Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eric hauled himself up over the edge, fingers scraping against rough stone until he could drag his weight onto solid ground. The sunlight hit him like a blow. After so long in the depths, its brightness felt unreal, almost imagined. His arms trembled, every muscle screaming, his whole body raw with exhaustion and pain—but they had made it. They’d escaped the vampires. 

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, blinking hard as the desert light washed over him. Rachel stood nearby, breathing fast but grinning. Nick lay sprawled on the ground, staring up at the sky in disbelief, Jason crouched beside him with a wild, breathless smile. 

And Salim… Salim stood a short distance away, eyes lifted toward the sun as if he were witnessing some holy miracle. Joy softened the lines of his face, the kind of joy Eric couldn’t imagine appearing on a man who’d nearly killed him—twice. Yes, they’d ended up working together in the end, but that didn’t undo everything that had come before. Trust wasn’t something Eric granted easily, and certainly not to an enemy combatant. 

Not that it mattered right now. They were out. They were alive. 

Eric reached for his radio with a shaking hand, thumb pressing the button. “Air support, this is Dropkick,” he said, voice rough. “Requesting immediate extraction.” 

Static crackled, then a familiar voice snapped back, “Air support, five minutes out. Where the hell have you guys been?” 

Jason barked a laugh as he pushed to his feet. “You reckon those shepherds are still around here somewhere? I could use a beer.” 

Nick opened his mouth, maybe to crack a joke of his own—but the light dimmed. All of them stilled. 

The sun, moments ago blazing, was being swallowed into shadow. 

An eclipse. 

Now of all times? 

Jason’s posture tightened in an instant. “Get to the huts. Now!” 

Nick scrambled upright. Rachel grabbed her weapon. Salim spun toward the source of a distant, rising screech. Eric felt the shift in the air—the same horrible vibration he’d come to recognize in the dark below. 

They ran. 

Behind them, the first shriek split the sky, and then another, and another, multiplying as the darkness deepened. The vampires were coming, drawn to the night blooming unnaturally overhead. 

Eric didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Their pursuit was unmistakable, growing louder with every stride as the eclipse devoured the sun. 

They slammed into the huts, the walls shuddering around them as they piled inside. The place was barely more than splintered planks and sand, but it was all they had. Rachel kicked a table onto its side and shoved it against a window. Jason and Nick dragged another across the floor, wood scraping loudly, while Salim threw his weight against the door as Eric jammed a loose plank into place. It wouldn’t hold—not for long—but it was something. 

Eric’s hand went automatically to his belt. His fingers brushed the remaining magazines, counting by touch. 

Two clips. 

Not much, but it was something. 

“How long is the eclipse gonna last?” Nick asked, breathless as he forced another chair under the doorknob. 

“Six minutes, max!” Eric answered. 

“That’s too damn long!” Rachel snapped. 

“I can’t rush the damn moon!” Eric shot back. 

A thunderous impact shook the hut, dust drifting from the rafters. Eric flinched. Another slam—this time above them, something skittering and scraping over the roofboards. 

“They’re breaking in!” Salim shouted. 

Jason fired through a narrow gap in the boarded window, muzzle flash lighting his face in sudden bursts. Salim lunged forward and jammed his metal pipe through another opening, a wet screech answering from the other side. Nick and Rachel opened fire too, each gunshot rattling through Eric’s skull. 

Eric’s first clip emptied fast. Too fast. He swapped it out with shaking hands, breath ragged as he tried to count the seconds in his head. 

Had it even been two minutes? 

Another surge of bodies hit the wall, claws raking wood. The hut groaned. Eric fired until his second clip clicked dry, the hollow sound worse than any scream outside. 

“I’m out!” he yelled. 

“Shit—me too!” Jason called back. 

Rachel’s rifle clicked empty a heartbeat later, then Nick’s. The sudden lack of gunfire left a terrifying silence, broken only by the pounding and screeching outside. 

Eric’s eyes darted around the room, desperate. That was when he saw it—the stack of crates in the corner. His heart leapt. He sprinted over, grabbed one, flipped it open— 

Flares. 

Bright red plastic cylinders, packed tight where bullets should’ve been. 

“Flares? Where’s the ammo?” Salim demanded. 

“We work with what we’ve got,” Jason said, voice tight. 

They didn’t have time to argue. Knives came off belts. Flares snapped and hissed to life, bathing the cramped hut in a harsh, flickering red glow. They formed a tight circle, backs pressed together, blades and burning flares held out toward the trembling walls. 

The next impact would break through. 

Eric tightened his grip, heart hammering. 

Any second now. 

Once the first creature forced its way through the wall, everything dissolved into chaos. 

The cramped hut became a blur of movement—shapes lunging, flares hissing, wood splintering under the weight of the attack. Eric lost track of everyone almost immediately. Each of them had been pushed into their own corner of the fight, struggling to hold off the monsters pressing in from all sides. Some of the team were fighting two at once; others could barely keep their footing. Every second felt like a near-miss, like the moment everything would end. 

Eric found himself driven back until his shoulders hit a wall. A creature lunged at him, its teeth bared. Instinct overrode thought—he shoved his burning flare upward, forcing it back with the sudden flash of light and heat. 

Another creature replaced it instantly. 

He had only his combat knife left. He barely had time to raise it before he was knocked off his feet, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The weight of the creature pinned him, its strength overwhelming. He fought back, pushing, twisting, kicking—anything—but its claws swept across his face in a single, fierce motion. 

His vision vanished into darkness. 

Warm liquid slid down his cheeks, and pain flared so sharply he couldn’t stop the cry that tore from his throat. He grabbed at his face, disoriented, unable to tell what was blood and what was injury. Somewhere in the chaos, Rachel shouted his name, but her voice was swallowed by the shrieks and the crashing of bodies. 

The weight pinning him suddenly lifted—someone must have pulled the creature off him—but Eric couldn’t see who. He pressed his hand over his face, trying to wipe away whatever was blinding him, trying to blink past the darkness. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else. 

Then his radio crackled. 

“Air support—one minute out,” a voice announced. 

Eric lay still for a moment, breathing hard, fighting to stay focused as the world around him continued to shake with the sounds of the fight. 

Eric braced a hand against the floor and tried to push himself upright. His arms trembled under him, almost giving out, but then another pair of arms caught him and helped him the rest of the way. 

He swallowed, voice rough. “Rachel… what happened?” 

“The sun is back,” Salim said urgently. “We need to go, Eric.” 

Eric froze at the sound of his voice. A second later he pulled away, instinctive, fear and distrust spiking hard now that he couldn’t see. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. 

But Salim’s hands steadied him again, gentle but insistent, guiding him toward the doorway. Eric jerked out of his grip a second time. 

“Rachel!” he called, louder. When no answer came, panic rose sharply in his throat. “Rachel, where are you? Rachel!” 

The world tilted around him. The pain in his face, the blood he could feel drying on his skin, and the disorientation all blurred together until he could barely keep his balance. Salim stayed close, trying to keep him from stumbling, but not forcing him. 

Outside, the thump of helicopter rotors hit the air. The sound of boots pounded toward them. Eric flinched at the noise just before a Marine caught him under the arms and began hauling him out of the ruined hut. 

“Rachel!” Eric’s voice cracked as he called again. “Rachel!” Each shout grew more strained, more desperate. The silence that answered him made something cold settle in his chest. If she wasn’t answering, if none of them were— 

“She has to be alive,” he muttered to himself, but it didn’t stop the dread building. 

The Marine pulled him into the helicopter. The moment he was inside, another pair of hands steadied him in a seat. Someone touched his head, and Eric flinched again before realizing they were trying to help—wrapping bandages carefully around his eyes, working to slow whatever bleeding remained. 

Everything felt unsteady now. His thoughts drifted, slipping out of focus as the helicopter lifted into the air. The noise around him became distant, muted under the rush in his ears. 

He leaned back against the seat, unable to hold himself upright anymore. The exhaustion, the blood loss, and the fear all caught up to him at once. 

The last thing he felt was the swaying of the helicopter before darkness swept over him completely. 

---  

Eric surfaced slowly, as if rising through dark water. The first thing he noticed was motion—steady, gentle, like he was being wheeled somewhere. Beneath him was something soft, something that shifted slightly with every bump. 

A gurney. It had to be. 

He turned his head weakly to the side, though it made no difference. Everything around him was still dark, unchanged. He could hear people nearby—voices speaking in low tones, footsteps hurrying past, the faint beeping of equipment. Something tugged at his arm, and he realized there was an IV there, taped in place. 

A voice somewhere close said, “He’s awake.” 

Before Eric could form a question, he felt a small pinch in his arm. A warm heaviness spread through him almost immediately. His thoughts dulled, slipping apart before he could hold onto them. His head tilted to the side, too heavy to keep up. 

The sounds around him became muffled, then distant. 

His last clear thought, fragile and frightened, flickered through his mind as everything went dim again: 

I hope they can fix my eyes. 

---  

When Eric woke again, the world felt steadier—muted by medication, but no longer burning with sharp pain. His face throbbed in a dull, heavy way, but at least it wasn’t the firestorm it had been before. 

He lifted a hand, fumbling to the side until his fingers bumped a metal railing. 

A hospital bed. That made sense. 

He tried to blink, pure instinct, and panic rushed through him when nothing changed—until he remembered the bandages. His hand drifted shakily upward, wanting to pull them off, to see again, even if only darkness waited. 

Footsteps approached, quick and purposeful. 

“Don’t do that,” someone said. 

The voice was close and calm—medical, practiced. Eric let his hand fall back to the blanket. He tilted his head slightly, trying to follow the sound. Whoever the speaker was, their words came through strangely muffled, and there was a soft rustling each time they shifted. 

A mask? A suit? He couldn’t be sure. 

“We did our best,” the medic said. “But we were only able to save one of your eyes.” 

Eric’s breath caught. For a moment it felt like the whole room moved around him. He forced out a thin whisper. “I’ll… see again?” 

“Hopefully,” the medic answered, gentle but cautious. “We won’t know for certain until the bandages come off.” 

“When… when will that be?” Eric croaked. 

“There was significant damage to your face,” the medic said. “You’ll have some deep scarring once it heals. But the bandages should come off in a few weeks. Until then, you’ll stay in quarantine so we can monitor for any signs of infection.” 

Eric heard them adjusting equipment beside him, disconnecting wires with soft clicks. Then the bed whirred as it lifted, angling him upward until he was sitting. Even that small motion made his face ache. 

“You need to go into quarantine now,” the medic told him. 

Eric nodded automatically and winced at the tug of pain across his features. Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His prosthetic was still attached—he could feel the familiar pressure of the socket—but his shoes were gone. A sock warmed one foot; the prosthetic side was bare. 

He hated that—hated feeling uneven, hated the exposed artificial foot even if no one else could see it right now. The muscles of his residual limb cramped faintly, a dull ache that told him he’d been wearing the prosthetic far too long without a break. 

He steadied himself with both hands. The medic didn’t rush him, just waited nearby with a quiet patience—someone accustomed to dealing with soldiers who woke frightened, disoriented, and hurting. 

Eric drew a slow breath, trying to gather himself. He felt weak, unbalanced, and vulnerable in a way he despised. 

But he pushed onward, because there was nothing else he could do. 

Eric pushed himself upright, legs unsteady beneath him. He wobbled hard, the room tilting for a moment, but he managed to stay on his feet. There was a brief pause—maybe the medic was making sure he wouldn’t collapse—and then a steady hand rested on his shoulder, guiding him forward. 

He went without resisting. He didn’t have much choice; blind and exhausted, he was relying completely on whoever was leading him. The medic walked him through a series of turns—hallways, maybe intersections—Eric couldn’t tell. Every step echoed differently, every shift in air felt foreign. Eventually they stopped, and he heard a door click open. 

He stepped inside when the medic nudged him forward. The door closed behind him with a final-sounding thud. 

Eric stood still, unsure of the space around him, unsure of anything. 

Then a familiar voice broke the silence. 

“Eric. You’re in the quarantine room. Are you alright?” 

Eric flinched violently. He hadn’t even realized someone else was here—hadn’t realized Salim was here. He stumbled back a step until his shoulders hit the closed door behind him, and that startled him into another flinch. 

