Chapter Text
"Along with the bad storm last night... There have been many explosions throughout Linkon City. The Hunters Association has concluded these incidents are connected with Wanderers... So far, 22 have been wounded with no casualties. We advise all citizens to be careful when outside..." The TV announces.
Caleb turns to you, eyebrows raised. "Exposions, huh... have there been a lot of active Wanderers lately?" He asks, sounding skeptical.
You've already stuffed your mouth with a mix of fluffy rice and savory braised chicken he prepared for you. You raise a finger at him to give you a moment to swallow your food. He watches you with an amused smile, chuckling as he leans forward in his chair, using his thumb to wipe the little rice off the corner of your mouth. "Slow down, Pip-squeak! Missing my cooking that much?"
You nod emphatically, your eyes lighting up. "Absolutely! I’ve been craving your home-cooked meal for ages. I usually end up grabbing takeout from the little restaurant shops near the UNICORNS building. Being a rookie Hunter definitely keeps me on my toes..."
He frowns for a moment before nodding in understanding. "Well, now that we’re home together, I can cook your favorite meals as often as you’d like for the entire time we're here," he grins, ruffling the top of your head.
You swat his hand away. "That doesn’t mean you can ruffle my hair often, either," you mutter.
Caleb rolls his eyes playfully as he takes a bite of his food.
"Anyways, Linkon has us! The Deepspace Hunters of today know what they are doing," you say enthusiastically, giving a thumbs up.
"Well, even so, you shouldn't push yourself too hard, sweetie," Gran interjects from across the table, her face etched with worry. "And be sure to be careful during your missions."
"I'll be fine, Grandma," you reassure her, while you cut another piece of chicken and combine it with a spoonful of rice. "My Evol works effectively against the Wanderers. Besides, missions are often done in pairs. If we get hurt, we have backups-"
As you speak, the lights overhead start to sputter, and suddenly, an unexpected warmth envelops the kitchen. You look up, frowning in confusion as you glance around in question as to why it got so hot that you're starting to sweat.
"Do you guys not feel that? Is the AC turned off or something?" You ask, voice tinged with uncertainty. Your gaze lands on Gran. She's smiling sadly at you while she's saying something, but you can't hear her. You look at Caleb, and he continues talking, but his words sound muffled, as though he's standing miles away. You're confused about why you can't hear them.
"I can't hear you guys," You nervously laugh. "Hey, Caleb, can you-" You reach out for Caleb's arm, but your fingers slip through him like mist. Anxiety washes over you. You try again, but your hand only finds empty air.
"Why can’t I touch you? What is happening?" You look horrified as you keep trying and grabbing nothing. Panic is building up as you look to Gran and Caleb for some reassurance, but they keep talking and staring at you like everything is normal. Then, from the corners of your vision, an intense orange light surges toward your direction, blinding you. Before you can fully register it, a wave of scorching heat and debris sweeps you away, pushing you violently out of the scene.
You draw in a sharp breath as you instinctively reach up to your face, anticipating the searing pain of burns. But to your surprise, your skin is unscathed. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you calm down, feeling relief when you realize it was just a dream.
"Grandma? Caleb?" you call out, coarsely. No response.
Your eyelids feel heavy when you try to open them. Gradually, the world begins to piece itself together around you. To the incessant beeping monitor somewhere and the unpleasant clean scent in the air, and... the smell of flowers?
You blink, but everything is too bright.
Where am I?
You squint your eyes against the overwhelming brightness. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, the glare of lights bleeding across the white panels.
You stir and immediately wince when you feel pain flaring down at your side. A groan slips out from your throat. Every inch of your body aches somehow, you feel a throb under your skin, and you have no idea why.
There's a machine emitting a soft, rhythmic beep beside you. Monitors blinking with scattered readings. You look to your left, confused. There are bouquets of flowers and get-well cards piling up on the table. You try to move again, but you feel something tugging at your ribs. Looking down, you notice you're in a hospital gown. You look at your arm and see IVs snake their way into your veins, securely taped down, wires tethering you to stability.
Why am I at a hospital? What happened to me?
