Chapter 33
RESIDUALS
I don’t remember how I got to my private instruction block.
We’re running sequence three—I think. Measured steps, breath control, elegance.
Easy. I could do it sedated. I’ve done it sedated.
But my bones don’t move the way I desperately need them to.
I reset, taking the mark with slurred steps.
This time, my vision doubles, causing a slip that slams me into the mirrored wall.
It reverberates, cracking something wide inside me.
I push myself up fast enough to make my head spin.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, stepping back to the line. “I’m fine.”
V doesn’t respond at first, but I can feel his eyes on me. He closes the folder in his hand and strides forward. “You’re not fine.”
Obviously.
“I just need to run it again—”
“You’ve run it six times already. You’re stumbling. Your timing’s erratic. Your fists are clenching.” I look down. He’s right. My fists are drawn so tight that my fingers don’t feel like they’re connected to anything.
“I can’t focus,” I whisper. “Everything’s itchy and too loud. I feel like I’m watching myself from outside. Like I’m not actually in my body.”
V nods. “Residuals.”
“That’s what you call them?”
“That’s what they call them.” His voice is flat as he steps closer and reaches for my wrist. When I flinch, he stops.
“They hit you harder this time,” he says. “Carr’s blend was too aggressive.”
“Did you know?” Vertigo seizes my sight again.
“What?”
“What he was going to do to me?”
“No.” His answer is immediate, honest. “If I had, I would’ve intervened sooner.” The lights overhead buzz too loud. The mirror warps in my periphery. My hands twitch again as the tingling sensation intensifies.
The part I’ve been too horrified to admit tumbles out. “I was awake.”
V’s grip tightens on the folder. “What?”
“I heard them. Doctor Carr. Mister M. All of it. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream or beg, even though I could feel everything.”
His eyes widen, genuine shock floods his features before he can mask it.
“I waited for you,” I whisper. His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop. “I thought maybe— you’d come. That if I held out long enough—”
“I didn’t know,” he says. Guilt flashes in his eyes.
“You always know,” I snap. “You see everything. You know everything. I can’t even flinch without it ending up in your notes.”
He doesn’t argue.
That tells me all I need to know.
“I thought I was dying,” I whisper.
He steps closer, hand outstretched. I back away too fast. My foot catches, and a sharp jolt shudders through my spine, sending me tumbling backward. I throw my hands back to catch myself, but there’s nothing. I slam into the mirrored wall again, shaking like a leaf.
“I can’t feel my arms,” I gasp. “They’re not working.
I don’t—” My stomach flips. I double over and vomit onto the floor.
It’s loud. Violent. I’m choking and crying and shaking all at once.
My knees buckle. My hands hit the tile, numb and utterly useless.
V catches my shoulders before I slam face-first. His grip is strong and fast, anchoring me.
My breath comes in ragged pulls as I cling to him.
“I thought you’d come.” My voice is a wreck. “I thought you’d stop them.”
“I should’ve been there,” he says, hoarse. Unfiltered devastation lingers on his face.
“I’m not okay,” I heave.
“I know.” He presses his hand against my back, breathing hard.
“I can’t feel anything.”
“I know.” He steadies me. Lifts me up carefully. “You’re not practicing today. You’re going back to your room.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. I’ll file the override for you.” He helps me to the hallway, grip shaking against my back. His grip is light as a feather, like he’s scared the slightest touch will snap me in half.
It might.
I make it seven staggering steps, just far enough to breach the hall, then the floor disappears.
Colt pushes off the wall, grabbing me before I hit the ground.
“Hey! Maysie. Shit—hey. Stay with me.” His voice is close, panicked.
I can’t answer. My head lolls. My eyes flutter.
He gathers me up like I’m weightless and starts back toward our pod…
or medical. I don’t know my way very well, and I can’t really see. Somewhere behind us, I think I hear V.
He’s still apologizing as we turn the corner. I don’t get the chance to tell him that it’s okay.
Mostly because it’s very much not.