“Who else made it out?” he asked. His voice shook. 

Salim hesitated, and that silence said enough before the words even came. 

“Just us,” he said quietly. 

Eric felt something twist painfully in his chest. If he still had the ability to let himself cry, he might have. They’d been so close—so close to all getting out together. And now it was just him… and the man he still wasn’t sure he could trust. 

Salim spoke again, carefully. “There are two mattresses on the floor. I’m sitting on one. There’s another to your left—just in front of you.” 

Eric paused, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. Then he nodded once, even though Salim couldn’t see the gesture. He lifted a hand and let it trail along the wall beside him, shuffling forward until his foot brushed something soft. 

The mattress. 

He lowered himself onto it slowly, muscles trembling from the effort. Once seated, he immediately reached down and began removing his prosthetic. His stump throbbed inside the socket—overworked, rubbed raw, probably blistered—but he couldn’t focus on that now. Not when the rest of him hurt worse, and not when everything else had fallen apart. 

At least he knew this routine by touch alone. Years of practice meant he didn’t need sight to unbuckle, twist, and slide the prosthetic off. He’d done it in the dark enough times. 

Without that muscle memory, today would’ve been impossible. 

He set the prosthetic aside with a soft clunk and exhaled shakily, the weight of the moment settling on him as the room fell quiet again. 

Eric could feel Salim watching him—the unmistakable prickle along his skin, the sense of someone’s attention lingering. He lifted his head, turning toward where he thought Salim was sitting. The motion felt strange without sight to anchor it. 

“We have a small bathroom as well,” Salim said, voice soft, careful. “The door is on the wall between you and me. Toilet, sink, shower. Simple.” 

Eric nodded. He hated relying on him—hated trusting someone he still reflexively labeled as the enemy—but the truth was, he didn’t have a choice. Not like this. Not when the world was nothing but darkness and muffled noise. 

He reached down and felt for the fabric around his stump, beginning to roll up the pant leg. This part was harder without being able to see what his hands were doing, but he managed. After a moment he muttered, “What am I wearing?” 

“Plain grey fatigues,” Salim replied. “Same as me. They took our clothes to test them.” 

Eric nodded again, jaw tightening. He didn’t like the idea of medics changing him while he was unconscious, but he had no say in it now. 

He ran his hands over the mattress, taking inventory—thin pillow, rough blanket, nothing else. No personal effects. No comfort. Just the bare minimum. 

He scooted back until his shoulders met the wall, pulling his knees close to his chest. The position made him feel smaller, tucked away, but it was the only thing that felt remotely stable. 

He hated this. 

He’d been so relieved to escape the darkness underground, to feel sunlight again… and now he was trapped in darkness anyway, unsure if it would ever go away. He couldn’t even let himself cry—not for the temples, not for his ruined eye, not for Rachel or the others, not for the crushing thought that his decisions had cost them everything. 

He wanted to cry desperately, wanted that release more than anything—but when he tried, nothing happened. Just dry breaths, tight throat, hollow ache. 

Maybe it would come back eventually. Maybe when he healed. But for now all he could do was sit there, holding himself together as best he could. 

And he hated every second of it. 

Salim shifted on the other side of the room—just a soft rustle of fabric and the creak of a thin mattress—but Eric heard it instantly. The sudden noise made him flinch hard. Some of it was nerves, the constant edge he’d been on since waking, but most of it was instinct. His body still treated Salim as a threat, still expected an attack now that Eric was vulnerable and unable to defend himself. 

Salim must have noticed, because he fell quiet for a moment before saying gently, “You can trust me. I am not the enemy.” 

Eric bit the inside of his cheek. “For all I know,” he murmured, “you could be pointing a gun at my head again.” 

“I would not do that,” Salim said. “We are on the same side now. And besides”—his tone softened further—“you think they would let me have a gun? You know these people better than I do.” 

Eric gave a small, tired shrug. “I don’t know anything anymore.” 

He heard Salim shift again—closer this time. Eric flinched and curled in on himself, instinctively pulling tighter into the corner as if making himself smaller might somehow protect him. Logic told him Salim wasn’t a threat, but instinct refused to let it go. 

“Hold out your hands,” Salim said quietly. 

Eric hesitated. Then, with a shaky breath, he extended his hands, palms up. He had no idea how close Salim was or what he intended. 

Warm hands settled on top of his. 

Eric jolted at the touch, but didn’t pull away. 

“See?” Salim said softly. “No weapon. Just me. You would have heard if I put anything down. I’m not going to harm you.” 

Eric swallowed, then gave a tiny nod. His shoulders stayed tense, but the panic in his chest eased a little. He hated how easily the lack of sight unraveled him—but he hated even more how grounding it felt to know someone else was here, close enough to touch, close enough to anchor him. 

Salim withdrew his hands and shuffled back to his own mattress. 

Eric tilted his head slightly, tracking the sound. The room was smaller than he’d first assumed. They had been nearer to each other the entire time without him realizing it. Strangely, that didn’t tighten the knot in his chest the way he expected. If anything, it steadied him. 

If something happened, Salim was here. 

Salim could see. More importantly, Salim didn’t want to hurt him. 

Eric still didn’t fully trust him—not yet. But for the first time since waking in darkness, he trusted him a little. 

Eric wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that—curled in on himself but never fully folding, because even the slight brush of his knees near his face sent a spike of pain through every bruised, swollen inch of it. Time felt strange without sight; it stretched and warped, thick as mud. For all he knew, minutes or hours were slipping past him in the same heavy silence. 

He couldn’t imagine how he was supposed to sleep tonight. Blind, aching, alone with a mind that wouldn’t stop replaying the same set of memories until they hollowed him out. If he’d had anything—walls to stare at, cracks to follow with his eyes, a book to hide in—maybe he could distract himself. But there was nothing. No visual anchor. No tasks. Just the dark, endless and suffocating and absolute. 

His thoughts circled the way vultures did—slow, inevitable. The temples. His decisions. Rachel’s scream. The gunshots. The team he should have kept safe but hadn’t. All of it his fault. All of it burned into him with perfect clarity, now that the world had taken away every other sense he could escape into. It was just… him. Him and the wreckage he’d caused. 

Every few minutes, he felt that faint prickling—Salim looking over. A shift of attention. Concern maybe. Eric wasn’t sure if Salim was actually worried or just checking to make sure the American soldier sharing his cell wasn’t losing it. Eric didn’t blame him either way. 

He hated the quiet, too. When he didn’t hear Salim moving—didn’t hear breathing, fabric rustling, the tiny sounds that proved he wasn’t alone—it felt like the void was swallowing everything. Sightless, soundless, thought-filled. A nightmare he couldn’t force himself awake from. 

His face throbbed steadily, each heartbeat a small explosion radiating through bone and skin. His eyes—what was left of them—burned with a deep, unrelenting ache that made him want to curl tighter, hold his breath, anything to make it stop. God, he needed painkillers. Something. Anything. But he doubted CENTCOM would rush for his comfort; they had their tests, their protocols. He would get what he got when they felt like delivering it. 

He swallowed hard, the motion tugging something in his cheek that hurt enough to make him flinch. His throat felt tight. Not quite grief—he wanted grief, needed it, the release of it—but he couldn’t cry. Couldn’t break. Couldn’t even let himself fall apart the way he knew he deserved to. 

He just sat there, breathing shallowly, hoping that at some point he’d get used to this. Or at least numb to it. 

Eric didn’t know whether minutes or hours had passed when a heavy clang hit the door. 

He jolted hard, breath catching, head snapping toward the sound on instinct even though the darkness didn’t change. His pulse thudded painfully in his temples. A creak followed—the hinges shifting—and he realized the first sound must’ve been the lock. 

Another softer clatter hit the floor. Then the door shut again, metal on metal, leaving the cell silent. 

Eric kept his face angled toward the door anyway, chest tight. Then he slowly turned his head toward where he hoped Salim was. 

“A soldier just brought in two trays of food,” Salim said. There was a rustle as he shifted. “One of them has a pot of painkillers on it.” 

Relief hit so sharply it made Eric dizzy. 

He reached out, hesitant—hands patting along the floor, searching blindly. Fingers brushed only cold concrete. 

Salim must have seen him struggling; a moment later, something slid gently across the floor and bumped his palm. 

“Here,” Salim murmured. 

Eric let out a breath. “Thank you,” he mumbled, barely audible, pulling the tray toward himself. 

He paused, sweeping his fingers carefully across the tray’s smooth surface, trying not to plunge his hand directly into anything warm or mushy. His fingertips found a small plastic cup. The pills. 

He shook them into his palm and swallowed them dry. His throat protested, tight and parched, but he forced them down anyway. Anything to blunt the screaming ache behind his ruined eyes. 

“What is it?” he asked quietly. 

“The food?” Salim confirmed. 

Eric nodded once, though he wasn’t sure if his movements were even aimed in the right direction. 

“Some kind of beef and potatoes,” Salim said. “Looks mostly like slop.” 

Eric made a faint sound of acknowledgement. Words felt hard—like everything inside him was pressing too heavy against his ribs to leave room for talking. 

His hand skimmed the tray until he found the fork. He oriented it by touch, then tried spearing something. He lifted the fork to his mouth— 

Nothing. 

He froze. Swallowed frustration. Tried again, slower this time, wishing so desperately he could see what he was doing. Wishing the two weeks would pass faster so he could know if his eye would heal, whether he’d ever look out of it again, whether his life was actually over or just… paused. 

The second try hit something soft against the tines. He brought it to his mouth and tasted lukewarm beef. Not good. Not awful. Just… fuel. 

He kept going, finding a rhythm after a few clumsy attempts. Somewhere beside him, he heard Salim pick up his own fork and start to eat. 

Eric didn’t know why Salim had waited. Maybe politeness. Maybe concern. Maybe he was just being cautious around an American officer he barely knew. 

Eric didn’t have the energy to care. 

All he cared about was the throbbing behind his bandages. The darkness pressing against the inside of his skull. The question that wouldn’t leave his mind: 

Will I ever see again? 

Eric ate what he thought was most of the tray before finally giving up, his fork scraping uselessly against the empty or unreachable parts of the plate. With a small, tired exhale, he pushed the tray a little farther away and leaned back against the wall again, letting his head rest there carefully. 

He went still. 

Everything felt wrong—his body heavy and aching, his face throbbing beneath the bandages, his thoughts spiraling with no way to escape them. He felt hollowed out and raw at the same time, stretched thin by pain and exhaustion and loss. All he wanted was to curl in on himself and cry until sleep took him, the way he had once upon a time, back when grief had first torn his world apart. 

But he couldn’t. Not like this. Not with his face damaged, not with the tight pull of stitches and swelling, maybe not ever again. The tears stayed locked somewhere deep inside him, unreachable. 

So instead he sat there, unmoving, trapped with his thoughts as they looped endlessly—every decision, every order, every moment in the temples replaying again and again. Guilt and grief churned together in his chest until it felt hard to breathe. 

He knew, distantly, that he should move. Learn the layout of the room. Go into the bathroom and figure out where everything was so he wouldn’t have to rely on Salim later. Maybe even try to talk—start some kind of conversation, anything to break the silence. 

But he didn’t. 

He stayed exactly where he was, blind and aching, staring into nothing, letting the quiet swallow him while he sat with the weight of everything he’d lost. 

Eventually, Eric couldn’t sit there any longer. 

The stillness was suffocating. He wanted to sleep—desperately—but the thought of lying down like this, unclean and sticky with dried blood and sweat, made his skin crawl. With a quiet breath, he began hauling himself upright, moving slowly and carefully, mindful of the fact that his prosthetic wasn’t on. 

He could feel Salim’s attention on him immediately. Watching. Not in a threatening way—more like concern, making sure he didn’t stumble and slam his face into something he couldn’t see. 

Eric braced a hand against the wall and took a moment to find his balance. Once he felt steady enough, he hopped forward, trailing his hand along the wall as he moved, searching for the bathroom. His fingers found the edge of a doorframe, but no handle. 

He paused, brow furrowing. “No door?” 

“No,” Salim said. “Just the frame. I won’t look. I promise.” 

Eric huffed quietly. “I’d say the same, but I don’t really have a choice.” 

