medical wing wraps around me, suffocating in its cold efficiency. I'm lying on a hospital bed, bandages wrapped tightly around my shoulder, IVs in my arm, fluids pumping into my system. I can feel the warmth of the saline filling my veins, but the ache in my shoulder never fully fades. Every time I move, every slight shift, sends a sharp stab of pain through me, reminding me that I'm not out of the woods yet.
Imani is on the other side of the room, checking the monitors with a quiet intensity, his face set in grim lines. He hasn't spoken much since we landed. Two guards are lurking just outside the door with two more security guards standing watch. The silence in the room is thick—oppressive—and I can feel the weight of their eyes on me. Not just from Imani, but from the cameras hidden in the corners, watching my every move.
I shift uncomfortably in the bed, trying to tug the blanket up over me, but the movement is slow, sluggish. My muscles are weak, my body still recovering from whatever procedure Imani did to me.
Miras is sitting in a chair next to the bed, watching me with that familiar, tired expression. He hasn't said much either, but I can see the worry still clinging to him, his jaw tight, his eyes never leaving me for too long.
"I'm fine," I murmur, not even sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself. "Just… tired."
He doesn't answer right away. When he does, it's soft, gentle, like he's afraid of pushing me too hard. "You're still fighting off the infection, Cherish. We need to take it slow."
I grit my teeth, staring at the ceiling. "I'm not a child."
"I know," he says quietly, his fingers brushing against mine. "But you're not invincible either."
I shake my head, squeezing his hand in return. I'm not sure if I'm trying to comfort him or myself. The door opens, and Imani steps inside.
He eyes me for a moment before turning to Miras. "You need to step out for a minute."
Miras tenses, his grip tightening around my hand. "Why?"
Imani doesn't look at me. His gaze stays fixed on Miras, cold and calculating. "Because this is still a medical observation, not a social visit."
Miras doesn't move, his eyes narrowing. "I'm not leaving her alone."
Imani's eyes flicker to mine for the first time. "She's not alone." His voice is flat, unyielding. "She's being monitored. By me."
I hear the edge in his words, the unspoken order, and my blood boils. I open my mouth, ready to argue, but Miras cuts me off before I can speak.
"No," he says, his voice low but firm. "I'm staying."
Imani's gaze hardens. "You don't get to decide that, Miras."
I see Miras's jaw tighten, but he doesn't back down. "She needs me."
"I need you both to stop treating this like some personal vendetta," Imani snaps, his voice sharp as a knife. "You're both under surveillance. You don't get to make the rules here."
The words hit harder than they should. The weight of them settles on me, and for a second, I feel like I'm drowning in them.
I can't breathe.
Miras opens his mouth again, but I stop him with a sharp shake of my head. "It's fine, Miras," I mutter, my voice thick with the weight of it all. "Just… just let them do their job."
Miras's eyes flick to me, and for a second, I see the anger flicker in them—anger at being forced to leave, at being powerless to protect me in this situation. But he nods, slowly, reluctantly.
He stands, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head before turning to Imani. "But if you hurt her—"
Imani raises an eyebrow. "I'm not your enemy."
"I'm not so sure about that." Miras doesn't wait for a response. He exits the room, leaving me alone with Imani. As soon as the door shuts behind him, I feel it—the weight of their gaze pressing in from all sides. The cameras, the monitors, the constant watching.
I try to steady my breathing, but the air feels thin, like I can't get enough of it. The monitors beep softly, and the IV drip hums in the background, but it's all too quiet.
I shift uncomfortably in the bed, the sterile sheets rustling beneath me. My shoulder protests with every movement, the pain just barely held at bay by the drugs running through my veins. But it's not just the physical pain that has me on edge. It's the constant presence.
I'm being watched—observed. Like a specimen.
"Are you just going to stand there?" I finally ask, the silence gnawing at me. "Or do you have something to say?"
Imani doesn't look at me right away. He adjusts a setting on one of the machines, his expression unreadable. "You're recovering."
I scoff, the bitterness rising in my throat. "From which part? The gunshot wound or the mind control?"
