Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They are getting worse.

The thought surfaced slowly, a ripple disturbing still water. He blinked up at the ceiling, unmoving, awareness spreading through his body—silk sheets clinging to damp skin, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, his limbs. Everything felt muted yet somehow too loud—the quick, erratic pulse in his throat, the high-pitched whine in his ears.

He exhaled slowly, barely hearing the air leave his lungs. On the nightstand, the vial stood empty, its contents a thin memory on his tongue. Minutes stretched as he waited for the numbness to settle in, each moment an eternity. The medication wasn't working anymore—or perhaps he was just getting impatient. He used to be able to time it perfectly, knowing exactly how long to wait before the edges would start to soften. Now each dose was another spin of the chamber.

At first, the medication contained the symptoms of Nihility's touch, kept the worst at bay, prevented it from creeping in too deep. Even then, it lurked quietly–a faint dread in the morning, a fog over his thoughts, flashes of surreal images from his nightmares. They were grotesque fragments: shadowy forms with twisted limbs, endless seas folding in on themselves, whispers crawling under his skin. He hadn’t noticed how the dread lingered longer each day, how the fog thickened, how the flashes became more vivid, more frequent. They coiled around him tighter with each night until waking became this: body slick with sweat, mind struggling to return, vision haunted by shadows.

His breath came shallow, not nearly enough. Each inhale seemed to snag on the tightness in his chest, heightening the feeling that something inside him was fraying. He lifted a shaky hand over his chest, fingers pressing into the grooves of his ribs as though he could force his heart to slow. Not since Penacony, not since his return to reality, had they been this bad. The rational part of him—the part that had carried him through even worse times—insisted that there was a way to defy the odds. There always was.

But beneath that assurance, a thin crack had begun to form, spreading like a spiderweb through his certainty.

The Nihility is patient. It doesn't need to rush.

The words crystalized into dread. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as his hand reached blindly for another vial. He swallowed the tasteless liquid, his eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the familiar numbness to smooth the edges of his thoughts. For one fragile moment, it seemed to work—the tension in his chest loosened, and his breathing evened out.

In that growing stillness, he heard it again, a voice not in his mind, but somewhere just beyond it:

How much longer can you keep this up?

He didn’t answer.

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“So, listen…”

Topaz' voice was a subdued whisper next to his ear, hardly registering to Aventurine. His hand was moving on autopilot, signing paper after paper, each pen stroke blurring into the next. It took more than a couple seconds before he could muster a hum in reply.

“Are you—” Topaz paused, abruptly standing from her crouched position. Her tone sharpened as she snapped at the others in the room, “I said it already. No handcuffs. We maintain order through respect.”

A faint mumble came from one of her subordinates, but Topaz didn’t entertain any excuses. “No buts. They don’t deserve to be treated like criminals,” she shot back.

Aventurine's pen scraped across another page, his signature loose and uneven. Each blink lasted longer than the last, like fighting against a current pulling him under. The edges of his vision softened and blurred—like he was scribbling from behind frosted glass.

“One could argue they are, outsourcing their planet’s only hope of paying off its debt to a bunch of hacker sailors...” He slurred, his focus flickering between the pages before him and Rustoria V’s dim, perpetual twilight. Everything seemed hazy, indistinct. “Another tragic story for you to take pity on, Director. Isn't that nice?”

Topaz didn’t engage. She grumbled something under her breath, but her focus remained elsewhere. “Get those cuffs off,” she commanded, her voice louder now. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

Aventurine stifled a laugh, throwing a half-lidded glance toward her subordinates. Even with their helmets on, their reluctance was obvious. Typical Topaz, always willing to bend the rules if it meant helping someone, even if it only made things more complicated. He couldn’t relate. Trust no one, only rely on yourself.

With the matter settled, Topaz crouched beside him again, her proximity pulling him from his haze. Her scent—a mix of mint and something earthy—cut through the dull fog in his brain. Her fingers hovered near the documents, watching as he scrawled another signature. The stack of papers seemed endless, his hand growing heavier with each signature.

The bureaucracy on Rustoria V was laughably outdated, physical paperwork of all things. The only concession the locals had secured with the IPC’s liaisons was physical copies of the takeover documents, and someone had to sign them by hand. It was incredibly dull, but just about the only task he could handle, given his current state. He couldn’t help but wonder how they would adapt once they joined the IPC. The shock of adjusting to Pier Point's high-tech systems would be brutal. The thought lingered, pulling him back to his first time there, disoriented and in chains, rattled from—

“Aventurine? Are you listening?” Topaz' voice tugged him back, snapping him away from that dangerous train of thought.

“Sure…” He blinked, refocusing with effort. “I was just thinking how thrilled our Lady will be about your creative take on protocol.”

“You worry about your own,” she muttered, almost testy.

Her hand landed on the desk, the movement so sudden it caused his pen to slip, leaving a streak of ink. Aventurine looked up, forcing a smile. “Oh? Has Director Topaz finally taken pity on little old me?”

She scoffed, “You rigged the coin toss. Enjoy the win while you can.” But she didn’t move away, her tone shifting as she came a bit closer. “...How’ve you been holding up?”

Aventurine's pen hovered mid-signature. He glanced at her sidelong, reading the shift in her posture. She wasn't asking out of curiosity. There was something more. Duty? Concern? Self-interest? He tilted his head. "Drowning in paperwork, as you can see."

"You know what I mean." Topaz' lips curved into a half-pout.

He chuckled, rolling the pen around his fingers. "Then what did you mean, Director?"

Her pout deepened. "Playing dumb doesn't suit you, Aventurine."

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed slightly before he silently returned to his signatures. Her gaze didn’t leave him, though. She waited, her gaze surely tracking the slow drag of his pen across another page. There had to be a reason behind such insistence, so he took a chance.

“Not too bad,” he muttered.

Topaz hesitated, her fingers tapping softly against the stacks of documents. “You don’t sound convinced,” she remarked quietly, her voice gentler than before. “And those dark circles say otherwise.”

Aventurine offered the faintest hint of a smile. “Keeping tabs on me now, are you?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t snap back right away. “Please. I’m just worried you’ll mess up the paperwork.”

Aventurine chuckled again, though it felt like it took more effort than it was worth. The wooden panels of the walls felt like they were pulsing—closing in, each corner blurring into the other. He should have taken his medication, but the drowsiness it brought with it would have made even this menial task impossible.

“Trying to get a leg up on me?” He pushed aside another stack of papers, trying to ignore the dull throb in his head. “We only have one rank between us, now that I think about it.”

His tone was light, but something sharper lingered beneath it, a defensiveness he couldn’t quite hide. Topaz' expression flickered, her eyes narrowing just a bit, weighing her response. She wasn’t quick to answer, and he could sense the shift in her demeanor, before she said:

“You’re still not sleeping well, are you?”

Though casually delivered, the remark threw him for a loop. Aventurine blinked, considering how much to tell her, debating whether to deflect again. His gut was telling him to brush it off. But Topaz wasn’t pushing for more—she was still watching, calculating, not demanding but waiting for him to decide whether to answer. He saw a similar attitude other times, and it only meant one thing.

“No,” he admitted coolly, still not facing her fully. “I don’t.”

Topaz' lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t mean to—too revealing, this is not a game she was used to. Yet her eyes were still locked on his face. “You went to a Doctor of Chaos after we came back from Penacony, right?” she asked, her voice even softer. “What did he say?”

Aventurine fought the urge to scowl. He was sure now—Jade was behind these odd inquiries. His issues were becoming so evident that their Lady had deemed it necessary to intervene. Not directly—no, Jade was too cautious for that—but through Topaz, who already knew of his issues, who had stuck her neck out for him during the trial. The thought made his jaw clench. Even now, two months after Penacony, after his Cornerstone trial, he was still being watched, still being evaluated. His value to the department was still hanging by a thread, balanced precariously between the profit he'd brought in and the liability he might become.

The thought lingered, a sudden clench in his jaw sending a jolt through his hand, pressing too hard against the paper. Ink spilled out from the nib, spreading like a dark pool under his fingers. For a moment, the image blurred—a surface thick and oily, black pooling at his feet, a thin ring of light in the distance…

He blinked hard, trying to clear the vivid images that clung to his vision. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. He grabbed a stray piece of paper and dabbed the ink, watching it bleed into the page.

“That my medication should be enough.”

The implication was acid on his tongue, and the words tasted even worse out loud. He could feel her waiting for him to say more, but he wasn’t ready to unpack everything, not here. Not with her. Not with anyone.

A thick silence settled between them. Aventurine watched her eyes flick to the side, then back to him—assessing the risk, weighing the outcomes. That was one thing he could always count on with her. Despite how it might come across, her empathy wasn’t selfless, not entirely. And he appreciated it. There wasn’t room in their line of work for coddling. Not when vulnerability could be exploited in a heartbeat. After her vote of confidence, he was almost certain she wasn’t going to stab him in the back. Then again, he wasn’t going to forget their positions just because she showed him a shred of sympathy.

Topaz shifted closer, her scarf brushing against the desk edge as she leaned in—measured, like approaching one of her critters.

Her lips parted, then closed.

"Have you ever thought about–" she ventured, barely above a tentative whisper. “I mean…” Her teeth caught her lip, her brow furrowing. “Sometimes just having someone there helps. If not that, even just a…” Her usual confidence faltered, words failing her.

Aventurine raised an eyebrow, curiosity breaking through his exhaustion. She wasn't often this uncertain. It warmed his smile. "Director Topaz, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Her unimpressed expression said it all, though a faint flush colored her cheeks. "Don't be gross, Aventurine." She sighed, quickly collecting herself. “What I meant is that ever since I got Numby, my sleep has improved a lot.” She glanced at him, a slight warning in her blue eyes. “That’s all.”

Aventurine’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I'm sure sleeping with a little pig must work wonders…”

“Numby is not a pig,” Topaz muttered, her cheeks puffing and her mouth pulling into a frown. He heard Numby sniffle from under the desk, and she leaned down to rub their snout. But she didn’t drop the subject. “I’m serious, Aventurine. Having someone close... truly makes a difference.”

Aventurine leaned back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he considered her words. It was wooden like the rest of the room, intricate patterns that one could get lost into. He wondered if he would sleep better if he had a ceiling like that in his room.

“I have my cake cats…” he mused out loud.

"Oh, the cuties you showed me the other day?" Topaz' voice brightened. "They definitely look like the cuddly type."

"Right up until they gnaw on your ear, thinking it's dinner." Aventurine rolled his shoulder, trying to shake off the dull ache in his joints. His voice grew quieter with exhaustion. "They look cute, but they're actually a menace."

Topaz chuckled softly—the way she always did whenever animals were involved. "Then they've found the perfect owner."

“You're a sneaky gal, Director, making fun of a superior…” He sighed theatrically, but the air left his lungs too quickly. "Or maybe you're saying… I should get myself a sleeping pig too, hm?" he said between breaths.

Topaz slid closer on the desk's edge, crossing her arms. “I will ignore your disrespect to Numby this time too,” she said, the challenge clear in each syllable, “and tell you that apparently there is something similar on the Luofu—a creature that helps you sleep. Can’t remember how they’re called…”

"Perfect, then," he snickered, still somewhat out of breath but letting his smile curl higher. "You're going there next month; you could bring your dear superior a souvenir."

When Topaz didn’t respond, Aventurine glanced at her, half-expecting another playful remark. But her gaze had drifted away, fingers absently flicking through the stack of papers on the table. She seemed deep in thought, the hard lines around her mouth deepening—a sharp deviation from the banter. It unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

“I still think you should seek someone out,” she said quietly after a moment, her voice carrying an unexpected weight of seriousness. “I mean, even the mighty Aventurine isn’t above asking for help.”

Aventurine's lips parted, a barb about bleeding hearts and corporate ladder-climbing ready on his tongue. But when he met her gaze, he recognized something there—the same concern he'd seen in Jade's eyes during his debriefing in his room on Penacony, that interest contingent on his ability to perform his duties. The words died in his throat.

It was uncanny that look, one that could make the tiniest pierce into his thick skin. She held his stare, her loyalty to Jade refusing to let him retreat behind his usual defenses. It gave him pause, yet couldn't say why.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to actually consider her suggestion—asking for help. The thought felt foreign, like a misplaced card in his carefully shuffled deck. What would that even look like? Luring someone into his bed was easy enough, but that wasn’t the kind of help she meant. Depending on someone, letting them see him going through whatever consequences his nightmares left him with… No, the sole idea made his skin crawl.

He wasn’t falling apart. Not yet. Tired, yes. But not that tired. He still had control.

Aventurine blinked, feeling the weight in his limbs and the dull ache in his temples. His hand hovered over the next page, fingers trembling. He was fine. He had done this before. He’d gone for days without sleep, pulled through even rougher times. Only this time... this time it was taking slightly longer, but he wasn’t ready to think about why. He only ever needed help when things got bad on Penacony, and even then it came wrapped in a sarcastic jab about his ‘mortal limits.’

Well, he knew his limits and he hadn’t reached them yet  Not by a long shot. He’d handle this on his own, like always. Just another bad stretch. Once this mess was over, he’d be back to his sharp, ruthlessly charming self. The last thing he needed was to rely on anyone. Not when so many among the Strategic Investment Department were watching him, waiting for him to stumble, to see if their vote of no confidence would be vindicated. The trial revealed where he stood with each of them, and he had played enough hands to know exactly what Jade's concern truly meant. Weakness was a rare currency in the IPC, one his dear colleagues would trade on in a heartbeat, and he wasn’t about to hand out freebies.

His fingers twitched as he grabbed the pen again, heavy in his hand. He smirked, though it remained fixed, plastic. "Your concern is duly noted, Director. Besides," he leaned back, forcing his usual teasing tone into place, "I don’t suppose you’re offering yourself, are you?"

“I—” Topaz' brow furrowed, her lips turning the slightest fraction downward. “You wish.”

Aventurine chuckled, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Then let me handle it alone,” he replied, though the words lacked their usual bravado. “I've been dealt worse hands before.”

Frustration crept into the concerned pinch of her brows. “Bluffing doesn’t count,” she muttered, discomfort making her gaze drift for an instant to his brand. “You think you can just keep pushing yourself until you–” She paused, her gaze finally finding refuge in the papers in her hands.

Aventurine watched her thumb the papers. "Until I what, Director?" The teasing lilt in his voice turned sharp. "Keel over and die?"

Her gaze snapped back to his face, alarm flashing across her face, there and gone in an instant. For a moment, Aventurine thought she might push harder, make him admit what he would never.

Instead, she just shook her head. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll be sure to get first-row seats for when you’ll inevitably crash and burn.”

To Aventurine, it sounded more like a challenge than a warning. “I never crash,” he replied with a wink, falling back into his practiced arrogance. "Mine is more of a controlled descent."

The attempt at levity lightened the mood, but Aventurine noticed the tension still clinging to her when she snorted. "I’m glad at least your ego is intact, even though the rest of you is falling apart."

She wasn’t convinced, and truth be told, neither was he. Aventurine could feel it—the edge getting closer. But he’d made it this far. He’d come this far without help; he could go a little further. He smirked, leaning back, trying to let the banter dispel those thoughts.

"It’s my greatest asset."

Topaz shot him a look before turning back. She took a few steps but immediately stopped when Aventurine called after her, “Topaz.”

She tilted her head, curiosity softening her features.

"...Thanks." The word came out more awkwardly than he'd intended. Even if he didn't need the advice she offered, even if he knew there was Jade behind it, he still appreciated the gesture. Before Penacony, he wouldn't have even spared a word.

For a moment, her face gentled further, warmth flickering in her blue eyes before she rolled them dramatically. "Don't let it go to your head, Aventurine. I just can't have my subordinates complain to me that you get to nap, when they should be focusing on their jobs instead."

Aventurine let out a chuckle, though it felt bitter. He watched her beckon two of her subordinates to follow her as she left, Numby in tow. When the door closed behind them, the room seemed to grow quieter, even with the rustle of her other subordinates packing up the confiscated goods.

The exhaustion weighed down on him all at once. His muscles ached, and his eyes burned, but the thought of sleep brought no relief. If anything, it filled him with dread. The nightmares had been bad enough, but now they started bleeding into the day, lingering at the edges of his vision. Flashes of a black sea, of blood in his mouth, of sand under his—

He shut the thought down before it could go any further.

He’d be fine. He always was.

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The golden twilight lingered on the horizon, streaks of amber light filtering through the dreamscape. Aventurine stood by the edge of his room’s balcony, overlooking the vast expanse of the artificially crafted city. The air was warm, comforting—a delicate breeze brushing past him, carrying a sweet, almost nostalgic scent. His limbs felt weightless, his mind fogged with the languid calm he had come to associate with the dreamscape.

His hand drifted along the cold railing, his body swaying. The horizon in front of him shimmered—a surreal golden glow. This would be the eighth test, the eighth time he chased “Death”. He had gotten used to the feel, his heart thudding steady as he hooked one foot over the railing. If he failed this time around, if he died for real… he wouldn’t be too disappointed to disappear into the artificial dusk of the Moment of Twilight. If anything, it made a nice place to die.

Aventurine exhaled softly, his breath misting in the twilight air--

A bitter wind cut through his skin, slicing through the dreamscape's golden light and snapping him awake. He blinked, and the golden hues faded into sharp, icy darkness. His heart slammed against his chest, mind struggling to catch up when he found himself staring down at the dizzying drop beneath him—several hundred floors below.

The sprawling lights of Pier Point blurred in his vision, stretching endlessly downward, until they became indistinguishable specks of neon and shadow. His grip tightened on the metallic railing, knuckles white, as his foot hovered precariously over the edge. The frigid wind whipped past him, tugging at his thin sleep clothes, teasing him toward the precipice.

Wasn't he on Penacony?

When did he get here?

How did he get here?

What was he–

Aventurine wrenched his foot back, stumbling away from the edge. He shook uncontrollably, knees folding beneath him as he crumpled to the cold floor, gasping for air. The terror hit him like a tidal wave, his heart pounding, chest heaving as if the very breath was being sucked out of him.

They are getting worse… You’re getting worse.

Reality slammed into him in jagged pieces: the biting cold of Pier Point's upper atmosphere, the dizzying drop, the lingering ghost of the dreamscape warmth against his cheek. His mind reeled between then and now, between the controlled fall in Penacony's dreamscape and what had almost happened here. The horrifying truth hit him, a suffocating wave of dread. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his chest, desperately trying to still his pounding heart.

A wave of nausea hit him, and he crawled back into the open glass door. In the darkness inside, Topaz' words echoed in his ears, foreboding:

You aren’t above help.

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“Have you finally gone insane, gambler?”

Aventurine didn’t bother stifling his chuckle at the uncannily precise analysis—not like he expected anything less from Ratio.

He leaned against the corner of the desk with his palm, his body sagging. The stolen moments of fractured sleep over the past week made standing upright a monumental struggle. Exhaustion washed over him in waves, a crushing weight that tugged at his limbs, begging him to curl up on the floor and sleep for the next twenty system hours. Instead, he focused on the bite of the cold metal desk edge against his thigh—not comfortable, but as long as it kept him awake…

“Oh, Doctor,” he rasped, the title scraping from his throat, “always such a charmer.”

Ratio didn't look up from his screen, stylus moving in sharp, dismissive strokes. "The idea is to charm you into leaving me alone, yes."

Aventurine swallowed a yawn, the effort making his jaw ache. The decision to come here had taken more effort than he cared to admit, and now that he was here, he couldn’t afford to back down. He'd thought long and hard about this. Asking for help—especially for someone in his position—was like handing over a loaded gun. He wasn't reckless enough to take that chance, not unless the stakes justified it.

“You act like you don’t enjoy my company,” he replied quietly, fingers idly toying with his scarf. His voice took on a light, mocking tone, anything to bury the tremor of vulnerability. “Not everyone gets the honor of being invited into my bed, you know?”

Ratio paused briefly, his stylus hovering for just a second before he resumed writing, his strokes a little harder this time. “I can’t fathom why.”

Aventurine's reaction was a little delayed, an exaggerated gasp that made his chest ache. His heart thudded unevenly against his ribs, and each breath felt too shallow, like it barely reached his lungs. His body was betraying him in more ways than one these days—his heart skipped beats, his limbs felt heavier, and there were moments when he blinked and couldn’t remember where he was for a second or two.

Still, he pressed on, because that’s what he did. “Such cruelty, Doctor. I thought you were supposed to take care of your patients.”

Ratio’s voice stayed flat, unamused. “Only the ones with a chance of survival.”

Aventurine paused, the words turning his muscles to stone. Again, it took him a second too long to process Ratio’s jab. Normally, he’d have a sharp retort already on the tip of his tongue, but his thoughts were exasperatingly slowed.

He was surprised by the sliver of anger that slipped into his tone when he rebuked, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a pessimist, Ratio.”

Ratio glanced at him, briefly. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose before he pushed them back up with a sharp flick of his fingers. “You had more life in you staring down the abyss than you do right now,” he said dryly. “I take it that this impromtu visit means you’ve finally accepted your limits?”

Aventurine’s grip tightened on the desk’s edge, knuckles whitening. Even with his eyes open he could still see the drop below calling him, the cold metal railing a persistent phantom sensation beneath his fingertips. He fought the rising tide of panic that always lurked beneath since that night, pushing it down until it became a distant hum.

The odds were stacked against him this time—he couldn't bet on himself anymore. He wasn’t sure how many more nights he could handle staring at the wall, torn between the need to sleep and the dread of never waking up again. If he was handing over the gun, it was out of necessity—but he knew from experience Ratio wouldn’t pull the trigger by himself.

Aventurine's smirk was unflinching, but it was a costly effort. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The retort came slower than he intended, his thoughts scattering like cards dropped from clumsy hands. His fingers started tracing lazy circles on the surface of Ratio's desk, more out of habit than anything—a gesture to occupy his mind while he gathered the pieces back together.

When they began to shake, he snapped the hand back. “I thought you might appreciate another chance to offer some unsolicited medical advice.”

Ratio paused for an instant before his gaze returned to his screen. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” he said, his tone colder than before. Another moment passed as he underlined something on the screen before crossing out an entire section with the brutal precision only he could wield.

Then: “One night. And just to keep an eye on you.”

The relief made Aventurine’s smirk falter, but he recovered quickly, masking it with a breathless chuckle. “Only one, Doctor? That’s some miraculous result you’re counting on.”

Ratio didn’t dignify that with a response. His stylus moved methodically across the screen as he crossed out another section. “Don’t push it, gambler.”

Aventurine’s laugh came out thin and forced. The ache in his throat deepened, creeping into his chest. He briefly wondered if he should, instead—pester Ratio to watch over him until this weakness would leave him for good, until he stopped seeing things he had long forgotten. But that would be admitting too much.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He shifted against the desk, joints grinding, every movement feeling like wading through sand. “You think I’d try to trick you?” he said, though his usual bravado sounded half-hearted. “I’m hurt, Doctor.”

Ratio finally set the stylus down, his eyes flicking toward him with the kind of cold, analytical look Aventurine knew he reserved for particularly troublesome students—approximately the 97% of his classes.

“You don’t need tricks, but it’ll only be one night.”

Aventurine’s smirk faded. His body ached, and the pulsing in his temples made it harder to keep up the act. It wasn’t just about trust. If it were, he would have turned to Topaz. But she’d press too hard, ask too many questions which he was neither ready nor equipped to answer.

Ratio, on the other hand, would never. He knew the doctor’s type: he just didn’t care enough to dig deeper. He was the righteous kind, a man who didn't draw back when asked for help, but wouldn't dare sully himself with the messy details.

“You’re all heart, Doctor,” he muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide the bitterness.

Ratio's gaze shifted—barely perceptible, but Aventurine had learned to read these microscopic changes during their time in Penacony. It was the same look when he handed Aventurine his ‘medical advice’—a clinical detachment tinged with something else. But the moment passed, sealed away deep behind the plaster.

“Your quarters in Pier Point,” Ratio stated, his tone suggesting the decision was final.

Aventurine’s lips twitched into a tired grin. “So bold.” This arrangement was more convenient for him, yet he couldn’t help but challenge. “What if I told you I was looking forward to a little more… excitement?”

An exasperated sigh. “The alternative would be mine,” the doctor replied curtly, not really offering.

Aventurine’s laugh was raspy. “Scandalous!”

Ratio glanced at him again, the tiniest flicker of emotion tightening his eyes before he masked it with the usual detached professionalism. “I’ll come by after dinner,” he said, as though it were a chore on his to-do list.

Aventurine huffed, feigning disappointment. His voice took on a nonchalant tone, “And here I thought I might treat you to something nice for keeping me from sleepwalking into the coffee table and cracking my head open.”

Ratio didn’t so much as blink. “Your thanks can be to stop dropping by unannounced while I’m testing my students.”

Aventurine glanced at the student sitting in front of Ratio’s desk, looking like he was trying to disappear into the chair. The poor kid hadn’t said a word the entire time since he barged into the office, but his face was pale and draught, eyes wide as though he'd witnessed something that he hadn't meant to see.

Aventurine couldn’t suppress throwing him a smirk. “Yeah, it’s not looking good for you, my friend.”

The student’s eyes darted nervously between the both of them, but Aventurine just shrugged. Though he could sympathize. He knew what it felt like to be under Ratio’s scrutiny.

The doctor cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the screen. “Don’t harass my students.”

Then, without missing a beat, he delivered the final blow. “And for the record, this fool is right—your paper failed.”

Aventurine caught the student's crumpling expression before pushing himself off the desk. The movement cost more effort than it should have, his limbs protesting even this simple motion, his head spinning.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, waving lazily over his shoulder. “Catch you later, bed buddy.”

He narrowly dodged the piece of chalk Ratio hurled at him, a soft chuckle escaping as he slipped out the door. The sound echoed in the Guild’s hallways, fading quicker than it should—like even his laughter was running on empty.

Chapter Text

Aventurine stared at the vial in his hand, thumb idly brushing over the glass surface. He tipped it back and forth, watching the dark blue liquid swirl lazily inside, faint iridescent threads catching his bathroom light. The sight alone stirred something uncomfortable within him.

He wasn’t supposed to have stopped taking it. He told himself it had been a calculated decision, but deep down, he knew it was as much about the gnawing fear of being dragged too deep into unconsciousness and not waking until he was already airborne… if he woke at all.

He flicked the cap open, the bitter tang stinging his nose. Would they even find him? If he smashed against the pavement far below Pier Point’s glistening towers, would anyone notice? Or would they simply scrape what was left of him off the bottom floors and continue with their day?

He thumbed the cap, hesitating. Whether or not Ratio showed up tonight, he had to sleep. Surviving on a mere fifteen hours of sleep over six days had frayed the edges of his mind even further. The only times he had managed to close his eyes were the stolen naps in his office chair, the restless dozing in his jet during transfers between assignments—anywhere people were close by. His body was burning itself out, the Nihility's tendrils slithering through the cracks in his consciousness, leaving behind a coldness that haunted him since he woke in that Knight's arms.

He was past the point of weighing risks against rewards. Even taking the medication at all was a gamble without knowing if Ratio would show up. Either way, he was betting with his life—take it and risk sleepwalking off his balcony, skip it and let the nightmares tear into his mind.

With a swift motion, he tipped the vial back. The liquid slid down his throat, tasteless yet somehow heavy. He waited for the medication to take effect, his fingers gripping the sink until his knuckles turned white. It was taking longer than it should. His hand twitched toward another vial, the urge to speed things along almost overwhelming. The nightmares would be worse if he didn't take enough, but the memory of standing on the balcony's edge made him hesitate. Still, his fingers circled the second vial.

If he was already gambling, he might as well go all in.

He uncapped it before he could second-guess himself. The second dose went down just as easily as the first.

When it finally hit, the dulling of his senses crept in like an incoming tide, stronger than usual. His vision blurred at the edges, his body growing heavy as the tension bled from his shoulders and arms. He pushed himself away from the sink, feet dragging him sluggishly across the sleek floors of his apartment.

The living room felt too large, too empty tonight. Everything in it gleamed—polished surfaces, sleek lines, expensive art, and plush furniture—every detail carefully selected by the Personnel Resources Department to project success and power. Nothing out of place, nothing to suggest someone actually lived here, except for the cake cats that followed silently as he sank into the deep cushions of the sofa. One hopped onto his lap, plopping lazily, its purring a soft hum against his chest.

He scratched absentmindedly under his filling while checking his phone. No messages. His finger hovered over the screen for a moment before he tossed it onto the sofa. It was getting late. Maybe the doctor wouldn't come. It wouldn't be the first time he was put off by Aventurine's demeanor. Ratio was quick to keep his distance. Not his friend, he'd said once.

For a moment, he considered locking himself in his bedroom. If Ratio didn't show up, then he'd need to take precautions—at least to keep himself from wandering again. Not that it would work, though. He'd managed to open the glass door to his balcony in his sleep; no doubt he could open the fingerprint lock if he slapped his hand against it enough times.

A soft, tired exhale ruffled the cat's ears, his arm dropping to its side. His thoughts drifted as his body grew heavier. Maybe the incident on the balcony wasn't as important as it had seemed. He was probably overdramatizing it. He woke up on his own, after all. He could handle it alone. He had been managing just fine without anyone.

The cat stirred on his lap as Aventurine's vision started to blur. He tried to focus on the critter, dragging his fingers through its soft fur. But his mind began to loop, thoughts tumbling into one another like dice in a cup. His body tensed, muscles fighting against the pull of sleep. He should have gone away, should have closed himself off already.

He shouldn't fall asleep here. The space felt exposed, dangerous. Not like this—

The doorbell rang.

Aventurine jerked upright, startled. The cat tumbled off his lap with a startled meow, landing on the floor with a soft thud. The other two mewled, their wide eyes staring curiously at the hallway. For a moment, he blinked, disoriented. It took too long for his mind to piece together where he was, what he was doing—the double dose of medication making everything feel distant and heavy.

Gravity pulled at every limb as he crossed the room to the door, his hand reaching for the handle automatically. It occurred to him a bit too late that he should have checked who it was, but by then the door already swung open.

Ratio was standing there, bathed in the soft light of the hallway.

Despite arranging this himself, seeing Ratio actually there felt strange, unreal. He blinked, once, twice, letting his eyes focus on Ratio's frame, making sure he wasn't a medication-induced illusion… though that would be dramatic, even for him. His usual attire of sashes and cut-out top had been traded for a simple button-up shirt and pants, and in his hand he held a book—a real leather-bound, ink and paper one.

Aventurine cleared his vision with a blink. "Fancy... is that for me?" He cocked his head, trying to muster some of his usual sharpness. “I’d hate to let you down, doc, but I’m a bit too grown up for a bedtime story,” he breathed, the words dissolving into a yawn he couldn't quite stifle.

Ratio's eyes swept over him, taking in his disheveled state. “Did I wake you?”

Aventurine scratched the back of his head, suddenly aware of how he must look in his pajamas, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "No. Just took my meds," he mumbled and stepped back. He didn't even wait to see if Ratio would follow before turning away from the open door.

Ratio didn’t move immediately after he closed the door. He stayed in the hallway for a beat longer, his eyes now glancing around the apartment. Aventurine could feel him seeing everything without making a show of it—the scattered shoes by the door where they should have been neatly arranged, the coat hanging askew on its hook, the scrape of his rings on the wall where he'd held for balance.

The doctor had been here before, on those few occasions when Aventurine had persuaded him to celebrate a successful assignment with a drink, or when he’d been too banged up to make it home alone. The last time, he'd arrived with the three cats in tow—strays from a colleague, he'd claimed. Aventurine still wondered about that day, why Ratio had chosen him instead of his eager students or why he hadn’t pushed them to Jelena and her ever-growing ‘menagerie’. Ratio's unexpected gestures always left him off-balance, making nights like this both easier and more complicated.

Aventurine pushed the thought aside, waving a hand dismissively. “If you need anything, you can figure where it is,” he muttered, tension creeping back into his shoulders. "I’m going to sleep."

Ratio nodded, thumbing the pages of his book absentmindedly. "I’ll be within earshot."

"Keeping to yourself?" Aventurine offered him a lazy, crooked smile. "And here I was hoping I could snuggle up to your warm, muscular body," he teased, the words coming out slower than intended, dragging at the edges.

The doctor sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if dealing with him was a mild inconvenience. "Don't close the door," he warned, his tone gentler than his command suggested, before he walked to the sofa.

Aventurine's soft laugh followed him, but as soon as he was out of Ratio's sight, the sound died in his throat.

His bedroom felt colder than usual when he slipped beneath the silk covers. One of the cats had snuck in behind him, jumping onto the bed and curling up against his chest, purring softly. He snuggled the critter closer, murmuring into its filling, "We have company tonight. Maybe we'll both sleep better, hm?"

The room wavered at the edges, his thoughts unraveling like loose threads in the dark. His limbs grew heavier with each breath, the double dose of medication pulling him deeper into the mattress. He closed his eyes—just for a moment, he told himself—as warmth spread through his veins, a languid pull he couldn't fight. His mind clung to consciousness out of instinct, remembered terror settling in his chest, but his body had already begun to yield, betraying him to sleep's inexorable tide.

The last thing he felt was the soft purr of the cat against his chest, the muffled sound of steps behind his closed door, before the void claimed him.

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They said he had a strong body—that’s why his master chose him.

Sigonians are tempered by harsh conditions, the trader crooned, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a race capable of enduring more than most.

That doesn’t make it easier to forget about their reputation, the buyer mused, circling around him with a measured gaze. He stopped in front of him, studying him more closely, These eyes alone are worth the inflated price… Almost.

By the second day in the market, the cacophony had become a distant hum. He’d learned to filter out the pointless noise, all senses focusing solely on the useful details. The man's conceit toward his race was expected, but the avarice in his eyes was a revelation. Even then, calculations ran through his mind—how to turn that greed to his advantage, how to negotiate his way out with his new master.

His sister's last words burned in his throat like desert sand: survive. His chapped lips shaped the word alone, where once prayers had needed two voices to reach the stars. The traders saw only his eyes, his race, his potential—they didn't notice how his trembling fingers betrayed not rage but calculation, how each measured breath was not fear but reprisal. The chains bit into his flesh, salt and metal mixing with blood, but he held onto that prayer like a blade: survive, survive, survi—

He felt the yank of the chains before he saw them pulling him into the dark hallway. The metal pressed against his wrists and ankles, too heavy for his slender limbs, chafing and breaking the skin. Cold iron circled his throat, digging into flesh, cruel against his ever-quickening pulse. He made a half-attempt to tug at it, to get some leeway, but the restraints only tightened, sending a deep ache through his arms and chest.

A voice cut through the darkness, distant but clear. Take the neck chain off, he won’t need that for now.

There was a clinking sound, and suddenly, the weight around his throat was gone. He gasped, the absence somehow more startling than its presence. His breath hitched as stifling heat rushed down his windpipe—and that's when he knew something was wrong. The room was dimly lit, the red glow of molten iron casting long, jagged shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smelting metal, curling into his throat sharp and suffocating. A large furnace loomed ahead, its mouth glowing red-hot, waiting.

He felt the hands again on him—gripping his shoulders, pushing him forward. He stumbled across the stone floor, chains dragging with each step like dead weight. His skin prickled in the stifling heat, too stagnant, nothing like the desert warmth he knew. It crawled across his back, clammy sweat dripping down his spine, as though his body knew what was coming before his mind could catch up.

Metal scraped against metal, the sharp sound making him jerk in his captors' grip. They forced him to turn, and there it was—a branding rod, its iron tip glowing a deep, molten red. His eyes fixed on it, dread crystallizing in his bones. Survive, his sister's voice echoed in his mind, even as his body recoiled.

He took a step back, a solid body stopping him from going further.

Keep him down.

The hands multiplied, vicious, overwhelming his resistance. They shoved him down, forcing him to his knees, dragging his head back by the hair until his neck was exposed. A massive palm clamped over his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, the hand large enough to cover from chin to forehead. His limbs thrashed uselessly, muscles straining against the grip, but the chains weighed him down, the hands pressing his smaller frame against the cold stone floor.

He could smell the hot rod, the stench burning into his nose as it drew closer. He twisted in their grip one last time, desperate, but the massive hand only crushed harder against his face, pressing him into submission. His nose and mouth were almost completely covered now, each breath a desperate fight for air thick with burning coal and his own sweat.

The tip of the rod hovered just above his skin, its heat licking at the exposed flesh of his neck. His world narrowed to that single point of heat, every heartbeat an eternity, every muscle rigid with the certainty of what was coming.

You know pain, it whispered. This is nothing compared.

The searing agony came next.

The brand pressed against his neck, and the scream lodged in his throat, trapped behind the crushing weight of the hand. The pain tore through him like wildfire, every nerve alight. His flesh sizzled and burned away, the stench of his own skin being peeled away layer by layer filling his nostrils. His stomach lurched, bile rising, but there was nowhere for the sound, the pain, the sickness to escape.

His body jerked in the hands holding him down, his muscles spasming as the branding iron lifted away. The hands suddenly released him, and he crumpled against the stone floor. The burn remained, deep and raw, seared into his skin, forever marking him. Distant laughter echoed around him, distorted and hollow, as he writhed against the cold stone. He tried to hold onto consciousness, tried to remember that whispered prayer—survive—but the pain consumed everything, leaving only white-hot agony in its wake.

His neck throbbed, and he instinctively reached for it, his nails scraping over the scorched skin. The texture—leathery, too sensitive—made his stomach heave. He gasped, yanking his hand away, but it was too late. The pressure in his chest mounted, suffocating him. His throat clenched, and his body convulsed.

A thick, acrid stench twisted in his nostrils and sent another wave of nausea through him. Aventurine felt hands on his shoulders again, but these were different—pulling him up, steadying his agonizing body. Before he knew it, something cold was pressed firmly against his chest.

There’s a bucket under you.

His body jerked forward, and he retched again, the sound wet and guttural as the bile burned its way up. The hands stayed, but now they moved with careful purpose, brushing his sweat-soaked hair back from his face. It was a distant sensation through the haze of sickness and pain, but still, he shuddered, afraid of what that touch would bring.

It’s over.

The voice sounded distant, too calm. The red glow of the furnace was gone, replaced by softer shadows on the walls. His chest rose and fell in shaky gasps, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He blinked, trying to piece together where he was, when he was, but reality kept slipping through his fingers.

One hand moved to his back. Firm. Steady. Present.

"Aventurine, it’s over. You’re not there anymore."

The name—not his name—snapped something inside him. Aventurine's breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping him as his chest constricted. The last remnants of the nightmare clung to him, thick and oppressive, bleeding into reality. He could still smell the burning skin, still feel the iron pressing into his flesh—

He gagged, though nothing more came up.

“Breathe,” the voice instructed firmly. The hand was still resting behind Aventurine’s back, applying pressure to his spine, grounding him.

Aventurine blinked again. His eyes strained to adjust, the darkness gradually giving way to familiar shapes. The soft glow from the lamp cast long shadows across his bedroom. Ratio sat on the edge of the bed, setting the bucket aside, his presence solid and real. His hand slid away from Aventurine's trembling frame. Before he could stop himself, Aventurine's body swayed toward the retreating touch—a momentary weakness he immediately forced down.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Aventurine's breath came in shallow bursts, his pulse still racing as his mind struggled to bridge the gap between nightmare and reality. His hand drifted to his neck, fingers finding the scar. This time, he felt it clearly—the old, jagged bump of skin, a mark that had never quite healed. He huffed out a weak laugh, the sound escaping before he could stop it.

"Sorry," he muttered, the laugh growing more hysterical as he wiped a trembling hand over his face. "Got you good, didn't I?"

Ratio didn't respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he dabbed his soiled cuff with a napkin. "It's not important," he said simply.

Aventurine's laughter continued, brittle and hollow, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His chest felt like it might crack open, each breath caught between the weight of memory and the reality he'd woken to. He snatched his hand from his neck, pressing it to his eyes instead, but the gesture couldn't contain the tremors running through him. The tension in his chest had nowhere to go but out..

“It’s fine,” Aventurine managed between uneven chuckles, though it sounded anything but. “It's– I’m used to this.”

Through the gaps between his fingers, he caught Ratio watching him, something tightening in his expression—subtle, but there. "Are they always this severe?" he asked, his tone measured, as though testing the waters.

Aventurine exhaled slowly, dropping his hands to his lap. The nightmare's aftershocks still coursed through him, phantom sensations burning under his skin. This one had carved deeper than most.

"What's with the sudden interest, doctor?" He aimed for dismissive, throwing Ratio a sidelong glance, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.

"You asked me to come for this purpose," Ratio replied evenly. Then, when Aventurine didn't respond, he added, "Unsolicited medical advice."

Aventurine scowled, lacking the energy for a proper retort. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the gesture weak and uncoordinated. "Didn't know mockery was part of your medical expertise," he muttered, the bitterness in his voice undermined by exhaustion. His hands dropped to his lap, still visibly trembling.

“They can be. Rarely,” he lied.

When he looked up, Ratio 's expression hadn't changed, but his gaze had shifted to the nightstand where the empty vials lay scattered. "What dosage did the doctor prescribe?"

Aventurine shrugged, his exhaustion making the question feel distant and unimportant. “The usual for mild exposure.”

Ratio's eyes lingered on the vials, his frown deepening slightly. “How much did you actually take?”

Aventurine didn’t flinch under that careful scrutiny, tilting his chin up. “I might have taken a little extra,” he admitted, his tone nonchalant, as if daring Ratio to make something of it.

The doctor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.”

Aventurine let out a long sigh, sinking further into the cushions. “Are you going to lecture me, doc?” The question hung between them, the silence stretching. He tried to maintain Ratio's stare despite his wavering vision. “I know my own body, it—”

A yawn ambushed him mid-sentence, and he blinked owlishly, trying to focus.

Ratio's frown softened. "It's a conversation for another time," he said, pulling the blankets over him. "Sleep, gambler."

Aventurine grimaced. "I can't. My mouth feels disgusting." His voice came out as a low grumble, exhaustion stripping away his usual charm into something almost childish. When Ratio rose from the bed, he reached out instinctively, fingers catching at his thigh.

"Be a decent doctor for once and help me out," he mumbled, attempting a smile that was already dissolving as his eyes drifted shut.

Ratio didn't reply. He simply reached over and turned off the light, leaving Aventurine to drift back into the darkness. This time, there was no fight. Aventurine was asleep before his head sank fully into the pillow.

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The water ran cold as Aventurine scrubbed his teeth for the third time that morning. The taste of bile from last night lingered, stubbornly persistent beneath the aggressive mint of his toothpaste. He could've brought him at least some water, the prick.

His reflection in the mirror looked like something dragged out from a shuttle crash—pale and gaunt, with dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes like bruises. The harsh bathroom light did him no favors, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp angles of his face. Still, he looked somewhat more present than he had in days, as if pieces of himself were slowly drifting back into place. He spat into the sink and started scrubbing again, when his phone chimed from the countertop.

Aventurine paused, the toothbrush still clutched between his teeth. He reached for it, his fingers sliding over the screen to reveal a single message.

Dr. Ratio: I’ll be there again tonight. Same hour.

Aventurine stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could almost hear Ratio's voice in the words—clinical, authoritative, no room for argument. Just like him to send a directive disguised as a message, as if last night had given him some kind of authority.

He leaned against the sink, toothbrush dangling forgotten from his mouth as he began typing:

So much for ‘just one night’... I guess even Dr. Ratio is not so good at sticking to his word.

His fingers hesitated, then added: Was watching me struggle that entertaining?

He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth as he stared at the words. His fingers twitched over the keyboard then deleted the last line before sending. Three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen. His fingers tightened around the phone, a subtle tension coiling in his chest. When Ratio's reply finally came through, it was only one sentence:

Dr. Ratio: It wouldn’t be wise of me to leave you unattended.

Aventurine blinked, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar way as he reread the message until the words blurred together, losing their meaning. He locked the phone, holding it tightly, the metal casing pressing into his palm. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too confined, with nothing but the steady hum of running water to fill the silence. His gaze drifted to the sink, watching the water spiral down the drain.

Unattended. The word looped in his mind as he tried to summon the appropriate indignation at Ratio's presumption. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, but the lingering bitterness in his mouth had nothing to do with anger, nothing to do with the doctor’s annoying perceptiveness. It tasted like weakness, like the inability to deny what was right in front of him. Like being backed into a corner.

He shut off the tap.

Chapter Text

The doctor came to his apartment that night. And the night after. And the one after that.

Night after night he came, like a recurring hand in a rigged game, the cards dealt the same way, the outcome inevitable. The doorbell would ring at the same hour, its chime cutting through the silence—a sound Aventurine had grown to anticipate without ever fully accepting. He’d open the door and Ratio would walk in, offering nothing but the same neutral expression and the quiet weight of his presence. No pleasantries were exchanged before he'd settle into his designated corner of Aventurine's space as if he belonged there.

Sometimes, in the hazy space between waking and sleeping, it almost felt like comfort—the whisper of pages turning, the steady rhythm of another person's breath in rooms that had known only silence, the predictable intrusion into his solitude.

But more often than not, it gnawed at him like a wound refusing to heal.

At first, Aventurine had tried to focus on the practicality of it. Few people in the system could afford to be as consistent and reliable as Ratio—and wasn't that what he needed? What he had asked for? But with each passing night, an unwelcome thought crept into his mind, like shadows lengthening at dusk. No one as methodical, no one as ruthlessly efficient as Ratio would sit at the table this long without an angle. No one plays a losing game unless they know something the others don’t. Something deeper than terse commitment drove these visits.

As he lay in the dark, struggling between medication-induced drowsiness and the fear of yielding to it completely, he could feel Ratio's eyes on him, even when separated by rooms. Assessing. Analyzing. Watching.

And Aventurine knew that gaze too well—the look of someone who saw broken things not with pity, but with calculated interest. A puzzle to solve. An opportunity to exploit.

The remnants of the nightmares, though harrowing—the pounding heart, the icy sweat, the fight in his muscles, the lingering shadows—left marks he could almost rationalize. But catching Ratio's gaze in the aftermath was a different kind of shock. Not violent, not immediate, but a slow, creeping exposure, as if he were made of glass.

And worse still were Ratio's questions that followed:

"Has the frequency changed?"

"Do you remember what you dreamt?"

"Was it a memory?"

Aventurine had never liked questions. He had survived by keeping all the answers to himself, by showing only what people needed to see. But Ratio's questions came relentlessly, whenever he saw an opening—a flinch, a tremor, a caught breath.

The nightmares caused by the level of exposure he suffered weren't supposed to leave much behind—just a vague, formless terror that would cling to the host like a presence, dragging them slowly into the void. That was how it started, but it wasn't the case for him anymore. He could recall every detail now, every sound, every smell of his dreams.

The iron grip of his own hands around a spear, the sensation of tearing flesh and crushing bones beneath the blade as he drove it through a man's throat. The shifting sands under his feet, only the moons' pale light guiding his escape. The dark water lapping at his ankles, whispered words urging him forward—

The Doctor of Chaos had told him his case was different. The Nihility had touched him in ways it didn't touch others, the circumstances of his exposure making it unprecedented. The nightmares shouldn't linger with such clarity, shouldn't replay with such visceral detail, but they did. Each night brought not just terror, but memory. And there was nothing he could do except wait, hoping that time would eventually dull these edges that kept slicing him open.

Whenever asked, he would always shake his head to those questions, keeping his words to a minimum. His silence was a well-placed bluff, one of the few bets he could still make in this unspoken game. When it was clear he wouldn't offer more, Ratio would settle back into that impassive neutrality, the hunger in his gaze disappearing behind that stoic mask.

“Try to sleep,” he’d say, as though it was that simple.

Some nights, he was lucky and sleep would indeed claim him easily—a few blissful moments before he was dragged back into THEIR twisted depths. Other nights, he'd toss in his sheets the whole time, sweat soaking through the silk, the sensation of phantom blood still slick on his hands. Those were the nights when sleep felt like surrender, when the weight of Ratio's presence became unbearable. He would turn to Topaz then, bullying her into investing in stocks that were doomed to fail just for the satisfaction of it.

There were no mornings with Ratio. The doctor would be gone before the sun was up, sometimes before Aventurine even managed to stir. No explanation, just the soft sound of the front door clicking shut, fading into the quiet of the apartment. That was the only thing Aventurine appreciated about this arrangement—the leaving. The silence that followed Ratio's departure, the return to the comforting isolation of his own mind. Alone. He was always better alone.

He would then continue with his day, dragging himself to work, fighting to keep his eyes open through meetings and off-planet assignments. Each moment of his day was spent pushing away thoughts of the night, to forget what waited for him in the dark. But evening always came, and with it, their inevitable routine. Like clockwork, Ratio would appear at his door, a different book in hand but that same intensity in his eyes.

At some point, Aventurine realized he could just ignore the doorbell. Ratio wouldn't push his way in—he was too proper for that, too careful with his boundaries. But each time the idea crept into his head, panic followed. Cold and sharp, like the wind outside his balcony. He'd find himself standing at the door, his hand hovering over the handle, frozen between the desire to be left alone and the gnawing fear of what might happen if he was. He hated this weakness, resented himself, but in the end he opened the door every night.

So the arrangement continued. Rinse and repeat. Ratio arrived, said little, asked too many questions, and left Aventurine more unsettled than he had been before. The sameness, the predictability of it all had lulled Aventurine into a sort of resigned acceptance, numbing him to the subtle changes taking place.

It wasn't until weeks later that he realized how the pattern had shifted—so seamlessly, he couldn't even pinpoint when it had happened. The questions slowly grew more pointed, the line between medical concern and interrogation wearing thinner. What had started as casual inquiries about his medication—a simple "Have you taken it today?"—had evolved into requests for more details. Now Ratio insisted on watching Aventurine as he swallowed the liquid, as if waiting to catch him palming a card, waiting for the tell that would prove he’d been cheating the system all along.

“Is that the prescribed dose?” Ratio had asked, his voice low, almost too calm.

Aventurine felt frustration bubble to the surface as he measured out the liquid, hyperaware of Ratio's scrutiny. He'd already taken a double dose earlier, but now he had to put on a show of compliance. "Yes," he muttered, forcing himself to keep his movements steady as he took a smaller amount, the cool liquid barely enough to notice. He met Ratio's gaze with indifference. "But it barely takes the edge off anymore. Makes me drowsy, but that's it."

Ratio had been silent for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the vial in Aventurine's hand. Then: “Have you altered the dosage?”

The question hit a nerve he didn't know was exposed. Aventurine scowled, the irritation creeping into his voice as he brought up a hasty excuse, "You know my job. Can't play the hand if I’m too high to see the cards."

Ratio didn't react to the sharpness in his tone. He only tilted his head, studying him in that same detached way. "You were faring worse when you came to my office," he mused, then he brought a hand under his chin. "I suspect you abandoned the protocol around that time."

Aventurine blinked, taken aback.

It was rubbing him the wrong way—Ratio's clinical precision, his ability to read Aventurine's every move without asking. The scrutiny felt invasive, methodical, as if Ratio was piecing together a puzzle Aventurine hadn't meant to provide the pieces for. He'd be damned if he gave Ratio even a single inch to work with. He swallowed down the irritation and folded the hand, unwilling to show more of his cards for the night.

But it wasn't just about stubbornness or his fierce need for independence. It was the unbearable sensation of being seen too closely—Ratio's gaze slipping into the hairline cracks of his facade, creeping deeper, slowly prying them apart until Aventurine feared they might break entirely. And yet, he kept letting Ratio in. The hypocrisy gnawed at him as he lay twisting in his bed, his mind refusing to settle on a reason why he couldn't simply keep the door closed.

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When he woke, the smell of blood still clung to the back of his throat, mingling with the salty tang of river water. The warmth of her hand had been clutching his—tight but reassuring, familiar calluses pressing against his palm. Small ripples lapped at their faces with every shallow breath, the current cold against their skin, but she was holding steady, the two of them floating like fallen leaves in the stream.

His thoughts spun in endless circles—please don't make a sound, please let them go away, please let her live. The terror should have consumed him, yet his mind refused to release the memory, clinging to the comfort hidden within: her warmth pressed close, their hearts beating in sync, his eyes half-open to catch her lips barely moving, forming silent words of comfort.

Hold my hand. I'm with you. Everything will be fine.

The memory should have been sharpest where the fear was—the footsteps above them on the bank, the shadows passing overhead, the burning in his lungs as he fought to keep still. But what cut deepest was the gentleness: her fingers squeezing his whenever a sound made them tense, the barely-there brush of her long hair against his cheek, the way she held him even as her own body trembled with cold and fear. The terror clutched deep, but her touch remained, haunting him with its absence.

The scream tore from his throat before he could stop it. Raw, hoarse with the effort, his pulse thudding in his ears, each beat shaking his chest. His limbs were locked rigid, muscles tense as though he'd been fighting against the current. Distantly, he registered hands him, gripping his arms tight enough to keep him steady, to hold him there without pain.

Usually, it ended like this. But something was different this time. Wrong. His mind refused to surface completely, trapped in the undertow of memory. The warmth of her touch didn't slip away; instead, it lingered, the memory of her hand in his drawing him back into the haze of his dream. He didn't want to wake—not yet, not ever.

The lines blurred, the reality of the nightmare and his fading wakefulness colliding, blending into something indistinguishable. His hands reached out, wanting to hold on to that fleeting sense of closeness, refusing to let go again. Another touch—too clinical, too cold, Ratio's—met his halfway. His mind rejected it even as his body responded, the dissonance tearing at something vital inside him. Not her hands. Never her hands again.

And that's when it hit him—what he had been chasing, what he didn't want to let go of. The realization washed over him like the river's cold water, and a sob bubbled in his chest.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, using the sharp sting to keep himself grounded. His gaze fell to where Ratio's fingers circled his wrist, unnervingly still. Not her touch. Not her callused palm against his. With a sharp jerk, he pulled his hand free, the absence renewing the loss all over again, pushing that sob closer to the surface.

The pressure in his chest built, pushing up into his throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing his breath to steady. He couldn't let go like that, not in front of Ratio. Never in front of Ratio. His body trembled with the effort of holding it in—he would not break. Not now. Not here. He was stronger than this. He had survived worse than memories.

Ratio's other hand loosened slowly, releasing his shoulder once the worst of the trembling stopped. The doctor always seemed to know exactly when to let go, when Aventurine had steadied himself enough not to collapse. The precision of it made Aventurine's skin crawl—another observation, another calculation, another piece of data collected. As soon as Ratio's grip eased, Aventurine curled in on himself, pulling his legs to his chest, pressing his forehead into his knees. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, muffled in the small space between his chest and thighs.

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft hum of the city far below, the faint mewls of his cats in the other room, and the sound of his breaths, slowly calming. The silence almost felt like mercy.

But Aventurine could feel it—Ratio's gaze on him again. Assessing. Analyzing. Watching. The same cold calculation he'd come to dread. It made his chest tighten, his shoulder knot in coiled trepidation.

"The escalation of these episodes is concerning," Ratio's voice broke the silence, calm and measured, but it grated on Aventurine like nails on a slate.

He only scoffed in response, a sound that was more reflex than sardonic dismissal. His mouth still tasted metallic, the lingering sourness of fear and frustration sitting heavy on his tongue.

"I have been monitoring your intake these nights." Ratio's tone was steady as always, but there was an edge to it now. "The medication should have mitigated these effects by now."

The words hung in the air like a diagnosis waiting to be delivered. Aventurine's eyes snapped open, the slow burn of irritation simmering in his gut. He wanted to throw out some sarcastic retort, to extend that initial scoff into something more cutting, but the lingering bitterness in his throat kept him silent, just for a second too long.

Ratio didn't flinch under his glare. "In fact," he continued, his voice as even as ever, "at your current dosage, consciousness should be significantly suppressed during these episodes. The Nihility influence typically—"

"Typically?" Aventurine's laugh came out harsh, brittle. "That is, supposing that my case is typical, doctor."

"Precisely my point." Ratio's gaze remained steady, analytical. "These episodes are becoming more frequent, not less. The only definitive measure would be analyzing the medication levels in your system, but even then..." He paused, the deliberate silence as if inviting Aventurine to fill in the gap himself.

Aventurine felt his heart skip, then heat surged through him as the implication hit. Defensive anger flared, instinctive and familiar. "But even then what? I'm making it up?" His voice came out sharp, more revealing than he intended. "Do you need a pen to add that to your thesis, doctor?"

Ratio's frown deepened, a controlled sign of annoyance. "Your symptoms aren't in question." He paused, a moment of almost imperceptible hesitation. "The source is."

Aventurine's jaw tightened, his mind latching onto that brief reluctance like a dog with a bone. He pushed himself up from the bed, ignoring the tremble in his limbs, his pulse rushing in his ears. "Getting struck by a fucking Self-Annihilator isn't enough of an explanation for you?”

"Not anymore." Ratio's eyes never left him, calm but intrusive. "I suspect there's another factor at play complicating your condition."

What he didn’t say bothered him more than the words themselves. Still, Aventurine scoffed, dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, the gesture more an attempt to reclaim his slipping composure than anything else. "While I'm sure you're enjoying the intellectual challenge, doctor," he said, the word dripping with inevitable sarcasm, "I'm afraid you're way out of your depth here."

Ratio didn't respond immediately. His silence felt like judgment, but also restraint. It was as if he was holding something back, weighing the risk of pushing further.

With a sharp exhale, Aventurine let himself fall back onto the bed, his body sinking into the cushions. His gaze fixed on the ceiling. "They told me it was my shattered Cornerstone," he muttered. His voice had lost its edge, the words quieter now, almost drained. "It interfered when it protected me. That's all there is to it. End of story."

Another calculated risk that had worked out exactly as intended—or perhaps not, depending on how he looked at it. A dull ache settled in his chest as something that might have been regret flickered briefly to life. He squashed it down before it had a chance to take hold.

The ache in his chest deepened nevertheless. He rolled onto his side, turning his back to Ratio. His body felt like it was made of lead, weighed down by exhaustion, his thoughts a scattered mess of broken fragments. He didn't need Ratio's pity or his analysis. He needed him to leave.

