She did not wake for nearly two days.
Cassian remained in the hospital throughout that time, shifting operations seamlessly to accommodate the delay while ensuring nothing else slowed.
Meetings were rerouted. Decisions were made from secure lines. Orders moved through his network with the same efficiency they always had, only now the center of gravity had shifted to a private wing of a medical facility.
Security rotated in silent intervals, each shift overlapping the next so no lapse existed. Hallways were cleared under the guise of routine sanitation. Names were removed from visible boards. Cameras were redirected. Entry codes changed. Access narrowed until only those who needed to know anything knew anything at all.
And with every hour that passed without interference—no inquiries, no unexplained movement, no digital anomalies—Cassian gained ground.
When she finally stirred, Cassian was already in the room, positioned just beyond the edge of the overhead lights where he could observe without intruding.
The faint shift in her breathing was the first sign, followed by the subtle tension that moved through her body as consciousness returned cautiously, as though she were testing whether the world was safe enough to reenter.
Her lashes fluttered, lingering longer than necessary before lifting.
Cassian noticed immediately that her eyes did not focus.
They opened slowly, revealing that same ash-gray clarity he remembered from the roadside, but there was no recognition of light, no instinctive narrowing against brightness, no tracking of motion as the doctor stepped into her line of sight.
Instead, her gaze remained suspended, unfixed, drifting slightly as though searching for something that refused to appear.
She blinked once.
Then again.
A faint crease formed between her brows, not panic but confusion, the kind that came when expectation failed to align with reality.
Cassian did not move.
"Easy," the doctor said gently as he approached, his tone deliberately calm. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. Just answer what you can."
Cassian remained where he was, just outside the brightest spill of the overhead lights, close enough to observe every detail, far enough not to become part of the exchange. He had learned long ago that people revealed more when they forgot they were being watched.
She nodded faintly, the movement restrained, cautious, as though her body was negotiating with gravity rather than obeying it.
"Do you know your name?"
Her lips parted, hesitation flickering across her face before she answered, her voice hoarse but controlled. "Mira."
Cassian registered the name without reaction, his attention fixed instead on her eyes, on the way they failed to orient despite the doctor's proximity.
"And do you know where you are?" the doctor continued, adjusting his stance slightly as though proximity might assist clarity.
Her head tilted slightly, aligning with the direction of the doctor's voice rather than his position. Cassian caught that immediately. It wasn't hesitation—it was orientation.
"A hospital," she said.
"Do you know what happened to you?"
A pause followed, longer this time, as though she were reaching for something that remained just beyond her grasp. "Yes," she said again, quieter now.
The doctor exchanged a brief look with the nurse before stepping closer to the bed, the movement quiet but deliberate, as though even the shift in air might matter. His voice, when he spoke, was careful, softened into something meant to reassure without misleading.
"Can you see me, Mira?"
Her brow furrowed.
Cassian stood at the foot of the bed, unmoving, his attention fixed not on her injuries but on the minute changes in her expression.
He watched the tension gather and release in fractional increments—the tightening around her eyes, the subtle tilt of her head as if she were attempting to triangulate the source of the voice rather than look at it.
"It's dark," she said slowly, uncertainty threading through her voice. "Is it night?"
The lights above her were fully on.
Cassian felt the shift immediately, the subtle tightening in the room as the doctor leaned in slightly, his movements deliberate.
"The lights are on," the doctor said gently. "Can you see anything at all? Shapes, shadows, movement?"
She stilled completely, her breath catching as realization settled in with devastating clarity.
She blinked once.
Then again, slower this time, as though expecting the world to assemble itself if she gave it enough opportunity.
Her gaze drifted, unfixed, sliding across empty space with no sign of recognition. There was no reflexive narrowing against the brightness, no subtle flinch from the glare of sterile light. When the doctor shifted position, her eyes did not follow.
"No," she said, the word barely audible. "I can't see anything."
Cassian watched closely as the truth landed, noting the way her fingers curled slightly against the sheets, the way her jaw tightened as she drew in a slow, steady breath. There was no outburst, no frantic demand, only a controlled stillness that spoke of internal recalibration rather than collapse.
The doctor straightened, his voice turning clinical as he addressed the room rather than the patient.
"She's exhibiting signs of trauma-induced blindness. Given the extent of her injuries, it may be temporary, but it's too early to determine recovery."
Cassian did not need the explanation.
He had seen it in the way her awareness shifted entirely toward sound—the slight turn of her head whenever someone spoke, the way her breathing adjusted to movement she could no longer track visually. He had seen it in the absence of instinctive visual response.
As the doctor continued outlining the next steps, detailing neurological imaging, specialist consultations, and the uncertainty surrounding the duration of her condition, Cassian remained still and studied her face with disciplined attention, observing each subtle shift in expression as though it were evidence to be preserved rather than emotion to be pitied.
When the possibility of temporary damage was mentioned, her lashes lowered briefly, not in denial but in concentration, and when timelines were framed in cautious estimates rather than assurances, a faint tightening passed through her jaw before smoothing again into composure.
She did not interrupt, did not rush to ask whether her sight would return, and did not grasp blindly for reassurance. Instead, she listened with deliberate focus, orienting herself toward each voice as it spoke, absorbing the information without visible resistance.
Her breathing remained steady and controlled, rising and falling in even rhythm as though she had consciously chosen restraint over panic. The fingers that had initially curled into the sheets loosened gradually, shifting from instinctive tension to controlled grounding as she adjusted to a reality she had not yet been given time to process emotionally.
Then her head turned.
Not toward the doctor.
Toward him.
Though her eyes could not see, her face aligned with Cassian's position with unsettling accuracy, her attention locking onto him as though guided by something deeper than vision.
Recognition flickered across her expression.
The same awareness he had seen on the road, bloodied and half-conscious, when she had looked at him as though she knew him without knowing why.
Cassian stepped forward just enough for the sound of his movement to register, the faint shift of his shoes against the floor deliberate.
"You're safe," he said quietly.
Her breath caught, the steady rhythm faltering for the first time since she had awakened, as though those words had reached deeper than the diagnosis ever could.
Her head turned slowly, orienting toward him with unsettling accuracy, her eyes still unfocused, still unable to see, but her attention locked in all the same. Cassian did not miss the way her expression changed—as if she had just confirmed something she had already suspected.
Outside the room, pressure continued to mount as questions multiplied and unseen hands began shifting the board. Inside, at the center of it all, lay a seventeen-year-old girl whose survival had already made her the most dangerous variable Cassian Calder had encountered in years.