Jackie sat alone in her dimly lit living room, a framed photo cradled in her arm.
It was of her and Mona—smiling wide and carefree, wrapped in thick blankets beside a crackling campfire. She remembered how they'd laughed at the snow that settled on their heads. It was a fond memory captured from their time spent outside of the kingdom.
She stared at Mona's bright eyes, and her heart ached. The warm firelight in the photo seemed to mock the chill that had settled over her life since returning home from the hospital with Noir.
"What do I do?" she whispered, choking back the lump in her throat. "How do I bring him out of this, Mona?"
If there was one thing Jackie feared, it was letting down the people she loved. And lately, she felt like she was failing them both—Mona and Noir—unable to reach him when he needed her most.
It had been two weeks since Noir returned home to Margeaux Quarters, and yet, even with residents coming and going, the place felt hollow.
Each day, Jackie knocked on his door—her knuckles tapping lightly against the wood—only to be met with silence. At night, she'd unlock it and tiptoe inside, leaving trays of food in the refrigerator for him to eat.
Each time she returned to find the trays empty, it gave her a fleeting sense of reassurance. A silent acknowledgment: he was eating. Sustaining himself.
Even if he refused to face her, it was something—a fragile sign of life, a thread she clung to in hopes he was still fighting, even if only behind closed doors.
The only moments they shared were under the clinical glow of the bathroom light, when Jackie would change his bandages. In those moments, the air felt heavy with unsaid things. Her hands moved with practiced care while her eyes searched his for any trace of the boy she thought she'd begun to get back—before the Dread Hunters' attack on Auclair.
But Noir's gaze was always somewhere else, distant, locked in a place she could not follow.
"You trusted me with this guardianship," she murmured, her focus shifting from Mona's photo to her own reflection in its glass.
Only then did she notice the worry etched across her face—and a wave of disgust swept over her. She hated the helplessness staring back.
"What he needs right now is reassurance," she said, relinquishing her blanket and rising to her feet. "But how could he be expected to believe in someone who looks as if doubt itself has made a home in them?"
"NOIR? NOIR?" JACKIE CALLED OUT, KNOCKING ON HIS DOOR.
"I'm stepping out for a bit—I'll be back in an hour or so."
There was more she wanted to say, but she figured that would suffice.
Off she went, determination fueling her as she walked away, each step more purposeful than the last, as she made her way to the library in search of answers. She wasn't sure exactly what to look for, only that she had to start being more proactive if she wanted things to depart from their current course.
On the other side of the door, Noir sat alone in the kitchen, the pale light of the refrigerator casting a glow over him. Though the blinds were drawn tight, daylight crept in at the edges, contrasting starkly with the dim, shadowy room.
He sat on the floor, dragging his tongue across the surface of an empty plate, licking it clean—as if savoring every last trace of nourishment. His doctor had emphasized the importance of proper nutrition and rest for his recovery, and Noir wasn't taking any chances.
Out of fear and desperation, he licked each plate spotless, making sure he consumed every morsel.
And when he was finished, he returned quietly to his room.
The eating—he could manage. But sleep eluded him.
What Jackie explained to him about the Dread Hunters haunted him.
Were they the same?
Soulless beings stripped of their memory, cursed to wander until someone capable enough came along to put them down?
Am I like them?
Am I dead inside?
Am I a zombie?
The questions gnawed at him. And when his thoughts finally grew heavy enough to bring on sleep, it offered no peace.
Night after night, he closed his eyes only to wage war with his own mortality.
Nightmares replayed the moments when he had either died—or should have.
Moments he once felt nothing for now jolted him awake, trembling in cold sweat.