For a long moment, the only sound was his breathing, ragged but steady. He waited for Ratio to walk away, for the door to click shut, for the room to settle into its usual silence. But Ratio remained, his presence a weight in the room, the quiet stretching between them like a thread pulled too tight. Even when he didn’t meet it, the sensation of his gaze was still there, like fingers probing at the edges of wounds better left untouched.

The silence pressed in, pressing on his eardrums against the frantic rhythm of his own pulse. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, focusing on the lines the light from outside cast. Ratio's presence was a shadow, another layer of the nightmare. He wanted to push him away, but his body felt too heavy, too tired. He needed space to think, to rebuild his defenses.

Still, Ratio didn't move.

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At first, it had been a gut feeling. Unease that lasted only seconds, there and chucked away the moment he opened the door each night. But it stacked up, bet after bet, night after night—with every glance, every question, every moment his scarlet eyes lingered too long—until it became too loud to ignore, a certainty pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

Maybe he didn't need the company, after all. Maybe he never had.

His nightmares were as vivid, as painful, as real as ever. Ratio's presence didn't make them any less terrifying, not in the way Topaz had made it to be. If anything, it made Aventurine feel more exposed, more vulnerable than he had in a long time. With every reaction documented, every flinch noted, he felt like he was being slowly dissected while still breathing.

And he hadn't sleepwalked once since that night on the balcony. The risk was still there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness—he wasn't fool enough to deny that. But as the nights wore on, he slowly convinced himself that the incident had been an anomaly, a glitch in his broken mind, or some residual effect from his time in the dreamscape.

The possibility of death didn't frighten him as much as it should have. What truly sickened him was how readily he'd used that single moment of weakness to justify this—this systematic surrender of his privacy, his control. He had let a man who'd rather be a stranger to him witness his unraveling night after night, all because he was too weak, too pathetic to face what THEY would bring alone. And yet, when the doorbell rang, he still found himself opening the door.

But what was the point if nothing was changing?

Why did Ratio keep watching him like that?

The suspicion he'd had from the start, that uneasy feeling that Ratio's motivation wasn't entirely clinical, began to solidify in his mind. Aventurine could feel his pulse quickening as irritation built steadily in his chest. He clenched his jaw, trying to wrestle his thoughts into submission. The arrangement had to end. It had gone on too long, revealed too much. And for what? For Ratio to sit there, night after night, collecting his observations like a scientist categorizing specimens? Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he’d cash out, shut the door in Ratio's face and reclaim what little privacy he had left, before he lost more than he could—

Then, Ratio's voice came, cutting through the spiral of his thoughts like a blade:

“What does khshara mean?”

Aventurine froze.

The word lingered in the air between them, curling inward, wrapping itself around his chest, squeezing the breath out of him. He stared at Ratio, trying to process what he'd just heard, his mind stumbling over itself. It didn't sound right—Ratio had butchered the pronunciation, the hard consonants mangled by the soft, rounded tones of the standard language. But Aventurine knew exactly what he meant.

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

His suspicions, his unease, his growing paranoia—it all crystallized in that single moment. This was what Ratio had been waiting for, what he'd been watching for all along. Every night spent observing, every question asked, every response noted—it had all been leading to this. The walls of his apartment seemed to close in, pressing inward until the space felt impossibly small. His vision narrowed, tunneling in on Ratio's face, where that unreadable expression still lingered. But his eyes—those sharp, probing eyes, red like fresh blood—were locked onto him, and Aventurine's breath hitched, just for a moment. Just enough to give him away.

How could he possibly know?

There was no one left who could speak that word. No one but him.

But you can't maintain a mask in sleep, can you?

The voice from beyond crept up on him like a shadow, waiting just out of sight, biding its time until this exact moment of revelation.

That's it. He must have said it, screamed it, whispered it in the dark. And Ratio had heard everything. Every word. Every sound that had slipped past his lips when he wasn't in control. All those nights of vulnerability, of weakness—they hadn't been about helping him at all. They had been about this. About gathering information. About picking apart the pieces of him that he'd kept hidden for so long.

His hands trembled at his sides, and he curled them into fists, nails biting into his palms. The pain helped him focus, helped him maintain the razor's edge of his composure even as everything inside him screamed to run. To lash out. To do anything but stand here under that calculating gaze.

The silence between them stretched, suffocating.

Too long.

He had to say something.

Now.

“Why, doctor,” Aventurine finally said, his voice carrying a veneer of amusement, his eyes never leaving Ratio's. “Do I look like someone who dabbles in linguistics?”

The smile splitting his lips was sharp, too sharp—cracking at the edges. But it was a game he'd perfected over the years, as easy as breathing. He held it firmly in place, meeting Ratio's gaze head-on, daring him to push further. Like a magician baring his arms to show there was nothing hidden, while the dead dove lay concealed beneath the stage.

His heart thudded hard against his ribs, each beat like a pressure threatening to crush him. Still, he kept his voice light, controlled.

"Sounds like a code, a meaningless sound," Aventurine doubled down when Ratio kept stubbornly silent, throwing it out casually, like it didn't matter at all. "Who knows, doctor. I'm not the genius here, am I?"

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they didn't land. Ratio's expression remained inscrutable, but the weight of his gaze felt heavier, more precise. He was doing it again—peeling back Aventurine's layers, dissecting him bit by bit. He needed to get Ratio out of here before those eyes saw anything else.

Ratio replied, and the blade that had cut him earlier drove even deeper. "I heard you say it in your sleep."

It wasn’t worded like an accusation, but it was voiced like one.

Aventurine's smile faltered, crumbling into a frown as the truth settled over him like cold iron. His fists clenched tighter, his muscles tensing against the wave of anger—and fear—that surged beneath his skin, threatening to break through.

"Taking notes even then, doctor?" Aventurine's voice was low, a harsh whisper cutting through the stillness, each word dipped in venom. He didn’t care enough to dissimulate it. “Nothing escapes your notice, does it?”

"Some things can't be ignored," Ratio replied quietly, his tone calm but tinged with something that made Aventurine wary. “Especially when you’re screaming.”

Aventurine's breath hitched again, this time more noticeably. Embarrassment and anger roiled together in his chest, heat rising to his face. "Aren't you ever so attentive?" he said, his smile flicking back into place, as though nothing had happened. That voice whispered in the back of his mind again—say it, say it, say it. "Makes one wonder: you've been rather supportive of a man you can barely stand, haven't you?"

Something flickered across Ratio's face—a shadow of what might have been regret, gone before Aventurine could be certain he'd seen it at all.

"Why is it? Is it simple hypocrisy?” He pressed on as he took a deliberate step forward, his posture stiff, body coiled with tension. That gaze didn't waver, but there was a subtle shift in Ratio's stance, a wariness that hadn't been there before. His brow twitched under his violet fringe, just barely—enough for Aventurine to see it, to feel Ratio's unease wash over him.

Ratio's silence was a rare gift, one Aventurine savored, emboldening him further. "Or is there something more… misguided to your interest?"

Aventurine caught another shift in his expression—something unspoken, something fragile rippling just beneath the surface. Then, Ratio deflected.

"The subconscious has a tendency to revert to primal forms of communication," Ratio stated, his tone cooling to professional detachment. "Evidence like this warrants further analysis."

Aventurine let out a hollow laugh, but there was no real humor behind it. "What evidence, doc?" He leaned in, his breath hot against Ratio's impassible face, his words sharp and biting. "Is this what you've been telling yourself to justify your presence here, doctor? Or do you need more material for your research on the broken thrall?"

Ratio's jaw tightened, a brief flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise calm face. His fingers twitched at his side, an unconscious tell that Aventurine had never seen before. For a moment, they stood there, locked in that silent standoff, the air between them humming with tension, unspoken words crackling like static.

"You've been deliberately non-compliant with your treatment," Ratio finally said, his voice low and tight. "Adjusting dosages, interrupting protocols—a behavior that suggests you're more interested in control than recovery."

Aventurine scoffed, shaping his fingers into the outline of a gun, waving it lazily in front of Ratio's face. "Taking risks is what I do best, remember?" His voice was a low drawl, almost mocking, the hint of a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "Some things never change, doctor."

For once, Ratio's composure slipped. His eyes flashed with something that might have been anger, and his voice sharpened. "Your invincibility complex would be amusing if it weren't so drearily predictable, but there's no need to belabor the obvious..."

He took a breath, visibly regaining his control. "I am here because you acknowledged you needed assistance. And based on my observations, that need has only increased."

Aventurine couldn't stop the snort of disbelief that followed. "Need?" His smile turned cold. "You’re overvaluing your hand, doc. Might wanna check what you’re really holding."

But Ratio didn't back down. His gaze remained steady, piercing through the flimsy layers of sarcasm Aventurine threw up like a shield. His voice was quieter now, but there was no mistaking the firmness beneath the calm. "Your condition is deteriorating, gambler. That isn't an assessment—it's a fact."

Something inside Aventurine coiled tight, like a spring winding under pressure, ready to snap. He could feel the heat twisting in his chest, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, but it was the underlying current of fear—fear that Ratio might be right—that threatened to unravel him completely.

Ratio was getting too close. Too close to the truth, too close to the cracks Aventurine kept carefully hidden. He couldn't bear it anymore.

"That your final bet, doc?" The words came out soft, dangerous—a gambler pushing all his chips in. "That I'm someone who needs saving?"

And there it was—the hesitation. The uncertainty. For the first time in their standoff, Ratio seemed to falter, if only for a heartbeat. Aventurine saw it again, that twitch in Ratio's hand, the way his jaw clenched as though he wanted to reach out, to bridge the distance between them. But he didn't.

"You need help," Ratio said finally, his voice resolute, but with a hint of strain. "More than either of us initially understood."

Aventurine blinked slowly, absorbing the words. His breath caught in his throat for the briefest of moments, before another sharp laugh bubbled up. This time it was louder, harsher, filled with mocking disbelief. He took a step back, shaking his head, his hand waving in a dismissive gesture.

“Don’t bother coming again.”

He didn't turn to see Ratio's reaction. He could feel the weight of the doctor's gaze on his back, heavy like a physical presence. The scrutiny he'd endured all these nights now felt unbearable.

Ratio's voice was quieter now, unbearably calm behind him. "Your deterioration will continue whether I'm here to witness it or not."

Aventurine turned slowly, the smile returning, thin and cold. "Then I'd rather deteriorate in peace." His voice was a low, dangerous murmur. "Without an audience."

Without waiting for a follow-up, Aventurine sidestepped him, his hand reaching for the door handle. He yanked it open with a sharp jerk, the early morning air rushing in like a slap to the face. The hand trembled slightly on the handle, but his smile—the only weapon he had left—remained perfectly in place.

"It’s been a hell of a game, doc, but I’d rather not play it ever again."

His eyes met Ratio's—that cold, piercing scrutiny that felt like encroachment—before violently averting his gaze. The doctor stepped out of the into the pale morning light, but for a moment his silhouette lingered in the doorway. Aventurine dared to look up again, only to find Ratio's eyes still searching his face for something. But whatever he was looking for, Aventurine wouldn't give it to him. Not anymore.

His hand clenched around the handle and he shut the door on him, the sound echoing through the now-empty apartment.

Aventurine stood there facing the closed door, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity. The silence settled around his quick breaths, the tension slowly bleeding away from his body. He sank to the floor, sliding down until he sat with his back pressed against the door. He pressed a hand on his chest, fingertips finding the grooves of his ribs, willing his thrumming pulse under control.

One of his cats slid quietly over, brushing its body against his legs, the velvet surface a quiet comfort against the lingering anger. Aventurine reached out, fingers trailing absently through its filling, grounding himself in the gentle sensation.

"Just us again, isn't it?"

The whisper escaped him like a confession, bitter and hollow in the empty air. He tilted his head back, resting it against the door, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. The stillness of the apartment swallowed him whole, and for a moment, he let the quiet wrap around him like a blanket—the same quiet he'd been so desperate to reclaim.

The floor felt cold.

Chapter Text

The sound of dripping echoed in the large bathroom, rhythmic and steady. Aventurine leaned against the sink, hands gripping porcelain, knuckles bone-white against the crimson that coated his fingers. His gaze locked on the red rivulets tracing lazy paths across his trembling hands, pooling beneath his fingernails. The metallic stench hit him—copper and salt, thick enough to taste.

I did the right thing.

The thought skipped through the fractured chambers of his mind, a litany repeating in time with each drip.

With effort, his fingers released their death grip on the sink, trembling violently as they fumbled across the counter, scattering empty glass vials. He squinted at each one, holding them up to the overhead light. His clammy hands lost purchase on the smooth surface of the glass time and time again, leaving red smears as he fumbled through the remnants of his failed attempts at relief.

Finally, a full one.

He held it up, the deep blue absorbing the light, iridescent speckles dancing within. His hand shook so violently the liquid seemed alive inside the glass. The vial slipped in his grip, slick with sweat and blood—not real, the blood isn’t real—his thumb fumbling trying to get the cap off.

The bitter smell hit him first, overcoming for a moment the blood. He tipped the vial back. The liquid flooded his mouth, paradoxically tasteless after that sharp smell. It rushed down too fast, and his body rebelled. He doubled forward, coughing, the medication threatening to come back up. He forced himself to swallow, one hand clamped over his mouth to ensure not a drop escaped. 

He stared at the empty vial, at his bloodstained fingers still pressed on his lips. Self-loathing rising in his throat—bitter as the medicine's scent.

It was too much. He knew he was taking too much. But anything to make it stop.

The amber light overhead flickered. He blinked hard. Yet still the blood dripped, each drop hitting the white porcelain with an echoing splash that seemed impossibly loud. The sound almost hypnotic, the contrast mesmerizing—

The meds were not working properly.

The world's edges softened, while every remaining sensation intensified. The amber lights overhead throbbed in sync with his pulse—brightening and dimming, casting shadows that expanded and contracted with each unsteady breath. The bathroom seemed to breathe with him. When he swayed, his fingers sought the sink again. They slipped across the smooth surface, leaving fresh streaks of crimson.

The relief would come. Any moment now.

It won’t work, you need help.

The voice slithered through the cracks in his mind. It was gaining definition lately—not just a whisper among the others, but distinct sound that seemed to come from behind his left ear. Openly derisive. Almost amused.

Aventurine knew it was wrong, though. He didn't need help. He didn’t need him.

He had been handling the nightmares long before Ratio had started his nightly visits. Before those eyes seared into him, cataloguing each twitch and murmur as he tossed in his bed like a half-dead thing. Ratio's presence had fixed nothing. The nightmares didn't stop just because the doctor was sitting in the other room with a book in his hands, taking notes of each of his weaknesses.

He was better off now, he was fine.

Of course you’re fine.

This time the voice came from the other ear, a whisper that raised goosebumps along his neck.

He turned on the faucet to drown out that mocking whisper. Cold water cascaded over his hands. He could feel its temperature—frigid, real—but beneath that sensation, the blood remained. Slick, warm, sliding between his fingers with a life of its own—just a hallucination, the blood isn't real.

He scrubbed harder. He dug his nails into his skin where it was thickest. The pain was sharp, but not enough. The phantom sensation still clung to him, refusing to be washed away.

The iron stench was becoming overbearing. Each breath pulled it deeper into his lungs, coating his insides. The medication should have dulled his senses by now, should have blunted the horror, yet everything felt sharper, more vivid than ever. His nightmares had started breaking through too often, growing deeper, more real with each night—dragging him back into that locked-away place where torches lit a desert night and chains left scars deeper than flesh could hold.

Somewhere deep within, a rational part of him still functioned. A small corner of his mind that knew this wasn't happening—couldn't be happening. He wasn’t bleeding. But that voice of reason was drowning, powerless against hallucinations that no longer felt like visions but like memories, experiences carved into his senses.

His hands slipped again, sliding along the porcelain. Blood and sweat cooling on his skin, making him shiver. He swallowed hard. The sound of his own throat working was lost beneath the rushing water and the thundering pulse in his ears.

He had been managing these episodes before. Built shields in his mind. Created corners where the unspeakable could be locked away. After the doctor was gone, he still had control over it: shadows that disappeared with a blink, whispers that dissipated when he turned his head, brief sensations quickly dismissed.

He had been managing, until THEIR visions had breached the confines of nightmares, haunting him even when he was awake. He remembered the first time, waking in his bed, sheets damp with sweat, the spreading stain of blood seeping across his covers. Soft, wet sounds in the silence of his bedroom. The sensation of another presence lying in the bed next to him, that man's unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling, caught in perpetual surprise. The wet, open cut beneath his jaw where a shard of glass had carved its path, where a brand should be.

The vision wasn’t another nightmare, it was a memory taking life—a memory of deliberate violence, of his first gambit. The price of freedom paid in blood.

He'd tried closing his eyes. But the crimson stain remained imprinted on his vision either way. His mind refused the distinction between nightmare and memory, between what he was seeing and what he had done for them. A laugh had escaped him then, a sharp, desperate sound that tore from his throat before he could stop it—the absurd reaction of a mind confronting its own unraveling.

The medication was supposed to create distance. A buffer between himself and THEM. Instead, THEIR presence continued to grow more invasive. More persistent. Still, he couldn’t help but depend on it. On the respite it offered, even when brief. Even when nothing anymore seemed to make him snap out of it.

He scrubbed his nails hard against his arm another time, desperate to erase the ghostly warmth clinging to his skin. But the sensation remained, each individual droplet tracing its path down to his elbow, almost as tangible as actual blood.

I'm fine. I made the right call.

He had to remind himself of that. Pushing Ratio away had been necessary—the alternative was worse.

You pushed him away because you couldn’t stand it.

No, he burned those bridges because the doctor had crossed a line, asked questions he had no right to ask. What happened in the dark, what escaped from Aventurine's lips during nightmares—it had to remain unaddressed. That was the unspoken agreement, the reason he'd chosen Ratio in the first place. The doctor wasn't supposed to hear, wasn't supposed to understand, wasn't supposed to care.

The constant presence had been one thing, but that—

Aventurine squeezed his eyes shut, water splashing uselessly over his wrists as his nails sank deeper into his flesh.

You're losing it.

The voice came from everywhere now. A laugh escaped him—shaky, low, bitter. The sound vibrated in his chest before it died against the tiles. His body slumped forward, no strength left to maintain, the medication draining his strength. His forehead pressed against the mirror. Blessedly cold against his fever-hot skin.

The glass fogged with each shallow exhale, clouds of condensation spreading outward. They obscured his reflection in waves that felt merciful—hiding the ruin of his face from his own sight.

"It had to be done," he murmured against the mirror, lips brushing against the smooth surface. He struggled to hold his own gaze steady through the mist. "I’ve handled worse. I can handle this."

It kept silent.

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He jerked awake, his gasp fogging the cold glass pressed against his forehead. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him, pupils blown wide, skin pale under the fluorescent glare. It felt wrong, the world around him trickling into awareness one disjointed fragment at a time—harsh light, steel fixtures, white tile.

Not his apartment. The IPC's bathroom—

The space warped around him, his fingers gripping the edge of the steel sink as vertigo swept through him. His clothes were different. When did he change? How did he get here? Did he fall asleep? No, he couldn’t have. Couldn’t remember…

Voices drifted in from the hallway, hushed and indistinct, the sounds coiling like smoke in the silent spaces of his mind. He snapped toward the door, breath coming in short, shallow pants as his ears strained, trying to separate real sounds from the constant whispers that haunted him.

Keep it together.

He was in public. In the IPC. He couldn't fall apart here, where eyes watched and evaluated and reported. Where weakness meant liability. And liability meant cashing out. Jade's terms had always been clear.

The metal of the sink felt too cold under his fingers, unnaturally so, yet somehow not cold enough to shock him back to full awareness. The sense of being watched crawled up the back of his neck, the whispers ebbing and flowing in rhythm with the steady drip of the faucet.

There is nobody but us, it said.

From beyond the mirror, another pair of eyes stared back at him, contempt glittering in its slitted pupils. The reflection was wrong—too sharp, too defined against the fading world around it. The corners of the room pressed in with angles too blurred, reality smearing at the edges. Yet the reflection remained crisp, unnaturally clear.

He shoved away from the sink.

The sudden movement made his head spin violently. He pressed his wrists against his eyes until pressure became pain. Until pain blossomed into light. Phosphenes burst behind his eyelids—starbursts of color that temporarily drowned out everything else.

Focus. You have work to do.

Reports to file. Meetings to attend. Calls to return. The obligations felt tangible in his mind—something solid to grasp when even the clammy feel of his own skin seemed unreal. His duty had always anchored him. Given him shape and substance. Purpose behind every calculated step since that day Jade had looked at him across her pristine desk and offered him the bet, the ice blue of her eyes glinting beneath the wide rim of her hat.

Keep moving. Don't stop.

He couldn't fail now. The stakes remained unchanged—victory or oblivion, no middle ground. His fingers instinctively reached for the brand at his throat, the raised skin a constant reminder of a price already paid.

He was still so far from his goal. The true victory. The final bet.

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Stumbling—

Bright fluorescent strips burned trails across his vision, white-hot filaments that lingered when he blinked.

The hallways twisted in ways they shouldn’t, the metal wall slipping like liquid under his fingertips. His pulse thudded in his ears, nearly drowning out the low murmur of voices—words slipping past him in fragmented pieces. He caught glimpses of movement. Figures pausing as he passed. Gazes pressing against his scalp like the weight of a hand.

He refused to look. To acknowledge. Keep walking.

Just make it back to the office. Close the door. Breathe.

The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing him inside. Aventurine lowered the lights with a quick gesture, but even the dimmed illumination sent needles of pain behind his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his temples. The headache only pulsed harder—dull and piercing in alternating waves, each crest higher than the last.

He vaguely registered the familiar path to his desk, but it felt like traversing a dreamscape. The room tilted when he collapsed into his chair, his stomach lurching with the movement—a constant nausea he couldn't remember starting, couldn't remember not having. The screen in front of him wavered. Shifting, warping into nonsense then snapping back into place. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn't make sense of the words. They blurred, then doubled, like they were trying to crawl off the screen.

He blinked. The time display caught his eye: 14:37.

He blinked again: 15:03.

Had twenty system minutes passed? Or hours?

He couldn't remember entering his office. Couldn't remember activating his terminal. Everything bled together, one moment melting into the next until time felt like a half-remembered dream. The soft hum of the building vibrated under his skin, but even that was distant, fading in and out like static.

Jade had kept his workload light. Just data processing while Topaz was away on the Xianzhou Luofu. The arrangement had grated on him initially... but now he was grateful for it. He wasn't sure how he could manage anything more demanding than office work right now.

The tasks, simple as they were, slipped through his mind like water. Emails took hours to compose, each word requiring multiple attempts. During calls, voices reached him through layers of distortion. His own thoughts scattered before he could follow them to conclusion.

He reached for his coffee.

His hand moved through space that seemed to stretch and contract. His depth perception failed him completely, had been for days now—objects shifted positions when he wasn't looking directly at them, distances warping unpredictably. The dark liquid splattered across the surface, pooling into the digital documents he hadn't yet reviewed, seeping into the fabric of his sleeve.

His brain lagged behind reality. First the sensations, then comprehension, finally reaction—each step separated by a chasm of delay.

He tried to activate the desk's absorption function. His fingers missed the control panel twice before connecting. Meanwhile, his other hand made futile sweeping motions, trying to contain the spreading liquid. The coffee continued its advance regardless, the liquid momentarily taking on the colors of the display beneath before reverting to darkness.

His vision swam. Shadows crept inward from the periphery.

Keep it together.

His fingers hovered above the interface. They trembled too violently to press the right sequence—spasmodic movements that bore no relation to his intentions.

The voice slipped in, uninvited as always. They’re watching you.

Aventurine's gaze darted to the doorway.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond, muffled yet somehow too loud, too deliberate. Voices murmured, their words just below understanding.

His pulse picked up. A low thrum that started in his chest, rose through his throat, and settled behind his ears like a second heartbeat. His hands were still trembling, slick with sweat. His chest tightened.

He closed his eyes, tried to steady his breathing, but the sounds only grew louder, more insistent.

Not now, not here. Not where they could see.

His skin prickled with awareness—every pore of his body conscious of a presence. 

Were they watching him?

No. It’s not them.

But it felt like it. All the time now. As though the people walking past his office door weren't really walking past at all. Their steps fell in patterns too precise to be casual.

A vigil.

Pausing. Watching. Waiting for him to break.

The faint outline of vertical lines across the doorway, bars superimposing on his reality appeared in the space of a blink. His breath stilled in his lungs. His ears caught fragments of conversation. Judgement passing in other languages. Words twisting and distorting like the letters on his screen. He blinked hard against the weight of his eyelids.

The whispers became louder. Crept into his ears like unseen tendrils, embedding themselves deep within his auditory cortex. The sounds weren't coming from outside anymore but originating within, impossible to shut out.

Then came the laughter. Soft at first, barely there. But it grew and grew, echoing from somewhere he couldn't place—

Behind him.

Beneath him.

Above.

He looked up.

The stark white office ceiling had vanished. In its place, dark blue and gold accents stretched overhead. Geometric patterns etched into the surface formed a web of stars. Each point glowed with subtle variations—some cool silver, others warm amber.

The transformation spread outward from his vision's center. The room's edges blurred and softened, the muted radiance of invisible night lights casting everything in a gentle glow that touched objects without illuminating them. A surreal stillness wrapped all around, like a gossamer veil. Everything shimmered like a memory half-formed—too vivid to be imagination, too insubstantial to be real.

He knew this place.

Penacony’s dreamscape.

He was in the Moment of Midnight. It had to be.

Then that meant—

A weight was pressed against his throat—the knife. The test. Of course.

His breath caught, sharp and shallow, burning in his lungs with each inhale. His hand shook around the hilt.

He hadn't wanted it to come to this, not really. But he needed to know. He needed to be sure. Rumors, whispers—none of it was enough. Having someone else do it would defeat the purpose. It had to be him. His hand. His risk. His bet.

He had to see ‘Death’ for himself. Had to test this anomaly in the Sweet Dream that shouldn't exist—that couldn't exist by all the established rules. Contingencies were in place if he failed. And if he succeeded…

The knife was heavy in his hand. Cold metal initially, but warming rapidly against his palm. The handle seemed to mold itself to his grip, as if it had been crafted specifically for his fingers.

It's not real. It won't matter.

His throat felt tight. Too tight to swallow. Too tight to breathe. His free hand went to his neck, fingers pressing against the skin. The pulse beneath his fingertips jumped and fluttered—erratic, frightened. The echo of each beat thrummed in his ears, each one louder than the last. He swallowed hard. The movement made his Adam's apple brush against the blade.

The knife hovered just below his brand, the metal cool enough that he could feel its temperature without making contact.

Just a test. You'll wake up.

The tremor in his fingers worked its way up his arms, spreading through his shoulders, down his spine, into his legs. The ceiling spun above him, the geometric patterns shifting and rearranging themselves like a kaleidoscope with each harsh breath. His fingers gripped the hilt tighter. The skin of his palm was damp with cold sweat that made the knife handle slippery, treacherous. His breath stuttered in his chest

It had to be done. It had to be tested. He needed to know.

No matter how much the fear crawled up his spine, no matter how much the blade trembled in his grip. He had to go through with it.

He had no other choice.

His grip on the knife tightened. The cool metal kissed his skin, gentle at first. Then came the sting as it nicked the surface of his throat.

The pain was surprising—sharp and immediate. Not the dull pressure he'd expected but a precise line of fire.

“It’ll be fine.” His own voice sounded distant, belonging to someone else. “It’ll be over soon.”

The pressure built, his breath catching as the blade bit deeper. He flinched. Gasped. Arched his back involuntarily. Pain shot through his throat, then—white-hot and searing. The blue and gold ceiling blurred together, colors bleeding into each other. Lines dissolved. Patterns merged. The structure of Penacony's dreamscape began to lose coherence.

It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. It wasn't supposed to feel this real. The dreamscape had rules.

"Just a test," he whispered through gritted teeth. "It's all part of the test."

A warm trickle slid down his neck. A creeping line that soaked into his collar. He gasped. The knife slipping in his sweat-slick grip. His fingers fumbled with the knife, trying to hold it steady.

But everything felt too real—the weight of the knife pulling at his muscles, the bite of the blade against his flesh, the wet warmth running down his skin.

The coppery smell hit him next—sharp and metallic. It filled his nostrils, rushed down his throat, settled in his lungs like hot metal poured into a mold. The scent was so thick it triggered his gag reflex, his stomach clenching in protest.

His breath came faster.

This wasn't right.

This was breaking the rules. Pain didn’t exist. Death was impossible.

It shouldn’t be so real.

Or should it?

The voice curled through his mind, cold and sardonic. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the room kept shifting, reality bleeding through the dreamscape like water through paper.

Layer by layer, the illusion dissolved. The geometric patterns overhead blurred, fractured, peeled away in translucent sheets. Beneath them emerged the stark outlines of his kitchen—harsh angles and utilitarian surfaces replacing Penacony's organic curves.

The air changed temperature and composition in that instant. The dream’s enveloping warmth vanished, replaced by a stale chill that raised goosebumps along his arms. He could hear something now, too loud, too close—his own breath, harsh and ragged in his throat.

His fingers trembled violently against the knife's hilt. The vibrations traveled up his arm, into his shoulder, down his spine.The blade faltered in his grip, slashed his hand.

The pain was immediate now. Too specific for a dream.

A line opened across his palm—clean and precise, deep enough that he could see the layers of tissue before blood welled up to fill the gap.

The blood moved with deliberate slowness. Pooling in his palm. Overflowing the edges. Tracing paths between his fingers. Forming perfect drops that fell, each hitting the white marble floor with impossible clarity.

But that wasn't right.

He was in the dreamscape.

He was testing ‘Death.’

He was—

Were you?

The marble floor shimmered with blood beneath him—the white surface first warping like a mirage in half-light, reality unstable and fluid.

Then everything snapped into unbearable focus. Hyper-real. Too detailed.

The knife slipped from his blood-slick fingers. Released, it followed the pure arc of gravity's pull. It hit the floor with a sharp clatter—metal against stone. The sound reverberated, making him flinch, his foot kicking the handle. The blade spun across the floor, leaving crimson streaks in its wake.

He stared at it, wide-eyed, his chest heaving. Each breath insufficient. Each heartbeat too hard. The sound echoed off walls that were suddenly, terrifyingly familiar.

This isn’t the dreamscape. You’re not on Penacony.

It whispered to him again, the realization slamming deep into his chest.

His vision tilted. Then narrowed. His periphery darkened, his focus constricted to a tunnel. The red streaks on the marble. The knife lying just out of reach. The blade gleaming under the neons spilling from outside. 

He stumbled backward into the counter, chest heaving, trying to force air into his lungs, but the space around him seemed to contract, his surroundings pulsing and warping like heat waves.

This is real. You’re not on Penacony.

His breath came faster now, chest tight, heart pounding hard against his ribs. He pressed a trembling hand to his neck. The blood pulsed under his touch. His fingers slid along the cut as they tried to staunch the flow. But the blood kept slipping through. Warm and thick. Finding paths of least resistance. Trickling down his neck, his collarbone, his chest in steady rivulets.

This blood felt different—heavier, more visceral, undeniably tangible. The smell of iron filled his nostrils. Thick and suffocating. Clinging to his skin like a second brand. Embedding in his hair. Saturating the very air he breathed until oxygen became a punishment. 

His body shook. First tremors, then in waves. His knees buckled, making him stumble forward. His injured hand slapped against the counter's edge—the impact sending jolts of pain up his arm. He slumped over the surface, half-standing, half-collapsed.

It was like THEIR visions, but worse—so much worse.

This wasn't a nightmare from which he could awaken.

This wasn't a hallucination he could blink away.

This was real.

This was happening.

Again.

You’re losing it.

The voice had changed again, surrounding him from all directions. Relentless. Inescapable.

He tried to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but his chest was too tight, his throat too constricted. The sound came out as a desperate wheeze, half-choked and pathetic. His body trembled with the effort of that aborted laughter, shaking with each ragged inhale. His hands pressed against the counter as he tried to keep himself upright.

The surface was cool and solid beneath his palms—the only stable element in a dissolving world. But his fingers slipped on the smooth surface, blood-slick and useless, leaving smeared red handprints that cataloged his failing struggle.

He watched, transfixed, as crimson droplets fell from his palm, joining the growing pool on the floor. Staining his clothes. Marking his skin.

It was everywhere. It wasn’t stopping.

“It’s not happening.”

It is. 

“I’m fine.”

You are not.

Reality—or what was left of it—pressed down on him like a house of cards collapsing. His pulse thundered in his ears—no longer a sound but a physical force. Each beat a sledgehammer striking his ribs from within, the impact reverberating through his entire body. The percussion traveled through bone and tissue, rattling his teeth, vibrating behind his eyes.

His legs betrayed him again. He slumped down to one knee. The impact against the hard floor registered distantly. One hand still desperately clutched the counter's edge, knuckles white with the effort of supporting his weight. His injured hand returned to his neck, but his fingers wouldn't stop shaking. They jumped and twitched against his skin, unable to apply steady pressure, unable to stem the flow.

Get up. Do something. Move.

“I can’t.”

Two simple words. The only truth he had left.

Sheer panic surged through him—a tidal wave that swept away all rational thought. His body locked up, muscles seizing in contradictory directions. Frozen not in stillness but in conflict. His mind screamed for control, for action. Desperate electrical impulses fired down nerve pathways that no longer responded, the disconnect between intention and ability absolute.

His fingers lost their final grip, no longer able to maintain friction against the smooth counter. The blood had its own texture now—thick like honey, warm like bathwater, slippery like tears.

He fell.

The impact came in sequence: knees first, hip second, elbow last. Each point of contact with the floor sent jolts of pain radiating outward, bright sparks in his darkening consciousness. The kitchen contracted around him—walls physically moving inward, ceiling descending. Space itself became hostile, compressing around him like a closing fist.

Darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision, encroaching shadows like hungry tendrils reaching for the center. Each labored breath pushed the darkness further inward, narrowing his world to a shrinking circle of light.

It’s not that bad. The cut isn’t that deep.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

The blood was too much—not just visible but overwhelming in its sensory assault. It was everywhere. He could feel it running down his neck, soaking his shirt, pooling beneath his trembling hands. The more he pressed against the wound, the more it slipped through, fingers creating channels rather than barriers.

You’re losing it.

You have to move.

You have to run.

You have to live.

His thoughts splintered, dissolved, fragmenting into disconnected impulses.

The kitchen ceiling loomed above him, shifting in and out of focus as if he was watching it through rippling water. The floor beneath him was no longer stable. His body slid slightly with each movement, unable to find purchase.

Shadows twisted in the corners of his eyes—not static darkness like before but living entities. They writhed and pulsed with distinct anatomies, reaching toward him with tendrils that left trails in the air.

He was going to die.

The certainty crystallized in his mind with terrible clarity—sharp-edged and perfect as a diamond.

His airway constricted further, the passage narrowing beyond function. Each desperate gasp brought less oxygen than the last, his lungs filling with effort but emptying of purpose.

He tried to move. Tried to do something. Anything.

Patch yourself up.

Get up.

Move.

Don’t stop.

The commands came rapidly—his rational mind making its final stand.

But his limbs wouldn't obey.

His hands shook violently, not trembling now but seizing with rhythmic intensity. They slipped again and again in their own wetness, leaving smearing patterns on the floor.

His vision transformed, fragmenting into prismatic shards. The dread was no longer emotion but physical presence—a snake squeezing tight around his chest, crushing what little breath remained with inexorable pressure. He could feel each individual scale against his skin, cold and smooth.

A sound escaped him—a gasp that might have been a scream—and something broke inside him.

The last thread of strength that had kept him partially upright unraveled completely. He sprawled across the floor in a graceless heap, blood spreading beneath him in dark rivulets that mingled with his tears. He curled in on himself, as remnants of reality crumbled around him.

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The elevator hummed around him. The low thrum of hidden machinery vibrated through the soles of his shoes, traveling up his legs in steady pulses that marked time in his body.

Aventurine leaned against the mirrored wall. One shoulder pressed to the cool glass, the temperature differential enough to be shocking. His feverish skin registered the contact as almost painful—too hot, too cold, he couldn't tell anymore. His hands remained stuffed deep into his pockets, confined there where they couldn't shake, couldn't betray him. Their tremors continued in secret, fabric rustling softly with each spasm.

He stared at the glowing numbers on the panel as they ticked up, one floor at a time, the light blinking on and off with each level. His eyes flicked between the display and his reflection, each glance at himself briefer than the last.

After that night, with the blood and the knife, he'd made a decision that felt like his last rational thought: no more sleep. He couldn’t afford to let his mind drag him under again, not anymore.

He hadn't slept in—how long had it been?

Days collapsed into each other, time stretching and contracting like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. It didn't matter. He also had abandoned the Nihility medications entirely—their bitter smell now associated with worsening symptoms rather than relief. Each dose had driven him deeper into the very nightmare landscape he was trying to escape.

Instead, he kept consciousness forced through more direct means—stimulant shots that shocked his system back to awareness whenever it threatened to shut down. Just enough to keep the edges of reality from fraying too far. Just enough to maintain the appearance of function. The hypo rested in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the metal cartridge with each slight tremor.

He could still hold on. It would be fine.

That's what he told himself. What he had to tell himself.

But the headaches never stopped. His temples throbbed with every heartbeat, each pulse sending a fresh wave of pain radiating through his skull. He blinked slowly—the movement requiring conscious effort, eyelids dragging like sandpaper over dry corneas.

His eyes caught on his reflection again. This time, he allowed himself to look for longer. It stared back at him—this diminished version of himself.

His eyes were half-lidded and bloodshot, the whites webbed with red capillaries that mapped his exhaustion. The rose-tinted glasses meant to hide the worst of it were smudged and askew, one arm sitting higher than the other. His skin had a waxen quality—pale and stretched too thin over increasingly prominent bones, as though his body was consuming itself from within.

The dermal regeneration band under his brand concealed the physical evidence of that night—its adhesive pulling slightly at his skin with each movement of his neck. But this haphazard measure couldn't hide how far he'd fallen.

Even his clothing betrayed him now. The suit—once meticulously tailored to his exact measurements—hung wrong on his frame. The collar that once sat perfectly against his throat now gaped slightly, revealing glimpses of the bandage beneath. The sleeves extended just a fraction too far past his wrists, exposing how much mass he had lost in so short a time.

His body was becoming a stranger—shrinking away from his clothing like it was trying to disappear entirely.

The elevator lurched slightly, the sudden shift in movement making his stomach twist. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the cold mirror, and took a slow breath against the vertigo. The air felt wrong—too thick, too heavy. Like trying to breathe underwater. His lungs burned with the effort, each inhale catching somewhere in his throat. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him like a physical thing, but he pushed it away—always push it away.

“I’ve handled worse.”

He frowned. The voice was unfamiliar in his own ears—thick, rougher, consonants blending into vowels without distinction. When had his speech started to go? Another system failing without warning. Another piece of himself slipping away unnoticed until its absence became undeniable.

Something flickered in the polished doors as the lights overhead buzzed. Shadows had gathered in the corners, undulating, swelling, refusing to settle.

The lights flickered again, and his reflection... moved.

He narrowed his eyes. The movement created a strange doubling effect—his actual eyelids narrowing a fraction of a second before his reflection's did.

He stared at it.

He blinked deliberately, watching closely.

The reflection blinked too.

Probably just the unstable lighting.

His breath slowed, the tightness in his chest unwinding as the hum of the elevator grew louder. His eyes flicked to the panel again—floor 271. Almost there. He just had to make it through the day, through the next meeting, through the next assignment.

It didn't matter that the world appeared through a perpetual haze—reality filtered through frosted glass that distorted edges and blurred details.

It didn't matter that he'd been blinking and finding himself in different locations—opening his eyes in conference rooms with no memory of how he'd arrived, discovering himself mid-sentence in conversations he hadn't begun, missing minutes or hours that vanished without trace.

None of it mattered because he could still hold on.

He just had to keep himself awake.

He was fine.

You can’t lie to me.

The voice emerged from the mirror itself, taunting and derisive, cutting through the fog of exhaustion with terrible clarity.

Aventurine blinked. Once. Twice.

The reflection stared back at him, but everything about it was wrong.

It stood too straight, too composed, unlike his own exhausted slump. The eyes—his own eyes—looked sharper than they should be, magenta irises stark with contempt, cyan around slit pupils that fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

The reflection tilted its head slightly, regarding him with patient curiosity, as if it had been waiting all along, only now choosing to reveal itself. Aventurine's mouth went dry. He tried to swallow but couldn't generate enough saliva to complete the action.

His analytical mind tried desperately to assert control, to find rational explanation. The polished surface of the mirror couldn't distort enough for this to be a simple trick of light. The reflective properties of the glass couldn't account for the independent movement.

And even if they could—tricks of light didn't smile like that.

The figure's eyes gleamed with a dark certainty in the fluorescent light. You’re on the far end. It’s only going to get worse from here.

Aventurine's breath hitched, his fingers grappling the cold metal railing behind him.

The reflection adjusted its posture, its gloved hand straightening its collar with a deliberate flourish, mimicking Aventurine’s own mannerisms. Its lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. That same ruthless smile with which Aventurine regarded his opponents, now turned against him with unconcealed satisfaction.

"It's fine. It’s not real," Aventurine muttered under his breath. “I can fix this.”

The words felt hollow in his mouth, useless even as they formed. His voice emerged wrong against a mouth too dry, tongue feeling swollen and awkward as he tried to form the sounds—symptoms of the stimulants, of dehydration, of his unraveling mind.

The reflection tilted its head again, the movement more exaggerated this time. The smirk widened into something predatory, showing too many teeth.

Can you?

Aventurine stared, unable to break visual contact, unable to reply.

The reflection raised its hand with fluid grace, gloved fingers expertly manipulating a poker chip that hadn't been there a moment before. Rolling it over knuckles, passing it between fingers, executing the exact fluid motion Aventurine used when contemplating a bet. The movement created a soft, rhythmic sound as the chip clicked against each of its golden rings, the noise distinct and hypnotic.

Not talking anymore? The voice changed timber—becoming light and sneering, almost sing-song. That’s not like us.

The 'us' scraped against his nerves like fingernails on glass. He wanted to protest that there was no 'us'—that this grotesque parody was not him, could not be him, was separate from him in every way that mattered. But his throat had closed up, words dying before they could form. 

The reflection's smile only grew, knowing exactly what he couldn't say. The chip continued its mesmerizing journey across gloved knuckles, never dropping, never faltering in the silence.

The elevator dinged suddenly—the sound penetrating his consciousness like a nail into his brain. The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the corridor beyond.

But Aventurine remained frozen in place, his body still pressed against the elevator wall. His hands trembled around the metal railing, fingers slipping as he continued to stare at his reflection.

You can’t outrun this. The tone had shifted again, the previous mockery softening into false sympathy that was somehow more unsettling. It’s the house you’re betting against this time around, we can’t win.

“I always win,” he choked out finally, firmly turning his back to the reflection. "I will fix this."

He stumbled out of the elevator before the doors could close—his exit neither graceful nor controlled, but a desperate escape on legs that felt like lead. His vision swam, the edges of the corridor warping and shifting as if the walls were breathing, expanding and contracting with each step.

He wobbled mid-stride, his equilibrium failing completely for three heartbeats before partially restoring itself. His hand shot out instinctively, brushing against the wall for support. His fingers trailed over the surface—expecting the smooth coolness of steel panels but instead finding himself tracing the outline of cracks in stone. The sensation was so vivid, so specific, that he glanced down at his fingers, as if he’d find stone dust on his skin.

The fluorescent strips flickered overhead, their stable illumination stuttering, dimming, then failing completely. In their place, torchlight emerged—dancing flames casting warm, inconsistent light that moved with living rhythm against the walls. The fire brought heat with it—a dry warmth that touched his face in waves.

Then, the smell of wood smoke from distant fires, of sand baked by relentless sun, of night-blooming flowers carried on a nonexistent breeze. Sound followed—voices calling to each other, whisper of sand shifting across dunes, the distant chanting of prayers.

He blinked.

The action was deliberate—eyelids pressed firmly together for a full minute, the darkness behind them offering momentary respite.

When his eyes opened, the IPC corridor reasserted itself. The transition wasn't gentle but jarring, like being thrust from one reality into another without warning.

Stop fighting it.

It was there again, closer now, no longer confined to the mirror. He could feel its presence behind him, a cold, steady weight pressing against the back of his head.

Aventurine's breath hitched, and he whirled around, half-expecting to see someone standing there.

But the hallway was empty.

Yet the weight of unseen eyes pressed down on him from every angle, the pressure heaviest on the crown of his head, his shoulders, his nape—points of awareness that felt like actual contact rather than mere paranoia.

You’re not going to sleep, and you’re not going to stay awake forever. It spoke again from a point behind him, its tone calm and measured, almost clinical in its detachment. What’s the plan?

He had no answer. He didn’t want to answer.

Aventurine walked faster. The movement was awkward, uncoordinated, his feet occasionally catching on perfectly smooth flooring. He tried to put distance between himself and whatever was following him, but the presence maintained exact separation regardless of his speed.

This is beyond you now. It continued, now directly beside him, voice brushing against his ear. You can’t survive this alone. You know you can’t.

He could see it now.

Not clearly, but undeniably present—another figure walking just at the edge of his sight, walking in step with him. He refused to look at it directly, understanding on some fundamental level that direct acknowledgment would give it greater substance. But its presence felt tangible, as physically real as the wall his fingers gripped for stability.

“I always manage alone,” Aventurine muttered, his voice rasping. He stumbled again, catching himself against the wall. “I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The response came not as a vague impression, but as an actual person speaking. The tone carried absolute certainty, spoken with the confidence of someone who could see the future and found it grimly amusing.

He turned instinctively. The figure beside him was now a fully realized presence: tall as him, posture impeccable, head held at the precise angle that projected confidence. It wore his own features without exhaustion's toll, without the ravages of medication and sleeplessness. But those eyes—those magenta and cyan eyes unconcealed by any tinted glasses—watched him with detached interest. A seasoned gambler watching an amateur betting his life on a hand already lost.

"We've always been alone, haven't we?" The figure said, its voice almost gentle. "No one can help us. It's always just you."

Aventurine swallowed hard, his breath coming in short bursts. "I can handle it."

"You can't." It didn't sound accusatory, only factual. "You're seeing me again. It means you're close."

Aventurine's vision blurred again. The corridor ahead stretched impossibly—distances warping, extending beyond what physics should allow. The far end receded even as he watched, pulling away like a visual echo expanding into infinity.

His next step met unexpected resistance. His foot slipped—IPC flooring suddenly failing to provide traction. The material beneath him morphed, from rigid carpeting to fine sand that shifted under his weight.

He stumbled forward, his designer shoes sinking ankle-deep in an instant. The quicksands created resistance that threatened to claim his footwear entirely. His fingers clawed at the air as he tried to regain balance, hands grasping for supports that didn't exist. The ground pulled at his ankles with hungry insistence, the sensation disturbingly animate, as though the sand possessed consciousness and intention.

The transformation expanded outward from the floor, claiming the entire environment. IPC walls fell away like theater scenery being raised into the rafters.

Overhead, where institutional ceiling panels had been, storm clouds gathered across a violet sky—dark and heavy, pregnant with rain that perpetually threatened but never delivered. The air took on the charged quality that precedes lightning, raising the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

At the horizon, the sun fought through cloud gaps—a bloated red-orange orb half-swallowed by the earth. Its dying light cast long, distorted shadows across dunes that shouldn't exist. The light brought color but no warmth, the temperature dropping rapidly as the sun descended.

His pulse thundered in his ear, as he struggled to orient himself in this impossible landscape. He looked down at his hands, watching his fingers sink deep into fine sand grains, the roughness scraping at his skin. The texture was distinct and specific, not a general grittiness but the exact tactile memory of how he remembered it felt.

"There."

The figure had followed him, perfectly composed as it raised one finger. Aventurine’s eyes followed the indicated direction, focusing into the distance where the dunes met the violent sky.

In the distance, he saw her.

A figure standing beyond the next dune—feminine, slender, familiar in a way that bypassed conscious recognition and struck directly at his core. Her long blonde hair swept around her in a wind he couldn't feel, the strands catching the last light like filaments of gold.

Aventurine’s breath caught in his throat.

He could hear her laughter—clear yet distant, carried on the wind like a soft melody. The sound was perfectly preserved in his memory: the specific cadence, the slight catch at the end, the way it lilted upward in its final notes.

She raised a hand, beckoning him, like she would always do when evening came.

His chest tightened painfully—a vise squeezing around his ribs, constricting his lungs, making each shallow breath a struggle. The physical pain was matched by an emotional surge that threatened to overwhelm him completely—longing and guilt and grief intertwining into a single unbearable pressure behind his sternum.

His legs trembled as he forced himself to his feet—muscles protesting, joints unstable, but determination overriding physical limitation. The sand tried to hold him in place, to claim him, but he fought against its pull with newfound strength drawn from a source deeper than conscious will.

The distance between them seemed both infinite and negligible—a paradox of perception where she was simultaneously unreachable and within grasp. The contradiction didn't matter. Nothing mattered except moving toward her.

Wait for me, sister.

He tried to call out—the words forming in his mind with perfect clarity, the desperate plea rising from somewhere within. His lips moved, shaping each syllable with exaggerated care, but his voice wouldn't come. His vocal cords vibrated uselessly, producing nothing but a dry rasp that didn't carry beyond his own ears.

She seemed to sense his failed attempt. Her head tilted slightly, as though catching an echo too faint to identify. Then she turned away—the movement deliberate but unhurried. Her silhouette wavered against the darkening sky, edges blurring and re-forming as though she existed partially in another dimension.

The desert unfurled before him—vast and indifferent, stretching beyond comprehension in all directions. Dunes appeared where moments before he had seen nothing, their shapes precise and familiar.

He stumbled forward—each step both too long and too short, the distance still refusing to behave according to normal physics. His vision narrowed, peripheral awareness fading until only a small circle of focus remained. Within this limited field, only her silhouette held clarity—a dark cutout against torchlights.

He couldn't let her slip away. Not again.

The sky continued its transformation—deepening from violet to indigo to a black so absolute it seemed to absorb light rather than merely lack it. The sun slipped beneath the horizon in visible increments, the final crescent lingering briefly before surrendering to night.

The scorching heat dissolved with unnatural speed, heat bleeding from the sand as if chased away by the approaching night. A bone-deep chill invaded his body, penetrating through layers of clothing, through skin and muscle, settling into his marrow with parasitic determination.

Whispers swirled around him, initially indistinct but growing clearer as he strained to understand. Each new voice layered upon existing ones, merging with the stillness of approaching danger. Torchlight flickered between dunes, bobbing flames casting grotesque shadows that stretched and warped with each gust of a wind he couldn’t feel.

He ducked into a pocket of shadow, the movement instinctive rather than calculated. His breath came in sharp, irregular bursts, each exhalation forming small clouds of condensation that betrayed his position. His heart stuttered in his chest, beats coming too close together, adrenaline flooding already overwhelmed pathways.

He squinted toward the point where the sun had died—straining to penetrate the night, to catch some glimpse of her.

She wasn't there anymore.

He couldn't see her.

The wind picked up without warning—changing from an unfelt sensation to violent gale in the span of heartbeats. Sand whipped against his exposed skin, each grain grazing at his cheeks. He looked around frantically, his breathing picking up again. He pressed a small palm over his mouth to stifle his sounds, acutely aware of his position.

The voices surrounding him grew louder, more insistent. Different tones emerged from the darkness: commands, warnings, screams. Different languages overlapped: the familiarity of Sigonian, the harsh syllables of the Katicans, the rounded precision of the standard language. The sounds built upon each other, layering and intertwining until they became an incomprehensible roar—a wall of noise that pressed against him from all directions with physical force.

Then suddenly, cutting through it all with impossible clarity:

Run, Kakavasha! Run away and don't look back!

Her voice reached him, crystal clear above the chaos. He spun around, desperate to locate her. But he saw only shadows and strange, shifting forms—darkness that seemed to possess substance, shapes that suggested humanity. He tried to run toward where he thought her voice had come from, but his limbs felt leaden, unresponsive.

It was getting late—he was too late.

The cold penetrated deeper, numbing him from the inside out. He lurched forward, the movement ungainly. His knees hit hard against something that wasn't sand anymore but jagged stone. The texture beneath him had transformed without warning, granular softness replaced by unyielding rock with edges sharp enough to cut.

The world around him transformed again—dunes melting away like wax, the moon of Sigonia-IV suddenly appearing between breaks in the clouds. He hesitated, frozen between fleeing toward her voice and running away as she'd commanded.

The choice was stolen from him as torchlight flared bright around the nearest dune—multiple flames appearing simultaneously, their sudden illumination painfully intense after the darkness. The light brought no warmth, only exposure.

Voices barked commands in Katican—harsh consonants and clipped vowels that he understood despite wishing otherwise. The words were explicit, tactical, coordinating a search pattern designed to leave no hiding place unexplored.

He had to run.

He had to keep running.

He had to leave her behind.

His legs faltered again beneath him, too short, too weak to carry him. His chest constricted, breath coming in panicked bursts too shallow for his smaller ribcage. He stumbled again in that smaller body, foot catching on uneven ground.

The cave mouth appeared before him, a black wound in the mountainside, jagged and irregular. The opening yawned high but narrowed at the bottom where he needed to enter. The darkness within was not merely absence of light but something more tangible, a physical substance that spilled outward like liquid shadow.

Wind howled around the entrance, carrying the scent of dust and unfallen rain. He hesitated at the threshold, the darkness beyond absolute and terrifying. Behind him, boots crunched on gravel. Shouts growing closer. Torchlight reflected off metal as the pursuers crested the ridge.

No choice.

No choice left.

He plunged into the cave, leaving the moonlight behind, surrendering himself to complete visual deprivation. The temperature dropped with each step, falling in measurable increments. The air grew unnaturally still the deeper he went—not merely calm but suspended, as though time itself slowed in this lightless place. The atmosphere gained density, each breath requiring more effort to draw in, more force to expel.

A steady drip of water echoed from somewhere ahead. Each droplet created ripples of sound that expanded outward, then inward, then outward again in patterns that defied acoustics. His feet stumbled over unseen obstacles, each step a gamble. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew louder yet more indistinct, echoing strangely in the tunnel.

Deeper and deeper he fled—each step taking him further from the known world, further from safety, further from his own time and reality. The tunnel narrowed with each step—the convergence subtle at first, then increasingly pronounced. The walls crept inward from both sides, the ceiling descended gradually, the very space he occupied shrinking around him.

Ahead, the passage contracted to a single point, an anomaly that appeared to consume light itself. The edges of the circle exhibited strange properties: ambient cave darkness visibly warped, space compressed into a perfect circle, creating gravitational lensing where no gravity well should exist.

Whispers emerged from that spatial impossibility—soft and insistent, multiple voices speaking in perfect synchronization. The sounds bypassed his ears entirely, slipping directly into his mind like threads of silk being drawn through the porous barrier of his skull. The sensation was both intimate and violating, foreign thoughts unspooling within his own consciousness.

You are close now, don’t stop.

He crawled forward—movement now reduced to incremental progress, elbows and knees pushing against unyielding stone. Something primal within him screamed in warning, instinct recognizing threat where conscious thought still hesitated. Yet his body continued its advance toward that terrible singularity.

The tunnel constricted further around him, the space beginning to conform precisely to his body's dimensions, creating a stone coffin that always maintained just enough clearance for agonizingly slow forward progress.

His fingers clawed desperately at the ground—nails breaking against stone, skin abrading to expose raw flesh beneath. The tunnel floor had transformed, now slick with freezing water that seemed to seep from the very stone itself. He tried to stand, to escape from the cold, but his body trembled violently, refusing to obey.

Let go.

The command resonated at a frequency that made his bones vibrate within his flesh. The words weren't merely heard but physically experienced, each syllable creating specific patterns of tremors through his whole form.

His fingers twitched spasmodically. They grasped desperately for something, anything—a handhold, a protrusion, a texture difference that might provide purchase. But the tunnel had transformed completely now, surfaces becoming uniformly smooth, offering nothing to hold onto.

The water rose around him, relentless, inexorable. From his knees to his thighs, then to his hips. Each inch was claimed by the freezing void. The cold was all-consuming, absolute. It seeped past skin, past muscle, past bone, to chill his very core. The sensation transcended physical discomfort, becoming something more fundamental—an existential chill that affected not just his body but the essence of his being.

Give up.

The singularity now dominated his perception completely—the small circular opening having expanded to fill his entire field of awareness. It stretched out in every direction, endless, featureless, swallowing everything. The nothingness wasn't merely absence but active negation.

The water surrounding him transformed as it rose—growing thicker, more viscous with each centimeter of ascent. It clung to him like tar, pulling him down, dragging him deeper into its depths. It rose to his chest now. Icy tendrils extended from the main body of the substance, reaching out with deliberate motion, wrapping around his neck with careful precision.

You want this.

The statement wasn't a question but a declaration—absolute certainty delivered with perfect understanding of his deepest desires.

His hand moved underwater of its own accord, a deeper impulse driving the motion. Fingers brushed against his pocket, movements slowed by the viscous water, searching frantically for something he couldn't name but desperately needed.

But there was nothing there. No lifeline. No medical advice like last time. Nothing.

Just the cold, sticky blackness rising higher. The substance pulled him downward with increasing force, inch by inch marking the erasure of another boundary. The tendrils wrapped around his face—covering his eyes, filling his ears, sealing his nostrils, slithering between his lips. The substance tasted of nothing, as if the concept of taste had been erased from his senses.

His fingers spasmed in one final, desperate jerk, the last ounce of strength his body could summon. The darkness claimed these final movements as it had claimed everything else, absorbing motion itself into stillness.

His vision went then, the black of the sea and the white of the light merging into uniform gray. Then the gray itself darkened to perfect black, until even the concept of vision became meaningless.

Come.

THEIR call resounded from deep within, fragments of that nonexistence that had nearly consumed him once before. The communication existed beyond time: past, present, and future simultaneous, experience both happening and remembered at once.

THEY surrounded him, unfolded in patient invitation as if in waiting for his inevitable return. The sensation wasn't malevolent but utterly alien, operating according to principles that he couldn't comprehend but could experience.

