Claire drifted off to sleep beside Desmond, lulled by the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of his breathing. But the darkness that enveloped her wasn't peaceful for long. The past had a way of creeping in, turning dreams into haunted corridors she couldn't escape.

In her dream, she was back in that cold, sterile room. The air was thick with the hum of machines and the buzz of fluorescent lights, casting a harsh glare over everything. The bed beneath her was hard, metal restraints digging into her wrists and ankles. She thrashed against them, but they wouldn't budge. Her breath came in panicked gasps as she realized she was trapped again, back in Abstergo's grip.

The door creaked open, and she heard the heavy footsteps of a guard approaching. Her skin crawled at the sound. She knew this man, remembered the taunts he'd whispered, the leering way he'd spoken to her when he thought no one else was listening. Her pulse quickened, dread clawing up her spine as the shadow of his figure loomed over her.

"You thought you could escape, didn't you?" His voice was a low growl, mocking. He reached out, cold fingers brushing against her cheek, and she flinched away, desperate to get out, desperate to wake up. "But you'll never be free. Not from us."

She strained against the restraints, trying to pull away from his touch, but her body wouldn't obey. Panic turned to desperation, her chest tightening until she thought she might suffocate under its weight. She could hear other voices, too—Rebecca, Shaun, even Subject Sixteen—but they were distant, distorted, their words blending into the machine's hum until they became nothing more than noise.

The guard's grip tightened, and suddenly the scene shifted. She was no longer strapped to the bed but standing in the darkness of the Black Room, where shadows danced and blurred. She could see Subject Sixteen—her friend, the one she'd tried to save—his eyes wild with madness. His voice echoed around her, whispering fragments of memories she couldn't fully grasp.

"You couldn't save me, Claire. You couldn't save yourself."

His face twisted, contorting into something unrecognizable. A surge of panic washed over her, the darkness pressing in until it felt like the walls were collapsing. She tried to reach out, to find something solid, but her hands found only shadows.

"No! Please—" Her own voice broke, and she realized she was screaming, the sound tearing through the darkness around her.

With a jolt, Claire's eyes flew open, her body drenched in a cold sweat as she gasped for breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the panic from the dream still clawing at her chest. The room around her came into focus—dimly lit, the hum of the Animus nearby, and the warmth of Desmond lying beside her. It was enough to remind her that she wasn't back in that cold cell, that she was free. But the fear lingered, like a shadow that wouldn't quite fade.

Desmond stirred beside her, his brow furrowing as he woke. He turned toward her, instantly alert when he saw the fear in her eyes. "Claire?" His voice was rough with sleep, but concern laced through it as he pushed himself up on one elbow. "What's wrong? What happened?"

She tried to catch her breath, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. "Just... just a nightmare," she whispered, her voice barely steady. She could still feel the ghostly touch of the guard's hand on her cheek, the way the shadows had closed in around her.

Desmond sat up fully, reaching out to cup her face, his thumb brushing gently over her temple. "You're okay. You're safe, Claire. I promise, you're not there anymore."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as she tried to ground herself in the present, to focus on the warmth of his hand rather than the cold grip of the past. But when she opened her eyes again, they were filled with a haunted look that she couldn't quite hide. "It just felt so real," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like I was back there, in that room. I couldn't get out."

Desmond pulled her into his arms, his embrace firm but gentle, as if he understood that she needed that solid reassurance. She buried her face against his shoulder, her breath coming in shaky, uneven gasps. He rubbed soothing circles against her back, his voice a soft murmur in her ear. "I've got you, Claire. You're not alone. Not anymore."

She clung to him, letting his presence chase away the lingering shadows of her dream. For a long moment, she stayed like that, taking comfort in the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, in the way his arms wrapped around her like a shield.

Eventually, the tightness in her chest began to ease, the panic giving way to exhaustion. She pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice still rough around the edges. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Desmond shook his head, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You don't have to apologize. I'd rather be here if you need me." He offered her a small, reassuring smile, one that managed to ease some of the lingering tension in her chest.

Claire managed a faint smile in return, though the fear still lingered at the edges of her thoughts. "I just... I don't know if I'll ever stop being afraid. Afraid that it's not really over."

Desmond's expression softened, and he squeezed her hand gently. "Maybe it'll never be completely gone. But you've got people here who care about you—who'll help you through it." He paused, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. "And if it helps, I'll keep reminding you that you're safe, as many times as you need."

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh, a warmth spreading through her chest despite everything. "That might take a while," she admitted, her voice wry.

Desmond's smile widened, a hint of playfulness in his eyes. "Good thing I've got nothing but time, then."

