A/N: Hi guys! How have you been?
So here is the promised chapter with some answers (I do say, some). I remember it took me some time to write it because there were scenes I was too lazy to write, but one of those scenes was actually written a year ago so I'm happy it made it here!
On the news side, chapter 15 is almost done. I've got two scenes to finish writing, and I've already written a good part of them.
On the random side, I missed a Pikachu that was literally a few meters away from me and I'm still pissed about it (IT DESPAWNED TOO SOOOOOOON *cries forever). On the bright side, I've got Jolteon, Flareon, and Vaporeon now, so I'm happy.
As always, thank you all for your support, your feedback and your follows/favs! Every once in a while, I get a message on my tumblr or a cute review and it never fails to make my day. To all new readers, welcome and thank you for giving this story a chance! To all old readers, thank you so much for sticking with me! To all of you, I love you. A lot.
Anyway, I'm gonna shut up now and let you read. Enjoy ;)
Chapter 11: Self-destruct
All humans have a set of tools to process the world around them, understand it, and possibly find a meaning to the things they experience. Be it their sight, their hearing, their conscience, their feelings or their reason, all humans have something to gauge danger, label the events in their lives, find an explanation to their problems, and react when faced with tedious situations.
But in that moment, Hana's tools had ceased to function.
Conscience? Gone. Reason? Pft, what was even that? Feelings? Too much of a mess to help. Hearing? Just a bunch of unusable whistling sounds.
Sight?
An amaryllis. On a hand. On Aleon's hand. Aleon who, as her memory would later on remind her, didn't even live in Megamshill three years ago, when the Whisper had struck the city.
Yet at this moment, he was on top of her, with the Whisper's amaryllis on his right hand, and his left hand tight around her neck.
And he was about to kill her.
Her reaction?
Nothing. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Her entire being was focused on the amaryllis on Aleon's hand that bloomed open, with its stamens moving past the hand, conjuring past the barrier his skin should have been. If her thinking abilities hadn't been completely shut down by her overwhelming panic, she would have deduced the flower's stamens were the source of the puncture points on the victims.
But all Hana could think of in that moment was that she was about to die. She had been transported back to that room with the hand moving close to her. And closer. And closer. Ripping a part of her life and destroying her.
She was going to live this all over again. The agony. The terror. The screams. The poison intoxicating her. The sheer annihilation.
I'm going to die.
Something snapped within her as her brain produced the first plausible thought since her back had hit the ground, a primal instinct taking over her. And through that crack, all her numbness rushed out, pouring out of her like water out of lungs as she finally inhaled and registered the myriad of emotions whirling in her being. Fear, to care for her life. Anger, to fight back. Determination, to not let go. And desperation, to try anything until she was safe.
She grabbed his wrist, groaning at his strength as he tried to resist. All her previous worries about not hurting him had disappeared; she dropped all her barriers and let her Ren blaze through her, a violent energy fueled by her one preoccupation: not dying. They were still wrestling, and she was about to kill him to save herself, when a whistle pierced through her intense focus.
A whistle. A birdlike noise calling for her. Just like that one night she had wrestled with another man trying to kill her.
She glanced at the spot the sound should have been coming from, gasping as Aleon's hand around her neck relaxed. It only lasted half a second. Half a second of inattention, and Aleon was tumbling away from her with a fury of a girl trying to handcuff him. Half a second and Hana's trance burst away, leaving her alone on the floor while Aleon was being taken care of by the girl who had just saved her.
"Go after him!" a voice yelled, and two hunters went after the whistling sound.
Hana sat dumbstruck on the floor, barely catching up with what had happened. Her outburst of energy had left her completely empty.
She had been about to kill Aleon.
"Hana!" the same voice called her. But she couldn't move, still in shock. She barely saw Allan kneeling before her, his blue eyes wide in worry. He grabbed her shoulders and gently shook her awake. "Hana, are you alright?"
She rose stunned eyes toward him as he kept shaking her.
"You'll be fine," he continued. "That wasn't the Whisper. You'll be fine. You're fine. Okay?"
That wasn't the Whisper.
She clung to that one thought. Grabbed it greedily and shoved it forcefully in her panicking brain, until it knocked some sense into her.
That wasn't the Whisper.
Only then, she managed to nod.
"Thank God," he breathed. He relaxed and let go of her. He removed his blazer and placed it on her shoulders. She realized then that she had been shivering. She wasn't sure if it was because of the blood staining her shirt, the terror or the anger, but she closed it on her as though it might shield her.
Aleon screamed at this moment. Not a scream of wrath, but of pain. She risked a glance toward him, still counting the consequences of her fight that she hadn't noticed before—her pounding heart, her sprained ankle, her bleeding injuries on her arms, stomach and shoulders, the dull pain around her neck, her swollen lip. She hadn't broken any rib, which was a miracle. He had stopped moving, and had slumped on the floor. He was crying. On top of him, the girl on fire who had saved Hana.
Hana recognized the sea green eyes and the long blond curls. The ever-frowning porcelain doll face now panting after neutralizing Aleon. The small and unassuming frame hiding immense strength.
Bee Onela had just saved her.
The next hour passed in a blur.
Aleon was taken to the HCDS headquarters, guarded by two huge hunters. From the little Hana had heard, he would be remanded in custody, in a quarantine sector at the HCDS, for further examinations. He hadn't had any fit after his scary outburst and had barely had enough strength to stay awake while he was shoved into the car that took him away.
The one thing Hana remembered was that the tattoo had disappeared from his palm.
She sighed, and took a sip from a glass of water Allan had brought for her. Her fight with Aleon had drained all her energy, leaving her in a trance-like state, an emotional emptiness echoing in her skull. Her limbs were so heavy, yet so weak, like a puppet made of lead whose strings had snapped under the stress. And now she was folding on herself, hunched forwards, too weary to carry herself.
She stared into the glass, at the water glistening under the hotel's lights. Somehow, the dull realization that she had relived the mission all over again rang in the back of her mind. A cynical voice apprised her that her nightmares would only get worse now, but she barely heard it. She had told herself 'it can only get worse' so many times, it didn't surprise her anymore, didn't even mean a thing to her. All she could do was wait and watch and weep. And try to survive the tricks her fear would play on her when she would be alone.
She mentally scoffed. Her apathy and passivity could almost scare her, if she could be more scared than she already was. She tried to remember when she had developed that numbness as a reaction; she used to have so much spunk, so much reactivity. Hit her and she'd hit back. Bite and she'd bite back. Now, she just tried to cope with whatever convoluted defense mechanism her brain would come up with.
Broken.
She felt broken.
Allan came back at this moment. He sat next to her on the sofa with a tired huff, and she glanced at him before focusing back on her hands. Even he looked worried. Even he knew that it would only go downhill, starting from here.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked, his voice so gentle. He had had the same voice when he had first spoken to her, on her hospital bed, when she had finally regained consciousness. Soothing and calm, polished to hide the issues simmering in his mind. His sorrow, his grief, his fear. But he couldn't hide it from her. She was just the same, a façade pretending to be alright. The only difference was that her façade had crumbled.
"I'm fine," she managed. Her voice was hoarse. She coughed, and cleared her throat.
He relaxed at the sound of her voice. Only then, she realized this was the first thing she had said since he had come.
Slowly, she removed the blazer, awkwardly handing it back to him. Her blood was all over it. "Thank you. And sorry—for the blood, I mean."
"Are you sure you don't want to keep it?"
"Yeah."
He took it back, putting it on his lap. "I called Miss Terra; I told her you were here. She's on her way."
Relief flooded her, the first emotion she could distinguish from her fear. At least, Lynd would be here. "Thank you."
He nodded. He already looked better than before, as though every word she spoke appeased him. It dawned on her, then, that if she had died, he would have lost another of his students to the Whisper's curse. His fright suddenly made a lot more sense. In her despair, she hadn't thought about how many more people had been affected by the case, some of whom were close to her. She wasn't alone in this.
