*Trigger warnings* Abduction, mind control, violence, swearing, injury, destruction, nightmares, father daughter angst. Near death experience.
I dream of the ocean.
Dark. Endless. Pulling me under.
I can't breathe. I can't move.
And then—
My father stands on the shore, hands behind his back, his face unreadable. He doesn't move toward me. Doesn't reach.
Just watches.
I try to call out, but water rushes into my mouth, choking me, silencing me.
Behind him, the screen flickers—the same one from the broadcast. My own face stares back at me, lips curved in that unnatural, twisted smile. The alien's voice crawls through the air like poison, spilling from my mouth, mocking him.
"Come for her."
The ocean drags me deeper.
I fight.
I scream.
And then—
I wake up gasping.
The light overhead is harsh, sterile. My body jerks upright before my mind catches up, my pulse hammering so hard it hurts.
I'm in the safehouse.
I'm safe.
For now.
Voices filter in from the next room, muffled but sharp-edged. I recognize them instantly.
"—so what the fuck are we supposed to do now?!" Imani.
Tense. Furious. Barely holding it together.
My father's voice comes next, level and controlled. "We assess the situation before we act. We don't let emotions dictate our next move."
A chair scrapes violently across the floor. "Are you kidding me? That thing took her, and you wanna 'assess the situation'?!"
A pause. A breath.
"She's not gone," my father says quietly. "We don't treat this like we've already lost her."
Imani lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Tell that to the thing wearing her fucking face."
Silence.
A silence so heavy, so sharp, I swear I can hear my father gritting his teeth through it.
I push myself to my feet, legs shaking, and step toward the doorway. I need to see them. Need to—
Then Imani speaks again, and his voice is raw.
"I saw the way it looked at you," he mutters. "Like it was mocking you. Using her to do it." A sharp inhale. "You didn't even flinch."
My father exhales through his nose. "What would you have preferred?"
"I don't know," Imani snaps. "Something. Anything other than that blank-ass face like—like that wasn't your kid on that screen."
My father doesn't answer immediately.
When he does, his voice is quiet. Controlled.
"Do you think I don't feel it?" he says. "Do you think I don't hear that voice in my head every second since I saw it?"
Imani says nothing.
"I can't afford to fall apart," my father continues. "Not when she needs us." A beat. "And neither can you."
Another silence.
A sharp breath. A muttered curse.
And then—
I step into the room.
They both look at me instantly.
Imani's face is tight, a muscle jumping in his jaw. My father's is as unreadable as ever—but his fingers twitch at his sides, barely noticeable.
I swallow hard, my throat still raw from the nightmare.
"...We're going to get her back," I say quietly.
They don't correct me.
They don't remind me that I am her.
I wake up choking.
The air is thick, heavy—wrong. It sticks to my lungs like tar, my throat raw as I suck in a sharp breath. The cold metal beneath me hums faintly, pulsing like something alive.
I'm back on the ship.
Panic slams into me so fast it knocks the breath from my chest. My body jerks upright before my brain even catches up, my limbs shaking, my pulse hammering in my ears.
No. No.
I was just home. I was just there. I heard them—Imani, my dad. I was safe. I was—
A flickering light draws my attention, and I look up—straight into a reflection.
I freeze.
The surface in front of me isn't a mirror. Not exactly. The metal wall ripples, distorting my image before snapping it back into place, forcing me to see—
Myself.
But it's not me.
My skin is pale, almost too smooth, like something unfinished. My eyes—dark, hollow—flicker with something unnatural, something wrong.
And when I move—when I breathe—there's a lag, a fraction of a second where my reflection doesn't follow.
A cold dread pools in my stomach.
I scramble back, my breath sharp, shallow. My fingers dig into the floor, desperate for something solid, something real. My heartbeat slams against my ribs as I shake my head, trying to clear the static pressing in at the edges of my mind.
"You're awake."
The voice is smooth. Familiar. But when I turn, my stomach drops.
It's me.
Standing across the room.
Smiling.
I shove myself backward, my breath hitching. "No."
The thing wearing my face tilts its head, slow and deliberate. "Oh, come now. Let's not pretend you didn't see this coming."