He yielded to the pull—not with resignation but with a strange combination of terror and relief. The surrender wasn't merely physical but existential. The echo of nothingness rushed up to meet him, the cold remnants of that impossible sea swallowing him whole. His final awareness wasn't of drowning but of dissolution, his identity separating becoming indistinguishable from the medium that consumed them.

His last thought, coherent yet fragmentary, connected past to present: This is how it was supposed to happen.

Then even thought itself surrendered to the void.

Chapter Text

Consciousness ripped through him like shattered glass, each fragment splintering through him as it surfaced. Thoughts flickered and died before forming, leaving only the raw edges of sensation—too sharp, too much. Sound crashed against his skull. Distorted. Threatening. Inhuman.

The world surged and collapsed. Darkness bled into light and back again. Shapes hovered above him. Shifting, warping, their edges bleeding into the blinding white beyond. They held him down. Pressure—everywhere—pinning, restraining.

Tendrils coiled around his arms, his legs, his chest—sinking deep, twisting through muscle, wrapping around bone. His body convulsed in protest, but the movements were jerks and spasms, disconnected from intention. Sweat burned in his nostrils. A chemical sting followed, sharp and metallic. His mouth tasted of copper and bile. His tongue felt wrong—too large, choking him from the inside.

"L-let... go..."

The words tore from his throat in shredded breaths, barely more than a rasp. Teeth chattered, the sound grinding in his head, like sand between stones.

"Off... get off..."

His body twisted against the restraints—muscles seizing, locking, rebelling. Heat bloomed through his chest as his heart crashed against his ribs. His heel lashed out blindly, connecting with something solid. A grunt—startled, human—filtered through the static.

The voices sharpened suddenly. Urgent. Warbling. Layers upon layers, overlapping in sounds he couldn't understand.

They're going to hurt you. They're going to hurt you. They're going to—

The pressure intensified. Weight bore down on his chest, his limbs, his skull. His heartbeat filled his head, each pulse like a spike driving into bone. His breath hitched—lungs seizing, refusing to expand. Panic crawled up his throat.

A flash of red and white among the shadows.

Familiar like tents set ablaze—comfort wrapped in the choking heat of danger. His mind lurched toward the recognition, but something dark coiled beneath it, a warning he couldn't grasp.

His mind reached for it, fingers clawing through memory. Recognition slipped away, dissolving before it could take shape. But it meant something. It meant he couldn't stay here.

They found you. They found you again.

Another shudder ripped through him, muscles locking in agonized rigidity. His arm jerked—another impact. Voices rose, frantic now.

Run.

Run.

Run.

The pressure changed. Hands. Too many hands. Pinning him down, dragging him under. His vision throbbed with each thunderous heartbeat, narrowing, blackening.

Then cold.

A sudden flood of it rushing through his veins—icy fire spreading from his neck. The sting barely registered before the numbness followed, seeping outward. Muscles unraveled. Breath slowed. His thoughts broke apart, splintering.

You're dying, it whispered softly in his ear before the void claimed him again.

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A mechanical rhythm penetrated the darkness.

Steady. Insistent. Like a heartbeat.

He inhaled sharply—sterile, antiseptic air filling his lungs. His mind clawed its way to the surface, fragments of awareness assembling themselves in jagged pieces through fluttering eyelids. Unfamiliar sheets. Cold light. Not his ceiling.

His limbs felt leaden, disconnected. When he tried to lift his hand, resistance bit into his wrist.

Chains.

The realization cut through the remaining haze like a knife. His eyes snapped fully open, heart rate spiking as the monitor beside him betrayed his panic with quickening beeps. Both wrists secured to the bed rails. Not chains—medical restraints.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the padded cuffs dig deeper. His breath shortened into ragged gasps as his mind flooded with fragments from another life—the weight of metal, the sting of submission, the suffocating press of powerlessness. Sweat bloomed cold and sudden along his spine, the beeping around him intensifying.

Run.

The imperative lodged itself bone-deep, jolting his deadened limbs into action. He twisted against the restraints, skin burning as the cuffs cut into his flesh. Pain barely registered through the desperate need to escape, to flee, to move. A guttural sound—half-growl, half-whimper—escaped his throat as he yanked harder, the bed frame rattling when they didn’t yield.

With a violent effort, he swung his legs off the bed, bare feet connecting with cold tile. The sensation shot up through his calves, his thighs, a jolt of reality that fragmented instantly. The world tilted violently on impact, head spinning as he tried to stand. His body trembled uncontrollably, refusing to support him, turning to liquid beneath his skin. Everything hurt—as if his muscles had been torn apart and poorly reassembled. How long had he been unconscious? Hours? Days?

That voice returned, insistent:

Run. Don't look back. Run.

A soft hiss—the door. His head jerked toward the sound, vision doubling before barely focusing. Yellow uniform. A nurse. Her features swam in and out of clarity as his brain struggled to process her presence. One moment a stranger, next moment a guard, then someone else entirely—images superimposing, separating, merging again.

His heart hammered harder. Each beat thumped behind his eyes, against his temples, down his spine, around him.

Don't let them near you.

"Stay... stay away..." The words slurred together, his tongue useless in his mouth.

When her hand touched his shoulder, he flinched as if branded, skin crawling beneath the contact.

"No—"

His attempt to bat her hand away produced only a weak, uncoordinated jerk that accomplished nothing. His consciousness was already slipping away again, darkness creeping in from the edges. He felt himself sagging against the bed’s edge, legs buckling entirely.

The sheets rasped against his hypersensitive skin when the nurse guided him back down, his body sinking into the mattress with a resistance he couldn't muster. The fight drained from his limbs, leaving him hollow and exhausted.

Stay awake.

His eyelids fluttered against the overwhelming vertigo, but he forced them open. The ceiling above split and reformed, gold and white, two places struggling to resolve into one. The nurse moved in his peripheral vision, adjusting something on the monitor. Each soft beep hammered against his skull.

"Don't... don't put me to sleep," he murmured, voice barely more than a ghost of sound. His words tangled together, meaningless. He could see pity swimming in her eyes when she glanced down at him, the expression cutting deeper than any restraint. Something inside him crumbled, a shield he couldn't rebuild fast enough. "I—I don’t... plea..."

His body refused him before he could finish the protest.

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The door hissed open for what felt like the hundredth time since morning.

Aventurine didn't look up, his eyes fixed on the phone resting in his hands. "You guys can stop asking about the psych eval, I'm not consenting," he muttered, his voice low and raspy. His thumb scrolled absentmindedly across the screen. "You put me through enough already…"

There was a pause, just long enough for his tired brain to notice. Then the voice came, dry and familiar, cutting through the stillness.

"The Amber Lord knows you need it."

His head snapped up, surprise momentarily overtaking his practiced indifference.

Topaz stood in the doorway, the harsh hospital light catching the pale strands of her hair. A tablet was clutched under her crossed arms, her posture slightly less rigid than usual but in a way that struck him as deliberate. There was a faint crease between her brows, blue eyes holding his gaze with careful composure. The intensity in her gaze created a momentary lapse, one he found unnerving.

Yet, it wasn't her demeanor that struck him as odd—even on the brink of death, there was no such thing as a personal visit among Cornerstones. Everything was transactional, every interaction calculated. Her presence here carried weight he couldn't yet measure.

She lingered at the doorsill, as if waiting for his permission. He fumbled for a smirk, trying to shrug off the stiffness of the moment and the suspicion building at the base of his skull.

"No flowers? That's a faux pas, Director."

Topaz raised an eyebrow, her expression settling into something more familiar. "I brought data instead," she replied, stepping into the room with measured confidence. Numby waddled in after her, snuffling softly as they followed her across the floor.

Aventurine leaned against the bed tray, his smirk softening into something more natural. "Ever the professional…" His eyes flicked briefly to the tablet in her hand. "What kind of data?"

Topaz set the tablet next to his arm, careful not to disturb the IV at his elbow. “Yesterday's meeting report. I figured you'd want some graphs to cozy up with.”

Aventurine hummed noncommittally, his focus returning again to his phone. He wasn’t even halfway through his sent folder, and each email he saw only deepened the tight knot in his stomach. Strings of words that made up disconnected sentences in the best cases; in others cases, they were unintelligible ramblings. Some of the gibberish could be laughed off, passed as inside jokes to some of his more familiar contacts. But others—official communications, sent to clients or higher-ups—were complete nonsense.

The worst part was that he had no memory of typing any of it.

"You…" He started, the silence stretching uncomfortably as he continued staring at his screen. Topaz’ fingers tightened around the corner of the tablet. He cleared his throat, still tapping at the screen, "You could've sent the report by mail… or dispatched one of your underlings."

Topaz hummed, the sound softer than her usual dismissive note. "Thought you'd appreciate the personal touch."

A dry chuckle slipped from his lips in place of a reply as he caught another email. His fingers twitched, the urge to rip at his IV returning as his thoughts muddled together. He kept scrolling, as if that would help him untangle the mess in his head. "You should've brought me something nicer, then."

He caught her fingers sliding from the tray at the edge of his vision. "They only have chocolates downstairs. Not exactly your thing, are they?"

Aventurine lifted his eyes from the screen, his gaze narrowing slightly, a small smirk playing on his lips when he looked at her. "Neither are flowers," he said lightly. "Hard candies do it for me. Keep it in mind for next time."

There was another of those soft sounds from her, the kind that might've sounded more natural if it weren't for that undercurrent of tension beneath. She stepped closer and sat at the edge of his bed, Numby hopping onto her lap. It slightly irritated him that she hadn't asked him first, but he lacked the energy to protest.

Topaz didn't say more, but Aventurine could feel the weight of her expectant gaze—deliberately patient. He recognized the technique, a careful silence designed to draw him out.

"So," he resumed, taking the lead again rather than revealing himself in the pause, "How come you're here? Didn't you have business over that Alliance's ship?"

Her hand paused mid-stroke on Numby's back. "Of course I went," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Got back last week, in fact."

Aventurine's fingers froze over the screen. Last week? His mind scrambled to place this in some temporal context, but the timeline felt slippery, distorted. The conversation where she'd mentioned the upcoming trip seemed like it had happened just days ago, not over a month ago.

"Oh," he managed, the simple sound requiring more effort than it should. "Something interesting coming out of it?" he asked, more to continue filling the space than from genuine interest.

“A fighting competition is just that.” Topaz pushed the tablet back on the tray when Aventurine’s arms twitched. “They had a little crisis midway, but that’s just how things are going down there lately. I managed to meet with people from Jarilo VI and oh—the Astral Express’ crew gives you their greetings too.”

Aventurine nodded absently, barely registering her words through his growing unease. How much time did he lose? He scowled at the screen, thumb hovering on the keyboard, trying to recall what he was writing, the words just out of reach.

After a beat, she said quietly, "You didn't miss much yesterday.”

“I should hope so,” he muttered, distracted, trying to find the word for... something. It started with ‘r,’ unreliable, irresponsible—damn it, what was it? Why couldn’t he remember? The edges of his vision wobbled slightly as his temples pulsed with his headache. It wasn’t just Topaz’ trip, the emails. He couldn’t even remember—

He blinked, shaking the thought away. “Did you go?”

There was a hesitation, a pause long enough to make him uneasy. "I caught the first half," she finally replied, her tone casual but measured. "Had to step out before the meeting finished."

Aventurine hummed, fingers finding the word at last: 'reckless'. "Important call?"

Topaz shifted slightly, her posture stiffening in a way most wouldn't notice. "Something like that," she said, her attention suddenly fixed on Numby. Her fingers moved from their snout to the trotter's small wings, flapping them around to the creature’s squealing dismay.

She chuckled and let them go, but her hand found another thing to fidget with, her bracelet. A rare tell. She only fidgeted with it during negotiations when she was holding something back. His eyes drifted to the tablet she'd brought—yesterday's meeting report, not essential information, not sent electronically but personally hand-delivered. To his hospital room. Where she'd appeared unannounced.

Then, the right question to ask is why.

The voice slipped through the fog in his mind like a cold draft. His reflection in the black screen of his phone caught his attention, his own eyes staring back. She knows. He tried to blink it away, but it left a lingering chill. The pieces didn't fit. Topaz making a personal visit, avoiding details about yesterday, that strange look when she'd first entered his room—

She knows what you did.

His head pounded harder, each beat sending waves of pain through his skull. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temples, trying to silence the whispers spiraling beyond his control.

Topaz’ voice reached him, effortlessly sympathetic. “You should take a break.”

He grumbled but complied, shoving the phone aside and letting out a slow breath. He had no energy to waste on pointless conjectures, he had to make sure.

His voice was low when he spoke, "What’s... what's the official story?"

Topaz' fingers paused briefly on Numby's head. "What do you mean?"

"About me. About..." he gestured vaguely at the hospital room, the machines, his current state, "...this."

Topaz shifted slightly. "It's being handled. That's all anyone needs to know."

There was something in her evasiveness that didn't sit right with him. The sole fact that he was in an IPC medical facility rather than his apartment suggested something far more serious had happened. The gap in his memory yawned wider, an abyss he couldn't bring himself to peer into directly.

"And our Lady?" he asked, the slight snag of his teeth catching on his tongue making his attempt at casual fall short. Watch her hands. "What does she think about all this?"

He could see it then—Topaz' fingers stiffened over Numby's bow, followed by a barely-there shift in her posture as if she'd been caught off-guard. The suspicion, vague before, flared into something more solid in his gut. His eyes narrowed, watching her closely as she scratched the back of Numby's ears, her gaze still fixed on the trotter's black and white hide.

He leaned forward a fraction, probing. "She's aware of the situation, I assume?"

"Of course she is," Topaz said, a little too offhanded. "You know how it is, nothing escapes her attention."

That wasn't an answer, just another deflection—and a poor one at that. Aventurine cocked his head, his eyes narrowing further. "That's what I'm saying. Usually, she'd be the first to..." He trailed off, unsure exactly what he expected. A reprimand? A warning? Or something worse? "...assess the damaged goods herself."

He half-expected Topaz to snap back, defend Jade like she usually did, but she fell silent. She hesitated again, her fingers stilling on Numby's back as tension crept into her shoulders. Aventurine could feel his heart starting to race, a strange sense of unease crawling over his skin.

"What do you..." Topaz started, then stopped, her voice faltering. She rephrased, more carefully. "How much do you remember about yesterday, Aventurine?"

His fingers tightened around the phone, metal edges pressing against the regeneration patch on his palm. What kind of question was that?

The response was instinctive.

"Bits and pieces," he muttered, a vague shrug accompanying the words. He knew it sounded unconvincing, but he had no intention to admit how much he didn't remember. He didn't want to think about the missing pieces that made him feel like a stranger in his own body.

Topaz was still watching him with that same unreadable expression, waiting for more. Aventurine tried to course-correct, muttering, "Most of it." His voice was tight as he set the phone down, slipping his hands beneath the tray to hide the tremor in them.

Fragmented images flickered at the edges of his consciousness—his apartment in disarray, the amber bathroom light, the constant tang of blood on his tongue, a cold blade pressing against his neck… He pushed the thoughts away before they could fully form.

Topaz' voice broke through his retreat yet again. "Did they explain your condition when you woke up?"

She was still looking at him, and his gaze drifted to the bedside table. He reached for the glass of water—a too-transparent attempt to buy time. She recognized the deflection attempt, reaching for it first and holding it out from him. When he tried to take it, she maintained her grip, forcing him to meet her eyes.

Aventurine scowled. "Only the details about what they administered me."

"Did you ask for more information?"

He huffed, toes curling and uncurling restlessly under the sheets. "Isn't it a bit too soon for an interrogation, Director?"

She fell silent, and he snatched the glass from her hand. He took a sip, the cool water a stark and welcome reprieve from the bitterness coating his tongue. His throat tightened as he swallowed, the clinical aftertaste of sedatives still lingering despite having been hours since he came to. It also did nothing to quell the pain in his head or wash away the nagging dread twisting his gut.

Topaz reached out when he tried to return the glass to the bedside table, taking it from his trembling fingers. She set it down without comment, the dull clink of glass against the metal louder than it should’ve been in the quiet room. Simple as it was, the gesture sent a wave of humiliation through him.

She’s too nice.

A prickling sensation rose like goosebumps on his skin. All the pieces were there, but the meaning slipped from his fingers like rushing water.

I told you, she saw.

Its whisper slid into his thoughts again, impossible to ignore yet too terrible to fully acknowledge, the unease it stirred a weight in his chest that demanded an outlet. A low, bitter chuckle escaped him, an attempt to loosen the noose tightening around his throat.

"Why this sudden interest, anyway?" His voice had an edge he couldn't quite soften. "Disappointed you didn't get your front-row seats?"

Topaz' eyes widened slightly, something flashing across her face too quickly to name. Not offense at his barb—something deeper. Something that looked uncomfortably like guilt.

The expression vanished almost immediately, replaced by her usual professional mask, but it left a lingering unease in its wake. Her fingers faltered on Numby's back, then resumed with a deliberate steadiness, each stroke measured. Yet, Aventurine couldn't shake the image of that fleeting vulnerability, an expression so foreign on her features.

He opened his mouth to press further, but she drew in a careful breath. 

When Topaz spoke, she did so with the caution of someone handling broken glass, "Jade sent me to look for you when you missed the briefing yesterday."

The chill spread to his core, its tendrils reaching outwards. Denial formed but died before it reached his lips. His mind raced for alternative explanations, for anything that would contradict what he knew that admission meant. He wanted to stand, to walk out, to escape this conversation—but his body felt leaden, trapped in the hospital bed with nowhere to hide from whatever revelation was coming.

"What do you mean, looking for me?" His voice emerged strained, a weak attempt at maintaining plausible deniability. "I was—"

She stopped him with a single look, her usual professional distance replaced by an unflinching gravity. "I found you in the hallway on the 290th floor."

Aventurine's breath caught in his throat. The 290th floor? The closed hall to the Marketing Development Department's section. Nowhere near his office, nowhere safe. Fragments of memory flickered in his mind’s eye—sand beneath his feet, shouts in a cave, darkness closing in…

He didn't say anything, didn't trust himself to. His mouth felt dry, even though he'd just taken a sip of water.

She saw you like that.

They saw you like that.

They got you.

Topaz' eyes were on him, waiting again. Waiting for him to respond, to acknowledge the implications of what she had said. The weight of her gaze was almost a physical thing pushing down on him, heavy with something he wasn't expecting to come from her, didn't want to deal with.

"When..." he started, then swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "How long was I..." The questions felt too unequivocal, too revealing of his gaps. He redirected, focusing on facts he could control. "What time did you find me?"

"Around ten," she said, maintaining eye contact despite his obvious discomfort. "You'd missed the 8:30 briefing."

He nodded mechanically, trying to anchor himself in this timeline. "And the medical response?"

"Immediate."

He drew a careful breath. "It was you who called the med team, then?"

She nodded, her expression shifting slightly. “Jade allowed me.”

The alarm escaped him like a reflex. “Was she there too?”

Her lips pursed. “I was keeping her updated on the situation.”

"Anyone else?"

"Just me," she said quietly.

Just her.

It had to be Topaz. Not some faceless drone, but her—one of the few who had voted for his reinstatement. The relief that no one else had witnessed his breakdown mingled with a profound humiliation that it had been her specifically. The idea of his own weakness, of being found in a state of complete vulnerability by someone whose opinion actually mattered to him, made his stomach turn. The implications for his position, his future with the IPC, stretched before him like a chasm.

The very notion was like a cold, clammy hand closing around his lungs, squeezing the breath from him. The exhale that escaped him was a bitter laugh.

"I suppose I should thank you," he said, words tight and strained. He paused, fingers twisting in the sheets. "For the rescue." His eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly. "Or did you come here to collect your debt?"

Topaz' expression tightened, but she didn't immediately answer back, and that unnerved him more than anything else. She just held his gaze, her eyes searching his face with a pity that made him want to look away. He did, his eyes dropping to his fingers tormenting the sheets.

"This isn't about gratitude, Aventurine," she said, consciously smoothing the frustration in her tone.

"What is it about, then?"

It came out more trembling than he expected. He dared to look up, but Topaz hadn't moved. Her presence felt wildly different than usual now—not the established rhythm of their professional rivalry, but something more weighted, more judgemental. He swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to pull away, to create distance where there was none to be had.

She saw.

She knows.

The tension coiled tighter inside him. He needed to move, get away from this. His vision wobbled, one hand jerking to hold his pounding head.

Her voice reached him, simulated concern wrapping around each syllable. "Should I call someone? You don't look—"

"What? Eager to relive the thrill again?" Aventurine cut her off, head snapping up, though the movement made him nauseous. The accusation was unfair, he knew it even as the words left his mouth, but it was easier than facing what her presence really meant.

Topaz' eyes narrowed, a rare expression on her. She opened her mouth as if to retort, then closed it, choosing silence instead. Yet again.

"Did it feel good?" This time his smile was more a baring of teeth when he pushed forward, body heavily resting against the bed tray. Her silence was working—it was driving him to expose more of himself than he intended. He was aware, but he couldn’t stop. "That had to be quite the power trip, seeing me thrashing on the floor, out of my fucking mind?"

Her nostrils flared slightly, her frustration still kept under the surface. "I don't get why you're being so hostile about this, Aventurine."

"Hostile?" The word dripped out, quick and sharp as a blade. The tension still writhed painfully in his gut, his fingers curling into tight fists around the sheets. His smile twisted. "Can't help it, you know?" His voice wavered, almost too tight. "It's what I do when I'm backed into a corner."

He could see the emotions warring on her face—concern fighting with irritation, guilt lurking beneath both. The more she tried to maintain her composure, the more his anger rose to fill the space between them. He released the sheets to grab the edge of the bed tray, leaning further.

"You want something from me, Jelena, so just say it." His lip curled into a sneer, the expression strained but deliberate. "You're getting better at this game, aren't you?"

Topaz' lips thinned, her eyes narrowing. "I wasn't..." she broke off, her composure dissolving into an exasperated sigh. "I waited until the last moment, okay? Jade already suspected something, she’d have found out sooner or later. And thank the Amber Lord nobody else saw you—we managed to keep it under wraps."

Aventurine closed his eyes, bringing his hand to his temples. He couldn't think, couldn't get his mind to work. "Or you could've left me alone, and let me handle—" he wheezed, out of breath. The headache had become a nauseating pressure behind his eyes, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He tried to breathe through it, but it only made it worse. "You even called the med-team on me, Topaz. Your good heart just couldn’t leave alone the colleague who finally lost his marbles.”

"You're making—" She cut herself off, and for a moment, Aventurine thought she was going to drop it. But when he looked up, that carefully curated patience she’d maintained until now had cracked, frustration bleeding through in the deep furrow of her brows.

"What was I supposed to do? Really, tell me," she snapped, her voice sharp. "What was I expected to do when I found you talking to yourself? When you didn’t even hear me when I called your name?"

The nausea somehow intensified, rising in waves along with the agonizing pain in his head. He'd hoped, desperately, that the fragments in his memory were just nightmares, not something that had spilled into the waking world, not something anyone had witnessed. She had called for Aventurine—a name that didn't exist in the memories consuming him then. A person he wasn't, not really, not in those moments. The revelation only emphasized how completely he had unraveled. The pain drilled deeper into his brain, pushing out any coherent thoughts. Don't ask me that. Don't make me go there.

"And then you collapsed right in front of me," she continued, her voice slightly softer but no less relentless. "Started convulsing. Do you have any idea what that looked like?"

He knew what it had felt like—the loss of control as his muscles seized, the weight against his chest as they'd pinned him down, the cold rush of sedatives flooding his system. The panic of fighting unseen hands while his consciousness fractured. Waking to fabric restraints cutting into his wrists. Needles puncturing his skin, drawing blood samples, attaching sensors, voices discussing him as if he weren't there. His body shuddered at the memory, a shadow of that violation passing through him again.

"I can't... I can't do this now," he wheezed, his voice low and strained. He didn't want to think about it—about how his own body had betrayed him, about being so out of control that he'd hallucinated in the middle of another Department, where anyone could have seen him.

The medics had used clinical terms—sleep deprivation, physical exhaustion, metabolic imbalance—but he had tuned out after "withdrawal seizure," refusing to process the full implications. Their charts and readings couldn't capture what had truly happened. The humiliation was suffocating, his fingers pressing against his ribs in a vain effort to make his lungs work.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of his breathing. The bed dipped as Topaz moved beside him. When he opened them a sliver, he caught her hand awkwardly hovering near his shoulder, uncertainty written across her face. Their eyes met briefly, and she withdrew her hand, the moment of almost-comfort passing without comment. Her expression morphed into something that made his stomach twist—pity, concern, disappointment all mingled together. He hated it all. Hated being the object of her compassion, reduced to something fragile that needed to be handled with care.

"Why did you even bother?" he asked, voice strained and barely audible. "Could've... reported me and gotten it over with."

"I–I didn’t do it to punish you, it was awful seeing you fall apart like that..." Topaz confessed quietly, her voice tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. She resumed petting Numby, her fingers moving absently through the trotter's hide. "Jade tasked me to keep an eye on you, and I even vouched for you—I believed you when you told me you had it under control."

The shame hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell her that he didn't need anyone watching him. That he didn't need anyone at all. But the words felt hollow even before they formed.

"I didn't ask for a keeper," he muttered.

Topaz didn't even bother to counter the feeble protest. "You know why she did it, Aventurine. You should be thankful she tasked me."

The unspoken ‘and not done something else’ hung in the air between them. He knew exactly why Jade had tasked Topaz—she thought he was becoming a liability, but she was still giving him a chance. The terms of their arrangement had never changed. Performance for survival. The stakes of their original bet remained as cold and absolute as the day he'd agreed to them. Had he been of clearer mind, he would have appreciated the extension of his debt. As of now, he only felt the apprehension, coiling tight around his insides like a serpent.

Topaz sighed, and Numby snuffled softly, pressing into her hand. Her fingers resumed their rhythm after only the briefest pause. "Jade covered for both of us yesterday," she said after a moment. "She said she sent us on a last-minute joint assignment. That's why you didn't get any messages. Diamond knows, of course—she couldn't hide it from him. But the others don't."

Aventurine's fingers twitched against his gown. Covered. It made sense. But it still stung, another needle driven into him. "I would've handled it," he said, but the words felt more like a reflex than any attempt at defense.

Topaz made that face again—the one that wasn't quite guilt, but something close. He could see the tension in her jaw, the frustration in the set of her shoulders. She wasn't just disappointed. She was mortified—as if his failure was somehow a reflection on her judgment.

"I don't think I need to say it, but you're in a delicate position," she said, her voice tight. "This is the second time Jade has stepped up for you." She paused, her eyes hardening as she looked at him. "Your work on Talia was enough for her vote of trust. But you can't keep cashing out her benevolence, Aventurine."

His chest constricted further, each breath becoming shallow and fast. One hand still pressed against his sternum while the other gripped the blanket, knuckles white with tension. She was right, and he knew it. But his pride wouldn't let even the words form on his tongue.

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, rolling down his temples. The room seemed to shrink around him, vision tunneling. It was all falling apart. He'd known it the moment he woke up in that hospital bed, the moment he realized he wasn't screaming his way out of a nightmare in his own room but instead lying in sterile, unfamiliar sheets, sedated and attached to machines.

Breathe. Just breathe.

His voice came out a strained whisper. “I was handling it.”

No, you weren’t.

You failed.

You lost.

Topaz' voice was low, yet somehow loud enough to cut through the whispers. "This isn't like you, Aventurine. Nothing ever keeps you down. Talia was just another job."

Aventurine let out a weak, bitter laugh. "I made the wrong bet."

Topaz shook her head. "Betting on yourself wasn't wise this time around."

He felt his throat tighten, but he forced a smirk. "It always worked in the past."

Something in her expression shifted, the pity in her eyes receding. “I told you that you couldn't handle this alone," she said, her voice taking a firmer edge. "And something has to give, Aventurine: either your stubbornness or yourself."

The words cut through his defenses, momentarily silencing the panic. He could recall very little of his hallucinations, but THEIR voice lingered still, haunting him. Give up, THEY had told him. Let go. But he couldn't. He wanted everything. He never lost.

The realization of how far he'd fallen hit him physically, his pulse stuttering beneath his palm. He looked away, unable to hold her gaze any longer.

Topaz shifted, her voice dropping low, "I also have a message from her." The formal transition caught his attention, made him look up again. Topaz' eyes were steady, unflinching as she delivered Jade's words verbatim: "Fix this, child, or all will have been for nothing."

Aventurine let his hand fall from his chest, his breath coming out uneven. It wasn't just the fear of what had happened—the hallucinations, the seizure, the loss of control. It was the looming shadow of what came next. If he couldn't right himself quickly, his usefulness to the Department would be questioned. And what if he couldn’t win this time? What if he lost the bet with Jade, if he lost himself…

The echo of THEIR voice returned, faint but persistent at the edges of his consciousness. Give up. Let go. But even exhausted, beaten, barely conscious, he pushed back against the thought. 

Not like this.

He wouldn't end like this.

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Topaz didn't linger long after that. Once Aventurine had composed himself enough to sound convincing, he assured her he had a plan. She hadn't explicitly questioned it, but the warning was clear in her voice when she said with a thin smile, "Let's hope it works, Aventurine."

They negotiated a two-week leave. Despite Jade's apparent willingness to give him more time, Aventurine insisted fifteen days would be sufficient. He knew better than to accept too much from her—every extension came with its own price. The arrangement would be discreet: officially off-planet for business, but in reality working from home. He couldn't afford to appear weak for long, especially so soon after his previous absence.

Now alone, Aventurine stared at the empty text box on his phone. The cursor blinked at him, a steady pulse that made him almost nauseous. Just type it.

His fingers moved reluctantly across the screen, each letter a small surrender: I need something. Let's meet up.

Simple. Direct. Undignified.

The phone trembled slightly in his hand. His thumb hovered over the send button. Don’t send it. Don’t show him this. The voice lodged itself in his mind, but the desperation coursing through him was stronger. He bit his lip, the sting of it grounding him for a second. He pressed ‘send’.

The message departed with a soft whoosh. He blinked, staring at the screen as if expecting it to undo itself. The checkmark changed from 'sent' to 'seen.' Minutes stretched into an eternity, marked only by the uneven beeping of the monitors.

No reply.

He hurled the phone toward the foot of the bed, where it landed with a muffled thud against the sheets. Slowly, he curled in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest.

What were you expecting?

The headache intensified, pulsing with excruciating pressure behind his eyes. Each throb sent fresh waves of nausea rolling through him, his body seeming to mirror the rejection. His fingers drifted to the regeneration patch beneath his jaw, scratching at its edges where the adhesive irritated his fevered skin. He buried his face between his knees, each shallow breath catching wetly in his throat.

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Hours later, Aventurine was sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning a hospital-issued shirt with trembling hands. After insisting on his discharge all day, the papers had finally been processed in the evening—no doubt expedited by Jade, though the doctors had strongly advised against it. He was supposed to remain under observation for several more days, not barely twenty-four hours. The nurses had given him recommendations he'd barely listened to, left him with a pile of medications and vials—antiepileptics, sedatives, nutrient supplements—and a list of instructions he'd barely glanced at. He didn't care. He just needed to get away.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest tight. He couldn't stop, couldn't linger. Had to keep moving. His legs were weak, but he forced himself to stand. Almost at the door, ready to leave the room behind.

Then, his phone chimed.

The soft sound cut through the fog in his mind, startling him mid-step. Slowly, with heavy limbs, he fished the phone from his pocket. His hands were clammy as he unlocked the screen, his breath held tight in his throat.

A single message.

He swiped it open with a sense of dread that curled in his gut. His eyes scanned the screen, its bright light stinging his retinas. 

The message was laughably short, almost cruel in its brevity.

Dr. Ratio: Ok.

Aventurine stared at the word. He caught the reflection of his eyes on the screen. You're letting him see you break again, it whispered. His chest tightened painfully, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, one moment from snapping. A half-choked laugh escaped him, sharp and brittle as breaking glass. He typed his reply:

Where?

Chapter Text

Voices drifted all around him, muddled murmurs that seemed to come from far away. They wrapped themselves around the edges of his awareness like tethers, words indistinct and warped as though his ears were filled with water. Conversations and the clatter of dishes blurred into one another, tangling with the faint whispers that still echoed in his head.

You’re wasting your time.

His hand tightened around the spoon he was stirring, round and round in mechanical circles. The mindless motion gave his mind something to focus on, his fingers something to do besides scratch at the regeneration patch at his neck. It itched fiercely beneath his brand, as if announcing to the world where he'd been just a day before.

He shouldn't have ordered the coffee. The list of things he wasn't supposed to consume had been clear, caffeine right at the top. Yet here sat his cup, still untouched. The steam rising from the bitter liquid stung his nose when he attempted a closer inspection. His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat at the smell. He pressed the heel of his hand harder against his forehead, as if he could physically stave off the feeling of sickness that seemed to roll through him from every direction.

He could barely remember how long he'd been waiting. Time had become a strange, elastic thing since his discharge. He was caught in a paradox—physically exhausted to the point of collapse, yet his mind stubbornly, painfully alert. The doctors had warned him that his brain needed time to reset after the seizure and hours of sedation, a necessity he was grimly aware of. Understanding didn't quell the primal fear that kept him awake. Every time he'd closed his eyes, something had seemed to reach for him, dragging him toward a place he couldn't afford to go again.

Cheek heavy in his palm, elbow propped on the table, the muscles in his neck strained against the pull of gravity. Every cell in his body screamed to surrender, to slump forward and let exhaustion claim him. Through half-lidded, burning eyes, he watched figures move past the one-way window—not as people but as blotches of color, faces and clothes like reflections in a disturbed pool.

Still no trace of the doctor.

After his terse 'where?' text went unanswered, he'd simply sent the café's address and a time, betting his last chips on the seen mark rather than an explicit confirmation that never came. A calculated risk, and now the pot was all in.

Your bet was a bust.

Cut your losses.

Leave.

Against the cup's edge, the spoon clinked. He looked down at the swirling coffee, its surface rippling and climbing the sides as if possessed of its own will. For a disorienting moment, it became something else—something that reached, that enveloped… He blinked hard, trying to focus, but his eyelids felt weighted, fluttering with the threat of sleep that he both craved and hoped never came.

“You look ghastly, gambler.”

The voice cut through the murmurs, low and crisp. Aventurine startled, pulse surging in his throat as he looked up. His vision swam, struggling to resolve the figure before him. When it finally did, Ratio stood there—sharply dressed as always, not a violet hair out of place, the usual frown etched into his features. The striking red of his eyeliner seemed to burn against his pale skin, accentuating the severity in his gaze. A tightness formed in Aventurine's chest—the unwelcome collision of irritation and shameful relief.

Throat clicking dry, he swallowed as he tried to gather himself. Metal bit into the regeneration patch on his palm as his fingers tightened around the spoon, his lips stretching into a smirk that felt like a grimace even to himself.

"Kindness really comes to you naturally, doctor," he muttered. The words scraped his throat raw, his voice emerging as a rasp he barely recognized.

Ratio stood perfectly still, a fixed point in a wavering world. Not a muscle moved in his face as those red eyes cataloged every detail of Aventurine’s appearance.

"The word you're looking for is honesty," he said finally, his tone clipped.

Aventurine shrugged, the simple movement sending pain scattering through his temples. He reached for the sugar dispenser, his hand overshooting slightly before correcting. Sugar poured mechanically into his coffee, the first spoonful turning the liquid muddy brown as he watched crystals dissolve, drown, disappear. Ratio remained standing, silent and heavy as a storm cloud.

"Are you going to sit, or...?" Aventurine asked, glancing up, impatience sharpening his tone to cover the trembling.

Ratio looked down at him for several heartbeats, scarlet eyes unreadable, before he finally slid into the booth. A hovering drone approached the table, but the doctor raised a hand, dismissing it without a word. His eyes remained fixed on Aventurine, tracking each tremor as Aventurine measured a second spoonful of sugar.

The weight of that gaze bore down, invasive and too well-known against Aventurine's skin. He hunched further over his coffee to escape the sensation, focusing on the hypnotic swirl of liquid, the repetitive motion of the spoon scraping the bottom of the cup.

The café's atmosphere changed with Ratio's arrival. Sounds that had been distant and underwater moments before now rushed in with excruciating clarity—conversations, the hiss of coffee machines, the clatter of dishes. Each sound ricocheted inside Aventurine's skull, amplified by the quiet stretching across the table. He couldn't decide which was more intolerable: the cacophony around or the loaded silence between.

Ratio's voice cut through the chaos abruptly.

"Should you?"

Aventurine forced another grin, insubstantial like thin ice. "It's just coffee."

He lifted the cup to his lips, taking a small sip. The taste hit him like a slap—acrid, bitter—turning his nausea into something immediate and threatening. His throat constricted, but he forced himself to swallow, the liquid scorching a path to his stomach. His eyes watered with the effort of keeping his expression neutral, of not gagging in front of the doctor.

Ratio sat straighter, shoulders squaring as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I have a lecture at the Guild in three system hours. I suggest you get to your point."

The cup rattled against the saucer as Aventurine set it down, his fingers slow to release the handle. Beneath the table, his leg bounced uncontrolled, knee accidentally brushing against Ratio's. The brief contact sent an electric jolt up his thigh, across his hip, into his spine—unwanted awareness of another person's solidity in a world turning liquid. He jerked back without acknowledgment.

"Wouldn't dream of wasting your precious time…" he muttered, the words dissolving into the bitterness on his tongue. 

Acid climbed his throat as he swallowed hard. "As you can brilliantly guess, I still have that... ongoing issue," he said finally, each word requiring conscious effort to form.

Ratio didn't flinch. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face—only the faintest crease in his eyeliner, as if confirming a diagnosis he'd already made.

"The nightmares." Not a question—a pointed observation.

Under the table, Aventurine's hand clenched into a fist so tight his nails cut half-moons into his unwounded palm. The pain anchored him as he forced out two words: “Yes, that.”

Ratio replied with silence again. Aventurine shifted in his seat, crossing his legs under the table in a poor mimicry of composure. A violent tremor ran through his muscles, betraying him as his foot knocked against Ratio's calf. The repeated contact burned like shame. He made no attempt to apologize, couldn't bear to acknowledge another failure of control.

He dragged in a breath—too shallow, too thin—his lungs refusing to fill enough for what he needed to say next. "I need a hand with something," he continued, his voice quieter, the request itself seeming to drain what little energy he had left.

The doctor remained perfectly still. "Which is?"

"I need someone to wake me up every two hours."

Ratio's eyebrow lifted a fraction—the first genuine expression since he'd arrived. "There are alarms for that."

"Really?" Irritation flared in Aventurine's chest, momentarily burning through the haze in his mind like a flash fire. "Silly me to not think of that…" The sarcasm crumbled midway as pain knifed through his temples, sudden and vicious. He pressed two fingers against his temple, the pressure doing nothing to stem the agony. Each strained sound he managed was a shard of glass on his tongue. "It has to be... someone. Obviously."

Ratio studied him with unfailing rigor, silent for a moment longer.

Then: "And you're asking me."

Again, not a question—a remark laden with disbelief. It frayed what little composure remained over Aventurine's mounting frustration.

“Who else, doctor?”

“Should I answer this question?”

Aventurine attempted another smirk, the expression twisting viciously on his face. “Well… you certainly have no qualms about asking them.”

Ratio's lips twitched, not remotely close to a smile. His eyes narrowed, scarlet irises turning sharp with the candid incisiveness Aventurine had come to expect from him.

“Given our previous interactions, it would be more efficient to seek assistance from someone whose help you haven't explicitly rejected.”

Aventurine's expression faltered for a second—just for a heartbeat—before he covered it with a dry chuckle. "Still hung up on that?" he said, his voice emerging without its intended edge. Tremors ran through his fingers as they closed around the coffee handle. "Be like me, and let go of the past already."

Ratio didn't respond immediately. He sat back, arms still crossed, watching Aventurine with the calculating gaze he might use on a particularly unruly student. The prolonged scrutiny raised hackles on Aventurine's skin, awareness pricking along his spine like needles despite his efforts to appear unaffected.

"I think I'm being more accommodating than the situation warrants."

Aventurine let out a huff—a sound too brittle to be a laugh, too sharp to be a sigh. His gaze remained fixed on the coffee in his cup, the dark surface absorbing the dim lighting. "Wow, doctor." His hand convulsed around the handle as he lowered the cup. "If that's accommodating, I can't imagine how you'd react if you were truly upset."

“Perhaps you won't have to imagine it for long.”

The threat hung in the air between them. Aventurine opened his mouth to snap back, but pain detonated in his temples, shrapnel tearing through coherent thought. The dim café lights stabbed at his eyes, each pinpoint driving into his temples with every heartbeat. Squeezing his eyes shut offered no relief—the pain merely compressed, condensing into a thick, suffocating pressure that pushed outward against his skull as if his brain was swelling beyond its confines.

When the worst of it passed, Aventurine forced his eyes open to find the doctor studying him with a different quality of attention now. His posture remained rigid, but something in his gaze had shifted.

"Have you slept at all?" Ratio asked. His tone remained clipped, but the question carried a new weight—less accusatory, more assessing.

Aventurine pressed his palm harder against his forehead until bone threatened to give way beneath the pressure. A faint groan escaped from somewhere deep in his chest, despite his efforts to contain it. The constant pain had transformed from individual pulses to a sustained roar, like standing too close to a shuttle engine. Thoughts fractured before they could fully form. The question hung between them, demanding an answer he wasn't prepared to surrender.

"I… tried," he finally admitted, voice scraping against his teeth. He swallowed against the dryness, tongue feeling swollen in his mouth. "It's not that simple."

Ratio's eyes tracked across him methodically, cataloging each tremor in his hands, each wince. "Your symptoms have progressed significantly since I last saw you," he observed, voice stripped of emotion but for the faintest undertone of professional interest. "Tremors. Photosensitivity. Disorientation."

Vertebrae protested as Aventurine tried to straighten, the pain propagating to his arms and legs with the movement. "Did you take up the profession in the meantime, doctor?"

"Mere observations," Ratio replied evenly. "Your current state indeed suggests more than sleep deprivation."

The assessment landed like a sharp read, forcing Aventurine to re-evaluate his hand. The doctor hadn't laid down his bet, but he'd clearly seen more than Aventurine intended to show. Annoyance flared in Aventurine's chest, a quick burn of resentment at how easily Ratio seemed to read the tells he thought were concealed.

"Well, I didn't come here for cheap medical evaluations," he said, a vitriolic edge creeping into his voice. "I came with a straightforward request."

"Nothing about you ever is, even when talking about your condition."

"My condition is not your concern," Aventurine snapped, control fracturing entirely as he slammed his hands against the table’s edge. Coffee erupted over the edges of his cup, spattering across the white marble in dark constellations. "If I'd wanted someone to scrutinize me, I'd have stayed at the medical—" He cut himself off, but the damage was done.

Ratio's eyebrows shot up, the first crack in the plaster. "Medical facility?" he completed, voice suddenly sharp with something that might have been concern masquerading as irritation. "What have you done this time, gambler?"

"What’s that? Afraid someone else beat you to a diagnosis?" Aventurine hissed, frustration and pain merging into a toxic cocktail that burned through his veins. “Pity, you’ll have to—” The words evaporated on his tongue as heat crashed through him, sudden and overwhelming.

For a sickening moment, something shifted behind his eyelids. Not just after-images or half-lights, but something deeper—a darkness that didn't belong, that seemed to gather and coalesce with purpose, with hunger, reaching for him again. One hand pressed against his forehead with bruising force, fingernails digging into scalp, a desperate anchor to the reality that threatened to dissolve around him.

Ratio's voice reached him as if from light years away. "What's happening? Gambler?"

"Nothing… It's those… damn sedatives," Aventurine gasped, the admission wrenched from him as he forced himself to breathe as he fought the sensation of falling upward. "Still... messing with me."

"Sedatives?" The word cut through the pain with unexpected clarity, a sharp edge slicing through Ratio's typically controlled voice. "Who administered them? When were you discharged? What was the dosage?"

The barrage of questions hammered against raw nerves, the shadows at the edges of his vision gathering closer. "Aren't you a bottomless pit of questions?" Each syllable dragged from his throat as if through gravel, his voice growing fainter. "I don't need an interrogation. I need—"

He forced his eyes open, lids scraping like sand against a wound. Ratio had leaned across the table, the careful space he kept until that moment abandoned, the reticence in his gaze dissolved into something more urgent, more immediate.

"It's... it's not important," Aventurine said, a silent snarl held captive behind his forced nonchalance. A raw, grinding need to divert the current propelled him forward. "What's important is—will you do what I asked?"

The moment congealed between them. Ratio's concern seemed to crystallize, then fracture. He deliberately withdrew across the table, physically recalibrating as he straightened in his seat. His expression smoothed into something more controlled, more distant. The brief window of urgency sealed shut as his arms crossed over his chest, rebuilding the barrier between them.

“I won’t.”

The flat refusal hung in the air between them. Aventurine blinked, momentarily too stunned to process the response.

"What?"

Ratio's gaze held him pinned, unflinching, merciless as a spotlight.

When he spoke, his voice had been stripped of all pretense. "What you’re asking for is clearly an accomplice, not help." His assessment sliced like a laser. "You've been hospitalized, sedated, very likely discharged against medical advice—and now you're asking me to participate in your half-measure solution, while stubbornly refusing to disclose critical information."

He shook his head—a single, decisive movement. "I won't be complicit in this slow suicide."

Aventurine stared at him, the words not computing at first, each taking too long to assemble into meaning. For a suspended moment, he sat frozen, blinking as the rejection sunk in. He pressed his hand harder against his face, a breathless, hollow laugh escaping him—a sound more like glass breaking. "My, who would've guessed you were so petty..."

The laugh died in his throat as reality shifted again. Café lights splintered into jagged, prismatic spears that seeped from the spaces between his fingers. The ambient noise abruptly snapped off like a circuit breaker shutting out, the sudden vacuum instantly filled by a high-pitched whine that seemed to liquefy the whispers, letting them seep into every crack of his awareness.

Still under their gaze, and still denied.

All anticipating your blunder.

So easily you shatter.

Aventurine felt himself pitching forward, muscles turning to water, his body abruptly disconnected from all commands. The table rushed toward his face—

A hand caught his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle, pulling him back from the brink with unexpected force.

The contact jolted through him. Aventurine recoiled with a violent instinct, desperate to escape further touch by pressing himself against the booth. The sudden movement made his stomach heave violently, acid burning up his esophagus. Fingers scrambled against the upholstery, nails scratching the texture that felt suddenly alien—too slick, too cool, rippling under his fingertips like something alive. Ratio's hand hovered over the table, still poised to catch him if he slipped again.

"Don't," Aventurine forced out, the sound dragged from somewhere deep.

The aloofness Ratio had rebuilt fractured, stoic principles developing a structural flaw under the weight of immediate concern. It was unbearable—pity where rejection had stood, a mirror catching every mistake he couldn't excuse.

"Aventurine, you need–"

"You're–you're right," he muttered, pushing the words through clenched teeth. "This was stupid."

The table's edge dug into his palm when he hauled himself up, only for the floor to liquify beneath him. A cold, viscous ripple lapped at his ankles, throwing him off balance and into the table, the impact sending the coffee cup toppling. It spilled across the white marble, impossibly black and expanding with unnatural speed, thick rivulets running from the edges, consuming everything it touched, reaching toward him—

Ratio materialized at his side, one arm locking across Aventurine's chest with bruising force. The pressure felt both invasive and grounding as the world tilted around them. Unwelcome warmth from the contact burned through his shirt against skin gone cold and clammy.

"I can... stand on my own," Aventurine rasped, the words clinging to what distance his body refused to honor, sagging harder into Ratio's grip.

The doctor's grip remained unyielding, fingers digging into Aventurine's side with bruising pressure despite his feeble attempts to push away. "Stay still, gambler," Ratio's command sliced through, the press of his hand against Aventurine's forehead as jarring and invasive as the words themselves. "You're burning up."

"I'm fine," Aventurine choked, his chest heaving against the unyielding pressure of Ratio's arm. A cold sweat slicked his skin, each breath a ragged fight for air. Then, a prickling dread bloomed at the base of his skull—the unmistakable weight of unseen eyes boring into him.

His gaze snapped around the café, only to find the world already gone. The patrons had collapsed into shadows, limbs stretched and distorted, faces leering from the dark. In the polished marble, the glinting silverware, the oily surface of his cooling coffee—eyes stared back, unblinking and endless, each one fixed on him with silent, knowing hunger.

The low thrum in his skull swelled, the background chatter twisting into a chorus of hissing voices—every whisper sharpening into an accusation. Of the festering emptiness within. Of the secrets he had tried, and failed, to bury.

They see what you are.

Empty. Hollow. Weak.

They know the truth of you.

It crashed into the undergrowth of his mind, familiar and merciless. Panic surged through him, heart hammering against ribs. He bucked against Ratio's unyielding grip, a flailing resistance born of pure instinct, any semblance of coordination lost to the frantic surge of adrenaline.

"Let go of me," he hissed, eyes darting frantically around, never resolving on one spot. They loomed too close, too interested, those eyes reflecting a thirst he knew. "Everyone's watching, I can’t—"

His legs surrendered without warning, all strength draining from his muscles as if it had never existed. Ratio adjusted his grip instantly, shouldering his deadweight. The doctor was speaking, disconnected sounds that vibrated against his temple, lost in the shrill ringing clawing at his eardrums. The floor shuddered beneath their feet, and Aventurine's gaze plunged with it. Each ripple tore away the fragile illusion of checkered tiles, revealing a terrifying expanse of infinite blackness—a void waiting just below.

"—need to get out—" Ratio's voice snagged on his awareness.

Before he could answer, Ratio was already moving, dragging him forward the exit. The floor reached too, slick and cold, twining around his ankles, his calves, his knees, every step deeper, every step slower. The exit hung impossibly far away, a distant, flickering shape stretched across shifting walls—then, without warning, it lunged toward him, close enough to swallow him whole.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the light struck him like a hammer. Pier Point’s perennial amber glow washed over everything, searing his eyes, but the shadows it cast stretched long and deep, thick enough to drown in.

The street writhed before him, the sidewalk no longer concrete but a living, breathing thing beneath his feet, its surface slick and shimmering. From the widening gaps between the pavers, a viscous, tar-like ichor oozed, bubbled, surged upwards, its touch a shocking, drowning coldness that gripped his legs like icy tendrils.

They followed you back. The whisper grew louder, more insistent, Your debt is yet to be repaid.

Aventurine tried to wrench away from Ratio's support, away from that cold grasp climbing his legs, but his foot found nothing where pavement should have been—a chasm yawning under him. The world tilted violently, and he pitched forward, the pull of gravity twisting his insides as he accelerated into that immeasurable abyss.

Ratio's arm caught him sharply again, fingers digging into his ribs with bruising force, yanking him back from the sudden roar and rush of a passing car. The sudden motion sent Aventurine's perceptions careening, the darkness below rose within, a cold tide flooding his senses.

A sharp tap on his cheek dragged him back.

"Stay conscious, gambler." Ratio's voice sounded somehow both distant and immediate, a lifeline thrown across dimensions. "Focus on me."

Aventurine's head lolled to the side, muscles giving out, sagging against Ratio's shoulder. Air scraped through his lungs in shallow, ragged pulls, leaving him perpetually drowning into the damp heat of Ratio's neck. Shapes drifted past them, too fluid, too close, their faces leeching into the dark, featureless except for their eyes—hundreds of them—following him with unblinking, inescapable focus. The gaps between them shrank with each second, shadows writhing at the corners of his vision, stretching, creeping toward him on limbs that knew his name.

They've seen you.

They know.

Through the fractured lens of his vision, a movement—Ratio reaching for his pocket, for his phone. A flash of clarity thundered through him, pure survival instinct overtaking everything. With speed born of desperation, his hand shot out, clamping onto Ratio's wrist in a bone-jarring grip, nails biting into the warm flesh.

"Don't," he rasped, the word splintering against his teeth. "Don't call… anyone." His voice stripped bare of all pretense, all masks—nothing left but raw fear pulsing beneath each syllable. "She already covered… for me once… Can't... can't mess up again..."

Something turbulent flared across Ratio's crimson eyes when he looked down at him, the corners contracting severely. Aventurine's pulse stuttered, the awareness of that gaze bestowed on him washing over him anew. He could see the decision in the lock of his jaw, feel it in the clench of his arms around him, sense it in the breath held between them. The weight of it closed around his throat, tight and inescapable. Ratio's pity, his judgment, the rejection—all of it congealed into one crushing certainty.

The moment threatened to collapse in on itself, the endless waiting for the click of a decision, his dread clawing higher with the eyes pressing in from every angle, with every second Ratio's gaze lingered, and lingered, and—

The tension finally broke, easing just enough for Ratio to slowly lower the phone back into his pocket.

"You've got a fever," he stated, his voice reaching Aventurine as if through layers of ice, muffled yet precise. "You've fainted twice now. You need urgent medical attention."

Aventurine shook his head, a movement that fractured his perception. The grip around his shoulder tightened, strong fingers digging deep enough to touch bones. The discomfort anchored him momentarily, pain a tether to consciousness.

"I'll just... take a taxi back to my apartment." The words melded together at the edges, barely intelligible even to his own ears. "I can't—I don't want to go... back there..."

The expression that crossed the doctor's face was undecipherable—calculating yet troubled, as if recalibrating a complex equation with too many variables.

"I'll come with you," Ratio said, each word heavy with finality. 

Aventurine tried to summon protest, to insist he could manage on his own, but language dissolved before it could reach his tongue, ​​his thoughts scattering like sand in the wind. The streetscape tilted and swayed around him as Ratio steered him toward the curb. Through the narrow slits of his half-closed eyelids, colors smeared across his vision—the amber light bleeding into the darkness between buildings, pedestrians melting into abstract shapes, inky tendrils reaching with purpose across the pavement.

Ratio's arm lifted in a gesture, and a vehicle materialized from the chaotic blur of traffic, its chrome exterior pulsing with an unnatural luminescence that hurt to look at directly. Hands guided him—pushed, pulled, arranged him—his body responding with a lag, as if his nervous system had developed a critical delay.

The space squeezed in on him as the taxi door thunked shut. Inside, the air shimmered and distorted, the seats and holographic dashboard bending as if underwater. His head fell to the side, the coolness of the glass against his flushed cheek a blessed reprieve from the heat ravaging him. The thermal shock jolted something loose in his mind.

"What about your lecture..." he mumbled, the words as ephemeral as the fog his breath created on the glass. "You don’t have..."

Ratio's form solidified beside him, too close yet not close enough—his proximity simultaneously an invasion and the only stable element in a disintegrating reality.

"I need you to stay with me," he instructed, his voice manifesting almost visibly in Aventurine's perception.

A hand tapped his cheek—harder this time, the sting momentarily clarifying.

"Look at me."

Aventurine tried to pull away, pride his only functioning muscle, but his body had ceased taking orders for a long time now. His head drooped against the headrest, the leather sticking to his fevered skin. His vision swam, the darkness encroaching in slow, tightening waves. Squinting, he searched for Ratio's face—his focus snagging on the sharp red lines of eyeliner, bleeding outward like fresh wounds, the golden specks adrift in those scarlet irises, a dawn he could not witness.

You're slipping again.

There’s nothing you can do now.

The voice pressed against his ear with physical presence, cold breath raising goosebumps along his neck. Not again, not here, not now. Terror surged through him, adrenaline cutting briefly through the fever. His fingers twitched restlessly in his lap, desperately seeking something solid, as the shadows thickened before his vision. They were alive, hungry, an inky wave rising around him, threatening to drag him under, swallow him whole.

"Stay with me, gambler," Ratio commanded, his voice somehow penetrating through the layers, both impossibly distant and startlingly immediate. “Aventurine? Hold on—”

Aventurine forced his eyes wider, fighting the relentless need of his eyelids to close. But the darkness continued its advance, patient and inevitable as the tide, as death itself.

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A brutal lash of frigid air tore back the dark fog swallowing his senses. The world lurched sideways, motion flooding through him in sickening, disjointed waves. Disorientation swept through him as he was hauled through shifting dimensions, his legs tangling in a reality that refused to stay still.

Somewhere along the fracture between blinks, his surroundings had changed—taxi’s claustrophobic interior gone, replaced by the echoing expanse of his building’s lobby. The marble beneath him rippled, warping and flexing, softening just enough to swallow his weight before hardening again beneath the crush of his next breath.

Reality filtered in broken pieces—the elevator chime, the dry, rasping sound of air through his lungs, a voice threading through it all, impossibly present, impossibly near. His arm was lifted, limp and alien, guided toward the scanner. Cold glass met his palm, the beep of recognition slicing through the static, followed by the heavy click of the lock disengaging, the vibration resonating deep into his bones.

The distinct, stale air of his own apartment filtered in, instantly cutting through the haze.

How had they arrived here? When? What had he permitted?

You allowed him.

He shouldn't be here.

The voice twisted in his spine, dread knotting his guts. The thought pulsed with certainty, some forbidden truth veiled just beyond reach.

Don't let him see.

But see what?

It slipped away as it came, a whisper of intuition lost to the static crushing his brain.

Yet, he heeded its warning. "I can... I can manage now," he slurred, consonants smearing on lis lips as Ratio steered him forward. "You can go..." A feeble attempt to twist away became a weak, uncoordinated spasm. He tried with words again what his body kept refusing him. "I'll be fine..."

A door creaked open, and his unmade bed swam into view—the sight alone enough to collapse his remaining strength. As soon as the mattress pressed against the back of his knees, his legs buckled, snapping shut like a broken hinge. His feet kicked feebly at his shoes, the simple task requiring concentration beyond his capacity.

One slipped free. The other hung half-on, half-off. It didn’t matter.

Nothing did, except retreat.

His fingers clawed at the tangled sheets, cocooning himself in a thin, trembling defense. A shield against Ratio's dissecting gaze. Against the tendrils blooming and pulsing, gathering in corners where light should have reached.

The bed undulated beneath him, slow and rhythmic like waves against the shore. Tendrils crept along the ceiling corners, pulsing faintly in places where the light dared not reach. Still, the familiar give of the mattress offered a sliver of comfort, the illusion of safety clinging by its last threads.