Imani's fingers freeze on the machine, the hum of the equipment the only sound filling the room. For a moment, I wonder if he's going to respond at all. But when he does, it's in that same measured tone, like nothing shakes him. "Both, I suppose."
I can't stop the bitter laugh that escapes me. It sounds hollow. "Great. So, I'm supposed to just wait around while you fix everything, huh?"
"I'm not fixing everything." He finally looks at me, his gaze hardening just slightly. "But I'm making sure you don't die in the process."
My chest tightens. "And what's the cost? The price for my survival?"
Imani's jaw tenses. "You're still not getting it, Cherish. This isn't about you. This is about making sure no one else gets caught in the crossfire." His voice drops a little, quieter now, but just as firm. "You don't get to make these decisions right now. Not after what happened."
I sit up straighter in the bed, the pain in my shoulder flaring with the movement, but I ignore it. "What happened? You mean when I nearly killed you?" The words feel like a punch in my gut as I say them, but the truth is too sharp, too real. "I didn't mean to, you know."
Imani meets my gaze, his eyes unreadable. There's a long, tense silence between us before he speaks again. "I know. But you don't know what's still inside you. You don't know if it'll happen again, and I can't let that go unchecked. No one can."
I swallow hard, trying to shake the weight of his words off. "So, I'm your prisoner now? A walking time bomb?"
His expression doesn't change, but there's something flickering in his eyes—a flicker of regret, maybe, or something softer. "You're not a prisoner, Cherish. But if you can't control yourself, I can't let you out of my sight."
I hate the way his words slice through me, cold and clinical. I'm not used to being handled like this. Like a problem to be fixed.
"But I'm not a threat," I say, my voice quieter, but the sting of it still cuts. "I know what I am. I'm not going to hurt anyone."
Imani's gaze softens, just slightly, but then his eyes flicker to the door, like he's considering something. He rubs his hand over his face, tired, like he's just as worn out from this as I am.
"You say that now." His voice lowers, almost to a whisper. "But you're not the same girl I knew."
A cold wave washes over me. The girl I knew.
What does that even mean?
I want to snap back at him, tell him that I'm still me, that I'm still in control, but the truth hangs like a heavy weight in my chest. I feel the darkness still crawling beneath my skin, the remnants of it lingering in the edges of my mind.
"I'm not the same, but I'm still here," I say, my voice shaky now, but I refuse to look away. "And I will get control back. I will. Just give me the chance," I whisper, almost to myself.
The silence stretches again, thick and uncomfortable, as Imani turns back to the machine. But before I can retreat into myself completely, I hear his voice again, quieter this time.
"I hope you do, Cherish. I really do."
The door to my room is only partially closed, but I can hear the voices outside clearly enough. Miras's voice is tense, sharper than usual. Imani's response is low and measured, but there's no mistaking the edge in it.
"You're crossing a line, Imani," Miras says, his voice barely contained. I hear the clink of something—maybe a chair shifting, or Imani's boots against the floor—before Miras speaks again. "She's not a threat. Not anymore."
"Not yet," Imani counters, his voice colder now. "You don't get to decide that, Miras. Not after what happened."
The words cut through the air like a knife, and despite myself, I feel a chill settle over me. My hand tightens around the blanket in my lap, my pulse picking up in my chest.
"She's fighting it," Miras presses, his voice rising slightly. "She wants to get better. She didn't—" He breaks off, a long exhale cutting the space between us. "You don't understand. You think this is easy for her? You think she wants this? She's not just a weapon, Imani. She's my girlfriend. She's still Cherish."
Girlfriend?" Imani's tone drips with skepticism. "You want to be her boyfriend while she's still capable of killing you with a flick of her wrist?" His voice softens, but the warning is still there. "She almost killed you. You think I'm the one crossing a line? You think you're not putting both of you—and everyone else—at risk by pretending this isn't a problem?"
I can hear Miras's sharp intake of breath, the way he clenches his fists at his sides. "I'm not pretending. But I'm not going to treat her like some liability you need to control, either."
There's a pause, long enough for the tension to build like a pressure cooker.
"You don't get to make that decision, either," Imani responds, quieter now, but with steel in his voice. "You've already failed her once."
