I was back in that motel room. The peeling wallpaper. The dim, flickering light. The suffocating weight of unspoken words.
Miras sat across from me, but this time, his face was unreadable—blurred at the edges like smoke, like he was already disappearing. His eyes were hollow, empty, as if I had already lost him.
"You shouldn't be here," he said again, but his voice was distant, distorted, like it was coming from underwater.
I reached for him. "You don't have to go."
But my hands passed through him.
He was fading. Vanishing like a ghost, slipping between my fingers no matter how hard I tried to hold on.
Panic rose in my chest.
"No—Miras, stop!" I lurched forward, trying to grab him, trying to make him stay, but he just shook his head, that same exhausted, pained look in his eyes.
"I already have," he whispered.
A cold wind howled through the room, but the walls of the motel were gone. I was standing in a vast, endless void, nothing but shadows and echoes surrounding me.
Imani's voice cut through the darkness.
"We don't have time for this, kid."
I turned—and suddenly, I was trapped. Hands—too many hands—grabbing me, holding me down. Imani's grip tightened around my arm, but now it wasn't just him.
Dr. Amar's voice slithered through the dark.
"You're still mine, Cherish."
I gasped, trying to wrench away, but my body was frozen, my lungs squeezing like iron bands were wrapped around them. Amar's hand clamped around my throat, his face an empty, grinning void.
"You think you can be free?" His laugh was a razor slicing through me. "Even he knew better."
Miras stood behind him now, watching. Not moving. His eyes filled with something I couldn't name—something worse than regret.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head violently. "You're dead."
Amar's grin widened.
"Then why am I still here?"
Pain lanced through my skull, a deafening snap—
The car was moving, the low hum of the engine vibrating beneath me. My body was too heavy to move, my head slumped against the window. I tried to breathe, but my chest was tight, my pulse thundering in my ears.
Imani was in the driver's seat, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
"You're awake." His voice was unreadable, guarded.
I swallowed, my throat raw. My body still felt sluggish from the sedative, but my mind was racing.
I forced my heavy limbs to move, my fingers curling weakly against the car seat. My head pounded, my body sluggish from the sedative, but I didn't care. I had to try.
Imani glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable. He knew what was coming.
"Turn around," I croaked, my throat raw, my voice barely above a whisper.
Imani didn't respond. His hands stayed firm on the wheel, his gaze locked on the road ahead.
I swallowed hard, forcing more strength into my words. "Imani, turn the car around."
Nothing.
I latched onto that hesitation. "We can still fix this." My voice cracked, but I pushed through it. "Please, Imani. I'll do whatever you want. I'll go back, I won't fight you on it—I'll listen to whatever bullshit orders you throw at me, just—please—"
Silence.
Imani's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white. I could see the war happening inside him, the conflict, the part of him that wanted to argue, to tell me this was over. But he didn't say it.
I pressed harder. "If it was me out there, would he have left?"
Imani flinched.
That was my answer.
His jaw clenched, and he shook his head, exhaling slowly through his nose. "You think you're the only one who wants to help him?" His voice was quiet now, rough around the edges. "I don't know what he's doing. I don't know what he's risking."
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.
"You could still be a target, Cherish. You being there makes him more vulnerable, not less. And you know that."
Tears burned behind my eyes. I hated that he was right. Hated that no matter how much I fought, no matter how much I wanted to fix this, I was helpless.
Imani sighed again, softer this time. "I'll find another way."
The Cube had taken so much from me—my body, my strength, my sense of control. But it had left something too. That energy, that raw, unpredictable force that still simmered beneath my skin, humming in my bones like an unspent charge. I didn't understand it, didn't know how to wield it, but if I could figure it out…
Maybe I wouldn't be so helpless next time.
Maybe I could fight back.
I started small—notes, theories, scraps of memory from my time inside the Cube. The way my body reacted under stress, the way the energy surged when I was pushed too far. It wasn't just power—it was alive, shifting, responding.
I needed to understand it.
And I needed to do it before it was too late.
I sat on the floor, the dim glow of the bedside lamp barely pushing back the dark. My body ached, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, but my mind was too sharp, too awake.
I had a theory.
Every time the energy had surged before, it was when I had nothing left—when I was drowning in pain, in fear, in desperation. When my body couldn't fight anymore, but something else did.
If I could find a way to summon it before I hit that breaking point, before I lost control, then maybe I could use it. Maybe I could stop being afraid of it.
Maybe I could stop being helpless.
I flexed my fingers, staring down at my right hand. It barely functioned anymore, ruined by the Cube, by Dr. Amar. The nerves were shot, the muscles withered, but it could still feel.
And I needed to feel.
With my good hand, I grabbed the pocketknife from the nightstand and flipped it open. The metal gleamed under the light, sharp and waiting.
I hesitated.
This was stupid. Reckless.
But I pressed the tip of the blade into my palm anyway.
A sharp sting.
Nothing else.
My breath came faster, my fingers tightening around the knife. I dragged the blade down, slow and deliberate, just enough to make it hurt.
Pain flared, hot and immediate, burning up my arm, but something else stirred beneath it.
A flicker deep inside me. Small, weak—like the dying ember of a fire.
I gasped, my fingers twitching, and for just a second, I felt it—
The air around me trembled. The space in the room shifted, like the world had inhaled with me.
Then it was gone.
I stared at my bleeding palm, my breath coming too fast.
I had been right.
It was tied to my pain. My limits. The moments when I had no choice but to act.
Now I just had to figure out how to summon it—
Without tearing myself apart.
I stood in front of the control panel, my fingers hovering over the worn-out keys. The screen glowed in the dim light, waiting for my command.
This was a bad idea.