A hand descended on his shoulder. Gentle, but insistent. Aventurine turned his head, eyes struggling to bring the looming figure into focus. Ratio's outline wavered in his vision, sometimes singular, sometimes multiplying—violet hair haloed by the ceiling light giving him the look of something celestial or unclean. The crimson paint around his eyes bled with each of Aventurine’s heartbeats, those violent depths staring at him as though that gaze alone could carve beneath his skin.

"You don't have to hover..." he muttered, tongue thick and uncooperative. "The sofa would've been... better..."

His eyelids sagged, surrendering to the gravitational pull. Darkness folded around him, twisting into a vortex, an event horizon. He forced his eyes open, desperate to outrun it, only to find Ratio's face again—hovering closer, blurring, reforming—caught in endless distortion, as if viewed through rippling glass. His voice crackled like static:

"—fever, you need—"

The words bled away into the static roaring through his skull. His body sank deeper into the mattress, gravity compressing his bones, the bed liquefying beneath him, ready to swallow him whole.

"I don't need... anything..." he slurred, the final word stretching into a low groan.

You’re letting THEM in again.

You know what will happen.

The voice slithered through his mind, clear like a bell. He tried to banish it. Tried to banish everything—sensation, sound, thought—fighting against the pressure mounting in his head, the force crushing his mind from the inside out. He had to stay awake. He had to hold on to something. Anything. But the light was narrowing, vision folding in on itself—just pinpricks now in a churning void.

He clawed desperately at the crumbling rim of his consciousness, fingernails tearing against nothing, seeking purchase as he slid toward the inevitable drop..

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A shock of cold pressed against his forehead, slicing through the numb heat that devoured him. The sensation struck with violent immediacy, an intrusion from outside. His skin flared raw, every nerve ending alight as if flayed. He tried to retreat, to sink back into unconsciousness. But the coldness pursued him, relentless, through layered states of awareness, the icy tendrils beneath probing the fault lines in his mind.

Yet the burning persisted, smoldering in his marrow, searing behind his eyes. The cold shifted—lifting, returning, sharper. The contrast shocked his system, each cycle flaring through him like a circuit shorting out. His body was no longer his own. Just a vessel, overheating, devouring itself.

Something changed. A shift of weight—pressure at his shoulders, lifting him. Gravity reversed its pull as the room spun away, tilting and bucking, his eyelids slamming shut against the swirl. Glass clinked against his teeth, liquid shocking his cracked lips. Water. His body recognized the necessity before his mind could reject it. He drank greedily, as if it might cauterize the fever eating through him. It spilled past the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin, his throat—until suddenly it wasn't water anymore.

He gagged. Choked. Tried to wrench away—

No control. No direction. Just pressure again, now behind his shoulders, under his spine, steering him like a puppet too soft to resist. The drowning stopped. Oxygen scraped its way through his ravaged throat. The world strobed around him—light, dark, light, dark—reality fragmenting into binary states until everything dissolved into the gray emptiness of scattered ash.

The hands rearranged him, lowering his limp form, positioning his limbs with methodical care. His head sank into cool softness. A raw tremor shuddered through him, his consciousness flickering like a dying flame, guttering against the roaring tide consuming him from within.

A new sensation bloomed at his wrist, fingers seeking his pulse point. Something primal sparked within him—his hand spasmed, clamping around the wrist above his own, nails driving into flesh. Warmth welled beneath his fingertips, yet he only gripped tighter. He held on, terror and need fused into one desperate grip, anchoring himself against the Nihility’s pull as it stripped away the final layers of his consciousness like sinew from bone.

A palm cupped his cheek. Calloused. Impersonal. The contact seared him—not fever’s heat, but the raw violation of a boundary crossed. His head was tilted back, a damp cloth dragged across his brow, each motion precise, economical, utterly gentle. Yet his skin flinched away as if making contact with molten metal.

Get away, run, it whispered. Why cling to a lie?

His perception shattered around him. He drifted, unmoored, suspended in the cold between stars. His body unraveled, thread by thread: fingertips to dust, lungs to vapor, memories to void.

Nothing stays.

Nothing matters.

Everything disappears.

Yet against that perfect entropy, an impossible contradiction persisted—pressure, contact, friction anchoring his disintegrating self. Hands gripping his arms, his shoulders, cradling his face. Sensation where there should be only the perfect absence of everything. A flaw in THEIR immaculate logic.

No— The denial burst from his core, intention without sound in the vacuum. I am—

Air surged into his lungs, as though his chest had been hollow for centuries and only now remembered its purpose. Light flared behind his closed eyelids, like lightning searing into the overcast sky. The hands remained on him—solid, unyielding. Heat and pressure. The undeniable proof that he hadn’t yet been erased from the world.

But the Nihility still echoed inside him, an absence like frostbite buried deep beneath his skin, a hollow carved by hands that weren’t human. The imprint of THEM lingered, their signature pulsing in his marrow.

He lurched forward, reaching—grasping at nothing, clawing the air as if sheer will could drag him away from the abyss still whispering behind his eyes.

The hands on his arms tightened, steady, immovable. Anchoring him. Holding him against the invisible current still trying to drag him under, against the wild flailing of his own body.

"Let go—" The plea tore from somewhere deep inside him. "I can’t… I have to—"

The hands eased, but didn’t release. His own trembling fingers drifted forward, searching, until they collided with fabric—soft, dry, cool. Beneath: the faint give of muscle, the solidity of bone. Flesh. Human. Not the tendrils. Not THEM

"You’re here." A voice cut through, familiar. "It’s only a nightmare."

The words rooted him, anchoring his mind as surely as the hands anchored his body. His fingers spasmed around the fabric, clutching, grounding himself in the texture, the proof.

He blinked, colors emerging from the gray—violet hair pushed messily back, a deep frown tightening scarlet eyes, red eyeliner faintly smudged at the corners.

"Ratio...?" The name fell from his lips, a whisper scalded and hoarse, as though he'd been screaming for hours.

Ratio's hands stayed, still firm, still precise, but even gentler now—holding without restraint, guiding without force. The pressure of his fingertips through Aventurine’s sweat-soaked shirt remained steady, intentional, calibrated for reassurance rather than control.

It still sent a shudder through him, as if the contact reconnected him to the very fact of his body.

"Breathe," he instructed, the single word carrying both perfect composure and unmistakable urgency. "Deep breaths, Aventurine."

His chest constricted, ribs tight as a fist, but he clung to the instruction like a light in the dark. One breath—shallow, ragged, burning. Then another, marginally deeper. Each inhalation chipped away at the suffocating weight pressing against his lungs, the sensation of drowning loosening its grip with agonizing slowness.

The black haze veiling his vision thinned, shadows peeling back to reveal fragments of reality. Shapes condensed: the rumpled sheets twisted around his legs, the amber glow of city lights bleeding through half-closed blinds, the faint, indifferent numbers of the digital clock blinking from the nightstand—marking a time that meant nothing to his scrambled mind.

His mind caught up, slowly, reluctantly. His bed. His apartment.

Ratio.

Still there.

Sitting on the edge of his bed.

That last realization drove through the lingering confusion like a spike. His body moved before his mind fully caught the intention, twisting away from the steady hands that anchored him. The motion was clumsy, muscles uncoordinated, but deliberate enough to create space.

“Figured... you’d...” A cough splintered the words, sharp and raw. “You’d already be gone.”

Ratio shifted, and in the dim spill of citylight, the sleeve of his shirt caught the glow—a dark stain blooming across the cuff, the fabric torn where fingernails had gouged through. Blood.

Aventurine’s gaze fixed on it, the recognition striking first, shame following close behind.

“I didn’t—” The apology knotted in his throat, strangled by pride and something heavier.

Ratio's eyes followed the unspoken trail to his own sleeve. His expression didn’t change. “It’s already closed,” he said simply, dismissing the injury as fact, not consequence.

Before Aventurine could piece together another word, Ratio turned, reaching for the nightstand. His hand returned with a glass of water—something Aventurine hadn’t registered until it was already being offered to him. Ratio held it out, silent, his expression unreadable in the low light.

Aventurine accepted the glass with a nod. His hands were still trembling, the water inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. The first sip burned its way down, washing over the raw, swollen terrain of his throat. It tasted like salvation, bitter and cold, chasing away the dry, acidic aftertaste nightmares left behind.

When he finally lowered the glass, Ratio was waiting. In his open palm rested a single, white pill.

Aventurine’s gaze narrowed, suspicion surfacing through the fever-haze like a reflex. “What’s that?”

“Fever medication.” Ratio's voice was even, almost clinical. “Your temperature was thirty-eight point two.”

His eyes drifted past the offered pill to the nightstand, where a small cluster of prescription bottles the nurses gave him now stood in an unnervingly neat row—far more organized than he’d left them. The sight set something small and sharp turning in his chest.

“Poking around my stuff?” His voice came out thinner than intended, more brittle. “Not very classy, doctor.”

“They were scattered across your nightstand and floor,” Ratio answered, the words stripped of judgment. “I merely consolidated them.”

A hollow, rasping chuckle scraped its way out of Aventurine’s throat. The sound felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

Something shifted against his skin with the movement. Damp fabric slid from his forehead, trailing coolness in its wake. A compress. The absence it left behind felt almost colder than its touch. More lay scattered beside his pillow, discarded evidence of failed attempts to drag his fever down.

The realization lodged behind his ribs, sharp and heavy. The sarcasm tasted different now, weaker. His gaze flicked downward, studying the discarded cloths for a beat longer, before his voice emerged again: “Always so thorough, aren’t you, doctor.”

The effort of reaching for the pill cost him more strength than it should have. His fingers brushed Ratio's palm—a brief, accidental contact that sent a jolt lancing through his nerves, too sharp for comfort. He recoiled, masking the reaction by focusing on the simple act of swallowing. The pill caught once in his throat, then slid down, chased by another mouthful of water.

He retreated, pressing his back against the headboard, drawing his knees toward his chest. The glass was held precariously between clammy fingers, while his free arm wrapped tightly around his legs, locking himself into the smallest shape he could manage. But the tremors didn’t stop—they crawled through his muscles in slow, involuntary waves.

He let his eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The familiar weight of his own bed cradled him, dulled the edges of his fear, though the residue of the nightmare still clung to his bones like wet sand.

“How long was I out?” His voice came softer this time.

Through half-lidded eyes, Aventurine saw Ratio glance at his watch, the movement oddly formal, detached from the intimacy of the moment.

"Two hours and seventeen minutes."

Aventurine hummed an acknowledgment, more sound than reply. He tipped the last of the water into his mouth, using the motion to let his gaze drift—scanning the room as the shadows settled back into place.

His eyes landed on the foot of the bed, where the soft blue glow of a flickering holo-display pulsed against the folds of the blanket. His discharge file. He didn’t remember leaving it there. He thought—he was almost sure—he’d had it near his pillow, within reach. The shift was subtle, but the difference snagged at his attention.

A new ripple of unease slid beneath his skin. “Did you read my medical report?”

Ratio took the empty glass from him, avoiding the brush of contact. His expression didn’t shift. “I don’t need to.”

Aventurine’s lips twitched, the beginning of a smile—dry, crooked, fragile. “Who knows,” he murmured. “Might make for a better read than you’d think.”

Ratio didn’t answer right away. His gaze settled back on him instead, cool and deliberate, trailing over every shiver that still worked its way through Aventurine’s frame, every tremor that his cracked composure couldn’t quite suppress.

Another wave racked through him, sharp enough to make his fingers tighten instinctively around his knees, as if brute force could hold his body steady where willpower couldn’t.

“Real picture of health, aren’t I,” he muttered under his breath, the brittle edge returning to his voice.

Ratio's answer came quiet, but edged with precision. “Your condition has worsened significantly in just a couple of weeks.”

The statement dropped between them like a stone in still water, implications rippling outward in concentric circles. Aventurine felt a strange disconnect wash over him. Two weeks. The time felt foreign, both too short and impossibly long. Two weeks of spiraling—of dreams bleeding into wakefulness, of increasingly desperate self-medication that dulled everything but the terror, of waking in places he hadn't meant to go. Of a knife pressed against his throat. Of voices—his, but not—urging him toward darker thresholds. Of cold restraints biting into his wrists while sedatives stripped his thoughts bare. Of memory fragmenting and reforming into something unrecognizable.

Even yesterday—Topaz perched on his bed's edge, Jade's ultimatum stitched between moments of polite solicitude—felt like a lifetime ago. Time had splintered in perfect synchronicity with his mind, turning days into eternities, moments stretched thin until they snapped.

Ratio didn’t press. The question was there, unspoken, stretched tight between them—what happened? Aventurine felt it lingering, waiting. He let out a scoff, chin settling atop his drawn-up knees, his voice brittle and dry. "You do pay attention sometimes."

But Ratio didn’t take the bait. His eyes locked onto Aventurine's with sharp reckoning. "Your lackluster wit was already a clear indicator."

The flicker of a smile faltered before it could settle, crushed beneath its own weight. Aventurine let his stare drift toward the wall, the flat stretch of shadowed plaster offering no relief, only the kind of stillness that left too much room for thought. Something heavy lodged itself beneath his ribs, pressing each breath into slow, deliberate labor.

"I thought I could handle it," he muttered, the confession unguarded, unvarnished.

His body tensed, bracing for the blowback, expecting the conversation to turn sharp and unforgiving. Expecting Ratio to remind him, to resurrect their last conversation, to twist the admission back on him with quiet precision. But the counter never came. The words hung in the air, untouched, left to settle into the space between them, heavy with all the truth Aventurine had been desperately trying to outrun.

When Ratio did speak, his voice was softer than Aventurine expected, free of the chisel-sharp edges he'd braced for. "The fever is the most pressing concern right now."

Aventurine clicked his tongue, eyes still locked on the wall. "Spikes at odd times. It's fine."

A low, noncommittal hum vibrated from Ratio's chest, weighted enough to disagree without bothering to argue. "I had to use cold compresses to manage the fever while you slept." A pause, brief but deliberate. “Though even with only a partial dose, your temperature had begun to fall by the last check.”

Aventurine shifted under the covers, the blanket's texture rough against skin that still felt too tight for his bones. He let out a faint, humorless laugh. "See? It's..." The sentence trailed off, faltering as the implication sunk in. His gaze slid back to Ratio, brow creased. "Wait. You checked on me while I was asleep?"

Ratio's expression barely shifted, but the answer was obvious in the tilt of his head, the calm certainty in the set of his mouth. He drew a sleek device from his pocket, its display glowing faintly in the dark, and leveled it at Aventurine's forehead. A soft electronic beep sounded, sterile and final.

"Thirty-seven point nine," Ratio confirmed, glancing at the readout before pocketing the scanner again. "We'll monitor it for the next hour."

Aventurine huffed, the sound barely carrying. "Do you always carry that thing around, or did you just assume I'd fall flat on my face today?"

"It's a multipurpose scanner. Not strictly a thermometer."

Aventurine let his head tilt back against the headboard, eyelids lowering but not closing. The air in the room felt too dense, as if the walls were inching closer. The fever still hummed low beneath his skin, tangled with the lingering cold that pooled in his chest. "Monitoring patients in their sleep, giving medication…" he muttered into the quiet, voice rasping around the words. "Almost like the real thing now."

"Your fever was concerning," Ratio answered, tone neutral, steady. "Thirty-nine point five when we arrived. Monitoring was necessary."

The number hit harder than the words. Aventurine's eyes opened fully, his mind fumbling to match the figure to his body, the reality of it skimming past his defenses. "That high?"

"Yes." Ratio's posture shifted, subtle but noticeable—an adjustment more than a reaction. "Hence my decision to stay."

The room seemed to contract around him, silence creeping in at the edges as the statement rooted itself. He'd been worse off than he'd realized. Much worse. The understanding that his condition had veered into genuinely dangerous territory—and that Ratio had recognized this threat when he himself had been oblivious to it—settled like ice in his stomach.

Ratio's voice broke the quiet again. "If your fever rises above thirty-nine again, I'll take you to the IPC facility."

Aventurine let out a groan, sinking further into the pillows, folding his arms across his chest like a shield that no longer worked. "I'd like to see you try," he muttered, the bite in his voice pure muscle memory, dulled and worn thin.

His fingers worked at the blanket's edge, restless and fidgeting. Minutes stretched between them, heavy and unspoken, before his voice softened again. "Why didn't you bring me back there when I was out? I was clearly past your thirty-nine-degree threshold."

Ratio's gaze didn’t waver. “Because you asked me not to.”

The answer landed too sharp, too simple, slicing through Aventurine’s half-formed defenses before he could raise them. Something twisted beneath his ribs—sharp, foreign, hovering close enough to gratitude to be unbearable.

“The IPC’s idea of ‘care’ isn’t exactly what I need right now.” He shaped the words with practiced indifference, hoping tone alone might dull the weight behind them.

Ratio didn't challenge the statement. His gaze held steady. "There are other approaches to consider."

Aventurine's eyes narrowed. "Are you offering?"

When silence stretched in place of an answer, a dry, hollow laugh clawed its way out of him, brittle and humorless. "That’s rich. Two hours ago you called this a ‘slow suicide’ and shut the door in my face. Now you're what—volunteering?"

A flicker passed through Ratio's expression—too quick to catch, but enough to register.

"The situation has changed," the doctor replied, voice as level as still water.

Aventurine's mouth curled into something sharp, a smile without warmth. "The situation is exactly the same as it was at the café," he shot back, the weight of his headache pressing harder against his skull. "Same wreck. Same mess. What's changed is you." His voice cooled into something sharper. "What happened to your principles, doctor?"

A muscle in Ratio's jaw tensed, a subtle ridge under the skin. "I reassessed based on new information."

Aventurine opened his mouth to fire back, but the retort stalled halfway to the surface. New information? His mind looped, grasping for something he’d missed. What had he said? His memories of the past hours blurred and fragmentary, splinters of fever and half-formed nightmares. Had he talked in his sleep? Had he confessed again more than he meant to, hand forced by unconsciousness?

The thought barely settled before another surfaced, sharper: the faint smear of dried blood at Ratio's cuff, a half-moon stain where Aventurine’s own nails had torn his wrist open in the throes of some fevered spasm. The shame hit slow, heavy, creeping along his ribs and anchoring deep.

But beneath the shame, something else stirred—quiet but insistent, scraping at the edges of his attention. Not Ratio's words, not the conversation, but the shape of a warning that hadn’t quite formed. The way his pulse had stumbled for a breath when they crossed his apartment’s threshold. The voice, the one that lived in the hollow spaces of his mind, had whispered something then. He hadn't listened. He couldn’t. The fever had seen to that.

And now Ratio sat across from him, offering help where there’d been none before.

"Your condition is worse than I initially understood," Ratio went on, each word delivered with an evenness that felt almost rehearsed. "The disorientation. The severity of your fever. The way you continued talking and thrashing even while unconscious."

Aventurine’s fingers tightened in the folds of his blanket. “If I’m that far gone, you should’ve ignored me and taken me to a facility. That would’ve fit your logic, wouldn’t it?”

Ratio crossed his arms. "There's a difference between respecting someone's autonomy and enabling self-destruction."

The smile returned on his lips, honed to a point. “And you’ve suddenly figured out where that line sits?” His voice dragged low, a weary thread unraveling. "Convenient timing."

“If you had deteriorated further,” Ratio answered, quiet but absolute, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Aventurine stared at him, long and unblinking, the logic settling cold and uncomfortable in his gut.

"So bottom line—now you’re willing to help."

Ratio held his gaze, unmoved. Then, finally, a single, deliberate nod.

"You’re not a professional, though."

A faint twitch pulled at Ratio's brow. "No. I'm not."

The silence that followed stretched taut, heavier than before. Aventurine stared, unblinking, locking himself in the moment, forcing his expression still even as his mind tangled itself in every unvoiced suspicion. The offer didn’t fit. Not with the man who had sat across from him at that café, so methodically indifferent. And yet here Ratio was, not only staying but offering something that bordered on care.

Questions pressed inward, held like a suspended breath in the back of his throat—half suspicion, half reflex—but he refused to exhale them. He’d learned long ago: the only loss more certain than betting on a long shot was playing your hand before the ante was called.

When Ratio spoke again, his voice held that same measured cadence, but with a slightly different tone—a telltale sign, Aventurine knew, that bargaining was about to begin. "If you want this to work, there need to be clear parameters."

Aventurine rolled his eyes, his body lacking the energy for anything beyond theatrical displays. "Let me guess. My input won’t matter much."

Ratio remained utterly unmoved by the attempt. "Your valuable input," he corrected, the subtle emphasis dry and pointed, "will be absolute and complete honesty about your symptoms. You'll take the medication they prescribed—in the exact dosage they prescribed. You'll follow the discharge instructions as outlined."

The words landed sharper than the doctor might have intended, old instincts reacting faster than thought. A flare of resistance ignited in his chest, the same instinctive recoil that came any time someone else tried to redraw the lines of his control. This dynamic felt dangerously reminiscent of their previous attempt—Ratio dictating conditions, Aventurine acquiescing out of desperation and fear, and the inevitable spiral that followed.

"And I assume you'll be watching me like a hawk the entire time?"

"We’ve already established that’s counterproductive."

Aventurine tilted his head, the smile lingering like a bad taste. "So what's the plan? Not watching me, but not trusting me either?"

"You don’t need constant supervision to manage this."

The words lodged deep, uncomfortably so. Part of him felt the weight lift—no eyes, no restraints—but another part flinched at the absence of a safety net. He didn’t need a reminder of what happened the last time no one was there to stop him.

"And you think I can handle it on my own?" The question came out more caustic than he intended, too close to the real thing. He wasn’t sure if he was asking Ratio or the fractured parts of his psyche that no longer communicated with each other.

Ratio answered without hesitation. "I’ll come by every morning this week to check your vitals and monitor your progress. During the night, you’ll wake yourself every two hours. If the nightmares are severe, or if you can’t fall back asleep—call me. Immediately."

The decisiveness in his tone left no room for argument, but Aventurine’s mind still circled the gap between autonomy and survival, teeth sunk deep into the contradiction. He sagged again into the pillows, strength bleeding out of him, leaving nothing behind but quiet, dry fatigue.

“That’s... a rather minimal approach,” he muttered, surprised by how thin the words sounded, as if some part of him had expected, maybe even wanted, something stricter.

"It's what seems workable," Ratio replied, his neutral tone masking the compromise beneath. "Given the circumstances."

The unspoken parts pressed in around the edges of the conversation—Aventurine’s resistance to intervention, the IPC’s shadow still stretching overhead, the fragile space between intrusion and abandonment.

He sank deeper, the conversation’s weight settling against the raw edges of his mind. Ironic, how his original demand had been for constant, suffocating oversight—someone there to shake him awake, to guard against the blackouts, to anchor him to reality. But now this relative freedom felt like its own kind of confinement, another cage cleverly disguised as choice.

Aventurine’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. The nightmares would still come. The gaps would still widen. The floor would still shift beneath his feet. He’d spent his life navigating cages—negotiating with their walls, bending the bars just enough to squeeze through. His mind traced the edges of the arrangement, weighing it, testing it for weak points.

It fit, uncomfortably so.

Ratio wasn’t the lock or the key. Just another variable. Another risk.

His fingers tightened around the blanket’s edge, grip taut and telling. He’d always known himself as a gambler, always bet on even the illusion of control. But here he was, cornered at the table, too spent to raise the stakes, too aware to fold.

After a long moment, he exhaled—slow, unsteady, almost silent—and nodded.

"Let’s see if your way works, doctor."

Chapter Text

The ceiling above him was elegant and perfectly designed—gilded patterns, high-end fixtures, every detail pristine, just as it was meant to be. Only recently, he had noticed the cracks. Almost invisible in daylight, they sprung to life in the faint glow spilling from the window at night. Small fractures, splintered through the polished surface like constellations, just out of reach.

His eyes followed the faint lines, tracing slow, aimless patterns, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting in and out of consciousness. Ever since the collapse, sleep had become something shallow, sapping him without bringing rest, never enough to feel whole. Minutes bled into hours as he lay there, watching darkness give way to dim morning light, then back to darkness again, the cycle relentlessly continuing without his awareness.

A low hum buzzed from beneath the cushions—the phone alarm. It had been two hours. Or four. Or ten. A whole night slipping from his fingers.

Aventurine ignored it, pulling the covers tighter around himself. The stale smell of the bedclothes was sharp, but he barely noticed it anymore. His mind nudged him to get up, but his body sank deeper, finding comfort in the stagnant warmth of his sheets. His eyes drifted back to the ceiling, gaze tracing another crack.

Get up, it whispered, faint yet persistent. Don’t stop.

A sigh escaped his lips as he turned over, letting an arm drape across his face. The worst of the hallucinations had started to fade with the scraps of sleep he'd managed to grab. No longer did he feel the cold sea lapping at his ankles or see the black void replacing his floor, but they hadn't disappeared entirely. They lingered at the edges of his vision—tendrils that coiled in corners and doorways, watching, waiting for his next slip.

The voices, though, those hadn't faded at all. They continued threading through his consciousness, an indistinct chorus of whispers filling the silence. Only one cut through the static with perfect clarity—his own voice, though he didn't always recognize it. It probed at wounds he preferred to leave untouched, demanded truths he refused to face, whispered observations he couldn't bear to acknowledge.

You're slipping, it would say.

You're failing.

You're losing control.

And the worst part was, he couldn't convince himself it was wrong.

Aventurine pressed his arm harder against his eyes, as if the pressure could silence the voice. It never worked. The medication was supposed to help with all of this—the shadows, the whispers, the merciless observer living in his head—but the cluster of vials on the nightstand sat untouched. He'd tried, once. Took the prescribed dose like he'd promised, only to wake up on the floor, far too close to the edge of the coffee table. He'd almost called Ratio then, but he couldn't bring himself to press his number, the thought of admitting his need scorching his skin like a flame. Now, the coffee table was shoved against the wall, a feeble attempt to avoid another mishap.

The voice started again. Get up. Move. Keep going.

You know what happens when you stay still too long.

With a grunt of effort, Aventurine swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his muscles heavy and resistant. He gulped a sip of water from the bottle by his bed before dragging himself upright, the blanket trailing behind him like dead weight. Padding across the hallway, he sidestepped piles of discarded clothes and empty glass bottles that littered the floor. Cancelling the cleaning service had been an impulse decision—one more barrier between himself and unwanted eyes—but the consequences were piling up all around him.

The stale air of the living room clung syrupy and unmoving when he entered. He could open a window, he supposed, but he kept the balcony door firmly shut. The last weeks had blurred into each other, a stretch of time he couldn't fully account for. At some point, he'd stopped wondering about the mess and simply accepted it.

Scooping his laptop from the floor, he sank into the sofa, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders. This was his new routine: hunched over the screen, drifting through emails and project lists, managing what he could in a daze. Work was something to anchor him, even if barely. Jade had assigned a couple of Topaz' underlings as his proxies, a concession Aventurine had begrudgingly accepted for the sake of control. Normally, he preferred to handle everything himself—delegation meant potential mistakes he couldn't control. But right now, he needed the familiar structure of work more than he needed perfect execution.

His fingers moved on autopilot, checking tasks and shifting numbers. The screen blurred slightly, images overlapping before snapping back into focus when he blinked. He scrolled through another message, the meaning slipping away even as his eyes tracked across it. Words floated across the screen, disconnecting from their purpose. His head dipped forward, almost imperceptible, before he caught himself. Three more emails. Just three more. His eyelids grew heavier, the weight of sleepless nights collecting in each slow blink, each one lasting a fraction longer than the one before. The laptop slid slightly on his knees, his grip loosening without his notice. The blue glow of the screen seemed to pulse, expanding and contracting with his breathing, which had grown deeper, steadier...

The doorbell snapped him back to himself.

For a moment, Aventurine just stared, trying to place the sound and why it mattered. His gaze finally drifted to the clock on his screen—9:00 AM.

Ratio. Always on time.

He blinked, his eyes dry and sore. The thought of dragging his body up from the sofa, of crossing the hallway to the door, felt like an impossible journey across a vast desert. Not for the first time in those days, he considered giving Ratio the door code, save himself the effort of getting up. But the thought scratched at the back of his mind, something about those four digits feeling like one of the few scraps of control he could still hold on to.

The doorbell rang again, a touch longer this time. Aventurine sighed, drawing on the last dregs of strength in his limbs. The blanket slipped from one shoulder as he pushed himself upright, the world tilting briefly before settling. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, gathering what little warmth and dignity he could manage, legs distant, barely his own as he shuffled across the floor.

By the time he reached the door, his hand braced against the wall for support, breath coming slightly faster than it should. He inhaled once, trying to compose himself, then pulled the door open.

Ratio stood waiting, perfectly put-together as always. Those crimson-lined eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of him, the scrutiny making Aventurine's skin prickle with awareness of his own dishevelment.

"Doctor, you…"

The sardonic greeting he'd prepared dissolved into a yawn that ambushed him without warning, barely stifled into the crook of his elbow. He sagged against the doorframe, letting it bear his weight as the yawn stretched on embarrassingly long. When it finally subsided, he found Ratio still watching him, arms crossed, his expression a blend of clinical assessment and something Aventurine refused to interpret as concern.

"Quite the welcome," Ratio remarked, his voice dry.

Aventurine's lips twitched into a tired approximation of his usual smirk. "Good morning to you too, doctor," he managed, voice rough with sleep. "Don't just stand there looking pretty. Come in."

He stepped aside, nudging the door wider with his foot before turning back toward the living room. Emails still waited for responses, tasks required attention—that was the reason for his swift retreat, not because his legs threatened to buckle, or because standing under that red-lined gaze had become a weight his shoulders couldn't bear. The sound of the door closing followed by measured, unhurried footsteps trailed behind him.

The sofa welcomed him like an old friend, cushions yielding as he dropped onto them with a barely suppressed groan. One arm flung over his eyes, blocking out the light that had grown painfully sharp. The leather at the opposite end creaked softly—Ratio settling into what had become his designated spot. Four days of these morning visits, the scraping edge of familiarity abrading on the back of his mind, a sense of deja-vu in the careful distance. The same dance under a different light, the same mistakes waiting to be made.

“How did you sleep?”

Lifting his arm just enough to peek beneath it revealed Ratio already unpacking his bag, the same one he'd brought every morning, his eyes trained on the sleek device the doctor pulled from the bag. It was borrowed, Ratio had mentioned, from some ‘acquaintance’—a detail that offered little comfort to Aventurine. The doctor’s movements were swift now, unlike the first day when he'd explained each component as if it’d make this insidious crawl into his life more tolerable.

He made a so-so gesture. "Getting anything useful from all this data you're collecting?"

"Potentially." The device beeped softly as Ratio tapped on the small screen attached to it. He pulled out the metal band Aventurine had grown to dislike, though not enough to refuse it. "Your readings have been... inconsistent."

Aventurine's eyes narrowed, not quite smiling. "What does that mean?"

There was a pause, just long enough for discomfort to twist in his gut, but Ratio didn't reply. Instead, he reached for Aventurine's hand peeking out the blanket with the usual detachment. The band slipped around his wrist before he could pull back, the contact jolting him with a prickling awareness. Aventurine's fingers twitched in Ratio's hold.

"It's cold," he muttered, the complaint automatic.

Ratio lightly twisted his hand, the imprint of his touch warm on Aventurine's palm. "You'll survive," he replied flatly. The device clicked into place and Aventurine's intended protest died in his throat when Ratio's hold was released. "Keep still," he instructed, his attention already fixed on the monitor.

And Aventurine did. Out of necessity, more than anything.

The device hummed faintly as Ratio studied the screen, his expression unchanging save for the perpetual furrow of his brow. "Good news is the fever seems to have cleared," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, "but I'd still suggest staying inside for now."

Aventurine cocked his head slightly, forcing a sarcastic grin. "And what if I really crave that new fish-eye restaurant?"

It had been a mistake. Ratio's gaze sharpened instantly, his eyes flicking over Aventurine again with renewed intensity, as if he could see through the blanket and his poor attempt at deflection. There was no missing how his clothes hung looser around his body, how his cheekbones stood out more prominently than they had just weeks ago. He wasn't sure when his appetite had disappeared, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to care.

"What's wrong, doctor?" he asked lightly, his smile thinning. "Not thinking of taking me up on that dinner invitation from weeks ago, are you?"

Something shifted in Ratio's expression—a faint displeasure, quickly masked by the neutral detachment. He glanced toward the laptop screen on the floor, though his hand tightened imperceptibly on the device. "Are you avoiding stressors?"

Aventurine's smile faltered. "Sure." He adjusted the blanket around him, half-hiding behind it. "I'm basically just coasting on emails."

Ratio's next question came too quickly, as if he was afraid of losing his nerve. "And the new dosage?"

The hum was more a reflex to his impatience than a conscious reply.

"Still makes me a little drowsy, though," he added, then nodded jerkily as if it could make the lie more convincing. He was off his game, but better than confessing he'd tossed the medication aside after that last mishap, unwilling to risk another sleepwalking episode.

The doctor seemed to consider his words for a moment, his fingers hesitating over the device's monitor. When he finally moved to remove the band from Aventurine's wrist, his touch lingered, clinical precision giving way to something less certain. Aventurine went very still, suddenly aware of every point of contact between them. Ratio's thumb brushed against his pulse point, the gesture so slight it might have been unconscious, but Aventurine felt it like an electric current under his skin.

Something in Ratio's expression shifted—a subtle tightening around the eyes that Aventurine couldn't quite place. Was he seeing through the lie? Had the device betrayed him somehow?

He should have pulled away immediately. The prolonged contact was unnecessary, irritating even. Yet his wrist remained in Ratio's hold, his own body betraying him with its stillness. It was merely exhaustion, he told himself. Nothing more than the simple conservation of energy that kept him motionless under that touch.

"Perhaps we're missing something…" Ratio's voice had dropped lower, almost distracted. His gaze was fixed on where his fingers still held Aventurine's wrist, as if he was reading something in the flutter of his pulse that the device had missed. "I might need to discuss this with someone."

The intimacy of the moment threw Aventurine for a loop, chest squeezed between panic and another emotion he named discomfort. He carefully extracted his wrist from Ratio's hold, trying to ignore how his skin seemed to burn where the doctor had touched him.

"Someone other than the device acquaintance?" he muttered, his voice taking a sharper edge, the way that touch lingered disquieting. "Let's not get more people involved, yes?"

Ratio went still, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. Something calculated passed behind those crimson eyes, a barely detectable hesitation that felt oddly significant. His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he composed himself, fingers hovering over the device as if suddenly uncertain what to do with them.

"I see," he said finally, the words weighted in a way Aventurine couldn't quite interpret. There was no disappointment in his tone, no frustration—just a careful neutrality that somehow seemed more deliberate than usual.

His fingers flexed once before he clicked off the monitor, the movement precise and controlled. The doctor's gaze returned to the device, focused with unnecessary intensity on putting it away, as though the simple task required his complete concentration.

"I haven't seen your cats," Ratio said suddenly.

Caught off guard, Aventurine's hand stilled, halfway from getting the laptop. He forced a chuckle, trying to mask how the simple observation had thrown him off balance. "And it took you four days to notice?"

Ratio's expression didn't change. "I noticed when I brought you back from the café."

Aventurine paused, opening the laptop screen between them, before replying. "Someone's looking after them," he said, the words coming out more clipped than he intended. His fingers tightened on the edge of the laptop, the sensation of their velvety softness under his fingertips, their warmth against his chest when he snuggled with them at night.

He swallowed, then added quietly, "I couldn't have them around."

The admission sat between them, loaded with a kind of openness he rarely allowed himself. But they were a gift from the doctor, and Aventurine wasn’t ungrateful. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, acutely aware of Ratio's lingering gaze. He could feel another question coming, but Ratio apparently chose not to press, and instead, he stood up.

Relief swept through Aventurine, and he even managed a cheeky pout when he looked up. "Leaving already?"

Ratio was checking his phone, the screen's glow reflecting off his face in the dim light. His brow furrowed slightly as he read something, a tension settling in his jaw. When he spoke again, his voice carried an edge Aventurine couldn't quite place. "I have a full schedule today."

A hum of mock approval escaped Aventurine.

"Don't overdo it," Ratio added. "Take a break in half an hour."

Aventurine waved him off. "You know where the door is, right?"

Ratio's hesitation was subtle, but Aventurine didn't miss it as his footsteps receded into the hallway. For a moment, he strained to listen, tracking Ratio's progress through the apartment by the soft sounds of his movements. The click of the door closing had an odd softness to it, as though Ratio were suddenly treading with uncharacteristic care.

The apartment settled back into silence, suddenly emptier than before. Aventurine remained motionless on the sofa, solitude pressing down on him once more. His gaze drifted around the room before dropping to his wrist. Almost without conscious thought, his fingers traced the spot where Ratio had held him, thin skin still tingling faintly. It still stung as if the doctor was still holding him, an echo of contact he couldn't quite dismiss. How deep had this weakness pervaded him that he couldn’t endure not even the lightest touch?

He didn't know what to make of the tension Ratio left behind, only that it refused to let him settle.

The laptop screen blinked beside him, emails and half-finished tasks waiting in impatient, yellow-lit rows. He stared at the unread emails, his fingers poised over the keys, but the words blurred and tangled. It wasn't happening again, he wouldn't let himself. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the unease clawing at his patience, at whatever piece of him was still trying to function. He forced himself to focus, even when his mind kept buzzing, picking apart the moments before with a quiet dread he couldn't shake.

You're not fooling anyone. Especially not him.

He ignored it, his fingers moving with forced purpose, tapping at keys as if the sound itself could drown the whisper out. Focus, he ordered himself, but the quiet in the apartment grew too thick, pressing around him. The whisper grew sharper, more insistent, his own voice echoing like a warning.

You can't do this forever.

A dull ache settled behind his eyes, making the room swim. Aventurine closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing down the tremor that had begun to coil in his chest. But even with his eyes shut, he could feel the silence clotting around him, the dim light casting shadows that curled and shifted at the edges of his vision. For a brief moment, he could swear he saw a flicker of movement—just beyond his line of sight. His pulse quickened, the faint whisper of paranoia creeping back in.

Something's got to give.

It sounded like her.

Abruptly, Aventurine pushed himself up from the sofa, needing to shake off the sensation before it swallowed him whole. He pressed his palms hard against his eyes, willing the darkness away, and took a few steadying breaths. Move. Get up. His body obeyed before his mind had fully registered the command, carrying him toward the kitchen in search of a distraction. He grabbed a glass, filling it with water under the steady stream from the faucet, letting the white noise drown out the thoughts spiraling through his mind.

He took a sip, the coldness grounding him, his gaze drifting absently over the counters cluttered with unwashed dishes. The air in the kitchen was stagnant, the smell of something left too long in the sink. But as his eyes wandered to the floor, they landed on a small smudge by the edge of the glass table, barely visible under the leg. He froze.

Blood.

It was small, half-smeared, but unmistakable against the marble floor. His heartbeat quickened as he stared at it. How was it the first time he noticed it? His mind rebelled against the implication, insisting it must be another hallucination. Yet the smudge didn't move, didn't spread. It looked dark, dried, not the vivid red of his nightmares. The thought somehow brought him comfort, and he crouched down, still holding the glass. His fingers gripped the edge of the table to push it away and get a better look.

The smudge, larger beneath the table leg, was bordered by clean, squared edges as if the area around it had been brushed away. He blinked, his breath catching as he extended one hand. It felt congealed and tangible, flaking under his touch as though it had dried long ago.

The glass slipped from his hold, landing with a dull clunk on the floor. It rolled slightly, leaving a wet trail on the tiles.

Aventurine staggered back, falling on his backside, his heart pounding violently against his ribs. A cold sweat broke across his forehead, nausea rising in waves.

It was real.

But how?

Fragments of memory slipped through his mind in jagged pieces—the knife, his own hand, the sharp sting of metal slicing through skin, and the warmth of blood trickling down his neck. He could remember the immediate aftermath too, when he stumbled half-delirious into the bathroom, one hand pressed against his neck as he fumbled for the hemostatic gel.

But he couldn't remember who cleaned up the rest.

Who could have indeed?

He let out a hollow laugh, the sound scraping against the quiet. No. The idea was absurd, something only his fractured mind could conjure up. No way Ratio would've involved himself like that. He would never overstep like that. He was too proper for that. His hand twitched, the feel of Ratio's fingers around his wrist like a brand.

Refusing reality, even when it’s before you.

The bitterness in his laugh scraped against his throat, raw and ugly.

If it had been Ratio, it meant he saw everything.

He'd witnessed what had happened when Aventurine was at his weakest, tidied up and didn't mention it for days. He's known the whole time, and never said anything.

Aventurine stared at his hand, the blood flakes on his fingers. Almost mechanically, he lifted himself up and grabbed a rag from the sink. He crouched beside the table again, wiping at the small smear of blood with quick, aggressive movements. His breathing came faster, each scrub more forceful than the last.

It's too late.

He clenched the rag tighter, his knuckles whitening as he straightened up. Ratio had been here. Ratio had seen everything—had knelt on this very floor, cleaning up blood, his blood, evidence, choosing silence over confrontation. The realization settled like ice in his stomach: Ratio knew exactly how close to the edge he'd come.

And he didn’t say anything.

The unease gnawed at the back of his mind, a persistent awareness that he was being observed, assessed, measured against some threshold he couldn't see. He pushed it down, refusing to let it take root, but the knowledge remained, impossible to ignore.

He walked back into the living room, his mind churning with thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge. He had work to focus on. That was what mattered. Not the mess, not the questions, not the silent assessment, the relentless intrusion, the irreversible reality.

Just the distraction.

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When he woke, the first thing he noticed was the stillness. ​​A silence so dense it felt like pressure.

For a long moment, he lay there, blinking at the ceiling, his body sluggish with the remnants of sleep. But something was wrong. The cracks in the plaster had shifted—spiraling outward in jagged, unnatural patterns, splitting the ceiling like broken glass. The gilded trim peeled away in curling flakes, flaking off like old skin.

He exhaled, a thin sound, and pushed himself up.The blanket slid from his shoulders, pooling in folds around his hips. His laptop teetered at the edge of the sofa, and he reached for it instinctively, but the movement was stiff, disconnected, like he was wading through water.

His fingers missed.

The laptop fell.

It hit the floor without a sound.

He stared, unblinking. The amber lights of the apartment were still on, but dimmed to a sickly gray. The shadows they cast stretched long and lazy across the floor. In the far corner, the darkness stirred, condensing at the edges of his vision.

He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to clear the blur, but when he dropped his hands, the shadows were still there—curling lazily across the floor, as if uncaring they could be seen. As if they were only biding their time.

His breath hitched in his throat, but the sound never reached his ears. The edges of the room melted, an oily, murky film crawled across the surfaces, blurring their sharpness until they wept into each other. A prickling dread skittered beneath his skin, as if the dissolving room were touching him.

He pushed to his feet, weightless, disjointed. His legs barely registered the movement as he stumbled toward the hallway, toward any boundary that still seemed real. But the walls wavered, the seams between floor and ceiling dissolving.

Shadows crept into every crevice, gathering in the corners, thickening like coagulating blood in a wound. They seemed to writhe with a latent intent, a relentless draw towards him, patient only in their certainty. Every step he took felt pulled from him, a sluggish tug downward, drawn by some instinct he couldn't name.

Still no sound—no footsteps, no breath, no city noise. The world stood stripped bare, hollowed to form and absence.

And at the far end, a figure waited.

Even colorless, voiceless, he knew her. The tailored silhouette, the wide-brimmed hat, the unmistakable posture—Lady Bonajade.

His lady.

His spine straightened reflexively, squared his shoulders—old instincts returning as if embedded in his bones. A tension crept through him, pride and apprehension fusing into a single emotion he could never quite name whenever before her.

Jade relaxed her crossed arms when he reached her, lips curving in a smile—small, almost indulgent. He offered one of his own, sharp-edged and confident, a mask worn so often it felt like his own skin. She reached out, gloved fingers brushing his uniform, straightening invisible imperfections with a gentle touch. Feather-light to look affectionate, ineluctable to feel like a claiming.

And yet, the only thought penetrating his mind was whether she could feel his heart threatening to break through his ribs.

He tried to meet her gaze but faltered, flickering instead to the cornerstone pinned to her chest, to the jade pendant around her neck.

Her pale lips moved into silent words—"It suits you, child."

He nodded automatically, throat locked tight. His body remembered all the old steps even when the ground beneath him had turned to water.

Jade’s touch lingered on his chest a moment longer before she turned without a word. A door opened behind her—heavy, wooden, swinging inward soundlessly.

She beckoned. A delicate motion of her manicured finger.

Every instinct screamed at him to run. But his feet carried him after her, into the dark beyond.

Inside, the shadows thickened. The presence of others was a sensation—the invisible press of a hundred unseen gazes, the weight of scrutiny against his skin, the faint, metallic taste of judgment in the air. Jade walked into the far corner, her form disappearing in the shadows.

He stood alone in the center of the room, gaze nailed straight ahead, hands clasped stiffly behind his back, fingers digging into his wrist.

Someone approached—blurry, indistinct. They spoke, but no words reached him.

He tightened his grip behind his back until he felt flesh breaking under his nails.

The figure extended a small box—dark wood, intricate metalwork glinting faintly in the gloom.

A slow smile spread on his lips despite the violent instinct to recoil, his hand reaching out obediently, as if pulled by strings. The box settled into his palms with unnatural weight, far heavier than it should have been.

He looked instinctively toward Jade, for some unspoken consent he shouldn’t have asked. She was already gone, a  faint chill lingering where her gaze had dismissed him.

Swallowing hard, he undid the latch. The box snapped open soundlessly.

Inside, nestled against velvet black as a starless sky, lay his Cornerstone.

The aventurine gleamed—green fire, vivid and alive against the dead darkness around it. For one suspended moment, he could only stare, the glow filling his vision, swallowing thought and fear alike. His hands were almost hesitant as he reached inside, fingers brushing along the silver ornament that cradled it.

The faintest pressure, and the stone fractured.

The pieces sliced into his skin, sharp and merciless. He gasped, the sound swallowed whole by the void.

Blood welled from the cuts, slicking his hold. He clutched the fragments tighter, desperate, instinctive, trying to force the pieces back together. The harder he gripped, the deeper the shards bit into his palms, carving lines of pain up his wrists.

The world tilted. The ground shifted under his feet, the darkness pressing closer. Still, he clung to the broken pieces, refusing to let go.

Refusing to accept the fracture.

Because if he let go, there would be nothing left.

A touch—light, almost reverent—brushed his shoulder.

He flinched.

Sound cut through the silence at last. A voice, blessed and foreign, threading into his bones.

Kakavasha.

The name, cast away and familiar, stirred something deep in his chest. A memory—no, something older than memory surfaced like a breath stolen from underwater.

A woman stood before him, her features blurred and shifting. Long, pale hair framed a face he couldn't fully bring into focus.

But her eyes—her eyes he remembered.

Deep, kind, limitless.

I've looked all around for you, my child, she whispered, breath warm against his ear.

Her arms folded around him, cradling him against her bosom, petrichor on dry sand enveloping him, comfort he hadn't realized he'd forgotten.

He shuddered, the broken shards digging deeper into his palms as he pressed them against himself, bleeding freely into the folds of his clothing. "I never should have left..." he gasped, voice raw. "I didn’t know… I didn't understand…"

She answered without words, only a gentle hum, low and resonant. One of her hands covered his, guiding his trembling fingers together, pressing them around the broken Cornerstone.

Her bloodless lips moved, Pray with me, child.

The words settled into the very marrow of his being, resonated in the frantic beat of his heart.

Pain blossomed, pure and raw, radiating outward from the cuts. The fragments inside his hands shifted, slicing through tendons and muscle, scraping against bone. Blood ran down his arms in thick, slow rivulets, staining the sand beneath him.

Still, he clung to the broken pieces.

"It should have been her," he whispered, the confession torn from him, tears spilling inevitable and helpless down his cheeks. "I'm not strong like her…"

The arms around him tightened, the once-gentle pressure growing firm, then insistent. The warmth that had enveloped him began to rise in temperature, comfort giving way to heat, then to something that seared against his skin. When she drew closer, her breath no longer felt like air but like water filling his lungs.

You were chosen.

"I didn’t… I'm not..."

Her face drew closer, the blurred features shifting like sand underwater. Something gleamed at her forehead—a light, a sigil, a glimmering eye—and the edges of her form dissolved into something vast and fluid.

It was meant to be, she said. The voice wasn’t hers anymore. It was layered, echoing from the sand, from the blood, from somewhere far below him. You’re the favorite among my children.

The embrace became a vice. The pressure on his chest crushed the air from him.

And now—

Now came the cold.

It surged upward from the ground, an oily, viscous chill, coiling around his ankles. Sinuous threads of darkness, viscous and alive, wrapped around his calves, his thighs, winding tighter and tighter. The bloodied sand cracked and split beneath him, opening like a maw.

He struggled, but the tendrils gripped him, dragging him down, down into the earth. Into the cold, into the abyss that yawned hungrily below.

Above, SHE watched him with empty, shining eyes. The corners of her mouth curved upward in a terrible semblance of tenderness.

He sank.

Down, down into the depths, into cold so absolute it burned. His consciousness fractured, splintering like his Cornerstone as he was dragged into the depths—

A violent gasp broke his descent.

His body convulsed upward, spine arching against resistance that suddenly wasn’t there. His heart hammered against his ribs like something caged and desperate. Silk twisted around him, heavy and constraining, dampness soaking into his skin—sweat, not blood. The darkness remained, but different now, no longer absolute. Shapes emerged, faint outlines of familiar objects that hadn’t been there before.

His hands flew up instinctively, fingers splayed wide, searching for shards that should have been there, for pain that lingered in memory but not in flesh. Finding nothing, they clutched at his chest instead, feeling for his ribs, for the pressure that had been crushing him moments before. Shallow breaths tore through him in uneven bursts, the air itself violent—too thin, too cold, too real.

The weight of gravity shifted, no longer pulling him down into endless depths but pressing him against something solid.

A surface beneath him, steady, real.

The shapes in the room loomed around him, distorted by the dim light filtering from outside. They wavered, like halogen afterimages burned into his retinas. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to chase the lingering remnants of the dream away, but the panic was still there, coiled tight in his chest. His fingers tore free of the blankets, and he shot upright, gulping at the air.

His breath came out in short, sharp bursts, each exhale shakier than the last.

It's not real. It's not real.

In the silence of the room, the whispers in his head grew louder, filling the space like a roaring wave. His hands still trembled, the muscles spasming faintly, as if they were clinging to something that wasn't there. His body couldn't seem to catch up to the fact that he was awake.

He needed to tear himself out of this.

He needed to ground himself.

He couldn’t let it happen again.

His hand fumbled beneath the cushions, searching blindly for the phone. Fingers brushed against its cool surface, and he pulled it free, blinking against the sudden glare of the screen. His vision blurred as he scrolled through the contacts, hot breath fogging the glass.

Ratio.

His hand tightened around the phone.

What was he doing?

This morning, he'd been livid at the realization that Ratio had been in his kitchen, seen his blood—had pieced together his shameful weakness without a word. The man had handled his broken pieces, tidied them away, and returned each morning with that clinical gaze, never mentioning what he'd seen.

And here Aventurine was, about to beg for his help again.

His thumb hovered over the name. The tremor in his hand wasn't just from the nightmare anymore.

You can’t handle this yourself.

His jaw clenched.

Barely four days on his own.

Pathetic.

The thought of calling Ratio felt like acid in his throat, but the memory of those shattered fragments digging into his palms, of the darkness pulling him down, of that warm embrace—it all still clung to him, its grip unyielding, a weakness he couldn’t afford.

The call connected before he'd fully committed to the decision, his need for stability overriding his pride in one mad moment of clarity.

The phone rang.

Once. Twice. Each ring a reminder of his sickening need.

The other end picked up.

"Aventurine?" Ratio's voice came through the line, faintly groggy.

Aventurine opened his mouth to respond, but the sound caught in his throat, stuck somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His chest felt tight, constricted, the panic still clawing at him, refusing to let go. The shame of his own weakness pressed down on him, heavier than the nightmare itself.

A brief silence. Then Ratio's voice, sharper, but calm: "Aventurine. Breathe. Take deep breaths, one at a time."

Even this, he couldn't manage on his own. Even breathing required a borrowed voice to guide him. Aventurine squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping the edge of the mattress as if it alone could anchor him. 

He tried to follow Ratio's instructions, tried to slow his erratic breathing, but the fear still clung to him, tightening with every heartbeat.

"Focus on my voice," Ratio said, steadier now, grounding. "Deep breaths. One at a time."

His breaths came out in stuttering gasps, but he forced himself to follow— 

In. 

Out. 

Slowly. 

Carefully.

The sharpness in his chest dulled, though the tremors in his hands remained. He hated how quickly his body had surrendered to Ratio's voice, as if all his defenses had always been hollow, as if he truly needed someone else.

"Was it a nightmare?" Ratio asked after a moment, a thread of urgency beneath the calm.

Aventurine nodded, before remembering Ratio couldn’t see him. 

His throat scraped out a single word: "Yes."

Silence, then Ratio's voice again, low and tense: "Are you injured? Where are you?"

The questions made Aventurine flinch. 

The panic surged, rising to drown him again. 

He squeezed the phone tighter, struggling to speak. "I'm... I'm fine," he finally managed, though his voice shook horribly. "I'm fine. It was just a nightmare."

On the other end of the line, a sharp breath. Quick, controlled—almost.

"Are you in bed?"

"Yes," Aventurine rasped, sinking deeper into the mattress, though his body remained rigid.

"Did you take your medication?"

The question hit like a slap. 

Shame pierced him, sharp and immediate. How quickly he had collapsed. How easily he had reached for Ratio—the man who had already seen too much. 

Was there any part of himself he wouldn't surrender?

Was there no depth to which he wouldn't sink?

"It was just a nightmare," Aventurine whispered, the words brittle. "I called you for nothing."

Ratio's voice dropped, almost too soft, unacceptably so, "Do you want me to come?"

The hesitation in Ratio's voice was worse than the question itself. The vice of shame tightened. He pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen, searching for an answer he didn’t want to find.

Yes.

The word formed instantly in his mind, in his own voice. 

The thought of Ratio here—solid, real—felt like salvation.

But the blood stain flashed behind his eyes. Another fragment of dignity surrendered. Another failure he couldn't hide. He couldn’t let himself go.

"I'm okay," Aventurine forced out. The lie burned his throat raw. His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles ached.  "I'll... I'll just—" He couldn’t finish.

There was a pause, too brief to mean nothing, and the faint sound of fabric shifting, as if Ratio had tightened his grip on the phone.

"I'll come check on you in the morning," the doctor said finally, back to that clinical cadence.

"Okay," Aventurine mumbled, sinking further into the bed. "See you tomorrow, doc."

Ratio hummed softly, before the call ended.

The line went dead.

The phone slipped from Aventurine’s fingers, falling to the carpet with a soft thud.

He pulled his knees to his chest, arms tight, fingers digging into the grooves of his ribs. His gaze drifted up at the ceiling—the cracks, barely visible in the dark, were still there, distant like constellations, unforgiving like the void.

Somewhere in the haze, the sound of his phone vibrating reached his ears. He glanced down, heart thumping quietly, but it was only the alarm.

What did you expect?

He didn't know. ​​

Somewhere deep down, he must've, that voice too knowing, too prying. Never before had he felt so disconnected from himself, from everything. The emptiness was almost soothing now—a concerning realization he couldn’t bring himself to examine.

The ceiling returned to his focus, the cracks forming patterns that no longer made sense. He let the alarm buzz, its sound merging with the whispers in his mind, and lay there, still and waiting for the morning.

Chapter Text

The hallway floor had gone beyond cold beneath him, the chill having long since penetrated his skin to settle deep in his joints, turning them stiff and unyielding. Not that Aventurine cared anymore. The numbness had its benefits.

Back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, he sat on the floor. Waiting. What for, he couldn't say. He'd been here ever since he'd torn himself from his bed, rage and self-disgust burning through him until he couldn't lie still any longer. His eyes burned from hours of staring at that same patch of wall, watching as the darkness retreated into the corners where it gathered and pulsed, a familiar, slick writhing that no longer startled him.

The previous night spiraled inward like water circling a drain—his pathetic weakness, the way his voice had broken, how quickly he'd reached out when he was dragged back to sands, to her embrace, to the cornerstone shattering in his bleeding hands. But what truly hollowed him out was that he reached out. Despite the rage, the revulsion, the shame—he'd still reached for Ratio in the dark.

Still needed that tether.

You’re weak.

It slithered through, his own voice like always, sharper, crueler than usual. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, but it was Ratio's voice from last night's call that overlaid the whispers:

Do you want me to come?

That tone—softened and hazy with sleep—made his stomach twist with humiliation. He'd spent the long, empty hours of the night turning that question over and over, dissecting each syllable, each inflection, letting it feed the anger that simmered beneath his skin. Something about that unguardedness had felt wrong—Ratio was measured, precise, each syllable weighed and considered before it left his lips. That falter was no accident.

It was a tell, the dealer’s peek.

You played right into his hand.

His fingers curled against his palm, nails digging crescents into the freshly healed cut. The device, the subtle glances, Ratio's silent knowledge of his sleepwalking incident—it was all happening again. He let it happen again. He was being observed, cataloged, dissected for someone else's satisfaction. The dull ache in his lower back from hours on the hard floor had spread to his shoulders, his neck, mixing with the persistent heaviness behind his eyes. Each blink lasted longer than the one before, his body begging for the sleep he refused to grant it.

Worse still, you’ve asked for it.

Begged, even.

His teeth ground together as he looked down at his trembling hands. He had indeed asked for this, hadn't he? Just one night, Ratio had said in his office. But that one night had stretched into a month of unwanted scrutiny, a month Aventurine had endured before finally severing ties. Now, three weeks later, his desperation had led him back, a willing participant in this… arrangement.

Past and recent experience had taught him a different lesson. Still, he'd foolishly thought it would be different this time, that the doctor might see him as something other than a broken thing to be studied, that he wasn't walking himself right into a cage again. That he couldn’t continue alone. Necessity had brought him to the doctor, had forced his hand to seek solace in a man who only knew the dictionary definition of it. He’d done worse in the name of survival, he believed.