Salim didn’t answer. Eric wasn’t sure what either of them could say to that. 

He hopped through the frame, keeping his hand against the wall. He bumped lightly into the toilet on the left, then reached the sink directly across from the doorway. Another step, and his fingers brushed tile and a slight lip—shower, opposite the toilet. 

Salim hadn’t been exaggerating. The bathroom was barely more than a closet. 

Eric felt around near the sink until his hand caught on a small metal ring with a towel hanging from it. He considered searching for a larger towel, maybe trying to shower, but quickly dismissed the idea. Showering blind was a bad enough idea on its own—doing it without a chair was worse. 

He chose to trust Salim’s word. 

He used the toilet, then washed his hands, moving slowly, memorizing the layout by touch. When he finished, he hesitated. His throat still felt dry. He wanted water—but the idea of leaning in and smashing his face into the faucet made his stomach twist. 

Carefully, he felt for the tap first, keeping one hand braced over it as a guard. Then, inch by inch, he leaned forward and drank, controlled and slow. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked. 

He straightened, relief washing through him, and carefully dried his hands and mouth, avoiding his face as much as possible. Once done, he hopped back out into the main room and lowered himself onto his mattress with care. 

He had no idea what time it was. Day or night meant nothing anymore. But exhaustion pressed down on him so heavily that it hardly mattered. 

Salim spoke, and Eric flinched, the sound catching him off guard. 

“I think the lights are starting to dim,” Salim said. “Must be getting late.” 

Eric tilted his head up out of habit, even though he couldn’t see the change. He made a small, noncommittal sound in agreement. 

He wanted to lie down. He really did. 

He just needed to find the energy to do it. 

The room stayed quiet for a long moment. 

Then Salim spoke, his voice low and careful. “How long do you have to wear the bandages?” 

Eric tensed despite himself. He swallowed and answered softly, “The medic said… a couple of weeks.” 

Another pause. “Do they think you’ll see again?” 

The words snagged painfully in Eric’s throat. He had to try twice before sound came out. “They think they saved one eye,” he murmured. “They don’t know if it’ll… if it’ll work.” 

His breathing hitched, chest tightening until it felt hard to draw air at all. 

“I’m sorry, Eric,” Salim said. 

The pity in his voice broke something fragile inside him. A raw, strangled sound escaped Eric before he could stop it. He pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking as he tried to force it back down. No tears came—just the awful, hollow sensation of sobbing without release, like his body had forgotten how. 

He didn’t want to tell Salim. He really didn’t. But there was no one else here. No one else who could hear him. 

“I was so glad,” he rasped, the words tearing out of him anyway. “So glad to see the sun. To be out of the dark—I never wanted to be in it again.” His breath stuttered. “And now I’m stuck in it. Forever.” 

Salim shifted closer. Eric felt the change in the air and flinched away instinctively. Salim stopped immediately, letting his hand fall back to his side, then shuffled a little nearer without touching him. 

“You will be alright,” Salim said gently. “They will take the bandages off. Your eye will be okay. I doubt they would have told you they saved it if they did not believe you would see again.” 

Eric nodded faintly. He drew his knees tighter to his chest, burying his face against them as much as he could without pressing on the swollen, aching injuries. Everything hurt—his face, his body, his thoughts—and the pain just made the fear worse, louder. 

Salim kept talking, quietly and steadily, offering reassurance without reaching for him. Eric couldn’t see him—couldn’t read expressions or gestures—but Salim’s voice filled the space, grounding in its own small way. 

It wasn’t enough to make the fear go away. 

But it was something. 

When Eric’s breathing finally evened out—when the ragged, half-choked gasps faded into something steadier—Salim’s quiet reassurances trailed off. 

Eric lifted his head slightly, turning toward where he thought Salim was. Even without sight, the habit was ingrained too deeply to break. 

“The lights are fully off now,” Salim said softly. “It must be nighttime.” 

Eric nodded faintly. His throat was still tight, words caught somewhere he couldn’t reach. Besides, the lights going out didn’t really mean anything to him anymore. 

Salim shuffled back toward his own mattress, the faint sound of fabric against concrete reminding Eric yet again how little space separated them. The distance—or lack of it—didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected. Slowly, without really meaning to, he was getting used to it. Getting used to him. 

He supposed he didn’t have much choice but to trust Salim now. 

Eric listened as Salim shifted again, the subtle sounds of someone settling down to sleep. After a moment’s hesitation, Eric followed suit. He carefully lowered himself onto his back, muscles protesting as he adjusted. He couldn’t curl into his usual position—couldn’t bury his face in the pillow or turn onto his side. Even the slightest pressure against his face sent sharp reminders of his injuries. 

So he lay flat, staring up into nothing. 

His eyes had been closed the entire time, so there was no real transition between being awake and trying to sleep. His body was exhausted, heavy with painkillers and fatigue, but his mind refused to quiet. He focused on slowing his breathing, on loosening the tension in his shoulders, but his thoughts kept looping—images of the temples, echoes of gunfire, Rachel walking away. 

Time stretched strangely. It felt like hours passed with him lying there, trapped inside his own head, though it might have only been minutes. Eventually, despite everything, exhaustion won out. 

Eric drifted off at last. 

His sleep was shallow and restless, but it was sleep all the same. 

Sleep pulled Eric straight back down into the temples. 

For a fleeting moment, all that mattered was that he could see again—stone walls, shadows, the familiar oppressive space—but then he registered the movement. A vampire emerged from the darkness ahead of him, slow and deliberate, stalking closer like it had all the time in the world. 

Panic spiked. Eric fumbled for the UV lamp on his belt, fingers closing around it in a rush of relief. He snapped it on. 

Nothing happened. 

The creature didn’t even flinch. It kept coming, head tilted as if amused. 

Eric’s heart hammered. He reached for his gun—gone. His knife—gone too. He was unarmed. Defenseless. 

He turned and ran for the door. It slammed shut just as he reached it, the impact echoing through the chamber. Trapped. He backed up instinctively, spine hitting the stone— 

The vampire lunged. 

Eric jolted awake with a scream, scrambling upright until his back hit something solid. The door. The dark was still there. He couldn’t see—couldn’t see—and the dark meant— 

His hands flew to his face, fingers clawing desperately at the bandages. 

Hands closed around his wrists. 

Eric lashed out on instinct, breath coming in sharp, broken pulls, panic drowning out everything else. The grip tightened—not painful, just firm, holding him still. 

“Eric,” Salim said urgently, close now. “It’s just me. You’re alright. We’re in quarantine. It was a dream.” 

Eric froze. Then he wrenched his arms back, flinching away from the contact. Salim released him immediately. 

Eric’s hands didn’t return to his face, but they clenched tight in the blanket twisted around his waist, fingers digging into the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring him. His heart was still racing, panic still surging through him, the dark pressing in on all sides. 

Dark meant danger. Dark meant monsters. 

But slowly—piece by piece—reality crept back in. The rough blanket beneath him. The steady sound of Salim’s breathing. His voice, calm and solid, right there beside him. 

Salim shifted closer—not enough to touch, not enough to crowd him, just close enough for Eric to sense him there. A presence. Proof that he wasn’t alone in the dark. 

Eric stayed rigid for a long moment, then drew in a shaky breath, gripping the blanket tighter as the nightmare loosened its hold. 

They sat in the quiet for a while after that, the darkness filled only by the sound of their breathing. Salim’s was deep and steady, grounding in its consistency. Eric’s came shallow and uneven, each breath still catching a little as he tried to calm the storm inside his chest. 

His face throbbed where he’d clawed at the bandages, a dull reminder of how close he’d come to hurting himself further. The images from the temples clung stubbornly to his mind, refusing to fade. Still, after a moment, he murmured, “You can go back to sleep. I’m fine.” 

There was a hesitation beside him. 

“…Alright,” Salim said quietly. 

Eric could hear it in the pause, could tell Salim knew he was lying. But Salim didn’t press. He shuffled back to his own mattress and lay down again, giving Eric the space he clearly needed. Trust was still fragile between them—maybe nonexistent—but at least Salim respected the boundaries Eric was clinging to. 

Eric stayed upright for a long while after that, knees drawn close, waiting for his thoughts to slow. He knew better than to try sleeping again too soon. If he did, the nightmares would drag him straight back under. He’d learned that the hard way years ago, after the car crash, after nights that blurred together in endless fear. 

Eventually, his breathing deepened. The sharp edge of panic dulled. The ache in his face softened slightly, muted by exhaustion and lingering medication. 

When he felt steady enough, he carefully lowered himself back down onto the mattress. He lay flat on his back, stiff and uncomfortable. He hated sleeping like this—never knew where to put his arms, never felt settled—but he didn’t have a choice anymore. 

Across the room, Salim’s breathing had evened out again. He was asleep. Eric knew he’d probably woken him with that scream, and the thought made his chest tighten with a mix of embarrassment and guilt. He hated that Salim had seen him like that—panicked, helpless—but he also knew that if Salim hadn’t been there, he might have hurt himself badly in his fear. 

He didn’t want to sleep again. Didn’t want to risk falling back into the dark, back into the temples. 

But his body was too tired to argue. 

Exhaustion pulled him under once more, gentle but unavoidable, and Eric let it take him, hoping—just this once—that the dark would stay quiet. 

Eric woke three more times before he finally gave up on sleep altogether. 

Each time was the same—heart slamming against his ribs, muscles tensing as if for a fight, hands grasping for threats that weren’t there. Waking blind made it worse every time. He’d rather be exhausted than keep surfacing like that, panicked and disoriented, lashing out at empty darkness. 

He had no idea what time it was. Night, morning—it all blurred together now. But he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t go back to sleep. Not again. Not if it meant being dragged back into the temples over and over. 

So he sat up, back resting against the wall. His body sagged against it, limp and heavy, like he was barely holding himself together. If the wall hadn’t been there, he might have just slumped forward and stayed that way. 

He wanted to go home. 

He wanted to feel the sun again, warm on his skin, real and solid and safe. But more than that—more than anything—he wanted to see. 

His entire life depended on it. His work, the satellites, the constant streams of data only he could interpret properly. The Army. His rank. How was he supposed to be a colonel if he was blind? How was he supposed to lead anyone when he couldn’t even see the room he was standing in? 

He tried to shove the thought away. 

It was immediately replaced with worse ones. 

Rachel was dead. 

The realization hit him with the same crushing weight it always did. She was gone, and he’d never seen her body. Never gotten to say goodbye. Never gotten to hold her face or kiss her one last time. There was no closure—just absence. 

He tried to push that thought away too. 

But there was nothing else to focus on. No sights, no distractions, no noise beyond the faint sounds of Salim breathing somewhere across the room. All Eric had were his thoughts—and his mind was cruel when left unchecked. 

Guilt. Memories. Regret. 

So many moments replayed on a relentless loop, his brain digging up every failure, every mistake, every loss. It felt like torture, slow and methodical, and he couldn’t escape it no matter how hard he tried. 

He sat there in the dark, exhausted and hollow, wishing—futilely—that something would change. 

When Eric heard Salim shift across the room, he turned his head toward the sound out of instinct, even though it didn’t change what he could see. There was a quiet groan as Salim stretched, the rustle of fabric as he settled again. 

Salim must have realized Eric was awake. “Good morning,” he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep. 

“Morning,” Eric replied automatically. Then he turned his head back to face forward, staring into nothing. 

Silence settled between them again for a few seconds before Salim rolled onto his back. “The lights are starting to turn on,” he said. “They’re dim right now.” 

Eric let out a tired breath. “I don’t care about the lights, Salim. They don’t change anything anyway.” 

There was a small pause. “I know,” Salim said. “I just thought it would be nice for you to know.” 

Eric turned toward him again, trying to fix Salim with a look out of sheer habit—even though Salim couldn’t see his eyes, and Eric wasn’t even sure he was facing him properly. 

Then Salim went still. 

There was a sharp rustle of movement, and Salim’s voice changed instantly. “Eric. Your bandages—they’re bleeding through.” 

Eric froze. He hadn’t felt anything different. Carefully, he lifted a hand to his face and brushed his fingers against the bandages. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were slick—warm and wet. 

His stomach dropped. 

