Sometime in 1973: The Price of Forever Part II ...

  The bag comes off with a sharp yank.

  Alex barely has time to flinch before light stabs into her eyes, leaving her blinking against the sudden brightness. Her head throbs from the rough journey, but she schools her face into something unimpressed. The air is thick with the scent of fabric dye, machine oil, and dust—an industrial graveyard, filled with the bones of forgotten work. Towering shelves loom around her, stacked high with unfinished cloth and rusting equipment. Somewhere in the distance, a machine hums, its steady rhythm mimicking a heartbeat.

  She exhales sharply.

  “Was the bag absolutely necessary?” she mutters, shaking off the lingering disorientation.

  A voice answers, smug as ever. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  Fedora stands before her, hands on his hips, his posture annoyingly self-assured—like a man who thinks he’s won before the game has even begun. His dark suit is crisp, barely a wrinkle to betray the chaos he’s orchestrated.

  Alex tilts her head, feigning curiosity. “Where are we? Didn’t know there was a textile factory nearby.”

  Fedora gestures expansively, his chest puffing with pride. “We’re not nearby. Also, it’s mine.”

  Alex clicks her tongue, deadpan. “Of course it is.”

  He watches her, waiting. For fear, maybe. Defeat.

  She gives him nothing.

  “How do you find it?” he asks, like a host fishing for compliments.

  Her gaze sweeps over the dimly lit space. “Quaint.”

  He grins. “Thank you. Would you like a tour? Seeing as this’ll be your new home for a while.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll have to respectfully decline.” Then, with a razor-sharp edge, she adds, “Where’s Akio?”

  Fedora sighs, savoring the moment like a man swirling expensive wine. “Patience, my friend. All in good time.”

  Alex studies him, her gaze narrowing slightly. Then, casually, she says, “Speaking of time… you’re what, seventy? Seventy-two?”

  His smirk vanishes. A flicker of irritation crosses his face.

  “I’m sixty-five.”

  She lifts a brow. “Right. So… what happens if you die before unlocking immortality? Have we brainstormed that little conundrum yet, or are we just dead-focused on the idea of it?”

  His jaw tightens. “Rest assured, Alexandria. If I ever die, I have people with standing instructions to kill your boy. So you better pray—hard—that we ‘unlock immortality’ on our first try.”

  Alex hums in mock consideration. “And if it all works out, and you outlive your people, but then—oh, I don’t know—you die. Through no fault or contribution of mine, of course. Who’ll kill him then?”

  A muscle in Fedora’s jaw twitches. His fingers flex, then still. He doesn’t like where this is going.

  She smirks.

  With a flick of his fingers, he waves her away. “Take her to the room.”

  A brute at her side tightens his grip on the chain of her cuffs and yanks her forward. Alex stumbles, but the smirk lingers as she’s pulled through the factory’s dim corridors.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t think of that either,” she muses.

