Even behind the glass, the beeps are loud and clear. Conin’s heart is still beating. Underneath all that flesh, he’s fighting to stay alive, he’s fighting to come back. I don’t need a tether to know this.
“I love you, Atlas.”
“And I love you, Ezra.”
Chapter 62
Conin
The world is pieced together in shards and remnants. At first a void, now a stream of memories and images. My senses are the first to return: the scent of a clean and sterile hospital room, my touch next, and the static noise of existence. My eyes flutter open, slow and exhausted, revealing a white sensory overload. The ceiling is cracked with dunes and abrasions, a vast, pale sea that forces me to close my eyes again, waiting for the harsh stings to subside.
I remember the supply run, the men with guns, the wetness sourced from my abdomen, and the collapse of a warehouse. And then it hits me like a body colliding with the pavement. I wasshot.The residual memory blooms a phantom pain near my obliques—though I’m not sure whether the pain is real or I’m imagining it.
For a second time, I open my eyes and gaze at the ceiling. I’m in less of a daze, so I risk my capabilities further by panning my line of sight down, confirming what I was starting to suspect. I’min a hospital bed. And to my bewilderment, next to me is Atlas. He’s dozing on a chair. His head rests against the wall, his mouth slightly agape, arms in a tight embrace against his chest. What is he doing here? And where is—
Ezra!
I don’t want to wake Atlas, but finding Ezra is now a top priority. The pain that spreads from my side is too much for me to get up and go looking for him.
“Atlas,” I say, voice hoarse. I try to cough away the buildup of phlegm and let my saliva placate the intense inflammation in my throat.
“Atlas!” I say louder.
His snore wakes him up from his slumber. He blinks groggily and turns his attention to me. He’s not wearing glasses, which slightly catches me off guard. I can see his beautiful brown eyes so much clearer. Atlas grins, sits up, then leans forward.
“I’m happy to see you awake,” he whispers. “We were very worried.”
Atlas was worried? About me?
“Where’s Ezra?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
I can’t be distracted.
Atlas’s expression immediately turns grim. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, putting them on while he bites his lip with worry. There’s a crease in his forehead and his nose scrunches up. It would be adorable if my heart wasn’t pounding with incessant worry.
“Where’s Ezra?” I repeat.
“Do you remember what happened on the supply run?” he questions me instead.
I do, up until the collapse of the warehouse. The rest is a blurry haze.
“Yes.”
“Well, you were shot. The armor absorbed most of the blow, which it was designed to do, but these men had bullets that could penetrate the integrity of the suit. A bullet lodged itself in the side of your abdomen. Mafu did what he could to pull out the remnants.”
“I don’t care about the specifics! Where’s Ezra? What happened?”
“He didn’t react well when he discovered you were in critical condition,” Atlas mumbles.
My heart stammers.
“He . . . harmed himself. I found him in the bathroom with—”
I squeeze my eyelids shut—heart racing, head spinning, my arms tingling and going numb. Atlas stutters, trying his best to ease me. He even goes as far as placing his hand on my forearm. I hate that it sparks something deep within me.
“Where the hell is he? I need to see him,” I say, sitting up.
It hurts like hell, but I don’t care. Atlas protests and I ignore him in favor of attempting to slide off the bed and go in search of Ezra.