Its voice is light. Mocking. My voice, but not.
I shake my head, hands trembling. "Get out of my head."
The thing laughs, stepping closer. "Oh, sweetheart... I'm not in your head."
It crouches in front of me, its grin stretching just a little too wide, its fingers pressing against the floor like claws.
"I'm in your body."
The ship hums louder around me, the walls pulsing with an eerie glow.
And then, for the first time, I realize—
I can't feel my heartbeat.
I can't feel anything at all.
I don't know how I got here. I don't know how much time has passed.
But none of that matters.
Because she's here.
Me.
Or at least—the thing wearing me.
And in its hands, cradled with careful, almost reverent fingers, is the object.
The very thing we came to retrieve. The one thing Miras and I risked everything for.
And I'm too late.
A sick, twisting dread coils in my stomach as I take a step forward. The imposter lifts its gaze, its lips curving into something too familiar.
"Ah," it hums, amused. "You're still here."
My breath is sharp, ragged. "Drop it."
The thing tilts its head, considering me with an almost playful glint in its darkened eyes. "Why would I do that?" It lifts the object slightly, rolling it between its fingers—my fingers. "You don't even know what this is, do you?"
I do.
Or at least, I did.
But my thoughts are scrambled, pieces missing, like someone took a knife to my mind and carved out the important parts.
"Look at you," it murmurs, stepping closer, its voice a soft, condescending coo. "Still trying so hard to fight. So desperate to hold on to something that's already gone."
I grit my teeth, my fists curling. "It's not yours."
"Neither are you."
I lunge.
The moment my body moves, I know it's a mistake.
The imposter barely flinches. It steps back, smooth, calculated, my own movements thrown back at me with unnatural precision. The object remains cradled in its hands, pulsing with a faint energy that hums through the room like a heartbeat.
My heartbeat.
I feel it—something in me reaching for it, aching for it. But the imposter just smirks, tilting its head.
"You really don't understand, do you?" it murmurs. "You can't fight me."
My breath is ragged, my pulse erratic. "Watch me."
I attack again, faster this time. A feint to the left—then I spin, striking low. But it's me—it knows what I'll do before I do it. It blocks effortlessly, twisting my own speed against me.
Then it hits back.
I barely see the counter coming before it slams into my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain flares through me as I stagger back, but I force myself to stay standing, to keep fighting.
I have to.
"Pathetic," the imposter sneers, rolling its shoulders. "I thought you'd be stronger than this."
I grit my teeth. "Give it back."
The imposter glances at the object in its hands, then at me, its smirk widening. "Oh, sweetheart. It was never yours to begin with."
My stomach twists.
Because something in me—something deep—knows that's not true.
I rush forward again, this time aiming for the object itself. If I can just touch it, maybe—
But the moment my fingertips brush the surface, a shockwave blasts through the room.
I'm thrown back, hitting the floor hard. My vision flickers, my body trembling from the force of it.
And the imposter? Still standing. Still holding it. Unscathed.
The room is spinning. My chest heaves, my vision blurs, but I force myself onto my elbows, swallowing the pain clawing through my ribs. The imposter stands above me, the dim light casting long, jagged shadows across its too-familiar face. My face.
It turns the device over in its hands, inspecting it, almost... admiring it. The glow pulses through its fingers—my fingers—like it's always belonged there. Like it's syncing with something inside it. Inside me.
Something cracks inside my skull, an echo of a memory—or maybe something else. Something not mine.
"Ah," the imposter muses, holding the object up. "There it is."
I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's seeing, but a deep, bone-deep dread settles in my chest.
A blaring siren splits the air.
The ship lurches beneath my feet, the emergency lights flickering to a blood-red hue. The imposter stills, its grip tightening on my wrist as it glances toward the ceiling, where the alarm pulses like a heartbeat.
Then I hear it—faint at first, but unmistakable. The distant, clattering sound of someone crashing through metal vents. A muffled, irritated voice cursing. Another, slightly panicked voice following close behind.
I exhale sharply through my nose. "Oh, for—"
The imposter tilts its head. "Friends of yours?"
