Youri drifted deeper into the watery abyss.
There was no up or down anymore—only a slow, endless descent, as if gravity itself had dissolved. The water around him was dark, cold, and infinite, pressing in without pressure, holding him without touch. Thoughts did not form here. Memory did not sting. There was only motion without movement, sinking without falling.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
Light assaulted him.
Harsh, sterile, white.
He gasped violently, lungs dragging in air as though he had been drowning for years. His body jerked forward on instinct, muscles locking, fingers clawing at nothing as pain exploded inside his skull.
Three beds lined the room.
They were evenly spaced, perfectly aligned, their sheets smooth and tightly tucked, untouched by human carelessness. Each bed was paired with medical machinery that hummed softly—screens pulsing with green data streams, heart rates, neural activity, metabolic readouts scrolling endlessly. Thick cables and fiber lines ran from the machines to ports in the beds, some still connected to Youri's body.
The walls curved inward slightly, giving the med bay a capsule-like feel, overhead lights casted a cool, even glow that reflected off the dark, polished floor. Medical arms hung folded along the walls, Youri lay on the first bed.
For half a second, he did not understand where he was.
Then the pain hit.
It tore through his head like a blade driven straight into his brainstem. He screamed—raw, animal, unfiltered. His hands flew to his skull as if he could physically hold his thoughts together.
"No—no—no—!"
He rolled, fell off the bed, and hit the floor hard. The impact barely registered. Pain eclipsed everything.
Nurses rushed into the room.
Youri didn't see their faces clearly—only shapes, white coats, startled movements. Someone shouted his vitals. Another called his name.
"Pilot D7—Youri—can you hear me?"
He couldn't.
Because the abyss had receded.
And everything it had hidden came rushing back.
The sequence replayed in his mind with merciless clarity.
The battlefield.
Shattered orbitons tumbling through vacuum, their hulls torn open like exposed ribs. Rebel ships rupturing under plasma fire, crews vaporized before they could scream. Missile locks. Target confirmations. Weapons cycling endlessly, efficiently.
Death stacked upon death.
He had watched it all.
And he had felt nothing.
Then Volar.
The image burned itself into him.
The planet hanging there—blue, alive, familiar. Shields flaring desperately as antimatter containment collapsed reality itself. Cities flickering out in instants. Atmosphere folding inward. The final resistance—futile, brave, meaningless.
And his finger.
On the trigger.
He had done it.
He had erased his home.
Not lost it in war.
Not watched it fall.
He had pulled the trigger.
Youri screamed again, louder this time, the sound tearing out of him until his throat burned. He scrambled across the floor, knocking over a diagnostics stand. Screens shattered. Cables snapped loose, sparks flying as machines screamed warnings.
"Get back!" one of the nurses shouted.
They did.
Fear crossed their faces—real fear.
Youri thrashed, rolling, kicking, smashing anything within reach. His hands tore at wires, ripped panels from the wall, sent medical arms crashing to the floor. He wasn't trying to escape.
He was trying to undo.
Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably as he crawled backward until his spine hit the wall. He slid down it, gasping, sobbing, chest heaving as if his lungs might collapse.
His gaze dropped to his hands.
They were wrapped in fresh bandages—clean, clinical, white.
Blood seeped through almost instantly as tears fell onto them, darkening the fabric.
He stared.
His fingers curled slowly into fists.
And then he began to strike himself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His knuckles split. Blood sprayed across his face, smeared along the wall. Each impact landed with a dull, sickening sound, punctuated by broken sobs and screams torn raw from his throat.
"Stop—stop—!"
The nurses stayed back, frozen, horrified. One of them was crying. Another fumbled for a comm unit with shaking hands.
"Call security—call the doctor—now!"
Youri slammed his head against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
"Why—why—why—!"
He collapsed forward, still trying to strike himself even as his strength began to fail, shoulders shaking violently as grief finally consumed him. He wasn't a weapon now. He wasn't a pilot.
He was just a broken man kneeling in the ruins of what he had destroyed.
Security burst into the room moments later.
Two of them tackled him from behind, pinning his arms, forcing him face-down onto the floor. Youri fought them with feral desperation, screaming incoherently, tears and blood mixing across his face.
The doctor rushed in, eyes wide but focused.
"Hold him—now!"
A syringe flashed into view.
Youri felt the sharp sting in his neck.
"No—!" he tried to shout, but his voice slurred mid-word.
The room tilted.
The lights stretched.
The screams faded into a distant echo as dizziness swallowed him whole.
Darkness took him again.
When he was moved, he did not wake.
They transferred him to another room—more isolated, more secure. Padded walls. Reinforced restraints. Continuous monitoring.
Halvek arrived shortly after.
The doctor met him outside the room, hands clasped tightly together. His face was pale, drawn with exhaustion and something deeper—unease.
"He woke up violently," the doctor began. "Post-Flow cognitive backlash. Extreme emotional overload. Self-harm, hallucinations, dissociation. We sedated him immediately."
Halvek listened without interrupting.
Surprisingly, he did not look shocked.
If anything, he looked… thoughtful.
"I assume you ran a full medical scan," Halvek said.
"Yes," the doctor replied. He hesitated, then added, "We ran it the moment he was brought in after the mission."
"And?" Halvek asked.
The doctor lowered his head.
"When he arrived… one of his kidneys was missing."
Halvek's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"We placed him on life support immediately," the doctor continued. "Organ failure should have followed within hours."
He swallowed.
"But by the second day… his body regenerated the missing kidney."
Halvek finally reacted.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the doctor.
"…Regenerated?" he repeated.
"Yes," the doctor said quietly. "Completely. Perfect cellular reconstruction. No scar tissue. No anomalies."
He looked shaken now.
"And not just that. Every internal injury—neural microfractures, vascular damage, muscle tearing—all healed within twenty-four hours."
Halvek stared through the observation window at Youri's unconscious form.
"I don't know how to explain it," the doctor said. "No amount of medicine. No technology we possess. Not even prototype nanotherapy could achieve that. Not in a day. Not ever."
He paused.
"I don't know how he passed academy screening," the doctor admitted. "There were no genetic markers. No recorded anomalies. Nothing."
Silence stretched between them.
Halvek exhaled slowly.
"What did Altopereh take from him?"
The doctor's lips trembled slightly.
"We don't know yet," he said. "But something is missing. Not an organ. Not tissue."
"Then what?"
The doctor hesitated, then answered honestly.
"Something that cannot be measured."
Halvek looked back at Youri.
"And when he wakes?"
The doctor didn't hesitate this time.
"When he wakes," he said softly, "death will be the only thing he asks for."