I tightened my grip, swallowing past the lump in my throat. No. I had to do this. Pain had called the energy forward, but pain alone wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed the kind of desperation that stripped away hesitation, the kind of fear that made my body react before I could think.
And I knew exactly where to find it.
My dad's training simulator wasn't built for me. It was built for soldiers, for people who could still fight, who weren't shattered and trying to put themselves back together with nothing but stubbornness and half-formed theories.
But it would have to be enough.
I typed in the command and selected the highest difficulty level. The warning flashed across the screen—Extreme Risk. Physical Injury Possible.
I pressed Enter anyway.
The room around me flickered. The metal walls shifted, the dull hum of machinery morphing into the low, mechanical growl of the simulation booting up.
And then I was there.
Not in my dad's base. Not in a safe, controlled environment.
The walls transformed into darkness, cold and suffocating. The air thickened, pressing in on me like a vice. The floor beneath my feet shifted—metal plates, dimly glowing under flickering red lights. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
No. Not just anywhere.
The Cube.
A shudder ran through my body. My breath hitched, my lungs tightening painfully. My fingers twitched, instinct screaming at me to move, to run.
I hadn't programmed this setting.
The simulator must have pulled it from my memories, from the deepest corners of my mind where the fear still lived, where my body hadn't forgotten what it felt like to be trapped, powerless, his.
I forced myself to breathe. I had done this on purpose. I had to let it happen.
But then the lights overhead flickered again—and a shadow moved in the distance.
A shape I knew too well.
Tall. Cold. Smiling.
My heart stopped.
No. No, he was dead.
But the figure stepped closer, deliberate, his voice sliding through the dark like a knife to my ribs.
"You still think you can escape me, Cherish?"
My whole body locked up. My lungs seized.
Dr. Amar.
I staggered back, slamming into the cold metal wall. My hands scrambled for something—anything—to defend myself, but there was nothing. No weapon. No way out.
Just him.
Just his slow, taunting footsteps.
And then—
A hand grabbed my wrist.
I screamed and wrenched away, my pulse a frantic, hammering thing in my chest. I didn't realize I had dropped to my knees until I felt the cold floor pressing into them.
I gasped, clawing at my throat for air.
The lights flickered again.
Amar was gone.
The Cube was gone.
The simulation had shut down.
I blinked rapidly, the terror still latching onto my ribs, squeezing like a vice.
I wasn't alone.
Imani stood over me, his expression dark, unreadable. His hand hovered near his belt—his gun—like he had expected to fight someone when he came in.
"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice was sharp, cut through the air like a blade.
I could barely breathe, let alone answer.
I hadn't summoned the energy.
All I had managed to do was fall apart.
I was still gasping for breath when Imani hauled me to my feet. His grip was firm but not rough, though I could feel the tension thrumming in his fingers, in the way his jaw clenched as he looked me over. His eyes flicked to the control panel, the simulation still displaying Error: Forced Shutdown, and then back to me.
Then his expression twisted into something furious, something almost betrayed.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut.
I flinched, my body still shaking, my mind still tangled in the remnants of the Cube's shadows. "I—"
"No. No, you don't get to stammer your way through this," he cut me off. His hands landed on my shoulders, steadying, bracing, but his grip burned with frustration. "You threw yourself into a high-intensity combat simulation when your body can barely handle walking up the damn stairs without your heart giving out! Do you have any idea how stupid that was?"
My heart was still racing, the terror lingering like an aftershock, but I forced my hands into fists. "I had to try," I croaked, voice hoarse.
"Try what? Dying?" His voice rose, echoing through the empty room. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Because that's all this is going to do, Cherish. You think throwing yourself into a nightmare is going to help you? All it's going to do is push your heart into failure. You barely made it out of that place alive, and now you want to simulate it?"
I bristled, my chest tightening—not just from exhaustion, but from the way his words dug under my skin. "I didn't ask you to come in here," I shot back, my voice unsteady but defiant.
"You didn't have to," he ground out. "You think I wouldn't notice you sneaking around? That I wouldn't realize you were doing something reckless?" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "I know you, Cherish."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach turn.
I tore myself from his grip, stumbling back a step. "You don't understand," I said, voice cracking. "I need to figure this out. I need to know how to control it. If I don't—"
"Then what?" His eyes darkened. "What, Cherish? What happens if you don't? You think you can fight your way through this? That if you just throw yourself into enough danger, you'll suddenly get it?"
I swallowed hard, my body trembling. "I have to do something."
"Not this." His voice was softer now, but no less firm. "You don't get stronger by ripping yourself apart."
I turned away, my throat burning. "I don't have a choice."
"Yes, you do." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But if you keep doing this? If you keep forcing your body past its limits just to chase something you don't even understand? You will kill yourself."
The words landed like a stone in my chest. I stood there, breathing too fast, my body still trembling from the simulation's aftershocks. My pulse was a frantic, uneven thing, and I knew Imani could hear it, could see how much this had taken out of me.
But I wasn't ready to give in.
"You don't understand," I whispered.
"I do," he shot back, his voice low but sharp. "You think you're the only one desperate to fix this? To bring him back?" His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I need him too, Cherish. But if you keep doing this? If you keep pushing yourself past your limits just to chase something you barely understand, you won't be here when he does come back."
I clenched my jaw. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do," he said, and for once, there was no anger in his voice—just exhaustion. "You barely made it out of that place alive. You have lung scarring. Nerve damage. Your heart can't handle this, and you know it." He ran a hand over his face again, exhaling hard. "I told you I would figure something out. I will figure something out. But it's not going to happen overnight. And the best thing you can do right now is keep yourself alive."
I turned away, arms wrapping around myself. The weight of his words pressed down on me, choking.
"Did you know? That he killed Dr. Amar?"
