Chapter 5
Xavier
Ceiling. White. Cracks.
My attention tracked them automatically, mapping patterns, measuring distance to corners, calculating structural weakness.
Why?
Didn’t know. Couldn’t stop.
My focus swept the room without permission. Window, covered, fabric blocking light. Door, closed, single entry point. Corners, shadows, potential concealment. Exits, one visible, calculating secondary routes through walls if needed.
Threat assessment complete before conscious thought caught up.
What the hell was that?
Tried to move. Body refused. Limbs heavy, disconnected, responding to commands with the enthusiasm of dead weight. Managed to shift my head, pain lanced through my skull, vision whiting out.
Breathed through it. Shallow. Ribs protested even that small movement.
Something tugged at my right arm. Followed the sensation, IV line running to a bag hanging from... a coat rack?
Saline. Antibiotics visible in the secondary line. Someone with medical knowledge had set this up. Not so recently, judging by the fluid levels.
My attention dropped to my torso. Bandages wrapped around my side, shoulder immobilized in professional binding. Clean work. Skilled hands.
Whose hands?
Tried to remember. Blank space where memory should live.
Panic spiked through the fever heat. Forced it down. Panic didn’t solve problems. Information did.
Since when do you think like that?
That felt wrong. Someone else’s voice in my head. Clinical. Assessing everything as though it were a mission briefing instead of,
Instead of what? How should I think?
No answer.
Started compiling what I knew: Severe injuries. Professional medical care. Unknown location. No memory of how I got here.
The woman.
Where was she now?
My head turned despite the pain, scanning. Empty chair near the bed. Indent in the cushion, recent weight. Kitchen area, small, utilitarian. Single room, open plan.
Not a hospital. Not a cell. Some sort of apartment.
My attention snagged on the woman asleep in that chair.
Collapsed was more accurate. Head tilted at an angle that would leave her neck screaming, arms wrapped around herself, exhaustion carved into every line of her frame.
Dark smudges under her lashes, visible even in dim light.
Blood, dried brown, smeared across her cheek, her palms, soaked into her coat sleeves.
My blood.
The realization came with strange certainty. That was my blood on her skin, my damage marking her.
She’d been trying to clean me up. Trying to save,
My lungs tightened. Made inhaling harder than the rib damage did.
Shoved it down. Focused on facts.
Small frame, maybe 5’6”, reddish hair. Small build but nothing that suggested combat training.
Her palms showed old scars, work scars, not fight scars.
Nurse, maybe, or someone with a medical background.
Her positioning in the chair was defensive but not strategic. Protecting me or protecting herself?
Couldn’t tell.
But she was vulnerable like this. Completely open. If she was my captor, she was shit at it. If she was my savior...
Why would anyone save me?
That landed bitter. Felt true in a way I couldn’t explain.
She shifted in her sleep, face turning toward me. Younger than I’d thought. Maybe early thirties. Something about her features struck me as,
What?
Nothing. Just a stranger’s face. Meant nothing.
Except my body had eased when I saw her. The defensive tension I hadn’t noticed carrying had loosened, some part of me recognized safety I couldn’t consciously remember.
Didn’t trust that response. Didn’t trust any of this.
Tried to speak. Ask where I was, who she was, what happened.
My throat worked. Jaw moved. Tongue formed shapes behind teeth.
Nothing came out.
Not even a whisper. Not even air shaped into sound. Just silence, absolute and terrifying.
Tried again. Harder. Concentrating, willing vocal cords to cooperate.
Still nothing.
The panic I’d shoved down earlier surged back. My fingers moved to my larynx, pressing against it. Everything felt intact. No visible damage. But sound wouldn’t come, couldn’t come, that part of me had been cut away.
When? How long have I been like this?
No memory. Just blank space and this horrible silence.
My lungs worked faster. Shallow gasps that made my side scream. Didn’t care. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t call for help, couldn’t explain, couldn’t,
The woman’s lashes lifted.
One moment asleep, the next alert. Her focus found me immediately, sharpening with awareness that suggested she’d been half-awake the whole time. Monitoring even in sleep.
Nurse instincts or something else?
She straightened in the chair, movements careful. Non-threatening. Palms visible, forward.
Reading my body language as threat assessment.
How does a civilian know to do that?
“Hey.” Her voice came soft. Steady despite the exhaustion. “You’re awake. That’s good.”
