The curtain rustled.

  Hale slipped in with practiced quiet, already glancing at the monitors before he looked at Andy. When he noticed Andy’s eyes were open, his expression flickered—professional calm cracking just enough to let relief through.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “Man,” Hale whispered, shaking his head softly, “that was some mighty work we had to pull to keep you together.”

  Andy tried to speak. His throat worked, dry, but Hale raised a finger gently.

  “Easy. Don’t rush it.”

  Hale checked a readout, then another, his brow furrowing in something close to fascination.

  “You were bleeding pretty much everywhere,” he continued quietly. “Internally. Externally. Stuff I don’t even have names for yet.” He let out a soft, incredulous breath. “I’ve never seen bio-markers like yours on anyone. Ever.”

  Andy swallowed. “That… sounds bad.”

  Hale smiled faintly. “Oh, it was. Past tense.”

  He tapped the tablet against his chest, pulling up a cascade of data only he seemed to enjoy this much.

  “The way you took the stabilizers and stims—it was like your body was drinking it all in. No rejection. No overload. Perfect uptake.” He shook his head again, this time with something bordering on awe. “Your recovery curve doesn’t make sense. You should’ve been down for days. Weeks.”

  Andy glanced at Lana again. “How long was I out?”

  “Couple hours,” Hale said. “Give or take. We stopped counting once you stabilized.”

  Andy let out a slow breath.

  Hale noticed the look and softened his tone. “You scared the hell out of us, you know that?”

  “Sorry,” Andy murmured.

  “Don’t,” Hale replied immediately. “Just… don’t.” He paused, then added more quietly, “What you did out there? It saved a lot of people.”

  He looked down at the tablet again, thumb idly scrolling.

  “I’m keeping this data,” Hale said, almost sheepish now. “For later. Strictly medical, of course.” A beat. “Riveting stuff.”

  Andy huffed a weak laugh.

  Hale adjusted a line, checked one last monitor, then straightened. “Get some more rest. You’ve earned it. I’ll be back.”

  As he slipped out, the room settled into quiet again.

  Lana stirred a little while later.

  At first it was just a shift—her brow furrowing, fingers tightening reflexively on the edge of the bunk. Then she blinked, unfocused, and lifted her head. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Then she saw Andy looking back at her.

  She froze.

  Lana’s eyes fluttered again, this time fully opening.

  For a heartbeat she just stared at the ceiling, disoriented, the way people look when they wake up somewhere unfamiliar and their body hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Then her gaze drifted down—and locked onto Andy.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  “You’re—” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re awake.”

  Andy gave a small nod. “Hey.”

  Relief hit her like a wave. It showed in the way her shoulders sagged, in the way the tension drained out of her face all at once. She leaned forward without even thinking about it, hands braced on her knees, searching him like she expected him to vanish if she blinked.

  “Hale said you were stable,” she said quickly, words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked, “but he also said you were bleeding internally and externally and that half your vitals didn’t make sense and—Andy, you were out.” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.”

  “I did,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

  She nodded, but her eyes were still glassy, still caught somewhere between fear and exhaustion. “You always say that like it’s simple.”

  He smiled faintly. “It’s not.”

  She sat back again, rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. For the first time since she’d woken, Andy noticed how tired she really was. Not just physically—though there were bruises on her knuckles and a faint cut along her jaw—but the deeper kind of tired that settled into posture and voice.

  “The wasteland was…” She trailed off, staring past him at nothing. “It was bad.”

  Andy waited.

  “They don’t tell you how quiet it gets,” Lana continued. “Days without seeing anything. No movement. No sound. Just wind and sand and your own breathing inside your helmet.” She swallowed. “You start to think that’s it. That nothing’s coming. And then—”

  Her hands tightened in her lap.

  “Then it comes all at once. Not heroic. Not clean. People trip. Equipment jams. Someone screams and you don’t even know where it came from.” Her voice dropped. “We lost two on the way out. No big fight. Just… wrong place, wrong time.”

  Andy felt the weight of that settle between them.

  “I kept telling myself I was ready,” she said quietly. “That if I was scared, it meant I wasn’t good enough. But everyone was scared. Even the Knights. Especially them.” She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t think anyone tells you that surviving feels worse than almost dying.”

  Andy nodded slowly. “Because surviving means you have to remember.”

  She looked at him then, really looked at him. “Is that why you look so… calm?”

  He thought about Elyra. About the storm. About the moment where he had stopped being afraid because fear had stopped being useful.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just ran out of energy to be anything else.”