Imani's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered—too fast for me to catch, too carefully controlled for me to read.
I stepped closer, my voice quieter but no less demanding. "Did you know?"
Imani exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling in a slow, measured movement. For the first time in this entire conversation, he looked uncertain—like he was debating how much he should say.
I stepped closer, my pulse hammering. "Tell me."
Imani hesitated for a moment longer, then finally, he spoke.
"When I texted Miras, he told me that when he gave the signal, you had to leave. No questions. No hesitation." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it. Something cold. "I didn't know why. I didn't know what it meant. But I trusted him enough not to doubt him."
I shook my head, my stomach twisting. "That's not an answer, Imani."
His jaw tightened, his expression darkening. "It means he was expecting something."
A chill ran down my spine. "Expecting what?"
Imani's silence was answer enough.
I swallowed hard, my thoughts racing back to that motel room—back to the way Miras had looked at me, the way his eyes kept flicking to the door, the way his entire body was coiled, tense, like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
Like he knew it would.
"You think someone was coming for him," I whispered.
Imani's gaze locked onto mine, sharp and knowing. "I know someone was."
The weight of his words pressed against my chest, tight and suffocating. I could barely get my next question out.
"Who?"
Imani let out a slow breath, like he was preparing for the fallout of what he was about to say.
"I don't know yet."
I stared at him, disbelief flaring in my chest. "That's it? You don't know?"
Imani's voice stayed calm, measured. "Not yet."
I ran a hand through my hair, my breath shaky. "But you have a theory."
Imani hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough to confirm what I already knew.
I felt my heart stutter. "Imani."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hand down his face again, and then finally—finally—he said it.
"There's a reason Miras was already at the motel when I texted him."
The words hit like a punch to the ribs.
I shook my head. "What are you saying?"
Imani's expression hardened. "I'm saying I don't think he's free, Cherish. I think someone's keeping him out."
The air in my lungs turned to ice.
No. No, that couldn't be right.
Dr. Amar was dead. The Cube was gone.
Miras should've been safe.
And yet—
I thought back to that moment in the motel, the way Miras had held me like he wasn't sure it would happen again. The way he never answered me when I asked why he hadn't come back.
The way he signaled Imani to take me away.
Like he knew we didn't have time.
Like he knew—
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"You think he's being hunted."
Imani didn't look away.
"I think he's running."
I stood outside my father's office, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I could hear the faint hum of machinery inside, the quiet clicking of a keyboard, the sound of him shifting in his chair. It was familiar, comforting in a way I didn't want to admit—but tonight, it wasn't enough to keep my heart from hammering.
I swallowed hard and knocked.
There was a brief pause, then, "Come in."
I pushed the door open, stepping inside. My father barely glanced up from his monitor, his sharp eyes flicking over me before returning to whatever data he was analyzing. "It's late," he said simply.
"I need to talk to you."
He must have caught something in my voice because his fingers stilled over the keyboard. Then, with a slow breath, he turned his chair to face me fully. "Alright."
I hesitated, suddenly aware of how my pulse pounded against my ribs, how my throat felt tight. "It's about Miras."
His expression remained unreadable, but his posture shifted—subtle, but there. He was listening.
I forced myself to go on. "Imani took me to see him." I stated as if my father wasn't there when we worked out the negotiation.
His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. "How did it go?"
I swallowed, my hands tightening into fists. "He killed Dr. Amar."
Silence.
My father's eyes stayed locked onto mine, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
Finally, he spoke. "I see."
That was it?
I let out a breath, frustration bubbling up beneath my ribs. "You knew, didn't you?"
His silence was answer enough. "He told me."
I clenched my jaw. "Why didn't you tell me?"
My father studied me carefully, his voice measured when he finally said, "Because it wasn't relevant to your recovery."
I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head. "Not relevant? He's gone, Dad. He's not coming back. And now I know why."
Something flickered in his gaze—something I couldn't quite name.
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "You knew that, too, didn't you?"
His silence stretched between us, and that was when I realized—he did. I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Imani thinks someone's keeping him out."
At that, my father's fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, as if considering the possibility. "I wouldn't be surprised."
My stomach twisted. "What does that mean?"
"It means Miras was never the kind of person to disappear without reason." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp. "And if he didn't come back when Amar was eliminated, then there's a reason. Something—someone—is keeping him occupied."
I swallowed hard. "You think he's running too?"
My father said carefully, "Whatever ended Amar didn't end what he was involved in."
I felt my blood turn to ice.
He leaned forward slightly, watching me with that piercing, unreadable stare. "And if you want answers, Cherish, you need to ask yourself—do you really want to know what he's caught up in?"
I hesitated, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Because I already knew the answer.
Yes.
I did.
"Miras didn't just go after Amar. I told him to not go after anyone else, but he didn't listen."
"What do you mean?"
My dad didn't flinch. "Miras went after an underground network—a shadow organization tied to the people like Amar, who have been trying to achieve the same thing he did—people who found out that he succeeded. And I'm not talking about just one or two rogue scientists. I'm talking about a whole system that extends far beyond the Cube. A system that's been manipulating not just the energy that's left in you, but the technology, the science behind it all. They've been trying to weaponize that energy. The energy you carry. They see it as an asset, something they can control. And when Dr. Amar died, they lost one avenue of control. It's bigger than just him, Cherish. It's bigger than you."
"So, what do we do?" I whispered, my voice hoarse. "How do we help him?"
Dad's gaze softened for just a moment before hardening again. "The best thing we can do right now is keep you safe, Cherish. Because if they get to you, they'll sure as hell get to him too. As long as you're safe, he can run. But if they have you, he'll go right back to them."
