Howard and Ch'en sat in the sterile waiting room of Rhodes Island's hospital wing.
Howard's hands rested on his knees, fingers flexing faintly, while Ch'en sat beside him, her posture steady despite the tension in the air.
The harsh fluorescent lights carved sharp shadows, amplifying the silence between them.
Footsteps approached, and a doctor stepped forward—his coat crisp, his face etched with a mix of relief and concern.
"The patient has miraculously clung to life," the doctor began, adjusting his glasses.
"Camelia's organs sustained severe trauma—her heart stopped briefly, and her lungs buckled under intense heat. Yet they've stabilised, against all odds, though not without a cost.
"We've observed an odd mutation: her cellular structure is shifting, red blood cells adapting to hyper-oxygenated conditions beyond terrestrial norms. It's as if her physiology is reconfiguring itself for survival."
Howard's fist clenched tighter, knuckles whitening as the words hit home.
'The seaborn blood,' he thought, guilt gnawing at him like a persistent ache.
The doctor pressed on, unaware of his inner turmoil.
"She's entered a coma, likely a defensive state to cope with the damage. With fortune, she may awaken soon, but her condition remains fragile."
He hesitated, then added, "Mr Leyman, might I speak with you privately before I depart?"
Howard nods; the doctor then leaves.
Howard muttered under his breath, voice barely a whisper,
"This is all my fault."
He'd grown too lax, too trusting in himself—security measures he'd shrugged off had left his firm exposed.
Now Camelia and the others had borne the consequences.
'I should've been sharper,' he chastised himself, replaying every overlooked detail.
Ch'en's hand settled on his shoulder, a firm, grounding touch.
"Howard, your place is gone—burnt to ash—and you're a target now," she said, her tone calm but resolute.
"Stay with me for the time being. It's safer that way."
'He's too valuable to lose, especially with how fast he's growing,' she thought.
Her offer was practical, born of the moment's necessity.
Howard shook his head, rejecting the absolution in her words.
"I could've prevented it," he said quietly.
"I just didn't think it through."
She studied him, noting the stubborn set of his jaw, and decided against pushing further.
"Here's my address," she said, sending it to his phone with a quick tap.
Then she added, "Those two from the bridge—the Crow and the masked one—they got away."
"It's alright," Howard replied, his voice tired but appreciative.
"You've done more than enough already." Ch'en gave a brief nod, then stood and walked off, her boots echoing faintly down the corridor.
Howard stayed seated, staring at the floor, the day's weight pinning him in place.
***
A compact space lined with medical charts and glowing screens.
The doctor—a lean figure with keen eyes named Dr Varn—greeted Howard with a nod.
"Mr Leyman, good to see you again," he said, settling behind his desk.
"Let's discuss about the patient Camelia."
He tapped a tablet displaying her vitals, his tone turning precise.
"Her biology is undergoing a remarkable shift. Her brown eyes have deepened to a striking blue, pupils widening like those of abyssal creatures. "
"Faint, iridescent scales are emerging along her forearms, and her blood oxygen saturation suggests adaptations akin to gill function. These traits align with aquatic physiology—specifically, patterns unique to Aegirian species."
Howard listened in silence, his jaw tight.
Dr Varn continued, his voice measured yet intrigued.
"I've spent years studying Terra's diseases and afflictions. This mutation echoes rare cases tied to Aegir—volatile transformations linked to seaborn influence. I can't deduce the cause, but it's evident someone, or you, intervened to save her with it. The price, however, is a life irrevocably altered."
He leaned back, his gaze softening.
"I've seen similar instances. The afflicted, unable to cope, descend into madness. If the mutation progresses unchecked, it could prove fatal—painfully so, as her body rejects itself. I'll exert every effort, but that's the extent of my assurance."
Howard dipped his head, voice low.
"Thank you for your honesty." He stood and left, his red eyes dim, their usual spark dulled by exhaustion and remorse.
Outside, he pulled out his phone and dialled Elena.
She picked up, her voice tinged with surprise.
"Howard? You're still kicking—didn't expect that!" She shifted to urgency.
"There's a 4-billion-LMD bounty on you—dead or alive."
He glossed over the shock, cutting in.
"I need to know who is behind the bounty."
"Colombian noble conglomerate," Elena answered.
"Some bigwig you ticked off, apparently. They've got cash to burn and hate to match."
Howard's jaw tightens.
"Send me all you've got on them," he said.
"On it," she replied, and the call cut off with a click.
Howard flagged a taxi, the driver sparing him only a fleeting glance.
He provided Ch'en's address and sank into the backseat, Lungmen's lights streaking past as he headed toward her home, a flicker of purpose stirring beneath his fatigue.
***
Howard arrived at Ch'en's doorstep, the taxi's rumble fading into Lungmen's nocturnal hum.
He knocked lightly, a few packets of clothes clutched in his hand—hastily grabbed essentials from a corner shop after his apartment's ruin.
The door swung open, and Ch'en greeted him with a nod, her expression calm but tinged with the day's fatigue.
"Come in," she said, stepping aside to let him pass.
As he crossed the threshold, Ch'en gestured around the modest apartment.
"Kitchen's to the left, bathroom's down the hall, and you can set up in the spare room," she explained, her tone practical.
"There's a kettle if you need tea—help yourself."
Howard listened, taking it all in with a quiet nod, then made his way toward the bathroom, the weight of the packets a small anchor in his hands.
He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the grime of smoke and blood.
His old clothes—singed and torn—lay discarded in a heap, replaced by a simple grey shirt and loose pants from his new haul, the fabric soft against his battered skin.
Refreshed, he headed to set up a bed, but as he rounded a corner, he collided with Ch'en.
She stumbled slightly, an apology tumbling out.
"Sorry, didn't see you there."
As Howard instinctively reached to steady her, their faces drew perilously close.
Her breath caught, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks, and she pulled back in a flash, retreating down the hall.
Howard blinked, a touch confused by her reaction, but shrugged it off and continued to the spare room.
He unfolded a camping bed from a corner—a sturdy frame with a thin mattress—and set it up with practiced ease, smoothing a blanket over it.
As he settled in, Ch'en entered, clad in a simple nightshirt, her movements quiet.
She flicked off the room's light, plunging them into a soft darkness broken only by the city's glow seeping through the blinds.
"Goodnight," she said, slipping into her own bed across the room.
Howard pulled the blanket up, but sleep eluded him.
A question gnawed at his mind, and he voiced it into the stillness.
"Ch'en, is it right to seek revenge?"
The words hung in the air, stirring something deep within her.
Ch'en lay still, her thoughts drifting back to a day seared into her memory—the day her sister was taken.
Back then, she had been helpless, a young girl watching her world fall apart while the pain of loss stoked a desire for vengeance inside of her.
'I grew strong so I'd never feel that again,' she reflected, tracing the path that had forged her into an enforcer of justice.
Revenge had fuelled her once, but now she wielded her blades for a broader cause. Could she tell Howard it was wrong to crave it—or right to pursue it?
She turned her head slightly, her voice soft but steady.
"Follow your heart, Howard," she replied.
"Revenge can hollow you out, leaving nothing but echoes. But whatever road you choose, trust in yourself—believe in what drives you."
Howard let her words settle, a quiet balm to his restless thoughts.
"Thanks, Ch'en," he said, his tone carrying a hint of gratitude.
With that, the day drew to its close, the silence of the room wrapping around them like a fragile truce.