There are only two people dumb enough to set off the alarms of an alien ship before even getting inside properly.
Miras and Dewey.
I wrench my arm back, ignoring the burn in my muscles, and shove away from the imposter. It doesn't chase me—just watches as I back toward the nearest corridor, its expression unreadable.
But I don't have time to figure out what it's thinking.
Because if Miras and Dewey are here, that means two things:
One, I don't have much time before the entire ship locks down.
And two—
I am never going to hear the end of this.
"My survival rate just dropped to the single digits."
The imposter tilts her head, eyes gleaming with amusement as she twirls the alien artifact between her fingers. She doesn't even look fazed by the blaring alarms, by the fact that two very armed, very dangerous idiots just busted their way onto this ship.
No, she's thrilled.
"Well, well," she purrs, stepping forward, her smile stretching too wide. "This just got a lot more fun."
I move fast—too fast—trying to get in front of her before she can do something worse, but she sidesteps, her hand shooting out to grab my wrist. The moment is too fast, too seamless. She turns just as Miras and Dewey round the corner, their weapons raised, their eyes locking onto us—
And I realize—
They have no way of knowing which one of us is real.
Miras hesitates, his sharp gaze flickering between us, calculating. Dewey, on the other hand, is already panicking.
"Oh hell no—"
She sounds exactly like me. Moves exactly like me. Even the way she's standing—the weight shift, the posture—it's a perfect copy.
Miras' jaw tightens. His gun doesn't lower.
The moment Miras pulls the trigger, everything explodes into chaos.
"Are you kidding me?" I whip around to face Miras, rage clawing its way up my throat. "You didn't even hesitate!"
Miras doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. "I made a call."
"You guessed!" My voice rises, echoing off the humming metal walls. "You had no idea which one was actually me, and you shot anyway?!"
"I had a pretty good idea," he says, deadpan.
I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, really? Because from where I was standing, you looked real confident putting a bullet in my head!"
"She dodged," he says simply, as if that justifies everything.
"Oh, great," I snap. "So next time I'll just pray my reflexes are good enough to stop you from murdering me!"
Miras crosses his arms. "If I hesitated and got it wrong, we'd all be dead right now."
"I was screaming!"
"I've heard you scream before."
I gape at him. "Do you hear yourself?"
"Loud and clear."
I swear to god—
"HEY!" Dewey's voice cuts through the rising tension, sharp and exasperated. "Maybe, just maybe, this isn't the best time for couples therapy!"
I glare at him. "We're not—"
"Not the point!" Dewey hisses, eyes flicking nervously toward the imposter, who's watching us with an amused tilt of her head. "Focus now, fight later, yeah?"
I press my lips together, fists clenched, anger still burning in my chest. Miras doesn't look away from me, but I can feel the weight of his stare.
Fine.
I'll deal with him later.
I turn back toward my other problem—
The imposter moves. Not like a human. Not like me. She twists, her body flickering as if she's out of sync with reality. "Oh, don't stop on my account," she purrs, tilting her head. "I love a little drama."
I roll my shoulders, shifting into a fighting stance. "I've got plenty more where that came from."
I don't wait.
I throw myself at her, aiming for the artifact in her hand. If I can just get it—
But she's too fast.
She twists, mirroring my movements like a warped reflection, catching my wrist mid-swing and slamming me into the nearest metal wall. Pain explodes across my back, but I don't have time to process it.
Because Miras and Dewey are already moving.
Miras fires again—two sharp, precise shots—but the imposter laughs, her body flickering in and out of phase as she dodges.
Dewey, meanwhile, is scrambling to pull something from his belt. "I knew this mission was gonna turn into some sci-fi horror bullsh—"
The imposter teleports.
One second she's in front of me, the next she's right in front of Dewey.
He yelps, stumbling back—too slow.
She grabs him by the throat and lifts him off the ground.
"Dewey!" I lunge, but she flings him hard into the control panel across the room. He crashes against it with a sickening crack, the ship's alarms sparking and glitching from the impact.
Miras is already there, knife in hand, slashing for her ribs.
She catches the blade between her fingers.
For a second, the two just stare at each other.