I nodded, but inside, I felt the weight of what was coming. Miras wasn't just fighting for his life—he was fighting to keep us all from becoming pawns in a much larger game.
Dewey shows up at the house early, rubbing the sleep from his eyes but already buzzing with curiosity. He steps inside, glancing at the scattered notes and datapads I've been obsessing over for the past few hours.
"You look like you haven't slept," he mutters, setting his bag down and scanning the mess. "That's not a compliment, by the way."
I roll my eyes but don't deny it. "I couldn't just sit around and do nothing."
Dewey exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. Tell me everything."
I launch into an explanation—what I've felt, what I've tried, the way the energy only flickers to life under stress or pain. He listens intently, nodding along, occasionally scribbling something down in one of his notebooks.
"So basically," he says after I finish, "your abilities are like an old car. They only start when you kick the engine hard enough."
"Not the metaphor I'd use, but sure."
He frowns, thinking. "Alright. We need to figure out why stress triggers it. Is it biological? Neurological? Psychological?" He starts pacing. "Maybe your body interprets pain as a signal to release the energy. But if that's the case, there has to be another way to access it."
I nod. "That's what I was hoping you'd help me figure out."
Dewey glances at me, the usual sharpness in his expression softening just a little. "This is dangerous, Cherish. You know that, right?"
I swallow hard but don't back down. "I don't have a choice. Miras killed the only person who might have had answers."
He sighs, then cracks his knuckles. "Alright, then. Let's get to work."
Dewey wastes no time setting up his equipment, pulling out a compact diagnostic scanner and a handful of electrodes from his bag in my bedroom. He glances at me, hesitating for only a second before pushing his glasses up his nose.
"If we're doing this, we're doing it right," he says. "No reckless stunts."
I don't bother making a promise I can't keep. Instead, I sit down, rolling up my sleeve as he places a few sensors against my skin. The adhesive feels cold, but I barely notice. My mind is too focused on what comes next.
"I'm not going to question why you have this just laying around."
Dewey watches the scanner's screen as my vitals stabilize. "Baseline looks fine. Now, try to activate it."
I inhale deeply, closing my eyes, reaching for that flicker of power inside me—but nothing happens. Just silence. Just stillness.
Dewey frowns. "What are you thinking about?"
"Trying to make it work," I mutter.
"Yeah, that's not gonna cut it." He tilts his head, tapping at the screen. "It only happens when you're under stress, right? So your brain isn't treating it like a normal function. It's tied to adrenaline. To fear."
I don't like where this is going. "What's your point?"
"My point is," he says slowly, "we have to trick your brain into believing you're in danger."
I exhale sharply, "I tried that, Imani wasn't too happy about it."
Dewey's silence is unsettling. He chews on his lip, debating something. Then, finally, he says, "I have an idea. But you're not going to like it."
"Dewey."
A sharp pulse ran through my body. It wasn't painful, not exactly—it was like a static charge rolling under my skin, making my muscles tense involuntarily. I sucked in a breath as the room around me flickered.
No, not flickered. Shifted.
The walls of my bedroom dissolved, replaced by something else—something colder. Dim lighting. Cheap, stained carpet. A motel room.
I knew this place.
My stomach twisted as I turned toward the center of the room.
And there he was.
Miras.
He stood with his back to me, shoulders tense, exactly as he had been the night before. The simulation was too good—the slope of his posture, the way his fingers curled at his sides, like he was ready for a fight.
I swallowed hard. "Dewey," I called, my voice tight. "What the hell is this?"
Dewey didn't answer.
Miras did.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice low, laced with warning.
I went still.
It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.
But my body didn't care. My hands clenched into fists, heart hammering.
Miras turned toward me, and I hated how my breath caught in my throat, how my body reacted like it was him standing there, flesh and blood, not just a projection.
"What are you trying to prove?" he asked.
I swallowed hard. "That I can control this."
Miras—the simulation—tilted his head slightly, dark eyes locked onto mine. "By throwing yourself into danger?"
I didn't answer.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You don't understand what you're asking for."
Something inside me snapped.
"You left," I hissed, stepping forward. "You ran, and you didn't come back. So don't stand there and act like you get to lecture me."
Miras' expression didn't change. But I saw it—the flicker of something deep in his eyes.
Guilt.
I felt it then. That flicker of heat deep inside my chest, that surge of energy winding through my limbs. My body recognized this moment—anger, frustration, loss—it was the same cocktail of emotions that had triggered it before.
The question was: could I stop it before it lashed out?
I forced myself to breathe. To pull it back in. To hold it instead of letting it control me.
Miras stepped closer. "You think you're in control?"
"Yes," I gritted out.
"Prove it."
Before I could react, he reached out—fast. A blur of movement. His hand grabbed my wrist.
Heat exploded inside me.
My body acted on instinct, the energy bursting outward in a wild, uncontrolled surge—except this time, I fought it. I clenched my jaw, curling my fingers into a fist, forcing it inward before it could spiral out of control.
And it listened.
I exhaled sharply. The charge in the air settled. I was shaking, but I was whole.
I looked up. Miras was still there. But the moment I locked eyes with him, the simulation flickered—his face blurring, his grip loosening.
I gasped, blinking up at the ceiling. My skin was damp, my pulse erratic, but I wasn't overwhelmed. The energy inside me was still there—but calm. Controlled.
Dewey's face appeared above me, his mouth slightly open. "Uh. Cherish?"
I sat up slowly, still catching my breath. "What?"
Dewey hesitated, then pointed. "Look at your hands."
I did.
Thin, crackling veins of golden light shimmered along my skin before slowly fading, like embers cooling after a fire.
I exhaled, chest tight with something that felt a lot like relief.
"It worked," I whispered.
Dewey let out a stunned laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Holy shit."
