Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
The machine kept time—steady, mechanical—mirroring the rhythm inside Jenkins' chest. Yve stood over him, watching the monitor for a long second. "Alright, Doc…" she murmured. "Let's see if you can do this without us."
Her hand hovered over the controls. Then she switched the monitor off.
Silence swallowed the artificial rhythm. For a fraction of a second, nothing replaced it.
Yve stepped in immediately, fingers pressing against the side of his neck. She stilled. Waited.
There—A pulse.
Strong. Steady.
Her breath caught. "…You're holding."
She checked again. Not trusting it. Counting. Still there.
Her other hand moved—light, almost hesitant—brushing just beneath his eye where the scratch had once been jagged and angry. Now it was faint. Healing. Fading. "…You're actually stabilizing," she whispered, voice thinner than she intended.
A sharp exhale left her, something between a laugh and disbelief. She pushed back from the bed, pacing once, twice—energy she didn't know what to do with finally spilling out. "We did it," she said under her breath.
Then she stopped. Looked around. No voices. No Darnell. No Haira. No one slumped in exhaustion anymore—just absence.
The words lost momentum. "…we did it." She sank into the nearest chair, the adrenaline draining out of her all at once. The quiet felt heavier now than the chaos ever did.
For a moment, she just sat there—staring at him, making sure the rise and fall of his chest didn't stop.
Then she reached for her log. "Day 45," she said, more to anchor herself than anything else.
Her voice steadied—clinical, deliberate. "Heart support removed. Cardiac function remains stable."
"Bite wounds are closing; superficial lacerations continuing to heal."
"Energy levels stable. Patient remains comatose. Respiration steady."
A pause.
Her pen hovered. "…Subject remains alive."
That was the only line that mattered, she wrote it anyway.
Then sat there a second longer, staring at the words like they might disappear if she blinked.
"…You better stay that way," she muttered quietly, glancing back at him.
No smile this time.
Just resolve.
~~~
Yve let the hours dissolve without structure.
Nierven coiled and uncoiled around her like an overgrown hatchling, restless at first, then playful. She indulged him—guiding his movements, tapping his snout when he got too rough, rewarding him when he followed commands. He learned fast. He always did. A flick of her wrist, a shift in tone, and he adapted—circling tighter, striking cleaner, holding still when told.
"Again," she murmured, pointing.
He lunged—stopped just short of her hand.
"Good." She smirked, scratching lightly beneath his jaw. "You're getting better at that."
Time stretched.
She fed him after—carefully, making sure he didn't snap too fast, didn't revert to instinct over control. Then came the quieter routine—running her hands along his length, clearing debris from between scales, checking for damage. He leaned into it, low rumble vibrating through him, something almost content in the sound.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, half-smiling. "You like that too much."
Eventually, even that slowed.
She moved to the far wall and activated the hologram panel. Light spilled across the space, forming shifting images—old recordings, fragments of worlds stitched into something resembling entertainment. It wasn't real television. Just echoes.
Still—it was enough.
Yve dropped onto the couch, stretching out as the projections flickered. Nierven followed, slower now, coiling beside her before easing his weight across her lap. His head settled against her thigh.
She didn't push him off.
Her fingers moved absently along his scales as the images changed—scene after scene, none of it fully holding her attention. She switched channels without thinking, chasing something she wasn't even sure she wanted to find.
Nierven's breathing deepened. Slow. Heavy. Asleep.
Yve barely noticed when it happened.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the shifting light, expression unreadable, hand still resting on him—grounded by something warm, something alive, in a room that had been nothing but machines and near-death for too long.
The hologram flickered again.
Yve drifted at the edge of sleep, Nierven's weight heavy across her lap, the quiet hum of the base lulling her into a half-dream.
Then—a sharp gasp.
Her eyes snapped open. For a second she froze, disoriented, then instinct took over. Carefully, she eased Nierven off her lap, lowering his coiled body without waking him. The moment she was free, she rushed to Jenkins' side.
"Doctor Jenkins," she called, already checking his pulse. "Can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered, slow and uneven. When they opened, his gaze was empty at first—unfocused, like he was still somewhere else. His breathing hitched as his body struggled to catch up with itself.
Yve pressed her fingers against his neck. Steady. Strong. "Doctor Jenkins," she said again, more controlled. "Stay with me."
His pupils dilated, then contracted, adjusting rapidly. His gaze landed on her face—and he flinched hard, recoiling as if she'd struck him. His hands came up, swatting weakly at the air.
Yve frowned. "Doctor? What's going on? Tell me how you're feeling."
"…Too loud," he rasped.
She blinked. "What?"
"It's too loud," he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut, hands pressing over his ears.