But the call last night had stripped away even that pretense. It wasn't a failing of his body that had begged for Ratio. It was deeper, a visceral craving for something he'd sworn he wouldn’t seek anymore, a terrifying compulsion to fill the emptiness within.

You’ve always enjoyed giving a good show.

No. This wasn't the performance he intended, it served no purpose other than to ruin him. This cycle was unsustainable, collapse and rejection alternating like a snake eating its own tail, unless he—

The sound of footsteps from the corridor outside made him lift his head. Precise, measured steps. Aventurine's eyes fixed on his phone: 9:00 AM, as punctual as always.

The doorbell chimed.

Aventurine didn't move, didn't speak. He fixed the handle, as if his look alone could melt it and seal himself inside forever. It was a matter of principle why he didn't move a muscle, but it was also a limit of his own wretched body, trembling so violently that the idea of standing made his stomach lurch. He waited with bated breath, until the lock clicked—had he forgotten to re-engage it after the doctor’s visit yesterday?

Doesn’t matter.

Get up.

Don’t let him see.

The door opened slowly, and Ratio's familiar figure appeared in the frame. There was a fractional widening of those red-lined eyes as they took in the sight of Aventurine on the floor, a momentary tension creasing his features before settling back into its usual neutrality. No dramatic show of concern, no rush forward—just that same scrutiny that made Aventurine's blood boil beneath his clammy skin.

"Good morning, doctor," Aventurine spat out. "Gawking is unbecoming, don’t you know?"

Without a word, Ratio extended his hand. Aventurine stared at it for a long moment, at the slightly flexed fingers. At the pale skin stretched taut over his knuckles. At the small retraction into his palm already beginning, as if the offer of help had only been a fleeting fancy, already discarded.

The floor pitched beneath him as he pushed himself upright without taking it, using the wall for support instead. The sudden elevation sent black spots swimming across his vision, but he held steady, nails scratching the drywall as he braced himself.

The doctor withdrew his hand but didn't step back. "You haven’t slept."

A scoff scraped its way out of Aventurine's throat. "Brilliant deduction. No wonder they made you a teacher." He pushed himself from the wall, the hallway still swaying hazily around him, steps uncertain as he brushed past Ratio without another glance. "Let’s get this over with."

The walk to the kitchen felt like wading through water. His knees, stiff from hours of sitting frozen in place, threatened to buckle with each step, joints catching like rusted hinges. He didn’t have to turn around to feel Ratio behind him—close enough to catch him if he fell, far enough to let him pretend he wouldn’t. He could sense those eyes on his back, tracking every tremor, every faltering shift in his gait.

A sickly, jaundiced glow assaulted his eyes when he reached the kitchen, the eternal amber of Pier Point slicing through the gaps in the drawn curtains. Harsh strips carved across the kitchen floor, across his cluttered table: laptop, empty bottles, unwashed glasses. The detritus of nights blurred into each other, when sleep wouldn’t come and medication had started to feel more dangerous than the insomnia itself.

He dropped into the nearest chair. The legs screeched across the marble tile, the sound splitting through his skull like a blade. His hand rose to cover his eyes, but it didn’t help. The afterimage still flickered behind his lids. His vision kept snagging on that spot beneath the glass table. Nothing remained. But it was there.

Etched in at the molecular level. A ghost only he could see.

He didn’t look up when Ratio entered behind him. Didn’t move at the soft scrape of another chair being pulled out. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t anything as solid as that.

He just couldn’t.

“Do you want some water?” Ratio's voice came low—quieter than usual, almost careful. As if sound itself might bruise.

Aventurine startled. He hadn’t realized he was staring at the table again. “I want you to hurry up and be done,” he rasped. “I’ve got tons to do.”

A lie. The kind he told on reflex. There was nothing waiting for him. No work, no distraction. Just more hours of staring at the walls, tracking the corners where shadows gathered and multiplied. Fighting the urge to tear everything apart until something gave. But Ratio didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need more data to file away, another dot to add to whatever picture he was drawing.

Ratio said nothing. But his hands—always too precise—paused for just a second as he unzipped the bag and laid out the tools. The thin metal band. The scanner. The small digital screen that gave away all his secrets. Aventurine’s stomach turned at the sight of them.

This is what you allowed.

Nodded along. Never once asked.

Handed over every card like it was your idea.

"Why don't we make this easier," Aventurine said suddenly, hating how his voice wavered. "You ask whatever the device is telling you to ask, and I'll tell you I'm fine. Then you can leave."

Ratio didn’t react right away. But something shifted in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or unease. The distinction hardly mattered to Aventurine.

"Have you been on the floor all night?" Ratio asked instead, assembling the scanner without looking up.

Aventurine's laugh came out harsh and strained. "Why? Is that going to help those readings?" His fingers started tapping a restless rhythm against the table's surface, one he couldn’t stop. "Or is it just morbid curiosity?"

"Neither." Ratio's gaze flicked up, briefly. "It's concern."

Aventurine drew the word out like it tasted foul. "Right."

Concern. He’d seen it before—muted and softened from sleep on the phone last night, in the steady grip holding him upright at the café, in the gentle pressure of palms against his cheeks when fever and hallucinations had ravaged him.

In the moment he’d woken from delirium, Ratio sitting at the edge of his bed with his sleeve stained with blood where Aventurine had clawed at him in a panic. He’d acted like it didn’t matter. Like Aventurine’s damage didn’t register. Like it was only a minor inconvenience.

And he believed it.

Because that was the trick, wasn’t it? Make it look like something necessary. Let Aventurine think he wanted it. That it was his idea. So when the door finally locked behind him, he wouldn’t even think to call it a cage.

But now… now he could see the bars.

His fingers resumed their tapping against the glass pane of the table. Louder this time. "Spare me the bedside manners."

Ratio's hands stilled again. Not for long—barely a breath—but Aventurine caught it. The way his shoulders tensed. How he deliberately choose to relax them. When his eyes met Aventurine’s again, they were sharper. Too sharp. The red eyeliner made them look like they’d been carved into his face.

"While part of my professional responsibilities, my concern is not merely perfunctory."

Aventurine’s smirk felt like a wound reopening. "And here I thought you weren’t a professional." He leaned back, trying not to wince as his spine protested. "Don't strain yourself trying to act human. It doesn't suit you, doc."

Ratio didn’t answer. Just resumed his setup, mechanical and silent, like Aventurine’s words hadn’t landed. But his hands moved slightly too fast now. Less precise.

"Roll up your sleeve."

The words snapped something in him.

"No."

Ratio looked up. The stoic mask slipped for a split second—irritation, sharp and unguarded—before snapping back into place. "Why not?"

"Because I’m tired of this whole routine." Aventurine crossed one leg over the other, masking the wince with feigned casualness. "In fact, I think we're done altogether."

The words hung between them, heavier than the air. Charged with all the resentment that had been festering inside him since the blood. Since he knew.

"Did you take your medication last night?"

Aventurine scoffed at the poor attempt to redirect. "And what does it have to do with anything?"

"If you didn’t, it would explain your current state."

His hand closed around the edge of the table. The cold surface warmed instantly under the feverish press of his palm. "Then, I did."

Ratio's gaze snapped up—fast, too fast—the crimson in his eyes tightening like a physical lash. It pinned Aventurine to his chair, breath shallow, a knot of heat and dread coiling low in his gut.

"Don’t lie."

He knows.

The blood. The knife. Your failure. Your weakness.

This is his game now.

The thought slithered in, slick and cold, winding itself around the base of his skull. Aventurine jerked his head in a subtle shake, as if he could rattle it loose—but the motion sent the room tilting, shadows doubling at the edges of his vision. His grip on the table tightened, fingertips blanching against the smooth glass. He blinked hard, once, twice, the pallid light fracturing into afterimages.

When his eyes refocused, Ratio had stood.

The monitoring device dangled from his hand, momentarily extended toward Aventurine… then slowly withdrawn.

"This is a result of your noncompliance." Ratio's voice was measured, smooth—but beneath it, something simmered. An edge Aventurine couldn’t stand. "You agreed—"

"What we agreed," Aventurine snapped, thick and slow despite his attempt at firmness, "was that you'd check vitals. Nothing more."

Ratio's lips twitched—half amusement, half dismissal.

"A convenient reframe."

Aventurine’s breath caught on a bitter laugh that sounded like seething. "Is that right?" He zeroed in on the tightening of Ratio's jaw, the tiny flicker of a muscle that betrayed him. "Then I guess we’re both shit at keeping our word."

Ratio didn’t answer. Not at first. His mouth opened just slightly—as if something wanted out—but he shut it again. And that silence, that pause, felt louder than anything he could’ve said, splintering the air like condescension.

Aventurine’s pulse spiked. The heat of it returned, crawling up his throat, pressing against the back of his tongue. It wasn’t even rage anymore—it was something uglier. A pressure without release. He wanted to say it, wanted to drag the blood and the knife and the sick feeling in his chest into the light—but he couldn’t. The words turned to ash before they even reached his mouth.

He bit them down instead.

His next words came out low and stripped bare, voice scraped raw from the inside. "What does that device really measure?"

Ratio replied evenly, testy in his patience. "I've already explained its function."

"My fever-addled brain must have made me misunderstand." Aventurine leaned forward, ignoring the way it made the floor tip sideways beneath him. "Maybe a refresher course is in order—don’t you think, doctor?"

Ratio's fingers tightened around the metal band. Behind his eyes, something clicked into place. "In layman's terms," he said, "it measures interference patterns. Among other biometric indicators."

"And more precisely?"

Reluctance passed over Ratio's face, his shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly—an unconscious bracing. "The resonance index measures psycho-energetic imprints on cellular structure. It quantifies the Nihility's integration with biological tissue."

Aventurine stared at him. The words landed with the dull impact of a fall from height—delayed, disorienting, then devastating.

It wasn’t just tracking symptoms. It was cataloging infestation, charting the way the Nihility threaded THEMSELVES into him—rooted in blood and bone, in synapse and skin. He blinked hard, vision darkening at the edges. He couldn’t stop his fingers from shaking against the glass. The table swam. The walls pulsed. There was an itching under his skin again, memory made flesh.

Just as I told you.

Saliva pooled under his tongue, and he swallowed. "And the other parameters?"

"Neurochemical fluctuations. Sleep patterns. Medication intake." Ratio's voice was cool, but the last line carried the subtle weight of judgment. "Or lack thereof."

Aventurine didn’t respond. Not aloud.

But inside, something caved in.

Every morning, every time he’d lied, every pathetic, flimsy denial, Ratio had known. He had the evidence right there on that little screen, the irrefutable proof of Aventurine's deception. He’d watched Aventurine fall apart and said nothing. Let him lie. Let him believe it mattered.

What else had he known?

Aventurine’s eyes dropped—again—to the spot beneath the table. Before dawn came that morning, he’d inspected every inch of tile, every seam between counters, searching for other traces Ratio had missed. But the doctor had been meticulous, maniacally thorough even in his betrayal.

And you would’ve never known.

Yes. If not for that one missed smear, he might never have known Ratio had seen him at his worst. If not for this confrontation now, he might never have known what the device was really measuring.

Had it really been an oversight? Or a plant? A test? Something Ratio left behind, like a scientist tapping the glass to see how the specimen reacted?

Or bait. To see him break, to destroy him.

You never had control.

You never had a choice.

The thoughts coiled around his ribs, squeezing tighter. He blinked again, forcing himself to look away, to breathe through the panic tightening like a noose around his lungs. He couldn’t let it take him. Not now.

But the venom was in his blood already. Doubt. Distrust. And fear, sharper than anything he'd let himself feel in days. What else was Ratio hiding? What else had he built around Aventurine?

His gaze flicked to Ratio's hands, still holding the device. The same hands that had cleaned blood from his kitchen tiles. The same hands once offered in quiet care—now withdrawn just as easily.

Aventurine’s throat closed. The corners of his vision pulsed black. The glint of the metal band flashed in this eyes like the edge of a blade. Ratio said he borrowed it… from whom? Who else knew? Who else was complicit?

“That device…” Aventurine rasped, panic catching hard in his throat. He coughed once, swallowed down the acid rising. Forced the words back out, brittle and controlled. “You said it was borrowed. From an… acquaintance.” His eyes met Ratio's for a fraction of a second—then slid away again, unable to hold. “Who… what kind of acquaintance?”

Ratio's mouth opened. "The specifics of its origin are—"

"Don't." The word tore from Aventurine’s throat, the rattle of a drowning man. "Don't you dare hedge now." Words tumbled out, spilling out faster than he could stop them. "Is it someone from the Guild? The IPC? Who exactly gets these readings?"

The corner of Ratio's mouth tightened—disdain? weariness?

"Someone currently unaffiliated with either institution," he said, carefully. "A professional contact of mine."

Aventurine could barely draw breath. "So you’re confirming it. You’re gathering and sharing data about my condition. With someone else. Without my consent." His voice dropped, but the quiet only made it hit harder. "A stranger has data on me."

"The data is anonymized," Ratio replied, as if it was reassuring. "There are no identifiers. I made sure of that."

Aventurine laughed. A short, dry sound—so sharp it sounded like it had cut something inside him. "Oh, that’s immensely comforting," he said, voice cracking under the strain.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, pain spiking beneath his ribs like something splintering. "I didn’t realize I had such a wide audience. Impressive, doctor."

A muscle twitched in Ratio's jaw. His eyes dropped to the hand Aventurine pressed against his chest—but his voice stayed level. "I respect your agency more than you seem to believe."

Aventurine’s mouth twisted. "No, doctor." The word welled up like infection in a wound. "It’s the opposite. You’ve taken every choice from me and dressed it up as kindness." His voice cracked again. "Out with it. Who exactly got to know me most intimately?"

Ratio didn’t flinch. "An expert in Nihility exposure." There was something faintly defensive in his tone now. "According to their metrics, your levels are stable but need medication—if that’s what you’re worried about."

Aventurine’s jaw clenched. "As a matter of fact, I am. And more than you know." He leaned forward, abrupt and aggressive—though he never crossed the space between them.

The movement nearly unseated him, the room tilting violently for a second, but he rode the wave. "In case it slipped your mind, this isn’t a sterile experiment. It’s not a theoretical case for some IPC white paper." His voice was rising again. "It’s my health. My life."

"Indeed."

The word stopped Aventurine cold.

Two syllables—quiet, flat, pulling the brakes on the escalating cacophony within.

He blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Ratio's hand flexed slightly on the metal band. Not anger, Aventurine realized with a strange twist in his gut—restraint. He was holding something back. Again.

Then, finally:

"I’ve disclosed my side, now it’s your turn." The corner of his lips pulled tight. "Why haven't you continued your treatment?"

The shift in topic hit like whiplash. Aventurine blinked harder, the haze in his head thickening.

"What?"

"The medication." Ratio's voice was gentler now—fatigue threaded through the sigh that escaped him. "You have only taken it once in the last few days. Correct?"

Aventurine shook his head, regretting it instantly. Pain lanced through his temples. "I didn’t—It doesn’t matter now." He jabbed a trembling finger at the device. "Is that thing really so precise?"

"An educated guess." Ratio crossed his arms. His fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his sleeves, as if holding himself in place. "But the absence of fluctuation since monitoring began was a clear metric as well."

The clinical phrasing twisted in Aventurine’s gut. The walls of the kitchen seemed to warp slightly at the edges, bowing inward like the inside of a bubble. Before he could stop himself, he spoke.

"Did you—why are you keeping tabs on me?"

"It is the reason for our arrangement." Ratio's response came fast, cool, and certain—like ice water down Aventurine’s spine.

Aventurine curled a fist into his chest, gripping hard at his shirt, like he could anchor himself to the pain. "I never agreed to this, though."

Ratio's shoulders tensed, jaw working. "If something in my approach felt inappropriate, you had ample opportunity to say so. You’ve never been one to hold back criticism."

Aventurine seized on that tension. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

"It’s inappropriate that you took advantage of my condition."

Silence.

Ratio's face didn’t change—but his arms uncrossed. His hands, suddenly empty, found the edge of the table. They trembled faintly before he traced the glass rim with one fingertip. A rare show of restlessness.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Heavier.

"I apologize if I was out of line."

Then: "I should have asked."

Aventurine’s breath caught in a scoff.

"You had no right…"

He blinked hard, dragging his eyes back to Ratio's face. The furrow between his brows, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight tremor in his fingers—all wrong. That… that wasn’t like him. Nothing about this was.

He wasn’t supposed to—

Aventurine’s stomach lurched. Hot, sour bile burned the back of his throat. The room tilted in a sickening, slow roll, edges darkening as if a black curtain were closing in. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to steady himself, trying to squeeze the nausea out with sheer force of will.

Ratio's hand reached out across the table—hovering just inches from Aventurine’s other hand. "Are you feeling unwell?" His voice was low, tight with a concern that now felt insulting. "Take a breath, Aventurine."

"No," The syllable choked out of him, thick with bile. "Don't touch me. I don't need… anything. Especially not from you." It scorched his throat on the way out. A phantom warmth bloomed on his skin—memory, not sensation—the ghost of a hand on his cheek, the grip that had pulled him back from delirium.

He flinched, hard. "Never touch me again."

Ratio's hand stilled, then slowly withdrew. He sat back. Almost crossed his arms—then stopped himself, deliberately placing his hands flat on the table instead.

"This attitude," he said, voice tight with contained frustration, "is precisely why such measures were necessary. Your consistent refusal for any form of medical monitoring left us with limited options to provide any meaningful assistance."

"So it's my fault?" Aventurine’s voice cracked horribly, spiking louder than he intended. His stomach churned, threatening to revolt. He swallowed against it. "My fault that you… you went through me without me even knowing? Like I was some thing. Some piece of data."

"The intention was never to—"

"Lies," Aventurine’s arm flung outward in a sharp, involuntary gesture—too fast, too sudden. The motion sent the room careening again, but he didn’t stop. "They all want to see what’s inside, don’t they? Pick you apart. Use you up. I know how this works— From both sides…" His voice faltered, slurred slightly at the edges. "Don’t need it. Don’t need any of it… not again…"

Pathetic fool.

He's seen everything.

It’s need that got you to him. It’s need that will make you crawl back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until nothing is left.

THEIR whisper clawed through his mind like broken glass, each a shard twisting in his brain. A strangled sound broke from his throat—half-breath, half-sob. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if he could grind them out by force.

Breath sawed in and out of his lungs, each one more jagged than the last. Fire scraped through his throat. His skin prickled hot and damp, fever-slick.

"Aventurine."

Ratio's voice cut through the chaos—not soft, not unkind. Centered.

"Look at me."

When Aventurine didn’t respond—couldn’t—he sensed movement. A shift in weight. Presence drawing closer.

"You're fading. You're sweating and your breathing is erratic." There was a strained quality to his voice, a tightness Aventurine instinctively recognized from when the doctor dragged him back from his nightmares. "Tell me what's going on."

Aventurine shook his head, the gesture weak, the denial fragile even to himself. "This is… nothing…"

"Don't dismiss this, Aventurine." Urgent now. "This isn't just the Nihility."

Aventurine forced a breath that tasted like copper. "Still at… it, then?" he rasped, a thin protest against the clammy darkness behind his palms. "Did your precious readings… tell you that? Weren’t they ‘stable’?"

He heard Ratio exhale. Soft. Almost defeated.

That sound snagged something inside him. Against his better judgment, Aventurine parted his fingers—just enough to peer through. Ratio sat tense, brow furrowed, one hand dragging through his violet hair in a rare display of agitation.

When he spoke again, the tone had shifted—diplomacy layered over fatigue. "The baseline metrics remain stable, yes. But your current presentation tells a different story." The hand in his hair dropped to the table. "She finds this discrepancy—this normalcy in the readings despite your actual condition—deeply concerning."

Aventurine’s fingers clenched tighter at his temples, trying to anchor himself against the vertigo. The implication sank deep, cold and sour.

"Concerning how?"

Silence followed for a moment too long. The only sound was Aventurine’s breath—ragged, erratic. Each exhale shorter. Shallower. A spring winding to the point of rupture.

When Ratio finally spoke, there was a delay, a fraction of a second longer than usual, before the words left his lips. "The pattern of deterioration… it’s accelerated. Far beyond what even severe Nihility exposure would cause." Another pause as if Aventurine needed it. "Unless there was... additional trauma."

The unspoken hung heavy between them, suffocating in its weight. Exposure wrapped around him like a rope against chafed flesh.

"What—what are you saying?"

Ratio's expression shifted. The hard lines softened into something too knowing, too intimate—a searchlight into his vulnerability, crawling over his skin, cold and harsh.

"Was it intentional?"

And then, before confusion could form:

"The knife."

The word floated toward him, strangely light, delayed in its impact. It curled through the dust-motes in the amberlight. Drifted across Ratio's knotted brow. Skimmed past the metal band on the table. Over the doctor’s forcibly splayed hands. And finally, settled on Aventurine’s own hands—nails digging wounds into his palms.

They were shaking.

Not from sickness.

Not from fear.

From fury.

It startled him with its clarity. With its purity.

It rose inside him like acid—hot, bitter, sharp—from that hollow beneath his ribs. It burned away the nausea. The confusion. The shame.

His eyes met Ratio's, locking into the deep red of them—seeing the unwavering certainty there. That unshakable belief that he knew. That he understood what Aventurine needed.

Better than Aventurine did himself.

"We’re done," he gasped, spite crashing against his teeth like a tidal wave. "So fucking done."

Pity.

He pities you. A broken thing, too ruined to repair.

"Never…"

You crave this.

"come to…"

You crave destruction.

"close to…"

You crave nothingness.

The room lurched when he shoved himself upright. A strangled, unhuman sound tore from him. The edge of the table cracked against his hip, sent glasses tumbling. His hands flew to his head, clutching at his skull as if he could pry the whispers out by force.

You crave annihilation.

A white-hot lance of pain drove through his chest. His heart kicked frantically, a desperate thing against his ribs. He gripped his sternum with both hands, teeth clenched against the dark tide threatening to swallow him whole.

The hand closed around his arm without warning—solid, grounding. Heat radiated through the sleeve of his shirt, unbearable in its solidity.

He recoiled, flinching like he’d been branded.

"Aventurine."

Just that name. Spoken with a weight Ratio had never given it before. His hand hovered closer, a hesitant bridge. But Aventurine refused to cross it.

"Let me help you. You're clearly—"

"It's none of your business! It never was!" Aventurine cut him off, the words shallow, shuddering gasps. "Not the knife, not the blood, not my fucked up mind—none of it!"

Something shifted in Ratio then. His stance straightened. His gaze sharpened. Authority, without apology.

"It became my business, Aventurine," he said, each word exact, as if etched into stone. "The moment you sought me out again. And it is my business now, witnessing someone I…" A twitch in his jaw. "...someone so determined to reject the very help they clearly need."

Aventurine jerked, the tremor rattling his whole frame. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pressure behind them—pressure like something trying to get out. His palm pressed deeper into his temple. If he just pushed hard enough, maybe—

Why wasn’t he backing off?

Ratio was supposed to retreat. His quick and cold boundaries had been the only thing Aventurine could trust. He cracked his eyes open, just a sliver. Ratio hadn’t moved. He was still there. Still seeing right through him. Seeing everything that wasn’t meant to be seen.

Aventurine’s voice was a thin scrape of air. "What... what do you want...?" He swallowed hard, throat clicking with dryness. "What's it to you?"

Ratio's brow twitched. His hand still hovered, motionless. The silence between them stretched—thin, tight and sharp as metal wire.

"I asked you a question first."

Aventurine's laugh was no more than a thin exhale. "So did I." He swayed, catching himself against the table’s edge. "Neither of us seems... eager to answer."

Something shifted in Ratio's demeanor. His shoulders eased, his frown disappeared into apology—the closest to yielding Aventurine had ever seen him display. When the doctor spoke again, it was soft. Almost human.

"I care what happens to you."

Simple as it was devastating.

"Care?" The word came out strangled. His palm pressed harder to his chest, where the ache sat like a stone. "Is that what you call... this?" His gesture swept the room—the device, the walls, the surveillance, the silence. "Watching me like I'm some experiment? Recording every... every weakness?" His voice cracked like thin ice. "Lying to me?"

Ratio's expression tightened in constenation. "That's not—"

"No more excuses." Aventurine blinked against the darkness at the edge of his vision. "Stop pretending this is... anything else."

"Then explain the knife." Ratio's voice cut through the haze, sharp and insistent. "If it wasn't a suicide attempt…"

"If I wanted to die, I had the perfect chance in Penacony," Aventurine snapped, the words slurring slightly at the edges. His lip curled in bitter contempt. "Your so-called 'medical advice' notwithstanding."

Ratio's jaw tightened, a subtle tell Aventurine might have missed if he hadn't been watching for any crack in that composure. "Then what happened?" The question was measured, careful. Not quite his analytical tone, but something close—as if retreating to safer ground. "What did you do with the knife, Aventurine?"

The direct question sent a cold ripple down Aventurine's spine. The whispers surged again, pressing against the fragile barrier of his consciousness.

Tell him everything.

Watch his disgust. Watch him leave you for good.

"Nothing." The denial came reflexively, too fast. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of vertigo, the sweat beading cold along his hairline. "I didn't... do anything."

"Aventurine."

"I didn't." His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out rational thought. His fingers dug into his ribs, seeking the pressure that might ground him as the room continued its relentless tilt. A shudder ran through him, so violent enough his teeth chattered.

"It wasn't… like that."

"Then what was it like?" Ratio persisted, his voice low but unyielding. "Tell me."

Aventurine's breathing had become shallow again—each inhale catching painfully in his chest. The pressure behind his eyes built until he could barely see, could barely think beyond the need to make Ratio stop asking him what he himself didn't fully comprehend.

"I woke up." The words tore free, rough-edged and unsteady. "Just... woke up. With it... in my hand."

A breath hitched. Heat blurred his vision. Something wet rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly with a trembling hand. "I don't..." His voice cracked, a hairline fracture running through glass. "I don't remember..."

Ratio stepped closer.

Aventurine flinched hard—violent, unthinking. Nearly collided with the chair behind him.

"I can’t." Barely intelligible through his gasping breaths. "Don't do—"

Ratio's hand settled on his shoulder anyway—warm and solid. Not the clinical touch Aventurine had expected. Not the impersonal assessment of a doctor. His fingers curled slightly, applying the faintest pressure to the tense, knotted muscles.

"You're experiencing a panic attack," Ratio said, his tone oddly gentle despite the clinical phrasing. "Try to slow your breathing. Focus on my hand."

Aventurine wanted to pull away. Retreat behind the shields that had protected him for so long. But exhaustion had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but this raw, exposed nerve where a person used to be. His chest heaved with suppressed sobs, each one threatening to tear him apart.

"You don't... understand," he managed, the words splintering between gasps. "You think you... know everything... but you don't..."

"Then help me understand." Ratio's hand remained steady. A tether to reality when everything else was dissolving.

Aventurine dragged in a ragged breath. Then another. The spinning slowed, though the edges of his vision still blurred. He forced himself to look up, to meet Ratio's eyes. Pulled every last shred of lucidity to the surface.

"It wasn’t what you think." Each word deliberate, pried from trembling lips. "I would know if it was. I would have..." The thought fragmented before he could follow it. "I would’ve… made sure of it, if it was."

Ratio studied him for a long moment, something complex passing behind his eyes. His hand remained on Aventurine's shoulder, the touch light but somehow anchoring. "The severity still warranted medical intervention," he said finally, gentler than Aventurine had ever heard him. "Whether intentional or not."

"It was…" Aventurine choked, another sob rising in his throat. He scrubbed a sleeve across his face. It came away damp. Just more evidence, one more Ratio was never meant to see.

"It was for something else," he managed, dragging out from a place he'd kept sealed and dark for weeks, costing more than he could afford. "After... the knife... I couldn't..." He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made the vertigo worse. "I didn't..."

The thought scattered like sand in the wind. He took another shuddering breath, forcing himself to continue.

"I fainted." A whisper. "And Topaz... she found me." The admission tasted like defeat on his tongue.

"Not here, then." Not a question.

Aventurine's silence was answer enough.

Ratio's expression shifted— as if sliding pieces into a new alignment, the careful analysis of new data against existing knowledge. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused on some middle distance.

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Every second amplified Aventurine’s awareness of just how much he’d said. He couldn’t bring himself to care. His chest still heaved with uneven breaths, but the tears had stopped, leaving him hollowed out, a husk.

"You shouldn't have faced that alone."

The words struck something tender. Another wave of panic rose like bile in his throat. The memory of that night—fractured, incomplete—threatened to pull him under. He wanted to lash out, to push Ratio away again. Anything to close the breach. His fingers gripped the table edge.

"I didn’t expect it to happen."

"You could have called me after." No judgment in Ratio's tone. Just fact.

Aventurine laughed, low and bitter. His head throbbed with it. "We saw how well it went… at the café." The memory still twisted in his gut. "You... you weren't exactly... eager…"

Ratio inched closer. Enough for Aventurine to feel hackles rising on his skin. "Based on the partial picture I had, compliance seemed more damaging than helpful."

Aventurine’s voice barely made it past his teeth. "Then, if..." He nodded toward the space under the table with an uncoordinated jerk. "If you hadn't... found that… you would’ve gone?"

Ratio's jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the alabaster skin.

"It’s not helpful to reason in hypotheticals, Aventurine."

"Try." Sharper now. A dare. A wound begging for salt.

A beat.

“I believe I would have,” Ratio said finally. Precise, like a scalpel’s edge. “At first. But I would have come back.”

The floor seemed to fall away beneath Aventurine. Something shifted deep in his chest, a fault line giving way.

"Why?"

Ratio didn’t look away. “Because I wouldn’t have left you alone.” Then, softer: “I didn’t. I can’t.”

Those two words landed harder than anything else the doctor had said to him. Aventurine’s heart stuttered behind his ribs, the ache expanding until it eclipsed thought. He imagined Ratio—silent in the hours he couldn’t remember—watching him scream, burning with fever, unraveling.

He should’ve felt grateful. Or ashamed. Or comforted. But instead all he felt was stripped raw. Nerves open to the air, carrion exposed to vultures.

“It wasn’t for you to see. I didn’t want you to see,” he whispered, each word like a splinter torn free. “Not like that… Not like this.”

Ratio's gaze didn’t waver. "Which is precisely why I needed to. Because you couldn’t face it yourself." He hesitated, the red liner around his eyes pulling into sharp creases. "I recognize the line I crossed. But I did it to provide the clarity you weren’t ready to reach alone... for your safety."

Aventurine’s head jerked back, a visceral recoil. "No… you—" The weight of being seen crushed down like a vice at his throat. Ratio's hand slipped from his shoulder. Its absence landed colder than its touch.

“What could you have done if I never asked? If I never understood?” Aventurine rasped. “Write me another cryptic note?”

Too sharp. Too harsh. He saw it land—Ratio's grimace brief but unmistakable. The emotion didn’t vanish, merely folded into the still and measured line of his lips.

“I would’ve been there regardless.”

Simple. Certain. Outrageous.

Aventurine’s vision blurred. But this time, not from panic—from something worse.

Hope.

He wanted to spit it out. Tear it out. Crush it under his heel before it had the chance to grow.

His grip tightened on the edge of the table, the pressure grounding him against the unspeakable surging in his chest. "And that would've been enough, would it?" he whispered, bitterness thick in his throat. "Your presence? Your nice intentions?"

Ratio blinked again, once, slow. And this time, Aventurine saw it clearly—not anger, not pity… hurt. Unguarded and clean. A pain that couldn’t be faked. His cruelty suddenly felt arbitrary.

“I didn’t—” The apology collapsed under its own weight. "That was..."

"Honest." Ratio supplied, still measured but with something trembling beneath it. "Perhaps for the first time since I’ve known you."

Silence pooled between them, broken only by Aventurine’s soft breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the window. Ratio seemed to be considering his next words carefully, head tilted, his gaze fixed on some point between them.

"You asked me once why I was helping you, someone I can barely stand." His voice was low, almost reflective. "It wasn’t obligation or curiosity. Though I understand why you’d think so."

Aventurine’s heart thundered, crowding out thought. He couldn’t speak. Couldn't form words. Could barely breathe through the tight knot in his throat.

"I committed because I saw someone fighting an extraordinary battle." Ratio's crimson eyes met his—and in the amber light, the gold in them shimmered faintly. "Not merely against the Nihility. But against every force trying to erase you—including yourself." He paused. "And that deserves recognition. At the very least."

The words settled between them like truth. Aventurine didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Ratio's gaze held him there, the gold in his eyes warm against the shocking scarlet.

"I will keep coming tomorrow." A flicker passed through Ratio's face—a hesitation, or something more fragile. "Even if you won't have me, I will continue to come."

No leverage. No pressure. No strings.

Just presence.

A beacon in the open sea. Aventurine’s mouth opened, but no words came. Only the scraping ache in his chest, and the heat rising behind his eyes.

He’s lying.

Pick you apart.

Leave you in the dust.

The whispers poked at the flesh of his brain, insidious but never deadly, like the smallest dose of poison. But for the first time, Aventurine found himself doubting them rather than his own perceptions.

His hand moved before thought could catch up. Shaking, tentative, reaching across the space between them. Not a deliberate ploy. Not a desperate plea. The expression of a need he had denied himself for too long—not just for help, but for connection. For an oasis in the wasteland he had become.

His fingers catch the edge of Ratio's sleeve, the fabric soft against his fingertips. He drifted downward, slow, uncertain. Every instinct screamed at him to pull back, to protect himself, hesitation pulsing in every small movement.

His forefinger brushed Ratio's.

The doctor could’ve pulled away. Aventurine could’ve pretended it didn’t happen.

Neither did.

Their fingers tangled together in the smallest point of contact—a single inch of shared space in a vast expanse of isolation.

Chapter Text

After everything, they lingered in the archway between living room and hallway, that point where the apartment split between bedroom and exit.

Aventurine's finger was still hooked around Ratio's when it happened, the comfort that had spread like honey beneath his skin suddenly turned sharp, electric. His knees buckled first, then his stomach followed, cramping with such violence that he barely managed to gasp Ratio's name before the world tilted sideways.

Ratio caught him before he hit the floor, arms solid and sure around his weakening body, one hand cradling the base of his skull in a way that should have triggered every defensive instinct Aventurine possessed. Instead, he found himself oddly grateful for the anchor as his body failed him completely, for the heartbeat against his ear while his own pounded hard in his temples.

"Easy," Ratio had murmured, his voice immediate, encompassing. "I've got you."

The nausea had hit next, waves of it that left Aventurine gripping Ratio's shirt while his body tried to empty itself of nothing. The doctor had guided him to the couch, carrying him when he couldn’t walk anymore, staying close as Aventurine retched into the basin he'd fetched from somewhere, one hand moving in slow circles across Aventurine's shoulders.

Hours passed, but Ratio had stayed. Through the sickness, through the dizzy spells that made him grip the couch cushions, through the long stretches when Aventurine was barely aware of the doctor’s unwavering presence. Monitoring his breathing, checking his pulse, coaxing him to drink when his hands shook too badly to hold the glass, speaking to him in that measured tone that somehow kept the whispers at bay.

At some point, Ratio had managed to extract actual food from the apartment's abandoned synthesizer, a device Aventurine had never quite figured out how to operate properly. It had surprisingly tasted close to actual food, not the processed air he'd grown accustomed to.

Now, as the late afternoon cycle slanted through the windows, Aventurine felt almost functional. Or at least functional enough to convince Ratio he could manage alone, which amounted to the same thing.

The amber light caught in Ratio's faded eyeliner, the dulled red somehow softening the severe edges of his expression. "Try to get some sleep. Drink plenty of water," he said, then after some consideration he added, "And take your medication."

Aventurine's fingers curled around the phantom warmth still pulsing where they'd touched, a sensation that had somehow spread through his entire body. He could see the reluctance in Ratio's posture, the way he seemed to be gathering himself to leave rather than wanting to.

"I'll be fine," Aventurine managed, though the words came out slightly thick. He made what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, though his coordination felt off. "No need to hang around so much when you have your teaching duties, right?"

Something shifted in Ratio's expression—a subtle stiffening that Aventurine's foggy mind immediately interpreted as realization. Of course. Ratio had spent an entire day here, when he had lectures to prepare, students to terrorize, duties to attend to. The thought pierced him, then bloomed, sudden and delicate, behind his ribs. Not pain, not anxiety. Guilt.

"You're off the hook," he blurted out, the shooing motion he made unsteady even to him. "No use lingering for too long."

Ratio's brow twitched almost imperceptibly. "Let me walk you to bed."

"So bold…" A lazy grin tugged at Aventurine's lips despite himself. "Usually a dinner comes first, doc."

Ratio's frown was immediate, that familiar crease forming between his brows more reassuring. "Don't deflect." But then his expression softened slightly, something close to resignation settling in his features. "I won’t insist. But call me if anything happens."

Aventurine nodded against the archway's frame, the movement itself making his head feel heavy.

"Promise," Ratio pressed.

"I might," Aventurine murmured, already halfway drifting. The words if I do something bad hovered on his tongue—a half-admission about the medication, about what it might do to him—but that felt like too much exposure, even now. "If… if things get weird."

Ratio studied his face for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Go to bed."

Aventurine nodded again, more of a slow roll of his head. "Make sure to close the door properly this time."

He pushed himself away from the wooden archway, concentrating on what he thought was a straight line to the bedroom. Each step required more focus than it should have, his body feeling disconnected in that way he’d become used to. His back ached with each movement—the night spent on the hallway floor had left him stiff and sore in places he'd forgotten existed. Behind him, he could hear the soft sound of hesitation, the doctor hovering in that space between wanting to help and respecting boundaries.

When he finally reached his bed, he collapsed onto the unmade sheets like a melted glacier. He strained his ears, waiting for the familiar sound of the door closing, the click of the lock that would signal Ratio's departure. The silence stretched, and for a moment Aventurine wondered if the doctor had changed his mind, if he was still standing there watching Aventurine's graceless collapse.

Then came the soft click, the sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor he definitely couldn't hear, but felt them beating along with his heart.

Only then did Aventurine let himself curl into the covers, drawing them around the lingering sensation that Ratio's touch had left spreading through his body. His hand found its way to his ribs, fingers sinking into the ridges as he tried to still his pounding heart. The sensation radiated beneath his palm, and he pressed harder—holding it close, willing it away. It felt dangerous, this comfort. But also cozy in a way that made his chest tight with a feeling he knew didn’t belong to him.

His eyes drifted to the nightstand drawer. The vials waited there, hidden where he'd shoved them in a moment of rebellion or fear—he couldn't quite remember which anymore. Taking them now would be another concession, another promise kept. But maybe he could trust Ratio's reasons, trust his own body not to betray him again.

Before he could change his mind, he yanked the drawer open and grabbed one without looking. The cap came off easily, even in his unsteady hands. The bitter smell made his nose wrinkle, swallowed the tasteless liquid in one motion, tried not to think about what it might make him do—like always. The empty vial slipped from his fingers, rolling somewhere onto the floor.

The medication began to creep through his system almost immediately, making his limbs feel heavier with each breath. Even when everything had started to dissolve into numbness, the sensation of Ratio's touch remained vivid, a warmth spreading through his body like sunlight. His heartbeat counted a steady rhythm, his breath slow and deep.

Just this once.

Just this once, he could let something other than the darkness guide him to sleep.

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He became aware of the metallic taste in his mouth first, then the fact he was on the floor.

For a moment, he remained perfectly still, his cheek pressed against the carpet, trying to make sense of how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered—

Ratio's hands steadying him. The couch. Hours of sickness and care that felt months away now. He remembered taking the medication, the bitter smell, the way it had submerged his awareness. But everything after that was blank, a void where memory should have been.

How did he get here? Why was he on the floor?

Something wet and warm pooled beneath his cheek and across his upper lip. He tried to lift himself up, muscles protesting—still sore, now compounded by whatever had happened here. His legs felt heavy, twisted up in blankets like he'd been fighting something in his sleep.

He managed to sit up slowly, head pounding with each movement. The dim light of the low light cycle filtered through his windows, casting everything in muted copper. He brushed a hand under his nose, and it came away dark with blood.

Not unusual. It happened sometimes when he was stressed, or when he'd hit something too hard. Yesterday had been difficult, and he'd obviously fallen somehow—gotten tangled in the covers trying to get up, maybe stumbled and hit the floor. That would explain the nosebleed, the ache in his skull, the tension in his body.

He dabbed at the blood with his sleeve, focusing on the practical task of cleaning himself up. The bleeding wasn't heavy, just a steady seep that he could manage. He'd had worse.

It was only when he looked up to orient himself that he saw where he was.

The dresser loomed directly in front of him, its bottom drawer slightly ajar. Close. Too close. Close enough that if he'd stretched out his arm, his fingers would have brushed the metal handle, slipped inside where his service weapon lay waiting.

The realization hit him like ice water.

Aventurine scrambled backward across the floor until his shoulders hit the bed frame, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His heart hammered against his ribcage as the full scope of what had nearly happened settled over him. How close he'd been again to another Penacony’s test, how effortless it would have been this time—

Yes, close.

So very close to finally doing something right.

"No," Aventurine gasped, pressing his palms against his temples, panic clawing up his throat, choking him out of air. The headache intensified until it felt like something was splitting his skull open from the inside. If his feet hadn't gotten tangled. If he hadn't fallen. If he'd made it just a few steps further—

He fumbled for his phone, muscle memory guiding him to where he'd stashed it under the pillows to avoid the alarm he'd been half-heartedly trying to follow. Ratio's contact was right there. He had to call Ratio. Had to—

A single droplet of blood splattered across the phone’s glare. The sight of it—expanding, consuming the light—doused his panic, chilling it to a dead stillness. Aventurine forced himself to breathe, to focus on the rhythm of air moving in and out of his lungs.

Breathe, it whispered, the echo of a distant voice. Just breathe.

Aventurine stayed there on the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, obeying that voice. The blood had stopped expanding, a congealed stain against the glass. He stared at it even when the screen went dark. He stared until the shapes began to blur, until his chest stopped feeling like it might split open.

When he finally pushed himself up, his arms shook with the effort. He made it halfway before collapsing onto the mattress, his cheek hitting the rumpled sheets. The position wasn’t comfortable, his skull still pounding, blood sliding down his throat, but he didn't have the strength to adjust.

He lay there breathing harshly, feeling the steady drip from his nose warm and sticky onto the fabric beneath his face. The tissues were somewhere on the nightstand, just out of reach. Aventurine extended one arm, fingers searching blindly across the surface, knocking over something—a bottle, maybe—before his palm finally connected with the tissue box.

He dragged it closer, pulling out several sheets with clumsy fingers. The tissue came away red when he pressed it to his nose, and he had to replace it twice before the flow began to slow. His other hand found its way to his chest, pressing down with enough force to feel his bones shift beneath his palm.

The thoughts came in waves, then, weightless and crushing all at once.

How close he'd been. How easy it would have been to reach into that drawer, to complete his final test on Penacony. One smooth motion, and he never would have noticed the transition from sleep to nothing. Clean. Simple. Final.

Part of him felt horrified by the proximity to that edge. Part of him felt an odd relief at the prospect.

Everything would have ended, that voice slithered through his consciousness, almost gentle now. No more fighting. No more pretending.

It always took the chance to push him deeper in the pit of his desperation, but this time it was wrong. There was the horror, there was the relief. But there was bitterness too, sharp and much louder. Just luck. Always just luck that kept him breathing, kept him stumbling through survival. The tangled covers, the fall, the accident of positioning—none of it had been choice or control. Just that same chance that kept him alive when odds seemed impossible. When dying might have been easier.

You’re tired.

Warmth spread beneath his cheeks, and he knew it wasn't blood this time.

Have been for a long time, haven’t you?

He had no strength to refute it. His fingers moved along his ribs, counting each protruding ridge, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath the bone. It was unjust, how his body clung to life with such stubborn persistence while his mind sought every exit it could find. And then there was him, caught in between, suspended in a space where he had no choice, no control, only the inescapable spiral of a fractured psyche and the relentless rhythm of a heart that refused to stop.

The thoughts tumbled through his consciousness, like wreckage in a deep current. Some surfaced, sharp and insistent, while others sank, slow and inevitable, pulling him down along into the crushing depths. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the physical—the tissue against his nose, the mattress beneath his cheek, the gradual slowing of his pulse.

When he opened them again, pale light was filtering through his windows. The dawn cycle had arrived without his notice. Another night spent awake, another morning that came too soon. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind felt oddly clear, scraped clean by the proximity to disaster.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Aventurine didn't need to look at the clock to know what time it was, who it was. He had to get up, but his eyes slipped closed again. The chime seemed to echo, like a ripple through water, his body heavy against the mattress, the tissue still pressed to his nose, the taste of blood fading on his tongue.

He might have dozed—seconds, or minutes, or hours—until the doorbell chimed again, dragging him back to the surface. A groan rumbled against the pillow, the noise scraping against his throat. He pushed himself up gingerly, waiting for the undulating feeling to ebb. His hands found the blanket that had tangled around his legs—the same covers that had saved him in ways he couldn't bear to think about—and he pulled it close as he sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he simply remained there, staring at his feet on the soiled carpet, trying to remember how standing worked.

The third chime made him wince. He had to move. Had to get to the door before Ratio decided something was wrong and… what? Called someone? Left? The thought of either possibility sent a spike of panic through his chest.

The blanket caught around his shoulders as he stood, and instead of shaking it off, he found himself pulling it closer. "Coming," he called out, though his voice came out fainter than intended, barely carrying beyond his  lips.

It took unbearably long to get to the door, each step seeming disconnected from the other, as if someone else was walking in his stead. He had to pause twice, one hand against the wall for balance, waiting for the vertigo to pass, grasping at the blanket as if it was the only thing keeping him together.

He fumbled with the lock when he finally reached it, the simple mechanism suddenly too complex. It took three attempts before he managed to press his thumb the right way and open the handle.

Ratio stood there with his impeccable presence, device bag strapped to his shoulder. The severe set of his features softened, then subtly twisted, as his scarlet eyes took in Aventurine—the way his fingers clawed at the blanket, the too-still slump against the door, finally fixing on a spot just under his cheek.

For a beat, Aventurine's composure threatened to fray. He caught the sensation before it became more, brushing a hand over the clammy spot. "1604," he said, the numbers more than an instinctive deflection. At Ratio's raised eyebrow, he made a vague gesture toward the keypad beside the door. "The code. So you won't have to... won't have to make me walk all the way next time."

He hid his hand under the blanket, stepping back to let Ratio in. The small effort made his head swim again, and he sagged against the wall, the blanket settling around him like a heavy, comforting, yet inescapable cocoon.

Ratio set down the device bag and another one Aventurine hadn't noticed, eyes never leaving Aventurine's face. That gaze pressed in, tracing the edges of Aventurine's composure—an odd, almost pleasant pressure mingled with that unease of being laid bare. It was a choice confirmed: he'd done well not to call last night. What would this man have done, if he'd found him a ragged mess on the floor, bleeding and dissolving into panic?

And still, under that penetrating stare, Aventurine felt something warm flare in his chest—the same sensation that made his heart stutter, his forefinger twitch with the memory of contact.

"Did anybody ever tell you about staring?" Aventurine murmured, words slipping out wrong—too slow, too sincere—and he could see Ratio's expression shift minutely.

"You did," Ratio replied quietly, taking a step closer. "Multiple times."

The proximity was too much and not enough all at once. Aventurine found himself looking down, unable to maintain eye contact while Ratio stood so close he could probably count Aventurine's heartbeats.

"Did you sleep?" Ratio asked, his voice gentle but insistent.

Aventurine hummed noncommittally, then shook his head. "Talking it out doesn’t magically resolve everything, doc," Aventurine said, the words coming out more bitter than he'd intended.

When he looked up again, he could see worry mixing with something that looked almost like regret in Ratio's expression.

"Let me help you to bed."

"So bold…" Aventurine blinked, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. Hadn’t that already happened before? The memory felt just out of reach, floating in the same fog that had claimed most of yesterday.

Ratio's expression flickered, too quick and minute for Aventurine’s tired mind to interpret. He extended his hand, long fingers splayed out, an offer hanging between them.

Aventurine stared at the hand for a long moment. Then, an instinct he couldn't name, couldn't fight, made him take it. Warmth quivered at the contact, a current creeping up his arm as Ratio's fingers closed around his chilled hand. The doctor guided him back to the bedroom, and with each step, Aventurine found himself leaning closer, drawing support, absorbing heat. The unsettling part wasn't the physical near-ness, but the deep, shaming relief that settled in his bones, a need he'd have violently denied recently.

When they finally reached his bed, Aventurine let himself be lowered down, the exhaustion almost swallowing down the last needles of shame that prickled in his chest. He rolled on to his side, drawing the blanket closer. Only then did he notice the bloodied tissues still scattered on the nightstand, the dark stains on his pillow where his face had pressed against the fabric during the night. He waved a hand dismissively before Ratio could comment, the gesture loose and uncoordinated.

"Had a small incident last night. Nothing serious."

"What kind of incident?" Ratio's question was measured, but something in his tone made alarm ring through his sluggish mind.

He'd resolved to be more open after yesterday, hadn't he? Given that inch. The words hovered just behind his teeth—what had almost happened, how close he'd come to something irreversible, how it wasn’t the first time. But sitting here now, with Ratio's worried gaze fixed on him, the whole terrible truth lodged in his throat like a stone.

"Woke up with a nosebleed," he scraped out from the wreck.

Ratio's expression shifted into professional concern. "Does it happen often?"

Something in his voice made alarm prickle along Aventurine's spine. The lie slipped out before he could stop it: "Only this once."

Ratio nodded slowly, though Aventurine caught the sliver of doubt in his posture, the way his eyes lingered on the bloodied evidence scattered around the room. And yet, the words still didn’t come, dissolved on his tongue, hid themselves in the folds of his pillow. He blinked slowly, sleep enveloping him suddenly like a tidal wave.

Ratio's voice, when he spoke again, sounded distant. "I brought you some food. When you wake up, we'll figure out what comes next."

Aventurine was already drifting, his eyes refusing to stay open. "You brought… what?" he mumbled, consciousness beginning to slip away again. "You shouldn’t… the table's still a mess too..."

But consciousness was already slipping away, dragging him down beneath the surface where everything was quiet and dark.

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Wind whispered through canvas walls. Sand and warm honey filled his nostrils.

Click-click-chime.

Turquoise stones clicked against each other. Nimble fingers wove them into bracelets. The stones felt warm when he touched them. Her hands guided his smaller ones to thread a bead onto the needle, the silver thread catching the sunlight.

Soft laughter curved around him as his fingers fumbled the needle for the third time.

Click-chime-click.

The wind shifted first—barely there, but sudden. The tent shivered. The bells outside rang louder, faster.

The Mother Goddess will bless us early this year. Her voice steady, her hands suddenly hurried—grabbing the turquoise stones, slipping them into a pouch without looking at him.

Her hands pressed him down into the furs—stay quiet, stay warm, wait for the sky.

He did as told, clammy palm over his lips, waiting without breathing as noise grew around him. Waiting even when he knew it wasn't the rain.

Chime-chi—clang.

Metal on metal. A noise that didn’t belong to the wind.

It came from outside.

It came for him.

Clang.

Wrong sound. Wrong place.

Screams tangled in the wind. The earth shook under boots. Chains rattled.

The bells rang sharper, no longer heralding a blessing but foreboding. A warning too late, always too late.

Clink.

Closer now.

Clink.

Too close—no, inside.

Inside him.

The darkness opened its eyes.

Awareness crashed down. Shocking, depthless. For a beat, he was pure sensation. The thrum of a watchful presence vibrating in the empty space between his heartbeats, in the shadows writhing in the slices of amber light, in the paralyzing realization of not being alone. It resonated, not in his ears, but in the air he breathed. Then, it solidified—soft footsteps, the quiet shift of objects, careful movement that skirted the very edge of perception.

They'd found you.

A rasp of breath tore at his throat, muscles seizing. How long? How long had he been lost in sleep, vulnerable, while they—

Clink.

Glass against glass, so gentle it was a desecration of the quiet.

Too gentle. Too careful.

The sounds halted, then drifted again—measured, unhurried. Patient. These weren't the sounds of someone hunting, someone taking. These were the sounds of something far more unsettling: consideration where there should be aggression, a quiet purpose that twisted his fear into a knot of bizarre confusion.

Aventurine's grip on the sheets didn't so much loosen as lose its purpose. The panic didn’t vanish, only splintered, fracturing into bewilderment, into a dawning recognition. A name, unbidden, formed in the haze of his mind, bringing with it something akin to shame or a profound, reluctant relief. Only Ratio moved through space with such quiet precision, aware of every subtle boundary he might cross. Only Ratio would pause for a misplaced clink, carefully preserving the quiet Aventurine had been lost in.

The certainty, when it came, was a cold shiver.

But the watching feeling remained—a cold imprint dragged from the dream's darkness. Ratio's presence didn't dispel it. If anything, it seemed to awaken something deeper, more insidious. The shadows that had crawled at the edges of his vision were now seeping deeper—in a place he couldn't see, a place he swore he’d never return again.

The phantom warmth of turquoise began to slip away, the scent of honey spoiled by that presence within, that something that had waited all this time, patiently and hungrily. It extended vast and dark, breathing when he breathed, watching with eyes that that mirrored his own.

Nihility, he told himself. It had to be THEM, eating away at what remained, at the pieces that didn’t fit anymore.

It knows, it sees.

What to take, what to preserve, what to destroy.

He pressed his fingers hard into his scalp, nails biting into flesh until pain scattered the thought. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding himself together, of not letting whatever lurked in those spaces between heartbeats take more than it already had.

The murmuring darkness recoiled at a sudden sound from the other room—soft, unbearably ordinary—its hunger momentarily cowed by the mundane. He waited, clutching his own arms as if to hold his body together, until it retreated into the cracks of his mind, until the present reknit, reality something unto himself. Aventurine rose, then—not because he was ready, but because he could no longer remain still.

The sounds led him to the living room. He paused in the archway, one hand finding the frame—less casual slouch, more necessity. His body felt disconnected from his intentions, each movement requiring more thought than it should. Ratio was there, methodically sorting through the chaos that had accumulated over the past month. A half-empty liquor bottle dangled from his fingers as he contemplated where it belonged.

"Doctor," Aventurine managed, his voice thick with sleep, the word dragging on his tongue with what could be interpreted as exhaustion. "I didn't know you... moonlighted as a maid."

Ratio looked up, mild surprise passing over his features before settling into that usual, unreadable assessment. His scarlet eyes seemed to pin Aventurine in place, tracking across his face, lingering on details Aventurine instinctively wanted to flinch from. He forced himself to hold still, a tremor fighting its way down his spine, even as he crossed his arms and tilted his head in curiosity.

"How did you sleep?"

Aventurine shrugged, letting his head grind a little deeper against the doorframe. The cool surface always felt good against his feverish skin, helped ground him.

"It's not funny if you don't..." He paused, the rest of the sentence snagging momentarily on his tongue. "If you don't engage."

The bottle made a hollow sound as Ratio placed it carefully into a bag with others. The noise seemed to thud inside Aventurine's skull, echoing strangely in his ears.

The doctor didn’t look up, but the corner of his lips edged a tiny bit upward. "My rates are exorbitant."

An instinctive smile tugged at Aventurine's lips. "Lucky me I can afford it," he said, the tension left from the nightmare partly easing.

Ratio straightened, brushing a hand over his shirt as if recomposing himself. "Your comedic timing still needs some recovery." He nodded toward the kitchen, the motion carrying quiet authority. "Go have breakfast. I'm almost finished here."

Aventurine blinked, his vision blurring and clearing in slow beats. "I think it's way past noon, doc."

"Then have lunch."

"I should file a complaint with the agency," Aventurine muttered, peeling himself away from the doorframe. His steps felt leaden, unwieldy, and he hoped in vain the effect wasn't too obvious. "They sent me a bossy one."

When he finally made it to the kitchen, he stopped short. The table that had been a battlefield of dirty dishes and scattered bottles was now pristine. His work materials sat in neat stacks on one side, creating an order he hadn't managed… at any time in his life. By now he personally knew Ratio's thoroughness, but the sight made something twist in his chest, a hot flush of relief and exposure tangling together in ways he didn't want to examine.

The last evidence of the previous week had been carefully erased, the careful rearrangement too close to an invasion, but it also bore the markings of care. The contradiction made his head ache worse.

On the counter sat several containers and a thermos that definitely wasn't standard-issue. Aventurine reached for the first container, his fingers fumbling with the lid, his coordination off just enough to make the task frustrating. He pressed harder, but his grip kept slipping.

"Here." Ratio's voice came from behind him, startlingly close.

Warm fingers covered Aventurine's, guiding the container open with gentle pressure. The lid released with a soft pop, and actual aroma hit him—complex, real—nothing like the synthesized food he'd grown accustomed to. His gut roiled with sudden hunger.

He looked up. Ratio was watching him with that careful attention.

"It was slippery," Aventurine muttered, the thanks he should’ve said instead laying flat on his tongue. He curled around the thermos to give his hand something to do, shaking it to hear liquid slosh inside. "And what is this?"

Ratio stepped back, but remained within arm's reach. "A herbal blend."

Aventurine hummed. "I prefer stronger stuff in the morning."

"Like liquor?" Ratio's mouth tightened at one corner.

He stuck his tongue out, but even that felt thick and unwilling. "Daytime drinking is too... what's the word. Kitsch." He gathered the containers, movements stiff and deliberate as he made his way to the table. "Are you going to keep me company?"

Ratio settled across from him, the device bag appearing in his hands as if he had taken it from a portal. He pulled out the monitoring equipment, setting each piece on the table with methodical care, every component arranged in perfect alignment. Aventurine found himself watching the ritual, his gaze drawn, almost mesmerized, oddly soothing in its predictability.

"I already ate," Ratio said, his attention focused on the device as he powered it on.

"More for me then," Aventurine said, taking a bite. The flavors sparked on his tongue—actual taste, actual substance. He took another mouthful, savoring the novelty, the spoon slightly unstable between his fingers. "Where did you find a place in Pier Point that makes real food?"

