The Breathing Between

The soft rhythm of beeping monitors became clearer with every shallow breath.

Flare lay still beneath sterile white sheets, the weight of gauze pressing against broken ribs, the ache in his right arm like a dull fire licking bone. It took him a second to remember where he was, what had happened.

A voice cut through the fog — gentle, warm, and tired.

"Don't try to move, love."

He turned his head slowly, and there

she was.

Jessael.

Sitting in the half-light, curled beside the hospital bed in an oversized chair, her black-purple curls pulled loosely into a side bun. Her glasses caught a glint from the ceiling light, masking the worry in her brown eyes — except for the faint tremble in her jaw and the way her fingers gripped the blanket near his shoulder.

Her right eye — the one with that crescent of silver in the iris — shimmered faintly as she blinked away emotion.

"You're here," Flare rasped.

"Of course I am," she whispered, placing a hand on his. "You scared the shit out of everyone."

His throat was dry as sandpaper. "Didn't mean to."

"No one ever does," she said, then added with soft sarcasm, "But you had to go and be dramatic."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lip. "How bad?"

"Worse than usual," she answered truthfully. "Left leg broken. Four ribs cracked. Concussion. Your shield arm's fractured in two places. But you're alive, Flare. You're still here."

She said it like she wasn't sure it would be true until this moment.

He looked to the side — past her.

On the small sofa near the wall, their daughter Anira lay curled up beneath a blanket, glasses askew on her face, mouth slightly open in sleep. Her long hair was tousled, streaks of honey-blonde glowing under the soft light.

She had one arm draped protectively around her stuffed lion — the one Flare had won for her two years ago at a regional carnival between assignments. Its paw was threadbare from being dragged around during impromptu sparring matches.

Flare stared for a long time.

"She hasn't left," Jessael said, softer now. "Neither of us have."

Flare blinked hard, swallowing past the ache in his throat.

"She get any punches in?"

"Only a few," she said, brushing a curl from his brow. "Just to make sure you weren't faking."

His chest shook with a small, painful laugh.

Then silence.

Then something shifted.

His hand curled a little tighter around hers, his voice barely audible.

"Jess… the Ashen we fought… it thought."

She didn't respond immediately.

He went on. "It laid a trap. One meant for Caim. And another… one of them knew it was about to die. It chose to take me with it."

Jessael's lips pressed into a line.

She didn't say I told you so, though she had every right to. She didn't scold

or smother him either.

Instead, she leaned in and pressed her

forehead to his.

"You're not alone," she whispered.

"We'll face whatever comes. You're not doing this by yourself, Flare Nacht."

He closed his eyes and finally let the

weight settle across his body.

Outside the med-bay, the squad waited

in the common area of the recovery wing.

Maria sat in one of the stiff chairs

with a scowl on her face and her arms folded across her chest. Her kusarigama

was disassembled and laid across her lap, the blade cleaned and resting in its

protective sheath.

Claire paced. That nervous energy of

hers hadn't gone away since the moment they'd dug Flare out of the rubble.

Marek sat near the wall, eyes closed,

mouthing words to a song only he could hear. A fresh wrap of gauze was wrapped

around his temple where he'd slammed against the QT cockpit during the blast.

Caim sat by himself.

Back straight.

Hands clasped.

Eyes forward, but not seeing.

His mind played it over again — the hesitation, the half-second delay that might have cost them their anchor. His blade had burned bright that night, but his confidence had flickered like a faulty fuse.

He didn't even notice Marcos entering

until the man laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," Marcos said.

Caim looked up.

"Flare's awake. Stable. Doc says he'll

be good as new in a couple weeks."

The tension in the room bled out like

a punctured lung. Claire let out a half-laugh, half-sob. Marek pumped a silent fist in the air. Maria just muttered "About damn time."

Caim didn't say anything.

Marcos leaned in.

"You did good, son."

"Better than with the cow I suppose."

Marcos didn't argue. Just squeezed his

shoulder again and moved on.

That night, Flare dozed in the quiet hum of his med-bay.

Anira had curled into his good side hours ago, her small hand resting against the pulse monitor on his wrist. She didn't stir when he shifted — barely conscious — lost again to the edge of sleep.

And then, it returned.

That voice.

Not booming. Not commanding. Just…

present.

"You survived."

Flare floated again in the dark, but

not like before.

He saw shards of glass, a green flare against black, and behind it, a shape — tall, faceless, distant. But not foreign.

"You are changing."

Flare opened his mouth to speak but no

words came.

"When you are ready… ask."

And then, like breath, the dream faded.

The next morning,

Medbay Silence

The first thing Flare noticed wasn't the pain — it was the stillness.

Not the sterile kind of silence you'd expect from a medbay, but the heavy, waiting kind. Like the world had paused just long enough

to make sure he was still here.

