"Silvie… I'm sorry for troubling you."
Amaya's voice shook more than her hands. Pain cut through every word, but her eyes never left him. Inside the emergency ward, white light swallowed everything–beds, curtains, the smell of antiseptic sharp enough to sting the lungs.
Nurses moved around her efficiently, cleaning wounds, wrapping bandages, stabilizing her twisted foot. She clenched her jaw as pain flared, but she didn't cry. Her attention stayed fixed on one thing only.
On him.
"Silvie," she said again, quieter now. "Can you… sincerely give me a chance to stay with you? Whatever it costs, I want to fix what I broke."
Silvestor didn't answer immediately.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, posture still, eyes flat. Then he turned his head slightly, just enough to face her.
"Cost?" he asked. His voice was calm. Too calm. "Are you capable of paying it?"
She swallowed.
"Then do it," he continued. "Tell the whole truth to the police. Bring my father back from prison. If you can do that–then talk to me about fixing things."
Amaya's lips parted.
"I– I–"
The words didn't come.
Silvestor looked away.
"Since you can't," he said, tone cutting clean, "don't insult me with promises you can't keep."
"Silvie… please," she whispered, desperation finally breaking through.
Before he could respond, footsteps entered the ward.
Jazz walked in first, hands full of fruit packets, Jackson and James behind him, Gilbert bringing up the rear. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Authority entered the room without raising its voice.
Amaya looked up, startled.
"Didn't expect you here," Jazz said lightly. "How do you feel now?"
"I'm… fine," she answered, unsure.
Jazz's eyes moved to Silvestor. He tilted his head toward the exit–wordless command.
Silvestor followed.
As they stepped outside, Gilbert slid into the space beside Amaya, leaning slightly closer, grin crooked.
"Yo, idiot," he said quietly. "Didn't know you had this much energy."
Amaya flushed, unsure whether she was being mocked or scolded.
Outside the ward, Jazz stopped.
"Do you have money?" he asked bluntly. "Did you pay the bill?"
"Emergency treatment is paid," Silvestor replied. "The rest isn't."
Jazz nodded once. "Security told me you took money from them."
Silvestor's expression didn't change. "That wasn't borrowing. Compared to three years of what they took from me, this doesn't even reach ten percent."
Jazz sighed. "Damn it, bro. Leave the past where it belongs."
Then, firmer–"I'll cover everything else."
Silvestor nodded. "Alright. Then I'm leaving."
Jazz stared at him. "What?"
"She's your girl," Jazz snapped. "And you're walking out? No. You're not going anywhere. You'll take her home after discharge."
"Oh," Silvestor said simply.
He turned back toward the ward.
Jazz watched him go, rubbing his temple. "This crazy brat…"
Back inside, Silvestor approached Amaya again.
Gilbert intercepted him.
"Silvestor," he said. "Can we talk? Just a minute."
Silvestor exhaled slowly. "Does this ever end? Lectures. Always lectures."
Gilbert didn't move. Didn't blink.
He just stared.
Silvestor studied his face for a second longer, then sighed.
"Fine," he said. "One minute."
Gilbert and Silvestor walked out of the hospital and stopped near the far end of the parking lot, where lights thinned and engines no longer passed. The city noise softened into a distant hum. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"What is it?" Silvestor asked.
Gilbert didn't answer immediately. He leaned against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the parked cars.
"I've been thinking about what you said to me," he began. "About my parents."
Silvestor said nothing. He waited.
"On the surface," Gilbert continued, "you and I look similar. Broken families. Complicated pasts."
A pause.
"But if you look closer… we're nothing alike."
Silvestor's expression didn't change.
"My parents are separated," Gilbert said. "I live with my father. That's true."
He exhaled slowly.
"But that doesn't mean I hate my mother. They didn't split because one was evil. They split because staying together would've destroyed both of them."
He glanced at Silvestor then–brief, sharp.
"She left before I could understand anything. I didn't even know what regret was back then. But my father never let me feel like I was missing something. He tried to be both sides. And I grew up understanding what they gave me–and why."
Gilbert straightened.
"Now you," he said quietly. "Your father's in prison. You have every right to be angry. He tried to save someone–and became the criminal instead."
Silvestor's jaw tightened slightly. Just slightly.
"Amaya and her mother were part of that," Gilbert continued. "Yes. But your father still chose to take it. He chose your life. Your mother's life. Their lives. Over his reputation."
He took a step closer.
"If he hadn't," Gilbert said, voice low, "do you really think the real criminals would've stayed silent? The next day, there wouldn't be an Amaya family. Or yours. Evidence would've been rewritten. Witnesses erased. And your father would still be blamed–only this time with bodies behind it."
Silvestor didn't look away.
"You can tell yourself it's unacceptable," Gilbert said. "I did the same, once. I know what that rage feels like."
He paused.
"But you're not that boy anymore."
The words landed heavier than the accusations.
"You're smart now. You see systems. Cause and effect."
Then, softer–but sharper:
"So tell me–what have you done for your mother?"
Silvestor's fingers curled slowly.
"Have you visited your father even once?" Gilbert asked. "Have you tried to build anything for them? Anything at all?"
He shook his head.
"Yes, the world's unfair. Yes, reputation kills opportunity."
A bitter half-smile.
"But this isn't the old world. There are other paths. Always."
Gilbert leaned closer.
"Have you even said thank you to either of them?"
