There was a bitter sting in his lungs before his eyes even opened.
The air carried the sharp tang of antiseptic, mingled with the faint musk of old books and damp wood. A fractured window let in slivers of daylight, thin and pale, casting latticed shadows across the tiled floor like broken veins of light. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeped slowly—steady, distant, like a metronome counting down to something unseen.
His body… felt wrong. Heavy. Bruised beneath the surface. The weight of pain settled in his bones like sediment.
He shifted slightly, and it answered him—pain bloomed in threads across his ribs, his limbs, his neck. His breath hitched.
A sound—soft, hurried footsteps on linoleum. Then a voice. Gentle, uncertain.
"You're… awake."
He turned his head slightly.
A girl stood at the edge of the bed. Flushed cheeks. Uneven breath. Worry framed her features, but there was a strange warmth in her eyes—a contrast to the sterile, lifeless room.
She hesitated before speaking again. "Does it hurt?"
Jason blinked slowly, grounding himself in her presence. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, his eyes wandered—tracing the subtle tremble in her fingers, the messily tied hair, the old medical coat a size too big for her shoulders.
A pause stretched between them. Not awkward—just… uncertain.
"I've had worse," he finally muttered, voice rough like gravel.
She smiled faintly, though her hands kept fidgeting. "That's not a very comforting answer."
He exhaled a shallow breath, not quite a laugh.
"I'm Mika," she added, after a beat. "I help out here. Medical club—though lately it's felt more like a war clinic."
Jason nodded once, slowly. His gaze drifted toward the window.
"How long was I out?"
"Two days." She lowered her eyes. "You were in bad shape when I found you."
He didn't ask what "bad" meant. His body already told him enough.
"You were bleeding from everywhere. I had to clean your wounds and… change your clothes."
She looked away as she said it, like apologizing for a crime she hadn't committed.
"Not much modesty left in this world," he murmured.
"No," she said quietly. "But I still thought you deserved a little dignity."
Jason sat in silence, letting the words hang. Something about her voice—fragile, honest—made it feel heavier than it should've.
"I left some clean clothes there," she added, gesturing toward a chair. "They're old. Might be a little loose."
He nodded again and slowly reached for them. Every movement came with a price—a sharp throb, a wince he tried not to show.
Mika turned away to give him privacy, though she lingered near enough to hear when he hissed through his teeth.
"…Need a hand?" she asked softly, still facing the wall.
"…Yeah," he admitted.
She turned back, approaching without a word. Her hands were gentle, efficient—though they paused now and then, betraying her unease as fingers brushed over bruises and gauze.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
Not a spark. Not a flutter.
Just a quiet understanding: they were both here, and both trying not to collapse.
"I brought food," she said once he was dressed. "Energy bars and… canned soup. It's all I could find."
He took the bar and unwrapped it with slow, clumsy fingers. She didn't speak while he ate, and he was grateful for that.
Only after a long silence did she sit down on the edge of the bed, hands resting on her knees.
"You don't have to talk," she said. "About what happened. I just… wanted you to know I'm here."
Jason didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, jaw clenched.
"…I already talked," he said eventually. "To myself. To the ceiling. To whatever god thought this was a good joke."
Mika looked at him, quietly.
"I don't expect you to understand," he continued, eyes fixed on something far beyond the walls. "But I didn't choose any of this."
"I know," she replied.
A pause.
"I lost people too," she added, softer this time. "That day. When the sky cracked open."
Jason finally turned to look at her.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't trembling. But there was a hollowness in her voice that echoed something inside him.
"I didn't run fast enough," she said. "Didn't scream loud enough. Didn't save anyone."
He didn't offer comfort. Didn't lie to her. Just let the silence answer in his place.
Then, almost absently, she said, "I saw you fall."
"…What?"
"Through the window. I thought I was hallucinating. But it was you."
Jason shook his head faintly, half a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Hell of a way to make an entrance."
"Yeah," she said, returning the smile, faint and tired. "But I'm still glad you didn't die."
He didn't respond. But this time, the silence between them wasn't heavy.
It was something else.
A space where pain didn't have to explain itself.
And for the first time in days, the ache in his body didn't feel quite so unbearable.