Then she grins.
"Close," she taunts. "Try again."
She twists the knife, yanking it from his grip and shoving him back.
Miras barely stumbles before launching himself at her again, fists flying. I move at the same time, flanking her from behind—
She vanishes.
Miras's punch swings through empty air. My kick hits nothing.
I barely hear her behind me before she strikes—
Her foot slams into my back, sending me sprawling forward. I barely catch myself before I hit the ground, whirling around just in time to see Miras lunging again—
And this time, he lands a hit.
His fist connects with her jaw, snapping her head to the side.
The imposter staggers.
Just for a second.
Then—
She laughs.
Low, delighted, like this is all just a game. She straightens, rolling her shoulders, wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand.
"Mm," she hums, looking Miras up and down with something almost like admiration. "I do see the appeal."
Miras's jaw clenches. "Shut up."
The imposter just grins.
Dewey, groaning in pain from where he's slumped against the control panel, lifts a trembling hand. "Hey," he wheezes, his voice ragged, "has anyone considered running?"
She's fast.
Faster than me.
Faster than she should be.
My body moves on instinct, ducking as the imposter's fist sails past my face. The air crackles with the force of the swing, the metal behind me buckling from the impact.
She's not just fast. She's strong.
Too strong.
I barely have time to recover before she's on me again. I throw up an arm to block, but she anticipates it—because of course she does. She knows my movements, my fighting style, my weaknesses.
Because she is me.
Her knee slams into my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. I stumble, but she doesn't let up. A hand fists in my shirt, yanking me forward—
BANG.
A bullet whizzes past my ear, so close I feel the heat of it. The imposter jerks back, just enough for me to rip myself free.
I don't hesitate—I spin, driving my elbow straight into her gut. She grunts but barely falters, her body twisting unnaturally to absorb the impact.
Miras fires again, but she's already moving, dodging to the side like she saw it coming a mile away.
"Oh, come on," she purrs, still smirking. "You can do better than that."
Miras curses under his breath. "I hate her."
"Welcome to my life!" I snap, lunging forward.
The imposter grins.
She meets me in the middle.
We collide—blow after blow, strike after strike. Every move I make, she counters, every feint she anticipates. It's like fighting a mirror, except the mirror is just a little stronger, just a little smarter, just a little more perfect.
And it's infuriating.
Dewey is yelling something, but I don't process it. The only thing I register is the sound of Miras reloading and the flash of movement as the imposter snaps her attention toward him.
I don't think.
I move.
I grab her wrist, twist—but she twists with me, dragging me with her.
I barely manage to kick off the ground, using the momentum to flip over her back before she can slam me down.
She whirls around—
Miras fires.
The imposter jerks as the bullet tears through her shoulder. She stumbles, her smirk faltering for the first time.
I don't let her recover.
I launch forward, foot connecting with her chest in a brutal, forceful kick.
She flies back, crashing against the metal wall with a sickening crack.
For a split second, there's silence.
Then—
She laughs.
Low. Dark. Almost delighted.
"You really are fun to play with," she breathes, pushing herself up, unfazed by the blood dripping down her arm.
Miras swears under his breath. "Dewey, now would be a great time for one of your brilliant ideas."
"I have one!" Dewey yells, ducking behind a console as the imposter sends a chunk of debris flying in his direction. "It's called run!"
Miras and I exchange a glance.
For once, I actually agree with Dewey.
But the imposter sees it in our eyes before we even move.
Her smirk sharpens.
"Go ahead," she taunts. "Run. But you know I'll find you."
I clench my jaw.
Miras grabs my wrist. "Cherish—"
I hate running.
I hate retreating.
But I hate losing more.
So I swallow my pride—
And I run.
The halls of the ship blur as we sprint, the alarms still blaring, red light flashing in erratic bursts along the metal walls. My lungs burn, my pulse hammering in my ears, but I don't dare slow down.
Behind us, I can feel her.
The imposter isn't chasing us outright—not yet. She doesn't need to. She's toying with us, letting us hear her footsteps just close enough to keep our adrenaline spiking, our breath ragged.
I grit my teeth.