  She doesn’t miss the sharp tick of irritation in Fedora’s jaw.

  ~~~

  Inside a dimly lit storage room, Alex is shoved onto a wooden chair.

  The ropes come next—thick, heavy-duty, wound mercilessly around her torso and limbs. The thug securing them is methodical, tightening each knot with precision.

  Alex watches him work, then clicks her tongue in disapproval. “It’s not tight enough.”

  The thug pauses, frowning.

  She shifts slightly, testing the binding. “See? If I flex a little, everything will come undone. And when I inevitably bust out of here—and make no mistake, I will—I’ll be sure to tell your boss my three-second head start was all because you couldn’t tie a proper knot.”

  The thug glares. But when the ropes slip just the slightest bit, his mouth presses into a thin line. Muttering a curse, he tightens them with brutal force.

  Alex exhales sharply as they bite into her skin, but she doesn’t flinch.

  “That’s better,” she mutters.

  The thug studies her, suspicious. Then he storms out, the heavy door slamming behind him.

  Now alone, Alex shuts her eyes, inhaling deeply.

  Her body stills. Her breaths slow. The hum of machinery seeps into the silence, but beneath it—something else. Faint, rhythmic noises, growing clearer.

  Footsteps.

  Then—abrupt silence.

  Her eyes snap open just as the door is yanked wide.

  A figure is shoved inside, stumbling but catching himself before hitting the floor.

  Akio.

  His lip is split, blood drying along the corner of his mouth. One eye already swelling. He straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a minor inconvenience, then flicks an unimpressed glare at the thug responsible.

  “Really, son?” he drawls, swiping at his lip. “That was unnecessary.”

  Fedora strides in after him, his presence commanding—but failing to combat the sheer irritation radiating off Akio.

  Akio’s gaze sweeps the room, lands on Alex—bound to the chair. His expression darkens. “Why is she tied up?”

  Fedora shrugs. “That is the most kindness I could muster.”

  Akio clicks his tongue. “That’s a huge shame on you, sir.”

  He moves toward Alex, but Fedora catches his arm, yanking him back.

  “Uh-uh,” Fedora warns. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Akio jerks free, unimpressed. “And what would I use to cut through the ropes, my teeth?” He sighs at Alex. “You see what happens when I leave you alone for two minutes?”

  Alex tilts her head. “If you’d listened to me, none of this would be happening.”

  “I did listen. That’s why I’m here.”

  “No, you were supposed to head away from trouble, not into it.”

  “And how is it my fault I found trouble on the road I took to avoid it?”

  “Enough!” Fedora snaps. “My God, you two argue a lot.”

  Akio scoffs, gesturing lazily toward Fedora as if to say, Can you believe this guy?

  But Alex isn’t looking at Fedora anymore. She’s studying Akio’s face, the bruises, the blood. Her voice lowers, irritation giving way to something sharper.

  “Are you alright?”

  Akio waves her off. “Peachy. Got a few good licks in, though. You should see the other guy—he’s missing an ear.”

  Alex smirks, and the two share a brief, unbothered laugh, their amusement bouncing off the factory walls. Fedora visibly cringes.

  “Well,” Alex says, shifting her attention back to him, “Humphrey Bogart here wants to live till he’s three hundred, so he’s going to run some tests on me. Experiments and whatnot.”

  Akio raises a brow. “That’s what this is about?” He turns to Fedora. “That’s all you wanted? Shit, you could’ve just asked. Not her—me. And I’d have told you politely to go screw yourself.”

  Fedora backhands him.

  The crack of palm against skin is sharp in the silence. Akio stumbles, lip splitting open, but when he straightens, he just drags his tongue over the blood gathering at the corner of his mouth, unimpressed.

  Alex goes deadly still, her gaze darkening, muscles coiled. "Now I’ll have to replicate that on your face," she murmurs, voice eerily calm.

  Fedora ignores her. Instead, he draws a gun, pressing the barrel against Akio’s head. But his eyes remain locked on Alex. “I once watched you survive a bullet to the skull. The damn thing crawled out of you like it knew it didn’t belong there.” He tilts his head. “Tell me, is it like that for him?”

  Alex’s fists flex against the ropes. “You said you would let him go.”

  Fedora hums, considering. “I did say that, didn’t I? And yet, I feel a pressing need to change my mind.”

  Alex’s voice drops to something glacial, sharpened by centuries. “You hurt him, and that’s it. No more immortality, no more leverage over me. Nothing to stop me from force-feeding you your own hacked-off limbs.”

  Fedora sighs loudly, head dropping to his chest in resignation. “You are rather vulgar.”

  “I’ve had centuries of practice.” Her voice hardens. “He goes free.”

  The air stretches taut between them, heavy with unspoken threats.

  Then—Fedora exhales through his nose, irritated. “Fine.”

  Akio shifts but doesn’t relax. “Not to complain, but the gun is still pointed at my head.”

  Fedora smirks, then finally lowers the weapon. “He’s leaving. Now.”

  One of Fedora’s men grabs Akio’s arm, dragging him toward the door. Akio barely resists, rolling his eyes dramatically.

  “Nice friend you got here, Alex. Stellar hospitality.”

  Alex cranes her neck to catch his gaze as he’s hauled out. “Head to the Campbells!” she calls after him.

  Akio barely manages a nod before the door slams shut behind him. Leaving Alex alone with Fedora and a promise of blood in her eyes.

  The heavy metal door slams shut behind Akio, bolts clanking into place. A slow, deliberate drag of chains follows—an audible statement. The guards on either side exchange a glance, their movements almost theatrical. They want him to see this. To understand how trapped he is.

