It’s the only thing I can say without throwing myself back at him and demanding a sequel to whatever the hell just happened.
Talon grins.
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the asshole who made youfeel, Little Grim.”
Ugh.
I refuse to stay here another second.
Following Cassian’s lead, I pivot on my heel and march the hell away.
Away from them. Away from this.
Because if I stay any longer, I might start feeling like being what I am isn’t enough anymore.
Hell. Maybe I already do.
I don’t know where I’m going—just like I don’t know where I am when I stumble into yet another endless, nightmare-inducing hallway of this abandoned hospital.
This one looks like it used to be a waiting room. There are chairs lined up against the wall and old magazines scattered across the floor. One is flipped open to an article about “10Ways to Reduce Stress” which, given the circumstances, feels offensively ironic.
Apparently, even in an experimental horror hospital, they kept up appearances. Like, “Yes, we are performing morally dubious procedures on you, but hey! Here’s a crossword puzzle you’ll never finish because you’ll be too busy being a test subject.”
Or maybe I’m being cynical. Maybe these poor souls actually read this crap because it was all they had—clinging to their last shred of normalcy in a place that stripped them of everything else.
That thought makes my chest ache. Not just for them, but for me. Because I get it. I know what it’s like to hold onto something small, something stupid, just to feel like a person instead of… whatever the hell I am now.
I stop in front of one of the chairs and stare at the dark stain on the seat.
Blood? Coffee? Impossible to tell at this point.
I feel like this stupid ass stain.
Unidentifiable, possibly tragic, and long forgotten.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, dragging a hand through my hair. I can feel the strands tugging at my scalp, which is beyond messed up. It has never happened before.
I plant my hands on my hips and crane my head up. That’s when I realize—it's not just my hair I can feel. My muscles ache too. Huh.
So, I roll my shoulders. Because that’s what living people do when their muscles hurt.
It… helps.
Weird.
I press a hand flat against my chest, right over where my heart used to beat. Nothing. No thump, no rhythm. Dead silence.
Right. I’m still dead. Nothing changed. Nothing except my useless, now-present emotions and feelings.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep, unnecessary breath.
“Pull yourself together,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re a Grim Reaper. You shouldn't want—”
“Want what?”
I spin around so fast my vision whirls.
Nathaniel leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and smoky. They look different now, more intense than I remember. I tell myself it’s just the nerves, but when I focus, I realize they’re actually a lighter shade of blue—bright and icy, almost hypnotic.
