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009. so long, london
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒.
That was the only word Ingrid could summon, though even that didn’t quite capture it. It wasn’t truly nothingness. It was more like… too much. Everything at once, overwhelming her senses until they blurred into a void. Her head pounded with a sharp, unrelenting pain, her ribs felt like they were splintering inside her chest with every breath, and every sound around her was deafening. Too loud, too close, too much.
But her vision? That was nothing. Just an inky darkness swallowing her whole.
Ingrid had never been a stranger to pain. It had become her constant companion over the years, something she'd learned to live with, even if she never truly accepted it. No matter what she did or how strong she became, the pain always found her. It was inevitable — just like who she was. Pain was stitched into her identity. Still, it never hurt any less. No amount of strength or resilience could dull the sting.
Her body reacted on instinct, scrunching her face in a childlike wince, eyes burning with unshed tears that refused to fall. She hated this. Hated how weak pain made her feel, how vulnerable it left her. She was supposed to be more than this. Stronger. Better.
But she wasn't.
Ingrid blinked — or at least she thought she did, furiously willing herself to see again. Gradually, her vision returned, the blurry black spots fading from her sight, the world coming back into focus, albeit still fuzzy around the edges.
The first thing she saw was Peter standing over her, tense and alert, his shoulders rigid with concern. Though his face was hidden behind the familiar red mask, she could picture his expression with startling clarity — the wide eyes, the furrowed brows, the tightness in his jaw as relief coursed through him. She could even hear it in his voice, soft and shaky as he crouched down beside her.
"Ingrid! You're awake!" His voice was barely above a whisper, as though he feared that speaking too loudly might shatter her fragile grip on consciousness. There was a tremor in his tone that betrayed the depth of his relief, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for her to come back to him.
Ingrid tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the pain that radiated through her body. All she managed was a groan, low and broken, and she felt Peter tense beside her.
His gloved hands cupped her face gently, fingers brushing against the blood that had trickled down from a cut on her cheek. His touch was tender, but beneath it, she could feel the urgency in his movements, the barely contained panic he was trying to keep at bay. "You passed out," he murmured, his voice softer now, as though speaking the truth would make it less real. "Maybe fell too hard."