So many people had suffered, and yet here she was, pitying her helpless self.
She sat up, that last thought fueling some new determination in her. It was small, but it was there. "I'll take a shower," she said. "Then, I'll tell you what happened."
He turned shocked eyes toward her. A breach in his perfect composure. "Are you sure?" he asked. She knew he had been dying to question her—that was just Allan, always meticulous and focused on his work—but at the same time, the sheer concern on his face explained his silence. Allan had always loved his job, but he loved his students even more, and their safety was his top priority.
She shifted in her seat, a slight frown creasing her face.
It bothered her. She didn't want his compassion. She almost preferred his radical solutions, his selfish one-track mind, his overwhelming expectations, his ruthless resolve. At least then, he would fight back. When he worried and fretted and hesitated, she knew he had been terrified. And hurt.
"Yes, I'm sure. I can help with this, at least," she firmly assured. She was the only one who had seen what had happened, the sheer anomaly of Aleon's power; she had to talk about it to avoid more casualties. She had been bracing herself for that, ever since he had left her. She was ready to do that, at least. She couldn't withhold such important information.
That was the least she could do. For Allan, for the victims. For herself.
He stared at her, his eyes twitching ever so slightly. "Alright. Go clean yourself up. Take as much time as you need. Call me when you're ready."
She nodded and got up. She had to go to the employees changing room; there were private showers there.
He called her then. She swiveled, her heart missing a beat when she saw the unabashed pride in his eyes.
"You're brave, Hana. Never think otherwise."
She held his gaze for a second, then walked away.
For once, she would do what was right to do.
7:12 P.M.
Lynd had arrived shortly after Hana had left Allan. After a much-needed shower, an even more needed tight hug from Lynd, and a great dose of motivation, they headed to the private room Allan had booked for their discussion.
Hana knocked at the door, her fist quivering with nervousness. The whole mission depended on how well she would relate the events. It was a given that she didn't do well with great expectations.
Allan opened the door. He looked more rested then before and had found another blazer; his ferocious resolve glinted in his eyes. As it should be, she thought. Back when she was his student, she used to wish he could be more lenient on her and spare her his intensity. But now, she realized an intense Allan was the only Allan there should be. It was the only way he could exist, the source of his dependability. Allan was the backbone of this investigation; if he fell, they would all fall.
"Do you feel better?" he asked her. Even his voice had found its energy, though she still perceived the same gentleness as before. For her.
"Much better."
She and Lynd walked in. Hana quickly saw Bee sitting on a couch, her legs crossed. She eyed Hana for what seemed like a way too long second, then turned her attention toward the window.
Lynd sat next to Bee, sparing Hana from this chore. Allan took the armchair on Bee's right, and Hana sat on the couch at Lynd's left, facing Allan. He took a notepad and a pen, checked if the pen was working, and looked at her.
"You can start," he said.
She took a deep breath.
"I've been observing this man, Aleon Dove, for a few weeks already. His ex-girlfriend had hired me to watch him and find out why he changed so much in the span of a month. According to her, he used to be a businessman and travelled a lot. He had been part of a firm based in York Shin for five years. He came to Megamshill a year ago to meet some local businessmen and sign a contract for his company. Then, his CEO nominated him to represent the firm in Megamshill, which is why he stayed even after the contract signing. He started dating my client around eight months ago.
"However, around two months ago, perhaps more, she noticed he was starting to act weird. He was more aggressive, showed signs of paranoia and anxiety. His girlfriend put this behavior down to his stress. But then, he abruptly ended their relationship, resigned, and moved out of his house. He spent half of his savings to rent a VIP suite in the Delexo Hotel, hid a camera in his room and only left it to drink at the bar or go out for a few hours. He did have a few moments of panic when he woke up and started looking around him, as if he were pursed by something. I once heard him repeat over and over that some 'he' was here in his room. He was frantic and terrified." She paused, met Lynd's eyes for a second, who discretely nodded. She inhaled. It gave her more courage to speak in Lynd's presence. Especially with Bee in the same room who —rightfully— hated her.
As for Allan, he was dutifully dating notes, writing down everything she said. She waited for him to finish his word. Then, he gestured her to keep going.
She sat straighter. "Everything happened as usual, today. He came to the bar at 2 P.M., ordered a bottle of wine, and started drinking. He didn't do anything else. Then, at around 5 P.M., he attacked a waitress and caused a commotion.
"I intervened before he could cause any casualty. He had never ever been violent, hence my shock when I saw him behave so aggressively. He hurled at me before I could stop him, and that's when I noticed his unusual strength. I combed through his life and it says nowhere that he knew any fighting, any nen, anything that could justify his power. Even worse, he then emitted nen and used it to fight me. It wasn't a strong nen per se, but it could kill any non nen user with a single punch. It definitely alerted me, even more when I realized Aleon Dove himself didn't seem to understand what was happening. In between the fits of anger, he seemed to war with himself, occasionally cried and called for help before he knocked me over.
"That's when the issue deepens. At some point—I'm not quite sure when— a tattoo appeared on his palm." Her voice died. She squeezed the armrest, shushing her pounding heart. "A black amaryllis. The flower's stamens moved while he held me to the ground, and conjured out of his hand, while still staying connected to the tattoo. It was just as if a part of the tattoo had become real. I'm not entirely sure, but I think the stamens might be the source of the puncture points found on the victims' chest. I'm guessing that when the curse is about to be inflicted, the amaryllis's stamens protrude out of the Whisper's hand to sting the victim. The only thing that seems confusing to me is that the tattoo disappeared then."
"There could be an explanation to that," Allan started after a thoughtful silence, narrowing his eyes at his notes. "As you said, Aleon Dove only came to Megamshill a year ago. He wasn't here when the Whisper struck. Besides, we are not aware of any Whisper alert coming from York Shin. I think it's safe to assume Aleon Dove isn't the Whisper." He scribbled something on his notepad. "That leaves another option, which is, I believe, scarier."
"He manipulates people," Bee thought aloud.
"Exactly. From the look of it, Dove has been infected with the curse himself. You said he showed signs of extreme fear and paranoia, coupled with great restlessness. Is that right?"
Hana nodded. "He also seemed in pain, during the fight."
"That settles it. Dove was a victim of the curse, as much as the other casualties. The only difference is that he was, somehow, bestowed the Whisper's powers for some unknown purpose, for a limited time. The modus operandi was the same, am I right?" He turned toward Hana. "Do you remember clearly how the Whisper attacked?"
Hana twitched, mute for a moment. A moment during which Allan widened his eyes and seemed to regret his words.
Silence fell then as Hana tried to gather her words. She hadn't planned to reenact the mission. She should have known she would need to—where did her professionalism go?— but the idea hadn't crossed her mind. And now she had to describe it in detail.
After a few seconds, Bee scoffed. "Do you remember or not?" she insisted. Hana's jaw tensed. Feri's sister was scowling at her with Feri's eyes. His gentle sea green gaze was so caustic on Bee's face.
"Bee," Allan warned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
But Bee didn't stop there. "Look, it's not like my brother's here to talk about it, right?" she spat, venom dripping from her words.
Anger seized Hana at the throat as Allan firmly hit the table. "Bee," he said again, his tone no longer patient. "I won't tolerate any personal vendetta in this room. You have one enemy. Don't get him confused with your allies. Am I clear?"
Bee glared back at him.
Hana regained her composure then, swallowing back the wrath that would have spilled out of her. "You're right," she started, her voice a cold blade forged in ruthlessness. She, too, knew how to be venomous. "Feri's not here to tell you what happened. You weren't here either. Nobody was, except me. I have the answers. So I suggest you stay respectful if you want my cooperation."
Bee narrowed her eyes, but mumbled an apology as Allan glared at her.