  Akio watches with mild amusement, one brow lifting. “Dear God, how long have you been planning this?”

  Fedora turns to him, irritation tightening his face.

  “I find it extremely annoying that you’re still talking.”

  Akio hums, unfazed, letting his gaze wander across the factory. Towering metal shelves loom overhead, lined with rusting machinery long past its prime. Rolls of unfinished cloth lean haphazardly against the walls, their once-bright dyes dulled by dust. The rhythmic hum of unseen machines vibrates through the air, a ghostly echo of the factory’s past life.

  He clicks his tongue. “Didn’t realize textile work was so sinister.”

  Fedora merely smiles.

  “So when do we leave?” Akio asks, turning back to him. “I can give you directions to my house.”

  Silence.

  Akio studies Fedora more closely, reading the amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then it clicks. He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

  “Of course. I was never leaving.”

  Fedora steps in, smile widening. “Ding-ding! Tell him what he’s won.”

  A sharp yank from behind—one of the thugs grabs Akio, twisting his arms back with practiced ease.

  Akio winces at the angle of his arms, tilting his head. “Oh, come on. I thought old people didn’t lie.”

  Fedora snorts. “And I thought Alex talked too much. Yet here you are”

  Akio’s smirk fades. His posture shifts—loose, but calculating. Like a predator deciding whether or not to pounce. When he speaks again, his voice is low, steady.

  “You can’t keep us here. You know this. I know this. Even dumb thug number seven here knows this.”

  Fedora’s confidence flickers. Just for a second. “Say what you want. As long as we have you she’s compliant, and as long as she’s compliant, I don’t really have a problem, now do I?”

  Akio huffs a quiet laugh. “Oh, please. It’s only a matter of time before everything falls apart. I wonder how you’ll die then.”

  He steps forward—just enough to watch the subtle twitch in Fedora’s throat. A swallowed breath. Nervousness he can’t quite hide.

  Good.

  “Then again,” Akio muses, voice turning sharp, “I’m starting to entertain the idea of killing you right now all by myself.”

  A thin sheen of sweat glistens on Fedora’s temple. He forces a chuckle, but it lands awkwardly, brittle at the edges.

  “But you won’t. Not when I have your sister locked away in an impenetrable vault.” he mutters, finger tapping on Akio’s chest. “And that is exactly why I’m not letting either of you go. Not when you’re the only thing keeping my prized cow docile.”

  Akio raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ll tell her you called her a cow.”

  Fedora gestures sharply. The thug drags Akio away.

  He doesn’t resist. Matter of fact, he’s still smiling.

  Alex slips through the side entrance of the hospital, her movements quick and careful. She sticks to the shadows, eyes flicking toward the police stationed outside. The main entrance—where she made her less-than-graceful crash landing—is now cordoned off, taped and sealed. The floor gleams where broken glass used to be, as if erasure equals normalcy.

  She heads toward the front desk and slows when she spots a familiar face. The same nurse from earlier—receiver wedged between shoulder and ear, humming off-key while admiring her nails like they’re the only thing that matters in the world.

  Alex huffs, glances behind her. A baseball rolls to a stop between her boots. A boy—twelve, maybe—scurries over, sheepish and wide-eyed. She crouches, picks it up, hands it to him with a tired smile. He snatches it like she might change her mind and bolts.

  Behind her: a loud slam. The phone clatters into its cradle. Alex spins back to the nurse.

  “You’re supposed to have been abducted,” the nurse says flatly, not missing a beat.

  Alex blinks. “Yeah, they, uh… let me go.” She winces. Even she wouldn’t believe that.

  The nurse chews her gum like it owes her money, eyes dragging over Alex like she’s a stain on freshly waxed tile.

  “The aliens just decided to let you go?”

  Alex flashes a wide, forced smile—too many teeth, not enough sincerity. She shifts on her feet, bouncing like a guilty toddler. Definitely not fooling anyone. However she’s in too much of a hurry to care.

  The nurse's gaze drifts up from Alex’s scuffed boots to her wild, tangled hair. Suspicion narrows her eyes to slits.

  “You’re that author, aren’t you?” she says, pointing an accusatory finger. “The one writing those books they’re making into that huge movie? With demigods or whatever?”

  Alex presses her lips into a thin line and nods once.

  “May I use your phone?” she asks, desperate to steer this off the supernatural highway before someone starts putting puzzle pieces together.

  The nurse jerks a thumb toward the far wall. “There’s a phone over there.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Alex turns—hopeful—only to see it: the phone lies shattered on the floor, reduced to plastic shrapnel and regret. Her eyes scan the mess, as if cataloging every fragment will make it whole again.

  She looks back, expression flat. “That phone’s dead.”

  The nurse raises an unimpressed brow.

  “And whose fault is that?” she snaps. “Who got herself launched into my lobby and smashed up the place?”

  She leans forward like she’s about to whisper a secret—but her voice doesn’t drop an inch. “You’re lucky I didn’t hand your nice ass over to the cops.”

  Alex blinks. “My what?”

  The nurse leans back, feigning innocence. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  Alex exhales sharply through her nose. She’s bone-tired, blood-stained, and fresh out of patience.

  “My stepdad’s unconscious,” she says. “I need to tell my brother.”

  The nurse shrugs, still working the gum like it’s her job. “There’s a payphone outside.”

  Alex lifts her brows. “I’ll pay you.”

  The nurse smirks, eyes glittering, and snaps her gum. “Go on.”

