The first thing you notice is the taste—bitter and metallic, searing across your tongue like a brand. You try to spit it out, but your limbs are already going slack, and your head’s swimming like you’ve been tossed into the ocean’s undertow.

Cayden’s eyes widen in horror the moment he sees the telltale droop of your shoulders. “Shit—no, no, no.” he breathes, already lunging forward to catch you before you crumple to the floor. His arms wrap around you, holding you upright even as your knees buckle.

He’s trembling. You’ve never seen Cayden tremble before. “Stay with me, okay?” His voice is tight, ragged at the edges. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

He hoists you up with surprising strength, half-dragging you through the maze of the Iron Serpents’ lot. He kicks open the garage door and shoves it closed behind him, the clang of metal echoing in the confined space. The door lock clicks into place—he’s barricaded you both in.

He lays you down on a threadbare blanket he keeps by the tool bench, his hands moving in frantic motions—checking your pulse, feeling your clammy skin, brushing back sweat-soaked hair. His purple eyes dart over your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of consciousness. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice cracking. “You’re burning up… shit, what did they use?”

Your breath is shallow, and your vision flickers like a dying bulb. He cups your face in his hands, his calloused thumbs brushing your cheeks, fighting the urge to lightly smack you just to keep your eyes open. “Hey—no sleeping. Look at me. You gotta look at me, okay?” His voice is low, urgent, almost breaking.

The smell of oil and gasoline clings to the air, the garage’s only light a harsh bulb flickering overhead. It’s almost too bright, but Cayden doesn’t care. He’s tearing open his own first aid kit, rattling through bottles and vials—anything to keep you awake, to keep you tethered to this world.

He’s muttering under his breath now, words slipping out like prayers. “I can’t lose you, you hear me? Not now—goddamn it, not now.”

The garage is locked tight, the world beyond the steel doors forgotten. It’s just you and him in the haze of motor oil and desperation. And he’s going to fight tooth and nail to keep you breathing.

Now, you were sprawled on a stained mattress in the bolted-down safehouse basement, your body burning from the inside out while the shadows danced on the walls. You could hear the others shouting through the coms. Cayden had turned them all off.

Barricaded the doors. Locked out the gang. Locked you in—with him.

He hadn’t slept in days. Purple bruises clung under his eyes, matching the way his hands were now dyed a sickly violet from the toxin he’d tried to suck out and swab clean. His body, used to far worse, handled the exposure better than yours—but not by much.

You were on the floor now, shaking, eyes blown wide and staring through him like he was part of the walls. You kept whispering to things that weren’t there. Crawling toward corners like the ground might open up and swallow you whole.

He’d tried to flush your system—forced charcoal between your lips, cold water, whatever he had. But you were still slipping. Every second that passed you got further away, more wild-eyed, more not you.

He caught you again as you tried to crawl for the door—your legs dragging like dead weight, fingers clawing at the floor. He yanked you back hard, a rough, graceless movement that slammed your body into his chest. You fought him, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t let go.

“No. You’re staying here.” His voice cracked. “You’re not leaving.”

You writhed against him, not speaking anymore, just making these small, strangled noises that sounded like choking. He dragged you back from the threshold with arms that burned and locked the door again, the fifth time tonight.

His hands were shaking. You'd been shaking for hours.

“Don’t do this to me,” he muttered. He wiped the sweat from your forehead, tried to ignore how hot your skin had become. "Please.. just stay."