The door opened like a sigh.
Max turned his eyes toward it, slow, mechanical. That was all he could do. Move his eyes. Breathe through cracked ribs. Think.
A silhouette stood in the frame.
Not Loyalty.
Someone else.
Soft pink hair spilled over her shoulders like cotton candy. A long white coat, stitched with gold hearts along the hem, swayed as she stepped inside. Her boots made no sound on the tile. She carried the scent of wildflowers and spring air.
Too bright for this place.
Too bright for him.
The girl paused a foot from his bed, tilting her head.
"Hi," she said, her voice soft and sugary. "You must be Max."
Max blinked once. No response.
She smiled anyway.
"My name is Love," she said. "I'm here to help."
Her voice didn't match the room. There were no windows, no sun, and Max's body still felt like it had been carved from melted stone. His bones refused to listen. His muscles screamed. His thoughts weren't thoughts — just sharp static behind his eyes.
But this girl?
She looked like someone who belonged in a dream.
Love moved carefully to his bedside. No sudden movements. Her hands folded gently in front of her. Everything about her posture said safe — but Max knew better. He'd learned. Safe was a lie you were told before being hurt.
She reached for his hand.
He twitched — barely.
She stopped immediately, her expression softening with understanding.
"I won't force it," she said. "But you're in a lot of pain. And I can make it better."
Still, no answer. Just blinking.
"I don't just heal wounds," she continued, lowering her voice. "When I touch someone, I… see them. Not just their injuries. Their memories. Their heart. That's how I know what to fix."
Max's eyes narrowed — just slightly.
He hated that.
He hated that someone could look inside him. Especially someone like her — gentle, open, warm. He didn't want to be understood. Not by someone who smiled like that.
Love seemed to notice.
"…you don't trust me."
No reaction.
She nodded to herself. "That's okay. You don't have to. But I need to do this. Otherwise, your body won't last. And I know you're stubborn, but… you deserve to live."
Deserve?
That word made something behind his ribs flicker.
Love slowly reached out again. Max didn't stop her — but his heart rate spiked on the monitor beside him.
She noticed.
"It's going to be okay," she whispered.
Her hand touched his chest.
Light bloomed. Pink and gold. Soft and warm. It wasn't fire — it was a heartbeat outside his own. He felt it rushing through him like a wave, peeling back the pain one layer at a time. Like warmth soaking into frostbitten nerves.
And then—
She froze.
Her hand trembled.
Her eyes glazed for a moment — like she was seeing beyond him.
Max could barely turn his head, but he saw her expression twist. Like she was hurting for him.
"No…"
Tears welled up in her eyes.
Max felt that awful, cold weight of exposure. He wanted to pull away — but couldn't. His body was too broken. And now she was seeing everything.
His childhood.
His loneliness.
The long nights alone at the foster home, when the only warmth came from envy. The birthdays he didn't have. The friends who never stayed. The pain of watching others be loved from the outside of the glass. His mother's voice — blurred by distance and fire and silence.
All of it.
Love gasped. Her lips trembled.
"That's what it was?" she whispered. "That's why you burned like that…?"
Max shut his eyes.
Tried to disappear.
But the warmth stayed.
"You didn't do it because you wanted to hurt them…" she said. "You were hurting. So much. For so long."
Max's jaw clenched. His fingers twitched, barely.
"You think you know me," he rasped, voice barely audible.
Love blinked.
His voice was raw, like gravel and blood. "You don't. You just saw it. That's not the same."
She leaned closer. "Then help me understand."
"No." A cough. Pain. "You're just another Virtue. You don't care. You pity. It's not the same."
Love's hand slowly pulled back — but not all the way. "I don't pity you, Max. I see you."
He flinched at the words.
"You don't need to be ashamed of that pain," she continued. "It wasn't your fault. You were just a kid. You still are."
He wanted to scream. Wanted to say you don't get it, but he couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't even run. He was trapped in his body, in his past — and now, trapped in front of her.
Love let out a long breath.
Then, softly: "I know you're not ready. That's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
Max didn't answer.
But something in his chest eased — just barely.
He wasn't sure if it was relief.
Or fear.
Or something worse.
She stood up, brushing her skirt. The light around her faded.
"You'll heal now," she said. "It'll take time. But your body will survive."
She looked at him one more time — gentle, but not weak. "And Max… you're allowed to feel things. Even love. Even pain."
She turned to the door.
"Even if you don't believe me yet, I do."
The door hissed closed behind her.
And Max… stared at the ceiling. Alone.
Still broken.
But alive.
The healing had begun.
The fire still burned.
And somewhere inside him… something new had started to flicker.
Something he didn't trust.
Didn't want.
But couldn't ignore.
The room faded into silence after Love left.
Max's eyes stared at the sterile white ceiling.
Then — slowly — they drifted shut.
Sleep came like falling into a void. Not peaceful. Not calm. But like slipping between cracks in his mind. There was no warmth this time. No comfort. Just—
Ash.
A sky made of smoke.
He opened his eyes inside the dream, but nothing looked real. The world was black and gold and broken. The ground cracked beneath his feet like shattered glass, and crimson flames curled from between the fragments like veins.
He stood. Whole again. But not healed.
Across from him stood a figure.
Tall. Slender. Dressed in tattered robes made of shadows. Its face was like a cracked mirror — shifting with distorted versions of him. Child Max. Rooftop Max. Rage Max. All flickering like bad reception.
Its eyes glowed an unnatural green.
"Finally awake," the figure said.
The voice wasn't loud. It slithered. Sizzled.
Max tensed. "You again."
The Vice of Envy stepped forward, bare feet crackling against molten ground.
"Did you like her?" the Vice asked. "The Virtue of Love? She's soft. Too soft. You'll break her."
Max grit his teeth. "Stay out of my head."
"I am your head," the Vice said. "You let me in, remember? When you gave up. When you burned it all."
"You used me."
"No." It tilted its head. "I am you. Or at least… the part you try to pretend isn't there."
Max said nothing.
The Vice stepped closer, and the flames surged around them.
"You saw how she looked at your memories. Like a bleeding heart. She doesn't understand you, Max. Not like I do. She wants to fix you — but you're not broken. You're becoming."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one does. But they all pay the price anyway."
Silence stretched between them.
Then the Vice's mirror-face cracked wider — forming a grin.
"She can see your past when she heals you," it whispered. "But I can show you your future."
Max felt the ground shift under his feet. Visions began to flicker in the smoke — a city in flames, people screaming, Love kneeling over a broken form, Unit Twelve scattered in the dirt, Loyalty with a sword through her chest—
"Stop."
Max's voice shook.
The Vice paused.
"I don't need your warnings," Max muttered.
"No," said the Vice. "You need my power. And I'm the only one who can teach you how to use it without losing everything."
Max looked at it. Really looked.
The face was his.
And not.
"What do you want from me?"
The Vice's grin faded slightly.
"To survive."
Then, a hand extended.
"Take my hand next time the fire comes. And we'll never be weak again."
Max didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just stared at the flames behind the Vice — and listened to them whisper.
Then — everything faded.