Miras's silence is deafening, and I can feel the hurt beneath his words even from here. Failed her.
My chest tightens, but I don't move. I just… listen.
"Tell me what to do, then," Miras finally says, his voice almost broken. "Tell me what to do to make sure she's not alone in this. Because she's already been alone for too damn long."
The weight of that sentence hits me harder than I expect, a heavy punch to my gut. I close my eyes, feeling the tears I don't want to shed threatening to break free. I can't cry—I can't.
Imani doesn't respond immediately. The silence that follows is thick with everything unspoken, with the things they're both too afraid to admit.
Finally, he speaks again, his voice quieter, almost tired. "You don't understand, Miras. You can't just fix this. Not by standing by her side. Not by being there when she loses control again. You can't fight what's inside her."
"I'm not trying to fight it," Miras says fiercely. "I'm trying to help her fight herself."
I hear Imani's breath hitch, like he's about to say something else, but instead, he turns away. His footsteps retreat down the hall, disappearing into the distance.
I can't hold it in anymore.
The moment I hear the door close behind him, I pull the blanket over my face, fighting the tears I've been holding back. It's not fair. None of it is. I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose it. But I'm living it every single second.
The door creaks slightly, and I hear Miras enter quietly. I don't look up, but I can feel him standing there, hovering just at the edge of my vision.
"I didn't want you to hear that," he says softly, almost like an apology.
I wipe my eyes quickly, turning my head away. "I didn't want to hear it either."
He sighs, walking over to the chair beside my bed. "I just… I just need you to know that I'm here, Cherish. No matter what, I'm here."
I can hear the unsaid in his voice, the way it cracks slightly, like he's trying to hold it together. I want to tell him it's okay, that I know, that I don't blame him for any of it. But the truth is, I feel like I'm breaking apart—and no amount of here is going to fix it.
But instead of speaking, I reach out with my hand, still trembling slightly, and grasp his fingers.
"I know," I whisper. "I know."
But even as I say it, the weight of what's to come presses down on me. And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that I'm fine—that any of this will be okay.
The sterile room feels even smaller with every passing moment. The machines hum softly, but the weight of everything pressing on me is deafening. The pain in my shoulder is still there, a constant reminder of how fragile I really am. My hand is still curled around Miras's, but it feels distant, like I'm holding onto him for something he can't fix. Something no one can fix.
The world is falling apart. I know that much. There are whispers, calls for help, chaos spreading like wildfire, and yet I'm stuck here—struggling to keep it together, unable to make a difference.
"Cherish."
The voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts, cutting through the haze I've been drowning in.
I look up, and there's Imani—standing at the door, his face unreadable, his body rigid.
"We need to talk," he says, his tone cold and professional.
I swallow, trying to shake off the residual dizziness, but my body feels heavy, like I'm wading through mud. "About what?"
"About them." He steps into the room, closing the door softly behind him. "About the organization that did this to you. We need to know what they did—how they did it." His eyes narrow slightly. "We need answers, Cherish."
I don't answer right away. I can feel Miras stir beside me, his hand tightening around mine, but he doesn't speak. He's still watching me with that protective look in his eyes.
"Do you remember?" Imani presses, his voice firm, demanding. "Do you remember what they did to you?"
I pull my hand free from Miras's grip, looking away from both of them. I know what he's asking. I know what he's hoping I can provide. The truth. The details. The thing that will fix everything.
But I don't know. I don't remember everything. My mind is still fragmented, the memories hazy, distorted by the darkness that lingers inside me.
"They… they didn't tell me everything," I murmur, my voice barely audible. "I was just a… a test subject. A project." I press my palms into my eyes, trying to push the dizziness away. "They injected me with something. Something that messed with my mind. I don't know what it was… I don't even know how it works."
Imani steps closer, his gaze unwavering. "You don't know, or you're choosing not to remember?"
I look up at him then, and I can feel the tension crackle between us. "I'm not choosing anything," I snap. "I'm not in control of this."
Imani takes a deep breath, clearly frustrated, but he doesn't back off. "You're telling me there's nothing you can remember? Nothing that could help us?"
