Souls Through Time (EzioxOC/DesmondxOC)

Chapter 13- Claire

The safe house was a small, nondescript cottage tucked deep within the dense woods just beyond Syracuse. It sat hidden off a forgotten dirt road, nearly swallowed by thick trees and overgrown bushes, a place designed to be invisible. The Assassins had planned for emergencies like this, and though the cottage felt like a refuge, it was one of isolation—its thick walls and blacked-out windows offering safety but also a sense of confinement that weighed heavily on the occupants.

Inside, the safe house held only the bare essentials: a few narrow beds, a tiny kitchen equipped with just enough supplies to sustain them, a sparse living room with battered armchairs, and a cramped bathroom where the ancient shower groaned in protest every time it was turned on. The air was tinged with the musty smell of old wood, mingling with the faint metallic scent of medical supplies they'd brought in for Desmond. It was a place of utility, a temporary sanctuary, yet it felt like the walls were closing in, each hour adding to the tension.

In the dim light of the small room where Desmond lay, Claire sat beside him, her gaze lingering on the lines of his face. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, his skin pale and almost translucent in the dim glow from the hallway. She could see the faint hollows forming in his cheeks, the outline of his bones sharper than they'd been a week ago. Her chest tightened as she realized how much weight he'd lost, each subtle change a testament to the toll the past week had taken.

Her pulse quickened, a surge of panic clawing up her throat as the full weight of her oversight hit her. A week had slipped by with nothing but basic hydration. She'd thought she could keep him stable, that there'd be time to work out the details. But looking at him now, she knew how wrong she'd been. The lack of TPN was starving his body in slow, merciless increments, and she hadn't even noticed until now.

She immediately dove into research, her fingers flying over the keyboard, scanning medical forums and reference materials on coma care, her mind racing as each page confirmed her worst fears. TPN wasn't just supplemental—it was vital for anyone in his condition, and she'd missed it. A chill settled over her as she took in the symptoms associated with a lack of nutritional support in a comatose patient: muscle wasting, electrolyte imbalances, severe weight loss. She felt the sharp pang of guilt twisting in her stomach as the reality of her oversight sank in.

She shut her laptop with a shaky breath, running a hand through her hair as she grappled with the enormity of what she needed to do.

As Claire paced the living room, her mind buzzing with worry, the air felt thin, her thoughts crowding in on her all at once. She clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling the panic rise in her chest, a vise-like grip she hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't just about Desmond's decline—it was the guilt, the feeling that she'd failed him in the most basic way. Her breath quickened, her throat tightening as the quiet surroundings felt like they were closing in on her.

She slipped away into the small bedroom they'd assigned her, shutting the door softly and leaning against it, willing herself to breathe. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering beneath her palm. She closed her eyes, her mind racing as she fought to regain control, focusing on the distant hum of the safe house's generator, the muted murmur of voices in the living room—reminders of her surroundings, of the fact that she wasn't alone.

After a few moments, she felt her heartbeat begin to settle, her breaths gradually evening out. She ran a hand over her face, forcing herself to ground her thoughts, to focus on the task at hand. When her mind felt somewhat steadier, she straightened, gathering her resolve.

She opened her duffle bag and pulled out her darker gear—a tactical outfit she hadn't worn since her last field mission. She changed into a form-fitting black top, laced in the front and tight enough to keep her movements unrestricted, and pants reinforced with leather panels and pockets for her tools and weapons. Each buckle, each strap was fastened with meticulous precision. She pulled on fingerless gloves and laced up her boots, the familiar feeling grounding her, pulling her fully into mission mode.