Diary Entry: Recovery

Edward did not dream. Not that he remembered. There was only the pain—dull, marrow-deep. Not so much pain as its echo. A pressure behind his eyes, in his ribs, in the crook of his joints that had not risen since he'd awakened an hour earlier.

He was huddled on the couch in the living room, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a discarded shroud. Pale morning light leaked through the windows, too bright to be comfortable. His skin felt wrong—tight, too sensitive. As though he had been sunburned from the inside out.

No bruises. No marks. Just ache.

He'd checked himself in the mirror a second time now. No visible changes. His eyes were still his own. His hands still shook the same manner they always did after sleepless nights. His pulse, when he pressed two fingers against his neck, was fine. Tired. Human.

He was relieved. And yet, he felt a twinge of disappointment.

His muscles ached when he stood upright, knees cracking. There was a familiar ache in the small of his back. If this was evolution, it had arrived in the form of a vicious hangover.

He stumbled to the sink. Turned on cold water. Let it numb his fingers while he stared out the kitchen window at the overgrown lawn.

No movement. No sound.

The Shadow Man hadn't said a word since Edward fell. Not in his head, not in memory. It was as though he'd retreated somewhere far inside, sleeping or watching, content to let Edward simmer in his own silent bewilderment.

Something in Edward had wanted more. A vision. A power. A transformation.

But there was only this: a body that felt as if it had been kicked around in the dark, and a mind that couldn't quite be certain it had imagined it all.

The phone rang.

It made him jump more than it should have. A sudden, jarring intrusion—too loud, too real. He hesitated before answering, suddenly uneasy with the prospect that somebody else might know something he didn't.

The screen said: KYLE – CDC

Edward answered on the third ring.

"Kyle."

"Edward. Jesus, I've been trying to call you since last night. You okay?"

Edward rubbed his temple. "Define 'okay.' I'm not bleeding. That's something."

A silence on the line. Background noise—papers shuffling, footsteps. Kyle was at the lab or the office, somewhere sterile and humming with fluorescent lights.

"You don't sound so great," Kyle said hesitantly. "Listen, I wouldn't call if it wasn't necessary. You remember Sam?

Edward's breath caught slightly. "Of course I remember Sam."

"She asked for you."

Edward sat straight up, the blanket falling from his shoulders. "Asked for? As in, specifically?"

"Yes. She looked at me and said your name. Calm. Focused. No confusion."

"That's not strange," Edward replied slowly. "She was lucid when I last saw her. More than everyone thought she would be."

"I know," Kyle said. "That's what's so. weird. How she said it. Not, 'Can I talk to Edward?' But: Tell Edward to come. He'll understand."

A chill traced its way up Edward's spine.

"And then she smiled," Kyle went on. "Like she already knew you would."

Edward faced away from the window, gripping the counter. His voice was softer now. "Where is she?"

They moved her. Research facility on the outskirts. Fewer eyes, tighter security. She's stable, but… she's changing."

Edward was quiet for a moment. The words changing and stable didn't belong in the same sentence, not when talking about Sam.

"I don't feel any different, Kyle," Edward said finally.

Kyle was slow to answer. When he spoke, his voice was more composed. "Perhaps you won't. Not until you see it in another.".

Edward felt the echo of that truth vibrate somewhere deep—just under his skin, beneath the ache and the memory of pain.

"I'll come," he said.

"You sure?"

"No." He exhaled, glancing toward the hallway mirror. For a second, he swore something moved in the reflection—an absence of light, a sliver of eyes. Then gone.

"But I'll come anyway."

Kyle gave him the address. Edward jotted it down, barely hearing the rest.

When he slammed down the receiver, the silence returned. Still. Heavy.

And yet he was not alone. Something inside him hummed now, low and distant. Like the coil of machinery ready to spring to life. Or a second heartbeat, still learning to beat.