Chapter 9: Between Life and Death

The fever raged on.

Evelyne drifted in and out of consciousness, her body burning under the weight of the illness. Phileo stayed by her side, his expression unreadable, but his hands steady as he worked to keep her alive.

Time blurred. He lost track of the hours, only moving when necessary—to cool her forehead, to change the damp cloths, to press the vial of medicine against her lips.

At one point, her breathing grew so shallow he thought he had lost her.

But she clung on.

For three days, she fought against the fever's hold.

And Phileo never left her side.

A Glimpse into the Past

Sometime during the second night, Evelyne stirred. Her fingers twitched against the sheets. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead.

Phileo leaned closer. "Evelyne."

Her lips parted slightly. At first, it seemed like she was about to speak. Then—

"…Papa?"

Phileo stilled.

Evelyne's eyes remained shut, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't go…"

A dream.

She was reaching for someone long gone.

His grip on the damp cloth tightened. He shouldn't be here.

He had done his part—saved her, given her the medicine, watched over her. That should have been enough.

But it wasn't.

Because she had nearly died for him.

And no matter how much he tried to ignore it, the weight of that fact crushed him.

The Awakening

By the fourth morning, the fever finally broke.

Evelyne's breathing had steadied. The heat in her skin had faded. Her body, exhausted from the battle, lay still—but alive.

Phileo sat beside her, arms crossed, waiting.

Then—her fingers twitched. Her eyelashes fluttered.

A slow inhale.

And finally, her eyes opened.

At first, she only stared at the ceiling, her gaze unfocused. Then, as reality settled in, her head turned slightly. Her eyes met his.

Phileo didn't move.

Neither did she.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, as if neither was certain what to say.

Then, Evelyne swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

"…Where am I?"

"Safe," Phileo answered.

Her brows furrowed slightly. She shifted, as if trying to sit up, but the moment she moved, pain shot through her body. She winced, her hand instinctively going to her side.

Phileo caught her wrist before she could touch the wound.

"Don't," he said. "It's still healing."

Evelyne blinked, the fog in her mind slowly lifting.

She remembered the fight.

Nikolai's blade. The sharp pain in her side.

Phileo catching her before she collapsed.

Her breath hitched. "I was—"

"You almost died," Phileo said bluntly.

Evelyne exhaled shakily. She had known, of course. She could feel it in her body—the weakness, the soreness, the undeniable truth that she had come far too close to the edge.

And yet… she was still here.

Her gaze flickered back to Phileo. "You…?"

"I kept you alive."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just fact.

Evelyne swallowed hard. "How long?"

"Four days."

Her eyes widened slightly. She turned her head, taking in her surroundings. They were still in the abandoned safehouse. The fire had burned low, embers flickering in the dim morning light. A bowl of water and a pile of damp cloths sat nearby.

Her gaze returned to him.

"…You stayed?"

Phileo didn't answer right away.

Finally, he leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "You wouldn't have made it through the fever alone."

It wasn't an admission. Just another fact.

Evelyne stared at him, trying to piece together the reality of it. The cold, distant assassin she had met had stayed by her side for days.

Why?

She wanted to ask. But another thought pushed its way forward.

Her fingers curled slightly against the sheets. "The witch… she helped, didn't she?"

Phileo's eyes flickered, just for a second.

Then, he stood.

"Rest," he said, dodging the question entirely. "You'll need your strength."

Evelyne frowned, frustrated by the lack of answers, but her body was too weak to press further.

She let out a slow breath and closed her eyes.

She wasn't done with this conversation.

But for now, she would rest.

And when she woke—Phileo wouldn't escape her questions.

Unfinished Business

Phileo watched as her breathing slowed, settling into something steady.

She was going to make it.

The tension in his shoulders lessened, but only slightly.

He turned away, moving to the window. The sky outside was still a pale shade of gray.

Four days.

Four days since he had gone to the witch. Since he had made a deal he still didn't know the cost of.

A favor.

The witch had yet to call on it. But she would.

And Phileo knew, without a doubt, it wouldn't be something small.

His jaw clenched.

He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't get involved in Evelyne's life. That his role in her past would stay buried.

But after this—after she had nearly died for him—he knew the truth.

No matter how much he denied it, he was already involved.

And there was no turning back.