Chapter 68 Lucian
LUCIAN
The hours turn into days, and they in turn melt into weeks.
Every minute away from her is another slow death - a quiet, cruel kind that no bullet could compete with.
I try to work, to distract myself with the mechanics of violence, but every job feels hollow.
Every name on my list fades behind hers.
Nadia.
The world still moves without her, and that’s the part that breaks me most. The streets still hum, the night still breathes, but nothing feels right.
Nothing tastes the same. I tell myself she’s safe in the clinic - that she needs time, peace, distance from all the chaos I drag behind me - but peace feels like a word invented for people who haven’t been broken yet.
I last four days before I cave.
The clinic sits on the edge of the city - clean walls, white corridors, the faint hum of air conditioning masking the sound of heartbreak.
I park outside and just sit there for a while, staring at the sterile glass doors.
My reflection looks like a stranger. Too many nights without sleep. Too much fury with nowhere to go.
Inside, the receptionist smiles the way she’s been trained to do so. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Nadia Reed,” I say.
Her fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Visiting hours are limited-”
“Now.”
Something in my voice makes her stop talking. She nods and calls a nurse. I wait, pacing, feeling the weight of every breath like a punishment. When they finally take me down the hall, the smell of antiseptic hits me hard - cold, clean, cruel.
Her room is larger than I imagined. A huge bay window with a seat.
Pale curtains. A vase of fresh flowers that warms the room.
And Nadia - lying there, propped up slightly against the pillows.
Her hair’s been braided - neat, careful - something one of the nurses must’ve done for her.
Her skin is pale, almost translucent under the harsh light. But it’s her eyes that ruin me.
They’re open, but vacant - like the light in them went out and no one bothered to relight it.
“Nadia,” I whisper, stepping closer. My voice sounds foreign, cracked and low.
Her eyes flick toward me - slow, uncertain. A tremor of recognition? Maybe. Maybe not. She doesn’t speak. Her lips barely part. Her gaze slips past me like she’s watching something behind my shoulder, something only she can see.
I sit beside her bed, the chair groaning under my weight. For a long time, I just stare. Her hand lies limp against the blanket, thin and small. I reach for it, careful, my thumb tracing the soft lines of her skin.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “I’m here.”
Nothing.
Just the slow rhythm of her breathing, which is proof of life and nothing more.
I swallow hard. “You’re starting to look better,” I lie. “They say you’re healing.”
My laugh cracks at the end. Healing. As if that word could undo what was done to her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let my head hang. The air feels too heavy to breathe. I want to drag her out of this place, take her somewhere the world can’t touch her - somewhere quiet, safe, alive. But she’s not ready.
And maybe I’m not either.
When I look up again, her eyes are still on me, faintly. There’s no emotion there, but there’s a flicker - the smallest shift, like a candle fighting to stay lit. It’s enough to wreck me.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask. My voice barely makes it past my throat.
Her gaze moves, slow as gravity. Then a whisper, dry and broken: “Luc...”
It’s barely there. But it’s her voice. She stops before she finishes and looks away.
I drag in a breath that feels like drowning.
Her eyes drift shut again. She’s gone somewhere I can’t follow.
I sit there until the nurse comes in to tell me visiting hours are over. I nod, though I don’t move. My fingers stay tangled in hers, cold and fragile, as if letting go would make her disappear entirely.
When I finally leave, the hallway feels longer than before. Every step echoes like a failure.
Outside, the sky has started to rain. It’s soft at first - almost gentle. The kind of rain that doesn’t cleanse, just reminds you what you’ve done. I stand under it, letting it soak through my shirt, through my skin, through everything that still remembers her touch.
She’s still in there. I know it. Somewhere behind that hollow stare, the woman I love is fighting to find her way back to me.
And I’ll wait. I’ll wait through every hour, every day, every storm if I have to. Because time isn’t mercy - it’s devotion measured in seconds.
And she’s the only thing I have left worth keeping count for.