Trauma Bond | SOLDIER BOY

❝𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚❞

Belle sat alone in her hospital room, the sterile air thick with the oppressive quiet. Her wheelchair rested near the bed, casting a shadow in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. The vial of Compound V trembled in her hand, its blue liquid glimmering ominously. Her heart raced—this was her one chance, her desperate hope to feel powerful, to escape the prison of her broken body.

She fumbled with the syringe, her fingers slick with sweat, trembling as she drew the V into the needle. She had seen enough, heard enough stories to know that this was a dangerous gamble, but she didn't care. Anything had to be better than being trapped in this frail, aching body. Belle stared at the needle for a long moment, her breath hitching in her throat.

In one swift motion, she plunged the syringe into her thigh, biting down hard on the pillow. A scream built in her chest, but she swallowed it down, her teeth gnashing into the fabric as the fire spread through her veins. The pain hit her like a tidal wave—molten lava searing every nerve, every fiber of her being. It felt like she was being torn apart from the inside, her blood replaced with acid, her muscles screaming in agony. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself to stay silent, her whole body convulsing as she rode through the pain. The pillow muffled the sound of her labored breath, of her frantic gasps.

Minutes passed, each second an eternity, and the fire finally ebbed. But her heart still pounded like thunder, her skin slick with sweat as her body adjusted, trembling. Her mind buzzed with adrenaline and something else—something foreign, creeping in.

Then she saw him.

The air in the room shifted, growing eerily still. Belle's breath hitched as her gaze fixed on a figure standing in the corner, where just moments ago there had been nothing. Matthew. Her father. His familiar features were bathed in the soft light spilling through the window, his dark hair neatly swept back, his youthful face untouched by the illness that had claimed him. He didn't look sick. He looked just like the old photos that sat on her mother's mantel—strong, handsome, and alive.

Belle's mouth went dry. Her hand gripped the bedsheet, her fingers clenching so hard her knuckles went white. "Dad?" she whispered, her voice cracking. The word barely left her lips, hanging in the air like a fragile breath.

Matthew said nothing. He simply stood there, his eyes soft and full of love, the way they used to be before everything went wrong. Before he got sick, before he disappeared from her life. It was like he had stepped out of a dream, perfect and untouched by the ravages of time.

Belle's heart ached. She wanted to run to him, but her legs felt like dead weight. The room was so quiet, she could hear the blood pounding in her ears. Was this real? Was it the V, or was it her mind, playing cruel tricks on her?

"Dad?" she whispered again, her voice trembling.

Matthew's gaze never left hers, a bittersweet smile curling at the edges of his lips. Then, without a word, he slowly began to fade, like a specter retreating into the shadows. Belle's breath caught in her throat as she watched him slip away, her hand stretching toward him instinctively, but it was too late. He was gone.