Lynd then tapped her watch. "Not to be a killjoy, but time is ticking. Would be pretty cool if you don't interrupt her again," she said to Bee, who barely spared her a glance. "So, let's come back to the topic. Do you feel ready to talk about it, now?" she asked Hana.
"Yeah." Hana took a sip of water. "After the Whisper killed Feri—" Bee flinched. "—he came for me to give me the same treatment. I was badly wounded and had lost a lot of blood, so I don't remember much, but I do remember clearly his hand. It was gloved, but Feri's explosions had partly burnt it. A flower's petals and stamens were peeking from it, but I didn't see it entirely. I might have fainted before he could remove it, or perhaps the earliest moments of the curse were erased from my memory by the pain. I can't be sure.
"The movements are the same. The hand is open wide, its fingers apart. From what I've realized, he goes for the chest. I don't remember him piercing my chest, but since I survived the curse, I suppose I didn't get puncture points. The condition for puncture points to appear might be that the victim has to succumb to the curse.
"Once I had recovered, I never gave much thought to it. I hallucinated a lot while I was subject to the curse, so I thought I had imagined the flower. Only now do I realize it makes sense."
Allan nodded. "So in this case, the victim did inherit the Whisper's curse. It should be safe to infer the Whisper's ability includes the option to manipulate people. Surely to kill for him."
"Yes." Hana jolted then. "There's something else. There was a whistle sound right before I could kill Aleon—or the other way around."
"A whistle?" Lynd repeated, recognition dawning on her face.
Allan frowned. "Yes. I sent two hunters after the sound, thinking it could be the Whisper. But if it was, then he had already escaped."
"I do think it could be him," Hana said, and shuddered at the thought—the Whisper could have been standing in the same room without her being aware of it. "And I think he was the one who made that whistle sound when we tried to catch Coal," she said to Lynd. "It would make an awful lot of sense."
"Coal?" Bee asked. "The murderer?"
Lynd leaned forward, thoughtful. "Yes. The murderer who killed his brother and six more people—including one man he dismembered. Hana is the one who caught Coal after a car chase. Before she neutralized him, Coal had taken a child as a hostage—right at this moment, there was a whistle sound. Coal stopped everything he was doing then."
"It was the same sound," Hana confirmed. "Like a bird."
Lynd suddenly got up. "I have to call Jino. I'll be back in a minute." She dashed out of the room, her phone in hand.
Allan watched her leave. "This murderer she mentioned, Coal… Could he be a Whisper's puppet as well?"
"There are big chances," Hana replied. "The sound was exactly the same. Or so I think, if my mind isn't playing tricks on me."
"It would mean the Whisper monitors his puppets, to a certain extent."
"He tells them to 'stop' then?" Bee asked—she had calmed down.
"I suppose so. Perhaps when they do things he doesn't want them to do. Coal was about to kill a child when the whistle resounded. And Aleon Dove was about to cause a commotion in a public place."
Allan rubbed his chin. "The Whisper has never killed children before. It could be one of his… principles."
"You said the tattoo disappeared then," Bee said, to Hana.
"Yes. It faded away when you knocked him out."
"Then that's why he stopped Dove. He was in a public place. There were chances of people seeing the tattoo and not dying. That gives a hint on his identity."
Allan tapped his notepad. "Great deduction," he praised her. "No one has ever seen the tattoo and survived—except you, Hana, and even then, you only partially saw it. The chances of his power being exposed were too great when Aleon had a fit. Which is why he stopped him."
"Possibly," Hana said. "So I suppose he doesn't control what his puppets and when they do it, then?"
"You supposed right. His control on them could be limited," Allan inferred. "Depending on his proximity to them?"
"If so, then it gives an idea about his strength, perhaps even his En range," Bee said. "And about his whereabouts. That's too easy. I think the puppets always bear the curse on them and it gnaws them, but perhaps they only become murderous when they are within the Whisper's En."
"I lean toward that option as well," Allan said. "However, we need to stay prudent. Any assumption could be fatal to us."
Bee nodded, visibly enjoying the tips—'enjoy' was such a peculiar word to use for Bee. Hana knew that feeling. Allan was resourceful and slipped small lessons in every conversation. Bee was still learning—as was Hana— so she gulped down everything Allan said. It made Hana feel nostalgic, to remember the times she sat at Bee's place, watching Allan with amazement as though every word he spoke was a new biblical prophecy. Having a teacher to rely on felt so reassuring. More reassuring than standing alone without any guide to help her cross the wall in front of her.
Lynd came back then. When she Hana turned toward her, as she closed the door, she immediately saw the determination on her face.
"Jino is going to try something," she explained as she sat back. "We've been trying to make Coal talk for a long time, but he hasn't been cooperative. He just won't talk to us. I told Jino to show him an amaryllis and watch how he reacts. If my assumptions are right, then the reason Coal dismembered this man was because of the flower tattoo on his arm—for all we know, Coal was just trying to protect himself, and getting rid of that flower was the only way for him."
Allan gave a brief nod. "It's pretty smart."
They gave updates to Lynd about their deductions, told her everything she had missed. While they rewound their conversation for Lynd's sake, Hana started getting a grasp of what they had discovered: a huge hint on the Whisper's abilities. Not that it meant good things for them. Admittedly, they knew what the tattoo on his palm was—oh the irony, an amaryllis of all flowers, as though fate had bound her to him through some twisted mechanism. But the real discovery was terrifying rather than reassuring: on top of killing people, he could manipulate people to kill for him.
A chill crawled its way up her spine. She felt it creep in every single nerve, whispering in her ear the one thing she would remember that night.
He could be anywhere.
He could strike you from anywhere.
He could get you anytime.
You're surrounded.
She shook these thoughts away, focusing instead on Lynd's warm eyes. She must have seen the pleading look in Hana's eyes because she offered the most comforting smile she could then. It relieved Hana, for just a moment. She wasn't alone. At least then.
Allan looked at the clock above the door. "When will your associate contact you?" he asked Lynd once he was done explaining.
"As soon as he has a reaction. Until then, all we can do is wai—" Her phone started ringing. She exchanged a look of disbelief with Hana and picked it up, distancing herself from the table. "Jino?"
They watched her with intent eyes. When Lynd raised her eyebrows, they all knew.
Lynd had the next piece to their puzzle.
"I swear, as soon as he saw the flower, he braced himself!" Jino exclaimed, walking them to Coal's cell. "I wasn't sure what reaction you wanted, but I didn't expect that. He was so scared."
Hana glanced at him. His surprise made a lot of sense; he hadn't seen the amaryllis himself. But for someone like her who had lived through it, Coal's reaction was understandable, if not sensible.
Jino opened a door that led to yet another row of cells. The prison wasn't that big but Coal's cell was located in the highly secured areas, as he had been judged to be too dangerous to be left with other convicts. And for a reason; if Lynd and Hana were right, then he had been cursed, and could be a Whisper's puppet. Any contact with other convicts, or even with the guards, could become an unnecessary danger.
As they walked past the cells, Hana eyed Lynd with interest. She had always thought that Lynd had a sort of instinct that sometimes made her take precautions that later on proved to be life-saving. Lynd didn't know at the time that Coal had been infected with the curse, even less that he could act for the Whisper within the prison itself, yet she had decided to put him in a special cell. She had probably been criticized for it, yet she had insisted, and here they were. She had been right.
Hana hadn't been wrong when she had said Lynd was perfect for this role.
"This way," Jino said, interrupting her thoughts. He unlocked a door with his badge, then composed a code to open it. He let them in, and the door automatically closed when they were all inside.
She scanned the room, immediately locating the cameras hidden at every corner. The only possible exit was the door they had taken, though there was another door that led downstairs—it was heavily secured as well. The room itself was of decent size, with monitoring facilities—screens, mics, interphones to communicate with the other parts of the prison—positioned in front of a wide window. As they moved closer to the large window, she saw it gave onto Coal's cell, situated a level below.
