Beep… beep… beep…
Zaviel woke to the steady rhythm of a monitor at his side. His vision was hazy, shapes bleeding into one another, but he could still piece together the scene.
White curtains. The sterile sting of disinfectant. The strange weight of a bed that wasn't his.
A hospital.
His senses, sharper than most, picked up the hushed voices drifting from different corners of the ward. He didn't need to see their faces to know they were talking about him.
This place reeked of old scars. Hospitals always did. They dragged up memories he didn't want, memories that had begun clawing their way back the moment he blacked out.
He raised a hand to press against his throbbing skull, only to stop short. A thin tube ran from the back of his hand, tethering him to a bag of clear liquid. An IV.
Like a leash
"What the hell happened to those rooftop sissies?" Zaviel muttered, forcing himself upright on the bed. His body ached, but his mind was clear.
If the snipers hadn't taken the shot while he was losing it in the hallway, then their job hadn't been to kill him. Just to watch.
Which meant one thing.
The order didn't come from them.
His lips curved. That bitch agent…
"Hmph."
He rubbed his left index finger with his thumb, a slow, deliberate motion, the smirk on his face stretching wider until it nearly split into a grin. His gaze drifted to the ward's entrance, as though he were already expecting company.
"If I'm right," he said softly, almost amused, "they'll be here soon… crawling in with their little apologies."
The thought cracked something inside him, and a low laugh spilled out, growing darker until it twisted into a full, sadistic chuckle that filled the room.
in the doctor's office
Agent Clove sat across from a man in his late fifties, though his hair was already a shock of white. People always said premature white hair meant you'd seen too much of life....that it came with wisdom. From the way he spoke, Clove almost believed it.
"So, it really isn't a rare case," the doctor said with a polite smile.
Clove's eyes dropped to the stack of files he'd laid on the desk. Page after page of patients, all with heterochromia. More than twenty records. Blue and green. Red and blue. Purple and yellow. Random mixes that looked like something out of a fantasy novel.
"These records… what year are they from?"
The doctor adjusted his glasses with practiced ease. "These go back about eight years. On average, we get maybe three new heterochromia cases reported per year. Nothing unusual." His lips twitched into a faint grin. "Though I'll admit that they do look striking."
"Three per year…" Clove's voice lowered. "What about twenty years ago? Do you have records that far back? Specifically, someone with gold and purple eyes."
The doctor leaned back, resting his hand on his chin. "Hmm… we do have records from then, yes. But I doubt there's anyone with that exact combination. At least, not back then." He flipped through a folder before glancing up again. "As of now, only six people on record have ever matched that set."
Clove froze, her pulse quickening. Six?!. Her hands slammed against the table, eyes wide.
"Where are they?!"
*********
The nurse walked into the ward, clipboard in hand, ready for a routine check. But instead of finding her patient recovering quietly in bed, she froze at the sight before her. Zaviel was on the floor, calmly doing push-ups as if he owned the place.
Each motion carved the lines of his torso deeper, sweat glinting faintly under the fluorescent light. Her eyes lingered longer than they should have on his abs, perfectly refined like something sculpted, and for a second, she forgot why she'd come.
Only when Zaviel turned his head slightly, his mismatched eyes locking onto her with that unsettling gaze, did she jolt back to reality.
"You shouldn't be out of bed!" she scolded, clutching the clipboard to her chest like a shield. "Your body hasn't fully recovered yet. Lie down, now."
Zaviel didn't even pause in his rhythm. He simply muttered two flat words without looking at her.
"Screw off."
Her cheeks flushed with heat, not from shame but frustration. "Excuse me? I'm here to make sure you don't collapse again, not to watch you act like a....."
Zaviel finally pushed himself upright, brushing his palms together as if her words were nothing but background noise. His voice came out cold, detached, yet with that cruel edge of humor.
"The only reason I'm still here… is because I'm waiting for someone to come apologize. Once that's done, I'm gone."
Her brows knitted. "Apologize? What are you even....." She shook her head and pulled out her phone. "That's it, I'm calling the doctor."
The door swung open with a creak.
Clove stepped inside, the Doctor following from behind, sharp-eyed and composed, though her gaze betrayed a flicker of tension.
Zaviel's lips curled slowly into a knowing smile, like a predator watching its prey walk into his den.
"Well… speak of the devil."