CHAPTER 7
Nate hadn’t moved in hours.
The chair beside Emilia’s bed had gone from uncomfortable to something worse—like it had started growing into him. His back ached. His eyes burned. He didn’t care. Every time he even thought about standing up, the image slammed back into him: glass exploding, her body hitting the concrete, blood in her hair.
His shot. His fault.
The monitors kept beeping like nothing was wrong. Steady. Calm. It pissed him off somehow. Two days. She’d been out for two full days and the machines just kept doing their job like this was normal.
He rubbed a hand over his face. Stubble scratched his palm. He hadn’t showered. Hadn’t changed. The same hoodie from the game still smelled faintly of ice and panic. His phone was face-down on the little table, screen black aft
