Chapter Three
The next morning came with a taste like ash in Marsh’s mouth and a throbbing behind his temples that even blackout curtains couldn’t chase away.
He lay on his back in bed, blinking blearily at the ceiling, the quiet hum of the Ridge’s environmental systems filtering through the stillness of his quarters.
It wasn’t a hangover in the traditional sense—he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol the night before—but the emotional fallout hit just as hard.
The sour guilt. Tired from a sleepless night, tossing and turning.
The leaden weight of shame coiled tight in his chest. The memory of Eli walking away with his shoulders slumped and not a single word in return.
He pushed himself upright, groaning as the motion jarred his healing body. The mechanics of getting from his bed to the chair were infuriatingly familiar by now—brace, swing, transfer—but they didn’t get easier. Not when every move reminded him of what he no longer had.
The useless, painful, prosthetic still sat in the corner of the room, mocking him. He wasn’t ready to persevere with the fucking thing. Might never be.
Getting to the shower was a production. The rails, the modified controls, the non-slip mat. Every element designed to assist him made him feel weaker. Smaller. Less. He hated it.
He could still hear Ezra’s voice in his head, calm but unrelenting. “You can’t out-engineer grief, Marsh.”
He’d tried.
He’d built schematics for exoskeleton supports, redesigned his wheelchair twice, and even sketched an idea for an automated brace system—but none of it made the mirror any easier to look into.
By the time he made it into the lab, his jaw was clenched, and his hands were already aching from how tight he’d been gripping his wheels. He rolled past the rows of workbenches, humming with dormant tech, to the bank of screens on the far wall.
Ten minutes later, the door to the lab slid open with a low hiss, and Marsh didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” Bateman said, crossing the threshold with a coffee mug in one hand and that look in his eye that always spelled trouble.
Marsh lifted his head, mouth already twisted. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
Bateman didn’t smile. He set the mug on the closest workbench, leaned a hip against it, and crossed his arms. “Last night felt like the old days. Sitting around the table, cracking jokes. Even your snark had some edge to it again. I want to know if that was real, Marsh. Or if you’re just pretending to claw your way back. ”
Marsh let out a breath through his nose. “Wow. Deep question for before coffee.”
Bateman pushed off the bench. “Cut the crap. I’m serious.”
Marsh spun his chair around halfway. “What do you want me to say? That I’m healed? That the universe handed me this shiny life lesson wrapped in trauma and I’m so damn grateful for it?”
“No,” Bateman snapped. “I want you to stop being such a goddamn coward.”
Shock slammed through him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Bateman closed the distance in two strides, grabbed Marsh by the shirt, and yanked him out of his chair.
Marsh grunted, off-balance, his hands catching Bateman’s shoulders automatically. “What the hell, Bate—”
“No,” Bateman growled. “You don’t get to sit in here and rot while the rest of us are trying to keep this place running. Men like Van, like the ones we’ve buried, didn’t get to come home. And you’re here, alive, bitching because you lost a leg? You’re better than that. You always were.”
Pain radiated through his chest, and Marsh’s hands curled into fists on the other man’s shoulders.
Bateman gave him a little shake. “We get knocked down, Marsh. That’s what this job is. Pain. Loss. Grit. You don’t lay there like roadkill and cry about it. You get up. You get up and you fight. Because if you don’t, the bastards who hurt us win. And I am not letting you hand them that victory.”
Marsh’s throat worked, but no words came.
Bateman’s grip loosened, and his voice dropped. “You’re still one of us. But you have to choose it.”
Silence stretched.
Then Marsh exhaled. He pressed his forehead to Bateman’s shoulder and gripped his shirt. “I’ll stop being a prick. Just ... give me a minute.”
Bateman nodded, his arms tightening briefly. “Good. You were overdue for a come-to-Jesus moment.” They pulled back, and Bateman smirked. “Now try not to short-circuit your own gear crying into your keyboard.”
“Get out of my lab, you prick,” Marsh muttered.
“Love you, too, asshole.”
Bateman left, door sliding shut behind him.
Marsh stared at the monitors again.
Then climbed back into his chair and took a deep breath.
He tried to focus. Pulled up the code for his translation comms prototype. Typed a few lines. Erased them. Tried again.