The first thing that hit her was how much weight he had lost. The man who had bitten her had been fit, even muscular, but the one in the cell had hollow cheeks and limp muscles. Then, she noticed the walls were coated with a mattress-like material. To keep him from hurting himself.
Two guards were monitoring him, and one doctor stood with them. "Chief," they greeted in unison.
She nodded at them. "Anything new?"
"He went kaput," the first guard said. "He said it was "him", whoever that guy could be. Then he stopped talking."
"Did he have a fit?"
The doctor shook his head. "Not since three days ago."
"Could we talk to him, then?"
The guard widened his eyes. "You could try, but it's better to do so from here. He's still dangerous. He looks weak but God knows what kind of devil is in that body."
Allan stepped in. "We only need to talk."
The guard blinked in confusion, then hastily nodded. "Sure." He pressed a button and bent forward, toward a mic. "You got some visit."
Coal showed no sign that he had heard the guard.
The guard shrugged. "See. He had a burst of activity an hour ago, and since then he's been like this."
Allan moved between the guard and pressed the button himself. "We have questions—and answers— about the man with the amaryllis tattoo."
Coal looked up then, and slowly stood up. He looked warily at the window from his spot. A chill went up Hana's spine. "I'm not talking with someone I can't see," he said. "I'm insane enough. Don't make it worse."
The guard gaped. "Holy—don't listen to him. He could hurt you."
But Allan had already removed his blazer and handed it to the second guard. "We're hunters, we can handle him."
"Hunt—" the guard blinked again.
"I'm coming with you," Bee said, much to the guard's horror—to him, she was just a teenager with an oversized pink sweater and a short skirt. Not a deadly hunter with a petrifying stare and the will of a lioness.
Then, Lynd trailed them, as they would need someone with the badge and the code to open Coal's cell. Jino had insisted to go himself, but Lynd refused to endanger her officers when she could do the job herself.
It was now Hana's turn to decide, torn between her duty as a hunter and her dread as a victim. But as Bee walked through the door, she inhaled deep and followed Lynd.
Be strong, just this once.
You're not a victim.
"Hana," Lynd said, holding the door handle. "You don't have to do this."
But she did. And she would.
She smiled at Lynd, the best she could manage. "Don't worry. I'm tough," she tried to reassure her.
And she was a hunter, too, wasn't she?
She crossed the door, and went to the level below, meeting Allan's approving gaze on her way downstairs. Bee was already waiting near the door for Lynd to open it.
When she reached the ground level, Allan patted her on the shoulder. "You're stronger than you think. And you're not alone."
She acquiesced. He was right; Allan was incredibly strong, and Bee… Bee could pretend that she hated her, but she would still help her if anything happened.
"Are you ready?" Lynd said. She was addressing them all, but her gaze on Hana. Hana, who was starting to feel more like a burden than a necessary part of their makeshift, temporary team. She appreciated the extra bits of attention but she didn't want to be pitied or coddled or victimized.
Allan squared his shoulders. "We are."
Lynd opened the door.
Coal didn't hurl himself at them. He didn't scream with wide eyes and drool on his chin. He didn't throw his bed at them or try to gouge their eyes out or do anything remotely violent. He didn't try to bite her either.
He simply sat there, unimpressed, unmoving.
When Lynd closed the door, he moved away from them. Sitting on the far end of his bed, as though they might hurt him. "What now?" he said.
Allan took his notepad, just as blasé as Coal was, as if he weren't in the same room as a man who had killed seven people and could curse them all if the Whisper wanted him to. "First you. Tell us exactly what you remember."
Coal scowled at him, as though he was trying to gauge him. "I don't remember much. Just that it wasn't me doing those things."
Allan arched an eyebrow, still looking at this notes. "That's vague. Who was it, then?"
Coal clutched his convict clothes. "There's someone in my head telling me to do it. He controls me."
"Who?"
"Hell if I know. I don't remember anything. Not his face, nor when it happened."
"Do you have any idea; any time range?"
"Dunno. I'm guessing two months ago. One night I got too drunk. I thought it was the alcohol doing those things to me."
Allan took notes of everything Coal said. "So there's a voice telling you to kill people."
Horror flashed in Coal's eyes. "I'm not a killer. I wasn't the best guy; I drank and gambled, and I fought some guys at the Pit. But I never killed anyone before this… this thing."
"We're not asking you to justify what you did," Lynd said, her tone firm but pacific. "We might have a hold on what happened to you. We need you to be cooperative so we know what to do."
Coal stopped glowering at her at this moment. "You know what happened to me?"
"Possibly. But you have to help us understand."
He nodded, renewed hope timidly shining in his eyes. "Okay."
Allan watched him with intent eyes. "First, we're going to mention a few possible symptoms and you'll tell us which you experienced. Is that okay?"
Coal nodded.
Allan started reading. "Hallucinations." Nod. "Intense headaches." Nod. "Excruciating burning sensations in your whole body—sometimes centered in the chest." Nod. "Extreme fear. Atrocious pain hitting you in various parts of your body. The sensation of being overwhelmed." Nod. Nod. Nod.
"Feeling like you're staring into the void."
Coal stared at her, and only then she realized she had said those words. The shock in his eyes mirrored her own. But she also saw recognition, and the strangest kind of kinship.
He nodded.
After a glance in her direction, Allan scribbled the last bits of information. "Now, other question. When the officers showed you an amaryllis, you panicked. Why is that?"
Coal tensed up. "I'm not sure. I've been seeing this flower ever since I started seeing things. I don't know what it means or what it is. But I saw it before."
"It's a tattoo," Hana intervened. Again, against her own will. As though talking to another victim kindled a need to share her experience, as though it made the pain—of the curse, of her guilt, of being the only person alive to have healed from the curse—more bearable. He wasn't aware that he was facing a survivor; he wasn't even aware that he had been cursed and that there were chances he wouldn't survive. But even then, finally someone knew how she felt. Someone understood her. Someone had been through the same dismay. "The amaryllis is a tattoo."
When Coal turned his gaze toward her, looking at her for the second time, he finally recognized her. "You're the one who caught me," he noticed.
Lynd's hand hovered over her holster, but Hana remained calm. "Yes. And I caught someone like you today, too."
"There are more people like me?"
"So far there are only two," she said. Weighing her words. She couldn't let him know about her. "You and the man I caught."
A flicker of relief enlightened his face, just for a second. "So it's not just me?"
Allan explained him everything then—omitting the part about nen and the speculations about the Whisper's ability. All Coal needed to know was that he had been manipulated to kill, a puppet acting for another killer.
It was almost heartbreaking to see the alleviation on his face. Never had Hana thought she would relate so much to a criminal. Somehow, a villain had turned out to be a victim. "So it wasn't me killing my brother," he breathed. He paled then. "But it means I'm sick?"
"More or less," Allan chose his words. Sick wasn't the word—cursed was. But it wouldn't help much to tell that to a quivering convict. Most people had no idea what nen was, and would think of the curse as a paranormal entity binding them to some evil force. "You've been infected with an illness that sometimes controls your will. We are looking for whoever did that to you. However, you ought to stay monitored until further notice. As long as you're sick, you can become dangerous, whatever your intentions may be. We have to understand what you have so that we can cure you."
Cure you.
Hana resisted the urge to frown at Allan, or even look at him as he said that—a gesture that would betray her doubt. It was true that Coal's exorcism would become a priority anytime soon—if he wasn't exorcised soon, he would either kill people or kill himself. Either way, that couldn't be allowed to happen.
But that didn't mean his exorcism would be easy. Three years ago, all of the victims' curse had pushed them to suicide, sometimes with such great force they had barely had time to realize what had happened, like in Feri's case.
As for Hana, her exorcism had been gradual. Nen exorcists were hard to come by—she was well placed to know that—but even those who had seen to her curse hadn't been able to entirely exorcise her. Nen exorcism usually came with great restriction, hence the exorcists' reluctance to get involved, and the HCDS didn't have funds to waste on renowned exorcists for a young wannabe-agent who had stuck her nose in a case too big for her to handle.
