While I was still trying to breathe, Andrew was tearing into the possessed with a kind of fury I'd never seen from him before.
The thing inside Paul just laughed.
Louder.
Meaner.
It wasn't like last time.
They kept ripping control of the fight away from each other, back and forth, while I sat there—useless—just trying to drag air into my lungs.
The fight dragged.
Too long.
I saw blood on Andrew's face.
I have to do something.
I forced myself up. My leg screamed. Didn't matter.
I pulled together what little strength I had left and lunged—
right as Paul had Andrew by the throat.
The same way he'd had me.
I grabbed his face, locking him in place for a split second—
just enough.
Andrew shifted.
Took control.
And I pushed my energy through.
Paul was there.
I saw him.
His soul—
intact.
Not gone.
But it wasn't asking for help.
It was furious.
Cold.
Violent.
It wanted this.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
"Not lost," I said—
at the exact moment Andrew drove the blade into him and forced his power through it.
"Andrew…" I rasped, shoving the limp body aside and dropping next to him. "He… he wasn't…"
I shook my head.
"If I hadn't done it, he would've gone for you again," Andrew said quietly, ruffling my hair like it was nothing. "Don't worry. I'll take responsibility. I killed him without attempting an exorcism—not you."
Something twisted cold in my chest.
The black cemetery.
The memory hit hard.
My eyes widened.
"No… no, no…" I grabbed him, pulling him into a tight, almost desperate embrace. "You didn't do anything wrong. I was wrong. He was lost."
"Alan," he said, resting his chin lightly against my head, "they'll find out if they check body memory."
"I was wrong," I repeated, gripping him tighter. "You killed a lost one. That's it. That's what happened."
"Stop." He pulled me back, forcing me to look at him. "Even if you'd told me sooner, I would've done the same thing. That was my decision."
My vision blurred.
No.
I wasn't letting this happen.
I wasn't letting them take him because of me.
Before I could think—
I shoved his hands away and closed the distance.
Pressed my lips to his.
He froze.
Completely.
It only lasted a second—
but it was enough.
Reality snapped back into place.
God, I'm an idiot.
"You killed a lost one," I said, steady now. "And if you say anything else—I'll make sure they don't execute you."
"Alan…" he said, stunned, his fingers brushing his lips without thinking.
"Storik! Holivan! You alive?" Matthew's voice cut through everything as he approached.
They looked just as wrecked as we did.
Iveson and Vauser were carrying two bodies between them—openly. Not even trying to hide it.
"We're done here," Andrew said, already back under control. "What about you?"
"Same," Iveson muttered, clearly pissed. "Damn bureaucracy. We do everything ourselves, and backup still shows up late."
"What about the body in the gambling house?" Andrew asked.
"One charred corpse. Couldn't identify it," Iveson said. "Checked after they put the fire out."
"Good," Andrew exhaled. "Then we don't have to worry about it."
—
I lay in the infirmary while the others reported to the headmaster.
I was furious.
At myself.
Second field operation.
Second time I ended up stuck here while everyone else handled the aftermath.
Pathetic.
I dragged the blanket over my head, trying to shut it all out.
I shouldn't be here.
Andrew—
The thought wouldn't leave.
What if he tells them?
What if they check body memory?
I didn't even know if it was mandatory. I hadn't been there last time either.
Three support teams showed up just minutes after we regrouped.
Iveson hadn't even tried to hide how pissed he was.
I'd never seen him like that.
And no one dared say a word.
We went back through a portal.
No way anyone was dragging three corpses through the city.
Once we hit the lower levels, I got sent straight to the infirmary.
The bodies—burning.
The others—report.
Me—
waiting.
It had been over an hour.
Nothing.
The tension just kept building.
Tighter.
Sharper.
I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
"Where do you think you're going, Holivan?" the Special on duty snapped. "I was warned you'd try to run. Back to bed."
"But I'm fine! I don't need to be here!"
"Yes, Storik said you'd say that. He told me to keep you here by any means necessary." She didn't even blink. "If you don't lie down right now, I'll sedate you."
She meant it.
Being stuck here was bad enough.
Sitting here—waiting, not knowing—
was worse.
How long does a damn report take?
Why hasn't anyone come?
Does Andrew seriously not get that I'm worried?
"Heartless asshole…" I muttered.
"I assume that's not about me?"
"Silius?" I leaned back against the headboard. "What are you doing here?"
"Storik asked me to check on you," he said. "Told me to pass along that you shouldn't worry."
"Andrew asked you?" I blinked. "Is… everything okay?"
"Should there be a problem?" he raised an eyebrow.
"No!" I snapped too fast. "I just… I wasn't at the report again. I don't know how it went."
"Brooding again, Holivan?" Silius smirked. "Nothing interesting ever happens at those meetings. You're not missing anything."
"When can I leave?"
"And are you actually capable of that?"
"I'm not crippled."
"What is it this time?" he asked, studying me—then pulled the blanket aside without warning. "Leg. Broken?"
"Gunshot."
"You really know how to spend your time in the city."
"Yeah. Living the dream."
"Does it hurt?" he asked, brushing the bandage lightly with his fingertip.
"Not much. Won't stop me from walking."
"Another scar no ordinary doctor can fix," he said, his gaze drifting to my cheek.
"Scars look good on a man."
"Right. Then Instructor Iveson must be every woman's dream."
"He's a great defender."
"I didn't say he wasn't." His eyes flicked back to mine. "But scars don't suit someone like you."
"Because I'm weak?" I snapped. "Because no one takes me seriously? I'm going to be a defender. And these scars?" I clenched my jaw. "They're reminders. Of mistakes I won't make again."
"Easy, Alan," he said quietly, placing a hand against my cheek. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" I pulled away.
He leaned closer.
Too close.
"I meant," he murmured, voice low, "that you're beautiful… and the scars stand out too much."
His breath was cold—
and somehow, it still sent heat rushing through me.