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in your dreams, you see her.
waterdrops fall like seconds ticking, echoing across the vast darkness behind your closed eyes. there is nothing here but a transient vision of smoky light hovering over the edges of your vision, but even this heavy sense of suffocation has long become familiar.
this is zoya's black ring.
you wander through the ghosts of her past, familiar voices echoing in your ears as they fade in and out like oceantide under the new moon. you see her, as a child, as a teenager, as the commander of the legion, as the corpus — and she looks so lonely that you can't help but reach out your hand towards her.
her figure dissipates the moment you grab her hand, and you are left standing in the middle of nowhere, reaching out for a person long gone. her memories tide over your feet, pulling you under.
“zoya.” bubbles rise around you. are you underwater? you are breathing normally, but you feel weightless and cold, surrounded by the icy blue of her eyes. “where are you?”
you stumble, waist-deep in murky water, helplessly searching for a glimpse of her, until you wake up with her name on your lips and the ruthless cold of another lonely morning.
and then you do it all over again.
dreams of her weave into your every thought, every anxious tap of your fingers against your desk, every time word from the legion comes around. it settles deep into your marrow, the kind of compulsiveness like an addiction; you look outside the window, as if one day you will find her leaning there, looking back at you with that familiar smirk on her painted lips.
but she's not there. of course, she's not there. you are being silly. and, even if she was back, why would she go to you, of all people?
you, who got her into this whole mess in the first place.
. . . even this sense of guilt has become familiar. in some ways, it feels more familiar to you than your own name. it prowls around your office and your bed, hides beneath your sheets, popping up in your mind with no rhyme or reason. do you even deserve to worry about her, it asks, and then swallows you whole.
but you can't help it. you don't even know why. you've only spent a few days with her, and you spent those days fighting for your life, tethering on the edge of a sharp knife. those icy claws, her tortured screaming.
somehow, somehow, you still worry. you tell yourself it'll go away once you get even a single news of her. it's just how like how friends worry about each other. it's just normal human compassion. you tap your pen against the table, and see her pained eyes with every slow exhale. it's just normal human compassion.
you sigh, and lean back on your chair. the leather jacket she left hangs on your shoulders, broken and tattered beyond repair, but you can't bring yourself to throw it away, either.
the familiar scent of smoke lingers still.
zoya, just where are you? you're still alive, right? you're okay, right?
“chief?”
you drop the sleeve of her jacket, heart in your throat, and look up. nightingale peers at you from the door, a strange expression on her face, and you try to stuff down the feeling of having been caught doing something wrong.
you clear your throat. “yes? what is it, nightingale?”
she comes in. a heavy stack of paper rests on her arms, which she deposits gently on your desk. she taps the top page. “here are the psychological consultation reports on the prisoners. some sinners have also destroyed faculties on the entertainment room again — i'll need your signature on these applications to repair them before the day ends. the fac is also still waiting for your full report on br-004.”
you stare at the stack of paper in a daze.
oh. right. in the middle of this sort-of hazy back-and-forth with zoya in your mind, you are still existing in the outside world.
“i'll get on it,” you say, and sigh. “thank you for your hard work, adjutant.”
she tips her head, but she does not move. you look up at her again, and raise a brow.
she's frowning. after a brief moment of hesitation, she speaks up. “chief . . . have you not been sleeping well?”
“huh?”
nightingale opens her mouth, concern painted on her brow, but she closes it again. for a while, she stands before you, quietly conflicted, before settling on a thin sigh. “chief, please remember to put your mental health first before anything. you are an important person to the mbcc.”
her voice is so gentle. it makes you want to cry.
you nod. “i'll take note of that. thank you.”
lie. tonight, too, you'll lie on your bed, tormented by worry and guilt, and spend your dreams searching for her among the sharp edges of her broken memories. but nightingale doesn't need to know that. she'll just think you've gone mad.
maybe you are. maybe you are.
she hesitates, but says nothing more. the silence stretches on between the two of you, spanning the entire room with only the sound of her heels clacking to fill it.
“nightingale,” you call out. she pauses in front of the door, and turns around to look at you, except both of you already know the words that spill from your lips before you even think about it. “the search . . . did they . . . find anything new?”
she shakes her head, and you look away from the reflection of your heartbreak within her eyes. “unfortunately, not much progress has been done yet. i will make sure to inform you when anything comes up, chief.”
you expected this. you should have expected this. you should have.
“sure,” you say. your voice comes from a distance. “thank you, nightingale. you may go.”
and you think you should be glad that the fac hasn't found anything at all. there's no telling what they would do to her if they catch her — after all, zoya would be the best person to make an example of, to reestablish the city council's power that has been undermined by the legion for years now.
would you even be able to protect her if you find her?
. . . no. you can't. the mbcc doesn't even have that much power or influence to leverage. you won't be able to protect her here.
whether in the square or here at mbcc, you are still powerless to do anything for her.
you aren't able to protect her, at all.
the room feels so large and empty, suddenly. you are dwarfed by your thoughts, and that lingering sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
why do you care so much? you really don't understand.
you can't help it. you don't know why. you just can't. thinking about her feels like an addiction now, at this point.
every stranger with silver hair has become her. every loud laugh, gunshots in the air, the smell of smoke; you turn around again, half-expecting her to be there, half-with your hand on your heart ready to squeeze it tight before the hurt can crash in.
you just want to know if she's safe. that's all. that's all. you just want to know she's safe. you'll give up, after then. just one hint that she's all right, that she's still fighting, and you'll give up looking for her in every splash of purple that you see.
resigned, you flex your right hand. the shackles gleam in the sharp fluorescent light, a silver crown of thorns etched deep into your skin like scar tissue. the only tie you have to her. the only thing of her you have left.
zoya, you call out. if you're there, if you're alive, send me a sign. please. anything.
just tell me that you're all right.
but, today, too, the shackles clink uselessly in thin air, as if unconnected on the other side. you are all alone.