  ~~~

  Alex stands outside the hospital, the night air thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and distant sirens. A payphone receiver is pressed to her ear, fingers tapping a jittery rhythm against the metal box. The line rings once. Twice.

  “Pick up the phone,” she mutters under her breath.

  Click.

  “Hello?” Akio’s voice crackles through the speaker, slightly distorted, edged with exhaustion.

  Relief crashes over her like breath after drowning. “Ah, Akio.”

  “Alex?” A pause. Then louder, urgent— “Alex!”

  She yanks the phone away from her ear with a wince. "Ow."

  Akio, halfway across the world, shuffles forward in a sluggish airport queue. A crumpled boarding pass is clenched in one hand, his phone in the other, his patience worn razor-thin.

  “I’ve been calling you all night,” he snaps. “Where the hell is your phone?”

  “Oh, that is a long story.” Alex sighs, tilting her head skyward as if looking for patience among the stars.

  Akio exhales sharply. “Does it have anything to do with what’s on the news?”

  She frowns. “I don’t know. What does the news say?”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose, stepping forward. “That Chris is in the hospital, the house is burned to the fucking ground, and you—” His voice drops, wary. “—you were abducted by aliens?”

  Alex scoffs. “Yeah, that’s the gist. Though I take issue with the part about the house—”

  “I knew it,” he mutters. “Wait. Aliens are real?”

  “Akio.” Her voice flattens. “Do I sound like I have time to joke?”

  He swallows hard. “Then focus! What the hell is going on?”

  Alex draws a long breath. The weight of the last six hours settles on her shoulders like a steel chain. “I can’t explain everything over a payphone. Just know… there are aliens. A disgruntled general. And my father—my real father—”

  Akio stops dead. The background noise fades for a second.

  “Your dad is there?”

  “What? No. You’re not listening—”

  “I have to go,” he cuts in. “I’m boarding now. But we are going to talk about this. In detail. With graphs, if needed.”

  She exhales, half a laugh, half a plea. “God, I hope so. Just get here in one piece.”

