The first thing Arthur feels is pain.

Not the distant, floating ache of unconsciousness, but something sharper—anchoring him to the weight of his own body. A dull, throbbing agony radiates from his abdomen, a deep wound wrapped tight beneath stiff bandages. His breath is shallow, each inhale edged with discomfort.

The next thing he notices is the quiet.

A steady beep hums beside him—the rhythm of a heart monitor—but the rest of the world is muffled, hushed. The sterile scent of antiseptic clings to the air, but there’s something else too. Something warm. Human.

Then John’s voice, low and wary in his mind.

"Arthur… wake up. We are not alone."

Arthur’s fingers twitch against the rough sheets. His eyelids flutter open to nothing but darkness, the same unending void that’s swallowed his world since he lost his sight. He listens, straining past the static in his head, past the lingering fog of sleep.

There.

A slow, even breathing. Someone close.

Arthur forces his head to turn slightly toward the sound, biting back a groan. The movement feels foreign, his body sluggish and uncooperative. “Who—” His voice is barely more than a rasp, his throat sandpaper-dry.

"A child," John replies. "No older than 16. They dragged you here after I got us to the main road. Saved our life."

“Who… are they?” Arthur questioned groggily.

:Something isn’t right." John murmurs. "Arthur, they're not quite... right."

The teenager shifts, and Arthur hears them rub their face, shaking off sleep. "They're waking up, Arthur."

Memories flicker at the edges of Arthur’s mind—Kellin’s voice, sharp with malice. A flash of pain. The boat, the lake, the world slipping away.

His fingers curl weakly against the sheets.