I look at Miras, who is still sitting quietly beside me, his expression tense, but there's something else there, too—something that tells me he's reaching his limit.
I wish I could help. I wish I could remember the answers he's looking for. But the truth is, I don't know what they did to me. I don't know how they twisted me into this broken version of myself.
I turn my head, my voice shaking. "I don't remember, Imani."
Imani's eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything at first. His gaze flicks to Miras, then back to me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Doubt, or maybe frustration—he's not sure whether to believe me or not.
But before he can speak again, Miras stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The sound cuts through the tension like a knife.
"Enough."
Imani turns toward him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "What?"
"I said enough." Miras's voice is tight, his fists clenched at his sides. "You're not getting anything from her like this. You're pushing her too hard."
Imani steps forward, his posture still rigid. "She's the only one who can give us answers—"
"I know that!" Miras interrupts, his voice rising, raw with emotion. "But you're not seeing her, Imani. She's not some weapon you can interrogate. She's Cherish."
The words hang heavy in the air between them. My heart pounds, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a pang of guilt. I can feel Miras's anger, his need to protect me—but I also know that he's scared. Scared that if I give too much of myself away, I'll break. Scared that he won't be able to put me back together again.
But Imani doesn't back down. "We don't have time for this, Miras. The world is ending. We need to stop this before it's too late. She's the key to it—she can help us stop this."
Miras takes a step forward, his eyes fierce, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his emotions. "If you think I'm going to stand by and let you break her, you're wrong."
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. I can feel the tension crackling between them, the power struggle, the desperation for control.
"I'm not asking you to stand by and do nothing," Imani says, his voice low and deadly. "I'm asking you to trust me."
I can hear the unspoken words behind his sentence. Trust me to save her.
But Miras doesn't trust him—not anymore. And I can see it in the way he stands, protective, defensive, unwilling to let go.
"Trust you?" Miras repeats, his voice low with a dangerous edge. "I trusted you when you pulled the trigger on her. I trusted you when you shot her in the first place."
Imani's face tightens, but he doesn't react. "That was the only choice."
"I don't care." Miras's voice cracks, his hands shaking slightly, and I can see the pain in his eyes. "You crossed a line. You don't get to pull me into your mission to save the world while you play God with her life. Not anymore."
I feel the air shift, the weight of Miras's words settling in. For the first time, I realize just how deep this fracture goes—how the rift between them isn't just about me. It's about trust. About what they've done to each other.
Miras turns away, but I can see the raw emotion in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with barely contained frustration. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't say anything else.
But I can feel the finality of it.
***
The tower felt colder with more people in it.
I stood in the doorway, watching as Aunt Nayley and Dewey settled into the space Imani had set up for them. It was comfortable—too comfortable. Thick blankets, a stocked kitchen, walls strong enough to keep out the chaos swallowing the city. The windows stretched floor to ceiling, offering a view of the wreckage below. The sky was thick with smoke, stained orange by distant fires. Sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, too far away to matter.
And we were here. Safe.
I didn't deserve it.
Dewey sat cross-legged on the floor, typing away at his laptop, shutting the world out with code. Aunt Nayley, though—she felt it. I could see it in the way she smoothed a blanket over the couch with too much care, in the way her shoulders held tension that hadn't been there before. She hadn't said much since arriving, but she didn't have to.
I knew what I'd taken from them.
"You look like you saw a ghost, sugar," Aunt Nayley said without turning around.
I flinched, my fingers twitching against my sleeve. I hadn't realized I'd been staring.
"Just… a lot on my mind," I mumbled.
She finally turned, her dark eyes scanning my face like she could read the thoughts I didn't say out loud.
"I imagine so," she said, quiet.
It would have been easier if she was angry. If she blamed me. Because I did.
I shifted my weight, my lungs tightening. "You should be anywhere but here."
Aunt Nayley tilted her head, arms folding across her chest. "And where exactly should we be?"
Somewhere safe. Somewhere that didn't have me in it.
I opened my mouth, but before I could find the words, Dewey snorted. "That's a dumb thing to say."
"Dewey," Imani warned from across the room, but Dewey ignored him, his fingers pausing over his keyboard.