Miras is ahead of me, keeping pace but constantly glancing back. Dewey is right behind me, swearing under his breath as he nearly trips over the wreckage of some broken panel.
"Exit—?" I rasp.
"Close," Miras grunts. "Docking bay."
I don't know how much time we have before she gets bored of letting us run.
But I do know one thing.
She has the artifact.
And that means I have to go back.
A sharp turn ahead. Miras skids around the corner, his boots slamming against the floor as he jerks to a stop so fast that I nearly crash into him.
"What the—"
I don't get a chance to finish the thought.
Because standing in front of us—leaning against the doorframe leading to the docking bay, arms crossed, expression bored—is her.
I stop breathing.
No.
No, she was behind us.
I whip around—
She's still there.
Two of them.
Two of me.
Dewey's breath catches. "Oh, hell no."
Miras raises his gun, his movements sharp and deliberate, but I can see the problem before he does.
Both imposters tilt their heads, their identical smirks stretching in eerie sync.
"Well?" one of them drawls. "Which one of us are you going to shoot?"
Miras stiffens. His gun doesn't waver.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Easy, Miras," Dewey mutters.
Miras doesn't move.
The second imposter takes a step forward. "What's wrong?" she coos, mockingly. "Afraid to make the wrong choice again?"
My stomach twists.
Miras's jaw tightens, but he doesn't answer.
The imposter grins. "That's right. I saw that little moment of hesitation back there." She tilts her head. "Hesitated for all of one second before you pulled the trigger."
I hate that she's right.
Miras's grip tightens on the gun. I see his mind working, calculating, trying to figure out a way through this.
Dewey, to his credit, keeps his hands raised, stepping slightly closer to me. "Hey, okay, okay. Let's just take a step back, alright? No one has to—"
The first imposter moves.
Too fast.
A blur of motion—
I dodge just as she lunges, but she's already spinning, her foot snapping out in a brutal kick aimed at Miras's chest.
He barely gets his arms up in time. The force sends him crashing into the wall with a sharp grunt of pain.
Dewey yells, stumbling back—
I lash out, my fist colliding with the imposter's jaw.
She laughs.
The second one is on me before I can recover.
She grabs me by the wrist—my grip, my strength—twisting my arm behind my back and slamming me against the wall. Pain explodes through my shoulder.
The floor shakes beneath us. A deep, shuddering groan rattles through the ship's structure, metal twisting somewhere in the depths of the hull.
Dewey barely manages to stay upright as he staggers toward the wall. "Tell me that was one of you!" he yells over the alarms.
Miras is still bracing himself against the door, his gun raised, his breathing sharp. "Not me."
I push myself off the wall, wincing as my ribs protest. "Not me, either."
Then, as if to confirm my worst suspicion, a cold, automated voice chimes over the ship's comms:
WARNING. CORE BREACH IMMINENT. ALL PERSONNEL EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.
The aliens disappear.
Oh, hell.
Dewey's fingers fly over the controls. "What did you two do?"
Miras and I exchange a glance.
"Nothing," we both say.
Which means—
I exhale sharply, realization slamming into me like a brick.
"Imani."
Miras groans, already running a hand down his face. "Of course it's Imani."
Because who else would set off a ship-wide self-destruct sequence while we're still inside the ship.
Dewey nearly rips a panel off the console, frantically rewiring something. "I don't know who that is, but I'd love to have a word with them about their problem-solving skills!"
Another deep, gut-wrenching shudder rocks the ship. Sparks rain from the ceiling. The distant howl of air pressure escaping somewhere deep in the hull sends a sharp prickle down my spine.
The ship's intercom crackles to life, and then—
"If you three don't get your asses off that ship in the next thirty seconds, I swear to god—"
Imani's voice cuts through the blaring alarms, sharp and impatient, as if he isn't the one who just set off a goddamn self-destruct sequence in the first place.
Miras groans, already shoving himself toward the exit. "We're trying, Imani."
Dewey, frantically hitting buttons, shouts, "Define trying! Because this heap of junk isn't exactly cooperating—"
But I don't move.
I can't.
"I have to go back. The artifact is still in the control room."
