The metallic scent of the telegraph key lingered on my fingertips as I froze, one hand still resting on the blood-stained desk. The machine sputtered weakly behind me, its light flickering like a dying star. The voice was calm, sharp, definitive.
"Step away from the machine."
Four soldiers stood before me, guns raised. Their uniforms bore the same insignia I'd seen on the aircraft that blanketed the town in fire and death. Ash clung to their boots and shoulders, mixing with the grime of a city razed. I raised my right hand—my only hand now—and stepped back from the desk, the Morse key still humming behind me like a heartbeat.
The lead soldier's eyes scanned me clinically. He had the air of a man who had executed more orders than questions. One of the others snorted.
"You really thought this pile of junk could save you?"
My silence was answer enough. Another soldier—taller, with a crow's voice—nodded toward my missing arm, the blood crusted dark around the sleeve.
"Should've just bled out quietly."
"Why?" I managed, each breath a rasp. "Why bomb civilians? Why all this?"
The lead soldier didn't flinch. "Orders. You're a leak. A liability. We're here to contain information. That's all."
"Contain," I repeated. "You mean erase."
No answer. The tall one moved toward the desk, pushing me aside with his rifle.
He reached for the machine.
"Let's clear this up," he muttered. "Send a little correction. False alarm."
My eyes locked onto the key. If he erased the message, everything—the civilians, the dead children, the fire—would be buried with me. That could not happen.
It wasn't graceful. I lunged like a drunk, my shoulder slamming into him just as he reached for the telegraph key. We crashed to the floor together, tangled in limbs and gear. Pain ripped through my side—searing, nauseating—but I didn't stop.
I rolled, half on my back, bracing a hand against the desk. With the heel of my boot, I kicked upward—once, twice—until the machine teetered off the edge.
It shattered against the floor.
Sparks burst like fireworks. A shriek of twisting metal echoed in the hollow room. The telegraph lay in pieces, a smear of oil and wire and broken keys. Dead.
"Bastard!" the soldier roared.
He lunged at me again, tackling me against the wall. I shoved back, barely keeping him off. His helmet fell off as I headbutted him—stupid, reckless pain flashed across my skull—but it bought me a second.
"You don't get to rewrite what happened," I rasped.
He grabbed a fistful of my coat, dragging me in close. His breath was sour, his eyes alight with rage.
"You think anyone gives a damn about your little message?" he growled. "You think anyone's listening?"
"Someone always listens," I hissed.
He threw a wild punch—I ducked, barely, and countered with an elbow into his gut. He wheezed, stumbling, but he was trained, stronger. He tackled me again, this time slamming me down hard, pinning my wounded shoulder.
Agony exploded down my spine. I screamed.
"You should've stayed down," he spat, drawing his sidearm.
I grabbed a loose chunk of concrete, swung it at his face. He yelped, blood gushing from his eyebrow. I reached for the pistol, fingers scrabbling—but then—
Boots thundered behind me.
The butt of a rifle cracked against my back.
Another slammed into my ribs.
I gasped—air ripped from my lungs.
My grip loosened. The pistol was yanked away.
Rough hands dragged me upright, one forearm tightening around my neck. My legs barely held me. Another soldier stepped forward, pistol raised, his mouth twisted in something close to a sneer.
"That was your last trick."
He cocked the hammer.
The soldier with the pistol jerked backward. Blood sprayed across the floor. He fell, convulsing.
"SNIPER!" someone shouted. Another shot. Another body dropped. Smoke grenades burst through the shattered window panes, coughing gray clouds into the room.
Shouting in another language. Sharp, urgent commands. The crackle of suppressed gunfire.
I collapsed against the counter, vision tunneling. Figures in matte-black tactical gear stormed the room. Different uniforms. Different insignia.
One of them dropped beside me.
"Pulse is weak," a woman's voice said. She pressed two fingers against my neck. "We've got him."
I tried to speak. My throat was thick with ash. All I managed was a whisper.
"Did it go through...?"
She paused, then smiled.
Soft. Faint. Like the bell of a distant chapel carried on wind.
It echoed through the silence of my mind.
Then—light. Gentle and gold, filtered through linen curtains that swayed slightly with the breeze. The air was still, clean. No ash, no smoke, no blood.
My eyes opened slowly.
The ceiling above me was white. Smooth. Familiar. My body rested on something soft, warm. Sheets cocooned me—clean sheets, the kind that carried the faint scent of lavender and old soap.
For a moment, I just lay there, unmoving. My heartbeat was calm, the ache in my chest dull and far away, like the echo of a nightmare I hadn't quite shaken off.
Sienna was curled up against me, her head nestled beneath my chin, the soft warmth of her breath brushing against my collarbone. Her auburn hair fanned across my chest like ink spilled in water, one hand resting delicately over my heart, as if guarding it.
Camille had claimed the space across the blankets in her usual carefree sprawl, one leg tangled in the sheets, her black curls a beautiful, chaotic halo on the pillow. Her arm was flung over my stomach, possessive even in sleep, her fingers twitching faintly as she dreamed.
And Alexis was gravitated to my other side. Her breathing was calm, steady, her forehead resting lightly against my shoulder as her silver hair covered one of her eyes. Her glasses were crooked, barely hanging on, and her coat was still half on, as though she'd only meant to sit beside me for a moment and never left.
I stared at them, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
All of them. Real. Alive.
As if none of it had happened.
As if I hadn't bled out in a ruined city. As if I hadn't lost an arm in the rubble.
Slowly—hesitantly—I lifted my hand.
My breath caught. I flexed my fingers, watching them move as if through water. They responded perfectly. Smooth, precise, as if they'd never been torn away.
But I could still feel it.
That ghostly, echoing pain—an ache where nothing should be. A memory of pain clinging to nerves that still believed they were severed.
Phantom Perception, Alexis would call it. A trick of the mind. The body's desperate attempt to rewrite its own trauma.
This air that didn't taste of death.
New Job Acquired: Journalist (B-Rank)