The energy wasn't strong, not by any means. I probably wouldn't even be able to short circuit the lightswitch. But it was here, and it was listening.
"Are you like—radioactive?" Dewey knelt down to look at my hands, making sure he didn't touch.
"Let's do it again!"
Dewey held up both hands like I was a wild animal about to bolt. "Whoa, whoa. You just got out of that one in one piece. Maybe we take a second to breathe?"
"No," I said firmly, already pushing myself up. My legs were shaky, but I ignored it. "It worked, but it wasn't enough."
Dewey gawked at me. "Are you serious? You just controlled it for the first time ever, and your first instinct is to jump back in?"
"Yes." I flexed my fingers, still feeling the faint hum of energy beneath my skin. It was fading now, slipping back into dormancy. That wasn't good enough. I needed to be able to call it, not just hope it responded when I needed it. "I have to make it stronger."
Dewey groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Cherish, I don't think you get how risky this is. That wasn't a controlled test—your brain believed it was real. It put your body through a full stress response. If you keep pushing, your heart—"
"I know," I snapped, hating the way my stomach twisted. Hating that he was right.
But I wasn't going to stop.
I turned to the console, fingers flying over the settings. Dewey made a strangled noise of protest. "Are you kidding me right now?"
I ignored him. "Increase the intensity. Make it harder."
"No!" Dewey grabbed my wrist, forcing me to look at him. His brown eyes were sharp behind his glasses, his usual nervous energy replaced with something firmer. "Cherish, this isn't a game. What happens if you hurt yourself? Or worse?"
I hesitated. Just for a second.
Then I pulled my wrist free.
"That's why I have to keep going," I said, quieter this time. "If I don't figure this out, I won't be able to stop it next time. I can't afford to be afraid of it, Dewey. I have to master it."
Dewey stared at me, jaw tight.
Finally, with a long, suffering groan, he rubbed both hands over his face. "You're impossible, you know that?"
I allowed myself a small smirk. "Yeah."
He sighed. "Fine. Fine. But we're doing this my way."
I raised a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," he said, adjusting the settings himself, "I'm in control of the simulation, and the second I think you're in over your head, I shut it down. No arguments."
I narrowed my eyes. "Dewey—"
"Nope. Non-negotiable." He crossed his arms. "Take it or leave it."
I clenched my jaw, my whole body itching to just start already. But I wasn't stupid. If I argued, he'd pull the plug completely.
"…Fine," I muttered.
Dewey gave me a wary look before pressing a button.
The world around me shifted again. I wasn't in my bedroom anymore.
I was standing in an alleyway.
The air was thick and humid, the scent of wet pavement and cigarette smoke curling in my lungs. Dim streetlights cast long, jagged shadows against the brick walls. Trash littered the ground. The distant hum of traffic buzzed behind me, but the alley itself was silent.
No. Not silent.
There was breathing. Low. Measured.
I turned.
Miras stood at the other end of the alley, half-hidden in shadow. His stance was loose but ready, like he was waiting for something. Waiting for me.
My heart pounded.
"Dewey," I said, my voice tight. "What the hell is this?"
His voice crackled through my earpiece. "You wanted stronger. This is stronger."
I clenched my fists. "I didn't mean him."
"I know." A pause. "That's why it'll work."
Miras tilted his head, dark eyes sharp as they settled on me. Then he spoke.
"You should have stayed home, Cherish."
I stiffened.
It wasn't his voice. Not exactly. It was close—painfully close—but there was something off about it. A slight mechanical edge, a hollowness beneath the words.
I swallowed hard. "You're not real."
Miras let out a low chuckle, stepping forward. "Neither are you."
Then he moved.
Fast.
I barely had time to react before he closed the distance between us, his fist slicing through the air. I ducked on instinct, heart hammering, my body snapping into motion like it remembered how to fight him.
I spun away, breath ragged. "Dewey, this isn't just another conversation simulation—"
"Nope," Dewey's voice was tight in my ear. "It's a combat one."
Miras lunged again. I barely managed to throw up my arms to block. The impact rattled my bones, forced me back a step.
I gritted my teeth. "You should have warned me."
"You said you wanted it stronger!" Dewey shot back.
Miras didn't give me time to argue. He moved in again, fast and relentless, his attacks precise, practiced—real.
I scrambled to keep up, dodging where I could, blocking when I couldn't. My pulse skyrocketed. My right hand ached where I caught a hit wrong. I was getting pushed back.
And then, I felt it—
The energy.
Simmering under my skin, curling hot in my core, reacting to the fight, to the danger.
I just needed to pull it out.
I threw a punch of my own. Miras caught it, twisted my wrist. Pain flared up my arm.
The energy flared with it.
For a split second, I felt it snap outward, felt the familiar surge of heat trying to explode—
But I held it back.
Instead of letting it lash out wildly, I focused. Redirected. Let it pool in my limbs, in my core, controlled and contained.
And when I struck again, it moved with me.
My fist connected with Miras' chest. A pulse of force rippled outward, sending him stumbling back.
My breath caught.
It worked.
I didn't have time to celebrate. Miras steadied himself, and when he looked at me again—
He smirked.
Like he had been waiting for this.
Then he charged.
The moment Miras lunged, I felt it again—that surge of power twisting in my gut, coiling through my limbs like a live wire. But this time, I wasn't drowning in it. I wasn't just reacting.
I was in control.
I sidestepped his first strike, barely slipping past the blow. The air around his fist rippled from the force, but I moved faster, twisting into a counterattack.
I aimed for his ribs.
Miras blocked—except the moment his arm met mine, a shockwave burst outward from my skin. A controlled one. It wasn't wild, wasn't dangerous. It was a weapon.
Miras staggered.