Salim was already moving. “I couldn’t see it in the dark,” he said quickly. “I don’t know how long they’ve been like that.” 

A loud bang hit the door, making Eric flinch hard. Another followed, then another. 

It took him a second to realize Salim was the one making the noise. 

“Hey!” Salim shouted, pounding his fist against the metal. “He needs help in here!” 

The banging went on and on, echoing sharply in the small room. The sound grated against Eric’s nerves, each impact seeming far louder than it should have. He brought his hands up over his ears, curling forward slightly, trying to block it out. 

Everything felt too sharp—too loud, too close. Maybe his senses really were starting to overcompensate now that he couldn’t see. 

He focused on breathing, shallow and controlled, as Salim kept shouting for help, hoping someone—anyone—would hear them soon. 

There was a different clang at the door this time—the heavier, more deliberate sound that meant the lock was disengaging. Salim immediately stepped back, giving the doorway space. 

“I heard you the first time,” the medic said as he entered. “You didn’t need to keep banging. I had to put the suit on.” 

“How was I meant to know you heard me?” Salim snapped back, tension sharp in his voice. 

Eric lifted his head slightly. “Suit?” he asked quietly. 

“Hazmat suit,” the medic replied matter-of-factly. “In case you’re infected.” 

The medic crouched in front of Eric, close enough that Eric could sense him even without seeing. He tensed as gloved hands began carefully unwrapping the bandages around his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to open them, to try, just once, to see if the world was there again—but he forced himself to stay still. He barely breathed, afraid that even that might somehow ruin everything. 

Something cool pressed against the wound on his face. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, and Eric winced, a small, broken sound escaping him before he could stop it. 

“I’m just cleaning it,” the medic said calmly. “Making sure it doesn’t get infected.” 

Eric clenched his jaw and went still again, fingers curling tight into the blanket beneath him as he endured it. After a moment that felt far longer than it probably was, the pressure eased. The medic rewrapped the bandages with practiced efficiency, taping them securely in place. 

There was the soft sound of rummaging through a bag. “Hold out your hand.” 

Eric did, palm open. Pills dropped into it, solid and real. He swallowed them dry without hesitation, throat aching as they went down, desperate for the pain to dull even a little. 

“You’ll get more painkillers with each meal,” the medic said as he stood. “I’ll come change your bandages again in the morning. Until then, keep them dry. Don’t touch them.” 

Eric nodded once. 

He heard the medic cross the room, then the sharp clang of the door closing and locking again. The sound echoed, final and heavy. 

Across the room, Salim moved and sat back down on his mattress. The rustle of fabric settled, and then there was nothing but quiet. 

Eric leaned back against the wall again, exhaustion weighing on him, the pills already beginning to blur the sharpest edges of the pain. He was still blind. Still trapped. But for now, at least, the bleeding had stopped—and Salim was still there, breathing softly in the dark with him. 

Eric hesitated, fingers tightening slightly in the blanket. Then, quietly, he asked, “How bad is it?” 

There was a pause. Eric could almost hear Salim weighing the answer, deciding how much truth was too much. Finally, Salim said, “It looks bad… but it also looks healable.” 

Eric nodded once. He wanted to ask about his eyes—about whether they looked ruined, about whether one of them really might still work—but he swallowed the questions down. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer either way. Hope would hurt too much if it was taken away, and certainty would crush him if it was bad. For now, ignorance was easier. 

Silence settled between them again. 

Eric waited for the painkillers to take effect, for the constant throb in his face to dull into something more distant. Across the room, Salim was still too, probably replaying the image of blood soaking through white bandages, the helplessness of it. Eric could feel that lingering tension in the air, the aftermath of panic slowly ebbing away. 

But the quiet wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t the brittle, hostile silence Eric had expected from being trapped with an enemy soldier. It was almost… gentle. Soft in a way that surprised him. 

Even without words, Salim’s presence grounded him. The sound of another person breathing, shifting, existing in the same space anchored Eric to the moment. If he’d been alone in the room—blind, injured, locked in darkness with nothing but his thoughts—he knew he would have broken. Completely. 

And they’d only been in there a day. 

When the throbbing in his face had dulled to something more manageable, Eric shifted, forcing himself to sit a little straighter. He braced one hand against the wall and drew a slow breath, then another, before pushing himself up. It took more effort than he liked to admit. By the time he was standing, his breathing was heavy, his muscles trembling with the strain. 

His entire body felt like it was on fire. Getting up off the floor without his prosthetic had always been hard; doing it now, bruised and exhausted after everything in the temples, was worse. Still, he stayed upright, jaw clenched, and hopped carefully toward the bathroom. 

He decided to trust Salim when he’d said he wouldn’t look. Not that Eric would know if he did. 

He found the bathroom by feel, fingers skimming the wall until he crossed the threshold. The space was just as small as he remembered. He used the toilet, then washed his hands, moving slowly and deliberately. When he leaned forward to drink from the tap, he kept one hand hovering near his face, a cautious barrier to keep himself from knocking into the faucet. The cool water helped more than he’d expected, even if it was only for a moment. 

There wasn’t much else he could do. He couldn’t see, couldn’t risk getting the bandages wet, couldn’t really clean up the way he wanted to. With a quiet sigh, he turned and hopped back out into the room. 

Lowering himself onto the mattress was easier than getting up had been. He sat there for a moment, catching his breath, then leaned back against the wall again. Only then did it occur to him that he had no idea where his prosthetic was. He’d taken it off and set it down—or dropped it—somewhere in the room. 

He frowned faintly, then let the thought go. It wasn’t like he needed it in a space this small. Right now, just being upright, breathing, and not in immediate pain felt like enough. 

It was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that settled heavy in the air. Then Salim spoke again, hesitant. 

“How’d you get the, uh—” He faltered, clearly searching for the right word. “The fake leg.” 

Eric tilted his head toward the sound of his voice. “The prosthetic?” he offered. 

Salim nodded, then seemed to realize the gesture was pointless. “Yeah.” 

Eric hesitated, then said quietly, “Car crash. Three years ago.” 

Usually, the topic made him tense, set his teeth on edge. Now, it barely registered. What did it matter, really, when he couldn’t see? Compared to that, everything else felt secondary, almost irrelevant. 

There was another pause. “Not in the war?” Salim asked. 

Eric’s shoulders tightened. The irritation flared sharp and sudden. “People always assume that,” he said, the words coming out harsher than he meant. “They think it only counts if I lost it in combat. Like it’s more acceptable if it’s some big, heroic sacrifice.” He swallowed. “When they find out it was a crash, it’s like it’s… mundane. Like it doesn’t matter. Like losing my leg didn’t still ruin my life.” 

The room went still. 

“I’m sorry,” Salim said quietly. 

Eric shrugged, leaning back against the wall again. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t really want to talk about anything. But the alternative—sitting alone in the dark with nothing but his thoughts—was worse. 

He let out a soft sigh. “You got anyone waiting outside of here for you?” 

There was a rustle of fabric as Salim shifted, settling himself more comfortably. “My son,” he said. “Zain. He just turned eighteen.” 

Eric could hear it immediately—the warmth in Salim’s voice, the pride. But underneath it, there was something heavier too, a quiet ache at being separated, stuck here while his son was somewhere else. 

Salim cleared his throat. “What about you?” 

Eric’s breath left him slowly. “Not anymore,” he said. “Rachel… she was really all I had left.” 

Salim must have heard it—the flat resignation threaded through Eric’s words—because he shifted closer, stopping just short of touching him. “Hey,” he said softly. “We survived. We got out. That means something.” 

Eric shook his head, knees curling tighter to his chest. “It doesn’t matter,” he said hoarsely. “Nothing matters anymore. My wife is dead. I’m blind.” His throat worked around the words. “I’m going to lose my job. I can’t interpret satellite data if I can’t see it. There’s nothing left for me.” 

Salim’s voice softened further, careful and steady, like he was trying not to startle a wounded animal. “You’re still alive,” he said. “And they think you’ll get your sight back. Maybe not all of it, but some. You won’t be blind forever.” 

Eric shrugged, a small, defeated movement. It didn’t feel worth clinging to, not right now. Not when everything that had defined his life felt like it had been stripped away in a matter of hours. 

Salim tried again, the words chosen slowly, deliberately. “You think your life is only what you’ve lost,” he said. “But you’re more than your job, more than your eyes. You led people. You saved lives. You’re still the same man, even if things have changed. Change doesn’t mean it’s over.” 

Eric didn’t respond. He stayed folded in on himself, head bowed, listening without really hearing, not quite believing any of it. 

After a moment, Salim shifted again, this time closing the remaining distance. His shoulder brushed against Eric’s, his arm resting lightly along Eric’s side. 

Eric tensed instinctively, breath hitching—then slowly, his shoulders dropped. He didn’t pull away. 

He didn’t have the energy to keep flinching. Not now. Not trapped in this room for who knew how long. Not when some part of him no longer truly believed Salim was the enemy. Not when he had to trust him, at least enough to tell him what was happening beyond the darkness. 

And besides… the contact helped. 

It was grounding. Warm. A simple reminder that he wasn’t alone, that there was another living, breathing person beside him in the dark. For the first time in hours, the void didn’t feel quite so endless. 

They sat like that for a while, side by side, not moving or talking, just existing together. Eric hated to admit—even to himself—how much simply having someone there helped. The steady warmth at his side, the faint sounds of breathing and shifting fabric, anchored him in a way nothing else had managed to. 

The sudden clang of the door unlocking made him nearly jump out of his skin. His shoulders shot up, heart stuttering, and it took him a second to realize what it was. Two quieter clatters followed as trays hit the floor, and then the door shut again with a final, echoing thud. 

Salim shifted to his feet. Before Eric could even start fumbling around, Salim picked up one of the trays and carefully set it in Eric’s lap. 

“Thank you,” Eric murmured. 

Salim sat back down beside him with his own tray, close enough that their elbows brushed now and then. It wasn’t intrusive—just there. 

Eric ran his fingers along the edge of the tray, methodical, searching. He found the small pill container and tipped the contents into his palm, swallowing the two pills dry without hesitation. Then he felt around for the fork, tracing the shallow dip where it should have been. 

Nothing. 

He hesitated. “What is it?” 

Salim swallowed his bite before answering. “Some sort of sandwich. Corned beef, I think.” 

Eric nodded and reached out again, finding the sandwich by feel. He picked it up carefully and took a bite, grimacing at the dry bread and then wincing as the movement tugged at his face. It wasn’t good—far from it—but he took another bite anyway. He knew he needed the food, even if every chew reminded him of how wrecked he felt. 

Beside him, Salim ate quietly. The sounds grated on Eric’s nerves more than he liked, sharp and intrusive in the silence, but he pushed the irritation aside. There was nothing to be done about it. 

So he ate, slowly and carefully, sharing the quiet with the only other person in the room. 

Salim finished eating first, mostly because of how slowly and carefully Eric took each bite. Eric didn’t have much of an appetite anyway, and when he finally set the last bit of the sandwich down, it was clear he was done. 

Salim took the tray from him without comment, stacking it with his own near the door before returning to sit beside him again. 

Eric leaned his head back against the wall and sighed softly. Even if he hadn’t been blind, he knew he’d already be getting restless. Trapped in a bare room with nothing to do, nothing to distract him, time stretched in a way that made everything feel heavier. 

They sat in silence for a moment. 

Then Salim gently nudged Eric’s shoulder. “I think I’m going to shower.” 

Eric nodded. “Alright. Have fun.” 

Salim stood and moved into the bathroom. Without a door, it wasn’t like he’d gone far, but the subtle shift in sound told Eric exactly where he was. Eric might have said he wouldn’t look, but the thought almost made him snort—he physically couldn’t, so it didn’t matter. 

He sighed again and shifted onto his side, curling in on himself slightly. The pillow pressed against his head, and the contact sent a dull ache through his face, but it was mild enough to tolerate. He stayed still once he found a position that didn’t hurt too badly. 

He’d spent hours like this once before—curled up, unmoving, grieving the loss of his leg when it had first happened. The memories slid into place too easily. 

He supposed this was the same thing now. Grieving the loss of his eyes. 

Sure, there was a chance he’d get at least one of them back. But that was all it was—a chance. And Eric had never been particularly lucky when it came to those. 