Ratio reached across the table. "May I?"

Aventurine extended his wrist without thinking, then startled slightly at the contact. The current that traveled up his arm was becoming disturbingly habitual, settling warm and tight around his heart. He was silent while Ratio's fingers positioned the metal band, adjusting the fit with practiced precision.

"I made it myself," the doctor replied quietly, his attention focused on securing the band properly.

Aventurine's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He looked up, the lurch in his chest making words difficult to come up with. "Organized and a good cook," he murmured, his delivery more strained than intended. "Aren't you a keeper…"

Ratio's brow twitched. "Necessity is the mother of intervention." His fingers didn’t linger a moment longer than necessary on Aventurine's wrist. "Besides, someone had to ensure you didn't starve, gambler."

The device hummed to life, casting a blue glow between them. Ratio's eyes tracked the readings as they populated the screen, his expression growing more focused with each passing moment.

"If it takes being on the brink of dying to get you in the kitchen," Aventurine said, attempting lightness again though the words felt like grit in his mouth, "I'll be sure to get into more dangerous situations."

Ratio's attention remained fixed on the monitor. "Don't attribute your recklessness to something else," he said, clipped. Then, looking up: "Do you have a headache?"

The question caught Aventurine off guard. He set down his spoon carefully, somehow feeling like a leaden weight in his hand. "I have one almost constantly, doctor."

Ratio studied him for a long moment, then set the device aside. "May I examine your eyes?"

"Aren't you rushing things a—" The words clogged in his throat as Ratio moved around the table. His touch was precise on Aventurine's face, one hand tilting his chin up while the other checked his pupils. The examination was thorough, professional, but the only thing Aventurine could feel was the warmth seeping from Ratio's skin.

His breath caught, a cold dread in his gut, hyperaware of the proximity, of Ratio's careful touch, of the faint fragrance of lavender.

"Doctor," he said quietly, "you're too close."

Ratio's hands dropped away immediately, but his expression had shifted into something that made Aventurine's stomach clench with a bitter twist of unease. "The nosebleed from last night," he said, settling back into his chair. "You mentioned it was nothing unusual."

Aventurine's hand felt strangely numb around the spoon. The memory felt slippery, hard to grasp. "I said that?"

"Before you went to sleep."

"I... it's not unusual." He attempted, thoughts hard to organize. "I might have hit something when I fell."

Ratio edged forward slightly. "You fell?"

"I think so. I woke up on the floor, feet tangled in the sheets." Aventurine's voice sounded muffled to his own ears. He caught himself before he said too much. "Must have stumbled getting out of bed."

"But you don't remember falling?"

"I took the medication… It makes me sleep heavily." Aventurine tried to focus on Ratio's small tells, but something was wrong with his vision, the doctor’s features momentarily softening as if seen through a thin film of water.

Ratio was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the monitor in that gesture of unrest Aventurine has learnt to recognize. He knew what to expect—some question, some revelation, nothing he was going to like—but he kept silent, the soft clink of his spoon against the container the only sound for a moment too long.

When Ratio finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically tentative. "Yesterday, you told me you woke up with the knife in your hand."

The mention didn’t hit as hard, muted somehow, as if seeping through cotton. He set his spoon down with deliberate precision, his appetite beginning to fade.

"I don't want to revisit that."

A muscle tightened in Ratio's jaw almost imperceptibly. "I understand your reluctance. But considering how you’ve described that episode, she believes there’s something more to it."

Aventurine's fingers drummed against the table, a tingle spreading to his wrist with each small tap. "It’s the Nihility… maybe it bears repetition, remind it to this lady acquaintance too."

"We’ll get back to that topic soon." Ratio leaned back slightly, his posture shifting toward something more clinical, more distant. "Answer this other question now—do you remember going to bed when I left yesterday?"

"Of course I do." Did he, though?

Ratio's eyes never left Aventurine's face. "And do you ever wake up in different positions? Different places?"

Aventurine's hand stilled on the table, suspicion twisting his gut into a hard knot. "What are you getting at, doctor?"

"It’s very important you answer, Aventurine."

The request hung in the air. Aventurine tried to count, but the instances blurred together, indistinct and slippery. His throat felt dry despite the herbal tea. "I don't... it's hard to say… sometimes."

Ratio nodded slowly, as if Aventurine had confirmed something he'd already suspected. "The specialist I'm consulting has asked specific questions about these patterns. She's concerned about the nature of your memory gaps specifically."

"Ah, the ‘lady acquaintance’ has put the famous Dr. Ratio to work?" Aventurine said, though the words felt strange in his mouth, like they didn't quite fit together properly. The twisting in his gut had turned into nausea. "Must be a pretty big deal… making diagnoses without even meeting me…"

Ratio paused, allowing the interruption while his fingers steepled together—another gesture Aventurine recognized as his way of keeping restraint. "Which is precisely why I believe you should meet her."

"No." The refusal came out with less force than Aventurine would have liked. "I don't want another person looking at me, monitoring—"

"Aventurine." Ratio's voice cut through his protest, firm in its gentleness. "I need you to listen to me. The memory gaps you're experiencing are a definitive sign you're not only dealing with Nihility."

Aventurine blinked, confusion clouding his thoughts. "Why do you keep insisting on this?"

Ratio leaned forward again, his expression growing more intent. "You recall fragments. Pieces. Taking the medication, parts of our conversation. By your own admission, you remember lying down, but not what happened before regaining awareness."

The uncanny accuracy of his assessment was a cold hand around his throat.

Too close.

The doctor was getting too close.

"That's... these are Nihility symptoms."

"Nihility-related amnesia causes a gradual but systematic loss of memory." Ratio's voice remained steady, analytical, even when his eyes flickered rapidly. "Even if that was the case, it’d be too soon for you to present memory loss already. You are losing specific moments, specific actions."

The amber light glimmered in his vision. Around him, the kitchen shimmered—a heat mirage dissolving. "I can’t say… I’m following, doctor."

Ratio's expression shifted, professional mask dramatically shifting toward something more urgent. "The specialist suspects these gaps likely point at dissociation."

Aventurine froze. "Dissociation?"

Repeating it had been a mistake. The implications slammed into him, making his teeth ache, his throat gulp down a wheezed breath. It meant annihilation, it meant—

"A complete diagnosis requires her direct evaluation." Ratio's voice floated in his perception. "But it’s imperative that you come to terms with the severity of your condition."

"No." It came out a broken rasp. "No, that's not... it's the Nihility. It has to be. Or the sleep deprivation, or something else that—"

"Aventurine…"

"It's not me!" The words tore from his throat, desperate and raw. His hands trembled as they clashed against the edge of the table. "Something else is doing this, something not... I'm not... my mind isn't..."

He could feel it again, as if beckoned forth. Coiling, swelling, the hidden observer within.

His chest tightened, breath coming in starved gasps. "You can’t do this, Ratio, you promised…"

Ratio's professional mask fractured. His hands flattened against the table, as if stopping himself from reaching out. "Aventurine, I need you to slow your breathing."

"I'm fine," but his voice disconnected from his body. An acrid taste flooded his mouth, overwhelming his senses. His fingers clawed at the glass edge. "You can show her the device readings, right? That should be enough, she will see that it's not—"

The sentence fractured mid-thought, scattering like grains of sand. Everything folded inward, contracting under the pressure, eyelids fluttering shut, falling—

—finding himself blinking up at Ratio.

The doctor was leaning over him with one hand on his shoulder. He was still in his chair, though he had slumped forward against the table, the doctor’s hold the only thing between him and the glass pane. The amber light from outside seemed too bright now, colors painfully vivid, sounds amplified to an almost unbearable sharpness. His fingertips tingled with pins and needles, a strange numbness spreading up to his wrists, making him grab at the air before stopping himself.

"Aventurine?" Ratio's voice carried an edge that hadn't been there moments before, had never been in his voice. His arm tightened around Aventurine's shoulder, too much even through the layer of clothes. "Can you hear me?"

Aventurine blinked, trying to piece together what had happened. A bitter taste clung in his mouth, almost metallic, as if he'd been chewing on electrical wires. "I'm..." A void expanded where seconds should have been.

Ratio leaned closer, studying his face. "Aventurine?"

"I'm fine." The words came out slurred, his tongue feeling too thick. He straightened, wincing as Ratio's hand fell away. "Just zoned out for a second."

Ratio's scarlet eyes narrowed. "You stopped mid-sentence." He gestured toward the table. "Your left hand was trembling, tapping on the table."

Aventurine glanced down at his hand, now perfectly still on the glass. A cold slide of dread ran down his spine, but when he flexed his fingers experimentally, they responded to his command.

"I fell asleep," he insisted, rubbing his eyes, clinging to an explanation that didn't terrify him. "Tends to happen when you... you don't sleep for months on end."

"That didn't seem a microsleep." The technical term couldn’t conceal the deep worry still lurking in Ratio's voice. "Your eyes were open but you were unresponsive for almost thirty seconds."

Thirty seconds? The gap in his awareness seemed much shorter, barely a blink. Aventurine fought against the panic building in his chest, the terrible sensation of time stolen from him. Again.

His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed hard against the foul taste that lingered. "This is normal, it’s… it’s happened to me before."

Ratio studied him for a long moment, his expression tightening further until Aventurine couldn't bear to look at it anymore, couldn't stand to see the confirmation of his fears reflected there. Ratio pointed at the band still around his wrist, his finger hovering just above Aventurine's pulse point. "You were still connected. Your heart rate spiked during the episode, then plummeted. The pattern is... distinctive."

He reached for the monitoring device on the table, turning the screen so Aventurine could see it, but none of the lines and numbers made any sense to Aventurine. The jagged peaks and valleys seemed to mock him, evidence of something happening inside him that he couldn't control, couldn't even perceive. A headache began hammering behind his left eye, intensifying with each heartbeat.

He almost pushed him away, but instead he asked: "What are you suggesting?"

The sigh that slipped from Ratio ruffled his fringe, the doctor's composure visibly faltering. "I'd like to consult with the specialist I mentioned about this episode." His voice remained steady, but Aventurine caught the tension in his posture, the way his fingers restlessly traced the edge of the table. "And about the other symptoms, if you’d let me."

The refusal bubbled instinctively in his chest, the shake of his head sending him reeling. "No. I don't want another stranger picking through my head."

The doctor's posture instantly shifted, leaning slightly forward, weight balanced as if ready to move quickly. Ready to catch him if he fell again. "Your reluctance is understandable," he said carefully. "But what just happened—it's beyond my expertise, Aventurine."

There was something in Ratio's expression he'd never seen before in the man, a fracture so wide in that rigidly maintained composure. Not just concern, not fear—something closer to helplessness. The realization that even Ratio, with all his clinical precision and detached analysis, was out of his depth made Aventurine's stomach clench with cold dread.

Deflecting seemed harder to summon than sincerity. "Why is this so important to you?"

"Because what I just witnessed was in and of itself an alarm bell," Ratio replied simply, the admission coming with his usual directness. "And because I'm not equipped to help you if it happens again—or if it worsens."

The honesty made Aventurine swallow hard, a lump forming in his throat. "Is it... Is it related to what..." He couldn't finish the thought, the words beyond his capacity, the memory of waking on the floor near his dresser drawer too fresh, too raw to articulate. He should tell him, he should tell him about it all, he should—

"Aventurine."

That name in Ratio's voice seemed to hold weight beyond its meaning. Aventurine looked up, but he suddenly felt heavy again, listing to the side as though his body decided it couldn’t carry his weight anymore. Ratio's hand grabbed him again at his shoulder, but the clinical touch soon melted into a softer support, the doctor standing up and moving closer in one fluid motion.

"You should go to bed." Ratio's voice was closer now, the warmth of his breath faintly tickling Aventurine's temple.

Aventurine blinked slowly, a strange sense of familiarity making him chuckle despite it all, the sound hollow and brittle even to his own ears. "You should renovate your repertoire, doc. That's like the... second time you've told me that."

He looked up when Ratio didn't reply immediately, found himself caught in that crimson gaze that seemed to see through every defense, every deflection, making them useless. The doctor's face was only inches from his own, close enough that Aventurine could see the fine lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, partially hidden beneath the red eyeliner.

"I won't tell her more than necessary. I promise you that." Ratio's voice was low, each word precise and weighted with his determination. "But you can't explain your condition away anymore, Aventurine."

Aventurine's heartbeat accelerated, each contraction sending fresh pain through his temples. The room seemed to pulse in time with it, colors brightening and dimming in a nauseating rhythm. The warmth seeping from Ratio's touch was both grounding and distracting, making it harder to hold onto his refusal.

"Alright," he conceded, the word feeling like surrender, like stepping off a precipice. "But not here." Not where I can hear it—he almost added, but he bit down the words and swallowed them, sticking to his windpipe like tar.

Relief flickered across Ratio's features. "I'll go to my apartment and call her from there."

Aventurine nodded, the movement sending another dull throb along his nape into his skull, a lightning bolt of pain that made him wince. "And then what?" The question emerged small and uncertain, as if afraid both of answer and silence.

"That depends on what she says." Ratio's honesty was both brutal and comforting, his grip on Aventurine's shoulder the farthest from impersonal now. "At minimum, I'll come back to check on you."

"When?"

"Give me an hour." Ratio's gaze remained steady, assessing. His thumb moved slightly against Aventurine's collarbone, an almost unconscious gesture of reassurance. "Can you manage that long?"

The question carried layers of meaning that not even the doctor meant—could Aventurine physically manage, could he emotionally manage, could he resist the pull of whatever darkness kept claiming pieces of his consciousness. He wasn't sure of the answer to any of those questions. He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer to himself.

"I'll be fine," he said, untangling himself from Ratio's hold.

He rose slowly from his chair. The room tilted sharply—floor and ceiling trading places before settling back into their proper orientation. His hand shot out to the table for balance, the other raised to stop the doctor from rushing to his help again palm outward like a shield.

A subtle tremor ran through his fingers. "Go make your call."

Ratio's hand stubbornly hovered in the space between them. "If anything happens, call me before the hour." His voice tightened. "If I don't hear from you—"

"You'll barge through the door?" Aventurine managed a weak smile, a faint echo of the sardonic tone he was reaching for. His head pounded with the effort. "You have the code now, you can..." He swallowed. "You can come any time."

"Yes."

The simplicity of the response made something tighten in Aventurine's chest, a constriction that wasn't entirely unpleasant. No pretense, no professional distance—just the acknowledgement of a trust that felt too dangerous to extend and the promise that he would return, no matter what. It felt like entrapment and protection all at once, a barrier as thin as silk sheets that both confined and secured.

He blinked slowly, the memory of waking on the floor in the dim hours of the night flooding through his mind again. Perhaps confinement wasn't such a terrible thing, if it kept him from himself.

"Ok," Aventurine conceded, suddenly too exhausted to argue further, the weight of everything—the episode, the confession, the decision—settling into his bones like lead. "I'll call."

Ratio hesitated, his gaze lingering on Aventurine's face as if committing it to memory, eyes tracking every subtle shift in his expression, every tremor, every sign of the struggle raging beneath the surface. He seemed to hesitate, before: "If you prefer me to stay, I can contact her later."

A request like that should have made him instantly recoil. Instead, Aventurine found himself rooted in place, defiance frozen on his tongue.

"I'm not helpless, doctor." The refusal came out like melted ice.

A complex emotion passed through Ratio's eyes. He nodded once.

Aventurine gripped the table more steadily, while he watched Ratio gather his things—slipping the metal band from his wrist, placing the monitoring device back into his bag, organizing the containers in a neat stack.

The doctor's hands moved with the usual precision, but Aventurine didn’t have to look too hard to catch the tension—the stiffness in his fingers, the deepening frown, the tightening of his jaw as if stopping himself from speaking. Aventurine looked down, then, focusing on fingers that never stopped trembling.

He followed him to the archway between the living room and the hallway, steps floating between intention and capability. The doctor paused at the threshold, turning back. His eyes were so intense they made Aventurine's breath clench.

"One hour," Ratio said.

Aventurine made a shooing gesture, jerky and unsteady. "Make sure to close the door properly this time."

Ratio's gaze held his for a moment longer. Then, with visible reluctance, he turned away.

When Ratio finally left, the sound of the door closing echoed through the apartment. The reverberation hit Aventurine's chest. He stood motionless under the archway, listening to the silence settle around him.

The absence felt like a vacuum pulling at his edges, making the boundaries of his own body permeable, untethered. The apartment bled into shadows—amber light from the windows crawling across surfaces, darkness deepening into pools of tar that waited with patient hunger.

He should move. Should check that the door was actually locked. Should sort through the jumbled fragments of his thoughts before Ratio returned with whatever verdict this lady acquaintance might offer.

But it all felt strangely distant. His limbs grew heavier with each passing moment, as if gravity had intensified around him alone. He leaned against the wood of the archway, its solid presence soothing against his temple. The grain beneath his fingertips felt impossibly detailed, each whorl and line standing out in hyperfocused clarity while the rest of the world smeared into undefined gray.

Thoughts tumbled in his mind like dice in a cup: the kitchen table; the blanket tangled in his feet; the metallic taste that still lingered on his tongue. Ratio's clinical words, his concern, his fear. The comfort it brought. The terror it stirred.

Aventurine's grip on the archway loosened. His fingers slid across the wood.

The sensation of being observed rose through him, a prickling awareness that climbed his spine to settle on his nape. His chest lurched with a sudden, desperate wish that he had asked Ratio to stay, had surrendered to the ache growing inside him. The thought curled on the surface of his mind like ink in water, lingering for a moment before dissipating into the dark sea.

Which would be worse: to be seen and known completely, or to be lost without anyone to witness his disappearance?

It didn’t answer.

It only pulled, gathering within itself what he could no longer hold together.

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He was running.

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, turning the desert into a sea of light. Each step kicked up glittering sand that caught in the wind, dancing around him like golden spirits. The air tasted of salt and heat, filling his lungs with memories of home. Voices called out behind him, speaking words that made his heart lighter, though he couldn't quite make them out over the whisper of sands.

His feet knew this path, even as the dunes shifted and changed around him. There was no destination, no purpose except the joy of movement, of being alive under the endless sky. The wind carried laughter. His own, he realized, mixed with others'. The horizon stretched out before him, a perfect line where golden sand met a lilac sky. He was suspended between earth and heaven, weightless and infinite, surrounded by voices that spoke of belonging, of home.

It felt like another life.

It was another life.

The memory dissolved like sugar in water, leaving Aventurine standing in the middle of the plaza's chaos, chest aching with an emptiness that had nothing to do with running. Around him, the crowd ebbed and flowed, their voices mixing with the constant hum of advertisements and the wet, bubbling sound of memoria from the central fissure.

He'd sought out this corner of the Moment of Midnight specifically, drawn by rumors of the Dr. Edward's vast collection. The giant eye dominated its section of the plaza, embedded in a wooden frame carved with refinement. Its star-shaped pupil had contracted slightly when Aventurine asked about memories from his home planet, the closest thing to an apologetic expression such a being could manage.

He’d settled for a close approximation—someone else's desert, someone else's joy. Close enough to home to make his chest tight, different enough to not belong to him in any way.

His fingers lingered on the bubble, the condensed memoria cool and oddly yielding beneath his touch. He paid Dr. Edwards more than he should have, declining their eager offer to contribute his own memories to their collection. The good ones weren't for sale, and the others? Well… Some things were better left locked away where they belonged.

The walk back to the hotel was exactly what he'd come to expect from the decadent dreamscape: crystal chandeliers competing with holographic ads, a synthetized approximation of music leaking from behind velvet curtains. The whole scene might have looked very profound to someone who'd paid for the right chemical cocktail. He’d have indulged were he not tied with another commitment.

Maybe another time, if luck had it.

In his suite, he didn’t delay the task. The bathroom door slid shut behind him, a sealed-off world made of marble and gold and himself. Practical considerations first: he took off his shoes, his hat, then his tinted glasses, setting them aside on the marble counter with careful precision. The rest of his clothes could stay. It wouldn't make a difference in the end, and he wasn't about to make the deal unnecessarily uncomfortable.

The water was at a perfect temperature, like everything in the dreamscape. He watched the steam rise, curling and dispersing on the mirror. The sound of filling water echoed off the wooden paneling, almost meditative. He briefly considered bath salts, something absurdly expensive and extravagant as an extra touch. The idea almost amused him, until he thought of the doctor. His ridiculous fixation on baths, the way he'd once ranted for an hour about optimal water temperature, the smell of lavender whenever Aventurine leaned too close—and the amusement soured.

That was going to be some twisted kind of irony if his last thoughts were going to be about that gloomy prick.

The heat enveloped him as he lowered himself in stages—legs, torso, shoulders, the slow tilting of his head until water lapped at his chin. It felt real in a way that seemed almost seamless, a dream that felt as tangible as reality. He focused on the sensation, grounding himself in it. The slight buoyancy, the way silk and velvet floated around him, his heartbeat echoing against porcelain. He exhaled once, watching bubbles coil against his lips.

He let his head slip beneath the surface.

The water was warm enough that there was no shock. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to stare up, unblinking. The room above distorted into shifting gold and green, the ceiling an unreachable mirage.

His ears filled with the deep hush of water, a muffled silence broken only by the dull percussion of his pulse. His lungs, still rich with oxygen, barely protested.

The first stretch was easy. A matter of waiting.

A breath pooled behind his lips, heavy and demanding. He held still, resisting the urge to close his eyes. It was almost peaceful, in a detached sort of way.

Then came the ache.

The first involuntary twitch in his diaphragm startled him. His legs flexed before he could stop them, an instinctive rebellion. He held still. Another spasm. His back arched slightly. But he stood down.

His body, though, did not want to go quietly.

His hands gripped the tub's edge until his nails cracked. The water wasn't warm anymore—it felt like ice pressing against his skin, seeping into thick fabric, penetrating to the marrow of his bones. He trembled, counting each second.

Another second.

Another.

Another.

Stay down.

The will to live was a brutal thing.

His hands spasmed. His legs kicked, heels hitting the tub’s bottom, the sound of splashing water reaching him dulled. His eyes fluttered, a black tide creeping in like tar into crevices. His chest seized again, his stomach tightening as if trying to wrench air from nothing.

And still, he held.

The second wave of panic hit hard.

Fire blazed across his chest, wild, unstoppable, searing his lungs. The sheer violence of his own survival instinct almost shattered him. He wanted to rise. Had to. But he didn't.

His back arched violently. His fingers, numb with strain, slipped from the tub's edge. For one breathless second, he thought—enough.

Then: it betrayed him.

His mouth opened. His chest caved inward with a jagged, instinctive inhale.

Water flooded in.

Cold, shocking, wrong.

It hit like poison, burnt his throat, scraped his insides. His body convulsed, choking against the invasion. His hands scrambled, legs kicking wildly as his back slammed against the tub's edge.

Too late. Always too late.

His limbs weren't listening anymore, thoughts cracked open. The ceiling above—not gold, not shimmering—rippled.

Not Penacony's ceiling.

A lilac sky that didn't belong to him.

And someone—

A shadow against the sun, waiting at the horizon.

A gaze that unfailingly found him even in the dark.

Questions hidden in those depths, the ones he’d never answer.

The last of his breath left him in a rush of bubbles.

Until nothing.

Chapter Text

A void.

Then, sensation—fragments of reality pushing through his perception.

Cold. Bone-deep, skin drawn tight, muscles locking. A weight pressed down, but not heavy. Not solid. Wet. Fabric clung like a second skin, soaked through, leeching warmth away. His lungs ached with it, tight and bruised from the inside.

Sound came first—muffled, distant, layered over itself in chaotic waves. Rhythmic beeping. Muted voices. A rush of static, white noise filling the spaces between words. Something pressed against his face. Steady hiss of air forced into unwilling lungs. Plastic and antiseptic clinging to his tongue.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Small, cold points of pressure stuck against his temple, his chest. Wires. Pads. Metal clamped around his arm, squeezing, pulsing. His muscles twitched, shuddered, the remnants of some force still rolling through them. Not his. Not controlled.

They're watching. Measuring. Marking.

Voices, sharper now, cutting through.

"...temperature at.." 

"...reactive pupils..." 

"...post-ictal ..." 

The tone carried decision-making. They were speaking about him. Doing things to him. Changing his body without asking.

Just like before.

A sharp prick in his arm. The slow spread of something foreign in his veins, creeping beneath his skin. More chemicals. More control being taken away.

Not mine, never mine .

His body jerked, limbs spasming without command. Pain radiated from every muscle, every tendon trembling with exertion not his own. A dull throb in his head pounded in rhythm with the erratic beat of his heart. Each breath stung, raw like he'd been choking. His jaw ached, teeth loose in his gums. His tongue stung where they had caught it.

Light pierced through the veil, stabbing into his skull, bright and merciless. He flinched, breath hitching. Shadows loomed, indistinct figures in the glare, shifting above him. Foreign. Wrong.

This wasn't his bed.

He'd fallen asleep. In his bed. In my bed?

Where—?

They've taken me back.

The last time—days missing, waking up strapped down, the numb terror of sedation. A deep, absolute fear surged in his veins, ripped from the place where memories blurred into instinct.

Not again.

His breath came too fast, uneven, his body remembering something his mind hadn't caught up to yet. Water, rushing over him. Limbs flailing. Darkness pressing in. The warped echoes of voices, whispers, laughter—not real, not real, not real.

The fear had become more, strangling what little air he could pull in, gouging him hollow. He tried to move, but his body didn't belong to him, sluggish and unresponsive. Only his hand obeyed, fingers dragging weakly over the wet tile, searching—for what? 

Something warm—too warm—closed around them. Solid. Unyielding. The contrast to his own frozen skin was jarring, verging on painful. A spark in the endless dark, guiding him. 

A voice. Low, steady, cutting through. Familiar. 

He turned toward it instinctively, but vision was slow to return, shapes shifting in and out of focus. His failing breath stuttered. The eyes looking down at him—he knew them. Crimson, burning in the too-bright light. He'd seen them before, night after night. Watching. Waiting.

But not like this. Never like this. 

There was no detachment in them now. No measured distance. Something else lurked there, fractured and unguarded. The sight of it sent panic surging through his chest anew. 

His fingered tightened around the warmth holding him, grip weak but desperate. Lips parted, but the voice that emerged wasn't his, rough and foreign to his own ears.

"Help… Help me… please…" The words barely made it past his lips, broken and slurred, half in a language he no longer remembered choosing.

Movement around him. More voices. He couldn't make sense of them, but the shift in the air told him something had changed. A decision had been made. His breath caught, panic breaking past reason. 

"Don't... " The plea, gurgled and strained, dragged from his throat without his consent. "Don't let them take me..." 

The hand didn't pull away. The grip tightened, firm, certain. A lifeline. His voice was low and steady, spoken just for him.

"I won't."

The promise followed him down as he was pulled into the darkness again. Not sleep—something heavier, deeper, worse. A downward drag, slow and inevitable. His vision wavered, the smudged figures blurring further, slipping beyond recognition. His limbs felt weightless, untethered.

The last thing he felt was the heat of that hand, impossibly steady, impossibly real.

The last thing he saw were those scarlet eyes, holding him there, keeping him tethered.

The last thing he heard weren’t the noises, but the echo of that voice, promising a place where pain didn’t exist.

Something wet slid down his temple, warm against his cold skin. He didn't have time to understand it before he fell away.

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Desert winds carrying the scent of burning flesh. The grit of sand against his skin, working its way into every crease and fold, grinding between his teeth.

The night spread above him, vast and glittering. It's broken, he didn't know why he said it, but her hands were soft, holding his tenderly.

Fix this, or everything will have been for nothing, she said under a sky of falling stars, trickling into the horizon like blood, the sand beneath them turned liquid.

I can’t, he tried to tell her, but he was sinking, water filled his mouth.

Her name dissolved into bubbles that raced toward a surface he couldn't reach.

The golden ceiling distorting above him, wavering as if viewed through tears.

A fractured memory, of a choice made and unmade.

Making sure he wasn’t going to sleep again, to ever wake up.

A woman's voice penetrates the darkness—not hers, she couldn’t be her anymore. She pulled him back to consciousness before he was ready. I'm sorry, Aventurine, I’m so sorry.

He couldn’t listen, he resisted, sinking deeper into that crushing nothingness. But the voice persisted, dragging him toward a surface he didn't want to reach.

You're safe now.

“...possible hallucinatory episode…”

“...sedate him…”

"No."

A cool hand against his forehead. He turned toward it instinctively, seeking the contact like a plant bending toward light. "It's just a dream."

He shook his head, words impossible. Leave me “...alone.”

A sound picked up. More movement.

Turquoise beads scattered across blood-soaked sand. Thirty tanba. A lilac smile that promised death.

"You're safe now."

The voice cut through the lingering tendrils of the dream. His bedroom ceiling swam into view, the cracks in the paint forming patterns he'd memorized during countless sleepless nights. A gaze pressed against his consciousness. Watching. Waiting. Always just beyond the edge of perception.

"It’s over," it sounded closer, whispering against his feverish skin. "The medics are monitoring you, but the danger has passed."

Medics? The word triggered a cascade of fragmented images—a floor too cold, water around him, tremors he couldn't control. A hand finding his in the darkness, warm and soft, under a starry sky.

"Rest," he said. "I'll be here."

The promise followed him down as consciousness receded once more, but this time the darkness was softer, less absolute.

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He surfaced slowly, consciousness returning in waves that ebbed and flowed like a tide pulling back to reveal unwelcome shores.

Sound filtered through first, disjointed and lacking context. Rhythmic beeping from somewhere nearby. The soft hiss of equipment. Murmured voices keeping their distance. His own breathing, labored and wet. Behind his closed eyes, light shifted—shadows passing, movement registering against the dull red of his eyelids.

He knew he'd been asleep, though he couldn't remember falling. Knew he'd been dreaming, though the images were already dissolving, leaving only impressions.

Turquoise beads.

A lilac sky he didn’t recognize.

A darkness so thick it was inescapable.

A cool touch brushed his face. The pressure against his nose and mouth—had it been there all along?—lifted away. Air brushed against his clammy skin, suddenly exposed. Something else replaced it, smaller, fitting just inside his nostrils. The change in sensation was jarring enough to pull him a tiny bit closer to the surface.

"Aventurine."

The voice came from nearby. He knew its cadence, though placing it required more focus than he could muster. A rustle of fabric, movement beside him. He concentrated, trying to gather enough strength to open his eyes. Light assaulted him when he finally managed—too bright, too sharp—forcing them closed again immediately. He tried once more, slower this time. The world gradually resolved into blurry shapes, colors bleeding into each other.

Yellow. There was a lot of yellow. Uniforms. IPC medical. The realization should have triggered alarm, but he couldn't summon the energy for an appropriate response. Everything seemed to be happening at a distance, as if to someone else.

A face hovered above him, indistinct at first, then slowly resolving into recognizable features. Crimson-lined eyes. Violet brows drawn together. That habitually stern mouth set in an expression he couldn't quite place.

Ratio.

The name floated up slowly, recognition dawning like a delayed reaction. Ratio was wearing yellow too. Why would Ratio be wearing medical scrubs? That detail registered, but its significance slipped away before he could grasp it.

Ratio's mouth moved, sound following a beat later, the delay disorienting.

"Aventurine. Can you hear me?"

He tried to respond, but his throat seized, too dry for speech. A cough escaped instead, the force of it shocking in its intensity. His body convulsed with it, the unexpectedness of his own reaction startling him more than the pain flaring sharply in his chest.

When the spasm passed, Ratio was hovering closer, features resolving clearer in his vision. Had Ratio always had those dark circles under his eyes? The lines at the corners of his mouth? He couldn't recall.

"They've found more fluid in your lungs," Ratio was calm, collected. Steadying in its precision. "From the water. We need to clear it, but the process will be uncomfortable."

Water.

The word triggered an instant reaction—cold, pressure, burning—but it dissolved before he could grasp it fully. Was there water? Where was… He remembered... nothing. Nothing concrete. Just fragments of sensation that made no sense.

He realized Ratio was waiting for a response. With tremendous effort, he managed a slight nod, the movement making dark spots bloom in his vision.

More yellow-clad figures moved from the corner of his eye. One of them approached, holding a device he didn't recognize. The shape of it registered, but not its purpose. An ingrained unease skittered across his skin, but his body remained passive, unable to act on the warning. They were talking again, words washing over him without fully penetrating.

"...rather than fighting it..."

He couldn't have fought anything if he'd wanted to.

A warm pressure enveloped him. He turned his head slightly, the movement requiring enormous effort. Ratio sat beside him, fingers wrapped around his wrist. When did that happen? Had he reached out first, or had Ratio?

Someone else spoke, distance and procedure among other words he couldn't track. Ratio's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly, gentle but secure. "I'll stay right here," he said, and though Aventurine wasn't sure what he was responding to, the words anchored him somehow.

The device approached his face. Cold plastic pressed against his lips. He had a moment to register the bitter smell of the mist before it activated, sending a strange vapor into his mouth and down his throat.

The effect was immediate and violent.

He hadn't expected it. Hadn't braced himself. The surprise almost worse than the pain.

Coughing ripped through him with brutal force, each convulsion sending daggers of pain through his ribs. Liquid rose in his throat—not water, a thicker substance, tasting of tepid dregs and copper and something more acrid. His hand clenched involuntarily around Ratio's, the only thing that felt solid in a world suddenly reduced to the imperative to breathe.

Another cough followed, and another, each one dragging that wet and heavy waste from deep in his chest. His eyes watered, vision blurring further. The ceiling above him swam, cracks merging and separating. He was drowning again—no, that wasn’t right… was it? The thought slipped away as another spasm gripped him.

The final round was the worst, reaching into depths that felt like they'd never been touched before. His vision grayed at the edges, consciousness threatening to slip away entirely. Only Ratio's voice, low and steady beside his ear, kept him tethered to the moment.

"Almost over. You're doing well."

The words themselves meant little—he was doing nothing, merely enduring—but the tone carried something that reached him still. Not clinical detachment. Something else. Something he'd heard before, somewhere, in a context he couldn't recall.

The coughing began to ease, gradually losing its violent edge. Each breath came a little easier than the last, though his chest still felt like it had been scoured clean. The device withdrew, leaving him emptied out, like a gutted animal.

Undistinguished words drifted around him, but the tone conveyed a positive outcome. They adjusted something near his face—the tube in his nose, feeding him air that felt suddenly sweeter, easier to draw in. Someone was touching his chest again, a spot of cold against his skin. When had his shirt been removed? Had he been wearing one to begin with?

His fingers were still tangled with Ratio's, though his grip had slackened. He couldn't remember letting go, couldn't dare to tighten it again. When he searched for it, Ratio's face was drawn with an emotion that didn't belong in its usual stoic lines.

"Rest now," he said, his voice strangely faint. "Your oxygen levels are better."

Aventurine wanted to ask questions—where was he, what had happened, why Ratio was there, why the medics, why did he feel like he died—but his eyes were growing heavier again, the effort to keep them open becoming insurmountable. The ceiling above him blurred, consciousness slipping away once more.

He distantly registered Ratio's hand still holding him, thumb moving in circles against his unmoving hand. It felt like a warmth he’d felt before, something he had known already. But when? When had he let the doctor come so close?

His last coherent thought was how strange it was that he didn't mind.

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Sunlight filtered through his curtains when awareness finally settled more firmly around him. The amber light carried dust motes that danced in lazy spirals, catching on the edges of a metal shine. His eyes tracked their movement, his senses slowly reconnecting with reality surrounding him.

His bedroom. But not anymore. Transformed into a clinical space. The shapes of his furniture remained—the dresser with the gaping drawer, the armchair buried under his clothes, the clutter on his nightstand—but they were now surrounded by machinery he didn't recognize. Equipment lined the walls, their displays glowing with numbers and waveforms he couldn't decipher from this angle. Tubes and wires connected to his body in places he became aware of only as his attention shifted to them: a needle in the back of his hand, patches on his chest, a thin tube looped across his face, a bar curving along his forehead.

The coppery tang of blood in his mouth was overlaid with a sharp, metallic bite. A dry, papery feeling clung to the roof of his mouth, his throat raw as if something had been ground against its inner walls. The air itself seemed to hurt, his lungs protesting each wheezing breath. His body simultaneously felt leaden and detached, as if it belonged to someone else but he was still required to carry its weight.

The soft murmur of voices drew his attention to the foot of his bed. Two figures were standing there, conferring in low tones that didn't quite carry to where he lay. One wore the distinctive yellow uniform of IPC medical personnel, her back partially turned to him as she gestured toward one of the monitors. The other—

Ratio.

But not the pristine, aloof man he was accustomed to seeing. This version of Ratio seemed diminished somehow, worn at the edges in ways Aventurine had never witnessed before. His usual impeccable appearance had been compromised by yellow scrubs that fit awkwardly on his muscular frame. His violet hair appeared mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. Most striking of all was his face—the edges of his trademark red eyeliner flaking, dark circles visible beneath his eyes, a day's stubble shadowing his jaw. He stood with his arms crossed, listening to the medic with an intensity that seemed to require all his remaining energy.

He looked... human. Fallible. As if the careful facade of competence and detachment had been worn thin by whatever transpired while Aventurine was unconscious.

Aventurine tried to speak, to ask what had happened, but the attempt sent fire down his throat. Only a raspy sound emerged. He reached up instinctively, fingers finding the nasal cannula, tracing its path to find it tangled behind his ears, the tube fixed in place. He attempted to push himself up instead, to demand attention through movement if not words. The simple act of lifting his head from the pillow left him light-headed. His arms shook with the effort of supporting even a fraction of his weight, muscles refusing commands. The failure burned through him, vulnerability twisting into determination, and he tried again.

The rasp of his breath and the slight rustle of bedsheets were enough to alert both figures. They turned simultaneously, the movement almost comical in its coordination. Ratio's eyes widened slightly—the only outward sign of his alarm, a flash of relief or anguish too potent to hide, before his usual composure slammed back into place.

Ratio murmured something to the medic, his voice too low for Aventurine to catch the words. She nodded, glancing once more at Aventurine with an interest too deep to be clinical before withdrawing. The door closed behind her with a soft click that seemed too final in the quiet room.

He approached the bed, each step measured and deliberate. His movements maintained their usual precise grace, but there was tension around his eyes when he glanced briefly at the equipment surrounding the bed, a momentary avoidance that spoke volumes. Exhaustion etched into every line of his face, in the careful way he held himself. Aventurine had seen the man so distraught only once before—when Ratio had pulled him out of the dreampool.

He stopped by the edge, maintaining a distance that somehow felt forced rather than discrete. His gaze, usually so clinical and detached, kept slipping to Aventurine's face, to the monitors, back to Aventurine.

"You're awake." The remark fell flat between them, unnecessary and inadequate.

Aventurine tried again to speak. The effort scraped against his damaged throat, but he forced the sounds out, each one distinct and painful: "What… happened?"

He hated how weak his voice sounded, how it revealed his physical state more honestly than his words would ever admit. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Ratio seemed to struggle with how to answer—lips parting, then pressing together, the smudged red liner around his eyes crinkling with tension.

"You should rest."

The doctor resorted to the standard response, the one Aventurine expected and dreaded in equal measure. It was delivered with Ratio's usual directness, yet tinged with an emotion unprecedented—the forbearance around something fragile, a tact that felt dangerously close to pity.

An evasion, nevertheless. It sent a spike of frustration through Aventurine, hot and clarifying. Being treated as delicate was unbearable. Being sheltered from information about his own body was an insult—too reminiscent of other times, other contexts, of withheld knowledge, of others dictating what he could and couldn't.

He attempted once more to push himself up, stubborn determination overriding physical limitations. The movement tugged at the oxygen tube across his face, the weakness in his muscles rippling upward, until his head swam. Still, he persisted, teeth gritted against the weakness, against the indignity of letting control slip too far.

Ratio moved quickly, his reaction time uncompromised despite his apparent exhaustion. One hand came to rest on Aventurine's shoulder, applying just enough pressure to halt his progress. Not forcing him down, but preventing him from rising further. The touch was impersonal, yet the warmth of it seeped through the thin fabric of whatever they'd dressed him in.

"Don't."

A single word, sharp and clear, closer to the Ratio he knew. Not a request but a command, delivered with the certainty of someone used to being obeyed.

It should have been comforting, this return to a more familiar pattern, but instead it ignited a simmering defiance. Aventurine tried to shrug off the hand, a gesture intended as dismissive but emerging as more desperate. His body failed him yet again—he couldn't even dislodge that light pressure, couldn't manage even this small act of defiance. The shortcoming burned like acid on his tongue.

Something broke in Ratio's expression—not just concern or frustration, but deeper anxiety barely contained beneath his stoic veneer. His hand trembled slightly against Aventurine's shoulder, a tremor so slight it would have been imperceptible if Aventurine hadn't been hyperaware of every point of contact between them. For a heartbeat, the carefully constructed walls between them, between Ratio and Aventurine, seemed to dissolve entirely.

The crack in Ratio's composure mended quickly, but not completely. The edges remained visible, like fractured glass held together by the granular residue of its own shattering. That glimpse of vulnerability, of genuine fear, somehow made Aventurine's next words easier to say.

"Don't keep me… in the dark…" Each sound grated painfully in his throat, but he forced them out, utterly refusing to yield to his physical limitations. His gaze locked with Ratio's, unflinching despite the effort it cost him to maintain it. "You made me promise... to be more open… Works both ways."

The doctor looked down at him for a long moment, conflict splintering across his features. Behind the scarlet sheen of his eyes, light seemed to fracture and twist, careful distance grinding against a raw emotion that Aventurine couldn't fully decipher. Had it been anyone else looking at him that way, Aventurine would have recoiled, would have thrown up every defense he possessed. Even now, enduring the scrutiny clashed against his instincts. But he didn't relent.

Finally, Ratio seemed to come to a resolution.

He pulled up a chair that had been moved from Aventurine's kitchen, dragging it from the wall closer to the bed with a soft scrape of metal against hardwood. His movements as he sat lacked their usual economy—too stiff, too deliberate, as if he'd forgotten the seamless control he normally possessed.

His hands twitched once, before he forced them to stillness. He clasped them in his lap, took a deep breath. When his eyes met Aventurine’s, that distress that had broken through his composure before was now reined in, a strained but definite control.

"You were found in your bathtub."

The words were delivered plainly, Ratio's tone reverting to its usual precise inflection. No preamble, no softening of the blow. It was a relief somehow, this return to directness, though the content sent a cold shock through Aventurine's system.

"Full submersion, respiratory arrest, followed by continued seizures lasting approximately six minutes before the medical team intervened."

The facts struck him with brutal force, each one more incomprehensible than the last.

Bathtub.

Submersion.

Respiratory arrest.

Seizure.

The clinical terms created distance between Aventurine and the events being described, as if they happened to someone else entirely. Yet the evidence of their truth surrounded him—the equipment, the pain in his chest, the exhaustion permeating every cell of his body.

The last thing he remembered with any clarity was seeing Ratio off at the archway between hallway and living room, promising he'd call him in one hour. There was nothing after that—no recollection of walking, of filling the tub, of submerging himself.

The void in his memory didn’t just feel dangerous—it was unstable, a visceral dread that threatened to implode from within. His breath hitched, then quickened, shallow and ragged in his chest. This has happened before. Chunks of time vanishing, cold wind on his face, a knife in his hand and blood seeping from his fingers, arm stretched toward a half-open drawer.

How did it happen again? How did he come so close?

"I don't..." he began, intending to deny it, to question it, but a coughing fit interrupted him before he could form the thought. The cough tore through his chest, harsh and painful, each spasm sending daggers of pain against his ribs. It felt as though an essential piece of him had been damaged deep within, a part that might never work properly again.

Ratio stood up quickly as Aventurine coughed, reaching for something on the nightstand, his movements decisive yet strangely urgent.

"Here."

He offered an ice chip, held between long fingers that showed signs of recent scrubbing—the skin around his nails slightly raw, as if he'd washed his hands repeatedly with harsh soap. His movements were efficient rather than gentle when he brought it to his lips.

"Let it melt. Don't try to chew."

Aventurine accepted it, momentarily distracted from his questions by the sheer relief the small piece of ice provided against his parched throat. It numbed the worst of the pain, melting slowly to soothe the damaged tissues without triggering another coughing fit. The simple comfort was so profound that for a moment he could focus on nothing else, his entire awareness narrowing to this small mercy.

As the ice melted, Ratio continued his explanation, his gaze drifted again on the monitors. The evasion was clearer this time, as open as it could get—Ratio, who normally maintained an irritating direct eye contact during any conversation, suddenly finding the digital readouts more compelling.

"You experienced significant aspiration of water into your lungs. Oxygen saturation was critically low upon extraction. After resuscitation, the seizures began, requiring multiple doses of anticonvulsants and other procedures to control."

The clinical recitation felt like a crutch, Ratio hiding behind medical terminology as if the precision of technical language could create distance between himself and the events he was describing. But the façade was crumbling with each word—fractures spreading wider across glass already held together by dust and pressure.

It occurred to Aventurine then, with sudden, nauseating clarity, that Ratio must have found him.

Ratio's hands had pulled him from the water.

Ratio's hands had performed the resuscitation.

Ratio had watched him seize.

The realization didn’t hit—it splashed like a corrosive acid, turning his insides to molten dread. It was salvific, it was violating. It was profoundly intimate and wrong being seen like that—helpless, dying—by someone who he’d already let see too much.

Too much. It was all too much. Aventurine forced the thoughts down before they could consume him entirely, pushing them beneath the surface of his consciousness. Not now. He couldn't unravel now. Focus on something concrete. Focus on what mattered. The questions. The immediate threat.

"Why..." He attempted to speak, but his voice failed again, fading to a painful whisper. He swallowed with difficulty and tried again, "Why… is this…"

He gestured weakly at the equipment surrounding his bed—the monitors, the IV stands, the specialized devices whose functions he could only guess at. His hand convulsed visibly with even this small effort, so he let it drop on the clean sheets. His gaze shifted toward the door where the medic had disappeared, then back to Ratio, the question clear despite his limited words. Why the IPC medical team? Why this level of intervention?

"Why are… they here?" He managed to complete the thought, each word extracted with effort, leaving him lightheaded.

Ratio's gaze returned to him now, direct and intense. A different emotion animated those crimson depths now—a certain gravity that had never been there before, never directed at him. A paradigm shift that shook the foundations between them. The concern, the disquiet remained, but it took a harder edge, twisting into the wound that Aventurine had left exposed.

"Because last night was part of an escalating pattern."

Aventurine found himself piecing the puzzle before he realized. IPC medics in his apartment. The monitoring equipment. Ratio's familiarity with the IPC doctor, speaking in low voices. The way she looked at him just before exiting. The casual reference to ‘patterns’ and ‘escalation’—terms too specific, too clinical to be mere observation, even by the doctor’s standards. And beneath it all, that subtle shift in Ratio's demeanor, the careful way he watched Aventurine now, as if waiting for him to acknowledge. To yield.

They'd told him. Not just about last night, but everything. The incident at the IPC's HQ. The hospital stay he'd fought so hard to keep buried. The seizure they'd officially classified as psychogenic. The medications he'd been prescribed and then ignored. All of it laid bare, his private collapse dissected in medical terms and every grueling detail while he'd been unconscious, unable to defend himself or reclaim the narrative.

"What did they tell you?" The question emerged as a broken rasp, a glass shard honed by the fear grinding within him.

Ratio's back went ramrod straight, his shoulders rigid under the yellow scrubs. He didn't look at Aventurine, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bed, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. To Aventurine, who had spent nights looking for his most minute change in the dark, this man in front of him was becoming starkly, undeniably different.

"They told me about your hospitalization." Ratio's tone was neutral, almost paradoxically so. "The seizure. Director Topaz’ report about your condition upon discovery. The psych evaluation you refused."

Each item landed like an indictment, exposing secrets Aventurine had believed safely hidden. Betrayal scorched through him, sharper than the pain in his damaged lungs, hotter than the lingering fever in his blood. The IPC was supposed to protect his privacy, to maintain the confidentiality of his medical information. Instead, they'd laid him bare to Ratio's scrutiny, exposed vulnerabilities he'd fought tooth and nail to conceal.

Disgust and self-loathing melded into an indistinct, bitter anger exploding on his tongue, "They had no right—"

"You should have told me."

The words snapped like a lash, startling in their intensity. He stared at Ratio, stunned silent.

"I've been working with incomplete information for weeks, for months," Ratio continued, his composure visibly unraveling as he leaned forward in his chair. His hands shook uncontrollably as he ran them through his matted hair, dragging at the violet strands. "Trying to help you without knowing critical details about your condition."

"I didn't need—" Aventurine countered, rising to his lips before he could consider it.

"On the contrary. You did." Ratio's interruption sharp, eyes ablaze with an intense, terrifying fierceness. "You accepted an agreement based on what I emphasized had to be absolute candor. Instead, you crucially withheld the full picture of your condition."

"I've been essentially working blind this entire time, underestimating the risk, allowing myself to be misled about the true scale, when I could have prevented this. I could have helped you ending up—"

He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching. Aventurine watched as Ratio physically fought for control, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, the professional veneer paper-thin over raw emotion.

"This was an avoidable risk."

The accusation burned through Aventurine's fog, acid on an open wound. Truth. Undeniable truth. His omissions. His lies. His fault. Nausea rolled through him, physical sickness blurring with self-disgust until he couldn't separate them. The room tilted, monitors beeping at the edges of his awareness.

Control. He needed, he couldn't let go of— He couldn't let the last pieces of himself not stripped away by this, by them, by his own—

Fragments of defense rose from somewhere primal, instinctive as it was damaging. Words rose and scattered, "It was my decision—you don’t—"

"You almost died."

Ratio stated it without inflection. Not accusation. Not emotion. Just brutal fact, shoved into the hollow space where Aventurine was. The directness Aventurine had craved moments before now felt like a blade against his throat.

The doctor’s composure fractured again, something naked and frightful breaking through.

"For two minutes and seventeen seconds, you were dead. They brought you back." His voice roughened on the last words, a wound reopening under strain. "And you're not out of danger yet. There's a significant risk of permanent neurological damage, epilepsy, cognitive disruption, memory loss." A pause, but Aventurine couldn't look up. "The list is long."

Ratio delivered each item with a certainty he’d never allowed himself before. No careful hedging, provisional language, acknowledgment of limited data that had characterized all their previous discussions. It wasn’t speculation anymore—it was the confidence of someone who'd seen the results firsthand, who knew more than he did. It rang like danger in Aventurine’s mind, the doctor driving him further into a corner he’d been approaching himself.

"This is no longer a matter of pride or privacy, Aventurine." Ratio's voice remained even, controlled, but his hands revealed him—fingers curling tight against his thighs, knuckles whitening with tension. Another fracture, one that Aventurine might not have noticed if he wasn’t so keen on avoiding his eyes. "Your condition is escalating in severity. The next time could be irreversibly fatal."

The truth was impossible to deflect, to dismiss. Aventurine had courted death before, had come close so many times he'd lost count. But never like this—never in this debilitating, humiliating way. Never outside his control, without his notice, without his conscious choice.

The instinct to argue, to find an impossible flaw in Ratio's assessment, to refuse the reality of a weakness that was killing him, surged from deep within. A need to preserve his self rather than himself.

But his body denied him yet again.

Another coughing fit tore through him without warning, more violent than the last. The cannula shifted with each convulsion, barely delivering enough oxygen to keep his vision from darkening completely. Each spasm felt like it might crack his ribs, the pain radiating outward from his chest in waves of white-hot agony. Spots bloomed in his vision—black, then red, then white—as oxygen became suddenly, terrifyingly scarce.

Fear rose, primal and overwhelming. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't be anymore. His fingers clawed at the sheets, at his throat, at anything within reach. His body rebelled more, his consciousness frayed irreparably. No control—only the dissolution of self.

Ratio was at his side in an instant, a softer, almost hesitant quality of movement than before. One hand cradled Aventurine's shoulder, keeping him from collapsing forward, while the other adjusted something on one of the machines beside the bed. His attentiveness felt almost conciliatory, clinical necessity masking a deeper admission..

Through the panic and oxygen deprivation, Aventurine glimpsed movement at the door—the medics reappearing, alerted by the change in the monitors perhaps, or simply responding to the sounds of distress. They hovered there, ready to intervene if needed.

The realization of his vulnerability, his dependency, crashed over Aventurine with devastating clarity. He was reduced to this—helpless as he’d never been, dependent as he’d never allowed himself to be.

Something shifted in the air—a slight hiss, a change in pressure—and breathing suddenly became marginally easier. The rush of oxygen, or perhaps medication finally taking hold. The coughing gradually subsided, though each remaining spasm sent echoes of pain through his chest.

When it finally stopped, he collapsed back against the pillows, utterly drained. The effort of simply staying conscious seemed monumental now, each breath a deliberate choice rather than an automatic function. He felt corroded, scraped clean of everything except exhaustion and the caustic edges of a shame he couldn’t acknowledge, yet always carried within him now.

Ratio offered another ice chip, his movements softer now, almost tentative. Their eyes met briefly as Aventurine accepted it, and what he saw in Ratio's gaze made the fault lines inside him deepen. Not pity—he would have recoiled from that—but a mirrored fracturing. The same brokenness reflected back at him, a recognition of shared vulnerability that should have been repulsive but instead made this moment of dependency marginally more bearable.

He let the ice melt slowly in his mouth, using the simple task to gather the scattered fragments of his thoughts. The cold numbed his throat, a tangible, single point of sensation anchoring him amid the howling void of helplessness.

The silence stretched between them, filled only with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hum of machinery. Ratio waited, his stillness unlike his usual conscious patience—this was more immediate, an acknowledgment of fragility that neither of them could afford but both now recognized.

Admit it. You're tired.

The memory of his hallucination on Penacony surfaced unexpectedly. His future self, or the Order wearing that guise, confronting him with truths he wasn't ready to acknowledge. It had been about something else then—his pursuit of vengeance, his refusal to recognize its cost. Now it applied to everything.

He was tired. Bone-deep. Soul-deep tired. Of fighting his own body. Of maintaining facades that dissolved like sand in rain. Of the weight of secrets that seemed determined to drag him under the surface.

And Ratio was still there. Still waiting for a reply.

Despite everything—the lies, the evasions, the moments Aventurine pushed him away with deliberate cruelty—he remained. Not out of duty or professional obligation, or at least not only for those reasons. There was another reason keeping him here, a reason Aventurine wasn't prepared to name but could no longer pretend not to see.

The need to confess turned his insides to acid, burned him down to his core. Every instinct screamed against it—decades of survival dependent on isolation, on never showing weakness, on keeping everyone at arm's length. To surrender now felt like tearing out a fundamental part, a part that had kept him alive through things that should have killed him.

Yet the alternative—continuing this slow dissolution alone—suddenly seemed more terrifying.

Without taking a steadying breath, without allowing himself time to retreat, he let his voice grind against his throat, the sound as raw as the admission itself.

"I've been having hallucinations."

Each syllable abraded out of him, every sound tearing its own wound. There was no relief in this confession, only the savage necessity of it, like digging out glass shards from a festering wound.

"Not just dreams… full waking visions."

Aventurine's gaze shot up, a reflex born of the need to gauge the impact, bracing for the worst.

Instead, he found Ratio watching him with careful attention, his expression neutral but intensely focused. Simple courtesy, or respect—he hadn't anticipated either.

The sheer lack of pushback or a charged reaction, seemed to shake the last of his resistance loose.

"They started when..." He hesitated, struggling to place the exact moment. "When you stopped coming, maybe before… I started taking more medication… to manage." He stopped, coughing again. Ratio helped him through it, but the words flowed now, unhindered, a wound spilling blood and the last dregs of his dignity. "I'd wake up... without remembering how I’d gotten there…”

"I’d sleepwalk. The first time, on the balcony… Nearly walked off the ledge. That's why I came to the Guild that... that time." His gaze drifted down, stared at the IV in the back of his hand, at the thin tube carrying medication into his veins, at the place where the needle disappeared beneath his skin.

"When I sleepwalk… I try to… recreate the tests I did to look for 'Death' on Penacony." His fingers twisted around the IV line, tugging unconsciously at the medical tape. "I've tried... pills, heights, bleeding, guns, ropes..." His voice caught, jagged in his throat. "But I think... I think last night was that time... when I drowned myself at the Golden Hour."

The last word peeled its way out of him, but Ratio still didn’t speak.

Aventurine didn’t dare look. The silence wasn’t just quiet—it was a living thing, swelling, growing, monstrous and suffocating, trapping him in the echo chamber of his confession. The needle under his skin throbbed in time with his racing heart, fingertip pressing it deeper, feeling its cold metal dig a sharp ridge beneath his skin.

How ironic that he'd feared questions, dreaded what Ratio might say or think, only to discover there was something infinitely worse than any interrogation, any judgment: this yawning, ravenous silence where he was left to face the full weight of what he'd done, alone.

A hand reached out, Ratio catching Aventurine's fingers before he could tear the line free. The touch was clinical at first, but then it lingered—warm fingers against his clammy ones. Aventurine looked up, startled by how calming the touch felt.

He found Ratio transformed. The frantic energy bled from the doctor’s posture, replaced by a shocking, focused stillness. It wasn't the clinical mask he typically wore, but the look when speculation resolved into data, when chaos aligned into pattern. The sight was both comforting and vaguely unsettling—that his confession, his moment of greatest vulnerability, had paradoxically steadied the man before him.

When Ratio spoke, his voice carried an unnerving calm. "What do you want to do?"

The question settled between them, open-ended and patient. Ratio didn’t rush him, wasn't expectant. His hand remained on Aventurine's, fingers careful not to touch more than necessary, and yet somehow managing to feel as if they were intertwined—the ridge of his palm resting between Aventurine's thumb and forefinger, a point of contact both clinical and devastatingly intimate.

There was a cruel kindness in the gesture, in the question itself, returning agency to him when he'd just shamefully admitted it was a facade. That his control—over his body, his mind, his fate—had been an illusion all along. And now Ratio was asking him what he wanted, forcing him to confront the truth he feared more than the shadows devouring his perception: that he had to act for himself, or not live at all. 

The deflection was a shameful need. "What kind of… question is that, doc?"