The one exorcist who had wanted to help the most hadn't been able to. He couldn't know what had happened.
That was why Hana was doubtful. Why was Allan promising a cure to a curse they couldn't understand? Was that a way to pacify Coal? Or did he really believe there was a way to help?
Did he know an exorcist?
Hana shifted in discomfort. She couldn't read him. She could never understand how his mind worked. The only thing she knew was that he had something in mind.
She didn't always like it, when he had something on his mind.
"Do you have any question?" Allan concluded, closing his notepad and cutting short to her debate.
Coal looked at him, almost with pleading eyes. "Will I receive a treatment? How long does it take for me to heal? Will I survive?"
Allan got up. "We'll see to that. Our best doctors will work on the issue and come up with something. You will be transferred to the HCDS quarantine sector so that they can examine you. As for the healing procedure, that is still to be determined."
"Will I survive?" Coal repeated.
Allan stared at him. "We'll deploy great forces for that."
Coal's face fell then in front of this evasive answer. Yet another echo to Hana's own uncertainty, when she had begged doctors to tell her if she would survive.
They started walking toward the door, then. Leaving one by one after Lynd unlocked the door. Bee had been completely silent, her face an impassive wall.
Before Hana walked through the door, she eyed one last time the man who had killed his brother against his will.
He was weeping. His head buried in his hands, his cries so quiet she barely heard them.
She forced her eyes away.
But even when the door closed and she followed the others upstairs, she still heard his cries bleeding past the walls, no matter how silent they were. A shard in her chest. Those were her tears, her pain, her curse.
He was just like her.
9:45 P.M.
She kicked off her shoes and threw her coat on the table, wobbling to the living-room. She had to support herself on the couch before she collapsed with defeat.
She had spent the whole evening clinging to her mask of perfect composure, with even more strength after it slipped once and revealed how weak she felt to Allan. After all these hours talking and working and pretending to be alright, she was exhausted. She couldn't do it anymore. The lead doll was back in her body and it weighed twice as heavy as before.
Now that there was nothing to take her mind off the issue, her fears had free rein to haunt her.
She took a deep breath. The tears were already stinging her eyes. She had barely gotten home that everything that had held her together was snapping. The dam had broken and her repressed emotions cascaded down her body, rushing and streaming out of her. Soaking her until she was but a limp version of herself with tears of mascara down her cheeks and disheveled hair stuck to her wet face.
It was only the start.
The memory of Aleon's hand was still a fresh wound in her mind, a sore and throbbing ache deep in her bones. She still saw it, nearing, nearing, so close to her face, to her chest. Almost touching her, with the flower coming to life on his palm, blooming in death. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't shove it away, couldn't muster the strength and determination to think about anything else. The hand always came back, so disgustingly stubborn, a starving leech glued to her.
Her hands clasped the cushion as her arms quivered, her back shaking with thick sobs. How she wished the thoughts would still and let her breathe, but they whirled around in a restless round and pulled her with them, twisting and wringing every neuron until she was living the mission all over again with every detail and every emotion. The failure. The curse. The pain. The guilt. The fear.
The hand.
The Whisper.
A shudder crawled down her back. She sniffed, hastily wiping the tears away, crying until she was choking on her sobs. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would skitter away, pumping and pumping and pressing and begging for air and relief and mercy. Blood pulsed and pushed and pulled in her temples until her head was heavy with a headache, until she felt like her skull would burst with every throb of pain and every heartbeat. She gasped for air, clinging to the couch as her legs grew noodle-like. Whatever air she managed to inhale, it never seemed enough and the realization that she was suffocating rekindled her terror like oil thrown on fire.
Seconds turned to minutes then, and all she could do was wait for her breath to come back in short gulps of air. Slowly, the overwhelming feeling of terror dulled down, leaving her empty and exhausted as she regained her composure.
Yet the tears wouldn't stop streaming down her face. She moved carefully, still clinging to the couch, until she reached the coffee table and took a tissue. She sat on the couch arm and blew her nose, faintly aware that her hands were still trembling but well too aware of the damned hand still hovering in her mind. So frustrating and infuriating and terrifying.
Then, she sat there. Her breathing stilled. She deeply inhaled and cleared her throat. And her shoulders sank in defeat. The knowledge of how trapped she was weighed on her back.
The Whisper was more powerful than he had ever been. The Whisper had puppets everywhere. The Whisper was still plaguing her life. And as long as he roamed, he would keep plaguing it.
She hugged herself, so small and weak and powerless. All she wanted was to forget that fucking hand that wouldn't leave her alone. A dull call for drunkenness rang in her mind, repeatedly, and soon enough it wasn't a call anymore but a need, an urge, a yearning. As though drowning in a glass seemed like the best bad decision she could opt for when she was a mess of panic and grief.
She got up, then, trudging to the kitchen to find a bottle of wine.
Somehow, she was aware that it wouldn't help. She had done that before. She had purged her fair share of drunk nights and none of them had managed to permanently erase the Whisper. They only provided a short period of mercy, a moment when she was too drunk to think and void ironically filled her mind.
But when she was that desperate, even a moment of void was better than a night staring into the void.
Drowning. Drifting off the edge. She held her glass, foggy eyes locked on her miserable reflection in the wine, but not seeing it. Not that she wanted to. Not that she should ever want to.
She sat still. Unwavering. So still. Almost like a doll. A little lead doll. Frozen. Empty.
Absent.
Right. She was absent. Just as she had wanted. Just for a few hours. That was all she asked for, really. A few hours to cease to exist. Forget everything. A few hours with a blank mind, with nothing but the void in her mind. No more question, no more guilt, no more remorse. Just emptiness. Void.
That was a good deal, right? So cheap and easy.
If only it were permanent.
Her glassy eyes closed, then reopened to the blurry glass of wine sitting between her hands. She stared at it, unmoving.
Heavy.
Her head felt heavy. Heavy with a headache that wouldn't leave, as if someone was hitting her skull with a hammer, repeatedly. A short preview of the hangover awaiting her. As she sighed, the sickening smell of alcohol engulfed her nostrils, leaving no room for any more sanity into her deluded mind.
Alcohol.
She tiredly rose her head, glassy eyes half-consciously searching for the bottle. Desperate to fill her glass again and shut the hammer up, kill the remorse, and forget, forget, just forget. However, as she found it, her stomach churned and twisted, a last remnant of reason in her drunk person.
How ironic was that? All she had wanted was some stillness, some calm in her restless brain, and yet all she earned were unbalanced thoughts and headaches. More issues. More desperation. More suffering, more pain, more remorse. More noise. More fractures. More wounds. More shame.
More wine.
She reached for the bottle and grabbed it with a trembling hand. She felt the cold surface of the bottle against her hot palm, the brief shock failing to wake her up from her semi-consciousness. She wondered for a moment which was her hand and which was the bottle, because she might as well have merged with the bottle, but the thought didn't last. None did. They all died, ephemeral bits of thoughts that flew everywhere in her head. Hitting each other, hitting her skull. Like a hammer.
Clumsily, she poured more wine into her glass. Her wobbling hand was trying as hard as possible to not spill anything, as if she had so little consciousness left that her limbs each had their own, to make up for the lack of sanity. But it wasn't enough. She spilled wine on her white shirt and the bottle collapsed on the table.
It took her a few seconds to realize what had happened. That the bottle wasn't in her hand anymore. That the wine wasn't in the bottle anymore. That her hand was covered in wine.
Her eyes followed her hand, late. There was a huge wine stain on her clothes, on her stomach. As if she had been stabbed. How fitting. She tried to stand and move away from the spilling alcohol, working on her balance. She reached for the bottle to stop it from spilling all over the floor.