It wasn't a perfect solution, and she knew the nightmares wouldn't just disappear overnight. But as she settled back down beside Desmond, his arm still draped protectively over her, she allowed herself to believe, if only for a little while, that the darkness didn't seem quite so overwhelming anymore.

She couldn't go back to sleep. She didn't know how long she laid there with her back pressed against Desmond's chest as he held her. The nightmare still haunted her each time she tried to close her eyes. The room was quiet, the dim light from the moon outside casting faint shadows on the walls as Claire continued to try and go back to sleep.

It wasn't long though after her own nightmare that Desmond began to stir. His breathing quickened, his body twitching as if trying to fend off some unseen threat. Claire, half-asleep, didn't notice at first—until a low, distressed murmur escaped his lips.

"... No... stay back..."

She blinked groggily, shifting slightly to look at him. His face was twisted with fear, his brow furrowed, and sweat beaded along his temple. It wasn't until his movements became more erratic that she reached out to gently shake his shoulder.

"Desmond... wake up," she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep. "Hey, it's just a dream..."

But Desmond didn't wake. Instead, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist with a strength that took her breath away. He wasn't seeing her—he was still trapped in whatever nightmare had a hold of him, his grip tightening painfully.

"Desmond—!" Claire gasped, trying to free herself, but his hold only grew tighter, the panic in his movements translating into brute force. His other arm flailed, striking her across the shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her as she was knocked back onto the mattress.

Before she could call out again, the door to their room swung open, and Shaun and Rebecca rushed in, alarm clear in their expressions.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Shaun demanded, taking in the scene as Desmond continued to thrash, his hand still clutching Claire's wrist like a vise.

"Help—he won't wake up!" Claire choked out, struggling against the pressure. Her voice came out strained, her breath catching as Desmond's grip began to press against her throat, not out of malice but the pure panic of whatever he was fighting in his dream.

Rebecca moved quickly to Desmond's side, trying to pry his hands away from Claire. "Desmond, wake up! It's a dream, it's not real!" she urged, her voice steady even as she fought to loosen his hold.

Shaun joined her, grabbing Desmond's arm and using his leverage to pull him back. "Come on, mate, snap out of it!" he barked, his voice sharp and insistent.

With their combined effort, they managed to pull Desmond away from Claire, but the damage had been done. She rolled onto her side, coughing and clutching at her throat, trying to catch her breath. Her vision swam for a moment, but she shook it off, pushing herself up on unsteady arms.

"Claire, are you alright?" Rebecca asked, her voice laced with concern as she reached out to steady her. "He didn't—"

Claire held up a hand, cutting her off, her breaths still coming in short, painful bursts. "I'm fine," she rasped, her voice raw. She waved Rebecca and Shaun toward the door, her focus locked on Desmond, who was starting to come to, blinking dazedly at the scene around him.

"Just... let me handle this. Please," she insisted, her voice firm despite the lingering pain. Shaun hesitated, glancing between her and Desmond, but then nodded reluctantly.

"Fine, but call if you need us," he muttered, casting a worried glance back at them before ushering Rebecca out of the room.

As soon as they were alone, Claire turned her attention back to Desmond. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands shaking as he tried to piece together what had just happened. His eyes were wide with horror as they landed on her, taking in the redness around her throat and the way she rubbed at the bruised skin.

"Oh God, Claire, I—I hurt you..." His voice broke, and he reached out a trembling hand toward her, but then pulled back, as if afraid to touch her again. "I didn't... I would never—"

She shook her head quickly, moving closer to him, her voice gentle despite the ache in her throat. "Desmond, it's okay. It was a nightmare. You weren't in control."

He swallowed hard, the guilt etched deeply into his features as he struggled to meet her gaze. "I could've... I could've really hurt you. What if... What if Shaun and Rebecca hadn't—?"

She silenced him with a hand on his shoulder, her touch steady despite her own lingering fear. "But they did. And I'm fine," she assured him, offering a small, strained smile. "You're not the only one who has nightmares, you know."

Desmond's breath hitched, and he bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. She could see the torment in his expression, the way his hands clenched into fists as if he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. "I'm so sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry."

She reached out, gently cupping the side of his face, guiding him to look at her. "You don't need to keep apologizing, Desmond. I understand." Her thumb brushed lightly against his cheek, offering him a reassuring smile despite the sting in her throat. "You're not alone in this."

For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if searching for any hint of resentment or anger in her eyes. But all he found was the same stubborn compassion that she'd always shown him, even in their darkest moments. He let out a shaky breath, leaning into her touch.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She nodded, letting her hand fall back to her lap. "Come on," she said softly, her tone gentle. "Let's try to get some rest. We both need it."