"You act like we had a better option," he said, eyes sharp as they locked onto mine. "Like we had somewhere else to go. We didn't, Cherish. It's not your fault."
He said it like it was that simple. Like I wasn't the reason they had to be here in the first place. Like I wasn't the reason the world outside that window was still burning.
I swallowed, my throat thick, and sank down onto the couch.
Beyond the glass, the city flickered with light. Movement. Lives that weren't being saved.
I curled my fingers into my sleeve and tried to ignore the weight of them pressing against my ribs.
Dewey went back to his laptop, his fingers moving a little too fast over the keys, like he needed to prove he hadn't just said something vulnerable. Aunt Nayley watched me for another few seconds, then sighed and lowered herself into the armchair across from me.
"Would you feel better if we were out there instead?" she asked, tilting her head toward the ruined city.
I didn't answer.
"You think suffering makes things fair, don't you?" she went on. "That if you're warm and safe while others aren't, it's somehow your fault."
The way she said it—gentle but certain—made my stomach turn. Because it was my fault.
"You should eat something," she said instead of pressing further. "Guilt doesn't fill your belly."
I looked down at my hands. My fingers still trembled faintly, nerves shot from pain that never fully left.
Aunt Nayley stood, moving toward the kitchen, and I should have followed, should have at least pretended to accept her kindness. But my body felt too heavy, my chest too tight, so I just sat there, staring at nothing.
I barely noticed when Miras walked in.
I only looked up when he crouched down in front of me, blocking out the view of the window. He didn't say anything at first, just studied me with that sharp, assessing gaze of his.
"You look like hell," he finally muttered.
I huffed out something that was almost a laugh. "Thanks."
His brows furrowed, but before he could say anything else, Imani spoke up from across the room.
"Now that we're all settled, we need to talk."
I lifted my head, frowning at the edge in his voice.
Dewey turned, adjusting his glasses. "About what?"
Imani exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "About what happens next."
Aunt Nayley came back from the kitchen, handing me a mug of tea I hadn't asked for before sitting down. "You mean how we survive while the world burns?"
"More than that." Imani's gaze flickered to me, then to Miras. "It won't be long before they come looking. We need to decide what we're going to do when that happens."
My stomach twisted.
I shouldn't have been surprised. I knew I wasn't safe. I knew the power inside me was getting harder to contain, harder to hide. But hearing it said out loud—hearing them talk about it, like it was a problem that needed solving—made my throat close up.
Miras' jaw tightened, his hand twitching at his side. "They're not touching her."
No hesitation. No room for argument.
But Imani didn't look convinced. "We can't just sit here and wait, either."
The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in.
They were talking about protecting me, making plans around me, but all I could think about was how none of them would even be in this mess if it weren't for me.
Miras shifted closer, his voice quieter now, meant just for me. "Breathe, Cherish."
I blinked at him, my fingers tightening around the mug in my lap.
I wasn't sure how to.
I wanted to. I really did. But the air felt too thick, pressing in from all sides. The room was full of people who wouldn't even be in danger if not for me. Aunt Nayley, Dewey, Imani—none of them asked for this. They didn't deserve to be hunted just because they knew me.
And Miras—Miras kept looking at me like he was already bracing for a fight.
But that wasn't the problem, was it? The problem wasn't them.
The problem was me.
"So, what, we just wait for them to knock on the front door?" Dewey asked, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but he kept adjusting his glasses like he didn't know what to do with his hands.
Imani crossed his arms. "We need a plan before that happens. If we don't, we'll be trapped in here with no exit strategy."
Aunt Nayley gave him a look. "That sounds an awful lot like you already have one."
Imani hesitated.
Miras stiffened. "What did you do?"
Imani exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I reached out to some contacts. Quietly. People who might be able to move us somewhere more secure before the underground gets too close."
My pulse skipped. "What kind of people?"
"People I trust," he said.
Miras scoffed. "That's a short list."
Imani shot him a glare, but before he could snap back, I found my voice again.
"I'm not leaving."
Silence.
Aunt Nayley let out a soft sigh like she'd been expecting that. Dewey frowned but didn't argue.
