Roenan was dreaming.

He sat on a blanket spread across warm sand, the sun glaring almost too brightly above. The trees swaying near the edge of the beach were a vivid green, and sunlight glittered off the ocean in glimmering flashes. There was a warm breeze brushing past his face and rustling his hair. It smelt like the sea, and the sand, and his mother's perfume.

He heard his mother laughing and he looked to see her and his father sitting on the blanket next to him. She brushed strands of her brown hair behind her ear, dimples on her cheeks and crows eyes appearing. She reached for the picnic basket that was sitting in front of her and slid in onto her lap. She placed her hand in the basket, and began rummaging around it.

Roenan had been calm, eyes half-closed from the sun’s heat—until he heard a sharp, mechanical click.

His spine went rigid; eyes snapping open.

His mother was holding a gun, aimed straight at his father.

The shot rang out, too familiar.

Roenan scrambled backward in the sand, heart pounding as she tossed the gun aside and turned toward him. Her face twisted and her features wild. Then she lunged.

She slammed into him, pinning him down, her hands tightening around his throat.

Roenan’s eyes flew open.

A choked sound escaped him as he stared up into silver eyes—cold, blank, and hovering inches above. The boy from the other bed was on top of him, stradding his waist, his hands locking tighter around Roenan’s neck. His nostrils flared with rapid breath. That look—Roenan had seen before, in his mother’s eyes.

Crazed. Empty. Silver.

Roenan looked down as he tried to pry the boy’s hands off, but pain flared from his healing wounds. His body was too weak. He let his hands slide away and allowed himself to relax.

He looked up into the boy's vacant eyes, and he suddenly felt sorry for him. His mind drifted back to the end of his dream, with his mother hovering above him, in this boy's stead. Before he could realize what he was doing, Roenan slowly reached up and lightly placed his palm onto the boy's cheek. A light suddenly seemed to flickered in his eyes and he yanked his hands away, releasing Roenan's throat. 

Roenan gasped, air tearing painfully into his lungs. He doubled over, coughing and crying out as his wounds seared with agony. The boy sat back on his hands, breath uneven. He shook his head violently, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a nightmare. Still straddling Roenan, he brought the heels of his hands up and slammed them against his own temples.

"No, no, no!" He cried.

“Stop it!” Roenan gasped hoarsely, voice raw. He darted a panicked glance toward the door. “You’re going to make them come back in here!”

He reached out to grab the boy’s wrists to stop him—but the boy twisted out of his grip with startling speed, striking Roenan’s forearm in a precise motion that sent it numb.

“Ow!” Roenan cried, staring in disbelief. "What was that for?!"

“Don’t fucking touch me!” the boy barked. His voice was hoarse, but his face was too close, too wild.

Roenan grimaced. “You just had your hands around my throat— you shouldn't touch me!”

The boy blinked, momentarily dazed. “Huh?”

“Just - get off me!” Roenan hissed. He jerked his body, trying to throw the boy off, but pain lanced through him and he gasped again, clutching his ribs.

The boy winced and climbed off, swinging one leg over to kneel beside him on the bed.

“What’s wrong with you?” he mumbled.

Roenan stared, breathing hard. “I'm sorry - what’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”

“No, I mean… what’s wrong with you?” the boy drawled, more pointed this time. He motioned toward Roenan’s ribs.

Roenan followed his gaze and saw his own hand laid protectively over his wounds. 

“I… broke them,” he said quietly, dropping his hand away.

The boy stared, as if expecting more, and Roenan stared right back.

Eventually, the boy looked away.

Roenan tried to shift the conversation. “What about you? Those bruises… are they just from the restraints?”

He reached out toward the boy’s wrist, but the boy recoiled violently. The crook of his arm was bloody and swollen, clearly injured where the IV had been ripped out.

“I said don’t touch me! What do you not get about that!” the boy hissed, eyes flashing. He looked toward the door again.

Roenan held up both hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. You’re Jaedan, right? So am I. Let’s not do this.” He took a shaky breath. “What’s your name?”

“Saive.” He responded, distractedly.

“Saive,” Roenan echoed, testing it. “I’m Roenan.”

The boy didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the door with unsettling focus.

Roenan watched him for a moment, then followed his gaze. “Wait... you don't actually think you’re going to escape from here, do you?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “We became dead men the second they took us. You're aware of that, right?”

Saive finally looked at him. His face was blank. “The only dead man here will be you." He glanced back toward the door. "And him.”

Roenan’s brows furrowed. “What—?”

Before he could finish, Saive stood and slid off the bed. He stooped to grab one of the cloth restraints that had once held him down. His expression darkened as he clenched it in his fist. He ripped the bedsheets free and hurled the mattress across the room. The IV stand went crashing to the floor, fluid bags bursting and spraying the walls and beds in a mist. The commotion echoed loudly throughout the plain room.

Roenan stared, horrified, frozen in place.

Saive turned his eyes down the restraint, twisting the ends around his fists, and approaching the door with unnerving calm. He tugged both ends outwards, checking the elasticity of the fabric

Then he pressed his back to the wall beside it. The restraint stretched taut between his hands. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and—strangely—his lips began to move.

Was he praying?

Roenan didn’t want to know.

He turned away, curling onto his side, not wanting to witness whatever came next.

Time passed—ten minutes, maybe twenty.

Then, a click. The door handle turned.

Roenan’s eyes flew open, head whipping toward the sound.

A man in scrubs entered, carrying a clipboard.

And he never saw it coming.

Saive lunged, wrapping the cloth around the man’s neck from behind. They crashed to the ground, Saive’s arms locking into an "X" shape at the medic’s throat.

The man kicked and clawed at the fabric, noise barely managing to escape from him.

Roenan watched, paralyzed.

It felt like a lifetime until the medic's struggles slowed. His hands falling limp; eyes rolling back.

Even then, Saive didn’t stop. He pressed a knee in between the man’s shoulders and pulled tighter, teeth clenched.

Only when the medic stopped moving entirely did Saive release the cloth.

Then, in one fluid motion, he stood.

Without a word or a backwards glance, he walked out through the open door.