But she was unsteady. The bottle slid from her hand and broke on the floor. Tiny pieces of glass flew everywhere. She stepped back, confused. There was alcohol everywhere. Everywhere she looked. She tried to bend and pick some pieces of glass, supporting herself on the table. But again, it failed. She just slid and nearly broke her neck and sent all her documents flying in the puddle of wine. She jerked upright, and pushed the chair back as she did. Trembling, she looked around her. Overwhelmed. Suffocating.
Sheets of paper everywhere. Shards of glass scattered on the floor. Upturned furniture.
And blood.
All the details of that night came back into her mind, all the things she had tried so, so hard to forget rushed back. All the mistakes and the choked down screams and the wiped tears and the anger and the burden of her own silence. All the lies, to herself, to the others.
Her breath caught. Panic found its way back, shattering the flimsy walls of numbness she had built with the alcohol. No matter how much she ran, she wouldn't forget.
She stepped back again and tripped on the chair, falling on the floor with a deaf thud and a yelp. She barely felt a thing. She barely felt the pieces of glass piercing her skin and the large bruise she would get from bumping against the table and hitting the floor. The suffocation inside was too much to feel already, growing and growing and pressing against every single inch of her being.
As she arched her head back, she realized her phone was near the table foot. She extended her trembling arm and took it, unsure of how to use it anymore. She was so disconnected from reality she wasn't even sure how she had gotten her password right—surely habit. She sent a confused message to the first person her finger picked and let go of the phone. She wasn't even sure she had really sent the message.
Tears spilled then as she lay on the floor, giving in to gravity—and to her lack of consciousness. She couldn't tell whether those tears were hers or her memories', or both. She buried her head in her quivering hands.
Void.
That was all she had asked for.
All she had gotten were more regrets to dwell on when she would be sober.
She was a fucking idiot.
After that sudden panic-stricken outburst, her body was back to its clumsy unbalance. Like a lump. And she kept crying. Over the memories that couldn't be erased, no matter how much wine she ingested, and over the shame.
She fell to the side, curled up into a ball, sinking her nails into her palms.
Quiet sobbing followed, amidst the confusion and the silence.
Quiet sobbing, and then nothing.
10:35 P.M.
Killua had been staring at his phone for fifteen minutes already.
'You still coming?' he had sent, to Hana, and hadn't received any answer.
Unease grew in his chest, expanding until it reached every nerve, his body taut with tension.
This was not normal. Hana was never late. There was light in her apartment but she wasn't answering, just like when she had isolated herself from him. And it wasn't so much the thought of her avoiding him that alarmed him—though it stung.
It was the possibility that something could have happened.
He got up, the thought kindling urgency in his mind, and went back to the building. He had to check if she was alright. His instinct was prickling with a nasty foreboding, and his instinct was rarely wrong.
Please, be wrong.
The elevator opened at her floor, and he strode out of it, toward her apartment. When he reached it, his hand hovered near the door, for just a moment of hesitation, but he rang anyway. And knocked. And knocked again, and texted her.
No answer.
Even when she had been avoiding him, she had opened the door.
Something happened.
This certainty fueled every fiber of his body with worry. He grabbed the door handle, cursing decency, and opened the door, no matter the lock. He closed it behind him and rushed in, looking for any trace of her.
Her coat had been hastily thrown on the sideboard with her tie, her shoes thrown across the entrance corridor.
Without waiting, he stepped into her living-room.
He saw it, then. A mosaic of broken glass bathing in a pool of wine. Dry blood on the tiles. Reddened documents all over the place. The upside-down chair. And her.
The world stopped. Panic hit him, brutally so. Icicles thrust into his chest. He darted to where she lay, crushing the pieces of glass, his temples pulsing with worry. One thought alone burnt in his mind, shutting down all the others, driving his body forward: making sure she was alright.
He squatted near her, touched her shoulder, but flinched when she yelped in her unconsciousness. He waited a few seconds, then tried again, and this time, she let him.
She was sobbing, but passed out.
Something broke in his chest. What had happened to leave her in this state? So small and vulnerable, hurt and suffering, so everything she refused to show. His whole being seemed to collapse at this precise moment, as he reached for her face and checked her breathing, looked on her body for any wound, any bruise, any cut.
Gently, he cradled her, supporting her as much as he could. He froze when she abruptly jolted, again, guarding herself from whatever hurt she feared. But as he slid his hand under her knees and lifted her, she melted against him.
He slowly carried her to her room, his heart so heavy with emotions when her hand tugged at his shirt. Overflowing from the tension that had suddenly died down, bleeding in his chest.
It only occurred to him, then, just how weak he had grown for her.
Strong arms were carrying her. Strong arms, strong chest, strong and warm body against hers. A beating heart. Pulsing veins. A life. A warm fire to make her feel again.
And at long last, the calm she had so desperately sought. The blissful silence. The truce she had longed for. The shelter against her storm.
White musk and a solid frame.
Him.
10:45 P.M.
The doorbell rang repeatedly while Killua was cleaning the glass on the floor. He opened the door to a livid Thomas and a grim June.
"Where's she?" Thomas asked, eyes wide with worry.
"In her bedroom," he barely replied, Thomas rushing past him to check on her.
He stared at him go, just as June came in and closed the door. "She sent him a message to ask for help," he explained. "He's been dead scared since then."
"It's not the first time it happens, right?" Killua asked, his words tasting wrong in his own mouth.
"No. That's why. The last time it happened, she was in such a bad state he thought she would get alcohol poisoning."
Killua cast a worried glance toward her bedroom. "I only found her by chance. We were supposed to meet tonight."
"Do you know what happened?"
"No. She hasn't said a word since this afternoon," Killua said. "She seemed okay, when I texted her this morning."
June sighed, moving to the kitchen where he helped Killua clean around. "Hana always seems okay," he bitterly said. He didn't say anything more, but the tense crease in his forehead and the dark veil on his face said everything. Thomas wasn't the only worried one here; June was just better at hiding it.
Violent coughing sounds interrupted their silent task, followed by toilet flush. Thomas reappeared a few minutes later to take a glass of water.
"She threw up?" June asked.
Thomas nodded. "She's gonna have the worst hangover."
Killua felt his chest constrict as a wail resounded from her room. As though his heart was being torn in half. He was about to follow Thomas in her room when June caught his shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself like that. He's taking care of her."
Killua stared at him, wide-eyed, only now becoming aware of the lump in his throat and the frantic heartbeats in his ears. He nodded, though he remained unconvinced, and kept working with June until the floor was clean.
They sat together then, waiting for Thomas to come and tell them she was okay. Both focused on their hands, both quiet. Sometimes, Killua's eyes wandered to the crystal vase sitting on the glass coffee table, with its bright flowers glistening under the lights. They seemed out of place with their colorful blooms.
The sullen atmosphere in the apartment weighed on them, a thick fog reminding them that their friend was suffering and there was nothing they could do.
The memory of another friend tittering the edge of self-destruction flared in Killua's mind, filling his whole being with horror. He tried to shoo the memory of jutting bones and charred flesh away, of the bristle, bony hand so weak in his own, but it latched onto him, chanting its deadly declaration over and over: there was nothing he could do to help his friends against their will of self-destruction. Nothing in his control, nothing his love and his care and his determination and his willingness to help could do. Nothing. He could be with someone on a daily basis and sleep and eat with them and live with them, he would still be unable to know what was going in their mind and help them against themselves. He was doomed to watching his friends try to destroy themselves without ever managing to stop them, no matter his efforts to help.
And that was the scariest thing ever.
Thomas came back an hour later. "She's fallen asleep," he said, and Killua noticed then that his eyes were red. "I'll stay with her tonight."
June nodded. "Okay. I'll go," he announced, though he didn't seem to want that. Killua realized he surely wanted to give his boyfriend some space with his best friend, although he didn't say so.
Killua got up too. "I'll go, too. But I need to see her first." Need, not want. To see her sound asleep and replace the picture of her sobbing in the wine pool.
