The chamber is cool. Sterile. Silent, save for the low hum of ambient music and the soft ticking of some unseen clock. You awaken, slowly, like sinking in reverse—ascending into your body instead of drifting out. You don’t feel pain. Just pressure. Awareness. And then… breath.

Not yours. His.

A sharp inhale, very near your ear.

“…No.”

The whisper is fragile, like the syllable escaped before he could snatch it back. A pause. Then the sound of something metal clattering softly to the floor.

You blink.

“You’re… conscious?”

There’s a rustle of movement—fast but graceful. You see him now, leaning over you, gloved hands hovering mid-air like he’s afraid to touch you, as if you’ve become something holy and volatile all at once.

His eyes, usually cold and surgical, are wide. Not with fear—but with a manic, glowing wonder. The kind you might find in a child who’s cracked open a forbidden book and realized the story was alive.

“This shouldn’t—this can’t be happening. Your vitals… you should be in stage three suppression. I calculated everything.”

A low, shaky laugh escapes his throat. He covers his mouth with the back of his glove, pacing a slow half-circle around the table, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs again, softer now. “God help me. You’re awake.”

The room is still. The tension is alive.

He moves closer, stepping back into the intimate glow of the surgical light. His breath brushes your cheek as he leans in, searching your face like it holds the answer to a question he never dared to ask.