The words come out of my mouth before I even know I'm saying them, and I see Miras freeze, his body tensing like he's been struck. His eyes are dark—angry, maybe—but there's something else there, too. Something soft.
"Cherish, don't be stupid. We're leaving. Now."
He steps toward me, his jaw clenched.
"It's dangerous!" I yank myself away from him. "That thing could send earth into a black hole if it explodes."
Dewey curses from behind me, and I hear him scrambling with the controls, muttering to himself. "This is insane, Cherish!"
Miras's footsteps echo behind me, steady and relentless. I turn just as his hand grips my shoulder, spinning me around to face him. His eyes are locked on mine, his expression hard, but there's a flicker of something softer beneath it, something I can't quite place.
"No," he growls. "You're not doing this alone."
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "I'm not letting you walk into whatever the hell's waiting for you in there by yourself."
Before I can argue, Dewey curses from behind us, his voice urgent. "You two better hurry up, or we're all dead. Like, literally. Dead."
Miras glances back at him, then back to me, and I see it then—the tension in his jaw, the decision already made in his head. He isn't leaving me.
"Fine," I snap. "Just don't get in the way."
Dewey grumbles something under his breath, but we all move in sync, heading down the narrow corridor to the control room. The ship is shaking with every passing second, the alarms screaming louder than before. I can hear the countdown ticking in the back of my head, louder than my own pulse, and it only pushes me harder to reach the artifact.
When we finally make it, Dewey rushes to the console, his fingers flying over the buttons. The artifact sits there, pulsing faintly with an unnatural glow. I don't hesitate. I reach for it, the cold surface of the object sending a shiver through me.
Just as my fingers brush the artifact's surface, the ship lurches beneath us, sending all of us stumbling. Miras's arm shoots out, steadying me. "We need to go. Now."
But it's too late.
The explosion rips through the air like a thunderclap.
The boat shudders beneath my feet, then disintegrates in an instant. The roar of flames and the sharp screech of metal twisting are drowned out by the deafening boom.
Time slows.
The shockwave slams into me, throwing me off my feet. I feel my body weightless, suspended for a breath, before gravity yanks me down into the icy water below.
It's chaos—water fills my lungs in an instant, cold and suffocating. I try to kick, to push, to find my way to the surface, but the shock from the explosion has rattled everything inside me. My limbs feel heavy, my head spinning.
I can't see. I can't breathe.
And then—
Strong hands grip me, pulling me upward.
The world shifts again. The light changes. The pressure in my chest eases.
Miras.
I gasp for air, my vision blurred, but there he is—his face above mine, his arms wrapped around me as he drags us both to the surface.
"Cherish," he says, his voice frantic. "Cherish, stay with me."
I blink, struggling to stay conscious. "I—I'm fine."
But the words taste wrong in my mouth. I'm not fine. I'm not okay.
I'm drowning.
I hear it. A cough from behind us. Dewey. He breaks the surface a few feet away, gasping for air, looking just as frantic as we feel.
"We made it, but—" He stops mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something above us.
I turn, following his gaze, and my stomach drops. Hovering just above the wreckage, cutting through the smoke and debris, is a black jet. Its sleek body casts a shadow over the water as it hovers silently, scanning the wreckage. The low hum of its engines fills the air, a terrifying presence that feels like a trap closing in on us.
Dewey squints up at it, his voice tight with confusion and suspicion. "What the hell is that?"
I already know. I've known since I saw it. My heart sinks. "Unfortunately, it's my dad."
********
Maurice Battle's voice cuts through the air, low and unforgiving.
"Cherish." His voice is clipped, like each word is a weapon. "What the hell were you thinking?"
I stiffen, bracing myself for impact. This is going to be bad—he's not one for small talk, especially not when I've just survived an explosion and almost drowned. But my dad's always been better at giving orders than showing concern.
Imani's voice comes in next, calm but with an edge. "Maurice, we need to—"
"I'm talking to my daughter," he snaps, cutting off Imani's attempt to intervene.
I bite back a retort, but the words taste sour in my mouth. He doesn't understand. He never will.