  That earned a quiet, tired laugh from her. It didn’t last long, but it was real.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “I stayed,” Lana said after a moment. She sounded almost shy saying it. “When they told me you were still out. Hale said it could be hours. Or longer.”

  Andy’s throat tightened. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to,” she replied simply. “You’ve always been there when things go wrong. It didn’t feel right to leave.”

  She hesitated, then reached out, her fingers brushing his tentatively, like she wasn’t sure he’d feel it.

  Andy turned his hand palm-up.

  She slid her fingers into his, her grip soft and careful, like she was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt him.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was honest.

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

  They sat in silence for a while after that. The Wayfarer hummed around them, steady and protective. Somewhere deeper inside the vehicle, voices murmured, systems cycled, life continued.

  Lana leaned forward, resting her head lightly against the edge of his bunk. She didn’t let go of his hand.

  “You know,” she murmured, “when that storm stopped… everyone was just standing there. Like we were waiting for it to change its mind.”

  Andy smiled faintly. “I was worried it might.”

  Her fingers tightened around his, just a little. “Next time,” she said, “try not to scare me like that.”

  He squeezed her hand back, gentle as he could manage.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Lana didn’t answer right away. Her breathing slowed. Instead, she shifted in the chair, straightening just enough to look at him again. There was a steadiness in her eyes now—something forged, not borrowed.

  “You always say that,” she said quietly. “And then you do something impossible anyway.”

  Andy huffed a soft breath. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “I know.” She hesitated, then added, “But it was… you. Even when everything went wrong, it felt like you were still there.”

  He looked at the ceiling for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I almost wasn’t.”

  That got her attention. Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

  “What do you mean?”

  Andy turned his head back toward her. “There was a point where it would’ve been easy to stop caring. To let things end cleanly. No fear. No pain.” He swallowed. “I didn’t realize how tempting that would be.”

  Lana studied him in silence. She didn’t look scared—just thoughtful.

  “And you didn’t?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Because I kept thinking about… people. You. Terra. Rodrick. The way you all keep moving even when you shouldn’t have to.”

  She smiled faintly at that, a tired but genuine thing. “You know, out there? I kept thinking I wasn’t brave enough. That I was pretending.” She shrugged. “Turns out bravery feels a lot like being terrified and doing it anyway.”

  Andy nodded. “That sounds right.”

  They sat with that truth for a while.

  “Andy,” Lana said softly, “whatever you’re becoming… just don’t disappear on us.”

  He turned his hand slightly, thumb brushing against her knuckles. “I’m still here.”

  “Good,” she said, and leaned back again, resting her head more comfortably this time. “Because Terra’s going to be unbearable if she thinks you did all that without her.”

  Andy laughed quietly, the sound catching a little in his chest. “I’m counting on it.”

  The door slid open.

  Heavy footsteps entered the med bay—measured, deliberate.

  Rodrick filled the doorway.

  Even out of armor, he carried the presence of it, broad shoulders, posture set like he was still braced against impact. A fresh bandage wrapped his forearm, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of victory could erase.

  He took in the scene at a glance—Andy awake, Lana seated close, their hands linked.

  Good, he mouthed silently.

  Then he spoke aloud, voice low so as not to break the moment.

  “Glad to see you’re still causing trouble,” Rodrick said.

  Andy looked up at him, a tired smile pulling at his mouth. “Likewise.”

  Rodrick stepped closer, resting a hand briefly on the edge of the bunk—solid, grounding. “You scared a lot of people out there,” he said. Not accusing. Just honest. “You also saved a hell of a lot more.”

  Lana shifted, finally letting go of Andy’s hand as she stood. “I’m going to grab some water,” she said softly, giving Andy one last look before moving past Rodrick and out the door.

  The room grew quieter.

  Rodrick waited until she was gone before speaking again.

  “When Hale said you might not wake up,” he said, “I figured I owed you an apology for every time I told you to stay out of the worst of it.”

  Andy met his gaze. “You were right to.”

  Rodrick snorted. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I like being right.”

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders once like he was shedding the last weight of the battlefield.

  “Get some rest,” Rodrick said. “Command’s already arguing about what to call what happened out there. You can deal with that later.”

  Andy closed his eyes briefly. “Sounds exhausting.”

  Rodrick smiled—just a little. “Welcome to surviving.”

  The door slid shut behind Rodrick with a soft hydraulic hiss.

  For a moment, Andy just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the words settle.

  I’m glad you stayed human.

  He wasn’t sure yet whether that was true—but he wanted it to be.