It took only seconds for the memories to come crashing down on you like a wave. It all felt like a surreal nightmare, the reality slipping through your fingers as the details flood your mind.
Caleb closing the door. The sound of the explosion. Your house on fire.
No. It shouldn't feel real. But it did. The dream... the blast echoing in your thoughts, the searing heat of the fire, the debris flying at you, Grandma and Caleb...
Caleb.
You didn’t remember how you got here, but every second wasted lying in bed made your pulse race harder. You need information, check the news. You had to know if they were alive.
You scan the bedside table. There is no phone.
You look around, and it's just you in the room. You throw the blanket aside, your body protesting as you try to sit up. Your head feels heavy and dizzy, and your balance wavers dangerously as you swing one leg off the side of the bed. The railing feels cold as you grip it for support. You steady yourself, your eyes search the room for anything that might help. A phone. A screen. Someone. Your mind was moving too fast now, drowning out the ache in your body.
Then a door opens.
“Stop right there,” The voice was deep, immediate, and firm.
You freeze.
A tall man with black hair wearing silver wire-frame glasses and a lab coat stands by the door, disbelief flashing across his narrow features. His eyes take in the scene with you halfway on the medical bed. He steps into the room, his white coat flaring slightly behind him.
He crosses the room in quick strides. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
You blink at him, still trying to adjust to the bright lighting in the room, against the throbbing in your head. Black hair with hazel green eyes… “Z-Zayne," you stammer, your voice cracking as panic bubbles up inside. "I need my phone. I need to check my house, Grandma, and Caleb. There was... there was an explosion-" The words tumble out in a rush, desperation edging your tone.
"I'm aware," he said shortly, calmly. His hands found your shoulders as he gently and insistently guided you back toward the bed. “But you are not stable enough to stand, let alone chase answers.”
“But I need-”
“What you need is to lie down,” he states firmly, leaving no room for argument.
"You don't understand-!"
He releases a long, measured breath, as if he's holding back from scolding you. “You’ve been unconscious for seventy-two hours,” he states with an undercurrent of concern.
Seventy-two hours? I’ve been asleep for three days?
“Severe concussion, minor internal bruising, and extended oxygen deprivation. Your oxygen levels only returned to normal yesterday. If you stand too fast, you’ll collapse, you’ll rupture the line in your arm, or worse,” he continues, his gaze intense as he emphasizes the seriousness of the situation. The tightness in his jaw hints at a deeper frustration that is hard to contain. He brushes his palm lightly against your forehead, his hand warm against your skin.
"You're also heating up," he notes with a furrowed brow. "So, please, do yourself a favor and lie down. I promise I'll tell you everything you need to know."
You hesitate against him. You stare, chest heaving, weighing whether to listen to him.
He sighs, a slight desperation evident in his expression. "Please. Don’t make this harder for me."
Before you can muster a retort, your legs buckle beneath you. Zayne is quick to respond, his arms catching you just in time. You give in and have no choice but to lie down. He eases you onto the mattress, one arm supporting your back as he helps you settle comfortably. He adjusts your IV, resets the monitor’s alerts, and straightens your blanket neatly with haste. You take a look at him. The way his collar was wrinkled, his hair a little messier than usual. The dark circles loomed under his eyes.
“Don’t get up again without calling for assistance,” he says, his tone a mixture of irritation and worry. “Next time, I won’t just be annoyed. I’ll be documenting your noncompliance.”
“I don't care,” you say with frustration, “I care about Grandma and Caleb. Where the hell are they? Just take me to them!” You grab his arm instinctively in desperation. Your throat constricts painfully out of nowhere, sending you into a harsh coughing fit.
Without hesitation, Zayne reaches for a bottle of water resting on the nightstand, prepared for you. He swiftly unscrews the cap and pours the cool liquid into a plastic cup, then hands it to you, guiding your trembling hand. "Here," he says, "You have just woken up after a slight coma. Drink some water." You lift the cup to your lips, feeling the chill of the water as it flows down your throat, easing the tightness as you gulp it down.
