Chapter 24
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright and too clean, casting everything in that sterile, blinding white that I’m all too familiar with from a different laboratory. Bellrose Institute and CopeHart Labs have that in common.
Harrison Copeland and Lane Hart, apparently now a joint brand.
Cute fucks.
The air down here in the lower level smells like antiseptic. The room we’re in has all state-of-the-art equipment and polished surfaces, provided by the kind of funding that says we can afford to do impossible things and not ask permission first.
If you’re going to die on purpose for character development, you might as well do it in a secret basement lab with two morally flexible scientists and a medical setup that looks like it could either save your life or end it more efficiently.
Honestly, fifty-fifty.
I’m perched on the edge of one of the exam tables, swinging my feet because sitting still is apparently not something my body remembers how to do anymore.
Harrison moves quietly in the background, finishing up whatever last-minute checks he needs to run, the soft tap of keys and low hum of machines filling the space between us.
Lane leans against the counter across from me, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You sure do seem calm in the face of your own impending death.”
I shrug. “I’ve got two highly qualified professional neuroscientists here to resurrect me, a secret basement lab, and very little to lose. If I’m going to die, this feels like a pretty solid setup. What could possibly go wrong?”
Lane’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile, then he pushes off the counter and steps a little closer, studying me more carefully.
“You don’t have to do this.”
It almost sounds like a question, as though he’s asking why I’m doing this.
“I do.” I breathe deeply and glance down at my hands in my lap.
“I know neither of you might believe in this until you see it, but I believe it because I have seen it. And, well…” I look back up at him and attempt a grin before he takes me too seriously.
“It’s scary as fuck. I’ve found myself in some kind of comic book apocalypse, and I just need to tip the scales in my favor if I’m going to fucking survive.
I just hope this isn’t what puts me in a grave. ”
Lane continues staring at me, taking in everything I said despite the lack of clear answers. “‘He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.’”
I huff softly and finish without thinking. “‘And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze also into you.’”
That smile finally breaks across his face. “You know Friedrich Nietzsche?”
“I had a phase. Existential dread pairs really well with poor life choices.”
Across the room, Harrison speaks without looking up from his work. “‘God is dead, and we have killed him.’”
I bark a laugh. “Well, if that isn’t the most fitting quote for the occasion.”
Lane grins. “Harrison enjoys playing God.”
In a low voice, Harrison replies, “Your god, angel.”
Lane’s face turns beet red, and he averts his gaze, staring down at his shoes as he shifts on his feet.
Well, that’s fucking cute.
I shake my head but can’t help but smile. It’s easy with them, easier than I expected. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone around who I don’t feel is judging me with every word I say. I don’t feel like I’m navigating anything or bracing for an implosion.
It’s not that I’ve been a complete loser, but I just tend to spend most of my time in my apartment with my computers. Those I’m familiar with. People are more difficult. But being here with Lane and Harrison is a lot more effortless.
Lane and I talk a little more while Harrison continues working.
I’m grateful for the distraction as Lane starts talking about some neuroscience conference they’re both attending in a few months.
I’m not really paying attention to that.
The distraction is how happy Lane is. There’s a little jealousy there, sure, but mostly it’s relief at how everything worked out for them after what they went through.
It’s a welcome interruption from how the rest of the day has gone.
Since I arrived early this morning, it’s been nothing but tests. MRI, CT scans, blood work, things I only partly understand but fully agreed to in exchange for them doing this for me.
If I’m going to die and come back with superpowers, I might as well be a well-documented case study, especially for someone other than my uncle.
“Everything baseline looks normal,” Harrison says, still without looking up.
“Perfect. Glad to know I’m dying healthy.”
“We’ll run everything again post-resuscitation. If your theory is correct—”
“It’s not a theory.”
“—then we should see some kind of neurological or physiological deviation.”
I turn to Lane with a can you believe this guy look, expecting him to be on my side. Instead, he peers back sheepishly and shrugs. I suddenly feel very outnumbered.
Harrison finally steps away from the computer he’s been working at and walks over. “We’re ready.”
There’s a shift in the room with those two words. It’s subtle but real, like everything just clicked into place. Like this stopped being hypothetical.
I swallow hard, nod, and slide off the table, adjusting my glasses as I follow them into the adjoining room. There’s more equipment, more machines, and an actual bed instead of an exam table. This room has more…purpose.
“Well,” I mutter, hating the way my voice trembles. “Guess it’s time to prove to you both it’s not just a theory.”
“Sorry, Case,” Lane says with that same abashed look from before.
“It’s just that we spent last weekend trying to form some kind of concrete hypothesis for how this could be possible, but we weren’t able to come up with anything or find any documented evidence supporting your claim.
There aren’t any recorded cases of near-death events resulting in abilities like you mentioned. ”
“Yeah, I figured. Malcolm doesn’t exactly publish his findings.”
They both turn to me with brows drawn.
Right. Yeah. That.
“Okay, so…” I grimace and reach up to rub the back of my neck. “Before we do this, there’s something you both should probably know.”
Harrison’s eyes narrow suspiciously while Lane’s spine straightens.
“My last name…” I take a deep breath, then let it out in a gust. “It’s not Beal like I told you. It’s…Bellrose.”
There’s silence for only a few seconds before Lane blurts out, “Holy shit.”
I wince.
“Cason Bellrose?” Lane stares at me like he just found out the true identity of some masked superhero. Too bad I’m pretty sure today is going to be my villain origin story. “Your father founded Bellrose Institute.”
