Page 122 of Mortala
Maddie’s face, the sound of her voice, the panic in her eyes, a hand grabbing for mine, gunshot, then darkness.
My eyes open slowly, but I don’t move right away. Something feels wrong. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. White tiles, harsh lights, and a faint buzzing sound that I can’t place at first. I stare at it, trying to make sense of where I am, but my thoughts move slower than they should. Like my brain is running through water. Then the pain catches up.
It starts somewhere in my side, a deep ache that spreads through my body until every breath reminds me something happened. My throat feels dry, my muscles feel heavy, andthere’s a strange pressure against my skin that makes me feel trapped before I even know why.
I swallow, forcing myself to wake up completely.
I’m in the hospital.
The realization settles in slowly, the smell giving it away before anything else does. That sterile, chemical scent that clings to everything. The quiet beeping beside me, the uncomfortable mattress beneath my back.
I’m alive.
The thought should bring relief, but it doesn't. Instead, it brings fear, because the last thing I remember is not knowing if Maddie was.
I move before I can stop myself. The second I try to sit up, pain tears through my body so violently that I have to bite down to keep from making a sound. My hand grips the sheets, my breathing turning uneven as I wait for it to pass. Then I hear the clink of metal. It’s a small, unmistakable sound.
My eyes drop to the cuff circling my left wrist. For a few seconds, I just stare at it, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing. They roam to my other hand to see the hospital bracelet, wires attached to my chest, and an IV taped into my hand.
“What the hell?” My voice comes out rough and broken, but before I can say anything else, a voice comes from across the room.
“You’re awake.”
The voice is completely unfamiliar. My eyes move toward the sound, and confusion immediately replaces the anger that had been building inside me. A man is standing near the wall across from my bed, watching me. He’s not wearing scrubs. There’s no hospital badge clipped to his shirt, no clipboard in his hand, no concerned expression that would suggest he’s someone who’s supposed to be here. He looks like the exact opposite of someone who belongs in a hospital.
He’s tall. Bigger than most people I’ve met, even from across the room, and his entire appearance makes me question how I didn’t notice him the second I opened my eyes. He’s wearing rugged black clothes, tattoos covering nearly every inch of visible skin.
There’s no fear or nervousness in his eyes. No sense of uncertainty. He looks completely comfortable standing in my hospital room like he has every right to be here.
I stare at him for several seconds, waiting for recognition to hit. It doesn’t. I’ve never seen this man before in my life.
My eyes narrow. “Who the fuck are you?”
My voice comes out rough, but the question is sharper than anything else I’ve managed since waking up. The man doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks amused. He absolutely expected that to be my first question.
He pushes away from the wall but doesn’t come any closer, and I find myself studying him the same way he’s studying me, trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at. Because there’s one thing I know for certain. This man isn’t here to check my vitals.
“I’ll answer that,” he says calmly. “But I think you should probably look around first.”
The quiet confidence in his voice settles over the room like something tangible, and I hate the way it immediately puts me on edge. He isn’t threatening me or shouting. If anything, he sounds almost bored, like whatever game he’s playing has already been decided and I’m simply too far behind to realize it.
My jaw tightens as I drag my attention away from him, forcing myself to take in the rest of the room with eyes that finally feel awake enough to process what they’re seeing.
At first, all I notice are the things I’d expect to find in any hospital room. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor beside my bed. The IV hanging from a metal stand. White walls filledwith cabinets and medical equipment. Sunlight filters weakly through a partially opened set of blinds, washing everything in a pale glow that somehow makes the room feel even colder. Then my eyes travel farther, landing near the window, and every coherent thought inside my head evaporates.
Two wooden chairs have been placed against the far wall.
Neither of them are empty.
My uncle is slumped in the first chair, his wrists bound tightly behind the backrest with thick black restraints that cut into the sleeves of his shirt. Leather straps wrap around his chest and thighs, pinning him so securely that even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t.
His face is a swollen mess of bruises and dried blood, one eye nearly swollen shut beneath the damage that’s been done to him, while a dark cloth has been shoved between his teeth and tied brutally behind his head. His breathing comes in frantic bursts through his nose, every muscle in his body straining uselessly against the restraints as his terrified eyes lock onto mine.
A man dressed entirely in black stands behind him with one hand resting casually on the back of the chair. The other holds a pistol fitted with a suppressor. The barrel is pressed so firmly against Benny’s temple that it leaves a pale indentation against his skin.
Then blood drains from my face.
Maddie.