He glanced at her one last time, as if trying to make sure she truly meant what she said, before nodding slowly. Claire settled back down beside him, her body sore and her mind still reeling from the ordeal, but she was determined not to let the fear take hold. She could feel Desmond's lingering guilt, the way his body remained tense even as he lay down beside her. So she reached out, threading her fingers through his, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.

Claire awoke in the early hours, the warehouse bathed in a cool, gray light that filtered through the high windows. She lay still for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the building as it settled around them. Desmond's arm was draped loosely over her waist, his breathing deep and even. For the first time in a while, she felt a strange sense of peace.

Slowly, she slipped out from beneath his arm, careful not to disturb him. She took a moment to stretch, her muscles still stiff from days spent in the Animus, and then she quietly made her way to the window, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself against the chill of the morning. Outside, the city was waking up, the streets coming to life with the distant murmur of traffic and the soft calls of early-morning birds.

For a brief moment, Claire allowed herself to imagine what it might be like if things were different—if she and Desmond could walk those streets without the weight of their pasts pressing down on them. If they didn't have to hide, didn't have to fight. She let out a quiet sigh, her breath misting against the glass, before turning back toward the bed.

Desmond had shifted in his sleep, one arm now draped over his face, the other lying where she had been. The sight brought a small, involuntary smile to her lips, a warmth settling in her chest despite everything.

She moved back to the bed, settling on the edge and watching him for a moment. The lines of tension that usually creased his brow had smoothed out in sleep, and for a moment, she let herself feel the soft tug of something more than friendship—a longing that she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge fully before.

The door to the room creaked open, and Rebecca's head poked in. Her expression was a mix of concern and amusement, her eyes shifting from Claire to the sleeping figure on the bed. "Hey," she whispered. "How are you holding up?"

Claire glanced back at Desmond, then shrugged. "I've been better... but I've been worse, too."

Rebecca gave her a sympathetic smile, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind her. "Figured you'd be up. I left some food in the kitchen if you're hungry. Thought you might need something more than whatever you've been surviving on."

Claire's stomach rumbled at the mention of food, and she nodded. "Thanks, Rebecca. I... appreciate it."

Rebecca's expression softened, and she glanced at Desmond again, lowering her voice even more. "He's been worried about you, you know. Kept asking if you were okay, even in his sleep."

Claire's heart tightened, and she looked down at her hands. "I know. It's... mutual."

Rebecca gave her a gentle nudge. "Take care of yourself, Claire. And him, too. You're both in this together."

With that, Rebecca slipped out of the room, leaving Claire with her thoughts and the steady sound of Desmond's breathing. She allowed herself one last look at him, then made her way to the kitchen, where a plate of food waited.

She ate in the quiet of the early morning, the warehouse around her still and dimly lit. Her mind drifted back to the moments she'd shared with Desmond the night before, the way he had listened, the way he had offered comfort without needing to say much at all. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to feel that kind of closeness with anyone, and the realization left her both hopeful and afraid.

When she returned to the room, Desmond was stirring, blinking against the dim light. He looked up at her, his gaze soft and still tinged with sleep. "Morning," he mumbled, his voice rough around the edges.

"Morning," she replied, moving to sit beside him. She offered him a small smile, feeling a bit of the weight lift off her shoulders. "How'd you sleep?"

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Better than I have in a while. Guess I needed the break." He studied her for a moment, a crease forming between his brows. "How about you? You okay?

Claire hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah... I think I am, for now." She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and for a moment, they just sat there in the quiet, a fragile sense of understanding settling between them.

And as the first rays of sunlight broke through the window, Claire allowed herself to hope that, maybe, they'd find their way through this darkness—together.

Claire awoke in the early hours, her body aching with the reminders of the previous night. The warehouse was bathed in a cool, gray light that seeped through the high windows, casting long shadows across the room. Her fingers instinctively touched her neck, tracing the tender bruises that had formed there, a painful echo of Desmond's grip during the nightmare. She winced, her other hand drifting to her wrist, where more bruises darkened her pale skin—finger marks, too deep and too real to be ignored.

She glanced toward Desmond, who was still asleep beside her, his brow creased even in rest. The events of the night before flashed through her mind—Desmond, lost in a dream, had lashed out in his sleep, hands wrapping around her throat before she'd managed to wake him. His expression, when he finally came to, had been one of horror, his grip loosening immediately as he pulled away, guilt twisting his features. She could still hear his frantic apologies echoing in her mind, the anguish in his voice.

