Darkness gave way to warmth.
Von stirred, eyelids flickering at the hum of generators and soft beep of machinery. The air was thick with the scent of sterility—alcohol and rusty metal, but not dirty.
He blinked slowly.
A steel ceiling looming above him. Worn and rusty at the edges. Pipes along the top like veins. A tiny lightbulb suspended on a chain.
He was in bed.
A real bed.
Clean sheets. A blanket. Bandages on his arms and across his ribs. His headache thudded like drums, but it was distant, muted by painkillers.
And once—
No one was hitting him.
Von slowly sat up, wincing. His body felt leaden, as if it had been wrung out and dumped in a trash chute. He gazed around.
The room was small and temporary. A refurbished bunker, maybe. A row of unoccupied cots against one wall in front of him. A table in the corner with hospital gear and a computer monitor with a static-filled map.
He touched the bandage on his forehead.
"What the hell...?" he whispered.
And then the memories hit him like a tidal wave.
The lab. Justin. Dr. Rhane. The cuffs. The escape.
Bullet. His dad. The impact was full against the wall.
The eagle helmet. The blades' wings.
Marco.
Von grabbed his head, wide-eyed.
"Justin."
He tried to get up, but his legs buckled. Fire burst in his side.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
The door creaked open.
A beautiful young woman entered—late twenties, maybe. No-nonsense demeanor, close-cropped hair pulled back, scar running down her forehead. A red armband on her arm with the emblem of the Resistance—a broken chain surrounding a star.
She was holding a clipboard in one hand and an energy bar in the other.
"You're awake," she said. "Good sign."
Von blinked, still groggy. "Where am I?"
"Safe," she replied, setting the energy bar on the table beside his bed. "You're in Haven—our base under Sector 9. Marco brought you in two days ago."
"Two days?"
You have a minor concussion, cracked ribs, and mild dehydration. You're lucky that Marco showed up when he did. Or you'd be a goner, my dude.
Von rubbed his temples. "Bullet. He—"
"He didn't chase," she said softly but firmly. "Marco took care of it."
Von exhaled unsteadily and dropped back onto the bed.
He wasn't dead.
But Justin might be.
And home—a home, anyway—was long gone.
The woman glanced at him. "You don't have to talk yet. But when you're ready. Marco wants to see you. So hang in there, champ." She said, giving him a playful wink and a smirk.
Von blushed but didn't move.
He simply lay there, a bit flustered, the weight of it all crushing his chest.
He was free.
But he'd never felt so lost.