Silence stretched between them.
"Fine," Gilbert said. "Say none of that was your choice. Say it was all decided by adults."
He looked back toward the hospital entrance.
"Then there's one thing that is yours."
"Amaya."
Silvestor's eyes flickered–for the first time.
"What happened to your family wasn't her fault," Gilbert said. "It was her helplessness."
He swallowed.
"You're alive because she spoke. Your parents are alive because she spoke. If she hadn't–if she resisted–you wouldn't be standing here."
Gilbert's voice dropped.
"Your life is built on other people's suffering."
A long pause.
"Do you know how cruel you've been to her?"
Silvestor didn't answer.
"She loves you more than herself," Gilbert said. "That's not a metaphor. That's a fact."
He gestured back at the hospital.
"If she didn't, she wouldn't be in there right now. She wouldn't have trusted you. Wouldn't have run when you told her to. Wouldn't have offered herself as bait."
His voice hardened.
"No one throws themselves to wolves unless they believe someone will pull them back."
Gilbert stared straight at him.
"And what have you given her in return?"
He stepped back, shaking his head.
"Everyone in that school talks behind your back. Students. Staff. Security. Administration."
A beat.
"But there's one person–other than your parents–who never did."
He let that sit.
"Think about that, idiot."
Gilbert turned and walked back toward the hospital without waiting for an answer.
Silvestor remained where he was.
He didn't argue.
Didn't deny.
Didn't defend.
Time moved forward without announcing itself.
The parking lot emptied. Engines came and went. Night settled into the spaces between streetlights. Silvestor remained where Gilbert had left him, standing still, replaying every word, every choice, every reaction he had shown her.
He searched carefully.
Not for justification.For error.
He found none.
That disturbed him more than guilt would have.
Eventually, he turned back toward the hospital.
Inside, the emergency ward was quieter now. Jazz and the others were still there, gathered near the exit, voices low.
"Brat," James said when he saw him. "Where did you disappear? We've been waiting. She's discharged."
"I arranged a cab," Jazz added. "Both of you."
Then, without lingering, he turned to Amaya."We're leaving."
Gilbert followed the others toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped and placed a hand on Silvestor's shoulder–not forceful, not comforting. Just present.
"Don't forget what I told you," he said quietly.
He didn't wait for a reply.
Silvestor sat beside Amaya.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and night air drifting in through a cracked window.
"Are you alright?" she asked first.
"I'm fine," Silvestor replied. "How are you?"
"My foot still burns," she said after a moment. "Itches too. The pain is dull now. Maybe numbness."
He nodded once.
Then–without hesitation, without softening his tone–
"Amaya," he said, "I want to ask you something."
She turned toward him fully.
"You don't need permission," she said. "I'm listening."
Silvestor didn't look away.
"Was I cruel to you," he asked, "or was I treating you the way you deserved?"
No pause. No buildup.
"Do you think I punished you unfairly through my behavior?" he continued."Or do you think I was wrong?"
The question hung between them–clean, sharp, and unavoidable.
Amaya looked at him.
Something in his eyes was different–no accusation, no distance. Just a quiet insistence that frightened her more than anger ever had.
"How can I answer that?" she asked softly.
"I want the truth," Silvestor said. "Not comfort. Not defense."
She inhaled slowly.
"Then I'll be honest," she said. "Sometimes… I felt like I deserved how you treated me. And most of the time, I felt it was unbearable. Both can exist."
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bed.
"We were children," she continued. "And we were already broken back then. When they held a knife to my mother's throat, what choice did I have? When the police arrived, everything had already been decided."
Her voice faltered–but she didn't stop.
"After that day, you never came near our house again. I don't blame you. But after that day, my mother… she wasn't the same. She stopped being present. She stopped being safe. I became the adult."
She looked down.
"We're neighbors. We still live close. And the people who did this–they never left. They have men in places that matter. Police. Offices. If I spoke even once, none of us would still be alive."
Silvestor's jaw tightened.
"You ask me what I should have done," she said quietly. "Bravery? Suicide? Do you think courage reaches people like them? Your father chose silence. He chose survival. And I've been paying for that choice every day since."
She swallowed.
"I haven't slept in years. My mother's condition. The bullying at school. What they did to my body and my mind. And you–never forgiving me."
She hesitated, then forced herself to continue.
"I sold my mother's property three years ago. Used the money to find lawyers. One by one, they refused the moment they heard the names involved. The money vanished."
Her voice dropped.
"When I tried again… they took my mother."
Silvestor stiffened.
"For a week, she disappeared. No calls. No demands. Then one night, they left her in our courtyard. Tied. And they wrote warnings on her body."
She finally looked up.
"Tell me, Silvestor. What was I supposed to do?"
Silence filled the space between them.
"I didn't know," he said at last. His voice was low, stripped of defense. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head immediately.
"Don't," she said. "Your apology doesn't help me. It only makes it harder to breathe."
She wiped her face quickly.
"I don't want forgiveness. I don't want comfort. I just want the chance to amend what I broke."
Silvestor exhaled slowly.
"Amend what?" he asked. "You've already paid more than anyone should. You don't owe me anything."
Her breath caught.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For hearing me."
Tears finally fell–quiet, uncontrolled, relieved.
Silvestor stood.
"This is a hospital," he said gently. "Let's go. The cab should be waiting."
She nodded, still crying, and reached for her crutch.