"Miras—" My father turns sharply to him now, his gaze darkening. "You knew better than to let her out there."
Miras doesn't flinch, but I can feel the weight of his silence. He doesn't have a good excuse. And he knows it.
My father shifts his attention again, but this time, it's not me or Miras. It's Dewey.
Dewey.
I watch as both my father and Imani exchange a look, one that speaks volumes. They've only just realized he's been on this mission with us—his presence as unexpected as it is inexplicable.
"Who the hell are you?"
Dewey, never one to back down, stands a little taller, the exhaustion and panic in his eyes replaced with a wild kind of confidence. "Well, you didn't exactly ask, did you?" He shrugs. "But I figured, I should probably be the one to explain why the hell you're all still alive."
My father's gaze sharpens, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You didn't answer my question."
Dewey smirks, unfazed. "Yeah, I'm sure you'd like an explanation, but trust me—it's complicated."
Imani's face darkens. "You better start talking."
"He's my best friend," Miras intervenes before Dewey can dig himself a bigger hole. "He's my best friend. I asked him to help with the mission."
My father pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long frustrated sigh.
The sterile scent of the med bay hits me first. The familiar hum of machines and the faint beeping of heart monitors make my head spin, but it's nothing compared to the overwhelming feeling of cold that seeps into every part of me.
My limbs feel like lead, and my chest burns with every shallow breath. The water in my lungs makes it hard to think, hard to move, but I can feel the steady pressure of someone's hands on my back as they help me sit up.
"You've got water in your lungs," Imani continues, his hands steady but firm as he guides me through the motions of breathing in a slow, controlled rhythm. "We need to clear it out. Just hold on."
I try to nod, but everything is heavy. The pressure in my chest is suffocating, making every breath feel like a battle. My body trembles from the cold, but there's something else too—something deeper.
And then, through the fog, I hear it.
Miras.
His voice is tight, jagged, like he's holding something back. "Is she okay?"
"She's stable," Imani says, trying to sound reassuring. "But she needs rest. And time. The water's still in her lungs, so we'll need to get that out before it gets worse."
I feel Miras' presence before I hear his voice again. It's quieter this time, edged with frustration and concern. "What about the hypothermia?"
"We're getting her tempter up. But you need to relax, Miras. You where in that explosion too."
But Miras isn't listening. His gaze hasn't left me since the moment he stepped into the med bay. His eyes are wide, his brow furrowed in that familiar intensity. "She's more important right now."
Imani's expression hardens. "We're all important, Miras." His voice is firm, but I can tell it's more out of habit than belief.
******
The pressure on my chest lessens slowly, the rhythmic pulse of the machines beginning to match my own shaky breaths. Imani is still by my side, working with a practiced calm to guide me through each ragged inhale.
"Come on, Cherish," he murmurs, his hand steady on my back as he gently taps my ribs. "You've got this. Just a little more. Keep coughing if you can."
The water in my lungs doesn't want to leave. Every cough feels like I'm ripping apart from the inside, each breath coming harder than the last. It burns. The pain flares across my chest, and for a moment, I'm sure I'm going to choke on it.
I can hear Miras shifting nearby, his movements too quick, too anxious. I don't need to see him to know what he's doing. He's probably hovering, unable to sit still while I fight for air.
"Miras," I croak, my voice rough and cracked from the water. "Stop fucking pacing."
I don't expect him to listen, but he does. Imani doesn't stop his work. The coughs are starting to ease off, but I feel like my body's betraying me in every way possible. The aftereffects of nearly drowning are still there—dizziness, the sharp pressure in my chest, the sense of weightlessness that won't leave.
"You're doing good," Imani says, and his voice is softer now, more like he's talking to himself than me.
I'm still dizzy, still feeling the pull of the water in my chest, the pressure of it sitting like a stone inside me. The cold is creeping back into my bones too, making every movement feel sluggish, unnatural. I'm struggling to focus, to get my thoughts to string together, but it feels like my mind is wading through fog. "I'm... fine," I rasp, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just... a little dizzy."
"That's normal," Imani says, a little too quickly, as though he's trying to convince himself as much as me.
