Amara stirred, the world coming back in fragments, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the low flicker of the bedside lamp, the heaviness in her wrist. It took a few seconds before she could even move, before she realized her hand was bandaged. White gauze wrapped around her skin, soaked faintly pink.
Her throat was dry. She wanted to speak, but the words caught halfway. She didn’t know what she wanted to say anyway. Sorry? Help? Why?
Leo was right there beside the bed, sitting on the floor like a broken statue. His hair was wild, shirt stained, face buried in his palms. He wasn’t moving. Just breathing harshly, like each breath hurt him.
She blinked once, twice. The memory of everything came crashing back—her scream, the knife, the voice that wouldn’t stop whispering inside her head.
