Couldn’t ask.
A lock clicked.
Body moved before thought.
Rolled to crouch despite the agony. Ribs screaming. Shoulder on fire. Hands up. Ready to fight or die trying.
Door opened.
Small woman. Dark hair loose. Blood on her coat, mine. Something in me recognized it as mine.
Bags in her hands. Sharp antiseptic smell.
She froze.
Hands came up. Empty. Non-threatening.
“Hey.” Soft voice. Steady. “It’s okay. I’m Clare. Remember?”
No.
Nothing.
But something in my chest eased when she spoke. Just slightly. The panic didn’t spike when she moved. The defensive crouch didn’t tighten to strike.
Didn’t understand it.
She took a step closer. Slow. Careful. Reading my body language like a threat assessment.
Muscles stayed locked but didn’t coil. Even holding this position hurt. Everything hurt.
“You’re safe,” she said.
The word meant nothing. But something in me quieted anyway. Instinct recognizing what memory couldn’t.
She moved closer. Those careful hands reaching.
Should run. Should fight.
Didn’t have strength for either.
Just watched. Waited. Shaking from fever and pain and exhaustion.
“I’ve got you,” she said. “You told me your name. Xavier. Do you remember?”
Xavier.
The word should connect to something. Should mean,
Nothing came. Just the sound. Empty.
Vision tunneled. Black creeping from edges. Fever dragging me down.
She kept talking. Couldn’t hear words through the roaring.
Her hands touched me.
Gentle. Not grabbing. Not restraining.