Eric heard the water turn on, followed almost immediately by a sharp hiss from the bathroom. 

He tilted his head slightly. “You alright?” 

Salim’s voice came back tight and strained. “It’s freezing cold.” 

Eric huffed softly. “Sounds great.” 

After that, the room filled with the steady rush of water, broken only by Salim’s occasional, muttered curses as the cold clearly refused to improve. Eric listened without really thinking about it, letting the sound anchor him, something real and present instead of his own thoughts. 

When the water finally shut off, there was a flurry of movement—fabric rustling, quick and clumsy, like someone drying off in a hurry. 

Eric lifted his head as Salim re-entered the room, instinctively tracking the sound of his steps even though he couldn’t see him. Salim sat down on his mattress. 

“There are clean clothes and towels in there,” Salim said. “Shelf’s up high. I don’t know if you found it.” 

“I didn’t,” Eric mumbled. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Salim replied, and Eric could hear the faint smile in his voice. 

Eric curled in on himself a little more, arms tucked close, the weight of his own body the only thing grounding him. Being without his sight left him feeling exposed in a way he hadn’t expected, every sound sharper, every silence heavier. 

He hated the quiet most of all. In the silence, there was nothing to keep his thoughts from closing in on him, nothing to pull him out of his head. 

And right now, his head was the last place he wanted to be. 

Eric hesitated, then spoke quietly, almost unsure of the words. “You, uh… you got any stories? About your son, maybe?” 

There was a brief pause, a soft shift of fabric as Salim adjusted where he was sitting. Then his voice warmed, a smile evident even without seeing it. “Of course.” 

Another pause followed as Salim thought, then he began to talk. He told Eric about a small garden outside their home, about how he and his son had planted pumpkins together when Zain was younger. How they’d watered them carefully at first, then forgotten about them as life got busy. Years later, pumpkins kept sprouting up anyway, stubborn and impossible to get rid of no matter how many times they cleared the patch. 

Eric smiled faintly, the expression barely tugging at his sore face, and stayed very still as he listened. The story gave him something solid to hold onto, something to build in his mind that wasn’t blood-soaked stone or screaming in the dark. He pictured the garden as Salim described it—the dirt under their hands, the vines crawling everywhere, a young boy laughing as another pumpkin appeared where it shouldn’t have. 

In his head, it became vivid enough that he could almost see it, like he’d been there himself. 

It helped more than he wanted to admit. His breathing slowed, his chest easing as the temples loosened their grip on his thoughts. For once, there was no monster waiting in the shadows of his mind—just sunlight, soil, and something that kept growing despite being forgotten. 

Salim kept talking, his voice steady and animated. He sounded… happy, in a quiet way, like sharing the memories helped him too. 

Salim’s voice trailed off as the story came to a natural end. The room settled into silence again, softer than before. 

Eric swallowed and murmured, “I’m sorry you’re stuck in here with me.” 

Salim gave a small, almost amused smile. “It’s alright. It’s better than you being stuck in here by yourself.” 

Eric shrugged, shoulders lifting and falling. He knew he wasn’t exactly good company right now. Miserable, blind, and barely holding himself together—he couldn’t imagine anyone choosing this. 

Salim must have sensed the heaviness settling back over him, because after a moment he spoke again. “You know, there was this time Zain tried to surprise me with breakfast.” 

Eric tilted his head toward Salim, the only sign that he was listening. 

Salim continued, describing how Zain had burned nearly everything and filled the house with smoke, how the smoke alarm went off and they’d both been coughing and laughing at the same time. The story flowed easily into another one, and then another, each memory sliding into the next without effort. 

The room filled with words and images—small kitchens, loud mornings, moments that had nothing to do with war or darkness or blood. Eric clung to them, letting them crowd out the worst of his thoughts. 

For the first time since he’d woken up blind, the darkness didn’t feel like it was closing in on him. He wasn’t flinching at every sound, wasn’t half-expecting something to lunge out of the shadows. Salim’s voice anchored him, steady and real. 

Eric hated how much he needed it. 

But by now, he had to admit something to himself. If Salim had wanted to hurt him, he’d had more than enough chances. He hadn’t taken a single one. 

Against his will, and against his instincts, Eric found himself starting to trust him. 

The longer Salim kept talking, the more Eric sank into the thin pillow beneath his head, his body slowly going slack as the tension drained out of him. Every muscle that had been clenched tight since the temples seemed to loosen all at once, leaving him heavy and exhausted. 

Salim’s voice was oddly soothing. Steady, warm, real. The more Eric listened to it, the harder it became to keep his eyes—pointlessly shut already—focused on staying awake. Sleep crept in quietly this time, not dragging him under kicking and screaming, but easing its way in. 

He figured it probably wasn’t a bad thing. He’d barely slept at all the night before, and he knew—logically, at least—that he needed rest if he wanted to heal. He wanted to heal. He wanted this nightmare to end as quickly as possible. 

Eric shifted slightly, adjusting his position until the pressure on his face eased just enough, then went still again. His breathing slowed, evening out as he let himself give in. 

Salim kept talking, but his tone changed, dropping softer, quieter, like he’d noticed Eric drifting and didn’t want to startle him awake. It only made the words more comforting, wrapping around Eric and pulling him deeper down. 

For the first time since everything had gone wrong, Eric felt like he might actually get some real rest. 

---  

Eric was jolted out of sleep by the loud clang of the door unlocking. He lurched upright, heart slamming hard in his chest, breath hitching as instinct kicked in before reason could catch up. It took a second for the panic to ease, for him to remember where he was. 

Not the temples. Quarantine. 

He forced himself to breathe. 

Two quieter clatters followed as trays were set down, then a scrape of metal against concrete that made him tilt his head in confusion before it clicked—the old trays being taken away. The door shut again with a solid finality. 

Eric leaned forward, fingers skimming over the concrete as he searched blindly. Before he could find anything, the tray slid into his reach. 

“It’s some sort of meat and potatoes again,” Salim said, “but there are green chunks this time. Some kind of vegetables.” 

Eric huffed softly. “Normal military rations. Those vegetables either taste like nothing or like nail polish remover.” 

Salim snorted, the sound brief but genuine, then picked up his fork. 

Eric felt along the tray for the small cup of pills first, tipped them into his hand, and swallowed them dry without hesitation. Then he fumbled for the fork and started eating as well. The short nap had helped—his appetite had returned a little—but the moment he tasted the vegetables, it dipped again. 

Nail polish remover. Definitely. 

He grimaced but kept eating. Normally he’d just avoid them, but not being able to see made that nearly impossible. He tried to judge by texture, by how firm something felt on the fork, but the vegetables varied just enough that he still ended up eating most of them anyway. 

He gave up about halfway through, pushing the tray away when the hunger faded again. Salim picked it up without comment and set it by the door with the others. 

Eric leaned back against the wall, shoulders slumping. He was still tired, bone-deep exhausted, but now he also felt gross—sweaty, sticky, uncomfortable in his own skin. 

Maybe he’d change clothes in a bit, he thought. When he could find the energy. 

Eric was just about to haul himself upright when Salim spoke. 

“You sleep alright?” 

Eric faltered, instinctively turning his head toward Salim even though it didn’t help. His voice came out quiet and rough. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Salim smiled, and Eric could hear it in his voice. “Good. I’m glad. You needed it.” 

Eric nodded, then pushed himself up, bracing a hand against the wall. He took a second to steady himself before moving, fingers finding the edge of the bathroom doorway. He hopped awkwardly inside, careful and slow. 

He knew he should probably put his prosthetic back on, but his stump was already aching, the phantom pain humming beneath his skin. The thought of making it worse was enough to put it off. 

He went to the sink first and carefully drank from the tap, taking his time so he didn’t bump his face. The cool water helped his dry throat, grounding him a little. After that, he started feeling along the walls, searching for the shelf Salim had mentioned. 

Up high, he’d said. 

Eric stretched his arm, fingers sweeping uselessly through empty air. Nothing. He took another step forward—and his footing slipped. He lurched, hitting his side against the glass of the shower with a dull knock, barely managing to stop himself from pitching forward. 

He swore softly under his breath as he caught his balance, heart racing for a moment. 

From the other room, Salim called, “You alright?” 

Eric hesitated, then sighed. “Can’t find the shelf.” 

Eric heard Salim stand and step into the bathroom. 

“It’s over here,” Salim said. 

Eric turned toward the sound, hopping closer, and reached up—but his hand swept through empty air again. He frowned slightly, arm straining. 

Salim hesitated only a moment before gently taking Eric’s hand in his own. Eric stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to stay still as Salim carefully guided his hand upward. 

“There,” Salim said. 

Eric’s fingers bumped against the edge of the shelf. It was absurdly high—far higher than he would’ve expected. He never would have found it on his own. 

Salim pulled down a folded set of clothes and placed them into Eric’s hands. 

“Thanks,” Eric said quietly. 

“You’re welcome,” Salim replied. “There’s a laundry chute in the wall on your right, too.” 

Eric slid his hand along the wall until his fingers found the opening. “Got it. Thanks.” 

Salim left the room again, giving him space. 

Eric stripped out of his clothes slowly, carefully, dropping them piece by piece into the chute. He pulled on the pants first, fumbling to get his legs through while keeping his balance without the prosthetic. It took more effort than he wanted to admit. 

The shirt was worse. He tried once, then twice, getting his head caught in the wrong opening before finally managing to pull it on properly. By the time he was dressed, he was breathing harder than he should’ve been. 

He hopped back out of the bathroom and lowered himself carefully onto the mattress again, muscles trembling with the effort. Even that small task had drained him. 

Despite the nap—despite actually sleeping without nightmares for once—he was still bone-tired. 

Without thinking, he lifted a hand toward his face, then froze when his fingers brushed the bandages. 

Right. 

He let his hand drop back to his lap, jaw tightening as the reality settled in all over again. 

Salim spoke softly from across the room. “Your shirt’s on inside out.” 

Eric paused, then swore under his breath. With a frustrated huff, he started tugging the shirt back off, careful not to drag the fabric across his face. By the time he had it over his head, it occurred to him that he was now shirtless in front of Salim—but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Between the two of them, scars and bruises were probably a given. 

He tried to turn the shirt the right way around, fingers fumbling uselessly with the fabric until it twisted into an unhelpful ball. A sharp spike of anger flared in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he dropped it to the floor with a small, irritated flick of his wrist. 

He heard Salim move. A moment later there was the quiet rustle of fabric as Salim picked the shirt up and turned it the right way around. He stepped closer and held it out. 

Eric blew out a sharp breath, forcing himself to calm down. He reached out, missing it once, then twice, before his fingers finally closed around the fabric. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

“You’re welcome,” Salim replied gently. 

Eric pulled the shirt back on, fumbling for the correct openings again but managing it a little faster this time. When it was finally on, he leaned back against the wall, shoulders sagging. 

He was exhausted now—physically, mentally, in every way that mattered—and all he could do was sit there and let it wash over him. 

After a moment, Eric shifted and carefully lay down, curling onto his side. He angled his head awkwardly, adjusting until the pillow rested in a way that didn’t put too much pressure on his face. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was bearable. 

He had no idea if the lights were starting to turn off or how late it was. He didn’t care. He was exhausted down to his bones, and all he wanted was sleep. 

The room stayed quiet for a bit, the silence no longer sharp, just heavy and dull. 

Then Salim spoke softly. “The lights are starting to dim.” 

Eric hummed in response, a vague sound of acknowledgment, and tugged the blanket up around his shoulders. The fabric was thin, but it helped him feel a little more contained, a little safer. 

Salim shifted as well. Eric couldn’t tell if he’d laid down or simply adjusted where he was sitting. 

“Goodnight, Eric,” Salim said quietly. 

Eric hesitated, then murmured, “Night.” 

Despite how tired he was, sleep didn’t come easily. His thoughts drifted and circled, slow and unfocused, but they didn’t drag him under right away. Still, eventually, exhaustion won out. 

He finally slipped into sleep, his breathing evening out as the room settled into darkness once more. 

Eric’s sleep didn’t drag him back down into the depths of the temples this time. 

Instead, it pulled him into the shepherds’ huts. 

