Broken Hands

92. Numb again

Grayson couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd had a truly restful night's sleep. It felt like the older he got, the harder finding peace in his sleep was. Last night had been no different, the nightmare was horrific so much that it caused him to puke, he knew he would have to check in with his therapist later, the night was long after Hera left, He could hum the rhythm of the crickets, on the perfect pitch, he couldn't do more than listen and memorize, trying to find sleep in the process but to no avail.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, he barely recognized the person staring back at him. Messy raven locks framed his pale face, he'd long given up trying to tame them. The locks hung freely, unruly, and indifferent to his attempts at normalcy. He adjusted his tie with slow, fumbling movements, his fingers shaky as he tried to pull himself together for the day.

Today marked the start of exams—a day he would rather avoid. If it were up to him, he wouldn't even leave the house. His reflection in the mirror didn't look like someone ready to face the world outside. It looked like someone barely holding on.

Grayson felt hollow. The kind of emptiness that wasn't just emotional but physical, like a cold void that had settled deep in his chest. This was what he hated most about his life—how fragile moments of peace were, how easily they shattered and left him exposed.

His eyes flickered to the knife on his nightstand. Small, sharp, and foldable. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Hera's words echoed in his mind, insistent and sharp: You need to know the ways of the underworld. What promise had she made? And to whom? His father? Did his father even know he existed—a son born from a monstrous act?

Grayson slipped the knife into his bag, along with his pills, pushing the knife in a secret pocket. He took the normal dosage—just three—but even as he swallowed them, he doubted they would do much to help.

He left his room, feeling the ache of Stray's absence. It was quieter now, too quiet, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. There was no point.

As he walked into the kitchen, Hera was already there. She stood by the counter, dressed in an old-fashioned gown that looked like a winter coat but wasn't. Black leggings completed the look, along with a small English hat perched on her head. She looked like a character pulled straight out of Lady Noir.

Grayson kept to himself, ducking toward the fridge and grabbing an apple. He watched her from the corner of his eye, trying not to linger on how effortlessly stunning she looked.

"You look like Frankenstein's monster," she said, her tone serious yet teasing.

Grayson wasn't in the mood. Not for jokes, not for conversation. His exams loomed over him like an ominous cloud, and his body felt like it had been submerged in icy water for hours—numb and unresponsive.

He shut the fridge and turned toward the door, his voice hoarse as he muttered, "I'm off."

"You haven't had breakfast," Hera she pointed with a raised brow.

He glanced at the food on the counter but couldn't muster the will to touch it. His stomach felt like it had been sealed shut, yet the weakness in his limbs reminded him he hadn't eaten properly in days. Seeing Pedro made it worse.

"You didn't touch your dinner yesterday," Hera said, her tone sharper now, maternal in a way he didn't know how to handle. "You're not leaving until you've eaten something, Grayboy."

Grayson didn't argue. He walked over to the stool, poured himself a cup of milk, and grabbed two slices of bread. He knew he needed strength, if he liked it or not.

As he took a seat and began forcing himself to take small, deliberate bites, he felt Hera's gaze shift. He glanced up and saw something in her eyes—something he couldn't quite place. It wasn't pity, but it was close.