  A loud, obnoxious pop of gum makes her glance over her shoulder.

  The nurse from earlier stands in the hospital doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched in unamused authority.

  Alex cringes. “I gotta go. The nurse wants her phone back.”

  “Who?”

  “I mashed the other phone, so—”

  “You smashed—? Alex!” Akio’s exasperation is palpable, even over the static. “Be careful. Please. Take care of yourself.”

  She nods, even though he can’t see her. “Just get here.”

  The line clicks. Dead.

  Alex exhales and turns, handing the receiver back to the nurse like a kid returning stolen goods. “Phone. Thank you.” A pause. “How much do I owe you?”

  The nurse smacks her gum, eyes scanning Alex like she’s assessing damages.

  “Coffee.”

  Alex blinks. “Coffee?”

  “Coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  The nurse shrugs. “Anything else you drink, then.”

  Alex tilts her head, studying her. “Acceptable. When?”

  The nurse rolls her eyes. “Whenever you finish dealing with your ‘aliens’ and that pissed-off General. You know where to find me.”

  With that, she turns and strolls back inside like she owns the place and is merely loaning it to the sick.

  Alex watches her go. Huh.

  Then, snapping back to reality, she calls after her, “Uh, Chris’s room number?”

  The nurse doesn’t even look up as she types something into her computer.

  “Jordan. Room 312.”

  (Continuation)

  A dim lightbulb swings overhead, casting erratic shadows across the damp stone walls. The air reeks—mildew, sweat, and old machine oil congealing into something almost alive. Akio sits strapped to a rickety wooden chair at the center of the room, wrists bound tight to the armrests with thick rope, ankles lashed to the legs. A deep gash above his brow leaks blood in a slow trickle down his face.

  Before him: a towering brute with thick shoulders and a nose that’s been broken more times than he’s read a book. He rolls his neck like he’s about to enter the ring.

  Akio groans, blinking sluggishly. “Okay, but like… why four?”

  Thug number 4—As Akio had named him in his head, frowns. "What?"

  “You’re Thug #4, right?” Akio shifts slightly, testing the rope. “Unoriginal. How do you guys decide this stuff? Seniority? Rock-paper-scissors?”

  The thug sighs and swings. A meaty fist slams into Akio’s ribs.

  White-hot pain flares, but Akio exhales sharply, forcing a cough into something like a laugh. “Oof. Solid form. Ever think about boxing? I mean, you’d lose, but at least you’d get paid.”

  Thug #4 glares, shaking out his hand. “You don’t shut up, do you?”

  “Oh no. If I shut up, I start thinking about how much I’m bleeding. Then I get all existential and regret not learning French.” Akio lifts a brow. “Did you know ‘grapefruit’ in French is pamplemousse?”

  The thug blinks. “What?”

  “Pamplemousse.” Akio nods seriously. “Fantastic word. Say it. It’s fun.”

  Thug #4 cocks his fist back again—but Akio’s already moving.

  His arm snaps up. The rope splits cleanly.

  "Merde," Akio smirks.

  He lunges.

  In a blink, he grabs the thug’s wrist and twists. There’s a sharp CRACK as the bone snaps. Thug #4 screams, staggering back. Akio rips free his other hand and shoves off the chair. His ankles are still bound, but he crashes forward, tackling the thug to the ground.

  They grapple across the concrete. Akio clenches his jaw, forcing his palm flat against the thug’s chest. Power hums at his fingertips—and then ignites.

  A violent jolt of violet electricity rips through his hand. Thug #4 convulses, body seizing as light veins through his skin, glowing like magma, and burning white-hot with coursing energy. His screams choke out into a gurgle, smoke pouring from his mouth and nostrils. The stench of scorched flesh fills the air. Then he stills.

  Akio stumbles back, panting. His stomach churns at the sight—charred flesh, cooked sweat. "Gross."

  He raises a trembling hand, focuses. There’s still a faint thrum in his veins. Energy clings like static.