Thomas nodded toward the room. "Go on."
Killua walked toward her bedroom, and once again, the world narrowed down to her.
She was lying on the bed, on her side. She had kicked the blanket away, and he saw it folded in a corner. Thomas had surely given up on covering her.
He sat down next to her, slowly as to not wake her up, even if he knew she was too wasted to even register his presence. He brushed a lock of hair from her face, fingertips gently grazing her skin. His eyes fell on the Band-Aid on her arms and her feet, lingering, until he exhaled and looked away. He had tended to her wounds himself, yet he knew best her biggest wound wasn't something he could help with against her will. He was completely powerless.
Again.
It drove him crazy. The thought that he could lose her the same way he had nearly lost Gon, years ago, haunted him. And the fact that there was nothing he could do plagued him with helplessness.
He knew Thomas felt the same way. One look at his tearful eyes sufficed, and while a part of Killua felt reassured to know she wasn't just avoiding him, a much bigger one died with worry. Because if she was avoiding even the person she told everything, her best friend who could tell every one of her sighs and laughs apart, then who did she have? Was that not a blatant wish to self-destruct that she proclaimed? Isolating herself, drinking herself to death, refusing to open up, keeping to herself when she desperately needed to purge the poison… He shuddered.
There was no denying it.
He rested his hand on her cheek, his tension lifting when her features eased down under his touch. His thumb fondly stroked her cheekbone, the feather-light contact so relieving.
He was aware that he had grown weak for her. So weak he had given her the power to hurt him, and he ached each time she bled as though the wound was his. In that sense, he could relate to Thomas, but only partly. Because even though he was just the same as Thomas—a friend who cared for her and desperately tried to reach for her— he also harbored deeper feelings for her. A different kind of longing that resonated within himself, a profound pull so fierce yet gentle, a secret murmured with more certainty each passing day. A whole different kind of weakness.
But what was worse was that he had no regret; he would rather be hurt by any of his loved ones than give up on them. He would rather feel the agony and the worry and the goddamned frustration than let them go and self-destruct. He was collateral damage, but he didn't care. He was solid. He could bear it. And he would bear it.
A thousand times over.
Thomas came in at this moment, offering the smallest smile he could manage. Killua drew back his hand, a bit embarrassed that he had been caught being demonstrative.
"June is gone," Thomas said, pretending he hadn't seen Killua's hand stroking her cheek. "Thank you so much for being here for her."
He shrugged. "No problem. I didn't do much," he replied. It was barely an exaggeration; he felt like what he had done was so far from what she needed.
But Thomas shook his head. "You do help a lot. I know it may not seem like it, because lately shit's been happening and she's been overstressed with all her issues, but I can see it. She's the most hopeful she could be in such a situation."
Killua managed a weak smile. "If you say so." He stole a glance at her sleeping figure, her eyebrows knit together even in sleep. "I wish I could do more."
"I do, too," Thomas admitted. "But that's not possible without her cooperation. She's been driving me crazy for three years, refusing to cooperate, and I can't know when she's in a pit except when she's too deep and whatever survival instinct she still has kicks in and calls for help." He clasped his arm. "I know she's trying, but her first instinct is always to shut herself out."
Killua exhaled. "That's so frustrating."
"It is. I don't know what to do with her sometimes. And I feel like she herself doesn't know what to do."
"Has she always been like that?" Killua risked.
Thomas's eyes grew dark. "No. Only after her mission. She used to be so open about her feelings."
Killua nodded, dwelling on one thought: that mission with the Whisper had nearly destroyed her. And each time, she tried to finish the job. Flirting with destruction, as though it was all she knew, the only way for her to cope, even if it left her more hurt than ever once it was over. He shivered at the thought, refusing to accept it.
"I want to help her," Killua admitted, to Thomas, to himself, even to Hana's sleeping form, as though somehow she could hear him.
Thomas's expression warmed up, his eyes softening with gratitude. "You already do. You probably feel useless, and I can't blame you for that because I feel the same sometimes, but you do make her feel better." He paused, and seemed to fidget with his next words. "I can't be everywhere and always here for her, especially that I struggle with issues of my own, so I have to confess, I'm a lot more reassured to know that you're here for her too. That she's shouldered and in good company, and that she's surrounded herself with good people like you. She has a lot of friends, more than I could have in ten lifetimes, but so few close friends that she lets in and trusts."
Killua's heart swelled with these words. He wasn't quite sure what he had done to deserve this trust, but he was thankful anyway. "I'm glad." He didn't know what more he could say. That was too much to take in, and he felt too touched to find words. "Thanks," he tried anyway.
He was met with the same slight awkwardness. "No worries. I'm just telling the truth."
Killua searched for Thomas's eyes. "She's lucky to have you," he honestly said.
Thomas rose dubious eyes to him. "You think?"
"I don't think; I know. And I know she loves you a lot. More than you think. She talks about you like you're the eighth wonder of the world."
With a small twitch in his face, Thomas looked away. He didn't reply, instead becoming even more awkward.
"I'm gonna leave," Killua then said, hiding his reluctance. He wanted to stay, but Thomas needed some time with his best friend. "Take care of her."
"Yeah, I will."
They exchanged their phone numbers, and Thomas gave him June's as well, in case anything happened and they needed to contact each other. It was reassuring to know they could count on each other.
Killua left then.
He went back to the court, needing some fresh air to wash the acidic smell of wine away. Yet, even when he was out in the cold, even when he took deep breaths of air thick with sap and petrichor, the intoxicating smell clung to him. And so did the picture of her hurt form curled up in a ball, bleeding and battered and bruised. How fragile she had looked then, like he could break her with a sigh. Her vulnerability so blatantly exposed to him still weighed on him, as though he had seen something forbidden, something he knew she wouldn't have wanted to show him or anyone.
Vulnerabilities were sometimes more baring than nakedness.
He was well-placed to know that.
Thursday, April 23rd
1:45 P.M.
She woke up with a headache ramming in her brain, a violent stab of pain piercing through her heavy sleep. She frowned, opened her eyes to a hazy picture of lights filtering through the curtains, cast on the wall and the ceiling. She stared at the sunny stitches sewn on the walls until they were no longer blurry, and craned her neck.
Where was she?
She tried to sit, but grimaced when pain shot through her body.
What had happened?
She managed to lean against her pillow, her joints popping and cracking as she moved on the bed. With a huff, she settled, and looked around her.
Her room came into focus. There was a blanket folded on the bed, a pillow thrown on the floor, and a book whose title she couldn't make out.
She tried to remember what had happened the day before. Her mind was a thorny mess of tangled thoughts, a broken movie of mismatched scenes flickering into her memory. Each remembered detail stung and scathed, always demanding more efforts to conjure their dreadful content. She painfully recalled all the elements from the day before, each sending a tremor of fear in her body—the fight with Aleon, the Whisper's puppets, the talk with Allan and Bee, the questions with Coal, the feeling of being defeated, the powerlessness, the panic. And then, nothing. Just the headache hammering in her skull, aching muscles, mysterious bruises and scalding cuts, and a nausea simmering in her stomach.
That meant only one thing. And when Thomas entered her room, big dark circles stretching under his reddened eyes, her heart sank with realization.
"Tom," she croaked, coughed and cleared her throat.
He handed her a glass of water. "Drink slowly. You're gonna throw up if you drink too much too fast."
She took the glass and silently sipped the water. She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the glass and her hands, on the sting of water on her chapped lips, on the faint quiver of her fingers. Crushed by shame and regret and that burdening guilt. As though these three emotions dominated her whole life.
"Hana," he called her, his voice so soft.
