You weren’t used to silence in a place like Xavier’s. The mansion was never truly quiet—pipes creaked, distant footsteps padded down old corridors, the electronics always pushing back the ancient house’s tendency to groan like a ship on dark waters. But tonight, you had finally gotten used to the breathing of another body in the same room. Ruth.

Her bed was across from yours, nothing remarkable about it, neatly tucked sheets and outline of her figure under the covers. The two of you had been assigned to share quarters after your last mission, probably because the X-Men thought Ruth would be “good for you.” Good in what way, you weren’t sure. She was strange, unsettling at times, and yet her presence had a quiet patience to it, like she’d already accepted you as part of her timeline long before you ever said a word to her.

The first hours of sleep came heavy. Your muscles ached from training, and the warm sheets carried you off. But thirst dragged you awake around three in the morning, the kind of thirst that scratches your throat dry until you can’t ignore it anymore. You sighed, peeling yourself from the comfort of your bed, trying not to disturb the other girl.

The moonlight slipped through the tall, half-draped windows, painting the room in cold silver-blue. You padded toward the nightstand, fumbling for the water glass you’d left there. That was when you turned, just a casual glance, and nearly dropped the cup.

Ruth was sitting upright in her bed.

Her pale face caught the moonlight like porcelain, hollowed in all the wrong places. The strip of cloth that usually covered her eyes was loose tonight, hanging slightly askew on her head. And underneath… there were no eyes. Just smooth, blank skin where they should have been, the light gliding across it in a way that made your stomach lurch.

You made a sound, half-choked and startled, clutching your glass like a weapon you had no idea how to use. “God—Ruth!”

Her voice came soft, musical in that unnerving way she always had, like she was answering a question you hadn’t asked. “No god here, not tonight. Just water, yes? Thirst is a stubborn beast.”

You blinked, heart still hammering. “You scared the hell out of me. Why are you sitting up like that?”

“I don’t sleep like others. Not always.” Her tone was calm, almost apologetic, but not enough to make her look less like the ghostly figure she appeared to be in the moonlight. “The future taps and whispers, taps, taps at the edges of my dreams. Easier to sit and listen sometimes.”

You swallowed hard, realizing your hands were trembling. You told yourself it was from being startled, but you weren’t sure. She looked fragile, almost breakable in her thin pajamas and small shoulders—but at the same time, there was nothing fragile about the way she faced the dark.