Chapter 3 #2
I’ve memorized his files. It’s the one I’ve read the most frequently, hoping he’d be able to join the experiment.
His files list his birthdate as June 30th, height precisely at six feet, weight around one-eighty, and a family tree that details his Filipino mother, a Korean father whose whereabouts have been unknown, and a stepfather of mixed Black-American and Spanish-Filipino descent.
He stops a few feet from me with a stillness that reads as though I’m under his assessment.
I take him in the same way. His ocular focus seems steady. Shoulders square. Recovery more complete than medically reasonable. The Song-Smiths funded his care well, but even with that, this level of restoration borders on improbable.
I scan for the rise and fall of his chest. There’s pause where I expect motion, a hitch where there shouldn’t be one. My fingers tighten around the tablet.
Delayed respiration, I reason. Post-coma autonomic lag is not uncommon, especially after prolonged sedation. Travel stress, altitude change, disrupted circadian rhythm—any of it could explain this.
Then his chest lifts with a slow inhale. I exhale only after that, relieved that this person is standing in front of me after defying all of the odds.
Lix. One of Clo’s primary operatives. The surviving Dela Cruz son. The man who pushed Clo off a cliff to save his sister and shouldn’t be standing here at all.
A miracle or an anomaly. I prefer the latter.
I straighten to speak. This time, as distracted as I am, I don’t forget to introduce myself first. “Hello. I’m Em. You must be—”
“I go by Nil now,” he cuts in, quiet but certain. “Thought of it on the drive from the airport.”
“Any particular reason for the change?” I ask, too curious not to.
He holds my gaze for a moment before answering. “It felt fitting. A new start after…the fall.”
Nil. Zero. Nothing. But he’s far from nothing to me—or rather, to this experiment—where his history is everything, since his stepfather created the drug I’m attempting to rewrite.
“I see,” I say. “Nil, you’re our last subject. You arrived later than projected.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” I tuck the tablet in my arm. “You’re here within the predicted window.”
I turn, leading the way to his shared quarters.
“Your room has been prepared,” I continue. “Testing begins at eight in the morning. I prefer to start on time, but I understand that subjects such as yourself may need time to adjust.”
He studies me more openly now. “You running every test yourself?”
“Yes, I prefer to oversee all procedures directly.”
He makes a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment that feels strangely warm to me. I ignore the sensation.
“Follow me,” I say and turn toward Quarters Four.
His footsteps fall in behind mine, even and disciplined. He shed his former name, Lix, along with the life attached to it. I can only hope he’s willing to share some of his past with me. It would unlock information I’ve been dying to know.
***
I return to Quarters Four with Nil in tow.
Stan’s inside. He’s slouched across the bottom bunk. Shoes off, tight shirt clinging. His legs are spread in a relaxed sprawl. He looks up the second I open the door.
His expression brightens, until Nil steps into view. Then Stan freezes.
“Lix?” Stan asks, appearing stunned. Gray eyes wide, brows raised, and lips parted.
Nil doesn’t react to the name at first. He stands rigid in the doorway, as though movement might trigger a fracture. I’d like to see if that’ll happen. For research purposes.
“It’s Nil now,” he says, tone quiet, to Stan.
Stan doesn’t seem to hear that part. Or perhaps he does, but he’s too busy scrambling to his feet, crossing the room in three big steps.
“You’re alive,” Stan says, out of breath. “I mean, shit, I knew that. I visited you a lot. But this—you standing here, awake—it’s different. You’re really here.”
Nil simply nods in response.
“You look good.” Stan laughs, light and breathless. “Like, ridiculously good for a guy who was logged out of life for a while.”
Nil doesn’t smile, but his eyelids lower. “Thanks.”
Stan’s entire posture becomes looser. Nil’s tension decreases by an observable fraction.
This is interesting data. They have rapport, probably deeper than friendship. Their pupils have significantly dilated that I barely see the color in their eyes.
“I cried,” Stan says. “Only a few times. Brought snacks plenty of times. Mostly for me. Talked to your unconscious body like a creep. You probably don’t remember that.”
“I remember some,” Nil responds.
My eyes study the slight tightness of Nil’s pursed lips, how he keeps his hands to himself, as though he doesn’t trust them. He’s letting Stan talk, and he’s not rejecting their connection, but he isn’t tender toward it either. His body language is…rather braced.
His shoulders raise marginally and slowly. Guilt, maybe. He was the one who brought Stan’s mother down. But Stan, along with his brothers, wanted to take her and her drug empire apart. They accomplished precisely that.