But his mind wasn’t on the coding.
It was on what Bateman had said—he had been an asshole, to everyone. But most recently, Eli.
Then, images from the day before came crashing in. The pool. The scars. The bruises.
And the way the man had moved through the water like it was the only place he could breathe.
Something about that haunted Marsh.
He flipped to the security feed. The cameras were all live. Training fields. Entry gates. Communications compound.
And the pool.
There he was.
Eli.
Already back at it. Lap after lap. Cut through the water like a blade. Controlled. Relentless. It should’ve been peaceful to watch. But it wasn’t. Something was wrong, different.
Why was he back in the water like nothing had happened? Why hadn’t he yelled? Or stormed off? Or gotten Ezra to release him from his contract like every other therapist Marsh had torched in under 72 hours?
He stared at the screen for a long time.
It wasn’t just the bruises that bothered him.
It was how easily Eli had slid into their world.
Like he wasn’t afraid. Like he didn’t care what anyone thought of his pain.
He moved like he owned his body, even in its brokenness.
Even with the evidence of someone else’s cruelty mapped across his skin.
And Marsh couldn’t decide if he hated him for it or envied him.
He wheeled closer to the console. Brought up Eli’s swim stats, thanks to the motion sensors built into the pool system. Heart rate. Stroke rate. Breath patterns. All of it showing peak performance.
The man was a machine.
Then, slowly, Marsh turned to his private console. Accessed the secure server. Pulled up a new search.
Carmino, Elias M.
He hesitated.
This was a line. A boundary.
He shouldn’t cross it.
But then again...
What kind of high-security outfit would Obsidian Ridge be if they didn’t background check the people walking in and out?
He wasn’t doing this for himself.
He was doing this for the team.
That was the lie he told himself as he hit ENTER.
The screen populated slowly, verifying clearance protocols before unlocking.
Files scrolled into view. Medical credentials. Degrees. Employment records. Photos. One from college, younger and grinning with a swim cap crooked on his head. Another more recent, neutral-faced and tired-eyed.
Then came the incident reports.
Marsh leaned in.
The first was a half-finished police report from New York.
The document was heavily redacted, and entire paragraphs blacked out.
Even the officer’s name was obscured. It described an emergency call to a high-end apartment complex, a male victim with visible injuries.
No charges filed. No further action taken.
There were medical records—fragmented, some pages inexplicably missing. But what remained was damning.
Fractured ribs. Bruising consistent with blunt force trauma.
Lacerations on the back and upper thighs.
Bruises in the shape of a belt buckle. Internal bleeding once, noted with concern by an ER doctor who’d signed off on a mandatory psychological evaluation—only to have the order rescinded days later.
Each report ended the same way.
Patient refused to cooperate.
Case closed.
One document had a note attached. Subject is under the care of a private physician. No further action recommended.
It stank of someone powerful pulling strings.
Marsh leaned back in his chair, mind racing. Someone who had the authority to sanitize official documents. Someone with enough clout to make police reports disappear and override medical protocol.
He hadn’t found the name yet.
But it was there. A shadow in the gaps. In the absences. In the redacted ink.
Eli had lived with that. And survived it.
And Marsh had looked him in the eye and accused him of being fake.
His stomach turned.
Marsh didn’t need to read between the lines. He knew the kind of power some people could wield. Knew what it meant when someone like Eli chose silence over retaliation.
He sat back, stunned.
For a long while, he didn’t move.
Eli wasn’t just carrying scars. He was surviving.
And Marsh had thrown those wounds back in his face like they were weaknesses.
He cast his eyes at Eli’s stats again and cursed, turning quickly to wheel out of the lab. Something was very off. All his stats were off the charts, he was redlining, and something had to give.
****
The water was the only place Eli still trusted. No lies there. No hidden hands waiting to strike. Just breath, stroke, breath, flip when he got to the end of a length.
He swam until his skin puckered, until his arms trembled. Until the weight of his memories threatened to drag him down and make him disappear.
You’re nothing, Elias.
You think that medical uniform makes you special? Makes you safe? The Colonel’s voice slithered in through the cracks in Eli’s mind.