  He curls his fingers—nothing. No spark. No heat. Just hollowed-out exhaustion.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shakes out his hands. “Not now, you stubborn piece of—”

  Still nothing.

  He scrubs a hand down his face, wincing as fingers poke tender bruises.

  The faint sound of voices outside the door interrupt his wallowing, and Akio stiffens. Shit. He’s out of power, out of strength, and very much still in enemy territory.

  He looks down at Thug #4’s smoldering corpse.

  "Well, at least one problem’s solved." Now he just had to deal with the rest.

  Akio crouches over the still-warm corpse, hands rifling through pockets with practiced efficiency. His fingers brush past loose change, a switchblade, some lint—

  A Twinkie.

  Akio whips it out like he’s just discovered the Holy Grail. His eyebrows shoot up. "Ooh. Twinkie!"

  He gives it an appreciative shake before stuffing it into his pocket. Priorities.

  His hand dives back in, rummaging deeper. Then his fingers curl around cold steel. Akio pulls out a gun.

  His face twists. "Ah, my old enemy."

  He checks the chamber. Loaded. A metallic clunk from the door causes his head to snap up.

  The locks click open, slow and deliberate. He tenses, flicking off the gun’s safety, raising it in one fluid motion.

  The door swings wide.

  THUG #1 steps in, scanning the scene: His partner’s charred corpse. The blood. The smell. Akio, wild-eyed and grinning, standing over it all with a gun pointed at his face.

  A pause. Tension tight as wire.

