“Where is he?” My voice is cracked glass. “Darun. He—he was here—he has to be?—”
The medic glances at someone over their shoulder. The look passes between them like a storm cloud.
“You’re the only one we found,” they say.
I shake my head. Hard. “No. No, that’s not—he was right there—he wouldn’t leave—he wouldn’t?—”
The medic lowers their mask. Their faces are kind. Too kind. The kind of kindness people use when they don’t know what else to give you.
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” I whisper. “You’re wrong. He’s alive.”
“Miss—”
“He’s alive,” I snap. Louder now. A sob folded in razor wire. “He’s not gone. You hear me?”
Silence.
The wind lifts a scrap of burnt fabric nearby. It flutters. Falls. Ash clings to my cheeks, mixing with tears I didn’t know were falling.
The medics exchange another glance. They start prepping a stretcher.
I crawl to the recorder and pick it up. It flickers. Weak. Half-dead.
Just like me.
CHAPTER 20
AMY
Waking up is like clawing my way out of mud.
The bed is too soft. The light is too white. The air smells sterile, like bleach and disappointment. Machines beep softly near my head, a lazy rhythm that doesn’t belong to me. My mouth tastes like gauze and copper. My body feels wrong—too light, too untouched after so much ruin.
For a second, I think I’m still dreaming.
Then I try to move and every nerve screamsnopein six different languages.
The ceiling doesn’t collapse. No sirens or smoke. Just a little patch of synthetic tile and a humming vent and the faint buzz of something fluorescent.
I’m back on Earth.
I wish I wasn’t.
There’s a nurse beside me—young, blonde, wearing a half-smile like she’s been told to. She notices my eyes flutter and gasps. “Oh! You’re awake. Just a sec—let me call the doc?—”
“No,” I croak, my throat dry and cracked. “Footage. Where’s my recorder?”
She blinks, clearly thrown. “Um… I don’t?—”
“My recorder. Where is it?” The panic starts like a cold finger at the base of my spine. “I need it. I need?—”
The nurse glances toward the hallway, nervous. “Security detail took all personal effects. Standard protocol for warzone evacuees. You’ll have to talk to?—”
“Get Rex.”
That stops her. She nods and disappears out the door, shoes squeaking on polished tile.
