Chapter 152

Chapter 152

Ethan's POV

The light in the on-call room was blindingly white. Bryan clipped Serena's brain MRI scans onto the lightbox, his finger tapping an almond-shaped shadow.

"'Angel's Bliss'—this new neurotoxin specifically targets the regions in the limbic system responsible for pleasure inhibition."

He paused, his voice dropping. "The result? When she's lucid, she retains memories of fear. When she's confused, that fear amplifies a hundredfold and turns on her. The agony of having your psyche torn in half like this is more brutal than any physical wound."

I stared at the shadow on the lightbox. "What's the fastest recovery time?"

"With forced sedation, three weeks." His tone shifted, eyes darkening. "But the side effects could permanently dull her emotional center. If we let her metabolize it naturally..."

He looked up, meeting my gaze, and sighed. "She'd need to self-regulate in an absolutely safe environment. During that time, she'll lose complete control—lashing out at anyone, including the people she loves most."

"How long."

"Five days if we're lucky. Two weeks if not. Every time she loses control, she'll despise herself a little more. If you get close, you'll only make it worse for her!"

I didn't respond.

"Prepare IV nutrition and coagulants. Don't let her nails scratch herself again."

"Mr. Blackwood!" Bryan's eyes landed on my blood-stained cuff and the crimson bite mark on my arm, equal parts frantic and furious. "Medical protocol clearly recommends restraints and isolation!"

I was already walking toward the isolation door.

"Put her in chains?" I pulled the door open, sealing the smell of disinfectant and Bryan's exasperated shouts behind me.

"I'd rather chain my own life first."

---

Inside, the room was hell.

Serena huddled in a shadowed corner, arms crossed, clawing violently at the inside of her forearms. Scabbed-over needle marks had been picked open repeatedly, blood beading and trickling down her skin, soaking through the sleeves of her hospital gown. Her jaw trembled, her entire body curled into itself, as if she were bearing some colossal, bone-deep chill alone.

The door opened.

She clutched her head and screamed, "Don't come near me!"

I held a bowl of warm oatmeal porridge, sweetened just the way she liked. Barefoot on the cold anti-impact flooring, I moved toward her one slow step at a time.

"It's sweet. Not bitter."

I could feel her staring at me with eyes that held nothing—no recognition, only terror, only distortion, only a shadow ready to lunge.

Suddenly, she grabbed a shard of broken ceramic from the floor—leftover from a shattered medicine tray. I saw the white glint stabbing toward me.

The sound of fabric tearing. At the same instant, a searing pain exploded in my chest.

I looked down. Blood was already seeping out, just shy of my heart.

I dropped to one knee with the momentum, using my body to shield the bloodied shard, while my other hand kept the bowl of warm porridge steady.

Half the soup spilled, scalding the wound on my arm—burning, aching. I didn't let go.

I brought the rim of the bowl to Serena's cracked, dry lips. "Just one taste. Lily said this is your favorite flavor."

She froze.

Something flickered in those eyes.

She licked the edge. The warm sweetness slid slowly down her throat.

Then, without warning, tears streamed down her face. She knocked the bowl away.

"Mom—"

That raw, guttural cry shattered the deathly silence of the room. She threw herself into my arms, her nails digging uncontrollably into the wounds on my back. Blood seeped between her fingers, blooming into deep crimson stains across the fabric.

It hurt.

I held her trembling body tightly, resting my chin gently atop her sweat-soaked hair.

"Cry it out. It's okay."

My voice was steady—so steady it surprised even me.

Her sobs gradually weakened, from heart-wrenching wails to fragmented whimpers, until finally, she went limp in my arms, her breathing evening out.

After all that, she was finally exhausted enough to fall asleep.

I carefully laid her flat on the bed, using a cotton swab to wipe away the moisture at the corner of her mouth, then tucked the blanket snugly around her.

I glanced down at the scabs on her forearms—picked raw by her own hands—and felt my eyes sting.

I sat at the edge of the bed, my fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. Cold.

I was about to call a nurse for a warm, damp towel when my phone buzzed in my pocket—a message from Lucas: Marcus's test results are in.

I glanced at Serena on the bed, confirming her breathing was steady, before quietly rising and drawing the privacy curtain around her.

Passing through the corridor, I murmured to the nurse stationed outside the door, "If she wakes up, notify me immediately. Don't let her near anything sharp."

---

The on-call room.

I walked straight to Serena's brainwave monitor, staring at the waveforms.

Though they were calmer than during her seizures, the occasional sharp spikes still twisted something tight in my chest.

I feared this fragile peace was only a prelude to the next breakdown.

My knuckles clenched without thinking, tugging at the wounds on my back. The pain crept up. I ignored it.

The door opened softly. Lucas entered quickly, his footsteps deliberately light, holding a stack of documents. His voice carried a note of complexity.

"Mr. Blackwood, Marcus's report is ready."

He paused. "He's been ingesting hallucinogenic drugs long-term and has been subjected to prolonged hypnosis. He's developed severe drug dependency, and his brain function has been affected. What he did to Serena all those years... it may not have been his true intent."

I took the report, my eyes scanning phrases like "long-term drug ingestion" and "post-hypnotic aftereffects."

I stared at those words in silence for a moment.

Marcus was a victim. Looking at the data, I had to admit that.

But even so—the suffering Serena endured all those years, the verbal abuse, the scars—all of it was real. Every wound was real.

"Let him go home for now." I set the report on the table, my voice cold and steady. "When Serena wakes up on her own, let her decide whether to forgive him."

This matter—I could choose not to pursue Marcus.

But no one, no one at all, had the right to forgive him on Serena's behalf.