I pressed the advantage. My body moved on instinct, flowing from one strike to the next, the energy inside me responding like it had been waiting for this. Every motion sent another sharp ripple through the air, a tangible force backing my hits, enhancing them instead of overwhelming me.
Miras recovered quickly, but I could see it in his expression—the flicker of something new. Recognition.
I landed another blow. He caught my wrist—tight, unrelenting—but I didn't panic. I exhaled, twisting my body with the movement, using the force in my core to send another controlled shock through him.
Miras' grip broke.
I leapt back, breath coming fast. My pulse pounded in my ears, but the energy inside me was still mine. It hadn't taken over. It hadn't lashed out without my permission.
Miras steadied himself across from me. He ran a hand over his jaw, flexing his fingers, rolling his shoulders like he was considering something.
Then, he smiled.
It wasn't a smirk, not sharp or mocking. It was something else entirely.
Something almost proud.
And then—
The simulation cut out.
I stumbled, the world around me dissolving into the stark walls of my dad's training room. My knees nearly gave out, but I caught myself, sucking in a sharp breath.
Dewey let out a low whistle from across the room. "Okay. So. That was insane."
I blinked at him, heart still racing.
He adjusted his glasses, shaking his head like he was still trying to process what just happened. "You controlled it. Like—actually controlled it."
A slow, steady realization spread through my chest.
"I did." My voice was hoarse.
Dewey laughed, still a little breathless. "Holy shit, Cherish."
I stared at my hands, flexing my fingers. The energy had settled. My body was exhausted, my muscles aching, but I was still here. Unbroken.
It worked.
For the first time since the Cube, I felt like I was in control.
But the moment of triumph didn't last long.
Dewey's grin wavered. His gaze flicked past me, toward the door.
I turned just in time to see it swing open.
Imani stood in the doorway.
His face was blank. But his eyes—
His eyes were burning.
Oh. Shit.
Imani didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
His silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. The heat in his gaze burned through me like an unspoken accusation, like he already knew exactly what I had done, exactly what I had risked.
Dewey swallowed hard beside me. "Uh—hey, Imani—"
"Out."
One word. Flat. Unyielding.
Dewey flinched. "Wait, but—"
Imani's head snapped toward him. "Now."
Dewey hesitated, looking at me like he wanted permission to stay, to defend me somehow. But there was nothing he could say that would make this better.
I gave him a small nod. "Go."
His jaw tightened, but he obeyed, slipping past Imani and out the door. The second it clicked shut behind him, Imani exhaled sharply through his nose and stalked toward me.
"What," he said, his voice low, dangerously even, "did you just do?"
I forced myself to hold my ground. My legs still trembled from exhaustion, my heart still hammered, but I wasn't going to back down. Not now.
"I controlled it," I said. "I had to."
Imani let out a short, humorless laugh. "Had to? Are you kidding me, Cherish?" He gestured wildly to the empty room. "I told you to stop throwing yourself into this. I told you your body can't handle it. And what do you do? You drag Dewey into one of your reckless plans and nearly send yourself into cardiac arrest—"
"I didn't." My voice came out stronger than I expected. "I didn't lose control. I mastered it."
Imani froze.
For the first time since he stormed in, the anger cracked. Just slightly.
I stepped forward. "It worked. I felt it. I wasn't just reacting—I was using it. I kept it from spiraling. I made it mine."
His hands curled into fists. His breathing was sharp, controlled, like he was forcing himself not to explode.
"You're playing with fire," he said, voice tight.
"I know."
"No, Cherish." He took a step closer, his presence almost looming. "You don't know. Because this isn't just about what you can control right now. This is about what happens when you push too far, when your heart gives out before you figure out how to stop it."
I swallowed hard. "Imani—"
He raked a hand through his hair, turning away like he couldn't look at me. "And you used him," he muttered.
My stomach twisted. "It was just a simulation."
His head snapped back toward me. "It's never just a simulation."
The words landed harder than I expected.
The truth was, I knew that.
I had felt it.
Miras' smirk. His recognition. The moment the fight changed.
And somewhere deep down, in the parts of me I didn't want to examine too closely—
It felt real.
Imani must have seen something in my expression, because he cursed under his breath and turned away again. "You can't keep doing this, Cherish."
I took a step closer. "Then help me."
He let out a sharp breath, like he was tired of this argument before it even began.
I pushed forward anyway. "I need to learn this. And you know it. We don't have time to wait until I'm comfortable, or until it's easy. This energy isn't going away. And if I don't figure out how to use it—"
I paused, forcing him to look at me.
"Then someone else will."
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
I had him.
He knew I was right.
Imani closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaling slow. When he opened them again, the anger had settled into something else. Something heavier.
"…Fine."
I blinked. "Wait—"
"I'll help you." His voice was resigned, but steady. "But only if we do this the right way. No more reckless testing. No more simulations that push you to the edge of collapse. If we're doing this, we're doing it smart."
I opened my mouth to argue. He shot me a glare.
"Non-negotiable."
I bit my tongue.
But underneath all the exhaustion, all the frustration—
A flicker of something almost like hope stirred in my chest.
"…Okay."
Imani nodded once, sharp and decisive. Then he turned for the door.
I let out a slow breath, trying to steady myself.
I had won.
The next morning, Imani made good on his word.
He brought me to a reinforced training facility—one I hadn't even known existed until today. It wasn't like my dad's simulator, where the environment could be controlled. This was real. Industrial. Heavy walls built to withstand whatever force I threw at them. No distractions, no illusions. Just me, my energy, and whatever Imani had planned.
I wasn't sure if I should be excited or terrified.
Imani stood across from me, arms crossed, scanning me with that assessing, unreadable look he always had when he was calculating something. I'd seen that look before—usually right before he told me I was being reckless.
