Alive

17

━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━━
~~~~~~⚫️Chapter 17⚫️~~~~~~
━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━

━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━━

As my father's words settled over me, an uneasy question rose to the surface. Why had Koda been looking for me? We hardly knew each other. Our lives had barely intersected; we'd met once, at a party, a memory that was hazy at best. I remembered flashes of laughter, warmth, his hands on my body. But beyond that night, I had no clear memory of him... or what had happened afterward.

I shifted, feeling the weight of the question tugging at me, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. Why would Koda, of all people, go through such lengths just to find me? The uncertainty left me feeling unsettled, a strange ache tightening in my chest. I glanced at my father, as if hoping for some answer in his expression, but he seemed distracted, his gaze lingering on me with a new intensity.

"Aisha..." His voice was quieter, hesitant in a way that felt unfamiliar. "What happened to you?"

I blinked, feeling the weight of the question settle over me. "I... I don't really know," I admitted, looking down at my hands. I could still feel the unfamiliar power thrumming beneath my skin, the strange energy that seemed both a part of me and something entirely alien. "I just... woke up like this."

My father's gaze traveled to my hair, his brow furrowing. "Your hair... it wasn't like this before." His voice held a note of something unreadable, a mixture of concern and... was it fear? He gestured toward my hair, the wild tangle of fiery red that framed my face, so unlike the darker curls I'd once known.

I swallowed, unsure how to explain. I didn't understand it myself. The red hair, the strength, the strange instincts that felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. Slowly, I lifted my arms, letting him see the angry red veins that ran up my skin, pulsing faintly beneath the surface like glowing embers.

His expression shifted, a flash of something that felt cold, distant. He took a small step back, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. "You... you're one of them."

The words hit me like a slap, a sudden, unexpected sting that left me breathless. One of them. He was talking about the infected, the creatures that had turned this world into a nightmare. I felt a pang of hurt as his words settled over me, the look in his eyes a painful reminder that I was different now—no longer entirely human in his eyes.

"I..." I stammered, my voice faltering. "I don't think I'm like them. I'm still me... aren't I?"

But my father's expression remained guarded, the warmth that had been there moments ago replaced by a wary distance. "I'm not sure, Aisha," he said slowly, his tone careful, almost clinical. "Whatever changed you... it's not something I understand. And I don't know if it's something I can trust."

The words stung, each one cutting deeper than I'd expected. I wanted to argue, to tell him that I was still the same, that I hadn't lost who I was. But a part of me wondered if maybe he was right. I didn't fully understand what had happened to me, didn't even know if I could control it. And that thought was enough to send a chill down my spine.

My father took a step back, his gaze flickering away from me. "I'll get someone to show you to a place where you can rest," he said, his voice distant, detached. "You've been through a lot. You should get some sleep."

The coldness in his tone left me feeling hollow, a heavy ache settling in my chest. "I... I don't feel tired," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't respond, only nodding slightly before turning away, signaling to one of the others nearby. A woman with a wary expression approached, her eyes flickering to the red veins on my arms before quickly looking away. I tried not to flinch at the look, tried not to let the hurt show on my face. But the truth was, I felt like I was drifting, caught between the person I used to be and something unknown, something my father—my own father—couldn't trust.

"Come on," the woman said, her voice clipped as she gestured for me to follow. I cast one last look at my father, hoping for some sign of reassurance, a hint of warmth in his eyes. But he didn't look back, his gaze fixed on the ground, as if he couldn't bear to meet my eyes.

I followed the woman, feeling a strange emptiness settle over me. I didn't feel tired, not even remotely. But I couldn't shake the weight pressing down on me, the ache that came with realizing that whatever I had become, I was now something my father could barely bring himself to look at.

As we walked, my thoughts drifted back to Koda, to the way he'd looked at me with that teasing smirk, as if nothing had changed, as if he saw me, really saw me. I didn't understand why he'd gone to such lengths to find me, didn't know what had driven him to endure everything he had. But in that moment, the memory of his easy grin, his infuriating jokes, felt like the one steady thing I could hold onto.

I sat alone in the small, dim room, the shadows pooling around me as I tried to process the whirlwind of emotions twisting in my chest. I barely registered the coldness of the place, my thoughts spiraling as I remembered the look in my father's eyes, the way he had backed away, the wary edge in his voice. My heart ached, the pain raw and cutting as the reality sank in: whatever I'd become, it was something he couldn't bring himself to trust.

Slowly, I looked down at my arms, at the red veins that pulsed faintly beneath my skin. My fingers moved over the bullet wounds, lingering on each one with a mixture of shock and confusion. They were still there, small, painful reminders of the chaos I'd just survived. The wounds were deep, yet there was no blood, no throbbing pain—just a dull, unnatural ache. Hesitantly, I pressed against one, wincing as I felt the hard edge of the bullet lodged inside me.

Biting down a gasp, I started prying at the wound, my fingers digging painfully into the flesh. Tears stung my eyes, but I forced myself to keep going, the need to feel something—anything—overwhelming the discomfort. Just as I managed to pull at the metal, I sensed a presence by the doorway. I looked up, my vision blurred, and saw Koda leaning against the frame, his gaze fixed on me, his expression surprisingly serious.

For a moment, he just watched me, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. Then, without a word, he stepped into the room, crossing over to me with a steady, deliberate stride. He reached out, gently brushing a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand, his touch unexpectedly tender. I wanted to look away, to hide the vulnerability I felt, but he held my gaze, his eyes softer than I'd ever seen them.

Koda lifted a small, pointed metal tool in his hand, showing it to me with a hint of grim determination. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice low, grounding. He placed his hand over my chest, just above one of the wounds, his touch firm but careful as he positioned the tool. I winced, bracing myself, as he started prying at the bullet lodged in my skin.

The pain was sharp, but strangely muted, more of a sting than the excruciating agony it should have been. I bit my lip, trying to keep still, though a hiss of pain slipped through my teeth. Koda worked with surprising patience, his gaze focused, his hand steady. For the first time, I saw him without the teasing, the bravado. He was just... here, helping me, without any hint of sarcasm or mockery.