Arin, get up. Breakfast is getting cold."
The voice didn't sound like a memory; it sounded like the present. Arin opened his eyes to a kitchen flooded with that thick, golden morning light you only see when you're a kid. He looked down. His hands were small, the skin smooth and free of the scars he'd earned in the pits. He was twelve again, back in that stiff Junior High uniform he used to hate.
His father was there, leaning back in his chair, flipping through a magazine like nothing had ever happened. And there, standing by the stove, was his mother.
Arin couldn't move. The air in his lungs felt like lead. He'd spent a decade trying to reconstruct her face in his mind, but here she was—the steam from the pan rising around her, the exact hum of her voice vibrating in the quiet room.
His knees hit the floor before he could think. He didn't just cry; he came apart. Every breath was a jagged, ugly sob that tore at his throat.
She was by his side in an instant. The spatula hit the counter with a sharp clack as she knelt, pulling his head into her chest. Her apron smelled like home. "My boy," she murmured, her hand steady as she smoothed back his hair. "You've grown so much. Why are you so sad?"
"Mother..." Arin choked out, his fingers knotting into her apron so hard his knuckles turned white. "After you left... all I wanted was to hurt them. I thought if I took everything back by force—if I made them bleed like I did—maybe I could finally be happy again. I thought it would make you proud."
He buried his face against her, ten years of built-up poison finally leaking out. "But I'm just tired. I'm so tired of being afraid. In the dark... when they cut me... they kept talking about our blood. Our DNA. They called us 'extraordinary' while they treated me like a dog. I didn't care about the science. I just wanted you to hear me screaming."
His mother pulled back, her thumb catching a tear. Her eyes weren't just sad; they were heavy with the kind of regret that only comes from leaving someone behind. "I'm sorry, Arin," she whispered. "I was strong enough for a lot of things, but I wasn't strong enough to stay."
She looked at him, searching his face. "But look at you now. Is there anyone out there who actually sees you? A place where you don't have to be a soldier or a prisoner? Somewhere you can just... exist?"
Faces flashed behind Arin's eyes—Siho's sharp, protective gaze; Nyria's quiet kindness; Lily's stubbornness; and Lifat's broken apology.
His mother's smile was small and peaceful. "Hold onto them. Don't let your hands stay busy with revenge, Arin. It's a hollow way to live. It just tricks you into thinking you're healing when you're really just burning out. Let it go. Look at what's standing right in front of you."
The kitchen began to bleed into white light.
"Arin! Move! Wake the hell up!"
The warmth vanished. Arin's eyes snapped open to a ceiling he didn't recognize, his lungs burning as he fought for air. He was back in his bed, the sheets cold and drenched in sweat.
Smack.
The sting on his cheek was sharp and real. Lily was leaning over him, her hair a mess and her face streaked with mascara. She looked like she'd been through a war.
"You idiot!" she yelled, her voice cracking into a sob. "Do you have any idea how long you've been at it? Three hours, Arin! You wouldn't stop screaming for her!"
Arin pushed himself up, his head throbbing like someone was hitting it with a hammer. He looked at the three of them—Lily, Siho, and Lifat. They looked exhausted. Wrecked.
"Was it... just a dream?" he asked, his voice a dry rasp. He looked at Lily. "Your eyes are bloodshot. You look terrible."
Lily didn't argue. She just grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward her, holding on like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go. "We've been trying to bring you back for hours," she whispered.
Before he could respond, Lifat moved. She didn't say a word. She just cupped his face with both hands—her palms were shaking—and pressed her lips to his.
It was sudden and clumsy, tasting like salt and desperation. It was Arin's first kiss, born out of a panic that neither of them knew how to handle.
When she finally pulled back, her breath hit his lips in short, ragged bursts. "You stupid, stupid boy," she whispered. "I thought you were dying. Was it that bad? Was it a nightmare?"
Arin sat there, the phantom smell of his mother's kitchen fading as the reality of Lifat's touch took its place. He looked at the three girls who had stayed by his side while he screamed at ghosts.
"No," Arin said, his voice finally steadying. "I saw her. I finally saw her."