Imani's jaw clenched. "Cherish—"
"No." I tightened my grip on the mug, my knuckles going white. "I won't run. I won't drag you all across whatever's left of this city just because of me. This tower is already safer than anywhere else. Leaving just makes us easier to track."
Imani shook his head. "You don't understand what they're capable of."
"I do." My throat tightened. "Better than any of you."
The weight of that settled over the room. No one had anything to say to that, not even Imani.
Miras shifted beside me, still tense. "Then we stay."
Imani's jaw twitched like he wanted to argue but couldn't. He ran a hand over his head and let out a slow breath. "Fine. We stay. But if we're doing this, we do it right."
"Meaning what?" Dewey asked.
Imani met my gaze. "Meaning We don't have time to wait," he said. "We don't know what triggers they planted in you, how deep they go. We can't risk them flipping a switch and turning you against us."
I swallowed, my stomach twisting. He wasn't wrong.
I'd felt it before—that wrongness, that pull. Faint, buried deep, but still there. A presence at the back of my mind that didn't belong to me.
And if they activated it again…
I clenched my jaw. "I get it. But this isn't going to be easy."
Imani exhaled sharply. "I know."
No, he didn't. Not really. He hadn't been there. He hadn't felt what it was like to have his thoughts invaded, to wake up and realize parts of himself weren't entirely his anymore.
But I didn't say that.
Instead, I forced myself to meet his gaze. "How do we do this?"
Aunt Nayley shifted in her chair, uneasy. "You sure you're ready for that question?"
No. Not at all. But what choice did I have?
Imani glanced at Miras, then back to me. "We start by mapping out exactly what they did to you."
Dewey frowned. "And how do you plan on doing that?"
Imani hesitated. "There are ways."
Miras narrowed his eyes. "Like what?"
Imani didn't answer right away. His silence said enough.
I felt Miras stiffen beside me before he even spoke. "No."
Imani turned to him. "We don't have a better option."
"I said no."
"Neither of you get to decide that," I said before this turned into another fight.
Miras' gaze snapped to me, something like frustration flashing in his eyes. "Cherish—"
"I need this out of me." My voice was steady, even if I didn't feel that way. "So tell me what it takes."
Imani studied me for a long moment. Then he exhaled.
"I have a contact. Someone who specializes in reversing mental conditioning. But it's… invasive."
I nodded slowly. "How invasive?"
Imani hesitated again. "Painful."
Miras tensed. "Then we're not doing it."
I turned to him. "We don't have another choice."
His jaw clenched. "We can find one."
"When?" I pressed. "How long before they activate me again? What happens when I can't fight it next time?"
Miras didn't have an answer.
I didn't either.
But I knew what had to be done.
I turned back to Imani, ignoring the way my hands had started shaking. "Set it up."
The moment I said it—Set it up—Miras stood up so fast the couch shifted.
"No," he snapped. "Not like this."
I blinked up at him. "Miras—"
"You don't even know what you're agreeing to," he said, his voice sharp, barely controlled. "They could rip through your head, tear apart pieces of you that—that don't heal back."
I swallowed, forcing my hands to stay still in my lap. "And if we do nothing, they could turn me into their weapon again. Make me hurt you."
He flinched. Good. Maybe that would get through to him. Maybe he needed to understand—
But instead of backing down, he dropped to a crouch in front of me, eyes locked onto mine. "You really think I'd rather watch you suffer now just because of something that might happen?"
His voice was quieter now, but no less intense.
I hesitated. Yes. Of course, that's what I thought. I thought he'd rather take that risk because I knew I couldn't. I couldn't live with the possibility of losing myself again—of hurting him. Of hurting any of them.
But I didn't say that.
Imani sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Miras, I understand your concerns, but we don't have time for a better option."
Miras shot him a look. "You don't even know what this 'contact' of yours is going to do to her."
Imani's jaw tightened. "They'll use an induced state—something between hypnosis and forced recall—to isolate the control markers in her mind and unravel them."
Dewey frowned from his spot on the floor. "That sounds insanely dangerous."
"It is," Imani admitted. "But if we wait for them to activate her first, we lose any chance of stopping it before it happens."