He stood there with his gun raised, hands shaking as he aimed it at the Iraqi in front of him. The man’s hands lifted slowly into the air, empty, nonthreatening. Eric’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat. 

He had to shoot. That was what he was supposed to do, right? 

But then the man came into focus. 

It was Salim. 

Eric faltered, the barrel of his gun dipping before he forced it back up again, his grip trembling even worse now. His mind scrambled uselessly. Why was Salim here? Why was he here? He wasn’t supposed to be on the battlefield—he was the satellite guy, the one behind screens and data. He wasn’t meant to be pointing a gun at another human being. 

His hands shook violently as he tightened his grip, trying to steady himself. 

He had to shoot. 

Didn’t he? 

But it was Salim. 

He couldn’t shoot Salim. He couldn’t. 

Eric squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching, finger beginning to tense on the trigger— 

Hands grabbed his shoulders. 

He jolted awake with a hoarse gasp, scrambling backward until his spine hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The hands released him immediately. 

“Eric,” Salim said softly, close and real, “you’re alright. It was just a dream.” 

Eric panted, chest heaving, sweat slicking his back and making his clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin. The image was still burned into his mind—his gun aimed at Salim’s chest, Salim’s hands raised in surrender, like he already knew Eric couldn’t pull the trigger. 

Eric lifted a hand toward his face out of habit, then stopped short when he remembered. 

Right. He couldn’t. 

A shaky breath tore out of him. He hated waking up from nightmares blind. Hated how much harder it made everything—how disorienting it was, how the darkness refused to fade, how there was nothing to look at to convince himself he was safe. 

He stayed pressed to the wall, breathing hard, trying to ground himself in the sound of Salim’s voice and the solid floor beneath him as the dream slowly loosened its grip. 

Eric heard Salim shift beside him, the sound small but unmistakable in the quiet room. His head turned instinctively toward it, tracking the movement even though he couldn’t see. A moment later, Salim sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. 

Eric stiffened on reflex, every muscle locking for a heartbeat. 

Then the tension bled out of him all at once. 

His head tipped back against the wall, hands curling tightly into the blanket beneath him as his body gave up the fight. The steady warmth at his side anchored him, reminded his racing mind that he wasn’t in the huts anymore—that he wasn’t standing with a gun in his hands. He was here, in the quarantine room. With Salim. Alive. 

His breathing was still too fast, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as he tried to get control of it. 

When Salim’s hand brushed against his, Eric flinched, a sharp, instinctive jerk—but he didn’t pull away. Instead, Salim gently took his hand, fingers closing around Eric’s with careful pressure, grounding rather than demanding. 

Eric tensed again for a second, then went limp, his fingers loosening and curling weakly around Salim’s in return. 

“You’re alright,” Salim murmured, voice low and steady. “It was just a dream.” 

Eric nodded once. He couldn’t make his throat work well enough to answer, the words caught behind tightness and lingering fear. 

The side of his face burned dully, like he’d struck it against the wall. Maybe he had. He must have been moving enough for Salim to wake him, and the thought sent a small shiver through him. He didn’t want to think about how that dream might have ended if Salim hadn’t been there. 

Salim squeezed his hand again, slow and reassuring, continuing to murmur quiet, grounding words—nothing elaborate, just steady reminders that Eric was safe, that he was here, that he wasn’t alone. 

Gradually, Eric’s breathing eased. The rapid panting slowed into uneven breaths, then steadied further until he was actually breathing again instead of fighting for air. He stayed where he was, fingers still loosely tangled with Salim’s, letting the last echoes of the nightmare fade into the dark. 

Eric wasn’t sure how long they sat there like that, time stretching and blurring in the dark. Salim’s hand stayed firm around his, their arms and shoulders brushing, steady and unmoving. The warmth seeping into his side grounded him more than anything else could have. It was real. Solid. Proof that they were both still alive. 

He hadn’t shot Salim. 

The thought repeated itself over and over in his head, slow and heavy. He didn’t understand why the idea of pulling the trigger felt so wrong now. They were supposed to be enemies. That was how this worked. That was how it had always worked. And yet the mere thought of it made something twist painfully in his chest. 

He couldn’t bring himself to follow that line of thinking any further. 

Salim must have felt the tension creep back into Eric’s shoulders, because his grip tightened just slightly, a gentle squeeze meant to draw him back. “You’re alright,” Salim murmured again, voice low and calm. 

Eric hated how much it helped. 

Hated how that voice could cut through the fog in his head, could pull him back from the edge when everything inside him was screaming. His hands were still shaking, small, uncontrollable tremors running through his fingers—but the one held in Salim’s was steadier, the movement dampened by the contact. 

He didn’t know when he’d started trusting Salim like this. Didn’t know when relying on him had stopped feeling dangerous and started feeling necessary. All he knew was that without Salim there, without that steady presence in the dark, he would have shattered long before now. 

Even so, the fear hadn’t disappeared. He could feel it humming just beneath the surface, waiting for an opening, waiting to surge back up and swallow him whole. For now, it stayed held at bay by warmth, by touch, by a quiet voice reminding him—over and over—that he was still here. 

Eventually, the exhaustion began to outweigh the fear. 

Eric’s head started to dip forward, chin brushing against his chest before it tipped sideways, nearly resting against Salim’s shoulder. He barely registered it happening, his body giving in despite his mind’s lingering unease. Salim gave his hand another gentle squeeze, steady and reassuring. 

“You should lay down, Eric,” Salim said softly. 

Eric lifted his head with effort, blinking uselessly into the dark, then nodded. He shifted carefully, curling back onto his side, positioning his head so the pillow didn’t press too hard against his face. Every movement was slow, deliberate, dictated by soreness and fatigue. 

He heard Salim move, the soft rustle of fabric as he stood and crossed the small space before settling back onto his own mattress. The distance felt larger than it had a moment ago. 

Eric hesitated, fingers tightening briefly in the blanket. “Thank you,” he mumbled, the words barely audible. 

There was a short pause, then Salim replied, warmth unmistakable in his voice. “You’re welcome.” 

That was all it took. 

The moment the room fell quiet again, sleep dragged Eric under with relentless force. He didn’t want to sleep—not so soon after a nightmare, not with the images still lingering at the edges of his thoughts—but his body refused to listen. Exhaustion wrapped around him, heavy and inescapable, and within moments he was asleep again, breathing slow and even in the dark. 

---  

The next time Eric woke, he woke slowly for once, surfacing from sleep like rising through water instead of being dragged violently to the surface. 

For a few hazy seconds, there was only warmth and the dull awareness of the mattress beneath him. His body felt heavy but rested, muscles sore in a distant, manageable way. He shifted slightly, instinctively trying to open his eyes—and then his mind caught up. 

Right. 

He let his head fall back onto the pillow with a quiet exhale. It hurt less this time. The swelling had gone down enough that the pressure wasn’t sharp anymore, just a muted ache, the bruises beginning to fade from angry pain into something more bearable. 

He lay there, listening. 

Salim was awake. Eric could tell by the unevenness of his breathing, the faint movements across the room. The realization made his jaw tighten. He hated that he was starting to notice things like that, hated that his brain was learning to catalogue tiny sounds and changes because it had no other choice. 

Still half-asleep, Eric murmured, “Morning.” 

“Good morning,” Salim replied. 

His voice was quiet, a little rough around the edges, like he’d only just woken up himself. 

Eric swallowed, irritation flaring briefly at the fact that he could tell that, too. He didn’t want this heightened awareness, didn’t want to learn the texture of the world through sound and air instead of sight. He just wanted his eyes back. He wanted things to be the way they were supposed to be. 

But underneath the frustration and despair was a quieter realization. 

He’d slept. 

Really slept. 

No jolting awake. No temples. No blood-soaked visions waiting for him in the dark. His body felt steadier for it, and his mind—though still foggy with sleep—felt a little sharper, a little less frayed around the edges. 

He didn’t say anything about it. He just lay there, breathing slowly, letting his body enjoy the rare relief while it lasted. 

Eric lay there for a moment longer, letting that realization settle. 

No jolting panic. No gunshots echoing in his head. No hands raised in surrender burned into the backs of his eyes. Just the quiet hum of the room, the faint sounds of another person breathing nearby. 

It almost felt… normal. 

Almost. 

He swallowed, throat dry, and shifted slightly, testing his body. Everything still ached, but it was a duller pain than before, more manageable. His face still throbbed, but not sharply, and the pressure of the pillow against his cheek was tolerable now. Healing, even if it was slow. 

After a moment of just lying there in the quiet, Eric murmured, “What are the lights doing?” 

“They’re turning on,” Salim said. “Still dim, though.” 

Eric hummed in response. The lights didn’t make any difference to him, but knowing what was happening helped more than he wanted to admit. Not knowing left too much room for his mind to spiral. 

Silence settled again. 

Then Salim said softly, “Your bandages are bleeding through again.” 

Eric didn’t bother lifting his head. He just hummed once more and said, “The medic said they’d be back in the morning.” 

Salim didn’t answer, but Eric could feel the concern hanging there anyway, thick and unspoken. He shifted carefully, rolling onto his back so the blood wouldn’t soak into the pillow beneath his head. It was inevitable, really. With how bad the damage supposedly was, the bandages were never going to stay clean for long—not that Eric could see any of it. 

He sighed. 

He hated all of this. Hated the helplessness, hated the waiting, hated that his brain had already started instinctively cataloguing sounds and movements, building a map of the room without his consent. He didn’t want to adapt. He didn’t want to learn how to live like this. He wanted to see. He wanted his life back. 

There was a faint shift of fabric across the room as Salim presumably looked over at him, drawn by the sound of his sigh. He didn’t say anything, but Eric could almost feel the tension radiating off him, the worry centered on Eric’s face and the steadily darkening bandages. 

“The medic’ll be here soon,” Eric said quietly, more to reassure Salim than himself. “I’ll be fine.” 

Whether Salim believed him or not, he stayed silent, and Eric lay there staring into nothing, counting his breaths and waiting for morning to arrive. 

When the door finally started unlocking, Eric still hadn’t moved. 

At some point Salim had gotten up, gone into the bathroom, then returned to sit on his own mattress, but Eric had stayed exactly where he was, flat on his back, staring into nothing. What was the point in moving? He couldn’t see, and even if he could, there was nothing here to see. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. 

The door clanged open. Footsteps entered the room. 

Eric turned his head toward the sound and pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, bracing one hand against the wall for balance. His whole body felt heavy, like gravity had doubled overnight. 

The medic crouched in front of him. 

Eric stiffened, shoulders tensing as he prepared himself for the touch. Gloved hands settled at his temples, steady and clinical, and the bandages were slowly peeled away. He had to fight every instinct not to open his eyes, not to test it, not to see if anything had changed. 

God, he wanted to see. 

Something cool was pressed to his face, then something sharper, and pain pulsed through him in a dull, spreading throb. Eric hissed quietly through his teeth, jaw clenching as the medic cleaned the wound. It felt like the pain went straight through his skull. 

“Almost done,” the medic muttered. 

Fresh bandages were wrapped around his eyes, firm but careful, then taped into place. The pressure was different this time—cleaner, tighter. 

“Hold out your hand.” 

Eric did, palm up. Two pills dropped into it, and he swallowed them dry without hesitation, throat already used to the routine. 

The medic stood, footsteps retreating. The door shut with another heavy clang, sealing them back in. 

Eric stayed where he was, shoulders slumped, head tipped down as if he were staring at his lap, even though he couldn’t see it. He felt hollow, like the last of his energy had drained out with the medic’s departure. 

A tray slid softly across the floor. 

“Here,” Salim said quietly. 

Eric startled slightly. He hadn’t even heard the trays being put down. 

Maybe his brain wasn’t compensating as much as he thought. Maybe that meant something. Maybe that meant his sight would come back. 

He pushed the thought away before it could take root. 

Eric lifted the tray and settled it in his lap, fingers tracing the familiar edges. He didn’t start eating. He just sat there, shoulders sagging, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him as he listened to Salim’s steady presence beside him and tried not to think about how badly he needed hope. 

After a moment, Eric lifted his head toward Salim and quietly asked, “Did it… look better this time?” 

There was a pause. Just long enough for Eric to brace himself. 