  Akio doesn’t blink. “Perfect timing, son. I need your help.”

  ~~~

  Alex is still. Too still.

  Her breathing is shallow. Her eyes are shut. Somewhere in her head, indistinct noises swirl—layered voices, blurred murmurs of past and present bleeding together. The room around her barely exists.

  Somewhere, far away, the sounds of footsteps scrape against the floor. A nurse stands a few feet away, eyes wide and focused, gripping a syringe like it's a live grenade. Her gaze flickers nervously between Alex, motionless and unreadable, and Fedora, who stands with a quiet authority, watching with a detached amusement.

  “She’s not moving,” the nurse murmurs, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thread of calm still lingers in the air.

  Fedora doesn’t even blink, his eyes locked onto Alex as if she were nothing more than an object in his care. “And?” he says, his voice laced with cold indifference.

  The nurse shifts uneasily on her feet, her conscience battling against whatever professional obligation she's still clinging to. “You want me to proceed while she’s like this?”

  “As long as she’s complying, I don’t give a shit,” Fedora responds, his tone dry, almost bored.

  A beat passes. The nurse hesitates, her fingers shaking slightly as she uncaps the syringe. But her eyes never leave Alex’s face, studying her with a strange intensity. She catches the faintest hint of scar tissue tracing the sharp angles of Alex’s brow—lines that are almost invisible, faded, but unmistakably there. One so close to her eye it’s a miracle she still has one.

  Her gaze lingers. Guilt? Concern? Something else flickers in the nurse’s expression, but she quickly pushes it away, her shoulders tensing. With a sharp breath, she steels herself and presses the needle into Alex’s arm. As the needle sinks, she watches the deep red blood flood into the syringe, pooling like liquid life captured in the glass.

  “All done,” she says quickly, pulling back as if she’s just touched a hot stove, her eyes darting nervously to Fedora.

  He nods once, acknowledging the task with cold satisfaction. “That’s one.”

  The nurse frowns, the weight of the word hanging in the air. “What do you mean, one?”

  Before she can process further, the door swings open with a creak, and two of Fedora’s men step in, carrying a box of vials and a full blood transfusion kit. The nurse’s stomach churns at the sight, her face pale as she realizes what’s happening.

  “No,” she snaps, shaking her head vehemently. “No, no, no. I’m not sitting here and helping you milk a person for blood.”

  Fedora exhales, the sound heavy with irritation. His gaze flicks toward the nurse with a casual cruelty. “She’s not exactly innocent here. Plus, we have her consent.” His words drip with something far darker than mere instruction.

  The nurse’s laugh is harsh, filled with disbelief. “Like hell you do! I’m not some evil Frankenstein assistant at your beck and call.”

  Fedora’s eyes narrow just slightly, his lips curling into a faint, chilling smile. Then, without warning, he pulls out a gun, the click of the safety sounding too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

  The nurse freezes, her heart slamming in her chest. The room, once ordinary, is suddenly a cage.

  “Ah, Jenny,” Fedora says smoothly, his voice syrupy with mock patience. “Don’t make me do this the hard way.”

  Her pulse spikes, her mind racing as she looks from Fedora’s gun to the box of vials on the table. She swallows hard, her eyes darting between the needle still in her hand and the menacing glint in his eyes.

  “Losing this much blood could kill her,” she says, her voice tight, her throat dry.

  Fedora waves a hand dismissively, the gesture almost too casual, too cold. “Oh, no. You see, Alex is special.”

  His eyes drag over Alex’s limp form, and for a moment, his gaze softens, but only for a heartbeat. “Her ability to withstand wear and tear is… very impressive.”

  Jenny’s stomach knots at the words, her mind struggling to wrap around their meaning. “What the hell does that mean?” she mutters, but before she can ask any more, Fedora’s phone rings.

  He pulls it from his pocket, answering immediately with a sharp, clipped tone. “What?” There’s a pause, his jaw tightening. “Shit.” He hangs up, and his mood shifts, the easy cruelty replaced by a rare flicker of concern. He pounds twice on the door, the sound loud enough to make the nurse jump.

  “Get on with it,” he tells her, turning toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jenny’s breath catches in her throat as he steps toward the exit, but her voice cracks before she can stop it. “Hold on. You’re not leaving me in here with her.”

  Fedora doesn’t even turn back to look at her as he opens the door. “I said I’ll be right back. Minor problem.” His tone is final, as if her protests mean nothing.

  Jenny blanches. The thought of being locked in here—

  “What if she wakes up?!”

  Fedora and his men step out.

  He throws a parting glance over his shoulder, smirking. “Then you could try asking her for her blood nicely.”

  The door slams shut with a resounding thud, the lock clicking into place with the heavy finality of a death sentence. One. Two. Three. Each click feels like a hammer pounding into her chest.

  Jenny stares at the door, her mind scrambling to find a way out, a way to make sense of it all. The sudden isolation feels suffocating. What if she wakes up?

  The thought spins in her mind as she turns slowly back to Alex, who hasn’t moved an inch. Her body is still. Too still. The room is silent, save for the muffled hum of distant machinery, but Alex is like a statue. Blank. Empty.

  Jenny’s eyes flicker to the blood-soaked syringe on the counter, then to the transfusion kit lying untouched. Her fingers tighten around the syringe in her hand, the weight of it suddenly too heavy to bear.