He kicked harder. Another lap. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
They’ll never believe you. You’re the unstable one. The liability.
Marsh’s voice folded in next.
You’re not honest. You’re not real. You’re just filler.
His strokes faltered.
His thigh cramped.
Mid-stroke, the pain hit—sharp, electric. He tried to compensate, but the other leg followed. He gasped, inhaling water instead of air. His lungs screaming for air
He flailed. Swallowed more.
Once.
Twice.
Three times under.
And then he stilled.
This is it.
The irony was not lost on him. That his sanctuary, the one place he could breathe, would become his coffin.
But an arm—strong and sure—gripped around his shoulders, arms, chest. Dragging him upward.
He broke the surface coughing violently, water spewing from his lungs as he was hauled to the edge and manhandled up onto the side of the pool.
He collapsed against the cold tiles, shaking, gagging.
“Breathe, Eli. Goddammit, breathe.”
The voice was ragged. Familiar. Angry. Worried.
Marsh.
Eli opened his eyes. Marsh was soaked, sitting beside him, one leg hanging into the pool, the other gone.
“What...?” Eli rasped.
“You were drowning.” Marsh’s voice cracked. “And don’t even try to tell me this was some intense cardio bullshit. You were trying to silence the voices.”
Eli felt his stomach flip. How did he know? “I was just swimming.”
“No, that wasn’t just swimming,” Marsh snarled, “you were listening—to voices that don’t deserve space in your head. The kind that don’t stop unless you fight back.”
Eli rolled to his side, arms curled around his middle. “They wouldn’t stop. I swim to shut them down. And it works—until it doesn’t.”
Marsh exhaled slowly. “You can’t outpace pain in the pool. Believe me, I’ve tried with tech, with silence, with every distraction I could engineer.”
Eli was quiet for a beat. Then frowned. “How are you here?”
“I saw you in the cameras.” Marsh shifted beside him. “Saw the way you swam. Like you were trying to outswim your shadow.”
Silence stretched.
“I don’t even remember getting in,” Eli whispered. “I just needed to move. I couldn’t stay still—not with them shouting at me like they were.”
Marsh nodded. “I know those voices. I know what they sound like when they pile on top of each other. When they drown out your own.”
Eli didn’t answer.
“Whatever they said,” Marsh added, “they were wrong.”
Eli blinked hard. “You don’t even know what they said.”
“I don’t need to,” Marsh dismissed. “I’ve heard their kind. Had them inside my own skull most of my life, and absolutely since the day I got blown half to hell and back.”
They sat in silence again, broken only by the still harsh breathing of both men.
“I’m sorry,” Eli said finally. “For last night. For this.”
“You’re not the one that needs to apologize,” Marsh replied. “I’ve been—an asshole. To everyone. Especially you last night. And I’m sorry.”
“I think we both earned a little forgiveness,” Eli said. “Starting with ourselves.”
Marsh’s mouth twitched. “You’re the second person to call me on my shit today.”
Eli coughed a laugh. “We’re building momentum.” He looked around. “Uh, Marsh, where is your chair?”
He watched as an adorable sweep of red swept across Marsh’s face. “Um, well—” he leaned forward and looked down.
He didn’t!
Eli leaned forward and saw the unmistakable shape of a wheelchair at the bottom of the pool. “I guess that’s one way to get into the pool fast.”
Marsh barked a laugh—it sounded rusty and hardly used. Then he warmed into it, with Eli joining in. It took a minute or two to calm down.
Eli pushed himself up to sit beside Marsh at the side of the pool. “I’ll get a couple of the guys to jump in and get it out later, and will go grab one of the others from the infirmary for now.”
He went to stand up, intent on putting a shirt on and heading over to the infirmary, but Marsh grabbed his arm. Eli looked up, their gazes locked.
“You need a better coping mechanism,” Marsh said. “Suicide by swim meet isn’t a long-term strategy.”
“You need to start living again,” Eli countered. “Not just existing.”
They locked eyes. A truce, fragile but real.
“I’ll try if you do,” Marsh stated. “Deal?”
Eli nodded. “Deal.”
The moment lingered. Warm. Real.
And for the first time in a long time, Eli didn’t feel like he was treading water alone.