You meet Zayne's hard gaze on you. He wears an expression of relief and worry. The faint stubble on his jaw and the exhaustion etched into every sharp angle of his face reveal that he hasn’t slept at all. Guilt washes over you for raising your voice at him, but right now, all you can think about is wanting to see Gran and Caleb. You put the empty cup down.
“Zayne, please tell me they’re alright. Say something, or I swear I'll go find them myself!”
“Don’t. You don't need to do that.” His gaze locks onto yours, and you catch a glimpse of grief behind his framed glasses.
"Why?" It comes out as a whisper.
You try to push aside the gnawing unease in your stomach. You want to laugh, or maybe even scream. The questions you dread to ask linger at the tip of your tongue. Deep down, you already suspect the truth. Instead, your mouth quivers as the words slip out in a raw, fragile whisper. “My house... the fire... they didn’t make it, did they?”
You stare into the distance, processing your words in silence, before you meet his gaze for confirmation.
Zayne’s eyes drop for a moment, shadowed by a mix of sorrow and restraint. His jaw tightens. Pain flickers across his face, unsure what to respond.
“Yes,” he says, carefully. “The explosion devastated your home. The blast ensured that nothing remained intact. No bodies were found.”
Your lungs squeeze. There's a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. A wave of despair crashes over you after the finality of his words echoes in your mind.
“It can be-” you choke. “They’re not-” you vigorously shake your head. Then you remember the dream you had. The fire that touched your skin, as if you were supposed to perish along with them. But you're the only one alive. Somehow survived. Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill over.
Zayne remains silent. He seems to weigh something silently, an unspoken burden behind the flat line of his mouth. Then he reaches into the inner pocket of his lab coat, the fabric rustling softly as he moves.
“I kept this for you,” he says simply. Slowly, he extracts a small object from the pocket. A delicate silver piece that glimmers faintly in the light. A broken chain with the apple-shaped pendant.
Caleb’s necklace.
Zayne extends it to you. “It was in your grip when they found you,” he explains. “Your fingers were locked around it. You wouldn’t let go.”
You stare at the necklace in disbelief and snatch it from his hands. The cool metal glints dully as a flood of memories, mixed with confusion, washes over you. The metal scorched at the edges, the apple charm slightly bent, but unmistakably his. It was real. It was his.
Your breath hitches.
All at once, the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his voice, and his teasing jokes rush back. And Grandma...
They were gone. You replay the memory of the last time you saw your house, burning in front of you.
"No!... no, no, no..." you sob, not able to hold back your tears and emotions.
You hunch forward, clutching the necklace to your chest as if it could tether you back to him, as if holding it tight enough might bring him back. Tears flow down your cheeks, hot and bewildering, breaking free in a cascade of trembling, uncontrollable sobs that echo in the emptiness around you.
Zayne stills. Then, carefully, he moves close to your side.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, he wraps his arm around your trembling shoulders, as if he were cradling something fragile. He guides you seamlessly until, with a quiet surrender, you lean into him, your body wracked with the weight of grief. He doesn't speak. He doesn't tell you to stop. He simply let you cry.
You are unaware when your breathing starts to slow down, or when exhaustion begins to drag you under again. Only the distant feel of a steady heartbeat, the scent of his coat, and the reassuring steadiness of his hand as the necklace presses cold against your palm. In that moment, overwhelmed by sorrow, you let yourself black out against him, grief lingering on your lashes, blurring the world around you.
++++++++++
One week later.
You were discharged from the hospital.
Your ribs still ache, and your sleep is thin, haunted by nightmares, by the aching silence of the ones who aren’t calling you back.
The sky is overcast when you finally return. You stand as the cold wind blows your hair. A gray, hollow stretch of clouds hangs above the remnants of the only place you ever called home, charred beyond recognition.
You hesitate at the edge of the lot, the tips of your shoes brushing the line where the walkway of the pavement starts. A cold wave of dread washes over you, and your heart plummets.
This was it. Or what was left of it. Your house had once stood proudly, even if it wasn't much. Now? Only a ruin. It's strange, like your childhood home never existed when it did. It’s now a passing memory, like smoke drifting through the air.
