The orphanage is perfect.

  No creaky floors, no janky, old-ass tech sparking out like it’s got a death wish. Just smooth, sleek surfaces, walls freshly painted, air smelling like bread—not that stale, musty wood scent I’ve known my whole life.

  Cherry’s at the stove, humming like she doesn’t have the weight of the whole damn orphanage on her shoulders. Klev’s at the table, carving, and—miracle of miracles—no splinters are flying into his face. Even Vortex is here, laughing, but it’s different. It’s real. Warm. Like he actually belongs here.

  And I know it’s a lie.

  The orphanage isn’t like this. It’s never been like this. But I don’t care.

  I sit down, and my plate is already full. Pancakes, syrup, bacon, eggs, all of it exactly how I like. I take a bite, and—God—it’s good. Perfect. Warm, buttery, everything I never got enough of.

  For a second, just a second, I forget—

  Drip.

  I look up. The ceiling is bleeding.

  Thick, black liquid oozes down the walls, ruining the pristine paint, swallowing it whole. Cherry doesn’t notice. Klev keeps carving, but his hands—they’re jerky, stiff, like someone’s yanking the strings. Vortex’s laugh stretches, warps, turns into something not human.

  I grip the table. It’s not wood. It’s flesh. Warm, pulsing, breathing under my hands. The walls are breathing. The floor is breathing.

  I try to scream, but my mouth fills with syrup—thick, dark, wrong. It clogs my throat, slithering down like oil, choking me from the inside. My body spasms, my lungs burn, I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t—

  Falling.

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  Darkness.

  My eyes snap open.

  Sterile. White. Too clean.

  A hospital.

  I try to turn my eyes, just enough to take in the room, and my gaze lands on him.

  My father. Bent over the bed, asleep on his arm, like he’s been here a while.

  I move my hand. Or—I try to.

  Nothing.

  I try again.

  Still nothing.

  I scoff under my breath and push harder, harder, harder.

  Nothing.

  Why?

  Why aren’t my hands moving?

  I’m not a cripple. I’m not a cripple.

  I never was. I never will be. Right?

  I try to turn, to shift, to move. Nothing. Only my eyes. My neck won’t move. My arms won’t move. My legs—I can’t feel them. I don’t even know if I’m breathing on my own or if the machine beside me is doing it for me.

  No.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  This isn’t happening.

  This can’t be happening.

  This is not how it’s supposed to go. Not for me.

  Tears sting, blur my vision, spill over. They land on my father’s arm. He stirs, looks at me. Sees me crying.

  He says something.

  Nothing.

  I hear nothing.

  I feel nothing.

  His arm has been on mine this whole time, and I didn’t even know.

  Why?

  His lips move again. Maybe he’s cursing me. Maybe he’s telling me I’ll be okay.

  But I won’t.

  I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

  He hugs me.

  I feel nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  They did this to me.

  The ape. The Navorian. They—

  No.

  No, this is my fault.

  I should’ve spoken. I should’ve screamed.

  I should’ve done something.

  But I didn’t.

  And now I’m like this.

  Like this.

  Like this.

  Days pass.

  I'm on a wheelchair. Dad's pushing me out of the hospital, rolling me over cracks in the pavement like I'm some useless sack of bones. The air outside is hot. I barely feel it. I barely feel anything.

  My neck works. My hands twitch when I tell them to. Fingers, too, if I concentrate. The doctor says my spine is healing. Says I’ll be fine in a couple of weeks.

  Weeks.

  I’ve already been like this for days. They felt like years.

  Why?

  Why the hell did this happen?

  Dad leans down, his voice soft in my ear. "I'm taking you home today."

  "Where's Mom?"

  He hesitates. A split second too long. I already know.

  "Divorced," he says.

  My fingers curl against the armrest. So they do work.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "You weren’t awake for most of it," he mutters. "Figured… lunch’d be easier."

  Like I give a damn. Never liked her anyway.

  He wheels me to the car, lifts me inside like I'm some helpless baby. Drives.

  I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go anywhere.

  I'm sick. Sick of this body. Sick of this life.

  Sick of how everything was fine—and then suddenly, it wasn’t.

  I want it to end.

  No. I want something else more.

  I want revenge.

  That monkey. That bastard. I’ll skin him alive.

  And the Navorian—he’s dead, too. I swear it.

  Dad’s voice cuts through the storm in my head. "Revilsa—you're gripping my shoulder too hard."

  I blink. I’m back in my room. My hands are locked onto him, knuckles white. I didn’t even notice. He set me on the bed, but my mind was somewhere else—somewhere darker.

  I let go.

  But the promise? That stays.

  P.S. The dad’s ‘divorce’ line was originally harsher, but I softened it. Good call or nah?

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