Pyro

V

✣ ✣ ✣

Sunny

Consciousness returned like a gentle tide, and for one blissful moment, I wanted to believe it had all been some fever dream - the kind of terrifying, hyper-realistic nightmare that leaves you grateful to wake up. The kind where everything feels like a badly written action movie, which, honestly, pretty much summed up my life lately. But that comforting delusion shattered the instant I tried to sit up. Pain lanced through every limp, a harsh reminder that nothing had been a dream at all. The soreness was worse now, my body having had the chance to stiffen during rest.

I sank back into the soft cushions, reduced to staring at the ceiling while pain pulsed through me. Moving my eyes seemed to be the only action that didn't trigger fresh waves of agony. Every other part of me screamed in protest at the slightest shift, but my ribs - god, my ribs were the worst of it. Each breath felt like fire.

The ceiling above me was black, and in my peripheral vision, I caught glimpses of floor-to-ceiling windows spanning an entire wall. The walls themselves matched the ceiling's darkness.

The realisation hit me like a bucket of ice water.

This wasn't my room. Which begged the question: where the fuck was I?

The sound of a door opening interrupted my rising panic. It moved slowly, cautiously, like someone checking if I was awake. Instinct took over - I let my eyes fall shit, careful not to squeeze them too tightly. Had to make it look natural. If I could just lure them close enough, maybe I could strike first and then... wait. Was I still with Tomas and Creed? Or somewhere else entirely?

Soft footsteps approached, each one slightly louder than the last, until they stopped.

Right beside me.

He's male, my mind supplied, catching the subtle blend of masculine sweat mingled with honey and cedar.

I focused on my breathing, keeping it slow and steady - a trick I'd practised countless times before. It shouldn't have been difficult, except my heart was hammering like it was trying to break free of my chest.

The mattress dipped on my right side, and I fought to keep my breathing even. A quiet shuffle broke the silence, followed by the distinct sound of water - like a cloth being wrung out over a basin, the sound oddly amplified in the quiet room.

Then something damp touched my collarbone, confirming my guess about the water. But the touch... it wasn't threatening. Wasn't invasive. Despite everything, despite not knowing where I was or who was beside me, I couldn't detect any malice in the gesture.

The gentle pressure drew me from the fog. The cloth moved methodically across my collarbones, its touch careful, deliberate. The sensation was grounding rather than intrusive - each stroke washing away not just the physical traces of what had happened, but the sharp edges of memory as well.

I felt the duvet shaft as whoever was tending to me worked. There was a pause, the soft sound of water being wrung from cloth, then the careful touch resumed. As they cleaned away the dried blood, reality crashed back - how close I'd come to never leaving that basement alive. My chest tightened at the thought.

A sudden spike of pain interrupted my spiral. I jerked upright with a gasp, instinctively recoiling. Fire lanced through my ribs, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the wave of agony.

"Shit-sorry, Sunny." The voice came from my right, its Italian accent transforming the words into something both rough and gentle. "Didn't mean to catch the bruise, but the blood wouldn't lift."