You step forward cautiously, going under the caution tape surrounding the yard. The weight of the air presses harder the closer you walk. Each breath stings faintly with leftover soot. The pavement steps were cracked. Jagged clumps of concrete are everywhere. You step over them, weaving through.
The roof was half gone. The door was gone. The frame, warped and blackened, let you see straight through to what remained of the hallway, if it could even be called that.
You stand in the doorway for a moment, your heart racing while you stand utterly still. You shiver at the memory of where Caleb last stood at this doorstep, just a week ago, and scolded you to stay back. His voice echoes in your mind, instructing you to hide the blood smudged on your sleeves so that Gran wouldn’t catch a glimpse of it. Where you stand, his last steps were when he said his last words to you. And then something quietly breaks inside you. Throughout the week, tears have streamed down your face so often that you feel as though you’ve drained every last drop of them. As you take a cautious step forward, you force yourself to suppress it. Every sound your shoes made echoed in the hollow space like a betrayal. You shouldn’t be walking here. Not like this. Not without them.
You shiver again. Not from the cold. The thought of-
Their bodies…
You push the image aside.
A hard lump forms in your throat, and you force yourself to look down at the blackened, messy floor beneath your feet. Your jaw clenches painfully, the thought looms large, brutal in its finality, clawing at your resolve.
There will be no bodies in their graves. Nothing. Not even their ashes.
The breath you take is a crack in your lungs.
You try to stop imagining it. You take a controlled, trembling breath. It stings. Burnt air still lingers in the bones of the place, even after the fire’s long gone. Your footsteps crunch against the brittle debris as you step further inside. Inside what used to be the living room. The old recliner that used to sit in the middle? Reduced to a twisted frame. The little coffee table Grandma Josephine never let you put your feet on? Unrecognizable. Burnt photo frames litter the floor like forgotten ghosts, except for one.
You bend down and pick one up. The glass is shattered, but you can still make out the edges of a smile. Caleb’s smile. He was maybe fifteen in this one, grinning with a popsicle stain across his cheek, his arm thrown around your shoulders like he knew you were stuck with him forever. You press your lips together, swallowing hard.
Grandma Josephine was the one who took that photo. You can still hear it if you close your eyes long enough. Her voice scolds Caleb for letting you have more than one ice cream.
“Why?” Your voice barely escapes. “Why them?"
There’s no answer. For what feels like an eternity, you sit there for a while, surrounded by damaged, burnt furniture, trying to feel something other than empty. But the grief is thick and heavy.
Caleb is gone.
The one who would hold your hand and support everything that you do, and embrace you, and tell you that everything will be okay. The one who promised, promised, he’d always come back from Skyhaven and spend time with you. And Josephine…
She gave you everything. A home. A family.
Now they’re all gone.
You don't realize you're crying until the tears fall onto the photo in your hand. You close your fingers around it, as gently as you can, and press it to your chest. "I can't believe you're not here anymore... what am I supposed to do? I don't know what to do?" you whisper to the ghost of a boy and the woman who raised you both.
A crunch of gravel.
You tense instinctively. Someone’s here.
You rise to your feet, wiping the tears with the back of your hand, and tuck the burnt photo into the back pocket of your jeans. For a moment, you expect, hope for a figure that can’t possibly appear anymore.
But it’s not them. It’s Zayne.
"I figured you’d stop by here," he calls out, "You're not supposed to be here."
"I'm a Hunter. I'm permitted to be here." You start to look around for anything that survived the fire.
He sighs. "Yes, but you're not on duty," he counters, his footsteps barely making a sound as he quietly shadows your movements.
"You're not supposed to be here either. Why did you follow me?"
He halts a few paces away, giving you space. He stands at the edge of the ruins, dressed in a sharp white shirt with a black tie, sleeves rolled up neatly just once at the wrists. Dust or ashes cling faintly to his polished shoes. His expression is drawn tight, subtle with something between concern and relief.
“Because I'm worried about you. You could have called or searched for me. I would’ve adjusted my schedule,” he says, gently chiding. “I would have left work early and accompanied you.”