"You're going to do exactly what I say," he said.
I bristled at the command. "I know—"
"Do you?" He took a step forward. "Because yesterday, you went in blind. You let Dewey run a simulation that pushed you past your limit. I don't care that it worked—you got lucky. That's not a strategy, Cherish. That's a gamble."
I clenched my fists but didn't argue. Not because I agreed, but because if I pushed too hard, he might shut this down before we even started.
Imani must have sensed my frustration because he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "This isn't about stopping you from learning. It's about keeping you alive while you do." He nodded toward the center of the room. "Now. Let's begin."
I swallowed and stepped forward.
"First lesson," he said. "Control starts with your breathing."
I gave him a flat look. "Seriously?"
"Do you want my help or not?"
I did, but this felt like the exact kind of slow, cautious approach I didn't have time for.
The problem was, it wasn't working.
I stood in the center of the reinforced training room, my hands clenched, my breath uneven. The energy was there—I could feel it—but it wouldn't come.
Not like before.
Not like when I faced him.
Imani watched me, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He had been patient for the first hour, but now, frustration had begun to creep into his voice.
"Try again."
"I am trying," I snapped.
"Then why isn't it working?"
I grit my teeth, glaring at the empty space in front of me. That was the question, wasn't it? Why couldn't I summon it the way I had before?
Why had it been easy in the simulation?
The answer twisted in my stomach before I even fully admitted it to myself.
Because when it had been him, I had reacted. I hadn't had to reach for the power—it had exploded out of me. The moment I had seen Miras, something inside me had unlocked. The memories, the emotions, the sheer weight of everything we had been through together—
It had fueled me.
But now?
Now I was standing in an empty room, with nothing to push against but myself.
And it wasn't enough.
I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes, trying to force it forward. Trying to recall the feeling of power surging through me, of heat crackling at my fingertips. But the more I focused, the more it slipped away, like trying to hold onto smoke.
Imani exhaled sharply. "Cherish—"
"I don't know why it's not working," I snapped, voice cracking. "I don't—" I cut myself off, pressing a hand to my temple.
This was stupid.
I had done it before. I had made it mine.
So why couldn't I do it now?
Imani stepped forward, voice quieter this time. "You're relying on emotion."
I kept my gaze fixed on the ground. "And that's a bad thing?"
"Yes."
I did look up at that. "Oh, I'm sorry, Imani—should I just turn off all my feelings, then? Should I just erase everything that's ever happened to me and—"
"That's not what I'm saying." His voice was firm, but not unkind. "I'm saying you need to control it. Not let it control you."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that this was impossible, that I couldn't just summon it on command. But deep down, I knew he was right.
In the Cube, the energy had been forced into me. When I was afraid, when I was desperate, it had lashed out because it had no other choice. And that meant I had to learn how to do it without fear, without pain, without Miras standing in front of me as the catalyst.
The next few days were brutal.
Every morning, Imani dragged me back to the training room. Every morning, we repeated the same drills. And every morning, I fought to make the energy mine.
It wasn't just about calling it forward anymore—it was about holding it. Shaping it. Keeping it steady instead of letting it lash out wildly like a cornered animal.
But it was slow. Too slow.
By the third day, my hands were raw from striking the training dummy. My muscles ached from hours of pushing myself past my limit. My chest burned from the strain of forcing controlled breaths through scarred lungs.
And worst of all?
I still wasn't there.
I was close—I could feel it. The energy responded now, but only in flickers, brief moments where I thought I had it before it slipped away again. It was like trying to hold onto water, only to have it trickle through my fingers the second I tightened my grip.
It wasn't enough.
I needed more.
I needed to be stronger.
On the fourth morning, Imani called off training early.
"You're tired," he said simply, as if that was enough of an excuse to stop.
I clenched my fists, still feeling the fading heat of the energy in my fingertips. "I can keep going."
"Not today." His tone left no room for argument.
I scowled but didn't fight him. Not out loud, anyway.
But I wasn't done.
So that night, when the house was silent and the lights were dim, I made my way back to the simulator.
If Imani wouldn't push me harder, I'd do it myself.
I stood in the center of the room, heart pounding, staring at the control panel.
I knew what I had to do.
Fear had always been the strongest trigger for me. If I wanted to break past this limit, I had to push myself harder.
So I did something reckless.
I programmed the simulator to generate a new scenario. One that would throw me into danger. One that would force me to fight back.
One that would make me stronger.
The screen flickered, scanning my input.
Scenario Confirmed.
I stepped onto the platform, inhaling deeply as the simulation began to build around me.
The cold air. The dim lighting. The scent of damp concrete and blood.
Then—
Footsteps.
My heart lurched.
And when I turned, I froze.
Because the simulation had read me—had taken my worst memories, my deepest fears, and brought them to life.
The figure standing in front of me wasn't some faceless threat.
It was Dr. Amar.
The moment I saw him, my entire body locked up.
He wasn't real.
He wasn't real.
But my brain didn't care. My chest tightened, my breath came in sharp, painful gasps, and suddenly I was back there. Back in the Cube, back in that chair, back under his scalpel, his hands, his voice.
The simulation had pulled from my memories too well.
Dr. Amar stood in front of me, his sharp, analytical gaze sweeping over me like I was something to be studied, dissected. He tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, and my stomach lurched.
"You look unwell, Cherish," he said, voice calm, smooth, like he was concerned. Like he hadn't spent months carving into me, destroying me piece by piece.
My knees almost buckled. I tried to force air into my lungs, tried to remind myself that this wasn't real.
But my body remembered.
The pain. The helplessness. The sheer, suffocating terror.
And the energy inside me?
Gone.
