Black.
For a moment, I wasn't sure if I was dead.
My body floated—or maybe it fell. My mind grasped for something solid, some anchor, but everything felt like smoke, slipping through my fingers.
Then—sound.
A muffled scream. Footsteps. A man's voice, low and urgent, cursing under his breath.
I tried to open my eyes, but the pain hit first—sharp, searing, blooming in my shoulder like fire licking through flesh. My breath caught. A whimper escaped.
"Janica, stay with me. Don't close your eyes. Please—stay."
Jason.
His voice pulled me through the fog. I blinked once, twice, and the world swam into view. My vision was a mess of red and white—hospital walls, fluorescent lights, and blood.
My blood.
Jason's face hovered above mine. His shirt was soaked, his eyes wild with panic. His hands pressed something against my shoulder—tight, desperate pressure. I screamed.
"You're okay," he lied. "You're going to be okay."
A second shadow loomed behind him. A nurse. Then two. One of them shouted something I couldn't understand. Jason didn't move.
"Sir, you need to let go—we've got her," someone said.
"She's bleeding too fast," Jason snapped. "You let go, she dies."
More hands. More noise. I was being lifted, dragged, wheeled. The ceiling spun overhead.
Jason ran beside the gurney, not caring who tried to stop him.
"Jason…" My voice was a whisper, barely audible.
"I'm right here." His hand touched mine, just for a second. "I'm not leaving."
The lights above passed in flickering blurs. I tried to hold onto him, onto his voice, but the pain was dragging me under again.
I wanted to ask.
Who were they?
Why me?
What does he know about my mother?
But darkness had claws, and it pulled hard.
I let go.
I woke again to quiet.
Dim lighting. A slower heart rate. The pain was dull now, numbed by something in the IV. My shoulder felt heavy, wrapped tight. Breathing was hard—but I was breathing.
Jason wasn't there.
For the first time, I noticed a vase of wilted roses on the table, a blanket folded neatly at the edge of the bed. Someone had stayed. Maybe for days.
I turned my head—and there he was.
Asleep in the corner chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. Still in the same shirt. Bloodstains faded now.
I stared at him, and something in my chest twisted.
Why are you protecting me?
Why are people trying to kill me?
And why does all of this feel like it started long before we met?
As if he sensed my gaze, Jason stirred. His eyes opened slowly—bloodshot, tired. He saw me awake, and his whole body leaned forward.
"You made it," he said hoarsely.
"Barely."
He swallowed, nodded, then stood.
"You need to rest," he said, brushing a hand through his hair. "But after that—we talk. I owe you the truth. About everything."
I blinked. "Even… my mother?"
Jason looked away.
Then, without facing me, he said, "She didn't just die of cancer, Janica. She was silenced."
My blood ran cold.
"What?"
Jason turned slowly, his eyes unreadable now.
"She was investigating something. She found something she shouldn't have. And now they think you know."
I tried to sit up. "What was it?"