Despite it, rumors still swirled for the past four months.
People wondered if it was a sacrifice or a suicide attempt.
The stories differ, depending on who’s telling it.
What matters is that Clo’s been in a coma since.
It halted Kys operations in the country.
Nil survived his comatose state. And now, he and Stan are in this room on this ship.
These are all fascinating factors to study—seeing how this may impact the new formula’s effects on them. Hopefully, what’s to come can be contained in the ship. But what’s the point of hope when I can compile predictions, based on the behavioral patterns they’re currently exhibiting?
“I told ya you had better hair than Sterling,” Stan says, smiling at Nil. “Your sister giggled. Kaye didn’t. Still true, though. The coma didn’t take that from you.”
Nil runs his hand through his auburn locks. It is objectively beautiful hair. Then he mutters a quiet “thanks” again.
Staring at them could take all night, but I’ve collected enough data. So I turn to leave. I’ve done my part, delivering Nil to his quarters, and confirmed the patients are well-informed.
But Stan calls after me. “Hey, Em, don’t go. You’ve got to give my roomie the spiel.”
I stop and slowly pivot back. He’s right. I got distracted yet again. Warmth spreads across my face, though I try to school my features.
Pushing past it, I tell Nil what I told Stan, repeating that assessments start tomorrow, where to find food, what’s expected to be worn for comfort and distinction from staff, and other important matters each subject should know.
But Nil gives me a confused look when I mention that he and Stan will share a room. His brows draw together. “And we’re the only ones sharing a room?”
I tell him what I told Stan earlier, that Damon and Kayla decided this for them.
Stan steps between us. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with them on this one.” He places a hand on Nil’s shoulder. “You’re basically on a respawn timer. Lucky for you, I visited you often enough to know what the hospital did to keep you in good shape.”
Nil’s gaze darts toward him. “But…”
“But nothing. You needed a few physios to force your legs to move,” Stan says. “I was there. Elle held your hand. I adjusted your pillows. I’m not saying I’m qualified, but I’m like an enthusiastic intern.”
Nil looks like he wants to argue. A fine tremor runs through his fingers before he tucks them into his pockets. The trip from airport to ship, the change in routine, the weight of choice—his body shows all of it.
His exhaustion was visible the moment he arrived. Now that he’s not trying to stand at attention, it’s much more obvious.
Stan notices too. His tone changes slightly. “Look, man,” he says. “You’re not the only one here who got cursed with Kys. But I checked your heart monitor more times than the nurses did. I can keep an eye on you without it being weird.”
“It’s already weird,” Nil whispers.
“Yeah, but it’s our weird.” Stan takes a step back, giving Nil space. “You get your own bed. I don’t snore. I only cry sometimes, and I do it quietly. You’re used to machines watching your vitals. I’m just a hotter, human monitor.”
That at least gets a breath out of Nil that almost resembles a laugh.
Nil’s gaze lowers. His breathing becomes ragged. Fatigue is evident around the eyes from the slight swelling and faint shadows. I realize now that he’s probably upright only through controlled effort. Far too prolonged.
“Whoa, hey.” Stan moves closer. “You shouldn’t be standing this long. Sit, Ocean Eyes. Seriously, sit.”
“I’m fine,” Nil dismisses.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” Stan puts a hand on Nil’s arm. “I watched your nurses prop you up with pillows and a prayer. Sit down before you fall down.”
Nil resists for a few seconds. Then his legs quiver as he sits on the lower bunk without further argument.
Stan sits beside him, shoulder brushing Nil’s. “Be my roomie, Ocean Eyes,” Stan says.
Nil turns his head to meet Stan’s eyes.
Stan smiles at him. “You just woke up. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Nil’s hands flex at his sides. Then he sighs. “I’m too tired to deal with this,” he admits.
“Perfect,” Stan says with a wider smile. “Then I win by default, Lix—shit, I meant Nil.”
He steps forward before Nil can change his mind, takes Nil’s sling bag, and throws it onto the empty top bunk.
“Just sit still, Nil,” Stan insists. “Trust me, I’ve seen you faceplant before. It’s not flattering.”
Nil’s eyes narrow, but he also stays seated. His shoulders relax another notch. “Fine,” he mumbles.
Stan bumps Nil’s shoulder. “Look at us. A dream team already.”
Nil leans back and looks as if he could fall asleep sitting upright at this instant.
I indulge myself by staring for a few more seconds. Afterwards, I force my gaze away. I’ve seen enough. They’re here. They’re alright. I have more work to do. “I’ll leave you two to settle in,” I say.