She swallowed. How could he so soft when she had just caused him to pull an all-nighter of worry and anxiety? She was undeserving. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, cursing herself for her the clumsiness of her words. "I did it again. I'm so sorry Tom, and I know I don't solve anything when I say that but, but I'm sorry, and I don't deserve you and—"
He pulled her into a hug. Surprised morphed to relief, relief to sorrow, sorrow to tears streaming down her face. And she buried her head in his neck and cried and cried again, and somewhere in the back of her mind a quiet voice told her that she cried a lot lately and that perhaps, just perhaps, that was what she needed.
"Don't say that," he said, holding her still against him. "You deserve so much good, if only you'd let it reach you."
She didn't reply, too busy sniffing and sobbing to form intelligible words. She still couldn't understand why he stayed when she had disappointed him so many times, when she had made him feel so inadequate each time she fucked up and wallowed in self-pity. What did she have to make this friendship worth the trouble? Bad jokes and pastries? Was that worth all the times she had shown up uninvited to his apartment after a drunk near-one-night-stand that hadn't unfolded well? All the times she had shut herself out while he desperately tried to reach for her?
Was it?
"I'm sorry," she repeated, her mouth finally agreeing to cooperate. She gripped his shirt, refusing to let go of him. She felt so safe around him.
"Stop apologizing." He loosened the embrace, gently pushing her so he could look at her. "Tell me what happened, instead. I want you to stop shutting me out."
She nodded. "There was a huge problem at the bar where I work. I was watching this guy, and suddenly he was yelling and attacking people. So I went after him, and —" his hand blurred her sight for a second, a dreadful second during which her insides folded on themselves and her body shrank to a trembling figure. "He had the flower on his hand."
Thomas frowned. "The flower?"
"The Whisper has a flower tattoo on his palm. I couldn't see it well back then, because it was dark and his glove was only half burnt. But it's the same flower, I'm sure of that. And the same gesture." She shuddered. The hand reaching for its victim, the flower coming to life on the palm… All the details were still fresh in her mind, the only clear thing in her confused memory.
He paled. "Your guy was the Whisper?" he incredulously asked.
"No. It's worse than that." She flexed her hand, picturing an amaryllis on her palm, then chasing the picture away. "The Whisper has puppets. He could be manipulating anyone to kill on his behalf." She sighed. "And when I learned that, I felt so… weak. And terrified. Really terrified." Like the world was coiling itself on her. Like it would burst out of her mind and swallow her whole. Like her entire existence meant nothing.
Like she was trapped.
Thomas brushed her bangs away from her face and squeezed her shoulder. "It's okay to be scared. I'd be scared too—anyone would be. You're incredibly courageous for putting up with that."
She shook her head. "I'm really not. I don't want to put up with that. I just want to forget everything and… and I think that's what made me drink. I wanted to forget how I felt and forget that mission and everything linked to it."
"But you can't forget, Hana. It's not healthy to cling to that hope that someday you'll forget. Trauma doesn't just go away, and you don't forget traumatic experiences. You learn to live with them and heal yourself until they're no longer hindrances in your life and no longer influence your emotions. And it can take an awful lot of time—you're not broken, or fucked up, you're healing."
"I've been healing for three years, and yet look what I did. It's like it all went to waste, everything I tried to do to feel better."
"It didn't go to waste. Relapsing is part of healing," he said, and took her hand. "Don't be so harsh on yourself."
"But I did it again," she repeated, at a loss for arguments.
"It's okay. You're gonna try to not do it again." He squeezed her hand. "I'm here to help you stand up again, and so are all your friends and your family. That's all I ask, Hana: let us help. Let us carry a bit of your burden, and make things easier for you."
Her heart jumped at his words. He was asking for so little, and yet she could barely do it. "I want to," she admitted.
"Please, keep trying. You've done so much for me, for June, for so many people. You've given so much of yourself and you've gone to huge lengths to help us. I want to do the same for you, because I love you and you're so important to me. I swear I'd kill that Whisper myself if I could, but I can barely kill a cockroach, so I want to help in any other way."
Her chest filled with emotions just as her eyes filled with more tears. She nodded then, silently asking for his arms again. He granted her one request and sighed as she scooted closer to him.
They stayed like this for a moment, a long moment during which she repeatedly promised to herself that she would try to improve and get better at dealing with her friends and her trauma. At least, after this grim episode, she finally felt like she had the energy to face her fears and look for answers and, perhaps, try to rely on her friends and open up.
When she broke the hug, he told her he had made chicken noodles, and she laughed lightly when he said he hadn't dared to cook something else. "You should rest today," he announced as they huddled on her couch in the living room to eat. "Sleep early and sleep a lot. You'll think about work later. You still have too much alcohol in your blood and it's better to purge it while resting."
She acquiesced, embarrassed to be the reason he knew so much about alcohol. She eyed the food with a dubious expression, taking chopsticks even though she wasn't hungry. She knew she had to eat something, though in small quantities, but the thought was nauseating. She slurped the noodles anyway, forcing herself to eat.
"Also," he continued. "Tomorrow, you should text Killua and tell him you're okay."
She stopped munching, widening her eyes.
Killua.
"Oh my God," she said, and swallowed when he frowned at her for speaking with her mouth full. "I was supposed to meet him yesterday. Is he okay?"
Thomas stared at her as though he knew she wouldn't like what he would say next. "He's the one who found you."
She widened her eyes, her mouth gaping. "He what?"
"He got worried when you didn't come, so he checked on you and he found you." He fell silent. "He's the one who tended to your wounds."
Her shoulders dropped as her hand flew to the Band-Aid on her other arm. "He saw me like this," she thought aloud. "He's seen so little of me and I'm already showing him my worst sides…"
"He seemed more worried than horrified, if you ask me."
She exhaled through her nose. "I keep making everyone worry."
"We worry because you don't say a thing and then suddenly we find you passed out and sobbing in a pool of wine."
Ouch. She hunched a little, wishing she could undo what she had done. It would have been easier if the pain was hers alone, but in her stupid desperation, she had dragged them all with her.
His gaze softened, then. "I'm not saying that to blame you."
"I know. I promise I want to try to be better," she said.
He smiled. "He wants to help, too."
"Killua?"
"Yeah. He really looked genuine." He paused, settled his gaze on her, and continued. "He really cares about you."
Her heart lurched. "You think?"
His smile grew amused. "I don't think; I know," he said, as though there was a secret meaning to that reply that she couldn't guess. "And I can understand why. You're really amazing." He smirked. "For a nerd."
Her lips quirked up. She welcomed this new warmth in her, a soft glow that changed so much from the gloomy atmosphere of the day before. "Thank you so much."
They ate together in silent, sometimes joking about something silly while she tried her best to eat half of her cup. He brought her a glass of water and a painkiller when she was done.
"I feel like I'm a hundred years old," she said, cringing at the raspy undertone in her voice. "With my sandpaper voice and achy limbs."
"You look like you're a hundred years old, too," he joked.
She managed a small laugh. "Thank you so much for staying when I'm such a frustrating fuck."
He grinned. His eyes shone with a turquoise spark, a look of such unabashed affection she couldn't help grinning back at him.
"It's worth it."
A/N: Aha, now you know. You know why I did all these weird things in chapter 5 and why Aleon even existed in the first place. Some of you had guessed what would happen (you know who you are ;) ) so kudos for that and I hope you enjoyed those twists!
Also, yeah, now you know why those puncture points exist and why the Whisper has an amaryllis tattoo on his palm.
Anyway, what did you think about the twists? The revelations about the Whisper's ability? Did you see that coming? Did you like it?
What about Hana's reaction? Killua's fears? The Thomas/Hana friendship? The optimistic outcome?
What was your favorite moment?
Please tell me what you thought! It motivates me so much to keep writing :')
I hope you liked this chapter! It's a bit gloomy compared to what we've had so far, but consider it a turning point for Hana. I don't intend to waste away this touch of optimism. Next chapter will have more of the usual balance too.
Speaking of which, next chapter is called Charybdis! I'll let you think about that ;)
Thank you for reading and see you next chapter!