Yve lowered her voice instinctively. "What's too loud?"
"Why are you shouting?" he said, strained.
"I'm not shouting," she said. "I'm talking normally."
His breathing turned erratic. His eyes darted around, overwhelmed. "Why are you so close?"
Yve didn't answer. She didn't need to. The realization hit instantly—his senses weren't just back. They were amplified.
His body tensed, caught between panic and overload—
Then he went limp.
"Jenkins?" Yve said sharply, catching his shoulder. No response.
She checked his pulse again. Still steady.
He just fainted.
She exhaled, tension slipping from her shoulders. "For heaven's sake…" Relief came fast—but it didn't stay alone. Her gaze lingered on his face.
He woke up.
He's alive.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "I… I did it."
But the words didn't feel light. Because right behind them came something heavier.
What she had done.
What she had changed.
Her breath hitched. The laugh cracked, folding into something uneven as tears blurred her vision. She covered her mouth, but it didn't stop the sound from slipping through—half relief, half something breaking.
"I did it…" she whispered.
No one answered. No one was there to hear it. No one to tell her she did the right thing. No one to say it would be okay.
And in that silence, the victory didn't feel clean.
It felt heavy.
She sank beside the bed, one hand gripping the edge, eyes still locked on him.
Alive. Because of her.
And whatever came next—would be because of her.
Yve didn't move.
At some point she lowered herself to the floor, back against the base of the bed, knees drawn in—but she couldn't remember when. Time had slipped past her unnoticed, hours dissolving into a quiet stretch of stillness. The only thing anchoring her was Jenkins' breathing. In. Out. Steady.
Her eyes stayed on the floor.
Her mind didn't.
It spiraled.
Not in clear thoughts—just fragments, piling over each other faster than she could sort through them. Consequences. Exposure. Questions with no answers. If anyone found out—what she did, what he became—would they take him? Tear him apart just to understand it? Undo everything she fought to hold together?
Her jaw tightened. What about her family? Her friends who helped? This wasn't something that could stay hidden forever. A breath slipped out, uneven.
Then—Dylan.
The thought didn't rush in like the others. It settled. Heavy. Certain. Dylan was human. Just like Jenkins had been. Her chest tightened.
If it happened again, if he ended up on her table—could she do it?
Her gaze flicked back to Jenkins. The stillness. The forced stability. The life she rebuilt piece by piece. Could she strip Dylan down the same way… just to keep him breathing?
Her fingers curled against her arms.
And what if it failed? If this didn't work twice—could she handle losing him under her knife?
That one lingered.
She looked away. "…I never even said it."
All this time, through everything they survived, she never stopped long enough to face what had already been there. Even before any of it—before the chaos, before the blood—she had been watching him.
The dock.
For months, she stayed hidden beneath the water, observing. The way he moved. The way he carried silence like it belonged to him. And when he slept—if it could even be called that—she saw it.
The restlessness. The way his body never fully let go. Times where he'd jolt awake, breath sharp, eyes wild. Days where he'd mutter, sometimes louder—sometimes a broken sound that wasn't quite a word, wasn't quite a scream.
She didn't understand it then. Not fully.
But she felt it.
That heaviness and despair. That hollow kind of pain that didn't come from the body. It reached her even through the water, settling somewhere in her chest, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
She told herself it was just curiosity. Just studying a human.
But deep down, she knew what it was. She just refused to name it.
The realization didn't hurt. What came after did.
Time. She didn't control it—neither his nor hers. She'd been acting like there would always be another chance.
Regret settled in, quiet but suffocating—every time she pulled back, every time she chose distance over honesty. And beneath that, guilt.
Because if anything ever happened to him—if he ended up where Jenkins had been—she would be the one holding the knife. And if it fails… if he dies under her hands—
She wouldn't just lose him.
She'd regret it.
Regret every time she chose denial. Every time she shoved it down, buried it, pretended it wasn't there. Every scoff, every eye roll when Ava or Ethan teased her about him —like it meant nothing, like she wasn't already thinking about him too much.
Even that moment—pushing him toward Mia, like she had no claim, like she didn't care.
All of it.
She'd replay every second of it knowing she had chances—so many chances—and she let them pass.
But beneath the regret was something sharper.
Fear.
Fear of loving a human at all. Of how fragile they were, how briefly they existed compared to her own kind. How easily they broke, how quickly they disappeared. Loving them felt like borrowing something she was always going to lose.
And worse than that—
Fear of saying it.
Of naming it out loud and watching it die in his face. Of rejection. Of him pulling away. Of losing him while he was still alive and breathing and looking at her like she was just another ally instead of something more.
That kind of loss would be worse.
Right?
