A sharp inhale.
The man on the bed stirred, eyelids fluttering open as if waking from a nightmare. He winced, immediately pressing a hand to his side where fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.
Across the clinic, Lyra stood stiffly near the wall.
She froze.
He was awake.
His silver-white hair clung to his forehead, matted with dried blood and sweat. His eyes—icy gray—landed on her like twin blades. Alert. Cautious. Dangerous.
"...Where am I?" His voice was low, rough, like gravel in water.
"The… infirmary," Lyra said, her throat suddenly dry. "You were attacked. I found you in an alley."
He said nothing, only turned his head to take in the room—the whitewashed walls, the vials of herbs and tonics, the quiet rustling of curtains in the breeze. Outside, it was night now. Quiet. Still.
When he looked back at her, his gaze sharpened.
"You brought me here?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"You carried me?"
"I—dragged you."
Silence.
"You shouldn't have saved me,"
A beat passed. Then—
"…You're welcome," she muttered.
He leaned back slowly against the cot, exhaling through his nose. His jaw clenched. "You shouldn't have helped me."
"You're welcome," she repeated, sharper.
He didn't reply.
---
The air felt too thin.
Lyra's heart thudded in her ears—not just from his presence, but from the thread still glowing faintly from her wrist to his chest. Thin, crimson, magical.
It hadn't disappeared.
It hadn't faded.
Only she could see it.
And he clearly couldn't.
Her mind spun with questions. What did it mean? Was it some kind of soul bond? A curse? A prophecy?
He didn't seem aware of anything unusual.
Which meant this wasn't normal—not even in this strange, storybook world.
---
He spoke again. "What's your name?"
"…Lyra," she said after a pause. "Lyra Ishen."
His expression didn't shift. No recognition. No spark of memory.
She risked a glance toward the door. "You… don't remember anything? About who attacked you?"
He shook his head once. "I remember enough."
That was a lie.
And he wasn't offering his name.
"You're not going to tell me who you are, are you?"
He looked her dead in the eye.
"No."
Figures.
Doctor Thorne stepped in quietly after some time, carrying a fresh bandage roll. His eyes flicked between them and then focused on the patient.
"I see you're conscious," he said simply.
The man nodded but didn't speak.
Thorne approached the bedside, examining the wound. "You're lucky," he said. "Another inch and you would've been beyond saving."
Still no reply.
"Lyra found you," he added, glancing toward her. "You're only alive because she was foolish enough to act."
"That's what I told her," the man said evenly.
Dr. Thorne sighed. "Charming."
---
Lyra watched in silence, still clutching her wrist. The red thread hadn't stopped glowing since she first saw him.
It didn't fray. It didn't tug.
It just… was.
Unreal. Unavoidable. Unspoken.
And she was the only one who knew.