The next morning, Elishia awoke to the sound of a familiar voice—Dr. Chen’s.

But it wasn’t his usual measured tone. This was sharp, agitated, cutting through the morning quiet like a blade.

Groggily, she rubbed her eyes and turned her head to look at the clock. 9:00 AM. The numbers glowed accusingly in the dim light filtering through her curtains. 

She was about to roll back under the covers, seeking refuge in the warmth of her blankets, when her body froze.

“What?? You’re going out?!”

Dr. Chen’s voice came sharp, incredulous, each word dripping with disbelief.

Then came a string of ranting, each word louder than the last, building like a storm gathering strength.

Elishia’s heart lurched in her chest. The familiar knot of anxiety twisted tighter in her stomach. She shot up from the bed, the blanket falling away from her shoulders as she rushed to the door. The wooden floor was cold beneath her bare feet, sending shivers up her spine.

As she cracked the door open, the voices grew clearer, more distinct.

“It’s barely been a week, and you want to go out?” “Are you kidding me right now?”

Each line made her chest tighten further, like invisible hands were squeezing her ribs.

He’s going out? The thought froze her. What if he goes out and comes back bloody again… Like last time.

The memory crashed over her in vivid, unwanted detail—Mark’s unconscious body, his clothes soaked with crimson, the metallic scent of blood heavy in the air. 

What if this time he doesn’t come back at all?

She crept toward the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the hallway wall. The morning light streaming through the windows felt too bright, too cheerful for the dread pooling in her stomach. Then she heard Mark’s voice—calm, casual, infuriatingly nonchalant:

“I’m just going to Gab’s place. It’s like five minutes from here. I’m not heading into a war zone. Chill, Doc.”

As she stepped into the kitchen, she was greeted by the sight of Mark—fully dressed, standing tall, black leather jacket over a maroon shirt that brought out the gold irises in his eyes. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, his stance relaxed and confident. Across from him, Dr. Chen stood with his arms crossed, his usually kind face twisted with frustration, eyes glaring sharp enough to cut steel.

The scent of breakfast lingered in the air—something warm and comforting that should have made her stomach growl, but instead only reminded her how twisted up with worry she felt.

The doctor’s back was to her, but Mark noticed her the moment she entered. Of course he did. He always seemed to have some sixth sense when it came to her presence.

He grinned.

That familiar lopsided smile that made her heart do strange things in her chest.

“Princess, you’re up.”

The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, warm and sweet and entirely too affectionate for someone who was about to waltz out the door and possibly into danger.

Dr. Chen turned at that and gave her a small wave, his expression softening slightly when he saw her. He gestured toward the table with a paternal warmth.

“Come sit. I’ll get your breakfast ready.”

But Elishia shook her head slightly, her eyes never leaving Mark. She couldn’t think about food right now, couldn’t think about anything except the way he was standing there so casually, as if he wasn’t about to tear her heart out of her chest and take it with him into whatever unknown danger awaited outside.

Instead, she asked—softly, uncertainly, her voice barely above a whisper:

“You’re going out?”

Whether she meant to or not, her voice carried concern, and fear. 

Mark blinked, and she watched as something shifted in his expression.

Faced with her tired, freshly woken face—those bright gray eyes still moist with sleep but now wide with worry, staring at him so accusingly—he awkwardly scratched his cheek. 

“Well… yeah.”

He averted his gaze, as if caught doing something wrong.

“Elishia,” Dr. Chen cut in, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone that might have been amusing under different circumstances, “help me stop this punk. I’m telling you, we can tie him to the bed and make sure he doesn’t leave for a whole month.”

“Hey, that’s harsh.” Mark protested, some of his usual humor creeping back into his voice. “What if I need to pee?”

Dr. Chen rolled his eyes, but Elishia could see the genuine concern hidden beneath his exasperation.

“Also,” Mark continued, and now his voice took on a more serious edge, “it’s just for a bit—twenty, thirty minutes, tops. I need to check on something important.”

Elishia stared at him, taking in the determined set of his jaw, the way his shoulders were squared with resolve. He looked like he’d made up his mind, like nothing she or Dr. Chen could say would change it.

But the fear inside her didn’t subside. If anything, it grew stronger, spreading through her veins like poison. Her mind began to spiral, conjuring up all the ways this could go wrong.

What if he comes back with new wounds? What if that deep gash on his back reopens? What if he runs into whoever hurt him before? What if he doesn’t come back at all? What if I never see him again? What if the last thing I remember is this stupid argument?

So lost in her catastrophic thoughts, she didn’t even realize he was moving until his presence filled her vision.

Her gaze rose, suddenly overwhelmed by the dark maroon of his shirt, then the black sheen of his jacket. He smelled like leather and something distinctly him—warm and slightly spicy, like cinnamon and smoke.

Mark stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to.

She tilted her head slightly upward to meet his eyes, her heart hammering against her ribs.

There it was—that familiar smirk. The one she’d seen so many times before.

But this one was different. This one wasn’t cold or sharp or heartless like the smirk of the boy in the cargo hold all those days ago, the one who’d looked at her like she was nothing more than a thing.

This one was… soft. Gentle. Almost tender.