  A few minutes later, he swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Lana was waiting near the doorway, helmet tucked under her arm. She looked him over again, like she still didn’t quite trust that he was real.

  “You walking,” she said, half statement, half question.

  “Yeah,” Andy replied. “Slowly.”

  She smiled. “Good. Because Hale said if you collapse again, he’s sedating you until next week.”

  They left the med bay together.

  The ramp of the Wayfarer was down, and beyond it the world was loud with aftermath. Not battle—work. Recovery crews moved with practiced urgency. Vanguard scrubs hauled broken weapons and shattered armor into neat piles. Knights stood in loose clusters, helmets off, faces drawn and hollow-eyed, speaking in low voices.

  Bio-mutants lay everywhere.

  Hundreds of them.

  More than Andy had ever seen in one place.

  Crane rigs lifted massive carcasses onto flatbeds. Smaller teams dragged twisted bodies into containment nets, tagging limbs and implants as they went. The air smelled of ozone, blood, and burned metal.

  “Gods,” someone muttered nearby. “Never had so many fresh specimens.”

  Andy flinched before he realized why.

  As he and Lana walked forward, people noticed.

  It wasn’t dramatic at first—just pauses. A scrub mid-step freezing when he recognized Andy’s face. A Knight straightening unconsciously. A researcher lowering her scanner, eyes widening.

  Then someone made the sign of the Seven. A circle formed above their heads, meant to resemble a halo.

  Another followed.

  And another.

  Andy slowed, uncertain.

  “Lana…” he murmured.

  “I see it,” she said quietly. “Just… keep walking.”

  Priests of the Temple of Light stood near a field altar hastily erected from broken stone and banners. They stared openly now, expressions caught somewhere between awe and reverence. One whispered something Andy couldn’t hear. Another clutched a sigil so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

  Andy felt Elyra stir faintly—not alarmed, but attentive.

  They are myth-making, she observed. Be careful.

  Andy swallowed.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” he said under his breath.

  “No,” Lana replied. “But you earned their lives. People don’t always know what to do with that.”

  They passed a group of researchers arguing excitedly over a bio-mutant with partially intact neural scaffolding.

  “This one’s different,” one of them said. “Like the signal just—cut. Clean. No cascade failure.”

  Andy kept his eyes forward.

  Every step felt heavier than the last—not from injury, but from weight. Expectation. Meaning layered onto him by people who didn’t know him, who hadn’t sat beside him while he shook and bled and wondered if he’d disappear.

  They reached the edge of the exclusion zone, where the Wayfarer’s shadow gave way to open ground.

  Andy slowed.

  The battlefield behind them was quieter now. Not peaceful—just subdued. The storm was gone, torn away like a bad dream, leaving the sky bruised but inert. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals.

  Somewhere, metal clanged as a recovery team shifted wreckage.

  Lana was beside him.

  He knew that.

  He could see her boots in his peripheral vision. Hear her breathing. Sense her presence the way you sense someone standing close in the dark.

  But when he became aware of her hand—

  Andy stopped.

  He looked down.

  Her fingers were laced through his.

  He hadn’t felt it.

  No warmth.

  No pressure.

  No grounding weight.

  Just absence.

  His breath caught, sharp and involuntary.

  “Andy?” Lana asked, immediately alert.

  “I—” He flexed his hand slightly, watching her fingers move with it. The connection was there. Physically intact. “I didn’t feel that.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Didn’t feel… what?”

  “My hand,” he said quietly. “Yours.”

  Concern flashed across her face. She squeezed his hand gently, then more firmly. “Now?”

  Andy shook his head.

  Panic threatened, fast and hot—but he pushed it down. He had learned how dangerous panic could be.

  “I can still move,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Still see. Still hear. It’s just…” He searched for the words.

  Elyra stirred faintly, restrained and careful.

  It may be temporary, she said.

  But it is not nothing.

  Andy closed his eyes for a moment.

  The battlefield.

  The Domain.

  The moment he had plucked thousands of lives like loose threads.

  Power always took something.

  He opened his eyes again.

  “I’m okay,” he told Lana, and meant it—at least structurally. “I just didn’t realize it would be so quiet.”

  She didn’t argue. She only stepped closer, shoulder brushing his arm, anchoring him in the ways she could.

  Around them, people still watched.

  They didn’t see the cost.

  They saw salvation.

  They saw myth.

  He walked on, Lana beside him, her hand still in his—unfelt, but real.

  And somewhere deep inside him, a quiet question echoed—not with fear, but with cold clarity.

  How much of himself would the power take—before there was nothing left to feel human at all?