Chapter 22
By the time he reached the hospital parking lot, his legs gave up on pretending they could carry him forever. He slumped onto the bumper of some random car, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, phone dangling in his hand.
"God…" he whispered, his voice low, ragged. "I hope I haven't failed this babe… not when she needed me the most."
His eyes scanned the street like he actually expected to see Quinn walking up, smirking, ready to roast him for worrying. But the road was empty. The early morning breeze carried the distant hum of traffic, the sound of a city that didn't care that somewhere, someone's world might be falling apart.
He dragged a shaky hand over his face, trying to blink away the burn in his eyes. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was guilt. And fear. And the cold realization that for the first time in a long while… Sage didn't know if he was already too late.
★★★★★
Silas's ears rang before his eyes even opened.
Not the sharp ringing from a blow to the head, but a low, muffled, underwater hum, like the world was wrapped in thick cotton.
He turned his head—no, not his head, his mind—and suddenly, he was running.
---
The Dream
The forest was endless, every tree black and thin, stretching like prison bars into the sky. He didn't know where he was going—only that someone was yanking his arm forward. The figure was just ahead, faceless in the shadows, whispering something he couldn't hear.
Then came the sound.
The staccato snap of branches breaking under heavy boots.
The pounding thump-thump-thump of a helicopter circling above.
And the voice of a cop somewhere in the dark, mechanical and distorted:
> "Stop where you are! You're surrounded!"
His chest burned. His legs felt like they were running through syrup. Every breath came with a wheeze, and the air smelled like wet earth and gunpowder.
The figure beside him jerked him left, deeper into the trees—until they burst into a clearing.
Silas froze.
She was there.
Zara.
Hanging from a tree, her hair swaying in the night breeze. Blood dripped from her fingertips, making soft pat… pat… pat… sounds into the leaves below. Her eyes were open—staring right at him.
"No… no, no, no, no…"
His knees hit the ground. His hands trembled as if reaching for her could make it untrue.
"Move!" the shadow urged, pulling at his arm.
Silas shook his head violently, the rest of the world vanishing until there was only her body swaying above him. His throat tightened.
The figure cursed, let go, and ran into the darkness—abandoning him.
Gunshots ripped through the air. The helicopter's searchlight slammed down onto him, blinding white. Shouts grew louder. Boots thundered closer.
"Hands where we can see 'em!"
Something grabbed him from behind. Strong arms. A knee in his back. His cheek pressed into the cold dirt—
---
Reality
Silas jolted awake, eyes darting wildly. His breathing was loud, ragged, like he'd just outrun the cops for real. He felt hands on him—two sets, pulling him upright.
"Whoa, whoa! Easy, man!" Jace grunted, bracing him by the shoulders. Allen grabbed his other arm to steady him.
The sick bay was dim and smelled faintly of antiseptic. A small oscillating fan clicked in lazy rotation above, the kind of sound that felt too calm for how fast Silas's heart was pounding. Rows of cots lined the wall, half empty.
Across the room, Jean Luc stood in his crisp shirt, speaking in low tones to a nurse.
"…Pelvis is bruised, nothing broken," the nurse was saying. "He'll be fine in a few days."
Silas blinked, still woozy. Then, without thinking, he blurted:
> "Wait—did she see my balls? … I didn't shave."
Jace instantly doubled over with laughter, Allen snorting so hard it turned into a cough. Even one of the guys leaning on the far wall cracked a smile.
But Scar Face, sitting in the corner, didn't so much as twitch. Neither did the rest of his crew. They just watched. Silent.
Jean Luc didn't laugh either. He simply dismissed the nurse with a small nod. Then he turned toward the group—no words, just a single look.
It was enough.
The room emptied almost immediately, boots and sneakers shuffling toward the door until only Jace and Allen remained—until they caught that same look and slipped out too.
---
The Private Moment
The air seemed heavier now. The clicking fan felt louder.
Jean Luc walked over to the bed, not in a rush, not dragging his steps—just that measured, deliberate pace that somehow made Silas sit up straighter without even realizing it.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough for Silas to smell faint cologne and the sharpness of cigarette smoke on his shirt.
No smile. No hint of warmth. Just those cold, steady eyes locked on him.
Silas swallowed. His earlier joke about his balls suddenly felt like the dumbest sentence he'd ever spoken.
Jean Luc leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and said nothing.
And somehow, that silence was louder than any explosion.
Silas was still propped up on the bed, the sting in his pelvis pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The air in the sick bay was heavy with antiseptic, but Jean Luc's presence made it heavier. He hadn't said much yet—just stood there, watching the nurse pack away her tray, speaking to her in that soft, composed tone that somehow made everyone else in the room straighten their backs.
When the nurse left, the door clicked shut like a cell door closing.
Jean Luc turned, his eyes locking on Silas in a way that felt less like eye contact and more like a pinning.
"How are you?" he asked.
It was such a simple question, but it landed like a blade in Silas's chest. He swallowed hard, staring at the blanket instead of answering. His mind ran circles—there was no right answer here. "Fine" would sound like disrespect. "Not good" would sound like weakness. Silence was safer… maybe.
Jean Luc didn't push for a response. Instead, he stepped over to the small cabinet in the corner, pulled out a squat crystal bottle, and set two glasses on the side table. The sound of liquid pouring—slow, steady—seemed too loud in the quiet room.
He handed one glass to Silas.
Silas lifted a hand and shook his head. "Uh… I'm on medication—"
Jean Luc didn't lower his arm. He just stood there, glass hovering in the air, his gaze fixed and unblinking. No expression, no words—just the weight of expectation.
Silas's throat went dry. He reached out, took the glass, and forced a sip. The burn hit him immediately, searing down to his gut.
Jean Luc sat down beside the bed, resting his own glass on his knee.
"I could have killed you," he said, almost conversationally.
The words hit Silas harder than the liquor. He inhaled at the wrong moment, choked, and ended up coughing so violently the whiskey sloshed out of the glass onto the blanket. His hand shook as he set the glass down.
"I—Jean—listen—" Silas started, his voice cracking under the pressure. "An officer… an officer walked into Margaret's home yesterday, I didn't plan it, he—he came at me, so we fought, and—"
Jean Luc's hand came up slightly, not even palm out, just enough to stop the sentence mid-run.
"Where is this officer now?" he asked.
The question was quiet, almost kind. But Silas felt the ground tilt under him. His jaw moved, but no words came out. It wasn't that he didn't want to answer—it was that his body physically wouldn't let him. His mouth went dry, his tongue heavy. The room seemed smaller.
Jean Luc didn't move. Didn't lean forward. Didn't repeat the question. He just waited. And in that silence, Silas felt like every second of not answering was adding another nail to his coffin.