I stand on the hospital balcony, the night air wrapping around me like a second skin. It's not cold, not warm—just there. Present. Comforting in its indifference, in the way it asks nothing and expects nothing in return.
The city sprawls below, a sea of lights flickering against the darkness, each window a story I'll never know. Above, the sky stretches wide, scattered with stars like diamonds on black velvet—distant, indifferent, and beautiful.
But I'm not really seeing any of it.
Moon's question still echoes in my mind, circling like a bird that can't find a place to land, its wings beating against the inside of my skull.
What if you become an Omega?
My brow furrows. Why does he always do this? Why does he always ask questions that burrow under my skin, that find the soft places I try to keep hidden, forcing me to think deeper than I want to?