His body ached. Not the usual soreness from training or the pulse-deep strain of a battle well-fought — this was different. It felt

like every bone had been cracked open and sealed with ash. His right arm buzzed faintly, nerves flaring from old injuries and new trauma stitching themselves into memory as if the pain finally found a place to settle in.

He tried to sit up, but his ribs continued to disagree.

So did the monitors.

A low beep shifted in tempo, and a mechanized voice whispered, "Muscle strain detected. Re-engage healing rest." He ignored it.

His eyes adjusted slowly. Medbay lighting had a dimmed setting for post-op patients — warm, amber-hued, almost sunset-like.

Comfortable. Deceptive. A thin privacy curtain fluttered at the edge of a hidden fan's exhale.

No voices. No footsteps. Just… the echo of something too quiet.

Then he saw the flowers.

Not many. Just a simple, clumsy bouquet in a reused water bottle. Not even a real vase. The kind of thing a child would grab in a

rush, running behind a parent, forgetting that grown men weren't supposed to cry when they woke up with their family safe and waiting.

His heart twisted. Anira. Jess. They had to go, and he hadn't woken even once during their departure, she still has school to get to and Jess has her own responsibilities.

The corner of his mouth ticked up. Barely.

He reached toward the nightstand for a small bottle of water, but a soft knock interrupted the motion.

"Room's not locked," he croaked, voice gravel-thick.

The door opened slowly, but it wasn't a nurse, or Caim, or even Marcos.

It was… someone else.

Middle-aged. Trim but clearly in shape, like a man who surfed every morning and didn't brag about it. His hair was gray at the temples, short but scraggly enough to betray an indifference to grooming. A thick beard, peppered with white. A ridiculous Hawaiian shirt in deep ocean blue and faded coral flowers. Cargo shorts. Sandals. Hemp bracelets jingled softly at his wrist.

He wore sunglasses indoors.

Flare blinked. "You lost, old man?"

The visitor smiled, stepping in like he belonged there. "Not at all. Just dropping by."

Flare narrowed his eyes. There was no suspicion at first. That's the thing — no one got into the Slayer compound without

authorization. It was more fortified than any high-ranking government building. Entry required biometric scans, ID confirmation, AI surveillance clearance, and manual verification. No one got in by accident.

So if he was here… he had to belong.

Still.

"You with Logistics?" Flare asked, voice easing into a guarded tone.

"Nope." The man wandered toward the end of the bed, hands folded behind his back. "More of a… visitor. Got business here, thought I'd check in. You're a hard one to catch conscious."

Flare frowned. "Business with me?"

"Not yet." The man chuckled, low and pleasant. "But I've got a feeling we'll be seeing each other again."

Something about the words curled cold along Flare's spine, like frost forming on old steel. But the man didn't seem dangerous. If

anything, he radiated… familiarity. Like a dream you couldn't remember but missed anyway.

"What's your name?" Flare asked, sitting up

straighter despite the protest in his joints.

The man tapped the side of his nose. "Can't tell you that yet."

Flare blinked. "You serious?"

"Deadly." The man grinned. "You just rest up,

soldier. Time's coming."

"Time for what?"

But the visitor was already moving. He gave a lazy two-fingered salute, turned on his heel, and walked out the door without another word.

Flare stared after him, tension gnawing at his

healing muscles.

That was weird.

He rubbed at his temples, then pushed himself out of bed slowly. The world tilted, then steadied. Pain flared behind his eyes but dulled into a manageable hum. He shuffled to the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and stared into his reflection.

That voice from before…

The dream.

The endless dark. The question that still echoed in his skull:

"Are you ready, Flare? Will you accept your

strength?"

He didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to know.

But something had changed.

The door creaked again, and this time it was someone familiar — Caim, stepping in with a backpack slung over one shoulder and an

energy drink in his hand.

"You're up," Caim said, offering a nod. "Didn't think you'd be vertical yet."

"Harder to kill than I look," Flare muttered.

Caim dropped into the nearby chair, cracking open the drink. "Marcos says you took the brunt of that explosion like a champ. Marek's still rattled — literally. He swears the QT bounced six inches off the street."

Flare gave a weak grin. "That's about how it felt."

A short pause passed between them before Flare casually asked, "Hey. That guy who just left — Hawaiian shirt, shades? Who was

that?"

Caim looked up, confused. "What guy?"

"Middle-aged. Bearded. Looked like he wandered off a beach." Flare frowned. "He said he had business here."

Caim's expression went flat. "No one else is cleared to visit. I checked visitor logs this morning before coming over. You've had no authorized entries outside of your family. Not even staff except your night nurse."

Flare's breath caught in his throat.

"Security cameras?" he asked.

Caim already had his tablet out. After a few taps, his frown deepened. "There's no one on the feed for the last twenty minutes but me."

The chill that crept up Flare's spine wasn't from the medbay air this time.

Caim glanced over. "You sure you weren't dreaming?"

"No." Flare's voice was low. Firm. "He was real."

But even as he said it, a question uncurled in his chest like smoke.

Wasn't he?