I stared at her. Noted, golden-brown irises, assessing me right back. Wariness underneath the professional calm. She was afraid. Not of me specifically, maybe. Just afraid in general, the low-grade terror of someone in over her head and knowing it.
But she didn’t back away.
“If you remember, I’m Clare,” she said. Slow, as though talking to someone concussed. Fair assumption given the head wound. “I found you in the alley. You were dying.”
Clare.
The name should connect to something. Should trigger memory, recognition, anything.
Nothing came.
She waited. Patient. Watching my face for understanding that wasn’t there.
“You told me your name was Xavier. Do you remember?”
Xavier.
The word felt... almost right. Like clothes that fit but weren’t mine. Something borrowed, tested, not quite settled.
Was that my name?
Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything before,
Before what?
Just blank. Just this moment, this room, this silence.
My mouth opened. Tried to say the name back to her. Tried to ask questions. Tried to make any sound that proved I was human and not some broken thing that couldn’t communicate.
Nothing.
Her expression shifted. Understanding bleeding through the professional mask. Not surprise. She already knew.
How long had I been like this? How long had she known I couldn’t speak?
“It’s okay,” she said. Gentleness there, real warmth underneath. “Your body’s been through hell. Speaking isn’t a priority right now.”
The hell it isn’t.
Tried again. Forced everything into it, desperation, will, need. Vocal cords strained. Throat worked. Jaw shaped words that wouldn’t come.
Silence mocked me.
No. No, this wasn’t,
Panic clawed up. My fingers pressed harder against my larynx, as though I could force it to work through pressure alone. My lungs heaved despite rib damage, air going ragged.
Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t explain what was wrong because I didn’t know, couldn’t ask questions because my voice was gone, couldn’t,
“Listen to me.”
Her voice cut through the spiral. Firm. Commanding. Emergency room authority that demanded attention.
My focus snapped to hers.
She leaned forward, movements still careful. Still reading me, adjusting to keep me from bolting or attacking or whatever she thought I might do.
“Your body went through something traumatic. Right now, you need to rest. You need to let yourself heal. Speaking can wait.”
Easy for her to say. She had a voice.
“I know it’s scary.” Softer now. Almost gentle. “I know you want answers. Your body needs time. You need to be patient. To listen. To let me help you.”
Patient.
The word felt foreign. Wrong. Like something I’d never been, never would be. Patience meant vulnerability. Meant trusting someone else to handle threats I should assess myself.
Meant trusting her.
My attention tracked her face. Looking for deception. For the crack in the mask that revealed this was trap, manipulation, something other than what it appeared.
Found nothing but exhaustion and stubborn determination.
She meant it. Actually believed she could help.
Why? Why would a stranger help me?
No good answer. Her sitting there, blood-stained and bone-tired, looking at me as though I was worth saving instead of whatever I probably was.
One more attempt. Had to try. Needed to prove I could still communicate, still function, still,
My throat strained. Jaw worked. Everything in me focused on producing one single sound.
Nothing came.
The full weight of it crashed down. Not temporary. Not something I could force through will. This was real. Maybe permanent. Maybe I’d never speak again.
The silence would swallow me whole.
My lungs worked faster. Air going shallow, rapid. Palm still pressed to my throat, feeling muscles work uselessly. Everything felt wrong, broken, fundamental parts had been cut away, and I was just noticing.
“I’ll help you.”
Her voice again. Certain. Absolute.
My focus found hers.
“I don’t know what’s wrong yet. I don’t know how to fix it. But I’ll help you figure it out.”
The words should sound hollow. Empty promise from someone clearly in over her head. I could see it in her face, the doubt underneath, the fear that she was failing, the exhaustion threatening to pull her under.
But she didn’t look away. Held my stare with stubborn determination that felt more real than comfort would have.
Something in my lungs eased. Just enough to let air in properly.
Why do I believe her?
Didn’t know. Shouldn’t believe anyone. Every instinct, the ones operating without my permission, noting threats and exits, screamed trust no one.
But my body had already decided. The panic receded. My lungs slowed. The defensive tension I’d been holding since waking loosened by degrees I didn’t consciously choose.
My system recognized her as safe before my mind could object.
“Right now, you need to rest. Let the antibiotics work. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
Rest.
The word felt as though it were permission I’d been waiting for. My body was already surrendering, fever dragging me down, exhaustion winning battles I didn’t know I was fighting.