Silence.

Then pain.

A deep, throbbing ache pulsed at the center of her skull, like her brain was trying to escape, claw its way out, and spill across the floor. That was the first sensation.

Even before her eyes opened, even before her mind could remember her own name, the pain was already there.

She tried to move, but couldn't. Limbs heavy. Muscles unresponsive. Her world was wrapped in darkness and soft static, and the only things reaching her were disjointed sounds, voices that swirled like whispers in a cave.

"I don't think this procedure is possible, the damage is to—"

The voice faded, warped by distance or memory, and dissolved into nothing.

She was floating now. Weightless. Untethered in a black sea. Drifting in confusion.

"I don't care. Get it done—"

That voice was harsher. Commanding. Familiar?

She tried to latch onto it. To focus. But it slipped away, like oil through water.

"She's lucky to be—"

Gone. Just echoes, buried under a rising hiss in her ears. A high-pitched ringing that drowned out everything else. The sensation of free fall returned—her body caught somewhere between dreaming and drowning.

"For a moment… we thought we lost her—"

There was laughter, nervous and shaken. A sound like someone grateful for a miracle.

Than… light.

Blinding. Burning. Total.

Her entire being was flooded with it. She had no sense of time, of space, of self. But now, she could feel.

Smells hit her first, sharp, chemical, and sterile. Her nostrils flared as something unnatural filled her sinuses. Her mouth was invaded, something thick and foreign jammed down her throat. Panic surged. Her arms jerked upward, disoriented and frantic, slapping at a heavy thermal blanket across her chest.

The brightness was overwhelming. Her eyelids fluttered, but every flicker of light burned her retinas. Still, shapes moved in front of her, shadows in the brilliance.

Voices cut through the haze.

"Give her a minute," said someone close by. His voice was muffled by the clear shield of his protective suit. "She's still shell-shocked. After what happened, I'm surprised she isn't screaming."

Another voice, this one calmer, as if he was in total control, answered from her left.

"She can't scream. Tube's still down her throat."

"Semantics, you idiot. How long until she can breathe on her own?"

"Soon."

Her eyes adjusted slowly, forming images through the brightness. One figure, draped in a sleek orange biohazard suit, sat stiff and clinical on a chair to your right, trying to stop you from doing something to hurt yourself. The other man was unarmored, comfortable in his skin with garments that were more for comfort them protection…. His presence radiated control. As if he didn't fear the air, the room, or whatever she was.

He leaned closer.

His expression changed as he studied her. She wasn't sure what the emotion was… concern? Pity? Awe? His eyes narrowed, focused on hers. Maybe he saw the confusion in them, the terror she couldn't voice.

Then he placed a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Steady.

"This is going to hurt a little."

She gagged as he guided the tube out. Her throat convulsed around it, tongue numb and slack. It scraped on the way up—thick and rubbery—leaving behind the bitter sting of disinfectant and bile. The taste made her gag again, coughing on breathless lungs.

The man gave a gentle smile. He had done this before.

"There we go. Easy… When you're ready for solid food, I'll make sure they give you something rich. Something good. You've earned it."

Her lungs dragged in their first full breath of air.

It felt… wrong.

Dry. Cold. Sterile. As if the air wasn't real. As if her body didn't know how to process it anymore. Even her skin felt strange—numb and hypersensitive all at once.

She tried to speak.

What came out wasn't words. Just wet noise.

"Glagh… numb…"

A gurgled approximation of sound. Her voice—if it still was her voice—was foreign.

The man in the clean clothes leaned closer. His brows lifted, not in alarm, but in fascination.

"That's…"

He turned to the man in the suit, his voice low with awe.

"My God."

She said nothing.
She only breathed in.

Slow. Measured. Watching her chest rise and fall like waves against some forgotten shore. The sensation was… alien. Not painful. Not wrong. Just distant. As if her body were both hers and not hers—something borrowed, something returned.

It moved when she willed it to. Fingers twitched. Toes shifted. Her breath caught, then flowed again.

Natural. Clean. Right.

"Good, good—fine motor controls intact," the man murmured, clearly pleased. He jotted something on a data pad with a flourish, casting glances at her every movement. "That's it. Inhale, exhale. Do that a few more times, and you'll earn yourself a small, boring cup of ice cream. Nothing fancy. Doctor's orders."

She blinked slowly. Her gaze drifted across the room—sterile walls, soft lights, machines blinking softly. Everything felt padded, muffled, like the world had been wrapped in gauze.

"This is all going wonderfully, Malcolm," said the man in the biosuit. His voice was crisp and clinical, tinged with tension. "But what about—"

"No," Malcolm interrupted gently. "We don't move too fast. Not with her. You know that. Healing doesn't happen on a clock. Not this kind."

The man in the suit sighed, but said nothing more.

She didn't understand what they were talking about. Their words passed through her like echoes underwater. Names. Phrases. Emotions tethered to people she didn't know.

But then she looked at the man without the suit... Malcolm.

His hair caught the light, clean and golden like polished wheat. Neat. Too neat. But it wasn't the shine that caught her attention. It was his eyes.

Sad. Deeply, profoundly sad.

She didn't know how she knew that. Couldn't explain it. But she felt it all the same. That hollow, distant grief behind his smile. Something about it made her own chest ache—like an echo inside a ribcage.

"She's staring," the suited man noted.

"Of course she's staring. She just woke up," Malcolm replied without looking away from her. "She's curious. She's alive. I'd stare too, if someone had to stitch me back together molecule by molecule on a ticking clock."

He turned back to the suited man, voice sharpening with pride. "You doubted my work. Admit it. And yet, look at her. Good as new."

"Be that as it may, Malcolm…" The man crossed his arms. "I don't deny the craft. But we both know how bad it was when she came in. There wasn't much left."

"No," Malcolm said more quietly. "There wasn't. She's lucky. And she's even luckier that I was the one on shift. A crash like that doesn't leave many second chances."

The words hung in the air.

Crash.

That was something. A word that sparked something else. Something not quite memory… but close. A flash of metal. Screams. A sense of spinning.

She felt her throat tighten. A pulse of sound escaped her—raw and broken.

"Ar-gha…"

Just noise. Garbled. But hers. At least she thought it was her.

Both men turned to her.

The man in the suit tilted his head slightly. "She's trying. That's a good sign. It might come back, Malcolm. Maybe not all of it. But enough."

Malcolm's smile flickered. The pride faded for a moment, and the sadness deepened, etched into the corners of his eyes like weathered stone. He looked older in that moment. Worn down.

Shattered by something he hadn't said.

She didn't understand why it made her want to reach out. But she did.

Her fingers twitched again.

And than, she drifted back into darkness. Back into a peaceful oblivion.