You glance away, “I didn’t want to bother you,” you reply, trying to brush off the concern.
Without missing a beat, he responds, “You can reach out to me anytime, no matter the circumstances. Coming here alone, especially given your current condition, wasn’t the wisest choice.”
There’s no scolding in his voice, but it lands anyway, because it’s true.
His voice softens as he continues, “I understand why you came. But next time, allow someone to be there. You shouldn’t have to shoulder this alone.”
He pauses for a moment, allowing his gaze to linger on your face, taking in the exhaustion, the dried tears. A flicker of worry crosses his features, and for an instant, it seems as if he’s reaching out, his hands inching toward you. Yet, he hesitates, pulling back at the last moment, wrestling with the urge to provide comfort without crossing an invisible line.
He takes one step into the remains of the threshold and scans the place. He says nothing at first. Just surveys the blackened beams, the hollowed walls.
Finally, his voice breaks the silence.
“I remember when Josephine used to brew mint tea when we were kids, when I used to come over.”
He doesn’t look at you, just keeps staring at the remnants of what used to be the kitchen.
“She’d say it was for digestion, but she knew Caleb hated the taste.” A faint flicker, almost like a smile, crosses his face. You can almost see it then, damage peeling away for just a moment. A sunlit kitchen. The old kettle whistling. Josephine hummed under her breath as she poured the tea into the three mismatched mugs. Caleb was sitting stiffly on the stool, his lips curled in protest.
Younger you, leaning over the counter, nudging him with your elbow.
Zayne sat across from you both, a little taller than you and Caleb, quiet, arms crossed, and eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
“I'll let you go if you drink this. Go on,” Josephine would say, passing the mug to Caleb. “Good for the gut. It builds character.”
Caleb’s glare was dramatic. “My gut is healthy. I don’t want to drink this.”
You’d stifle a laugh behind your hand. Zayne would give a small smile.
“Come on, drink it, or Zayne and I, we'll play without you," you playfully urged, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Just hold your breath while drinking-"
Caleb chugged down the entire drink in one go, his determination evident as he gulped, his throat working furiously. Laughter erupted around you as he made a dramatic face, scrunching up his features in a comical display of distaste, his eyes widening in surprise as he winced.
In the present, Zayne’s voice brings you back.
You turn to look at him, searching for his gaze, but he remains focused on the ground, avoiding your eyes. “Josephine was family, and Caleb was my friend,” he continues, his words laced with emotion you don’t always hear. “I can't imagine how you feel right now. ”
"They were the only family I had," you respond.
With a gentle turn, he finally meets your gaze, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his composed exterior. “I know. And this was the only home you’ve ever known….” he says.
You lower your gaze, your throat tightening again with unspoken emotion.
“I didn’t come to rush you,” Zayne clears his throat. “I notified the Hunter Association about your condition. Your superior approves the extension, another week of recovery leave. I wanted to tell you in person.”
You give a slight nod. “Thank you,” you reply quietly. Once more, your eyes wander around the devastated remnants of your home.
He steps closer, stopping just beside you.
“I also made arrangements,” he continues, “It would be best if you stayed at my place during the remainder of your recovery. You’re still not cleared for field activity, and frankly, I’d prefer to keep an eye on your vitals myself. After everything that happened," he states, his gaze scanning the destroyed walls.
“You don't have to do that. I can take care of myself," you say.
His voice softens enough not to sound like a nagging older guardian. "I’m doing it because I care what happens to you. Whether you like it or not.”
You look away, silently admitting that you didn't want to be alone.
“Josephine and Caleb wouldn’t want me to leave you here by yourself. Neither my parents. They’re worried for you, too. So I'll be here when you're ready."
You take a moment to consider what he said. You reach for the apple pendant on your neck and hold on to it as you imagine your future without them.
Will I get better?
Will I be able to live on without him?
Suddenly, a vivid memory floods your mind, transporting you back to that day when you first met Caleb. His warm smile and gentle voice echoed in your thoughts as he said, "It's okay if you've forgotten, I'll remind you. Hi, I'm Caleb, and I'll always be by your side."