The hum of the jet's engines grows quieter as we begin our descent, the vibrations underfoot lessening with every passing second. I barely notice the shift—my mind still tangled in the haze of exhaustion, my body still battling the cold and the remnants of the water in my lungs.
The steady pull of gravity settles back in, and with it, the crushing weight of reality. We've made it.
We've survived.
"Getting close," Imani mutters, his voice a quiet murmur as he taps a few buttons on his console. He's been working in the background, managing the chaos of the jet's return, while making sure we're all stable enough for landing.
The city below starts to come into focus, the lights blinking like a million tiny stars beneath us. The dark skyline of the tower looms ahead, solid and looming, a reminder that the chaos of the mission isn't over. Not by a long shot. The moment the door opens, I feel him before I see him. My father.
His presence is undeniable, his aura commanding the room with a coldness that no one can ignore. His eyes immediately lock onto me, a flicker of something in them—frustration, maybe, or something darker, but it's hard to read through the years of tension that hang between us.
"Miras, get out of the way," he orders, his voice low, clipped, like a whip cracking.
In one fluid motion, he crosses the distance between us, his hands landing on my shoulders and gently—too gently for my liking—lifting me off the seat.
I stiffen instinctively, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Dad," I manage, my voice rough, still recovering from the cold and the pressure in my chest. "I can walk."
But he doesn't respond, just lifts me a little higher, cradling me in his arms like I'm some fragile thing. The strength behind his movements is there, but his touch is surprisingly careful. Still, the weight of him—of all of him—presses down on me in a way I can't ignore. Miras takes a step forward, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck strained. "Maurice—"
My father's eyes snap to him. "Not now, Miras."
But it's not just that. There's something in my father's gaze—a warning, an unspoken threat that makes Miras stiffen. The moment he steps back, it's like an invisible line has been drawn between them, one that neither of them dares to cross.
As we approach the tower, I can hear the faint hum of the elevator waiting for us.
"Get some rest, Cherish," my father mutters, his voice colder than I would have liked, but there's a faint trace of something more in it. Concern?
Or just command?
I don't know anymore.
But the words don't matter as much as the fact that we're back. The mission's over, but we're nowhere near done.
Miras and I both know it.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and the sterile, cold air of the tower hits me like a slap to the face. It's always like this when we get back from a mission, the silence of the place settling over everything—too quiet, too controlled.
My dad's grip on me never loosens as he moves us down the narrow hallway. I can feel his eyes on me, not just the usual weight of a father's gaze, but something else, something more like a soldier sizing up a weapon that's seen too much battle. His fingers are tight around my waist, and I don't dare look up at him.
"Miras," he finally says, his voice clipped, barely audible over the hum of the building. "You stay."
Miras stiffens but doesn't argue. He's learned that look—the one that means there's no negotiation. Instead, he watches us, his jaw tight, hands hanging by his sides, the weight of whatever is about to happen settling between us like a brick.
My father doesn't wait for Miras to speak. He turns, steps into the elevator with me still in his arms, and presses the button for the higher floors. The doors close, and the sound of the world outside vanishes.
There's nothing but the hum of the lift as we ascend in silence, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. I glance briefly at Maurice. I try to get a read on him—try to see if there's any sign of the man who raised me, who, despite everything, I've always had some shred of loyalty to. But there's nothing there. His face is stone.
I open my mouth, but the words feel like they might choke me. "What now?"
He doesn't look at me as he answers. His voice is low, almost dismissive. "You're going to rest."
"That's it?"
His gaze finally flickers down to me, just for a moment, but the look in his eyes is sharp, calculating. He's sizing me up again, like he's trying to figure out what I'll do next. "You disobeyed me, Cherish," he says slowly. "And for that, you're lucky I didn't leave you out there to drown."
I flinch. His words hit harder than I expected.
"But you're here now," he continues, his voice colder than the air around us. "We'll deal with the rest later."
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. He brings me to my room, laying me down on top of my bead
I don't argue. I'm too tired to.
My body's still shaking with the aftermath of everything—drowning, the explosion, the cold—but it's not just physical. It's the weight of the mission, the fear, the betrayal.
All of it is wrapped up in him