A heavy sigh that failed halfway followed, then another—and then the sound came. Not controlled. Not contained. It tore out of her, uneven and raw. Her shoulders shook as she folded in on herself, forehead dropping against her knees, arms wrapped tight like she could keep everything from spilling out.
Every breath dragged something with it. Fear. Guilt. Regret. Longing. The things she'd kept buried, stacked neatly so she wouldn't have to look at them—they came loose all at once.
And now they were louder than anything else.
Tears slipped freely, one after another, no longer held back, no longer measured. Her grip tightened, then loosened, then tightened again like she didn't know what to do with her own hands.
She didn't even notice at first.
The touch was light. Warm. Something brushed against her fingers—once, then again.
She flinched slightly and lifted her head.
Nierven.
He was close—closer than before—his head lowered toward her, tongue flicking gently across her hand like he was testing, confirming. A soft hiss followed, low and almost… careful.
Yve let out a shaky breath. "…Hey," she whispered, voice breaking on the word.
Nierven shifted closer, pressing the side of his head against her cheek, dragging lightly—awkward, unpracticed, but deliberate.
Yve let out a weak, broken laugh that collapsed into another breath.
Her hands came up, wrapping around him without thinking, pulling him in close. She pressed her face briefly against his scales, one hand tapping lightly along his side in a rhythm that didn't quite make sense—like she was grounding herself through him.
Nierven stilled under the contact.
Then settled.
His body curved around her, not constricting—just there. Solid. Present.
The sobs didn't stop immediately, but they softened. Broke into quieter breaths, into tremors instead of waves. She closed her eyes, letting the last of it move through her instead of fighting it.
For a moment, she just stayed like that.
Breathing. Feeling. Not running from it.
Nierven remained at her side, a low, steady presence, his occasional hiss soft enough to feel more like reassurance than sound.
It was quiet again. Not empty. Just… still.
Then a voice cut through it.
"…Yve."
Her eyes snapped open. She turned—And there he was.
Jenkins.
Sitting up. Watching her.
~~~
Yve wiped the last of her tears with the back of her hand and pushed herself to her feet. "Dr. Jenkins… you're up."
Jenkins winced slightly, voice low, almost strained. "Why are you crying?" he exhaled, rubbing at his temple, "Are you okay?"
She caught herself and lowered her voice to a near whisper. "Yeah…I'm fine. Just tired."
He blinked slowly. "How long was I out?" His hand moved instinctively to his shoulder. "And… my bite wound?"
"About forty-five days." Yve turned quickly, opening a nearby drawer and pulling out a small mirror. She handed it to him.
Jenkins took it carefully, angling it toward his shoulder. The wound was no longer the torn, infected mess it had been—just a faint, closing mark, edges already smoothing.
"It's almost fully healed," Yve said quietly. "Give it a few more days… the scar should fade."
Jenkins stared at it a second longer than necessary. Then his grip on the mirror tightened slightly. "Did… did you find a cure?" he asked, voice unsteady. "What—what happened?"
Yve tilted her head. "You don't remember? Our last conversation before you went under?"
He tried.
His gaze drifted—past her, past the room—into something distant and fractured. Bits of memory surfaced, incomplete. Voices. Pressure. The feeling of something being decided.
Then it clicked.
His eyes snapped back into focus. "Did that really happen?" he whispered. "Did you… did you actually—"
"Yes," Yve cut in, steady but quiet. "I did." There was no hesitation in it. No attempt to soften it. "I documented everything," she added, reaching for a nearby device. It flickered to life in her hand—luminous, layered, nothing like human tech. She passed it to him. "It's all there."
Jenkins looked at it, turning it slightly. "How do I—"
"Just swipe," Yve said. "You'll find the report." He hesitated, then followed her instruction.
Yve stepped closer, slower this time—measured. Careful not to overwhelm him again. "Dr. Jenkins… can I just—"
She didn't wait for a full answer. Her fingers gently closed around his wrist, checking his pulse again.
Steady. Strong.
She exhaled quietly, relief slipping through before she could stop it.
Jenkins frowned at the display, eyes narrowing as lines of unfamiliar script shifted across the surface. "I… I don't know how to read this. What is this language?"
Yve blinked. "Oh—right. Sorry. I didn't know how to write in your language." She gestured lightly toward the edge of the interface. "There's a panel on the side. Scroll it—there should be a translation setting. It'll translate Aelthivar to English."
Jenkins followed her instructions, fingers hesitant at first. The symbols flickered, then rearranged themselves into something readable. His eyes moved across the text—slowly at first, then faster as comprehension set in.
He got to the first phase.
His hands stilled. Then trembled.
"You… you injected radium into me?" he said, looking up sharply.