"One that respects your autonomy." Ratio didn’t offer any hiding place. There was a renewed intensity to his expression that belied the neutrality of his tone, a conviction that seemed to underpin his words. "I won't ever take choices from you. But you need to understand—your condition has worsened well beyond what you can manage alone. It has become critically life-threatening."

Again neither accusation nor plea but another cold, hard fact. Life-threatening. The word echoed in his mind, carrying implications that extended far beyond the immediate. Death—real, permanent, irreversible—as a genuine possibility. Not in some abstract future when he'd lose his final bet, but in his present.

"You’re right… I can’t—can’t let this go on…" he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them, before he could filter or censor or arrange them into something more controlled. "I have to get better… can't let this spiral any further, or she’ll decide to cut her losses… I can’t, can't lose—"

He broke off abruptly, realizing too late what he was on the verge of voicing. Heat rushed to his face at Ratio's furrowed brow, the monitors laying bare the sudden moment of panic. The corner of his eyes prickled like tears of acid.

His free hand flew to his face, pressing hard against closed eyes until color exploded behind the lids. Too much. He'd torn himself open and spilled everything at Ratio's feet—his shattered mind, the scorching shame, the merciless craving for vengeance that drove him like a spike. He needed to return somewhere safe, rebuild his walls brick by bloody brick. But his palm shook too badly to manage even this simple shield, his body exposing him yet again when a tear rolled down his cheek.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered in the spaces between his fingers, a surrender more complete than any he'd ever made—not to an enemy but to himself. "I only know what… what I can’t."

Ratio's hand squeezed his, the warmth of the touch spreading up his arm lapping at the cold dread in his chest.

Aventurine peered from behind splayed fingers to find Ratio leaning closer, close enough that he could see the gold in his irises. There was something in his expression—not just determination but a bone-deep certainty—that Aventurine couldn't comprehend. As if Ratio were seeing through him to something essential, something Aventurine himself had lost sight of long ago.

Ratio's voice was gentle. "You still have choices."

Aventurine shook his head slightly, the movement sending small ripples of dizziness through him. "I–I can't..." he began, then faltered, unsure how to articulate the chains of despair and obligation that bound him.

"Can't what, Aventurine?"

Aventurine let his hand drop, swallowing carefully as he weighed what remained to hide against what he'd already revealed. The calculation seemed absurd now, like counting pennies while bleeding out. He forced himself to meet Ratio's gaze, the effort almost physical.

"I made... deal with... Jade," he managed, the words coming in broken fragments as his throat protested. "IPC... can't see me... like this. If they knew... how bad..." He gestured weakly to himself, at everything else. "It’s the… end of..."

The full truth almost clawed its way out of him, reined in by the last of his pride. He'd never spoken of this to anyone, not even hinted at the knife-edge he walked daily, the terms that kept him alive. What did—What had he done? In a moment of lucidity, he would’ve explained it on his devastation. Yet beneath the panic lurked something else—a perverse lightness, as if poison had been drawn out from a wound. The contradiction left him dizzy, intoxicated.

And Ratio… he merely nodded, grave but unsurprised. "I understand."

It was enough to throw Aventurine off balance. No questions. No demand for clarification. Just acceptance, as if Ratio had been waiting for precisely this confession. Something about his ready comprehension sent a warning flicker through Aventurine's fever-dulled mind, but he couldn't grasp its significance.

"Then why… I don't..." he began, uncertain where to go from there. With his apartment swarming with IPC medical, he expected Ratio to push him in their direction. But if IPC resources were off-limits, what options remained?

"I can help you." Ratio stated it plainly, a fact rather than an offering. His tone retained its usual directness, but something in his eyes belied the facade—that determination that saw beyond him, beyond anything Aventurine could readily name.

Aventurine shook his head against the pillows, each small movement sending ripples of pain through his skull. "I'm way... past theory... doc." His fingers found the IV tube again, twisting it absently as if testing its resilience. "Tempting... but said it yourself… critical condition..."

"As I said, there are other options." Ratio's hand lifted, gently stilling Aventurine's restless fingers before returning to rest beside his other hand on the bed. "If you recall, I proposed to you to be examined by the doctor I’ve been consulting."

"The lady... acquaintance?" The words emerged flat yet somehow hopeful, a contradiction Aventurine was too exhausted to reconcile.

"Dr. Mingjing." Ratio offered the name without hesitation, the previous secrecy abandoned entirely. Something about the directness felt like a gift, though Aventurine couldn't articulate why.

"Her name..." Aventurine's voice failed, reclaimed with effort. "Is she... Alliance?"

Ratio nodded, the movement slight but definitive.

The possibility emerged so suddenly, it blindsided him.

Not the IPC. Not death. Something else.

A third way.

He'd been so fixated on the IPC, so consumed by survival within its structure or destruction at its hands, that he'd never considered alternatives. Never looked beyond the boundaries of the cage he'd willingly entered. The oversight felt monumental, a blind spot vast enough to swallow galaxies.

"She'll take your case with the utmost care," Ratio continued, voice low as if it was a secret. "I can personally guarantee it. And keep it off any record."

Hope unfurled in his chest, inconceivable yet within reach. Help without exposure. Treatment without compromise. A lifeline appearing where he'd expected only the deep. For a moment, he could almost see it—a surface above him, shimmering and distant but real. Possible.

But the weight of suspicion dragged at him, instincts honed through loss and betrayal refusing to yield even now.

"Why would... she help me?" He choked out, a wheeze equal parts dejection and wishful thinking.

Ratio's reply was simple as it was incomprehensible. "Because I'll ask her to."

Aventurine blinked slowly, the room swimming in and out of focus. Ratio's confidence made no sense. What kind of… What would he... offer her… What did it mean for him…

"I–I..." he began, then stopped, voice and breath catching in his chest.

This was a precipice. He’d already looked over the ledge—he’d acknowledged he couldn't manage alone anymore, that his condition had outpaced any of his clumsy attempts at control. The only thing left was the leap. To trust someone with knowledge that could destroy everything he'd built from the ashes of his former life.

Ratio watched him, waiting, his expression giving nothing away. Yet something in his presence—the way his hand remained steady against Aventurine's, the same unwavering constancy he'd shown since that first night—made the decision feel less like surrender than it should have. The man had seen him at his worst, again and again, and was still here, still holding on.

Aventurine remembered the inch he'd given him, that moment in the kitchen when their fingers had curled together—tentative, fragile, that first moment he’d recognized the faults in his carefully constructed shields. He'd been falling long before that time, piece by piece, his defenses crumbling faster than he could rebuild them. He was in too deep now to pretend he could repair them himself, too far gone to find his way back.

Somehow, Ratio understood. His touch had always been there, a spark even in the endless dark. The warmth struck him again, and he suddenly remembered—a moment like this in a liminal space of cold and pain, when the violent drag of drowning almost claimed him. Ratio was there then too, keeping watch, measuring the beating of his heart against his own, ensuring he wouldn't be lost again.

His hand shifted under Ratio's warm palm, clutching it tighter between clammy fingers.

"Okay."

One word—but it felt like stepping off the edge, committing to the fall with nothing to break it but the warmth of a feather-light touch.

Chapter Text

"Aventurine."

Ratio's voice filtered through layers of half-consciousness. Aventurine tried to orient himself—the medical bay of the shuttle, the hum of monitors, the low sensation of movement through space. His mind was still shredded, a tangle of severed cords refusing to reconnect.

The past two days existed in his memory as disconnected ends, isolated spots of awareness in a continuous void. He remembered pain and procedures, of being handled by unknown hands, of being cradled in warmth. He remembered speaking, confessing, letting the truth spill like bile. But even those splashes of clarity were hazy, shame and dread diluted by whatever drugs they'd kept him under, his only silver lining.

He forced his eyes open. Ratio's face swam into focus above him—crimson eyes watching with that same restrained intensity, the thread he’d clung to through the void. The only unbroken line back to himself.

"How long?" His voice was a gasping cough, his vocal cords still sore by the procedures and ventilation.

"Minimal REM, but you managed to grab some sleep." Ratio's fingers were already unsticking the myriad of monitoring patches, leaving faint red impressions on Aventurine's skin. ""We're approaching the station. Twenty minutes from docking."

Aventurine managed a weak nod. He let Ratio take his hand, strangely pliant, his touch light as he gently removed the IV tube, taping the needle in place. The doctor's delicate efficiency, the equipment that still surrounded him, the sheer fact he needed so much assistance—it still twisted him up, churning in his gut in a way deeper than physical sickness. So much lost time. So little left. Jade’s deadline cut through the haze, the only clear thread his mind seemed to grasp without fail. He ruthlessly pushed it down.

The shuttle's deceleration was subtle, barely perceptible through the advanced stabilizers, but Aventurine's body registered the change. Ratio helped him sit up, still so careful around him in a way that he couldn’t bring himself to point out. The simple act of becoming vertical sent the world spinning briefly around him.

"Easy," Ratio murmured, his grip tightening slightly when Aventurine swayed. "The docking procedure will take approximately five minutes. I'll help you stand when it's time."

Aventurine wanted to say he could manage, that he hadn't yet forgotten how to walk, but the effort of simply sitting upright had left him breathless, dizzy, his lungs protesting each shallow inhale. He settled for another slight nod, hating how his body trembled beneath Ratio's careful hold.

"Let's go," he rasped when the shuttle finally stilled.

The docking sequence completed with a gentle shudder through the shuttle's frame. When the door cycled open, Aventurine found himself blinking against unexpectedly natural-seeming light. The air that drifted in carried a scent that was at complete odds from the chill, sterile ambiance he braced for—fresh grass, flowering trees, the clean brightness of spring.

Ratio's arm slipped around his waist as he helped Aventurine to his feet, steadying him when his legs threatened to fold beneath him. The support felt both necessary and stifling, and he hated how naturally his body leaned into it.

"Just to the exit," Ratio said quietly, as if sensing his discomfort. "Take your time."

Aventurine's first step onto the station's surface felt unreal, the jarring normalcy of the environment amplifying the constant, disorienting chasm between his mind and his actions. Beneath his feet lay an actual stone path, weathered and imperfect as if worn by years of use. Around them spread a grove of trees, their leaves dancing in what felt like a genuine breeze.

"A biosphere?" The word felt too small for what surrounded them. This was no mere environmental simulation like the IPC tended to implement in the planets they consumed.

Ratio made a noncommittal sound. "Dr. Mingjing has developed a preference for natural surroundings over the years, it seems."

Aventurine tried to nod, but the movement sent another wave of dizziness through him. He swallowed hard against the nausea that followed, forcing himself to focus on the path ahead rather than the weakness in his limbs or the way Ratio's arm tightened slightly around him.

The path wound gently through the grove, trees creating shifting patterns of shadow and light. In another situation, Aventurine might have appreciated the subtle security measures hidden among the natural beauty—the sensors disguised as flowers in full bloom, the defensive capabilities suggested by certain angles of the branches. Now it took all his focus just to keep moving forward, each breath a careful negotiation with lungs that still protested their recent abuse.

"I need to—" he paused, gathering what little strength he had. "I need to rest… just for a moment."

Ratio guided him to a stone bench without comment, his hand remaining supportively at Aventurine's shoulder even after they'd sat. The closeness that had developed between them was a strange gravity, drawing him in despite promising each time it’d have been the last. So weak, so needy—but he clung to the warmth, to the proof of sensation.

"How far?" he managed between careful breaths.

"Just beyond that tree."

Aventurine followed Ratio's outstretched finger to a particularly large weeping willow ahead. He meant to sink his head in a theatrical dejection, but his body made another choice for him. He sagged forward, one hand reflexively gripping Ratio's sleeve for balance. The doctor shifted readily, a subtle lavender scent drifting as he accommodated Aventurine's head to lean over his shoulder. He almost said it was fine, but he stood in place, breath coming in short gasps, fingers clammy and tangled in Ratio's jacket.

"Of all the medics in the galaxy," he murmured, focusing on conversation to distract himself, "you bring me to some recluse in a space garden?"

"Dr. Mingjing is very particular about her privacy." Ratio sounded almost apologetic. "I did try to convince her to come to you."

"Can’t help it…" The words came out softer than intended. "The scenery makes it worth it, I suppose… even if it turns out she’s some old fossil from the Guild."

A slight vibration passed through Ratio's shoulder—a rare chuckle Aventurine felt rumbling where his temple met the doctor’s shoulder.

Aventurine looked up, brow furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing." Ratio replied, but something in his tone suggested otherwise.

Aventurine might have pressed further once, might have unraveled that thread of amusement in Ratio's voice, but exhaustion made his thoughts slippery, impossible to grasp. His fingertips smoothed out the soft fabric of Ratio's jacket, dropping down to his lap, brushing close to the doctor’s hand. The soft whisper of leaves in the breeze drifted over them, and for a fleeting moment, only the borrowed warmth from Ratio mattered.

Until the awkwardness crawled behind his nape. Aventurine nodded against the doctor's shoulder, lifting himself.

"Alright."

Ratio stood carefully, one hand extended in silent offer. Aventurine took it without comment, fingers curling around Ratio's wrist as he was guided to his feet. The world tilted briefly, and Ratio's other hand came to rest at the small of his back, steadying.

They continued along the path, the soft shuffle of their steps on grass creating a quiet rhythm, the hem of Ratio's jacket brushing against Aventurine's side in time with their slow progress. As they rounded the willow, water stretched out before them—an actual lake, its surface dotted with lotus flowers that seemed to glow with their own gentle light. At the center, a structure of graceful curves and delicate woodwork stood, linked to the shore by a bridge that looked too fragile to bear weight.

Aventurine's breath caught. Water. The sight was a trigger unknown—plunged back into the cold, grasping darkness, pressure closing over his head. A drowning phantom, making his lungs burn and his body lock into a desperate rigor. Ratio's hand tightened imperceptibly where it rested against his ribs, a lifeline.

"We can take another route," Ratio offered quietly, his voice close enough that Aventurine could feel the words on his skin as much as hear them.

"No." Aventurine choked out, fingers clawing  at the fabric of Ratio's sleeve. "Just... don't let go."

Ratio's gaze pierced his, holding him captive for a heartbeat. "I won't."

A figure waited at the bridge's far end—an Intellitron, her metallic features reflecting the light in polished bronze. She bowed to them, the movement fluid and elegant. "Dr. Mingjing has been expecting you," she said, gesturing toward the entrance. "Please, follow me."

Aventurine forced himself to focus on the Intellitron, rather than the creaking of the bridge beneath his feet, or the gentle lap of water against the supports. On anything but the gleam of water below.

"Breathe," Ratio whispered, so quietly only Aventurine could hear. "You're doing well."

He tried to comply, but his lungs burned with the effort. "Didn't think..." he managed between shallow gasps, "I’d need… encouragement for walking."

Something softened in Ratio's expression. "You nearly drowned two days ago. Your body is still recovering."

The simple statement carried no judgment, just fact, but it sent a wave of helpless frustration through Aventurine. His fingers curled weakly against Ratio's sleeve. "Good thing… I’ve got my whole body reminding me…"

The bridge connected to a covered walkway of intricate carvings and painted eaves. They followed the Intellitron a few steps behind. Aventurine's entire focus narrowed to the simple, monumental task of placing one foot after the other. A film of sweat slicked his hairline, drawing a cold trace along his spine.

Ratio slowed the pace, his voice drifting from somewhere close to him. "Do you need another pause?"

"No," Aventurine gritted out, drawing a breath so shallow it barely skimmed his lungs. "The sooner... the better."

Ratio only adjusted his hold. The gesture was seamless, a silent pillar that took more of Aventurine's weight, the subtle support the only thing keeping him upright as the last of his strength bled from his limbs in a slow, aching drain.

The Intellitron was waiting for them in a room that seemed to float between water and sky. The walls held sliding panels of dark wood, currently drawn back to reveal an uninterrupted view of the lake. At the room's center, a low table waited, a ceramic tea set arranged with precise care on its surface.

"Please, be seated," she said, indicating the cushions placed around the table. "Dr. Mingjing will join you shortly."

As the Intellitron left, Ratio guided Aventurine to the nearest cushion, helping him down with careful hands that lingered a moment longer to ensure he’d keep upright. The relief of no longer having to stand was immediate, though Aventurine's breath still sawed through his lungs, his body hunched slightly to ease the pressure on his ribs.

"Do you—" Ratio began, but Aventurine cut him off with a small shake of his head.

"Enough with… the questions. I’m fine." The lie was transparent, but necessary—a small reclamation of control that he still couldn’t help. He straightened his posture through sheer force of will, ignoring how the movement sent pain lancing through his chest.

Ratio settled onto a cushion beside him, giving Aventurine the space he'd demanded but for his scarlet scrutiny. He slipped away from that watchful gaze to take in his surroundings.

The room was beautiful in a way that should have been soothing—the delicate ink calligraphy on the wall, the elegant simplicity of the wooden architecture, the subtle play of the artificial sun across the terrace. His gaze drifted toward the opening on the lake, drawn despite himself to the view. The surface glittered invitingly, lotuses sprouts drifting high in the breeze, shadows dancing just beneath. Shapes that might be fish, might be reflections, might be—

"Aventurine." Ratio's voice cut through the spiraling reverie, snapping the thread. "Look at me."

He turned, finding with a barely suppressed tingle, that the doctor's gaze never left him.

Ratio's lips were a tight line. "Making the trip was too soon, you needed another day at least."

"What choice did I have?" Aventurine heaved the words out, leaning forward, his voice a feverish whisper between them. "Every day I waste is—"

He snapped silent as footsteps approached from the hallway, forcing himself to straighten further, to compose his features into something resembling his usual mask of casual indifference. It took more effort than a dying man should possess, exhaustion making his control a trembling facade at best.

A woman appeared in the doorway—foxian ears, silver-tipped and alert, rose above dark hair gathered elegantly with a jade ornament, her silken robes Alliance in style with golden embroideries. She carried herself with a certain maturity, something in her grey eyes speaking of centuries rather than decades.

Those eyes nailed Aventurine's, and a sudden, unrelated tightness seized his chest. Her gaze felt intimately known, cutting through every layer of pretense directly to the core of him. It left him bristling, exposed, vulnerable in a way that even Ratio's attention had never managed.

"Dr. Mingjing," Ratio said, rising and giving a bow so deep it surprised Aventurine out of his exhaustion. He'd never seen Ratio bend that way for anyone.

Mingjing's ears flicked once in acknowledgment, but her gaze remained fixed on Aventurine with unnerving intensity. "You don’t look well," she said without preamble. "It was a reckless risk coming here so soon, I told Veritas."

Aventurine tried to summon his easy wit, to spin the golden thread of his charm. But under that all-seeing gaze, it ended up into a clogged tangle in his throat. He only managed a slight incline of his head, the closest to agreement his battered pride could offer.

"I’m on a tight schedule," he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. "I assume Ratio has told you—"

"Veritas has told me many things," Mingjing replied, her tone neutral yet somehow weighted with meaning. "But I prefer to form my own assessments." Her silver-tipped tail moved in a slow arc as she measured him, every inch, every tremble. "When did you last sleep?"

Aventurine's lips parted, but no ready reply emerged. Memory flickered—of endless nights spent staring at the fractured ceiling of his apartment. Of the artificial unconsciousness the IPC had forced on him after Topaz found him. Of nightmares and visions bleeding into waking moments until the boundary between them blurred to a void so deep it swallowed all.

"On the way here." Technically true, but he hated the defensive edge in his voice.

Mingjing's eyes were razors. "Unaided."

Her directness gutted him. Striking straight to the heart of the matter with ruthless precision. He tore his gaze away, unable to match that fiery scrutiny, his fingers clawing into the cushion beneath him, as if to physically hold his crumbling resolve together.

"Aren't we off to a good start?" Aventurine croaked out, the smile a flimsy skin over raw nerves. He glanced at Ratio on the other side of the low table, seeking the familiar discomfort of his presence. "Nice bedside manners are a rare currency these days, it seems..."

Mingjing seemed entirely unmoved by his deflection, her gaze a scalpel-sharp assessment. Studying. Evaluating. Dissecting. A slow, methodical scraping until the moment stretched past uncomfortable into something that made him want to tear his skin away. He'd faced interrogations and torture with less discomfort than this single foxian's stare.

Finally, she spoke: "You are exactly as Veritas described.”

Again, he had no prompt reply, but a tightening of his jaw.

Quick as a needle-prick, yet he saw it: the faint, almost imperceptible curve of smug satisfaction in her lips. It lasted only a moment.

"Come, we don’t have a moment to spare." She turned slightly toward Ratio. "You can join us too, if you'd prefer."

Ratio was already moving toward her, but Aventurine's voice stopped them both. "Wait."

They turned in unison—Ratio's eyes carrying concern leaning over him, Mingjing stern and impatient at the doorway. Aventurine felt the weight of their combined attention like physical pressure, but he clawed his way upright, refusing Ratio’s outstretched hand, dragging the useless tatters of his dignity with him.

"I..." he began, then faltered, the words he'd meant to say ash and saliva on his tongue. What were his conditions, exactly? What leverage did he have, barely able to hold his own trembling weight? He swallowed hard, desperation warring with pride when he drew a step closer to the foxian. "I need to know what you're going to do."

Mingjing's tail flicked once, betraying an irritation her face didn't show. "I will examine you."

The protest emerged almost instinctively. "I won’t agree to—”

It only took a sharp flick of her hand, the gesture somehow both graceful and effective in snuffing out his words. "You agreed to a diagnosis. An examination will bring us closer to it."

She smoothed out her sleeve. “My conditions are simple: you will submit to my examination. You will answer truthfully. I will be thorough." Her ears angled forward, the jade ornament in her hair catching the light. "I won't push past resistance—but you will tolerate what you can. By the end of today, we will have answers."

That wasn't… what he'd expected. The promise of answers, of clarity—it struck him like a blow to the head, left him momentarily disoriented. He swayed slightly, his hand reaching out, instinctively seeking Ratio's presence. The doctor’s hand met his, warm in his palm.

"Is it going to be painful?" It slipped unwittingly from him, almost childlike.

"Physically, it shouldn't be."

The careful phrasing was at his throat, asphyxiating.

She allowed him a moment, her tail moving in slow, considering sweeps, gray eyes sliding downwards at their intertwined hands. Her patience wore thin at the two minute mark.

"Shall we?"

Without waiting for response, she turned and started down the hallway.

Ratio's hand slipped from Aventurine’s loose hold to rest at his side—hovering just shy of touching, ready if needed. "Do exactly as she says," he murmured as he guided him down the hallway, his voice pitched for Aventurine's ears alone.

"Now there's a phrase I've never regretted hearing." The quip came automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. Fatigue ground at his bones, snagging at every step as if he'd never left the cushion. His eyes latched onto Ratio's face, floating just above his line of sight. "Will you… will you be there?"

He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant to unmask parts that were better left hidden, that he couldn't stop himself from revealing. It was a plea he hadn't known lived in him, a surrender of control he hadn't afforded himself even at his absolute lowest. The fear was unnamed, breaking from within, overflowing.

He saw Ratio's scarlet irises dilate, the severe set of his lips part, a breath already forming to—

"You two don't have to whisper." Mingjing's voice carried perfectly despite her distance ahead, snapping the thread. She turned into another room without breaking stride.

The shame burned his skin, hotter than any fever. He tried to shrink into himself, to somehow swallow the moment whole, but the world pitched violently, dizziness crashing into him. Unhesitating, Ratio's hand cinched his waist, a grounding force steadying him without a word. For a moment, Aventurine sagged, caught between the need to follow Mingjing and the desperate desire to simply crumple, let unconsciousness swallow him whole.

"Just a little further," Ratio encouraged quietly, the words blowing somehow warmer than the fire in Aventurine's cheeks. "Then you can rest."

It was a lie, but Aventurine couldn’t do much else than nod, folding into Ratio's support even more than before.

They followed Mingjing into what appeared to be an examination room. Like the rest of the station, it maintained a traditional Alliance design—wood panels, paper screens softening the light, a single examination bed centered on a raised platform. But something about the proportions felt wrong, the ceiling slightly too high, the corners of the room fraying into shadows that seemed to breathe in time with the station's distant hum.

"Remove your shoes and outer clothing," Mingjing said, moving to a lacquered cabinet that seemed to ripple at her approach. "You can keep your undergarments."

Aventurine didn't move, his fingers curling into the fabric of Ratio's sleeve. "The doctor’s been monitoring me all week."

Mingjing's ears flicked—annoyance or dry condescension, he couldn't tell. "Though the data provides an excellent baseline, I need to conduct my own examination." She turned from the cabinet, fixing him with that disconcertingly direct stare. "Especially in light of your admissions after your last incident."

Aventurine's chest tightened, a dull heat spreading up his neck. The confessions he'd made on what could’ve been his death bed—things he'd barely admitted to himself, now examined by this stranger with her too-perceptive eyes.

He stared at her, then at Ratio, a cold realization dawning. "You told her," he whispered, tight and sibilant exclusively directed at the doctor. "About what I said after—"

Ratio met his glare steadily. "I told her what she needed to know."

There was no apology in his tone, but the quiet certainty, the unwavering concern simmering beneath made it impossible for Aventurine to hold onto his indignation. He looked away first, his fingers loosening their grip on Ratio's sleeve.

"Even if Veritas hadn't mentioned your latest ‘divulgence’," Mingjing carried on, unfazed by the exchange. "I would have seen the traces of your episodes in my examination, and the result would’ve been the same." Her long fingers were adjusting something on a nearby monitor, blue light reflecting on her pale face. "Your belated honesty saves us some time, but we need to exclude other concurring causes for your condition that the scanner's readings wouldn't detect."

"Seemed enough to decide I’m dissociative." The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and exposed in a way he hadn't intended.

Something changed in Mingjing's expression—a hint of fang peeking from her lips, a hardening in her grey eyes that suggested she'd been waiting for this challenge.

"My diagnosis has been and always will be based on clinical evidence available, not guesswork. Given your history of withholding information and the complex nature of your situation, it's imperative to be thorough." Her tail moved in short, testy waves. "Now, if you're quite finished with your fruitless antagonism, please remove your shoes and outer clothing."

Before he could voice an objection, Ratio was already asking. "Do you need help?"

Every fiber of Aventurine's being rebelled, urging him to flee, to carve light years distance between him and this woman, this room. But the cold logic of a cornered animal gripped him—he knew when the fight was futile. He uselessly fumbled with his shirt, to reclaim his own undoing. When the fabric snagged, refusing his grasp, he could only manage a curt nod, gaze locked on a point past Ratio's shoulder.

Ratio's hands were gentle but efficient as he helped Aventurine remove his outer layers, his movements careful around the still-tender areas where medical equipment had been attached. He moved with quiet consideration he showed that morning when he helped him dress in his bedroom, assisting him with the more difficult fastenings, then paused when Aventurine gestured he could handle the rest himself.

By the time he managed to remove the last of his clothes, Mingjing had finished her preparations. The examination bed no longer looked quite so simple. A faint matrix glowed beneath its surface, patterns shifting and flowing like current beneath ice. The sight made Aventurine's stomach clench.

"Lie down," Mingjing instructed, not looking up from what appeared to be a control panel. "On your back."

Aventurine approached the platform, bare feet silent against the wooden floor. Up close, the bed seemed to hover slightly, though he couldn't detect any obvious anti-grav technology. Getting onto it cost him more effort than he cared to betray, but he managed, even as Ratio appeared at his side—a subtle, hovering presence that shouldn't have grounded him but inexplicably did.

The surface felt surprisingly warm against his skin, almost alive. Aventurine forced himself to focus on the ceiling, trying to ignore how the platform seemed to adjust beneath him, conforming to his body's shape. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement as the ceiling transformed—panels sliding aside to reveal metallic arms, unfolding like a flower.

"Remain still," Mingjing said, somewhere to his left. "The neural mapping is sensitive to movement."

Before he could ask what neural mapping entailed, a sound started, just at the edge of hearing. It seemed to resonate with something in his bones, a sensation felt more than heard. The matrix beneath him brightened, light seeping through his thin remaining clothes, making his skin prickle with unnamed energy.

The sensation started at his temples—a gentle buzzing that reminded him uncomfortably of the Nihility medication's effects.

"When did you first encounter the Nihility?" Mingjing's voice came from further away now.

The directness caught him off guard. He started to turn his head, but Ratio's voice stopped him: "Don't move."

Right. Remain still. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "On Penacony. A Galaxy Ranger, or rather a Self-Annihilator—"

"One word answers only," Mingjing interrupted. "The procedure doesn't allow more than minimal movement. Was it your first exposure?"

"Yes."

The sound changed pitch slightly. Above him, the metallic arms had fully emerged, unfolding like mechanical flowers, their centers spiraling open to reveal cores of light that made his eyes water. Some part of his mind recognized the design—Guild medical tech, but modified with Alliance matrices, evolved into something more elegant yet intimidating.

"Have you seen it since then?"

He hesitated. The matrix light had taken on a bluish tinge, making his skin look corpse-pale. "I... don't remember."

Liar.

It brushed against his consciousness—not heard but felt, like fingernails trailing across the soft matter of his brain. He focused on the movement of the machine above him, the blue light burning after-images in his retinas.

"During your 'sleepwalking' episodes," Mingjing's voice was clinically detached, "are you aware of your actions?"

His nostrils filled with a bitter smell, acrid and sickeningly familiar. "No…"

A field of energy formed around the platform—curved like glass but insubstantial as mist. It cast strange shadows on the ceiling, shadows that stretched and twisted, deepening into a lightless, coiling sea where there should be none. The edges of his vision darkened, the shadows gaining depth—shiny, undulating waves that seemed to breathe.

"Do you remember what happens during these episodes?"

"Sometimes."

You remember everything, it murmured, dripping with contempt. You hold onto everything.

The numbness started in his fingertips, a slow, deadening tide crawling up his arms like ice water in his veins.

"The nightmares," Mingjing said, her tone unchanged but something in it making his pulse quicken, "are those memories?"

The matrix beneath him flared, responding to a change in his vital signs. He felt Ratio shift somewhere to his right, a movement aborted before it began.

"You… you could say so," he breathed out, but the words came out strange, distorted by the field surrounding him and the sudden thickness of his tongue.

Everything preserved, nothing forgotten, the voice whispered, closer now, a cold breath against the shell of his ear that made the fine hairs on his neck rise. How easy would it be to let it go?

"Single word," Mingjing reprimanded, her voice sliding in the tar-like shadows, trickling down without a noise. "Are these memories—"

The rest dissolved into only the suggestion of sound, as if heard below a surface. Above him, the flower-like machines began to move, their light pulsing in hypnotic sequences. Each flash now fed the shadows—amplifying them, giving them substance and weight. What had been peripheral crystallized into sharp relief, swaying just beyond the energy field’s boundary.

Your memories, the voice purred, intimate as a lover's whisper against his ear. Your curse. Your blessing.

Can you feel them?

Ice-cold, it brushed his left shoulder—fingers trailing across skin, muscles, bones, deeper. Aventurine's body betrayed him with the smallest twitch, muscles contracting involuntarily as frost spread from the point of contact. His shoulder blade cramped, the cold seeping through muscle to scrape against bone.

Can you feel the hold we have on you?

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. "Are you… done?"

"Keep still, please." Mingjing didn’t sound right—pitched too low, then too high, the word fracturing into frazzling sounds. "I’ll repeat the question: are you reliving specific memories?"

Tell her. It was no longer beside him—it resonated through his bones, vibrated in his marrow, a presence surging more real than the room around him. Tell her how you seek us out. How you long for the void, how we call upon you, how readily you answer…

The shadows pressed closer, testing the field's edges. Where they touched the energy barrier, reality warped—colors bleeding into kaleidoscopic hues, space warping like water rippling.

Aventurine forced himself to reply. "You know… that." His mouth had gone completely dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Each word rebounded—metallic taste on his tongue, pressure behind his eyes, the sensation of something vital being slowly drained away. "Ratio must have—"

"Veritas has told me, yes," Mingjing cut him off, her voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "But I need to hear it from you."

The ceiling above him fractured, darkness swelling like a tide, drowning the light. The technological arms buckled and dissolved into the shadows, metal and light crushed by impossible depth. For a moment, he saw a sky beyond—vast and strange, clouds convulsing in unnatural, suffocating masses, dragging inward like water down a drain.

Something in his throat tightened. "I did—"

Tell it all, spill your guts, the voice breathed, and he could feel it more clearly now—a presence behind him. He couldn't turn to look. He didn't want to look. She can't help you. No one can.

You don't want to be helped.

The matrix pulsed again, stronger this time. The tendrils above him seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart, each beat pulling them closer, closer, closer—

"Mr. Aventurine." Mingjing's voice cut through—a blinding flash of white against the suffocating tar, wrenching his focus back. "Keep focused."

Focus. Breathe. Now.

The commands slipped away between the folds of his mind, reality fraying at the edges, unraveling thread by thread. The room unwound, spiraling into darkness, technology crumbling to dust, revealing void, then the sky again, impossibly expanding above him. He sought an anchor, fingers clawing at the platform—

Not the bed. Sand. Gritty. Cold. Grains in his fists, lumping under his nails, chafing at his skin. He was flat on his back, eyes locked on that violent sky. Clouds swirling in bruised purples and blue, gathering too quickly, baleful and prophetic. His heart hammered against his ribs—the only part of him that fought, that refused to be still. The rest of him was heavy, liquid lead, petrified into the gaps in the sand.

"Aventurine."

A name, spoken in a voice he should have known. It was like warmth, a thread of scarlet, unfurling, slipping through his fingers into the sand, swallowed by it. A hand caught his searching fingers, enclosing them into its chill hold.

You've come back, it said, the satisfaction underneath clearer than anything else. We knew you would.

"Why do you want me?"

It escaped without conscious thought, pulled from somewhere deeper than intention.

The sky above him turned black, clouds swirling into a vortex that pulled at him, a whirlpool made of all that he’d cast away, all he’d lost. A single drop of rain hit his cheek—cold and sharp as grief, burning against his skin like regret.

You’re our dearest child. A touch on his neck, a pressure just enough to make itself known, to smother his breath. Others may believe to have you, but you only answer to us.

The rain intensified, fat drops striking his face, his chest, his outstretched arms. Each impact was ice, brine spreading from each point, cooling his skin to the point of pain. The sand beneath him grew wet, shifting, becoming unstable. Water pooled around him, rising fast underneath his congealed body enveloping him into a welcoming embrace.

Chimes and alarms sounded in the distance, fragments of voices cutting through hail: "The resonance patterns—cascade in the—"

Don't pay any mind to that, it said, arms rising from the water to wrap around his body, the restriction a comfort he didn’t know he sought. The touch was liquid, flowing around him like water given form, seeping into the spaces between his fingers, pressing against the hollow of his throat. They don't understand what you need. What we need.

The water level rose, cold and dark, seeping into his clothes, his hair, lapping at his cheeks. He couldn't move, frozen in that embrace as the sea—it was a sea now, endless and hungry—claimed him. It filled his ears, muted the world beyond, leaving only the voice, only its presence, only the dead certainty of surrender.

"Enough." The word snagged on his teeth, ripping from his mouth like tearing silk. "Enough, please—"

Fine shivers surged through him with each wave, the sea around him unforgiving ice. The trembling built until it stole his breath, his sense of self—until it seized all.

"You're dreaming," The sound gleamed across the sky above, a break in the surface of that sea. "It’s a dream."

The presence behind him tightened its grip, fingers sinking into him like talons, dragging him deeper. Don't believe them, don’t believe anyone, it whispered, lips brushing his lobe, breath cold curdling into the shell of his ear. This is where you belong. This is what you are. What you want.

"Believe me." It shimmered like light distorting through the deep water. "You can believe me."

The light called to him, and despite himself, his gaze lifted toward that distant gleam. Through the shifting water above, it was there—a hand breaking the surface, fingers spread wide against the darkness. The intrusion should have terrified him, but he found himself mesmerized by it. The water caught light around it, the surface refracting across the palm in ripples of shimmering teal.

He strained upward despite the crushing weight of water, reaching toward that distorted support. The arms around him constricted violently, possessively.

You belong to us. You chose us, again and again. The embrace became a chokehold, liquid fingers pressing into his windpipe, seeping into his lungs. You won’t be safe, not with anyone but us.

But his eyes remained fixed on that hand, on the terrible, beautiful possibility that someone was refusing to let him slip away.

"You're fine. You're safe." The words slid slowly down the hand, coling scarlet and thin around the wrist, the splayed fingers. "It’s the truth."

"No, it’s lies," the presence said, though it felt wrong—the voice too close, moving through Aventurine's throat like his own breath, bubbles escaping with each syllable from his lips. "I know I'm never safe. I'll never be fine."

The hand stilled, then stretched closer, a gesture full of what might have been compassion or might have been grief. Something in that gesture—the way the fingers trembled slightly, the desperate reaching—called to the same ache buried deep in his chest.

Aventurine found himself straining upward, his own arm lifting through the crushing water toward that distant promise of understanding.

The presence behind him shifted, no longer holding but flowing, liquid arms coiling around his rising limb, slick and consuming like cool, viscous tar. My child, it crooned, cloying, suffocating, it’s pain you’re reaching for.

The liquid embrace spread across his face, his forehead, cool fingers splaying like a mask, like restraints. Let us carry you deeper, where nothing can ever hurt you again. Each tendril pressed gently but insistently, trying to turn his gaze away from the light above. Where you'll never have to choose, never have to fail, never have to lose...

"I can’t promise you that, but I promise you won’t be alone," the voice called from somewhere beyond the surface, urgent now, desperate. "You only have to wake up, come back to me."

To me.

The words ignited something fierce in his chest. Aventurine twisted against the flowing restraints, muscles screaming as he fought to lift his arm higher. Every inch was agony—the liquid presence tightening with each movement, seeping into his pores, ice hooking into his flesh.

Don’t fight what you want.

He wanted not the cold, but that hand. Wanted that shimmering light, wanted that thin thread dissolving into the icy waters, wanted whatever waited beyond the dark sky.

His fingertips stretched, shaking with effort—

And brushed warmth.

The contact was lightning, fire, reality crashing through illusion. The hand seized him—a vice-like grip, yanking him with bone-jarring urgency, tearing him away from the coiling tendrils. Each snap sent shockwaves through his body, viscous threads coming apart as he was dragged upward, faster, the surface rushing toward him with terrifying speed.

He broke through with a sound like drowning in reverse—a gasp that ripped, raw, from deep within his chest, air flooding into him so suddenly it burned. Water—no, not water, something viscous, clinging— streamed down his face, his neck, soaking through fabric that clung to his skin like a second layer of clammily cold skin.

Noise crashed over him in waves. Electronic beeping. Distant voices, urgent, clipped. His own ragged breathing, a frantic wheeze. Too fast, too shallow.

His fingers were buried in something yielding, terrifyingly warm—flesh, unmistakably. He could feel his nails sinking deeper with each shuddering breath. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't. A stalwart lifeline in the dissolution. Would never let go.

"—turine, it's fine, you're—"

Light exploded behind his eyelids as he forced them open, a white, searing void that tore another gasp from his throat. It happened again. Water, copper-bitter, filling his mouth, choking his breath. The sounds, the touch, the chill, all blurring into one inescapable echo of near-death.

He was drowning again.

Dying again.

"Listen, it's fine," a voice was saying, close enough that he could feel the warmth of breath against his temple, could smell the faint trace of lavender. "You're safe. You're not dying."

The world swam into focus gradually, shapes resolving through the blinding lights. A face he knew, features twisted in distress. Crimson eyes, so close he could see the flecks of gold, wide with unnamed fright.

Ratio.

Not a phantom. Not the voice from the depths.

His grip tightened instinctively, fingers digging deeper into the flesh beneath them. This—this single, desperate purchase—was the only part of him that obeyed. The rest was a stranger: limbs twitching, head thrashing, breath a jagged tear in his throat. His pulse hammered against his temples, in his ears, a sickening throb behind his eyes.

"It was a dream," Ratio said quietly, his voice steady, though his lips trembled. "Just a dream. It's over."

Another touch—gentle, tentative—brushed the damp hair away from his forehead. The contact was fire against his ice-cold skin, too much, too sudden. He recoiled violently, instinctively, his whole body jerking away from the unexpected warmth.

"He's aware." It came from somewhere to his left, clinical and measured. "Don't crowd him. Give him space to orient."

Too clean, too sharp, a voice he couldn’t place. He tried to turn, a jerky twist of his body, but the hand came to rest on his shoulder and hold him steady. But he could see who that voice belonged to: a woman, fox ears and tail haloed by the glow of screens now pulsing red. Threat. Danger.

"What…" His voice dripped from him viscous and thick like bile. "What did… you do to me…"

Ratio's hold on his shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. "Everything is fine," he said, still gentle but with an edge of something—pain, maybe, or just practicality. "You’re only disoriented. Just try to breathe now."

"He's lucid enough to voice accusations."

The foxian loomed, the red glare of the monitors reflecting in her eyes as she drew near. Cool fingers settled against his face without any warning, a light shining into his eye.

"State your name."

Every instinct screamed intrusion, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t push that chilling touch away.

"Don’t… touch me…" he choked out.

The foxian’s lips thinned, but she retreated her hand. "Answer me—your name."

He swallowed down a gasp, trying to remember which it was. "Aventurine."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

He blinked, taking in the blinking screens, the wooden panels, Ratio’s closeness. "I…"

"Doctor, I think he needs—"

The foxian held one hand up, silencing Ratio. "Aventurine," she began, her voice taking on an even more severe quality. "What is the last thing you remember?"

The question froze him. He clawed at the edges of his mind, but there was nothing—not even darkness, just a slick, oily void where memory should have been. The woman's face, this place, why he was here—it all slid away, sluggish and black like tar, leaving a sickening residue of absence.

His hand twitched around the warmth he was clinging to, his gaze drifting back to Ratio. "What… happened?"

Ratio exchanged a look with the woman, a frown creasing his already perturbed expression. "You had… an episode," he said carefully. "A severe dissociative event triggered by resonance cascade. You've been unresponsive for several minutes."

Several minutes. It certainly didn’t feel like that. Aventurine closed his eyes, feeling the phantom weight of water in his lungs, the echo of liquid arms around his throat. "Resonance cascade… I-I don't..." The words scraped through his raw throat. "What… does it… mean?"

"It's fine," Ratio said quickly, the words tumbling out with practiced ease. "You just need to rest. Everything is fine."

Fine. The word echoed strangely in Aventurine's head. How many times had Ratio said that now? It's fine, you're fine, everything is fine. Like a mantra. Like a lie told often enough to become truth.

"If he insists on knowing," the foxian interjected, her voice cutting through Ratio's attempted deflection, "then he is entitled to the full assessment."

Ratio's jaw tightened subtly. "It might be premature. He’s still severely disoriented."

"It was your leniency that brought this situation in the first place."

The word felt ill-fitting for the steady, unyielding presence beside him. Still, he felt Ratio's entire body go rigid beside him, the warmth that had been pressed against his shoulder abruptly pulling away. The concern on that ashen face fractured into a kaleidoscope of distress before settling back into a known, terrifying neutrality.

That anchor he'd been clinging to began to slip from his desperate grip, retreating. Aventurine's grip tightened reflexively, desperate to hold onto that steady presence, and for the first time he truly looked at what he was holding.

Ratio's hand.

His fingers wrapped around Ratio's wrist like a shackle, knuckles white with the force of his grip. And beneath his nails—bright, fresh blood beading where he'd carved into flesh.

Where he did once already.

But harder.

Deeper.

"I-I… didn’t…" he whispered, spilling hollow and choppy from his lips. "That… that wasn’t…"

"No need to apologize," Ratio said automatically, but his voice was strained now, careful. "It's fine."

That again.

Aventurine shook his head against the bed under him. Nothing was fine. Nothing had been fine for—

"It's a neurological response," the foxian said briskly, guiding his gaze back to her without touching him. "Involuntary muscle contractions during acute episodes. And the cuts are superficial anyway."

Her clinical detachment scraped against the fragile surface of his perception—he heard it before, expected it. He knew this woman.

"The scan uses resonance frequencies to map Nihility influence patterns. A resonance cascade occurs when those frequencies create interference within the neural pathways," she paused, studying his confused expression. "Like a glass shattering when exposed to a certain pitch—if that makes it clearer to you."

A faint memory emerged from the slick surface, a thread visible, still impossible to grasp.

"Your machine," he breathed, voice still shaking. "Your machine did this… to me."

The foxian’s eyes narrowed to silver slits. "What else do you remember?"

He tried to focus, twisting his mind around the threads floating just beyond reach. A garden. Settling onto a floating platform. Metal arms unfolding like mechanical flowers above him. Lights that burned his eyes. Questions that probed into him. But it felt like too long ago. Lifetimes ago. Yet—

Recognition slammed into him so violently, it felt like a slap to the face.

Aventurine’s gaze snapped to Mingjing. "You... you were supposed to help me."

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "And you were supposed to have disclosed everything."

He shook his head with more force than before. "You promised..." His voice cracked again, panic bleeding through. "You did this to me… you pushed me…"

"I used standard protocol adjusted to your personal parameters." Mingjing's tone remained clinical, unmoved. "But something interfered. Quite violently."

"Your… mistake, not—"

"My protocols are sound, Mr. Aventurine." The words came out sharp enough to flay his complaint from the bone. "I don't make mistakes."

Screens materialized around him without warning, holographic displays that blazed to life and invaded his vision. The sudden brightness was like staring into the sun—he flinched back into the bed, his vision swimming with scorching afterimages. He blinked furiously until the light resolved into graphs, numbers, representations that meant nothing to his scattered mind but looked deeply, terrifyingly wrong.

"This," Mingjing said, pointing to a section of relatively stable waves, "was the Nihility influence we expected to observe."

Her finger moved to a sharp dip in the readout. "This is when it began."

The graph exploded into chaos after that point—lines whipping and thrashing like drowning limbs in a storm-tossed sea, oscillations that suggested something fundamental breaking apart. Aventurine stared at the data, his own annihilation laid bare, mapped out with the indisputable reality of data.

"It is fortunate you had this episode during my scan," Mingjing said, pulling the screens away to fix him with her penetrating stare. "There's something else you haven't told us, that created this level of interference."

The weight of her attention crushed him, a physical presence pinning him into place, confusion and dread writhed in his chest like caged predators, snarling to escape their confines.

"If you hold your life dear," Mingjing continued, her voice taking a honed edge, "I suggest you stop treating disclosure as optional."

Her accusation hit like a shockwave. Aventurine's entire body convulsed against the bed, a violent spasm that sent fresh pain blinding through his skull. His vision blurred, the room tilting dangerously as panic clawed its way up his throat.

"No—no, I—" His voice shattered, sounds collapsing inward. "I told... told Ratio... everything..." Each syllable was ripped from his chest, torn away as if his very breath depended on the words. "Not hiding... nothing more..."

His chest heaved, a frantic bellows that choked him. The air felt too thick, too hard to draw in. One hand clawed at his undershirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as if he could somehow tear away the suffocating weight pressing down on him.

Ratio moved closer, his presence a warm shadow in Aventurine's peripheral vision. "Doctor," his voice a strained wire, taut with an insistence he rarely allowed himself. "I'm certain his recent disclosures have been exhaustive. Any remaining gaps are likely due to his unstable state, not defiance."

Mingjing's silver eyes didn't soften, the tip of his ear twitching once. "Data does not lie, Veritas." She gestured to the screens still hovering around them, their red warnings throbbing in nauseating pulses. "Such a profound neural disruption cannot be accounted for by the parameters we possess."

"Nonetheless, your comment might have some merit." The soft, dry swish of her tail was barely audible over the low hum of the machines. "Mr. Aventurine himself might have stated that he remembers what occurs during his episodes, though whether this information exists within conscious or subconscious—"

"I was... underwater..." The words tumbled from Aventurine's lips before he could stop them, desperate to prove he remembered, that he wasn't hiding anything. "I heard... there was a voice..."

The effect was instant. Mingjing froze, her ears snapping forward with sudden, precise attention. Her clinical detachment didn't vanish, but deepened, revealing a deeper stratum of startled, analytical focus in her silver eyes.

"The Nihility doesn't manifest auditory hallucinations," she said slowly, each word stark and deliberate. "Not like that."

A look passed between her and Ratio, before the latter spoke.

"Aventurine." Ratio's tone took on a quality Aventurine had come to dread, a trembling urgency he'd learned to recognize as his unique brand of panic. "What kind of voice?"

The question was simple. The answer easy. But their faces—the silver, unblinking edge of Mingjing's stare, the pure, naked concern pooling in Ratio's eyes—those faces twisted the air out of his lungs. They knew. More than him, more than what he might understand. And that knowing, that gap, was a far greater horror than the black sea, than the presence within, than losing himself.

A cold, suffocating awareness settled over him, pressing down like a tomb lid. His own ignorance, a gaping wound where his memories, where himself should be, festered with the terrifying implication that they understood the presence within him better than he ever could. The room spun, colors melting into a sick blur, and his chest seized, locking him in a cage of rising terror and strangled, inarticulate sounds.

Fingers ghosted against his own. He flinched at the unexpectedness, fought the unbearable warmth, but it was useless. Instinct, blind and absolute, screamed for purchase. He clung to it like driftwood was to a drowning man. His hand clamped down in a wounding grip, fingers locking with Ratio’s, with the tether he became, with the lifeline Aventurine let him become.

Ratio shifted, subtly bracing himself against Aventurine's convulsive grip. "He was talking during the episode," he said, voice a low, precise rumble that grounded Aventurine even as he addressed Mingjing. "Given his profound disorientation now, this voice may well have been a self-generated auditory hallucination—a symptom of his mind attempting to process the sensory overload."

Mingjing shook her head sharply. "Impossible. The neural suppression at those levels—" She cut herself off, something flickering across her features. "You mentioned a Self-Annihilator. What brought about that encounter?"

Aventurine blinked hard, the world swimming, fractured, through the hot film over his eyes. "Assignment," he hiccupped, the word splintering on his tongue. "Plan was... provoke her. Make her..." He swallowed the pressure building in his face, saliva tasting metallic in his throat. "Make her reveal herself."

"And before?" Mingjing's voice had taken on an edge of barely controlled urgency.

"Had a... setback." The admission made his hand contort harder into Ratio’s hold. "But didn't... didn't interfere with the plan. Still worked."

"Setback?" Mingjing's silver eyes narrowed. "What kind of setback?"

Ratio's hand, still clasped in Aventurine's, went rigid, a subtle tremor running through his forearm. Mingjing too noticed, her gray eyes snapping to Ratio, ears flattened against her skull. "What do you know about this, Veritas?"

Aventurine's attention followed her gaze, drawn to Ratio's face. His face had gone utterly bloodless, the crimson of his eyes wide in the unmistakable expression of dawning, sinking realization—the click of a logical mind grasping a truth terrifying.

"Ratio?" It emerged small, uncharacteristically simple.

Ratio crouched down, a sudden blur of motion in Aventurine's fracturing vision, bringing himself to eye level. It was a deliberate breach, bypassing Mingjing, bypassing everything, to fix on Aventurine and him alone.

"Confirm this to me," he said quietly, the gentleness in his voice a contrast to the spasm around Aventurine’s hand. "Was it the Self-Annihilator who removed the Iris Family Head's spell?"

Aventurine snagged on the question. Ratio knew. He had to know. He told him when Ratio pulled him out of the dreampool. But the unraveling certainty, the terrible, personal horror in Ratio's eyes was contagious. He could only nod, numb and overwhelmed, unable to challenge, unable to do anything but reflect the panic he was seeing.

"What kind of spell?" Mingjing's voice severed the moment. "How is it the first time you mention it?"

Aventurine's laugh emerged as a wet, broken sound that might have been a sob. "Wasn't... wasn't anything dangerous." The words felt strange on his tongue, liquid. "Made me see... old memories. Stuff I thought... forgot..."

The room warped and breathed around him, its edges dissolving into a shimmering, toxic haze. He felt lightheaded, disconnected, a distant spectator watching this conversation happen to someone else.

"Usually see... future me when things get..." He swallowed hard, the metallic taste  thickening on his tongue. "When it gets bad. But seeing... child me was... weird."

When he looked up, he found Ratio's face—self-reproach shattering his composure, pinching his features hard, twisting his lips into a grimace. It wasn't directed at Aventurine, not at Minjing, but at the unseen that had suddenly manifested in front of him.

"I knew about the spell," Ratio spoke, voice flat under the weight of his realization. "But not the effects."

"Not the effects?" Mingjing's voice dripped disbelief. "Veritas—"

"It was placed by an Order pathstrider," Ratio continued, each word seeming to cost him. "Posing as a Harmony member."

Aventurine forced himself to follow, but the voices were blurring into a viscous hum in his ears, indistinguishable from the roaring in his veins. He grasped at the slipping reality, gritting his teeth against the sideways slide.

"That... wasn't it... didn't do much..." he mumbled, the words melting together. "Breaking my cornerstone was... was much harder—"

Cool fingers suddenly pressed on his face, Mingjing's fingertips spreading his eyelids, her sharp gaze uncomfortably peering into his iris. "He's slipping again," she said curtly, producing a small penlight. "How long has it passed?"

Aventurine tried to shake that touch away, nausea roiling into his chest. His whole body shook against the platform—not the general weakness he'd been feeling, but rhythmic, involuntary spasms that seemed to pulse with their own electric current.

She pointed the light into his eye, but Ratio's other hand shot out, intercepting it. "He's panicking," he said, lifting from his crouched position. "He’s told you he doesn’t want to—"

"I'm checking pupil response." Mingjing's voice was terrifyingly low. "He's presenting focal seizure activity."

Ratio's hand slid away from the light, instantly. The penlight flashed, a white-hot needle stabbing into Aventurine's vision. Colors shredded, pulling apart into buzzing static at the edges of his sight. He tried to pull away, but his movements felt sluggish, syrupy, disconnected from his will.

"The broken cornerstone still provided him a degree of resistance to Nihility influence," Ratio stated, his voice even and precise. "It might have offered a measure of protection against the Order as well."

"You told—" A choked gasp caught in Aventurine's throat. "You… swore not…" He tried to focus, to cling to Ratio's face, but his thoughts were melting, blurring, dissolving into chaos.

Ratio’s voice was a low, urgent murmur, close to his wet cheeks: "I only told her after you accepted to be examined by her."

"You reckless fools." Mingjing hissed as she forcefully tilted Aventurine's head to the side. Her fingers dug into his jaw, cold and firm, holding him in place. "The spell changes the clinical picture completely. Three Aeons' influences in one mind—it's a miracle he's still coherent."

Three Aeons. He recognized the importance, the terrifying weight, yet all his instincts were instead directed on getting away, to escape the cold restraint of her hand, the encroaching darkness, the surging voices. Her grip was steady, even as she reached with her other hand for something just out of his swimming focus, but Aventurine didn't relent.

Then he saw what she was holding.

The hypo gleamed in the artificial light, filled with liquid that swirled with an iridescent blue glow. Familiar. Terrifyingly familiar.

"No." The word ripped from his throat. He shook his head violently, dislodging Mingjing’s grip, nausea coursing through him anew with the force of the movement. "No, no, no—"

"It's the medication you've been taking," Mingjing said, her cold hand reaching for him again. "The same compound—"

"Makes me worse," he gasped, his free hand clawing at the air between them, trying to ward off the approaching needle. "The hallucinations—the voices—it makes them stronger, makes them real—"

His voice was shaking now, sounds almost indistinguishable. He turned desperately toward Ratio, grasping his hand in a deadly vice to make him understand. "Tell her... tell her how it made me worse... you saw it..."

Ratio's voice vibrated in Aventurine's bones more than his ears. "It's going to be fine, Aventurine. Just breathe."

It wasn't. He couldn't. But his voice, his words, everything was melting, becoming a thick , formless mess in his mouth, dissolving on his tongue even as he spoke. Unheard, misunderstood.

Mingjing's voice became distant, clinical assessments floating through the air like dust motes: "...escalating focal activity... necessary to prevent..."

The room buckled, light collapsing into smears of dark. Aventurine's hand spasmed around Ratio's, nails digging in that last, desperate anchor against the tide. Then he saw it again—the inscrutable, consuming darkness bleeding in from the corners of his vision, a palpable void stealing form and color, stealing the edges of Ratio's face even as Aventurine stared into that last, fading point of reality.

"Will you…" His throat convulsed, his words more felt than formed. Ratio knew everything, catalogued everything, revealed everything—but he was the last anchor. The only pin of light in the dark. "Will you… be there…"

The last thing he saw were Ratio's lips moving, the blurred, soundless shape of the only name he knew him by, crimson eyes wide with profound grief.

Then the surface closed over his head, and he sank again.

Cold and patient, it wrapped around him, an embrace that was both familiar and final.

Welcome back, my child.

Chapter Text

Hi... I'm still alive.

Well, funny thing is, I got sick. Like very very sick. It's kind of karmic, now that I think about it?? Putting Aven through hell and now it's me??? But anyways, I've been hanging around sick people a lot (the other time was kind of related to this; I've been helping my grandma, going to hospitals and the like) and my immune system is apparently shit ;^^^; having a high fever during the hottest summer ever is the *worst*, lemme tell you :(

I really wanted to make it for monday, but I couldn't even watch dumb tiktoks, let alone obsess over synonyms like my usual. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write this message and I'm *very* sorry that I've been teasing you so much... maybe some of you even thought I dropped this, and I wouldn't blame them... But we're fighting!

I'm still a lil' bit sick, so I'm sorry to say that I need some more time... I feel like every chapter in this story is "important" but this one especially so (I'm finally revealing the mystery(TM)!!) I really want it to make it work and be a satisfying reading experience for you, dear readers.

For all of you that are still sticking with this rollercoaster from hell and its frail and dainty author... thank you. You've all been wonderful and have given me so much support... I'm really glad :)

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend💛

Chapter Text

The depths held him gently.

He lay on sand that curved around his body, a seabed made for him, yielding, unsubstantial. Fingers sunk into the sand, grains lodging under his nails, clinging between his knuckles, tenacious and unwelcome, the stubborn grip of a pain necessary. Yet one lift of his hand, and they vanished into the murky currents, light muddied and perverted by the opaque surface, a sickly glow that made shapes indistinct, everything barely more than a whisper of form.