“He and my uncle, yeah. Malcolm runs it now.”
“An inferior lab,” Harrison says smoothly, not even looking offended, as if he’s just stating a fact.
I cross my arms and scowl, feeling defensive. Not of Malcolm, of course. But the Institute is still my father’s legacy. “You have us in neuroscience. In every other branch of bioscience, we’re ahead. But congratulations on your superiority complex.”
“Thank you.”
His proud smile makes me roll my eyes. “What a fucking ego.”
“And yet,” Lane cuts in, “you’re still letting him kill you.”
“I never claimed to make good choices.”
Lane laughs as we both walk over to the bed in the center of the room. “We have that in common. Abduction too, apparently. I guess this is a bonding experience.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, hopping onto the edge of the thin mattress, “I’ve been kidnapped twice.”
“Seriously? Me too. But…” His cheeks flush. “Once was just for fun.”
I slowly turn my head to look between him and Harrison. The latter is smirking wickedly at Lane, whose face has turned an even brighter shade of red.
“Freaks.”
Without taking his gaze off his husband, Harrison says, “We prefer sick fucks.”
“Awesome. So happy I chose the two of you to kill me.”
“Why did you?” Harrison asks, joining us with an IV needle in his hands, which my gaze lands on and gets stuck. “I can imagine your uncle wouldn’t want to help kill you, but could you not share any of this with him? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining about getting to murder a Bellrose.”
I roll my eyes again. “It’s a long story. If you bring me back, I’ll tell you.”
He grins. “Deal. Now shirt off. Lie down.”
I hesitate but only for a second. Then I reach for the hem of my shirt, tugging it up and over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. I scoot back on the bed and lie down, the surface colder than I expected, the kind of cold that seeps in fast.
Harrison wipes my arm with an alcohol pad before sliding the needle into my skin and taping it in place. Meanwhile, Lane moves on my other side, already focused, already different, less joking and more clinical. He presses adhesive pads to my chest, adjusts wires, checks monitors.
“Try to stay still,” he says.
“About to be real still soon,” I joke even as my breathing stutters, my chest heaving.
He presses his mouth in a thin line, trying not to smile.
Harrison is prepping something out of my line of sight, but I hear the faint clink of metal, the soft hiss of something pressurized.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
My pulse ticks faster, and I watch it spike on the monitor beside me.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Harrison moves closer again, holding up the IV line and injecting something from a syringe into it. “This will help slow your system. We need to bring your core temperature down before we proceed.”
It starts in my veins, like ice threading its way through me. I suck in a sharp breath, my back arching slightly off the bed before I force myself to settle.
“Fuck. Okay, yeah. That’s…fuck. That’s cold.”
“Good,” Harrison says, his voice far too fucking calm. “That means it’s working.”
The cold spreads fast, sinking deeper, heavier. My fingers twitch, then still. My breathing changes without my permission until it’s shorter, shallower.
Lane adjusts something on the monitor, watching me closely now. “You’re doing fine.”
“I’m literally freezing to death.”
“Technically, yes.”
I laugh just before my teeth start to chatter. My entire body is trembling, and I don’t think I’m allowed to ask for a blanket. Instead, I try to focus on the fluorescent lights above me that feel way too bright for what the fuck is happening right now.
“Hey,” I say, just wanting to move my mouth to distract myself.
I see them both stare down at me out of the corners of my eyes, but I keep my gaze on the ceiling.
“Just so you both know, if this works, I’m going to be fucking insufferable about it.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Lane counters as he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
My gaze drifts to him, and I don’t know if it’s his kind smile or the touch on my shoulder, but something about him eases a little of the trepidation currently coursing through me along with whatever’s in the IV.
Harrison must not like the way I’m looking at his husband because he snaps his fingers in front of my face and growls, “Focus.”
“I’d much rather focus on your husband’s pretty face than my impending demise.”
“That’s it,” Harrison grumbles. “He’s staying dead.”
Lane lets out a soft laugh, but it sounds far away. Everything does now. The cold is deeper, heavier, pressing in from the inside out, sinking into my bones, dampening all my other senses. My limbs feel slower, like they’re not entirely mine anymore.
My heart pounds. Then steadies. Then slows. I see it on the monitor—each beat stretching just a little further apart, like time itself is starting to lag.
Lane says something, but I don’t catch it. Harrison answers, both of them clinical and focused. Lane removes my glasses from my face and sets them aside.
I swallow, my throat dry, and stare back up at the ceiling lights that blur at the edges.
This is it. No dramatic music. No final monologue before the curtain closes. Just me freezing to death in a lab I walked into willingly, knowing full well everything will be different when I walk out. If I walk out.
Who knows if I’ll even walk out the same person.
It’s not that I didn’t consider that before. I just tried to not think about it too hard. Reese changed, and I wonder if I’ll change too or if it wasn’t even the dying or the powers that made him different. Maybe it was simply everything else that happened to him after.
But it doesn’t matter how much sharper his edges are or how darker his heart is. I still can’t cut him out of me. As much as I hate him right now, I still don’t want to.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that might shove the thought out before it settles too deep. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because even now, even here, even as my body starts shutting down…
He’s still the last thing I can’t outrun.
The monitor dips again. My vision tunnels, the edges turning black. The cold sinks all the way in.
The space between one pulse and the next gets longer as my heartbeat slows.
Slows.
Slows.
Then it stops.