There was something else in his eyes too—those molten irises of gold and red that always reminded her of autumn leaves caught in firelight. Something warm and reassuring and achingly sincere.

Then he leaned just a little closer, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

“I’ll only be gone for a while,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that made her stomach flutter. “Trust me.”

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Trust me.

The phrase echoed in her mind, bouncing around like a ricocheting bullet.

Trust. Such a simple word. Such an impossible thing.

Could she really… trust him? 

Trust him with what? With her heart? With her sanity? With the fragile peace she’d been trying so desperately to build?

She couldn’t answer. The words stuck in her throat like glass.

Instead, her eyes searched his—desperately—as if somewhere within those flecks of gold and red, the truth would reveal itself. A promise. A guarantee. Something, anything, that would ease the terror clawing at her insides.

Mark didn’t rush her. He stood perfectly still, patient as a saint, watching her chew on her bottom lip, watching her brows furrow in that way that meant she was thinking too hard, worrying too much.

And somehow, the way she looked at him—so vulnerable, so afraid, so achingly beautiful in the morning light—made something twist painfully in his chest.

She’s scared, he realized with startling clarity. She’s terrified. Not just worried—terrified.

The knowledge hit him like a sledgehammer to the ribs. When was the last time someone had been scared for him? When was the last time someone had looked at him like his safety mattered, like his life had value?

He swallowed hard, fighting down the emotion threatening to close his throat. A lump had formed there, thick and choking, and he struggled to keep it from betraying him.

His hand curled and uncurled at his side, restless. Then, almost without thinking, following some instinct he didn’t fully understand, he reached out and took her hand in his.

Her fingers were cold, delicate, smaller than his. He wrapped his fingers around hers gently, carefully, as if she were made of spun glass. Her skin was soft and warm where it touched his, and he could feel the slight tremor running through her.

He gave her hand a soft squeeze, hoping to transfer some of his warmth, some of his certainty, to her.

“Really,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’ll only be for a while. Then you’ll see my annoying face again, and I’ll keep throwing stupid jokes your way ’til you beg me to leave for a whole day.”

The weak joke tugged at the corners of her mouth, and he felt a surge of triumph at the small victory. More importantly, he watched as some of the tension left her shoulders, as if his touch had somehow managed to ease the weight she’d been carrying.

She exhaled—long and audible, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a shuddering breath. Her shoulders relaxed, the rigid line of them softening.

Then she looked at him again, really looked at him, and he saw something shift in her eyes. Not trust, exactly, but… acceptance. Resignation, maybe. Or maybe something deeper, something that made his heart skip a beat.

“Okay.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it hit him with the force of a tsunami. Relief flooded through him, followed immediately by something else—a fierce, protective instinct that made him want to promise her everything, to swear on his life that he’d come back to her.

Mark’s grin widened, genuine and relieved and so bright it could have powered the city.

He gave her hand one last squeeze, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles, committing the feel of her skin to memory. Then, reluctantly, slowly, he let her go. Her fingers slipped from his like water, leaving him feeling strangely bereft.

Turning toward the door, he strode forward with more bounce in his steps, the weight of her trust—fragile and precious as it was—giving him a confidence he hadn’t felt in days.

As he passed Dr. Chen, the older man grunted and muttered with the air of someone making a dire threat:

“Thirty minutes max. Past that, and I’m locking the doors. Don’t even try to knock.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” Mark waved without turning back, but there was affection in his voice, gratitude for the concern he pretended to dismiss.

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing around the street corner like smoke in the wind.

The door clicked shut behind him with a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

Dr. Chen let out a long, exhausted sigh and massaged his temple with the practiced motion of someone who’d been dealing with stubborn patients for decades.

“Kid’s gonna give me a stroke,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Then he turned back to Elishia, his expression softening with paternal concern, and gestured toward the small table.

“Sit. I made breakfast. Eat while it’s warm.”

She finally managed to pull her eyes away from the door, though part of her remained focused there, listening for his footsteps, hoping against hope that he might change his mind and come back.

Quietly, she walked over to the table and sat down, the chair creaking slightly under her weight. The wood was smooth beneath her hands, worn soft by years of use.

Dr. Chen placed a plate in front of her—a simple meal, still steaming, filling the air with comforting aromas that reminded her of home, of safety, of better times. He waved off her whispered thanks with a grunt and added:

“I already ate. I’ll just grab something from the back.”

Then he disappeared into his room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her fears.

Left by herself at the table, Elishia stared at the plate for a long moment, her appetite nowhere to be found. The food looked delicious, but her stomach was still twisted in knots, still churning with anxiety.

Finally, she picked up the spoon with trembling fingers.

She took a slow bite.

It was warm. Simple. Comforting in the way that only homemade food could be. The flavors were gentle, soothing, like a hug in edible form.

Still, the heaviness hadn’t fully left her chest. It sat there like a stone, cold and unyielding, a constant reminder of all the things that could go wrong.

She tried to focus on the food, on the warmth spreading through her body, on anything other than the empty space where Mark had been standing.

But part of her mind—the largest part—was already counting the seconds.

1. 2. 3.

1,797 seconds more to go.