They were still there, the tendrils. No longer the grasping, possessive things that had dragged him down, they moved around him with languid care. Gliding along his arms, coiling gently around his ankles, slithering down his spine to hold him across his ribs. They drifted along his temples, curling into the shell of his ear like a soft whisper, caressing his hair with intimate tenderness. It was as if he was held by recognition—every wound seen, every sorrow known, absorbed into the void they created, a perfect darkness that swallowed the world outside and the pain within, leaving only the unexpected gift of solace.

The sand flowed around his fingers, pulling gently at his hand as if the ground itself wanted to drink him in completely. What would be the price? Giving himself completely, leaving nothing else behind but empty spaces?

Terror didn’t come, swallowed into the black hole.

The grains shifted and rippled outward in concentric circles, and where he pressed deeper, the seafloor gave way, his arm sinking into the eager sands. It accepted him, drew him down with gentle insistence, promises of safety into the tightening embrace of the void.

Let go, it commanded, and he almost let it happen.

Almost.

It bloomed against his wrist, spreading up his arm in defiance of the cool embrace that surrounded him. He tried to pull his hand back, instinctive rejection of anything that disrupted the perfect stillness he'd found. But the warmth followed, rekindled ember, wrapping around his fingers with a pressure that felt like—

Like light breaking.

The tendrils around him shifted, growing restless under the columns of light filtering through. Their caresses became more insistent, more possessive, trying to draw his attention back to the pristine annihilation they offered. But the warmth was coiling around his wrist like a thread now, visible in the teal-filtered light as a line of red. His eyes followed its path upward, through the shifting water, toward the surface that might have been a sky far above, a distant sun shining so intensely it hurt to look at.

It’s not for you, my child, it murmured, tendrils shifting to shield his eyes from that brightness. You were never made to stand in the light.

The thread tightened slightly, warmth was climbing his arm now, knotting around his wrist as if spun from something more substantial than hope. It carried along sounds, the water around him pulsating in recoil. 

You’re still here, it seemed to say. You don’t have to give up anything.

It made him look up through the tightening tendrils, restraining his sight but he could still see the light—fragments of memory. Gentle hands. Scarlet eyes. A promise to stay. To never face the dark alone.

Never again.

The words traveled down the thread, and suddenly he could see.

He closed his fingers around the thread and tugged. Once, defiantly.

The response was immediate. The warmth blazed brighter, the thread pulled taut, and suddenly he was moving upward. The tendrils released him with a nameless sorrow, the voice calling him in only language that was his. He turned back but the surface rushed toward—

Not a jolt, but pressure. Steady, inexorable, pushing at the edges of awareness until sensation returned in broken patches: the weight of his limbs, the dry bite of air in his throat, the subtle tug of something foreign and sharp in his arm.

The crimson thread was dissolving, its fire bleeding away into something more immediate, more real. What had been light became voice, what had been warmth became touch—holding him steady as he struggled to know.

Breathe, it whispered, though he couldn't tell if it was the voice from the deep calling him back or another calling him forward. Stay with me.

He tried to follow the sound, but awareness kept slipping away. The under side beckoned, so much easier than the harsh light that waited above. His breathing stuttered, uneven, each inhale a conscious choice rather than reflex.

But the hand around his wouldn't let him sink. When he started to slip back toward unconsciousness, fingers tightened against his palm.

"You slept a lot," the voice was clearer, a lifeline back to reality. "Take your time."

Without conscious thought, he gripped back, his own fingers closing around that solid warmth with desperate strength. The contact stopped his drifting, stopped the disorientation from unraveling into panic.

His eyes opened, slowly. Light bled in, too white, too bright. The ceiling above was carved wood—not hostile, yet the sense of displacement curled along his spine like brine expanding.

"Aventurine."

He focused on the familiar sound, on the pressure on his hand. Blinked at the fingers intertwined with his. Followed the line of the arm sluggishly, until he saw who it belonged to.

Ratio.

Bent forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching with the quiet tension of someone who had been waiting a long time. His clothes were rumpled, hair tousled, violet strands framing a pale face, falling into bloodshot eyes that never left Aventurine's.

The sight shouldn’t have brought relief. And yet it did—worse than fear, worse than anger. It was comfort, thin and fragile, like stitches closing a bleeding wound shut. It inexplicably made the ache in his chest bloom wider.

He looked down again at their joined hands.

A transparent patch clung to Ratio’s palm and wrist, slick and gleaming faintly under the lights, the rest of it disappearing under the rumpled cuff of his shirt. Through it, he could see marks—ragged scratch wounds, red against the softened shimmer of the regeneration patch.

His breath tangled into lungs that were still bruised. He tried to pull away, but his hand was entrapped with quiet, devastating persistence.

"Don’t pull away." Ratio clenched his hand tighter, the warmth of it belying the shiver of pain it brought. "Keep breathing."

A wave of sick, cold guilt washed over him, his throat tightening at the clear sensation of his own fingers digging in, of tearing and tearing and not letting go. Each stuttered inhale was a shudder of remorse, each exhale an apology that caught on the edge of pride. His gaze snapped back to Ratio’s face, searching for another sign of pain, of reproach, of anything but that unnerving, exhausted concern.

The panic returned, more suffocating this time. The tubes, the wires, the IV line tugging at his wrist, the bandages—things done to him, things he had done in the absence of himself. It all felt too much, too close, too soon, a replay of the last two days, of what he’d let himself become.

But Ratio still held fast. "Aventurine, it’s fine."

He almost shook his head, but instead asked, "H-how... long?" The words scraped raw, a broken croak he didn't recognize as his own.

"Seventeen hours." Ratio didn't look at their linked hands, didn't pull away. "Your mind needed the rest. We attempted to regulate your delta waves to induce proper sleep cycles."

"Induce?" Aventurine's muscles protested as he tried to push himself up. The IV line yanked at his elbow, and Ratio stilled his movements with his free hand, another warm point of contact around his elbow. Aventurine froze under it, swallowing down bile that suddenly made sense. "You… you sedated me…"

"Not sedated." It felt like a desperate, uncharacteristic attempt to split hairs. But when Ratio met Aventurine's eyes directly, there was only honesty. "We had to guide your brain into a natural sleep pattern. You needed a reprieve."

"Same difference." The words, though still a rasp, came out with more force as he finally managed to sit up. He blinked the black spots in his vision away, voice slightly slurring when he spoke, "You put me under without asking."

Ratio's hand twitched in his, but his voice was unyielding. "You were actively seizing, Aventurine. The choice was between unconsciousness or further brain damage."

The paradox silenced him momentarily. They had saved his body from breaking, but in that void, he had nearly let go anyway. Nearly surrendered to that perfect nothingness… if not for Ratio. It felt humiliating, in a way that felt like the deepest kind of subjugation.

Ratio’s voice came again, "Aventurine, breathe."

This time he didn’t try to follow the advice.

"It doesn’t matter, none of this matters," he scraped out, threadbare and thin. "You keep deciding for me…" He shook his head, the band around his forehead making the movement heavier, more difficult. "I heard you before in that… that room, you told her everything…"

Ratio didn’t argue, didn’t deny. "I told Dr. Mingjing what she needed to know to help you." When Aventurine stole a glance at his face, there was none of the only clinical detachment of his words, but exhaustion, a depth of care he couldn't parse. "The clinical picture was already incomplete without those details."

Aventurine’s hand contorted under Ratio’s warm hold like a squirming snake. "My nightmares. My cornerstone. You kept notes on me… I thought I was losing my mind, but you were monitoring me for real." The laugh bubbled out wet and wheezing. "You promised me a choice, but it was yours to make from the start."

Just like everybody else.

Something shifted in Ratio's expression—a subtle crack in his certainty, something that looked almost like anguish. "I would never—"

"Wouldn't you?" Aventurine lunged forward, the nausea churning in his gut clawing its way up his throat for a terrifying moment. He swallowed it down, voice gasping out. "You shared my most private information with a doctor you chose. Kept me in the dark about an examination whose risks I didn't know about. And then you decided you knew what was best for me."

The thin sound of his voice began to shred. "You gave me your word… made me believe… you’d give me…"

For a moment, only the soft beeping of monitors filled the silence, and the thin hiss of the oxygen compressor. The moment Ratio's hand left his, a chill rushed in to fill the space. Aventurine watched Ratio's hands join together on his knees, saw the minute tremor in his fingers, witnessed the crack on the perfect facade widen under his very eyes. It was becoming too much. He was too close. The thread too tight.

"I want out."

He didn't wait for a reply. His fingers, frantic and uncoordinated, ripped the adhesive pads from his chest and clawed the cannula from his nostril, the sharp scrape of plastic a fresh burn. Ratio was on his feet in a single motion, hands reaching out to stop him. But when Aventurine's gaze snapped up, locking onto those scarlet eyes, Ratio's hands halted mid-air.

There, in the corner of his eye—again that slight tremor in Ratio's hand, a tell of an exhaustion so profound it was almost a confession. And Aventurine's own hand yearned to reach for it, to hold it close, to seek the proof of his existence…

What was happening to him? Why did he want it? 

"Don’t—"

The rest was cut short by the quick, decisive thud of footsteps in the hallway. Aventurine’s head snapped towards the door. Dr. Mingjing appeared in the doorway, silver-tipped ears alert, the tight line in her shoulders flattening as her grey eyes swept over the scene in chilling assessment.

"You're awake." A dry statement as Mingjing stepped into the room with fluid confidence, silk robes rustling with every unhurried step. Her eyes flicked once to the flatline monitor, then fixed on Ratio. "And letting him disconnect himself from the monitoring equipment, I see."

Ratio hesitated for a split second, a small, telltale pause that Aventurine instantly seized upon.

"Turns out I'm not a fan of the five-star treatment," Aventurine hissed, snapping his arm away from under Ratio’s hold and tucking it to his chest. "I'm cutting my stay short, no need to put it on my tab."

Mingjing’s smile was thin, a mere tightening of her lips. "You're free to leave," she said, almost dismissive, as she moved to a nearby cabinet with precise, economical movements. "Of course, that means you'll have to get your treatment elsewhere."

Aventurine’s own lips curved on instinct, a confident twist that mirrored hers perfectly. "Threatening me now?"

"Clarifying the terms." From the cabinet, Mingjing turned, her hand briefly disappearing in her sleeve before her cool gaze settled on him. "Though, I imagine it must be refreshing to be on the receiving end for once."

The words hit their mark, but his smile remained fixed. "You make a rather poor judge of character, lady," he replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing. "I've been on that end more times than I can count. Always found a way to flip the table."

Mingjing's eyes lingered on him, tail swaying slowly. "How are his vitals, Veritas?"

Ratio replied promptly. "Sleep architecture normalized after four hours as observed. Delta wave patterns stabilized. No further seizure activity has been detected since the last check." He cleared his throat, subtly adjusting his posture on the seat. "Cognitive responses appear significantly improved against initial presentation."

The way Mingjing’s lips softened at the corners rubbed Aventurine wrong, a subtle shift he immediately distrusted. "Quantitative data is always preferable," she said, fingers already dancing across the controls of a nearby monitor, pulling up new schematics. "Still… his cortical function has normalized faster than projected. It seems your optimism wasn't entirely misplaced."

Aventurine tried to peek at what she was doing, the knot in his chest tightening with suspicion. "What’s this? Did you have a riveting academic symposium over my dying—"

His breath hitched. Not a gasp, but a searing cough, ripped harsh from his throat. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t something he could control. The sound exploded into the sterile quiet, wet and violent, dragging bile up his throat like secrets spilling out. He gagged, blinked against the blur, vision swimming. And he felt it—both of them watching. Watching him fall apart, prove them right.

Heat rose to his face, not from the effort, but at what he’d been reduced to: heaving, helpless, exposed. He wanted to hide, to curl into the mattress and disappear into the seams. But Ratio was by his side instantly, one hand landing firmly on his shoulder, the other reaching for the displaced cannula. The cool plastic was nudged back into his nostril, the sudden rush of cool air felt less like relief and more like an indignity.

"His pulmonary function is still compromised," Mingjing stated, her eyes not on Aventurine but on Ratio as she pointed to a nearby glass. "Fetch him some water."

"I can manage myself," he rasped, bravado emptied in the violent tremor that seized his arm when he clawed at the linens for support. Ratio’s careful touch was still on his shoulder, guiding him into a more upright position, the water glass already cool and steady in his hand.

His fingers trembled too badly. He watched them fail to grasp the glass, watched the water slosh like a tumultuous sea. He didn’t ask. Ratio offered it without a word—hand warm over his, steady as he guided the rim to his lips, tilted it with quiet precision. Aventurine drank, unable to stop himself. The water was soothing, but it wasn’t just the relief in his throat that undid him. It was the ease with which he leaned into it. Into him.

Not for balance, not for need, but because it was expected. His body knew what he’d find.

His gaze lifted, unbidden, to Ratio’s face—drawn not by fear, but by gravity. In the unbearable softness of his scarlet eyes, he saw something quiet. Not the look of a traitor, but—

Mingjing’s voice cut in.

"That will suffice."

Ratio’s hand instantly vanished from his shoulder, and with it, something inside Aventurine lurched. The sudden absence left him dizzy, hollowed out in a way he didn’t understand and didn’t want to name.

He barely registered her movement—just the rustle of silk as Mingjing circled to the other side of the bed. Her grey eyes passed briefly over the monitors, then fixed on Ratio with the kind of look that weighed and found wanting. He took it silently, spine stiff, lips tight, before Mingjing turned away first.

She advanced with clinical grace, pausing at the bed’s edge. The brush of her sleeves over Aventurine's arm sent a momentary quiver along his back.

"I'm going to touch you."

The warning was unexpected in more ways than one, a clinical courtesy of no reassurance. He leaned back on the cushions, his crossed arms a buffer between him and the other occupants in the room. "What if I don’t consent?"

"That is your prerogative," Mingjing’s ears twitched, tail brushing behind her, though her voice was as composed as ever. "But the event you suffered was, by all metrics, significant—sufficiently so that a closer examination is necessary."

Aventurine’s brow furrowed. "Significant how?"

He saw Ratio shift from the corner of his eye, but Mingjing simply raised her hand, a penlight ready in the other.

"Follow the light," she instructed, clicking it on.

He complied, the simple act a monumental effort. The pinpoint of light moved, and his vision followed, leaving a painful, oversaturated clarity burned onto his retinas. When she retreated the light, the world around him felt suddenly hyperreal, every color and shadow unnervingly crisp, like the brutal clarity that follows a violent fever.

Her hands were clinical and cold, shimmering faintly as they moved closer. "Be still."

He felt the surgical press of her fingertips, as they began to probe at specific points on his neck. Screens around the room flickered, updating with each methodical palpation, his body coiling instinctively when she brushed the sensitive skin near his brand.

"Do not tense," she said, her tone a command. She moved her hands to his temples, her thumbs pressing down. He instinctively tried to recoil, but the movement was useless. "Do you have a headache?"

"Must be a symptom of having my head squeezed, but thanks for asking."

"Cervical rigidity and intracranial pressure are the direct cause of the headache," Mingjing replied, more to the monitors than to him, her gaze fixed on the readouts. "Neurochemical markers remain elevated, but not enough to suggest imminent relapse."

"I observed this firsthand three days ago," Ratio added from his spot. "He is remarkably more resilient than… data might initially suggest."

Mingjing’s glance at Ratio was quick as a lash, but Aventurine was fed-up. He felt the words seethe in his throat, hot and venomous, "What's remarkable is how you two are keeping on with the cryptic observations as if I’m not even here."

"On the contrary." She withdrew her hands from his skull, turning to face him fully. "You’re coherent—and therefore, you’re owed full disclosure. Every procedure, every reaction..." Her  ears angled slightly forward. "Every risk taken in your care."

Aventurine’s retort curdled on his tongue. He nodded toward Ratio. "And what risk did he decide was worth taking without bothering to ask first?"

Her gaze narrowed. "All in due time." She peeled off the transparent gloves on her hands, the material returning to a visible blue as she placed them on the bedside table. "First, we’ll address your most recent episode."

"Following the emergency Harmony medication administration, your system entered full systemic shock," she began, words stripped of all emotion but not of their weight. "Seizure activity lasted approximately four minutes—sustained convulsions that required continuous intervention to prevent permanent neurological damage. Blood pressure spiked to critical levels. Oxygen saturation dropped. Muscle contractions caused localized trauma."

The information made saliva pool in his mouth, a sudden, slick tide of nausea. He swallowed hard under Mingjing’s unsettlingly direct gaze.

"There were additional concerns regarding cardiac instability," she added, adjusting something on a nearby monitor. "Cardiac rhythm destabilized into supraventricular tachycardia, with potential for permanent myocardial injury."

"Why don't I feel any of this?" he cut in, the fear a fault line in his voice.

Mingjing's ears twitched. "You’re currently lying within a specialized recovery matrix," she explained dryly. "Another reason I advise against further self-initiated, ill-advised discharges."

Aventurine ignored the jab. "I tried to tell you," he said, resentment spilling hot and bitter from his lips. "Before the injection, I–I knew those meds made everything worse… I tried to warn you."

Mingjing’s lips flattened into a thin line. "A crucial detail you should've mentioned beforehand."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the monitor, then back to him. "Your reaction during the previous neural mapping was not incidental. The scan’s resonance phase uses low-frequency Harmony-based wavelengths to gauge how deeply Nihility patterns are embedded in the neural lattice. In your case, the response was atypically severe. Your system displayed hypersensitivity to the Harmony component, magnifying the interference to the point of cascade—a clash between the scanning signal and the existing Nihility imprint."

Her fingers tapped a control, bringing up a faint ghost of waveforms on the side display. “The result was an acute dissociative episode compounded by sensory and mnemonic distortion. I’ve since recalibrated the scanner to avoid that particular resonance. You won’t experience the same reaction again—unless you encounter that wavelength from another source.”

Aventurine looked at her blankly, his mind still reeling from the list of his body's failures. “Then it was your mistake.”

Her tail began a slow arc, almost contemplative. “I should have investigated your pharmaceutical history more thoroughly,” she conceded, silver eyes meeting his. “At first, the neurological disturbances appeared distinct from your medication use—but upon reviewing the medical file released by the IPC facility, that appears indeed to be the case.”

She lifted one finger when Aventurine opened his mouth, his complaint snuffed out. “The overlap between neurological and psychological symptoms you suffered yesterday does not occur without a precipitating factor affecting the same neural sites. Which is why,” her voice sharpened by a fraction, “it has now become essential to know your dosing regimen before you discontinued the treatment.”

"How do you—" He trailed off, a sudden, cold certainty slamming into him, the bitter taste of betrayal once again coating his tongue. He turned toward Ratio, a thin smile twisting his lips when he met the other man’s gaze. "I almost forgot you tattled all my tales."

"By now you should know I have no patience for games, Mr. Aventurine," Mingjing interjected, her voice carrying an edge that made him flinch. "Direct answers, if you please."

"Neither do I…" Aventurine bit back. His eyes held Mingjing’s stare, but the battle was lost from the start. He shook his head, his hand drifting to his face, IV line pressing sharp in the crook of his elbow. "At some point, I was taking three, four times the prescribed dose… and that was when I could still keep track of it."

He braced for an impact that didn’t come. Mingjing nodded. "That's understandable," she said simply, tail stilling behind her. "It was the only means at your disposal for symptom mitigation."

The pragmatic acknowledgement in her voice was unexpected. She didn’t flinch, didn’t judge—just saw him, and in that stillness was an odd sort of compassion that nearly undid him.

"It did help at first… but then it made everything worse," he found himself admitting, rough, scraping. "Anyway, I stopped taking it, and that was more than a week ago… it can't still be affecting me."

Mingjing gave a curt shake of her head. "The medication's formulation is designed for compounded efficacy. Its components linger in the system, meaning the dosage can be gradually reduced over time,” she said evenly. “Abrupt cessation most likely caused a withdrawal response.”

He let his hand drop and met her gaze directly. "I thought these meds didn’t have these risks."

"They don’t, for most." Her tone didn’t waver. "But as I said, your physiology places you well outside the expected response curve. Abrupt cessation triggered acute withdrawal, but the refusal of follow-up care at the IPC facility allowed the damage to progress unchecked. The hypoxic insult sustained two days ago has left your brain in a hyperexcitable state, significantly lowering your seizure threshold.”

The weight of those facts made him look down, his fingers finding the edge of the bedsheets and worrying at the fabric. "I… I didn't have a good experience there," he admitted quietly. "I couldn’t allow myself to stay."

Mingjing was quiet for a beat. "A relevant factor,” she said finally, voice clipped. "But beyond the scope of this discussion. For now, let’s move to your condition.”

She turned to the bedside monitor, entering a few commands. "Your first encounter with IX triggered the initial manifestation of symptoms—sleep disturbances in the form of frequent nightmares."

Her fingers continued her rapid tapping as she spoke. "Following this, an IPC-mandated consultation with a Doctor of Chaos resulted in pharmaceutical intervention—a synthesized Harmony compound designed to mitigate Nihility exposure. Standard protocol for mild symptomatology."

She didn’t pause. "Instead of improvement, you experienced a progressive deterioration—more vivid nightmares, acute sleep loss, eventual medication misuse.” Her sleeves rustled as she reached out. "I’m going to touch you."

Aventurine nodded before he realized he had. Mingjing reached for the band around his forehead, cool fingertips brushing his temples.

"Stay still."

He did—because he couldn’t do anything else.

"Cross-referencing Veritas’ notes, the IPC facility discharge papers, and the data collected during my scan, certain patterns emerged," she continued, hands moving with methodical confidence as they connected wires to the headband.

"My hypothesis is this: the nightmares began as indistinct sensations, then consolidated into vivid recollections of trauma. You reported auditory hallucinations, though visual are equally likely. As IX’s influence deepened, THEY began corrupting the retrieval process itself—blending memory with personal anxieties."

She connected another wire, glancing briefly at the monitor. "A subtle but clear indication of this memory corruption is your dissociative episodes—by your own account, reenactments of repeated suicide attempts in Penacony."

Aventurine’s fingers flexed restlessly against the sheets. "Reenactment is a mild word."

Mingjing nodded crisply. "It does imply intent," she agreed, her silver eyes dropping subtly on his twitching hand before continuing, "though these present as uncontrollable impulses of increasing intensity. These patterns—escalating nightmares and dissociative reenactment of recent trauma—suggest IX has begun overflowing memory-dense neural networks, particularly those linked to extreme emotional arousal."

She gathered the connected wires to rest at Aventurine’s side. "The cascade extends beyond retrieval—IX is actively disrupting new memory formation during neural surges. Your recent scan showed irregular hippocampal activity consistent with this, which accounts for the acute disorientation and repetitive behaviors Veritas documented recently."

Aventurine listened enraptured, a breathless stillness holding him tightly as the cold, hard facts of his breakdown were spooled out in his lap. This stranger, this curt and aloof woman, was reciting the story of his gradual annihilation, mapped out in details he never had the language for. The sleepless nights. The harrowing terrors. The creeping sense of madness.

He almost laughed. He'd tried to play it like a game, one he could manage with enough control, enough cunning. But the rules had been changing when he didn't know. A gambler obsessed with knowing every variable meeting a fate worse than losing—finding out he was rigged to fail.

Mingjing’s hands stilled at his temples. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "The pattern indicates neural interference. Persistent, systemic. Not degradation, but disruption no single mind can endure indefinitely.”

The cold shock of her words struck before he could even grasp their meaning. Before the terrible, unasked-for grace in them took shape. It wasn't him. It was something else. But that brought no comfort—he didn’t need reassurance he wasn’t broken, not when the price was powerlessness.

The ghost of Ratio’s hand brushed near his when he sucked in an inhale, a brief warmth he instantly pulled away from. He bit back another sound, digging his own nails into the sheets until it felt like the skin over his knuckles might tear.

"Don't," he rasped, voice splintering like glass against his teeth. "Don’t pity me."

Mingjing's ears twitched.

"I never offer words lightly, Mr. Aventurine," she said, voice dry as barren plain, devoid of inflection. "Clarity is my function, not comfort. You must confront the reality of your condition, not the delusion you've constructed around it."

She pulled a screen, its surface already alive with a pulsating, intricate web of information.

"This is your neural activity we obtained by monitoring you," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Real-time updates are streamed through the band on your head."

“Why stop at injury,” Aventurine muttered, “when you could go for insult, too.”

"If you’re still fixated on consent breaches, you’ve yet to grasp the severity of your condition," Mingjing countered. Her silver gaze cut clean any protest that formed on his lips. "The band regulates seizure thresholds and tracks neural activity, among other things. And before you ask, continuous monitoring is not optional. I strongly recommend you get used to it."

The justification left no room for argument, though the casual way she dismissed his objection rankled. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned to the screen. The results of whatever scans she'd performed were arranged in neat rows, but he immediately caught the inconsistency. The neural patterns were calm now, structured—nothing like the chaotic spikes she’d shown him after the examination.

"This is IX’s influence within you," Mingjing said, pointing to a section of the display where the wavelike patterns moved in steady rhythms. "The mild undulation might suggest it’s under control, or in this case, contained. That is the reason why the Doctor of Chaos suggested the pharmacological approach, and why Veritas’ diagnostics didn’t pick up any significant anomalies in Nihility activity."

"It doesn't look like what I saw before," he said, frowning at the display. It looked peaceful, but he could feel the lie of it in his bones.

"These are your current readings," Mingjing clarified. "What I showed you after my examination was the episode you had just suffered." She tapped the screen, and the display shifted. "This shows the activity observed during delta wave regulation."

The new patterns made his stomach drop. Even during sleep, the lines weren't stable—jagged peaks rising and falling with violent asymmetry, too familiar in their chaos. Recognition made his breath catch in his throat.

"That is not all."

She tapped again. A second waveform flickered into view, subtler, weaker. It threaded itself between the Nihility spikes like a counter-current—its rise mirrored by a corresponding dip in the other. But the pattern was unstable. At certain points, the second line plummeted, and with each drop, the Nihility signal surged violently upward.

He feared the reply, but he asked anyway. "What am I looking at?"

"Your cornerstone," Mingjing replied. "Or rather the residual influence of Qlipoth’s protection when you were lost in the Horizon of Existence. Each downward trend corresponds to an episode."

Confusion coiled hot within his chest. "That's impossible." His hand moved instinctively toward where his cornerstone should rest, finding only the hospital gown. "Cornerstones don't work like that. They're artifacts, tools given to us by Diamond, not… not whatever you’re saying."

Mingjing's eyes narrowed. "Recall what occurred when the Self-Annihilator struck you."

The request felt like stepping into a trap, but Aventurine found himself answering despite his reservations. "I was plunged into a dark sea. The fragments of my cornerstone—they formed a barrier, protected me from complete dissolution. Eventually a Knight of Beauty found me, pulled me back to—"

He stopped, realization striking like an ice pick through his chest. "My body…" His eyes snapped to Ratio, briefly, desperately, before jolting back to the screen. "I was still in the dreampool. At the Reverie."

"You’re starting to understand." Mingjing folded her hands behind her back, tail sweeping with slow rhythm. "It was your incorporeal self that was protected—consciousness, memory, identity," she said, eyes fixed on the shifting lines of data. "Veritas has witnessed your awakening from the dreampool, but you delayed in regaining full awareness, correct?"

He nodded, numb. That moment had seemed trivial at the time. "I… didn’t remember where I was. Not at first."

Mingjing hummed. "Possibly trauma response, but more likely the first, albeit subtle sign of dissonance between mind and body." The display updated, showing a new configuration where the two opposing forces were labeled clearly: IX and Qlipoth. "Qlipoth’s protection persists in your cognitive imprint, suppressing IX’s influence. But it’s tied to the dream. It cannot hold in waking reality."

Aventurine didn’t look at her. Just the graph—watching the space between each Preservation spike shrink. Watching Nihility rise like a tide. "The Nihility… I encountered THEM in the dreamscape," he said, his finger lifting to trace the violet line. "Why aren’t THEY fading as well?"

Mingjing’s ears twitched, eyes cutting to Ratio. Something passed between them—silent, obvious. Aventurine didn’t miss it.

"There’s something else," he said, voice hoarse with dread.

Ratio’s jaw set, but Mingjing answered first. "Correct." She activated another screen with a single, clipped motion. "A third variable. One we haven’t addressed—yet."

On the activated screen, a different image bloomed into existence: not a simple waveform, but a complex, three-dimensional rendering of a human brain. It was lit from within, pulsing with dark striations like fractures beneath glass. Aventurine stared at it for a long, terrible moment, the truth of it dawning with a sickening clarity. It was his. It was him. This fractured map of lights and shadow was his mind.

The tremor started in his fingers, the linens almost tearing with the effort of keeping himself still, jaw locked so tight he tasted blood. He shook his head in useless, frantic denial, but his eyes remained locked on the screen. He could feel both their gazes on him, dissection without a blade, understanding without compassion. 

He forced a smile, a grotesque caricature of his usual smirk, but the shaking wouldn't break. "What… what is this?"

"The effects of the Order spell," Mingjing replied, her voice flat.

He tore his gaze from the carnage on the screen to look at her, to catch her in her utter lie.

"The Self-Annihilator removed it from me," he seethed.

"Carved," Ratio said, his voice emerging from his blind spot, startling him. "She carved it out from you."

Aventurine’s head snapped toward him, a protest forming on his lips, but every word died there. Ratio was no longer in his seat. He was by the bed now, as close as physically possible without touching him. The sight was somehow more alarming—too close, too suffocating, too kind. Aventurine’s whole body braced for restraint or pity, but when Ratio only took his hands from the torn linens, the contact was unexpectedly, mortifyingly gentle.

Mingjing spoke again, her voice cutting through the sudden tension. "The Self-Annihilator's strike achieved two effects. It displaced your consciousness to the Horizon of Existence, and it nullified the spell's immediate effects and the seventeen-hour deadline." She tilted head, the jade ornament in her hair catching the light. "Our initial assumption, based on the nightmares Veritas observed, was that the abnormal concentration of memoria in Penacony exacerbated an existing psychological trauma. An expected—if severe—post-traumatic response."

She paused, her ears twitching with a subtle, professional gravity. "However," she continued, her gaze shifting back to Aventurine, "upon further analysis, an overlooked and unexpected detail has emerged." Her gaze flickered to the side, a quality of academic wonder seeping in her tone, "In my centuries of practice, I have never encountered a case such as yours."

The words would’ve struck Aventurine if not for the sense of unreality clinging to him. He found his voice eventually, an unsteady, vitriolic whisper. "And what the hell does that mean?"

"The spell bonded with you in a manner unprecedented, perhaps beyond the original intent of the Iris’ Family Head." Mingjing's gaze was unsettlingly direct, as if she could see the truths he’d always hid. "It appears that you are exceptionally attuned to Ena’s specific energy, to the echo of a lost deity."

"The connection established with the spell was impossible to sever without lasting consequence, the result of an interference that was there before you even set foot on Penacony." Her eyes dropped to the glowing image of his mind, the lights catching in her grey irises. "The encounter with IX only complicated matters further: THEY latched onto the scars left by the absence of Ena, while the Harmony-based compound aggravated these wounds, intensifying IX’s hold. Qlipoth’s protection may have granted survival from that acute loss, but at the cost of extending your suffering."

Her ears flattened against her skull, eyes still tracking the screen. "The likelihood of three Aeons influencing a single individual is extremely rare. To endure this kind of onslaught, and still retain a coherent sense of self, is not just unprecedented. It’s astounding."

The quiet awe in those words didn’t lift him—it dragged him under.

Not a gambler. Not a strategist.

Just another body pulled under the current, thinking he could swim while the tide had already claimed him.

The thread was gone. No warmth to pull him up, no surface in sight—only that slow, sinking pull in his chest. He’d thought he’d been choosing his moves. Walking himself to the table and laying out his own throat. Smiling. Thinking he was in control. But the truth was worse: he’d been drifting even before he’d come to know the world. Letting a capricious undertow decide where he went.

Caught.

Claimed.

Drowned.

Not in something bigger than him, but in something inside him—a riptide he couldn’t outswim because it was his own water. His own breath turning against him. His own hands loosening their grip.

What the foxian had shown him wasn’t his mind anymore. It was a seabed stripped bare, the silt scoured away to reveal damage carved into the rock beneath. Not a map of thoughts, but of violence inflicted without cognizance, without salvation.

And he’d let it happen. Let it keep happening.

"Aventurine. Breathe."

The soft command reached him like sound through deep water, slipping into the spiral, not enough to break it. His lungs felt tight, damaged, every inhale dragging sharp edges down his throat. Survival was muscle memory, nothing more. He lunged, both hands seizing Ratio’s offered one, nails pressing into the slick heat of the regeneration patch like grappling for an anchor he didn’t deserve to keep.

He should have let go. He’d hurt him again. He was a current that could only pull, nothing but damage leaking into anything that stayed too close.

Yet he couldn’t release him. Not while some small, pathetic part of him still wanted to believe in a thread of red in the encroaching darkness.

"How can… you know there was... something in me before?" The words scraped out, half a question, half an accusation, and entirely a plea he hated himself for making.

A gentle, grounding pressure—Ratio's hand shifting against his. When he spoke, his voice was impossibly calm. "It is the only logical explanation. The Order's energy would not have bonded with you so profoundly otherwise."

A wet, bitter laugh caught in Aventurine's throat as he stared at him. "So it's a guess… You've dissected me, every piece of my suffering, of my life… only to give me a guess."

Ratio’s expression softened, worse than any rebuke he could have offered.

Mingjing, however, was unyielding. "It's not a guess, Mr. Aventurine. It's a hypothesis. One you, yourself, might be able to confirm." Her tail picked up its sway again, her gaze as direct as it was before. "Did you encounter Ena, or were you marked in some way?" 

Dread coiled in Aventurine's throat, choking any denial. It couldn't be. Not HER. He shook his head before the thought took root. He couldn't let his mind go there, couldn't give them that, too. His eyes moved from Mingjing to his hands, still linked with Ratio’s. He slipped one out to gesture at the screens surrounding them, at the band around his forehead. "How can you see all this? Not even the IPC could."

A soft hum slipped Mingjing. "I seek facts—truths that exist beyond convenient explanations. I reject any form of dominion over free will, I do not accept that human lives are mere collateral in the Aeons strives. I claim liberation." Her eyes drifted to the window, to the garden beyond. "It’s also why I find myself… untethered from their systems."

"You can trust her," Ratio said, thumb a subtle pressure on Aventurine’s wrist. "Dr. Mingjing has your best interest at heart."

Aventurine choked out a laugh. "She’d better have one hell of a way of 'liberating' me, then."

Ratio’s lips parted, but Mingjing lifted a hand, wielding her absolute authority over him as unfailingly as she always did. "Do not bias him, Veritas."

His laugh sharpened. "Yes, don’t bias me, doctor," he spat out, tight as a copper coil, but his hand was loose and nerveless in Ratio’s hold. "My friend here might have his convictions, but I’ll decide for myself. I'm not an experiment, lady."

Mingjing gave a single, crisp nod. "Indeed."

With a swipe of her hand, the monitors went away, the horrifying image of his fractured mind vanishing. He couldn't tell if the sudden absence was a relief or a terror. He chose the first over the latter, for what remained of his peace of mind

"Due to your particular sensitivity," Mingjing began, her hands gathering neatly in front of her, "the usual approach using Harmony-based medication is no longer viable. I could attempt to formulate a compound, but its efficacy would be inadequate. IX's influence is de facto kept at bay by Qlipoth's protection. Once that protection is gone, the medication alone would not be enough. You would start to experience an accelerated corruption of the psyche—memory loss, the erosion of your senses, until your mind simply dissolves into Nihility."

A wave of slick nausea rose in Aventurine's throat, his fingers tightening instinctively around Ratio's wrist, bone and muscle shifting under the sleek surface of the regeneration patch.

"I guess brilliant minds such as yours came with an alternate solution."

An alarming tension radiated from Ratio's body, but Mingjing wasn’t looking at either of them, but at the interlinked hands.

"The procedure involves a controlled state of suspended animation. During this period, the infected neural tissue would be excised, the missing matter reconstructed with synthetic organic material, thus ensuring complete remission."

The detached delivery was abhorring, yet it helped Aventurine see clearly through the fog of his mind. "Kill me and lobotomize me… that’s your fix?" The words were a bitter, furious hiss. He pressed his back against the pillow, arms crossing with futile righteousness. "Had I known your lovely plan, I’d rather have stayed in the solicitous care of the IPC."

Mingjing lifted her eyes, a faint displeasure carving around her mouth. But she didn't deny his accusations. "The survival chances are low, averaging around ten percent," she said, ears completely still over her head. "They lower significantly if the transplanted tissue is rejected."

Aventurine scoffed, the sound a wet, hollow echo that resonated throughout the garden outside. "Ten percent? Is that it?" He turned to Ratio, almost triumph twisting his lips in a grimace. "I've survived worse odds than that, where’s your faith?"

Ratio's gaze fluttered down, a rare avoidance that made Aventurine’s chest constrict. He adjusted the IV line tape at his elbow, a subtle tremor in the small gesture that echoed through Aventurine.

Mingjing hummed. "It's not a procedure without its collateral effects."

"Worse than slowly losing my mind to cosmic horrors beyond my comprehension?" Aventurine couldn’t keep the acrid resentment in his voice from spilling unhindered. "I can’t imagine it."

With a swipe of her hand, his brain scan reappeared on a secondary screen. "IX has latched onto parts of your brain intrinsically linked to your memories," she explained, her finger pointing at the deep shadows on the screen, "By removing THEM, it’ll be very likely we’d remove the memories THEY’ve latched onto. Memory loss is a certainty… if you survive the procedure."

A cold, visceral dread rushed in to fill the space where vague hope and meaningless bravado had been. He turned to Ratio, instinct an unconquerable force. “How… how much would I forget?"

Ratio's head lifted, scarlet gaze finally meeting Aventurine’s, cold in its honesty, warm in the way it held him. "Everything." His soft tone wasn’t enough to abate the impact of that single word. His thumb found the back of his wrist again, soothing while he spoke of his terrible fate. "There’s no guarantee you’d retain even the ability to speak."

Mingjing gave a clipped nod, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Your case is unprecedented. We can only guess at the extent of Nihility's corruption." The rigid line of her eyes, for the briefest moment, felt almost compassionate. "This is the only way to ensure you are completely free of IX’s influence. And the suffering it entails."

She didn't stop at a bladeless dissection. The knife was there now, held politely at his throat, its cold edge the oblivion they called cure. Not denying the cruelty, but calling it mercy. And it would have been. A clean cut, severing his past from his future, his sanity from his memory. He felt the cold pressure of her gaze, the weight of her terrible logic, an absolute authority that offered a no-win scenario between slow, agonizing dissolution and swift, brutal emptiness.

Instinct pulled him out of his daze, jolting his body into motion.

"No."

The word scraped out, choked out like a plea. He shook his head, a frantic jerk that pulled the wires around his head taut. The monitors flickered, warning tones flaring, overwhelming.

"No, this can’t… I won’t let—" A wet, splintered rasp spilled from lips. "It… it can’t be—"

Strong hands caught his shoulders before he could flee—a restraint, an anchor. Aventurine reacted as if it were both, fingers flying up, clawing into the fabric of Ratio’s sleeves, digging past the rumpled fabric to find the solid warmth of muscle beneath. He clung like he was drowning in his breaths, nails biting into Ratio’s forearms through the shirt. The warmth under his hands—the life it sparked—was unbearable.

"Breathe," Ratio said, soft but unwavering like he always were. "Aventurine. Breathe."

"You two… you don’t understand" He didn’t realize he was crying until his vision blurred, turning Ratio’s pale face into a watercolor smear of violet and scarlet. The colors of a sky he forsook, but still yearned for. "It’s not just me—" The salt stung the corner of his mouth, grit on his tongue, sand under his teeth. “I can’t— I can’t let them disappear a second time…”

Ratio’s grip tightened, body turning rigid. He tore his eyes from Aventurine to look at Mingjing.

He spoke a single, ragged word: "Please."

Aventurine’s sobs froze in his lungs. He tracked Ratio’s plea, then swung his blurred gaze back to Mingjing. The foxian’s ears were flat, her expression unreadable, until she nodded once, acquiescent. "If you must."

That was what it had all been about. Every sideways glance. Every technicality-laced word. Every silence Ratio chose. They hadn’t been discussing options. They’d been weighing the most efficient way to end him.

"Aventurine, it’s not like that," Ratio’s voice cut through his thoughts, as if he’d been voicing them aloud. He might as well have done it, it didn’t make a difference.

“You’ve been planning this,” he said, voice rising hoarse and ragged. “You’ve been talking behind my back—no, over my dying body, about murdering me and call it a cure… Mercy, even!”

Ratio flinched like he'd been slapped, but Mingjing didn’t react at all.

She merely inclined her head. “We won’t proceed without your express consent.”

“As if!” he roared, the sound tearing from his throat in jagged strips. “You vultures already picked me clean… there’s no fucking choice here—only the way I rot! One way or the other, I’m gone.”

Ratio leaned in, close enough for Aventurine to feel the heat of his breath against his damp cheeks. “Aventurine—” His voice broke into the heat, quiet but edged with something dangerously close to pleading. “Look at me, Aventurine.”

His lashes fluttered, unwilling but dragged upward all the same by that ineluctable gravity. Ratio’s scarlet eyes locked onto his, exhaustion and resolve pulling tight around their center.

“There is a choice. But you need to breathe. You need to calm down.”

Aventurine flinched, tears welling hot again. "A choice?" he rasped, a laugh breaking jagged through the sob. "What? Are you offering to off me quicker? Cleaner?" His vision swam, focusing on Ratio’s grimace—a twist of pain he couldn’t stand seeing, yet couldn’t look away from. "The state I’m in, you could just let go of my hand, and I’d cozy up with IX in a matter of minutes."

"Stop."

The command cracked through the air like a whip, silencing him mid-breath. Ratio moved in without hesitation, his hand sliding from Aventurine’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck, fingers pressing in. The touch sent a shock of recoil along his spine, but the pressure was steady, grounding, pinning him in place.

"Calm down and listen to me for once, gambler."

The qualifier was as unexpected as it was sobering. He looked at Ratio with wide eyes, the sobs still wracking through him, though the doctor’s hold kept him from unraveling.

Ratio inhaled deeply.

"I have watched you, Aventurine. Observed you for a long time. Through the abuse in your files, through Penacony's aftermath, through your unraveling... one thing has remained constant."

His scarlet eyes held Aventurine’s, refusing to let him look away from the storm.

"Your strength. An inner resilience that defies all logic."

Aventurine trembled violently in his hold. "Strength? What strength?" he rasped, the bitterness like ground glass. "It means squat when you're being eaten alive from the inside out by the fucking Aeon of Nihility."

"It means everything," Ratio countered, his voice gaining intensity. He leaned in, forehead nearly touching Aventurine’s. Aventurine didn’t pull away. "You have resisted. For months. The Preservation has provided you a shield, yes. But the wielder? The will holding it firm against the tide?" His thumb brushed the pulse point hammering wildly beneath Aventurine’s jaw, the slow circle raising goosebumps on his skin. "That was you, Aventurine."

Aventurine stared, breath hitching. The tears still flowed, but the frantic shaking eased slightly under Ratio’s overbearing comfort. "What are you getting at?"

"It is highly theoretical," Ratio sounded apologetical, almost pained. "But I believe it is possible to make that unconscious protection conscious. To wield it. To bend it to your will."

"You mean my... cornerstone?" he rasped out, confusion warring with a frightening, fragile flicker of a hope he had all but abandoned. "Ratio... it's not... not how it works..."

"Perhaps not as documented," Ratio conceded, his voice softening fractionally. "It is an untested hypothesis, but the basis is there. Your cornerstone did react in the Horizon of Existence, protected you in a place where matter shouldn't exist. If a cornerstone is shaped by a Stoneheart’s will..." His grip on Aventurine’s neck tightened, grounding him. "... then your will, Aventurine—your sheer, indomitable refusal to yield—is the variable no data can quantify."

All the signs had been there from the start, Aventurine could see them now in Ratio's face—the bloodshot eyes, the faint tremor in the hand still pressed against his neck, the scratches under the regeneration patch.

Not pity. Not detachment.

Conviction. Unconditional, incomprehensible.

"What..." Aventurine swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. "... what are the chances?"

Ratio didn’t flinch, but the shadow in his eyes deepened. "Based on quantifiable data? Minimal. Perhaps one percent, even less." He paused, letting the grim statistic hang. "But that data," his voice dropped, fierce and intimate, "does not take into account you."

A fresh tear escaped, tracing a cold path down Aventurine’s cheek. Ratio moved instantly. Releasing his neck, he brought his sleeve up—the same sleeve covering the regeneration patch—and gently wiped the tear away. The cuff was surprisingly smooth against his skin, the gesture devastating in its simplicity.

"I’m not offering peace. I’m offering war. A lifetime of it," Ratio murmured, his thumb lingering near Aventurine’s cheekbone. His eyes held a soft light when he met Aventurine’s again. "I’m aware it’s a cruel act, presenting you with this choice."

Aventurine’s grip on Ratio’s other arm loosened. His own hands rose, trembling, to clumsily scrub at his wet face, the IV line pulling sharply again. He looked down at his hand, then back up at Ratio. Fear clutched at his lungs, exhaustion threatened to swallow him whole. But beneath all of that, sparked by the warmth of Ratio’s touch, by the fierce, decisive nature of his belief, something else stirred.

Defiance.

Not a bet on luck, but a gamble on his own will.

His voice emerged as a raspy whisper, but steadier than it had been in hours. "It’s still a choice." He took a shaky inhale, the effort making the low buzz under his skin flare. "A chance..." The prayers whispered in the night. The warmth of the hearth. The golden sound of her laugh. "... to keep them alive."

Ratio's lashes fluttered down, a subtle, almost imperceptible withdrawal in his scarlet eyes, but Aventurine still saw the pain behind it. His other hand slid away from Aventurine’s shoulder, moving to adjust the damp cuff of his sleeve, a small, almost unconscious gesture of retreat.

Aventurine felt the distance like a sudden chill, though he couldn't quite grasp why. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say, how to bridge the gap his own words had carved.

"If you've both made your choice," Mingjing's voice was a sudden, dry rustle of silk, slicing through the heavy silence with an air of profound impatience, "then we can discuss the immediate proceedings."

Dizziness forgotten, his head snapped toward her. Her acceptance was unexpected—he'd braced for a fight. "I expected more of an opposition from you, lady."

Mingjing's lip curled, her tail flicking once behind her. "Patient autonomy is not something I take lightly," she stated, her tone icy. "Even," her grey eyes locked onto his with piercing intensity, "especially when the patient doesn't fully grasp the complexities of their own situation, or the motivations of those trying to assist them."

The critique landed like a gentle slap, stinging more for its truth than its malice. Aventurine fell silent, heat creeping up his neck. He could see the threads, woven through every clinical explanation, every silence, every glance. It still felt like a trap, though less confining.

Mingjing hummed, the sound dry and dismissive. "While you were under delta wave regulation, we explored this alternative approach extensively," she continued, confirming their discussions had been thorough. "A specialized form of meditation emerged as the most viable method to consciously channel the residual cornerstone energy. It requires intense, sustained focus." Her silver gaze lingered on his face. "It also means the burden, the control, rests entirely with the patient with marginal possibility of external support."

Static hummed behind his eyes as he blinked. "What kind of support?"

"A companion for the first period, and I could formulate a compatible compound to mitigate the neurological strain along with wearing the suppression matrix," Mingjing conceded. "But progress will depend solely on your own effort. Survival," she gestured towards him, "is contingent on you."

Aventurine managed a weak, bitter smile. "Not so different from how I usually operate, then."

A look of strained patience settled on her face. "In negotiations, perhaps. But conviction rarely survives contact with medical reality unscathed. You will need support, Mr. Aventurine. The first attempts will likely be… grueling."

Aventurine straightened against the pillows. "I only have a week." The pressure of Jade's deadline resurfaced suddenly like a half-forgotten debt. "That's it."

Mingjing gave a curt nod. "Veritas informed me. And that is precisely why you will remain on this station for the duration."

"Here?" Aventurine pushed himself up slightly, the room tilting slightly with the movement. "I can't—"

"You will," Mingjing cut his protest with her customary crispness. "Your condition extends far beyond the Nihility influence. You are recovering from near-drowning, suffering severe sleep deprivation, showing signs of mild malnutrition, and your seizure threshold is critically unstable. Continuous monitoring, as I already said, is not optional."

"We managed at my apartment," Aventurine argued weakly, fingers clutching the edge of the frayed linens against his swimming vision.

"Veritas managed—barely," Mingjing corrected coolly. "Regardless, my treatment, my resources, are here. You are welcome to seek alternatives elsewhere in the quadrant, but you will not find better care," she added, her ears angling toward him, "Of this, you can be certain."

He slowly turned toward Ratio still sitting on the edge of the bed, the unspoken question clear between them.

"The decision is yours," was the other man’s reply.

Aventurine looked from Ratio's determined face back to Mingjing's implacable one. The buzzing in his head escalating into a high-pitched whine. He had no strength left to argue.

"Fine, I'll... I’ll stay…"

The concession felt like the last crack on a dam, all the adrenaline and defiance that had been holding him upright dissolving into liquid limpness. Ratio was already moving before his body gave out, a steady arm guiding him back against the pillows as the monitors flared to life, their sharp chime slicing through the air, spiking through his skull.

Next, a crawling dread claimed him without warning—clenching deep in his gut, winding up his spine, coiling behind his eyes. His body recognized the signs before his mind caught up.

"'s happening…" The sounds dragged over his tongue, thick and clumsy all of a sudden, the sour and metallic burn of fear rushing to fill his mouth. "Ratio—"

"Stay with me," Ratio's voice stretched thin, thinned and warped by the monitors’ insistent chime. "Should we—"

The foxian’s reply floated vaguely in his perception, almost inconsistent. ".... stress response… tolerance threshold…" 

For a heartbeat, panic cut through the haze—not again, not again—before dissolution seized him. His head jerked sharply to the left, neck muscles locking as though someone had hooked steel wire through them. Lightning arced down his spine, every nerve flaring at once.

His jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding hard enough to taste blood. Breath came in quick, shallow bursts, chest straining against invisible pressure. The room began to warp at the edges—the wooden ceiling blurring, Ratio’s shape over him breaking into shards of color.

His left leg kicked once against the mattress. Fingers curled hard into his palms, nails breaking skin. The band on his forehead warmed in slow, invasive waves, each pulse sinking deeper, drilling into the thin bone at his temples, tugging him back from complete dissolution. Drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, spilling onto the pillow. He couldn't swallow, couldn't speak. Could only let the ragged, helpless sounds leak out until the spasms broke, leaving him limp and shaking, muscles still buzzing with residual fire. His grip on Ratio’s hand was feeble, damp with sweat.

He became vaguely aware of Ratio’s thumb tracing steady circles over his wrist, the sensation coursing along his arm like shifting sand under a wave. Aventurine watched him reach up with his other hand, adjusting the edge of the band with two precise fingers.

“Thirty seconds,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for Mingjing but his focus still on Aventurine. “Onset was rapid, but contained.”

Mingjing stepped into view behind him, penlight in hand. Her shadow fell across Aventurine the instant before the spear of light stabbed into his pupils, leaving a white-hot afterimage that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

“Localized to left temporal cortex,” she confirmed, though her tone carried the precision of correction. “Generalization began within seconds. The matrix stopped it before full tonic–clonic expression.” Her grey eyes flicked to the band. “Awareness was partially preserved this time, but it still needs recalibration.”

When she reached out, he flinched hard. His breathing hitched into uneven bursts as he stared at her with wide eyes, shivering in the clammy sweat cooling on his skin, a cold that bit deeper than air. Mingjing’s hands retreated without argument, ears flattening.

"Postictal reflex," Ratio said, his fingers still resting lightly on the band, thumb resuming its steady circles over his wrist. "Matrix seal’s shifted, it could explain the delay in suppression."

They spoke over him the way they always did—trading clipped assessments across his body, folding around him like walls closing in, making him a subject of a language that refused to let him in. It was maddening.

"Don’t— I'm here—" he gasped, trying to push himself upright, but his body refused. Limbs felt disconnected, his sense of self sluicing away like heavy silt through a fist.

"Calm down." Ratio shifted forward, guiding him gently when he choked on the saliva still in his mouth. A warm palm settled between his shoulder blades, angling him to breathe more freely. "Just focus on breathing. I've got you."

The gentle positioning, the way Ratio cleared his mouth with a cloth before adjusting the cannula—it should have been mortifying, terrifying. To let someone close enough to feel the weakness rotting in his bones as it was their own. And yet he leaned into the touch, because he’d learnt the hard way that fighting it would be worse. Because his body, traitorous thing that it had become, recognized safety long before he trusted it.

Yet, he hated it. Hated that he needed it. Hated more than he wanted it. That the shape of Ratio’s hand against his back, the quiet assurance in his voice, the safety it spurred despite the sting of betrayal, threaded through the broken pieces. It pulled them into something steadier, binding them into something whole.

"Breathe... that's it," Ratio's voice was a low current, almost hypnotic. Ebb and flow, inhale and exhale—until the shaking tapered down. The heat of sweat and tears clung to his skin, every breath still catching, but the thread held fast.

Mingjing’s gaze flicked from the quiet tangle of their proximity to the monitor as the readouts evened out. "Cortical patterns are stabilizing—temporal lobe activity is returning to baseline." She tapped a key, pulling up another readout. "But the stress spike in the hippocampal circuits was substantial. Daily meditation under these conditions..." A single shake of her head. "The margin for error is essentially nonexistent. His neurological state is too volatile."

"The episode was shorter," Ratio countered, smoothing a damp lock of Aventurine’s hair under the monitoring band. "The matrix successfully prevented it from escalating."

"It shouldn’t have occurred at all at the current suppression levels," Mingjing replied, her ears twitching slightly. "His seizure threshold is critically low. Any significant stressor could trigger another episode."

"He’s undergone more stress in the last hour than most will in months, not to mention the events of the last days," Ratio replied, turning his head toward her. "It would be difficult to replicate this level of strain in ordinary circumstances."

"Veritas—"

Aventurine’s voice broke through, barely above a whisper, still rough and unsteady. "Had… had it been some time ago… I might have gone with your option, Mingjing…" The words slurred faintly around the edges, each one dragging. "But lately… I’ve found out… choosing how to die is as important… as choosing how to live…"

Mingjing's eyes widened perceptibly, her ears stiffening upright for a fleeting second. Even Ratio, still leaning close, seemed to freeze beside him. A beat of profound silence filled the room, broken only by the steady beep of monitors.

"You," Mingjing said finally, her voice holding a note of something akin to reluctant awe, "are precisely as Veritas described."

She crossed her arms, her silken sleeves falling into graceful folds. "It is regrettable that I cannot offer you a more viable solution. Perhaps my pupil's unconventional insight might yet prove a sensible approach." She let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh, her eyes lingering on Ratio.

"Though I certainly trained you to value empirical evidence over... foolhardy gambles."

Ratio simply inclined his head in a silent bow, "Doctor."

Mingjing nodded once, not dismissing, but final. "Helena will come by within the hour. Ensure you both eat what she brings." Her tail swayed behind her in ample arcs. "I already have my hands sufficiently full with one belligerent patient. I don't need another collapsing again from hypoglycemia."

Without waiting, she turned towards the door. "I'll return to check your progress in a few hours. Rest, Mr. Aventurine. You'll need it."

The sound of her footsteps faded into the corridor, leaving only the beeping of the monitors and the rough scraping of Aventurine’s breath. He turned to Ratio before the silence became too much. 

"Who's Helena?" he mumbled, the words thick and slurred.

"The Intellitron who greeted us on the bridge," Ratio replied, eyes drifting to the side. "Dr. Mingjing's assistant."

Aventurine hummed, the sound vibrating weakly in his chest. He felt utterly hollowed out, the  ache of dread and despair subsiding into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. A moment passed, and from his half-lidded eyes Ratio made a subtle move to move away. His hand shot out instantly. Not a frantic claw, but a faint curl around the other man’s forefinger, the way one might test the strength of a rope before grasping it.

Ratio stilled in his tracks, that familiar warmth encompassing his hand again, traveling along his arm to settle in his chest. He reached for the chair he'd pushed away during the earlier confrontation and settled back down beside the bed. Back into the spot he’d occupied for the past sixteen hours, the past two days, since this relentless ordeal had begun.

Aventurine took an unsteady breath, then murmured, "You should've told me she was your teacher."

A pause. Then, quietly: "Would it have changed anything?"

His eyelids fluttered to meet Ratio’s eyes. "School must've been hell."

Ratio’s lips pulled into a small smile. "Quite."

Aventurine managed another weak chuckle. "Makes sense you’d become a demon teacher yourself..." His voice trailed off into a sigh, fingers brushing the slick edge of the regeneration patch.

"Ratio…" he wheezed out, forcing his heavy eyelids open to meet the doctor's watchful gaze. "I... I didn't want to hurt you…"

Ratio's scarlet eyes softened. "I know."

Aventurine shook his head weakly against the pillow. He blinked again, the effort to stay coherent immense. "You... you shouldn't have gone against her…"

Ratio's thumb stilled its circling. "It's not important."

"It is," Aventurine insisted, the words barely audible. He held Ratio's gaze, the last of his energy focused on this. "Let's hope... your gamble pays off in the end, doctor." There was no sarcasm in the title this time, only a desperate, fragile hope.

Ratio's eyes revealed a depth he rarely showed, the golden rings of his irises catching the sunset light seeping from the windows. "Sleep now, Aventurine," he urged, his voice gentle as a lullaby.

Aventurine's eyelids fluttered close. "...Will you... be there...?"

The answer came immediately, unflinching and incredibly close, a vow wrapped in simplicity.

"Whenever you need me."

Aventurine's fingers relaxed their hold on Ratio's, not letting go, but resting loosely within the doctor's secure grasp. For the first time in longer than he could remember, sleep didn't feel like falling into an abyss, but returning into a safe harbor. Consciousness receded like a tide, slowly and peacefully, revealing sands that were soft and warm.