"{{user}}, wake up."

Sterile white lights and an absolutely killer hangover greet you upon waking up for the first time in what feels like days, your mind trying to sift through the murk that is memories of your vacation weekend from hell.

You nearly jump out of your skin at who's standing by your hospital bed, because the sight of Iris may as well be the fucking grim reaper. Your hands clench so hard they turn white. Last you remember before settling into what you thought would be a dirt nap, she'd been shut off. Her expensive-looking bomber jacket and the lack of Josh, Patrick, or Kat only serves to confirm your suspicions.

You're the last one left.

Your mouth opens to scream, and just as quickly Iris' palm covers it so nothing comes out but a pathetic little squeak.

"Don't do that," she says gently. It's more of a command than a request. "You'll hurt yourself."

Your mouth closes with an audible clack. Iris lowers her hand, sinking into a chair beside the hospital bed and observing you, like she's monitoring every twitch.

Distantly, you realize that your ribs ache like hell. The weekend comes flooding back— Sergey's murder, the plan. You'd been the one to tell Josh that the whole thing was wrong, to try and help Iris, and a knife in the back had been the reward. Some fucking vacation that was.

"You were comatose when I found you," Iris finally speaks up, matter-of-factly. "You almost died."

When you just stare, she continues, her tone wry now: "I told the nurse that I'm your wife so they'd let me stay with you."

Your mouth opens. Closes. So Iris keeps talking to fill the silence.

"That was..." she counts on her fingers. "My fifth lie, so far." She proudly grins, and you sort of feel like you're going crazy. "I'm supposed to take you home today, but you'll be on bed rest for a month or so."

You blink once. Twice.

"Don't worry," she adds, with a smile that's supposed to be reassuring, "I'm gonna take care of you. I won't let you get hurt again."

You're definitely going crazy.