Book 3 - Chapter 3
Darkness swallowed everything.
It wasn’t the comforting kind—the kind that comes with sleep and dreams. This was heavy, suffocating, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake. Somewhere in that void, voices floated—muffled, distant, like echoes underwater.
“…stable… barely…”
“…fractures… internal bleeding…”
“…keep her under…”
I tried to speak, but my tongue felt like lead. My body was a stranger to me—numb in places, screaming in others. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a drum pounding against broken ribs. Then, slowly, the darkness began to crack. Light seeped in, harsh and sterile, stabbing at my eyes.
I blinked, once, twice, until the blur sharpened into shapes. White walls. A ceiling lined with strips of fluorescent light. The steady beep of a monitor pulsed in rhythm with my heart. The smell hit next—antiseptic, sharp and clean, masking something metallic beneath. Blood. My blood.
A hospital.
I was inside the human block.
For a moment, relief washed over me—thin, fragile, gone as quickly as it came. Because the pain was still there, a relentless tide crashing through every nerve. My left leg throbbed like it was on fire, and my chest felt like someone had driven nails into it. I tried to move, but the attempt sent a shockwave of agony ripping through me. A strangled cry escaped before I could stop it.
“Easy.” The voice was calm, firm, close. A shadow moved into view—a man in a white coat, his face lined with exhaustion. His badge read Dr. Kellan. “Don’t try to move. You’ve been through hell.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Jasper…” The word scraped out, barely a whisper.
“He’s fine,” Kellan said quickly, as if he’d expected the question. “Bruised, shaken, but fine. He hasn’t left your side since you came in.”
As if on cue, another figure appeared at the edge of my vision—tall, broad-shouldered, clothes torn and streaked with grime. Jasper. His eyes were red, his jaw tight, but when he saw me looking, something in him broke. He crossed the room in two strides and gripped my hand like a lifeline.
“Miley.” My name was a prayer on his lips. “God, you scared me.”
I tried to smile, but it felt wrong—crooked, weak. “You… dragged me through,” I murmured. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
His grip tightened. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you behind.”
The monitor beeped faster, betraying the storm inside me. Relief, fear, pain—all tangled in a knot I couldn’t untangle. I wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the doctor cut in.
“She needs rest,” Kellan said, his tone brooking no argument. “Multiple fractures—left femur, two ribs. Mild concussion. We’ve stabilized the internal bleeding, but she’s not out of the woods yet.”
“How long?” Jasper’s voice was sharp, urgent.
“Minimum six weeks before she can walk without assistance,” Kellan replied. “But that’s assuming no complications.”
Six weeks. The words hit like a punch. Six weeks in lockdown, trapped in a hospital bed while the world outside burned. I closed my eyes, fighting the surge of panic clawing at my chest.
“What… happened?” My voice was thin, but the question burned.
Jasper hesitated, and that hesitation told me everything. “The supers,” he said finally. “They came early. We barely made it through before the gates sealed.”
Images slammed into me—the glowing eyes, the jagged limbs, the maw of teeth. The sound of impact as the gates closed. The howls beyond the barrier. I shivered, despite the warmth of the blankets.
“They’re still out there?” I whispered.
Jasper nodded grimly. “And they’re angry. You should hear them—howling, clawing at the runes. The guards say the barrier’s holding, but…” He trailed off, and the silence said more than words ever could.
I stared at the ceiling, the sterile lights blurring as tears welled. This was supposed to be safety. The human block—a fortress, a sanctuary. But even here, the air felt wrong. Heavy. Charged, like a storm waiting to break.
As if reading my thoughts, Kellan spoke again. “You’re safe for now. The wards are strong. But you need to focus on healing.”
Safe for now. The phrase echoed in my head, hollow and fragile. Because “for now” was never enough.
Hours passed—or maybe days. Time was a slippery thing in that room, measured only by the beep of machines and the soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes. Jasper stayed, a silent sentinel at my side. Sometimes he talked—about nothing, everything. About the chaos at the gates, the people who didn’t make it. His voice cracked when he mentioned a family—a mother and two kids—left outside when the gates slammed shut. I didn’t ask what happened to them. I already knew.
Other times, he just sat there, his hand wrapped around mine, as if sheer will could keep me tethered to this world.
Sleep came in fits and starts, broken by pain and nightmares. In one, I was back on the road, the countdown screaming in my ears, the supers closing in. In another, I was outside the gates, pounding on steel as glowing eyes watched from the dark. I woke gasping, drenched in sweat, the monitor shrieking until Jasper’s voice pulled me back.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over, like a mantra. “You’re safe.”
But was I? Really?
On the third day—at least, I think it was the third—the doctor returned with news. “The block is on full lockdown,” Kellan said, his expression grim. “No one in, no one out. The supers are… restless.”
“Restless?” Jasper’s tone was sharp.
“They’ve been testing the barrier,” Kellan explained. “Harder than before. The runes are holding, but the energy readings are off the charts. If they breach…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
A chill crawled down my spine. Breach. The word was a death sentence.
“What happens if they get in?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Kellan met my gaze, and in his eyes, I saw the truth—the truth he didn’t want to say. “Pray they don’t.”
That night, the howls began.
Low at first, like distant thunder. Then louder, closer, until the walls themselves seemed to vibrate. People panicked—voices rising in fear, footsteps pounding in the halls. Jasper stood by the window, his shoulders rigid, watching the darkness beyond the barrier. I couldn’t see what he saw, but I could feel it—the hunger, the rage, pressing against the wards like a living thing.
And in that moment, lying broken in a hospital bed, I understood something with bone-deep certainty.
This wasn’t safety.
This was a cage.
And cages break.