Slowly, she slipped out from beneath his arm, careful not to disturb him. Her movements were stiff, her muscles sore from the struggle, and she pulled on a hoodie, hiding the bruises beneath the fabric. As she moved to the window, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shake off the lingering fear that clung to her.

Outside, the city was waking up, the streets coming to life with the distant murmur of traffic and the soft calls of early-morning birds. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, letting the chill ground her in the present. She knew that Desmond hadn't meant to hurt her—that he was trapped in his own pain, just as she was. But it didn't make the bruises any less real, or the memories of his hands around her neck any easier to ignore.

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes misting over as she stared at the skyline. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like if things were different—if she and Desmond could walk those streets freely, without the weight of their pasts pressing down on them. If they didn't have to hide, didn't have to fight. But the reality of their situation settled heavily on her shoulders, and she turned back toward the bed.

Desmond had shifted in his sleep, his arm now stretched across the space where she'd been, as if reaching for her even unconsciously. She watched him for a moment, a mixture of emotions churning in her chest—sympathy, frustration, and something deeper that she wasn't quite ready to name.

The door creaked open, and Rebecca's head poked in, her expression immediately shifting to concern as she took in Claire's bruised neck. She crossed the room quickly, keeping her voice low. "Those bruises are nasty Claire." she asked, her gaze flicking toward Desmond's sleeping form with a hint of sadness.

Claire shook her head, her throat tight. "It wasn't his fault, Rebecca. He... he had a nightmare. He didn't know what he was doing." Her voice wavered, but she held Rebecca's gaze, willing her to understand.

Rebecca's expression softened, though worry still lingered in her eyes. "If we hadn't been here to get him of you, today would be a different kind of day."

"I know," Claire murmured, glancing back at Desmond.

Rebecca sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "There's breakfast in the kitchen."

Claire nodded, her stomach twisting at the thought of eating, but she knew Rebecca meant well. "Thanks," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Rebecca hesitated, then squeezed her shoulder gently before slipping out of the room. Claire watched her go, then turned back to the bed. Desmond had shifted again, his face turned toward her, the lines of tension still etched into his features. Even in sleep, he looked haunted.

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and watching him for a moment. Despite everything, she couldn't bring herself to be angry with him. She understood too well what it was like to be trapped in a nightmare that you couldn't escape. And deep down, she knew that if their positions were reversed, he would be just as willing to stand by her.

As she sat there, the events of the previous night played over in her mind—the way he'd woken up, horror-stricken, his hands shaking as he realized what he'd done. He'd pulled away from her, his voice breaking as he apologized over and over again, but she'd held onto his hand, trying to calm him down, even as her own heart raced with fear.

When she finally stood, she forced herself to move to the kitchen, where a plate of food waited. She ate mechanically, trying to ignore the ache in her chest and the lingering fear that clung to her skin like a shadow. Her thoughts drifted back to Desmond's words, to the way he'd looked at her with such regret in his eyes. She knew he was hurting too.

When she returned to the room, Desmond was stirring, blinking against the dim light. He looked up at her, his gaze immediately catching on the bruises at her neck, and she saw the guilt flare in his eyes again. "Claire... I..."

"Don't," she said softly, cutting him off before he could apologize again. She moved to sit beside him, offering him a small, tired smile. "You didn't mean to. I know that."

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached out, brushing his thumb gently over one of the marks on her wrist. His touch was light, barely there, as if he was afraid of hurting her again. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I never wanted to hurt you."

She covered his hand with hers, squeezing gently. "I know," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "And I'm still here, aren't I?"

He gave her a pained smile, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You shouldn't be," he murmured. "You deserve better than this."

Claire's chest tightened, and for a moment, she didn't know what to say. But then she took a deep breath and reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We both deserve better," she said quietly. "But we've got each other. That has to count for something, right?"

Desmond stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Yeah," he whispered. "It counts for a lot."

"We should probably get back to the Animus. We still have a lot of progress to make." She said to him.

Desmond smirked, rising from the bed with a groan. "Yeah, Shaun's lecture about 'efficiency' is the last thing I want to hear today. And Lucy... well, I think she's about ready to drag us back to the Animus by force."

Claire chuckled, a genuine sound that surprised even her, and pushed herself to her feet. She stretched, wincing slightly as her sore muscles protested. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

As they headed for the door, she found herself glancing back at Desmond, her thoughts lingering on everything he'd said. For the first time in a long while, the path ahead didn't seem quite so dark. And maybe, just maybe, there was a glimmer of hope somewhere in the shadows.