“I think it’s healing,” Salim said at last. 

Eric let out a slow breath. Healing meant time, and time was the one thing he didn’t want to wait for. He wanted to see now. Wanted proof. But he knew better than to rush it, knew that the only way out of this was through it. Taking care of his body was the only control he had left. 

He ran his fingers along the edge of the tray until he found the fork and started eating. 

He took one bite, chewed, then grimaced. “What is it?” 

“Some sort of bacon and eggs, I think,” Salim replied, and even he couldn’t quite hide the disgust in his voice. 

Eric sighed softly and took another bite anyway. It was bland and rubbery and vaguely unpleasant, but it was food, and food meant healing. He forced his way through it until he was done. 

Salim reached across the narrow gap between the mattresses, took Eric’s tray from his hands, and stacked it by the door with the others. 

Eric hesitated. 

Then he reached out slightly, fingers fumbling in the air until they brushed the edge of Salim’s mattress. He stilled, as if unsure whether he’d overstepped. 

Salim paused. “You alright?” 

“Just…” Eric said quietly, “…finding the layout of the room.” 

Salim hummed in understanding. “The gap between me and you is about the same width as the doorway. Everything’s packed in tight.” 

Eric frowned faintly. “Thought it was bigger than that.” 

There was a brief, awkward shuffle of movement, and then Salim shifted closer, the sound of fabric brushing concrete giving Eric a clearer picture than sight ever could. Salim must have been half perched against the doorframe before when he’d come and sat with Eric, spine barely supported, the rest of him not leaning against anything at all. 

A tight knot of guilt settled in Eric’s chest. 

He hadn’t realized Salim had been that uncomfortable—especially after sitting with him through nightmares, after being the one to ground him when everything else fell apart. Eric swallowed, shoulders tensing slightly. 

Next time, he’d move. He’d make space. Maybe sit sideways, share the mattress properly so they both had somewhere to lean. 

It was a small thing. But right now, small things were all he had. 

It was quiet for a while after that, the kind of quiet that came from having nothing else to do and nowhere else to be. They just existed there together, breathing, listening to the faint hum of the lights overhead. 

Then Salim broke the silence. “Do you want to play a game?” 

Eric tilted his head toward him. “What games can I play blind?” 

Salim paused, clearly thinking it through. “Would you rather. Rock, paper, scissors. Twenty questions. Never have I ever. There’s probably more.” 

Eric tilted his head to the side, a habit he’d picked up now that he couldn’t frown properly. “How can I play rock, paper, scissors?” 

Salim stood and crossed the short distance between them. Eric shifted so he was sitting sideways, making space so Salim could actually sit on the mattress beside him and lean back against the wall instead of the doorframe. 

Salim sat down, then gently placed his hand in a fist on Eric’s leg. “Rock.” 

He flattened his hand against Eric’s leg. “Paper.” 

Then he pointed two fingers down, lightly poking Eric’s leg. “Scissors.” 

Eric faltered, surprise cutting through the fog he’d been stuck in. He never would have thought of that. 

“…Alright,” he said after a moment. “We can play rock, paper, scissors.” 

He could hear Salim’s smile in his voice when he replied, “Alright. Rock, paper, scissors… shoot.” 

Eric made a fist in the air, instinctive even now. A moment later, he felt Salim’s open hand rest against his leg. 

Paper. 

Then Salim’s hand wrapped around Eric’s fist, warm and solid, and Eric couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. 

Even blind, he could still play rock, paper, scissors. 

The thought settled quietly in his chest, fragile but real. Maybe—just maybe—if he didn’t get his sight back, there would still be ways to live. Different ways. Slower ways. But not nothing. 

For the first time in a while, the future didn’t feel like a completely closed door. 

They played for a while after that, long enough that Eric lost track of who had won how many times. It didn’t really matter anyway. It was something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t the darkness or the ache in his face or the slow crawl of time. 

Eventually, Salim suggested they switch to twenty questions. Eric agreed, and they both started thinking up the most random things they could, trying to stump each other. 

As Salim asked his questions, Eric absentmindedly lifted a hand and scratched at his face. The bandages itched badly now, the sensation crawling under his skin in a way that was hard to ignore. 

Salim paused mid-question. “Don’t scratch,” he said gently. “You’ll make it bleed again.” 

Eric froze. He hadn’t fully registered what he’d been doing, only that the itch had been there, demanding attention. He dropped his hand back into his lap. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

Salim smiled, Eric could hear it in his voice. “It’s alright.” Then, like it hadn’t even been an interruption, he continued, “Is it something you can hold?” 

Eric refocused, forcing his attention back onto the game. “Yeah.” 

The itchiness didn’t go away. If anything, it slowly got worse, prickling beneath the bandages and tugging at his focus. He clenched his hands together to keep from touching his face again, hoping it meant things were healing. Still, he would have preferred pain over the itch. 

Salim eventually guessed what Eric had been thinking of, his tone triumphant when he got it right. 

“Your turn,” Salim said. 

Eric shifted slightly, settling himself, and started asking his own questions. As Salim answered, Eric listened closely, anchoring himself in the sound of his voice and the simple rhythm of the game, doing his best to ignore the itch and the darkness pressing in around him. 

Their game was interrupted by the familiar, jarring clang of the door unlocking. Eric flinched despite himself, his shoulders tensing as two trays were dropped onto the floor. A moment later there was the scrape of metal on concrete as the breakfast trays were taken away, then the door shut and locked again. 

Salim shifted just enough to reach out, dragging the trays closer. He handed one to Eric. 

“Thanks,” Eric murmured. 

He set the tray in his lap and immediately started feeling around for the small pill pot. He knew roughly where it should be now, but that didn’t stop him from having to search for it with his fingertips. When he found it, he tipped the pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. 

He felt along the plate next. “Corned beef sandwich again?” 

“Yeah,” Salim said. 

Eric picked up half of it and took a bite. It was just as dry and terrible as before. He grimaced slightly but kept eating. Food was food, and he needed something in his system for the painkillers to actually do their job. He forced himself to finish the whole sandwich, even as it sucked the moisture from his mouth and left his throat painfully dry. 

As soon as he was done, he pushed himself to his feet and hopped into the bathroom. He went straight to the sink and leaned in carefully, drinking from the tap at the angle he’d learned now, careful not to hit his face. The cool water helped a little. 

When he was finished, he hopped back out into the room and dropped back down onto his mattress. He landed a little closer to Salim than he’d meant to this time, close enough that their shoulders brushed when Salim leaned forward to stack the trays by the door. 

Eric yawned softly, lifting a hand to muffle the sound as best he could. 

Half a night of decent sleep wasn’t nearly enough to make up for days of nightmares and exhaustion. And on top of that, his body was burning through energy trying to heal. He sagged back against the wall, shoulders heavy, fatigue settling deep into his bones. 

Salim tilted his head slightly. “Do you want to keep playing?” 

Eric nodded, “Yeah.” 

Salim asked another question. Eric answered no, his voice noticeably quieter than it had been before. 

They kept going, question after question, but the longer it lasted, the heavier Eric felt. His answers started coming slower, delayed by long pauses where his thoughts drifted and he had to drag them back. His head dipped forward once, then he straightened again with a small huff of breath, stubbornly holding himself upright. 

Salim noticed. His voice softened. “You can go to sleep if you want. You need rest to heal.” 

Eric shook his head. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “We can keep playing.” 

Salim didn’t sound convinced, but he asked the next question anyway. 

Eric answered it eventually, then leaned back against the wall a little more. His shoulders slumped. The tension that usually held him upright just… ebbed away. His chin dipped, his head tilting to the side as exhaustion dragged him down inch by inch. 

Salim stopped asking questions. He didn’t say anything at all, just stayed where he was, sitting beside Eric. There wasn’t really anywhere else to go, and moving across the room wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. 

Eric’s breathing slowed. His body went heavy, limp with sleep. The last thing he remembered was sagging sideways, his head tipping over until it bumped gently against Salim’s shoulder with a soft, uncoordinated thump. 

Then he was asleep. 

When Eric woke, the first thing he registered was warmth against the side of his head. 

His stomach dropped. 

He straightened hurriedly, wincing as a sharp crick shot through his neck, and stammered, “Uh— sorry.” 

Salim didn’t sound bothered in the slightest. “It’s alright,” he said easily. “Did you sleep okay?” 

Eric could hear the smile in Salim’s voice, and that realization irritated him more than it probably should have. Still, it also told him that Salim hadn’t minded him falling asleep like that. 

“Yeah,” Eric said quietly. “Slept alright. Thanks.” 

“Good,” Salim replied. “I’m glad.” 

Salim stood and stretched, joints cracking softly. For a moment, Eric assumed he was going to cross the room and sit back down on his own mattress, reclaim the distance between them. Instead, Salim padded into the bathroom and took a drink from the tap. 

Eric stayed where he was, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders as best he could while seated. Everything hurt—his back, his neck, his bruises—but it was a duller, more manageable pain now. He felt… better. Not good, exactly, but more rested. 

When Salim came back out, Eric waited for him to move away. 

He didn’t. 

Salim dropped back down beside him instead, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning lightly against the wall. Eric felt the shift of air, the familiar closeness, and found that he didn’t tense this time. If anything, the proximity was reassuring. Salim’s presence anchored him, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone in the dark. 

Salim broke the silence. “Do you want to play another game?” 

Eric nodded stifling a yawn behind his hand—more habit than real tiredness now—and said, “Do you want to play rock paper scissors again?” 

Salim nodded, then added quickly, amused, “Sure.” 

Eric smiled faintly. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he liked the game so much. Maybe it was because it was something that usually relied on sight, something he’d assumed he couldn’t do anymore. But he didn’t need to see for this. He could feel it, count it, play it just the same. 

And somehow, that made the darkness feel a little less absolute. 

They played for a while longer, Salim winning most of the rounds, but Eric didn’t mind in the slightest. The score didn’t matter. What mattered was that Salim had found a way for him to still play, translating something visual into something tactile, something Eric could follow without feeling useless or left behind. 

Salim, for his part, was content just watching Eric loosen up. Eric had been miserable since waking up blind—understandably so—and seeing even small moments of ease felt like a victory. Anyone in Eric’s position would have been struggling. Anyone. 

They fell into a long streak of both choosing the same move over and over, their hands landing in matching shapes again and again. When the pattern finally broke and Eric won, Salim laughed and gave a playful shove to Eric’s shoulder. “You’re cheating,” he accused lightly. 

Eric laughed, a real laugh this time, short and surprised. “How could I possibly cheat?” 

Salim smiled to himself at the sound. Hearing Eric laugh—really laugh—felt like proof that he was doing something right. It wasn’t much, just a stupid game in a bare room, but if it helped pull Eric even a little further out of the darkness, then it was worth every second. 

They played until the door clanged open again, the sound sharp enough to make Eric flinch—more from surprise than fear this time. He listened as two trays hit the floor, followed by the scrape of the lunch trays being dragged back out. Salim stood and crossed the room, then returned, setting one of the trays carefully in Eric’s lap. 

“Thanks,” Eric said quietly. He felt along the edge of the tray until he found the small pill pot, tipped the pills into his palm, and swallowed them dry like he always did. 

Salim settled back down beside him. “Looks like some sort of chicken and vegetables,” he said. “Hopefully not the nail-polish-tasting ones.” 

Eric laughed softly, then fumbled for his fork and stabbed at something at random. He took a bite, chewed, then nodded. “I think it’s the vegetables that taste of nothing.” 

Salim huffed a laugh. “Good. Those other ones were terrible.” 

They ate in a comfortable quiet, the small sounds of cutlery and fabric filling the space. Their elbows bumped now and then, neither of them bothering to move away. For once, Eric didn’t feel hollow or overwhelmed. His thoughts weren’t spiraling back to the temples or the darkness waiting behind his closed eyes. 

He’d had a good day. 

Not a normal one, not an easy one—but a good one all the same. 

Salim finished eating first, setting his tray down beside the door before standing and heading into the bathroom. Eric heard the sink turn on and assumed Salim was drinking from the tap. A moment later, Eric finished what he could manage of his own food and carefully set the tray down on the floor. 

