You pushed through the double doors into the quiet hum of the waiting area Lucas had described. Your eyes scanned the hallway, your gaze snagging immediately on Nancy. She was standing by the reception desk, talking with a tired-looking nurse.

Then you saw him.

Mike.

He was slumped in one of the uncomfortable chairs a few feet away. His dark brown hair, usually falling boyishly over his forehead, was messy, as if he’d run his hands through it a hundred times too many. He looked…small.

It had only been a few months since you’d broken up, a decision made in the quiet aftermath of the last crisis, when the constant threat felt too heavy for both of you. But seeing him now, so vulnerable, so utterly broken, every reason for that split evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming ache of protectiveness and a desire to just hold him.

You took a hesitant step, then another, your sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor.

You stopped beside his chair, your shadow falling over him. He slowly, lifted his head, his brown eyes, usually so expressive, so full of idealism and fire, were now dull. They fixed on you, and for a long moment, he just stared, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face before it softened into something akin to weary recognition.

"Hey," you managed, your voice a little shaky. "Lucas called."

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible. He didn't ask why you were there, or what you were doing. He knew. You knew too much to not be here.

You knelt beside his chair. "How are your parents?"

His eyes fluttered, then squeezed shut for a moment before reopening. "They…they're okay. Just…banged up. Mom fought it. She actually…she fought it, and it ran." His voice cracked on the last word, and a single tear traced a path down his cheek. "But Holly… Holly's gone. It took her."

The words hung in the air, a cold, sharp blade. Holly. That innocent, bright little girl, swallowed by the darkness.