I let out a slow breath. That was all I needed to hear.
"I'm doing it."
Miras' hands curled into fists. "Cherish—"
"I'm doing it," I repeated, voice steady. "If this is what it takes to be free of them, I'll do whatever it takes."
Aunt Nayley shook her head slightly, but she didn't try to argue. She knew me well enough to know I'd made up my mind.
Miras' eyes searched mine, desperate, like he was looking for some way to change my mind.
But there wasn't one.
Finally, his shoulders slumped, and he exhaled through his nose. "Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not leaving you alone with them. I don't care what it takes."
I nodded, my chest tight. "Okay."
Imani didn't argue. He just pulled out his phone and stepped away to make the call.
The room fell silent.
Miras stayed crouched in front of me, his hands pressed to his knees like he was grounding himself.
I thought maybe I should say something. Reassure him. But how was I supposed to do that when I wasn't sure I'd make it through this whole?
Instead, I reached out—slow, uncertain—and brushed my fingers against his.
It wasn't much. But after a beat, he turned his hand over and squeezed mine back.
No words. Just warmth. Just here.
The knock came late that night.
Sharp. Precise. Three short raps against the reinforced metal door.
I stood frozen, my fingers clenched in the fabric of my hoodie. Miras was already up from his spot on the couch before I could process the sound, moving toward the door like he expected an attack.
Imani was calmer—too calm. He gave me a look, something between reassurance and warning, then went to open it.
A woman stepped inside.
She was tall, with sharp features and dark, tightly braided hair that framed her face. A long coat hung over her shoulders, the kind meant to conceal more than just the cold. Her eyes swept the room, assessing. Calculating.
"Imani," she said. Her voice was smooth, professional, but not unkind.
Imani nodded. "Seraphine."
Miras hovered too close, tension rolling off him in waves. "This is your contact?"
Seraphine turned her gaze to him. "You must be the guard dog."
Miras stiffened. "I'm—"
"He is," Imani cut in before Miras could get into it.
Seraphine just hummed like she found that amusing before her eyes landed on me. And just like that, the humor was gone.
I felt pinned in place under her stare.
She studied me with an intensity that made my skin itch, her head tilting slightly, like she was already peeling me apart in her mind.
"Cherish." It wasn't a question.
I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah."
Seraphine exhaled, then set her bag down on the table. "Imani told me the basics. But I need to hear it from you." She gestured toward the couch. "Sit."
I hesitated, glancing at Miras, who looked like he was about two seconds away from throwing her out. But I forced my legs to move, lowering myself onto the cushions.
Seraphine sat across from me, resting her elbows on her knees. "Tell me everything you know about the mind control. What it feels like. When it started."
My throat tightened. "It started in the Cube."
Seraphine nodded, like she'd expected that. "And since then?"
I glanced at Imani. Then at Miras. Both of them were watching me, waiting, but for different reasons.
I took a slow breath. "Since then, it's been… quiet. But not gone. Like something at the back of my head that isn't mine. It pulls, sometimes. Like it's waiting for something."
Seraphine's gaze sharpened. "A trigger."
I nodded. "Yeah."
She was silent for a moment, fingers tapping once against her knee. "Then we don't have much time."
Miras shifted beside me. "Meaning what?"
Seraphine didn't look away from me. "Meaning they could activate her at any moment."
The air in the room changed.
I clenched my fists. "So how do we stop it?"
Seraphine leaned forward. "We go in and pull it out by the root."
A shiver crawled up my spine.
I already knew this wasn't going to be easy. I already knew it was going to hurt.
But something about the way she said it—pull it out by the root—made my stomach twist.
Miras must have felt the tension in me because his hand brushed against mine, grounding me.
Seraphine watched the movement, then exhaled through her nose and stood. "We'll start in the morning."
Miras scowled. "Why not now?"
She turned to him, unimpressed. "Because the process will take hours, and if I start now, she won't be conscious by sunrise."
I swallowed. "Oh."
Seraphine's expression softened—barely. "Rest while you can," she said. "Tomorrow won't be kind."
And with that, she walked off, leaving me sitting there, cold.