I tried to reach for it, tried to summon even a flicker of heat in my veins, but my panic had locked it away, buried it under fear.
Dr. Amar took a step closer.
I flinched.
No. No, no, no.
I wasn't there anymore.
I wasn't there anymore.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to move, to do something—but then he spoke again.
"You were always so difficult," he murmured. "So resistant to progress. But I was patient with you, wasn't I?"
A cold hand brushed against my cheek.
My breath caught. My skin burned where he touched me. Not real, not real, not real—
He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
"Let's see if you remember how to scream."
Something inside me snapped.
A scream ripped out of my throat, raw and desperate. My entire body convulsed with panic, with terror, with rage—
And then—
Heat.
Not flickering, not fading.
Exploding.
The room shattered in a violent wave of energy. Amar's form disintegrated into raw light, the walls of the simulation cracked like glass—
And then I was falling.
The simulation collapsed.
I hit the ground hard, my limbs shaking, my vision blurred. My ears were ringing, my body felt wrong, like every nerve had been ripped open—
The door burst open.
"Cherish!"
Imani.
Strong hands grabbed my arms, pulling me up, but I couldn't focus, couldn't breathe. My head lolled forward, my skin was burning, my heartbeat erratic.
"What the hell did you do?" Imani's voice was sharp, terrified.
I tried to answer, tried to say something, but my lips wouldn't move.
Then my body seized.
A jolt of energy tore through me like an electrical surge, and Imani cursed, tightening his grip as my vision whited out.
I barely heard him shouting for help before everything went dark.
Pain.
That was the first thing I felt when I came back to myself. A deep, all-consuming ache that pulsed through every inch of my body, like I had been burned from the inside out. My skin felt too tight, my muscles weak and shaking. My lungs struggled to pull in air, and every breath sent sharp, searing pain through my ribs.
I groaned, forcing my heavy eyelids open.
I was in my bed. My room. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows against the walls. The ceiling fan spun in slow, lazy circles above me.
For a moment, I just laid there, my mind sluggish, my body leaden.
Then I remembered.
The simulation. Dr. Amar. The terror. The energy exploding out of me.
My breath hitched, my pulse kicking up—and then a firm hand pressed down against my shoulder.
"Don't."
I turned my head, vision still blurry, and saw Imani sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me with a mixture of exhaustion and anger.
I swallowed, my throat raw. "What…?"
Imani exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked awful—dark circles under his eyes, his clothes wrinkled, tension coiled so tightly in his shoulders it looked painful.
"You had a seizure," he said flatly. "Your body went into full-blown shock. You fried the entire training system. Fried yourself."
I blinked slowly, my thoughts still struggling to catch up.
Dewey. The simulator. The moment the energy—
My stomach lurched.
I turned my hands over, staring at my fingers. My skin looked normal. No burns, no scars. But I felt different. Like something inside me had been rewired.
"How long?" I croaked.
Imani's jaw ticked. "Almost twenty-four hours."
I stiffened. A whole day?
"I—" My voice broke. I tried again. "I was just trying to—"
"I know what you were trying to do," Imani snapped.
I flinched at the sharpness of his tone.
He dragged a hand down his face again, visibly trying to rein in his frustration. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but just as firm.
"You don't get it, do you? You almost died, Cherish." His gaze locked onto mine, hard and unyielding. "This isn't just some experiment. It's not a game. You keep pushing yourself like this, and one day, you won't wake up."
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "I have to learn how to control it."
"Not like that."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.
"I get it," he said, his voice quiet but intense. "I get why you're doing this. I get that you're desperate. But what happens if this energy gets stronger than you? What happens if next time, you don't just pass out? What if you detonate?"
A chill ran through me.
Because I had felt it, in those final seconds before I blacked out. The energy wasn't just responding to me anymore. It was feeding off me.
And if I had pushed even a little harder—
I might not be here.
Imani must have seen the realization hit me because his expression softened, just a little. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
"You need to rest. No more simulations. No more pushing." He stood, giving me one last sharp look. "If you try anything reckless again, I will put you back in that coma. I don't care if you hate me for it."
He turned to leave.
But before he reached the door, he hesitated. Then, without looking back, he muttered, "Miras would kill me if he knew I let you do this."
I was still in bed, staring at the ceiling, when my phone buzzed beside me.
For a second, I didn't move. I had barely touched my phone since waking up, not wanting to deal with whatever messages were waiting—probably more from Imani, maybe Dewey checking in, or my father reminding me how reckless I had been.
But something about this buzz felt different.
I turned my head slowly, reaching for the device with stiff fingers. My hands still trembled from whatever had happened in the simulator. My body hadn't fully recovered. My heart was still unsteady.
When I saw the name on my screen, my breath caught.
Miras.
I hadn't heard from him since the hotel. Since he and Imani had dragged me out, sedated me, and left me with more questions than answers.
For a second, I just stared at the message, my pulse hammering.
Then, finally, I opened it.
Whatever you are doing, you need to stop. Now.
I sat up too quickly, my head spinning from the movement. I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself, but my focus stayed locked on those words.
Miras never texted like this. No context. No explanation.
Just urgency.
A warning.
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the phone. How did he even know what I was doing? Whatever I had just done—whatever had happened in that simulator—Miras knew about it.
And for the first time, the thought terrified me.
Maybe he hadn't completely left me.
I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath. The temptation to fight back the panic was strong, but I knew now was the time to act. I wasn't just trying to make him come back. I was trying to make him believe that I wasn't going to let whatever this thing inside me control me.
I needed to show him I was stronger than before. That whatever had happened between us—whatever had driven him away—wasn't going to be my undoing.
With shaking fingers, I typed back.
I'm not stopping. Not until you come back.