Yve didn't flinch. "Yes. That was necessary to break down your human DNA."
Jenkins stared at her, the weight of that settling in. "Then what happens to me now?" His voice dropped. "Am I going to die of radiation poisoning?"
"What? No—" Yve shook her head quickly, catching herself and lowering her tone again. "No. Not the way you're thinking. A siren's immune system handles radiation differently. It's… closer to how your body would react to a bad infection. You'll feel sick. Nausea, probably vomiting for a while—but nothing that will kill you."
She paused, then added more carefully, "It will start to feel worse right now because your body couldn't process it while you were in a coma. But you'll live."
Jenkins held her gaze for a moment longer, uncertainty still there—but not panic. "…Alright," he said quietly.
His eyes dropped back to the report.
And he kept reading.
~~~
An uncomfortable silence settled between them.
Jenkins kept reading—swiping, pausing, swiping again. His eyes moved with precision, not panic. Processing. Cross-referencing. Every now and then his fingers would stop mid-motion, hovering over the display like he'd reached a line that demanded more time than the others.
Yve watched him.
Carefully.
She tried to read him the way she would read a system under stress—looking for signs, fluctuations, anything that told her what was happening beneath the surface. But this wasn't a system. It wasn't predictable. And for the first time since she started all this—
She had no framework.
Before the surgery, she prepared for everything that made sense to prepare for. Jenkins dying on the table. His heart failing mid-procedure. His body rejecting every step they forced onto it. Even the possibility that he would never wake up again.
Those were variables she understood.
But this—Sitting in front of her while he read, line by line, exactly what had been done to him—
This wasn't something she prepared for. Her hands felt suddenly useless at her sides.
Jenkins stopped again. Longer this time.
His jaw tightened slightly, just enough for her to notice. His thumb pressed against the edge of the device, not moving, not scrolling.
Yve swallowed, the silence stretching too far. "Jenkins…" she started, quieter than before, uncertain for once. "If you—"
He lifted a hand. Not sharply. Not aggressively. Just enough to stop her. "…Give me a moment," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
That almost made it worse.
Yve nodded once, even though he wasn't looking at her.
He resumed reading. Extraction. Reconstruction. Replacement. Stabilization. Each word clinical. Each step precise. And each one a piece of him that no longer existed the way it used to.
Yve's gaze dropped briefly to his hands. They were steady. Too steady. That didn't make it easier to watch.
His scrolling slowed. Then stopped.
Silence again.
Thicker this time.
Yve felt it settle in her chest, heavy and unmoving. She had faced death, pressure, collapse—but this? This quiet, this waiting for a reaction she couldn't predict.
Jenkins didn't scroll any further.
The display dimmed slightly in his hand, unattended. He just… sat there.
Shoulders still. Back slightly hunched, like something in him folded inward without fully collapsing. His eyes stayed on the last line he read, but there was no movement in them now—no scanning, no processing.
Just… holding.
The space between them felt different now. Not empty. Not quiet in the same way as before. It carried something heavier—something unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Jenkins inhaled.
His fingers tightened slightly around the device, then loosened, like he'd forgotten he was holding it in the first place. His gaze flickered—almost turning toward her—
His throat moved as he swallowed, slow, deliberate. "…I—"
The word came out thin. Unfinished. His jaw shifted, like he was trying to find the right angle to form the next sentence, but nothing followed. The question didn't come. Not because there wasn't one—but because there were too many.
Yve watched him, every small movement landing harder than it should.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Jenkins exhaled through his nose, slower this time. His eyes shifted again. This time, they made it halfway. Toward her. Like even looking directly at her required a decision he hadn't made yet.
A faint crease formed between his brows. Not anger. Not confusion alone. Something closer to… dissonance.
He knew what he read. He understood it. But understanding it and placing himself inside it—that was something else entirely.
His lips parted slightly. Closed. Then, quieter—"…You—"
It didn't go anywhere.
The word hung between them, unfinished, fragile.
Yve felt it. Felt the weight of it, the direction it was trying to take without forcing it the rest of the way.
He exhaled, long and heavy. "This is… a lot to process." A small pause. "Can I ask for some time alone?"
Yve opened her mouth—stopped. Whatever she was about to say, she let it go.
She nodded once instead, exhaling. "I'll come check on you in a few hours." She glanced at him briefly. "I'll bring food later."
"Yeah… sure," Jenkins said.
Yve stepped back, then turned. "Come on, Nierven."
The serpent stirred and followed, slipping quietly after her.
She reached the door—
Then she turned to look at Jenkins before stepping out, the door sealing softly behind her, leaving Jenkins alone with the silence—and everything that came with it.