Unanswered questions

The silence in the sterile hospital room was deafening, punctuated only by the quiet whirring of machines that monitored Seagull's fragile grip on life. The air smelled of antiseptic and something colder—something clinical and impersonal, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the despair of everyone who had sat in this very spot, waiting for a miracle.

Giselle sat at her brother's bedside, her fingers wrapped around his limp hand, her grip firm yet trembling. His skin was cool to the touch, far too cool. A chill crept up her spine as she traced the faint scars that lined his knuckles—remnants of battles she had never been privy to. She squeezed his hand as if trying to tether him to this world through sheer force of will.

He had always been an enigma to her, a shadow moving just beyond reach. He'd been reckless, secretive, and frustratingly distant. But he'd also been her brother. The boy who once pulled her out of the lake when she was drowning, the one who patched up her skinned knees in silence because words had never been his strength. And now, she might never get the chance to ask him why he had spent so much of his life keeping her at arm's length.

Logan stood by the window, arms crossed, his jaw tight. His reflection in the glass was stiff, unreadable. Outside, the city continued without them, cars passing, people laughing, the world unbothered by the fact that Seagull was barely hanging on. Logan's eyes flickered to the machines, watching the rhythmic beeping that kept time with Seagull's shallow breaths.

"Do you think he'll make it?" Giselle's voice was barely above a whisper. She didn't look at Logan—she couldn't.

Logan turned slowly, his gaze settling on Seagull. The bruises along his cheekbone, the stitches at his temple—each wound told a story they hadn't yet deciphered. "He's strong," he said, but his voice carried none of the certainty she so desperately wanted to hear. "And he's fought through worse."

Giselle swallowed, her grip tightening around her brother's hand. "But this... this feels different," she admitted. Her throat burned with unspoken fears. "Someone did this to him, Logan. This wasn't an accident. It wasn't just a random fight. Someone meant for him to end up here."

Logan exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "I know. And we're going to find out who."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they settled heavily in the air, thick with the weight of what they didn't know. Giselle let out a slow breath, her mind racing. Seagull had always been running from something. But what had finally caught up to him?

A deep ache twisted inside her. She had spent years resenting his secrecy, his distance. But what if his silence had been protecting her? And now, when it finally mattered, when she was ready to listen, he was silent still.

Logan moved closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. The warmth of it grounded her, pulled her back from the storm raging inside her. "We'll get answers. Just hold on."

She wanted to believe him. But the sterile chill of the hospital, the rhythmic beeping of the machines, the sickly fluorescent lights casting Seagull's motionless form in a stark, unnatural glow—it all whispered otherwise. It told her that time was slipping away, second by second, breath by breath.

Her thumb brushed over the back of Seagull's hand. How many times had she walked past his messages, ignored his attempts to connect? How many times had she told herself she'd call him back later, that she'd have time? Now, time was a fragile thing, balancing on the edge of a knife.

She closed her eyes, memories crashing over her like a wave. Seagull laughing as he shoved a dripping ice cream cone into her hand. Seagull pulling her onto the handlebars of his bike, speeding down the street as she screamed, half terrified, half exhilarated. Seagull's voice, older now, tinged with something heavier—something she hadn't recognized then. "Be careful, Giselle. Not everyone in this world is what they seem."

Her breath hitched. He had been trying to tell her something, even then. And she had brushed it off.

A faint shift in the air pulled her back to the present. Seagull's fingers twitched. Just the smallest movement, but Giselle felt it like a shock to her system. Her breath caught, her heart slamming against her ribs. "Logan," she whispered, her eyes wide. "Did you see that?"

Logan turned sharply, eyes locking onto Seagull's hand. "Yeah," he breathed. "I saw it."

Seagull's eyelids fluttered, his face twitching as if struggling against the pull of unconsciousness. A soft, strangled sound escaped his lips—raw, weak, but real.

Giselle surged forward, gripping his hand tighter. "Seagull, it's me. It's Giselle. Can you hear me?" Her voice cracked, but she didn't care. "You're safe now. Just wake up. Please."

Another groan. His breathing hitched. Logan moved beside her, hands braced against the railing of the hospital bed. "Come on, man. You can do this."

The moments stretched, unbearably long. The machines beeped, the fluorescent lights hummed, the air thick with anticipation. But Seagull didn't wake. His body remained still, his fingers falling limp once more.

Giselle exhaled shakily, pressing her forehead against their intertwined hands. "Come back to us," she whispered. "Please."

Silence.

Logan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "He's fighting, Giselle. Don't give up on him."

"I'm not," she murmured. But as she stared at Seagull's pale, unmoving face, the weight of uncertainty pressed down on her like an avalanche.

She wouldn't leave. Not now. Not ever. Whatever secrets he had buried, whatever had brought him to this hospital bed—she would be here when he woke up.

If he woke up.

The room settled once more into an uneasy quiet. The machines hummed. The world outside continued turning. And Giselle waited, her heart whispering prayers she wasn't sure she believed in.