Blind On

Finally, after what felt like months—but had somehow only been ten days—she woke up. And for a blissful half-second, she had that comforting "Oh good, I'm alive" moment. 

She had felt that relief earlier too, when she saw her arm reattached while still drowsy on whatever medicine they were pumping in.But that relief died a quick, painful death the second she felt it: him, and her entire sense of relief shattered like a cheap glass. 

The beast wasn't just some bad dream she could shake off. No, it was still there, he was still there, camped out in her brain like a squatter with zero plans to vacate. And not just any squatter—the absolute worst kind. The type who doesn't pay rent but insists on making major renovations anyway. Only instead of repainting walls or installing hardwood floors, this guy was redecorating her mind with rage, murder plans, and the occasional homicidal monologue. 

Because of course, he couldn't just be a silent nightmare, could he? No, no, this beast had opinions, and boy, did he like to share them. Muttering incessantly about "taking back what's his" and describing in painstaking detail just how he planned to dismember, disembowel, and decimate everything in his path. Delightful. It was like being stuck next to the world's angriest podcast that just happened to be playing on loop—inside her skull ; front-row tickets to her own personal horror show, now playing 24/7 in her head.

Naturally, her first reaction was panic. Like, what was she supposed to do with this thing in her head? If the beast could access her thoughts, if he could rummage around in the darkest corners of her mind, then she was basically screwed, right? No way out of that nightmare. But, in a rare moment of good fortune, she realized something: for all his blustering about ripping limbs off and reclaiming his territory, the beast didn't actually know where she was. Physically, that is. Sure, he had access to her thoughts, but it was like her mental GPS was on the fritz, and he couldn't track her down because of how loopy she was. Small mercies. At least he didn't have that level of control—yet.

Still, his constant yammering wasn't exactly making her feel zen. It was like her body was trying to knit itself back together, heal all the physical damage, but something was off. It wasn't just the pain of regeneration; it felt like her cells were fighting for control—like half of them were working on the recovery while the other half had joined team "Let's Get Violent." Her whole body was a battleground, and she wasn't entirely sure who was winning. The beast wasn't just a passenger in her mind anymore; he was trying to dig in, to claw his way into every part of her. 

Then, by some miracle—or sheer stubbornness, which was basically her brand—she managed to quiet him. She had no idea how, but she focused so hard that it felt like she had slammed a mental door in his face. A Blind On. Not that it kicked him out completely, of course. He was still there, like a bad rash that refused to leave, lurking just beneath the surface. But she'd managed to dial down the volume on his rage-fueled TED Talks. For now. 

When she finally snapped back to reality, she realized she was lying in the doctor's cabin—because where else would she end up? Patchy—Mr. B, because she still hadn't bothered to remember his real name—was standing there, leaning on his cane like the human embodiment of a grumpy fortune cookie. He looked her over, clearly wondering if she was salvageable or if it was time to toss her in the "failed experiment" pile, ending her half second bliss for the second time.

"So," he started, voice calm but digging for answers, "what happened?"

She hesitated—just for a second, but long enough. Then, on autopilot, she started recounting the basement fiasco. The fight. The blood. The arm situation. You know, just your average Tuesday. But she wasn't stupid—she left out the part where her new BFF in her brain was narrating his murder fantasies. That little tidbit? Staying firmly locked away. No need to give Mr. B any ideas about turning her into a lab rat or, worse, sending her off to the nearest padded room.

He gave her that look—the one where his one good eye narrowed just a bit too much. He knew something was off. Of course, he did. The guy was sharp, despite the whole "retired spy" vibe. But after a long, suspicious pause, he just nodded. "As long as you know what you're doing," he said casually. Too casually.

Oh yeah, she thought, just gotta keep my brain monster in check and everything will be peachy. Great pep talk, Patchy.

Then Byte appeared, looking like he'd been living off of coffee and panic for five days—which, to be fair, he probably had. He was rambling about how the basement tech was back online, maps recalibrating, blah blah blah. She half-listened until he casually mentioned, "We didn't find that beast yet, but sonar mapping is ongoing."

Sonar mapping, she thought with an internal groan. If that thing could hide a basement, what else could it hide? A small country? My sanity? She considered asking but decided, you know what, no need to advertise that she was still hosting a psychic hitchhiker.

But the real kicker? That came when PS showed up.

PS, the unflappable, ice-cold agent who could handle literal explosions without blinking, walked in like she'd just seen a ghost. Which, okay, her face still looked like she was trying to hold it together, but she wasn't fooling anyone. PS never looked freaked out. Ever. So, naturally, seeing her like that made every alarm bell in her head go off.

"So," PS started, voice tight in a way that screamed this is not okay, "you, uh… been hearing anything weird lately?"

Oh, fantastic, she thought, resisting the urge to facepalm. Here we go.