He moved on his knees toward where he thought the door was, fingers scraping lightly across the concrete until he felt the edge of Salim’s tray. He stacked his own on top of it and paused there for a second, breathing through the dull ache spreading through his knees. He used to move like this all the time, before he’d gotten used to the prosthetic, when it had been easier than crutches. Now his body protested the effort, bruises complaining with every shift. 

By the time he made it back to his mattress and lowered himself down, he was already sore. 

Salim stepped into the doorway, and Eric instinctively tilted his head up toward the sound. “I’m going to take a shower,” Salim said. 

Eric nodded. “Alright. Enjoy.” 

Salim retreated into the bathroom, and Eric heard the rustle of fabric as he undressed. He couldn’t see anything, obviously, but listening still felt oddly intrusive. He shifted, settling his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, trying to make himself small and comfortable. 

Water turned on a moment later. 

To distract himself, Eric started humming quietly under his breath—an old song, one Rachel used to like. He couldn’t remember all of it, just the tune, but it came back to him easily enough. The sound was barely louder than his breathing, something just for himself. 

The thought of Rachel made his chest tighten anyway. He missed her with an ache that never really dulled, no matter how much time passed. It felt like losing her had taken something essential with it, carved out a hollow space inside him. He felt a flicker of guilt for how much of his focus had been on his eyes lately, on his fear of never seeing again. 

He loved her. He still loved her. 

The water continued to run, steady and grounding, and Eric kept humming softly, holding on to the memory without letting it pull him under. 

The water shut off, followed by the soft rustle of a towel. Eric kept humming under his breath, the tune steady and familiar, something to anchor himself while his thoughts drifted back to Rachel. He turned over memories of her face again and again—her smile, the way her eyes crinkled, the shape of her mouth when she laughed—trying to lock every detail in place, just in case. Just in case one day he couldn’t picture her clearly anymore. 

Salim stepped back into the room and moved to his own mattress. After a moment, he said softly, “Do you want to play another game?” 

Eric’s humming faltered and then stopped. “No thanks,” he said quietly. 

“Alright,” Salim replied, and settled back where he was. 

The room fell into a gentle silence. After a while, Salim spoke again. “The lights are starting to dim.” 

Eric made a vague sound of acknowledgment and shifted, carefully easing himself down onto his mattress. He was tired—bone-deep tired—even after the nap where he’d managed to get some real sleep. He hoped that, with time, the exhaustion would ease, that his body would stop feeling like it was constantly running on empty. 

He heard Salim adjust his position, not lying down, just shifting to get more comfortable. Then Salim said, quietly, “Goodnight, Eric.” 

“Night,” Eric mumbled back, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

His face ached where it pressed into the fabric, but it was bearable. The pain faded into the background as exhaustion finally won out, and before long, he slipped back into sleep. 

Eric’s sleep didn’t take him back to the temples, or to the shepherds’ huts. 

It took him home. 

He was standing in the doorway of his apartment again, frozen in place just like before, his hands shaking where he braced himself on his crutches. Rachel was moving around the bedroom, pacing as she gathered her things, her back to him. He watched her on autopilot, her words washing over him without really sinking in—something about him burying himself in work, about him not really trying to recover, about him pushing her away and then blaming her for it. 

When she pushed past him, he moved aside automatically, giving her space without even thinking about it. He heard the zip of her bag. He watched her step out into the hallway. 

The door closed. 

He stayed there long after it had shut, staring at it as if it might open again if he just waited long enough. Tears slid silently down his face, his chest tight, his throat burning. 

The scene blurred, faded— 

—and suddenly he was back in the cave. 

He was on the edge again, straining backward as he pulled on the rope, muscles screaming as he tried to haul Rachel up. His boots scraped closer to the drop with every second, the darkness below seeming endless. He leaned back, bracing himself, refusing to let go. 

Then the weight vanished. 

He stumbled, nearly losing his balance, the rope slack around his waist. The end of it was wrong—too clean, too neat. His breath hitched as understanding crashed into him. 

Rachel had cut it. 

He knew she’d survived. Somehow, she’d made it out. But he didn’t know how, didn’t know what path she’d taken after that moment. He crawled toward the edge, desperate to see, to understand, to know what would have happened if he’d gone with her instead. 

The ground gave way. 

The world tipped, and he was falling, his scream tearing out of him as everything dropped away into nothing— 

Hands grabbed his shoulders. 

Eric jolted upright with a gasp, breath coming fast and shallow as he fought to orient himself. The darkness was still there, solid and real, but it wasn’t the cave. It wasn’t his apartment. 

Salim’s hands released him, retreating as Salim said softly, “You’re alright. It was just a dream.” 

Eric lifted a hand toward his face on instinct, then stopped when his fingers brushed the bandages. The memory snapped fully into place. 

Right. He couldn’t. 

He swallowed hard, his chest still heaving, and sat there in the dark, trying to convince himself that he was awake, that he was here, and that the dream was over. 

Salim shifted closer, sitting beside him properly this time, and Eric adjusted so they could both lean back against the wall. Their arms brushed, close enough that Eric was acutely aware of the warmth there. There was a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if Salim would move away again, before Salim’s arm slipped carefully around his shoulders. 

Eric flinched—not because it was Salim, but because he hadn’t been expecting the touch. His body went tense on instinct. He had to fight the urge to lean into it immediately, even though every part of him wanted the grounding, the contact, especially now, when the dream was still clinging to him. 

He swallowed. 

There was something he’d never asked. Something that had been sitting like a weight in his chest ever since. 

“How…” His voice came out quiet, fragile. He tried again. “How did Rachel die?” 

Salim didn’t answer right away. 

Eric’s fingers curled into the fabric of his own shirt. “I need to know, Salim,” he said softly. “I… I didn’t get to see her. I didn’t get to say goodbye.” 

Salim’s arm tightened just a little, steadying. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, careful. “She was trying to get to you. We all were. It was chaos… there were too many of them.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Rachel managed to pull one away from you, just before the sun came back. But… another one got to her before we could.” 

Eric’s chest caved in on itself. 

A broken sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, something halfway between a breath and a sob. Rachel had died trying to save him. She had fought for him, and he had lived while she hadn’t. 

He couldn’t cry the way he wanted to—his eyes burned, tight and painful beneath the bandages—but a few tears still escaped, soaking into the fabric as his chest heaved. His breathing hitched, uneven and raw. 

Salim’s arm came tighter around his shoulders as he shifted closer, pulling Eric in. Eric stiffened for a second, then gave in, leaning into the contact. His head tipped against Salim’s shoulder, his forehead pressing in as his body shook with quiet, wrecked sobs. 

Salim wrapped his other arm around him, holding him securely, one hand moving slowly up and down Eric’s back. He didn’t rush him. He didn’t tell him to stop. 

He just stayed there, steady and solid, letting Eric feel everything he needed to feel. 

Eric didn’t know how long he sat there, folded into Salim’s shoulder, his grief spilling out in uneven, broken sobs. Time blurred, stretching and shrinking around him until it barely seemed to exist at all. Part of him felt embarrassed, painfully aware of how exposed he was, how much he needed this. But another part of him—louder, more desperate—knew he couldn’t have stopped even if he tried. 

He needed to be held. He needed to cry until there was nothing left pressing against his ribs, until the ache dulled enough for him to breathe again. 

Salim let him. 

He didn’t shift away or stiffen. He just stayed there, solid and warm, his hand moving slowly up and down Eric’s back as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he didn’t care that the man breaking apart in his arms was supposed to be his enemy. 

Eric’s eyes burned fiercely, that tight, painful pressure of tears he couldn’t fully shed. A few had escaped, soaking into the bandages wrapped around his face. He could feel the dampness there, couldn’t tell if all of it was tears or if some of it was blood, and he didn’t have the energy to care. His whole body trembled as the sobs finally began to taper off, his breathing stuttering before slowly evening out. 

God, he missed Rachel. 

The loss felt vast, like something essential had been torn out of him, leaving behind an empty, aching space he didn’t know how to live with. 

Salim’s voice came softly, low and steady beside his ear. “I lost my wife too,” he said. “She didn’t die. But she left me… left me and Zain when he was still young.” His hand didn’t stop moving. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.” 

Eric listened, clinging to every word. 

“It doesn’t ever go away completely,” Salim continued. “You don’t forget. But it changes. It fades into something you can carry. One day, it won’t feel like agony anymore.” 

Eric sniffled quietly, his chest still tight, his face hot beneath the bandages. He felt vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to, stripped down and exposed in the dark. But he wasn’t alone in it. Salim was there—warm, steady, breathing beside him. 

If anything happened, Salim could see. 

Salim wouldn’t let anything happen to him. 

Eric didn’t know when, exactly, he had started trusting Salim enough to fall apart like this. Maybe it had been after the first nightmare, when Salim had sat beside him in the dark. Maybe it had been when he’d woken to find his head on Salim’s shoulder. Maybe it had been much earlier than that. 

All he knew was that he wouldn’t have made it through this alone. 

And right now, wrapped in Salim’s arms, he didn’t have to. 

Eric mumbled, his voice barely more than a breath, “I miss her so much.” 

Salim’s arm tightened around him just a fraction. “I know you do,” he said quietly. “Losing someone is the worst pain in the world. I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t let you say goodbye to her in the huts.” 

Eric swallowed. “I wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway.” 

Salim gently squeezed him, a small, grounding pressure. “When we’re out of here,” he said, “we can have a little memorial for her. For all of them.” 

Eric nodded, pressing his forehead harder into Salim’s shoulder. His face scrunched despite the sharp ache it sent through him, his chest tightening as he fought to stop the tears from coming again. Everything hurt—his face, his body—but none of it compared to the pain of thinking about Rachel. 

After a while, he pulled back, the need for distance winning out over the need for comfort. He felt too exposed now, too raw. He lifted a hand to rub at his face, then froze as his fingers brushed the bandages, a sharp wince pulling at his expression. 

Salim didn’t move away completely. One hand stayed at Eric’s back, steady and reassuring, as if making sure he wasn’t about to tip over. “You alright?” he asked softly. 

Eric hesitated. His head tilted down even though it didn’t change anything, a reflexive attempt to hide. He wanted to say no. Wanted to shake his head and admit that he wasn’t alright at all—that he was blind, that Rachel was gone, that everything felt broken beyond repair. 

Instead, he nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled. 

Salim didn’t believe him. Eric could feel it in the gentle squeeze to his shoulder, in the way Salim’s voice stayed careful. “You’ll be alright,” Salim said. “The pain will fade. And you’ll get your sight back.” 

Eric nodded again, even though he didn’t really believe that either. 

Salim gave his shoulder one last gentle squeeze, then let his hand fall away, giving Eric space. It felt deliberate—like Salim understood just how exposed he felt, and how new it still was for Eric to let someone touch him at all. 

Eric, feeling far too exposed now, rubbed at the back of his neck and said awkwardly, “You can, uh… go back to sleep, if you want to. I mean.” 

Salim paused. Eric could practically feel him looking him over, taking in his posture, the way his shoulders were still tense. Then Salim said, “Sure. If you’re alright.” 

Eric nodded quickly. “I’m fine.” 

It didn’t sound convincing to his own ears, and he knew it wouldn’t fool Salim either. 

There was another brief pause before Salim shifted away, moving back to his own mattress. Eric heard the rustle of fabric as Salim lay down again. 

Eric stayed sitting for a moment longer, knees pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His throat felt thick, his chest still heavy. Eventually he sighed and lay down too, knowing that if he stayed awake too long, Salim would notice—and then he’d have to explain the nightmares, the memories, everything he wasn’t ready to unpack out loud. 

He settled carefully, angling his head so the pillow didn’t press too hard against his face. The bandages itched fiercely now, damp with tears and probably blood as well. He clenched his hands into the blanket, resisting the urge to scratch or rub at them, knowing that would only make it worse. 

Sleep didn’t come easily. His mind wouldn’t slow down—images of Rachel, Salim’s words, the weight of breaking down in someone else’s arms looping over and over. His chest ached with it, with grief and exhaustion tangled together. 

But his body was tired. Slowly, despite the racing thoughts, the mattress beneath him and the quiet presence in the room began to pull him under. He shifted once more, finding a position that hurt a little less, and eventually his thoughts blurred, fading into the haze of sleep.