  She looks back at Alex, her mind reeling. Something in her gut tells her the worst is still to come.

  And she has no idea how she’ll survive it.

  Alex locks the door behind her with a quiet click, the sound sharp in the sterile stillness of the hospital room. Chris jolts upright in bed, a moment of panic flashing across his face before it melts into something else—relief, unmistakable and genuine.

  “Oh, thank God! Are you okay?” His voice trembles just a little. “The police were just here—said you’d been abducted by aliens.”

  Alex waves her hand dismissively, unfazed. “No, that was just Henry and his dad.”

  Chris stares at her, blinking as though trying to reconcile what she’s said with the reality of the situation. “Henry—the coffee kid? He’s an alien too?!”

  Alex shrugs, exhaling as she rubs the bridge of her nose. “Well, his dad’s from my home planet. Henry’s part-alien, but that doesn’t really mean anything.” Her voice is casual, like she’s talking about something as mundane as the weather. “Didn’t stop him from spying on me, though.”

  Chris’s confusion deepens, his brow furrowing. “Your home planet?”

  Alex doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she glances around the hospital room with a practiced air of distraction, her eyes darting briefly to the window before she turns back to face him, a distant look in her eyes.

  Chris leans forward, his expression a mixture of disbelief and concern. “Alex.”

  “Hm?” She barely acknowledges him, a slight tilt of her head as her fingers dip into her pockets, an old tell that signals she's feeling something—unease, perhaps?—though she’s hiding it well.

  She strides over to his bedside and pulls a chair close, settling herself into it with the kind of nonchalance that doesn’t match the gravity of their conversation.

  “New information has been brought to light,” she says, as if it's just another fact of life. “I’m an alien.” She waves a hand as though she’s explaining the latest office gossip, all-encompassing.

  Chris freezes, his mouth falling open. “What happened to ‘demigod’?”

  Alex sighs, leaning back in the chair with a quiet stretch. “Slight misinformation.”

  The words hang between them, but Chris doesn’t laugh, doesn’t find this funny. He stares at her, his expression flickering between disbelief and genuine concern.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asks, his voice softer, searching for the cracks in her armor. “Your entire world just got turned upside down, Alex.”

  She taps her fingers against the armrest of the chair, looking almost bored. “You could have told me what was going on, Chris. I could have helped.” Her voice is even, but there’s a sharp edge there—something she’s not saying. Not yet, at least.

  Chris exhales, his breath heavy, and lets the deflection slide. “Vincent threatened to kill you.”

  Alex’s brow furrows, her eyes narrowing as the name hits her ears. “Who is Vincent, and why do we believe him?”

  Chris hesitates for a moment, then sighs, a faint hint of exhaustion in his voice. “I knew everything. Heck, I saw it all—the space pod, the crystal. And with half the freak show they’ve got going on in that lab, I can’t say I have complete faith in your ability to best all worldly things anymore.”

  Alex scoffs, the noise dry, sharp. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m serious.” His voice doesn’t leave room for argument. “Hell, I even helped make some of the weapons they’re going to use against you when you go against this thing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alex asks flatly. Her expression tightens, just for a moment. “Chris, I’m not leaving this room. Not until this whole thing blows over.”

  Chris stares at her—really stares—at the cold finality in her tone. His mouth opens, his words caught somewhere between indignant and shocked. He blinks, once, twice, before he finds his words. “So… you plan to duck and hide when Vincent sends his goons after you?”She pauses, then slowly shakes her head. “I’m sorry—after me? Why would he be after me? He already has the spaceship—”

  “You know about the spaceship?”

  Alex blinks, slightly caught off guard. “I got a crash course. Apparently, it’s mine too, if Henry and his wacky father are to be believed.”

  Chris runs a hand through his white hair, the disheveled mess of it barely registering as he tries to process the new layer of absurdity being thrown at him. “Hold on—so Henry’s dad and you are both from the same planet?”

  Alex nods, her hands flailing in exasperation before dropping back to the chair arms, the weariness creeping into her movements.

  Chris squints, clearly trying to wrap his head around it. “And this planet—not the same as the one those other guys came from? The ones that attacked the first lab—”

  Alex’s fury is sudden, uncontained. She jerks upright in the chair, her fists clenching at her sides. “You told me nothing was wrong with you when I asked about your face!” She stabs a finger in his direction, wagging it with the kind of annoyance that feels too familiar.

  Chris swats it away, narrowly missing the point of her finger as it swings too close to his eye. “No. I told you an alien dropped a building on me—which was exactly what happened.”

  Alex sputters, her cheeks reddening. “How the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t joking?!”

  Chris raises his hands in surrender, the motion jostling the IV line in his arm. Alex catches it instinctively, setting it back down with a glare.

  “I told you the absolute truth! It’s not my fault you didn’t realize it was the truth,” he retorts.

  But Alex isn’t done airing her grievances, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “And that fidgety doctor you sent with Lillian’s necklace—”

  Chris jerks upright, his expression sharpening. “Clifford gave you the crystal, right?”

  Alex flicks a dismissive hand. “I gave it to Henry. Sorry, Chris, but I want no part of this nonsense.”

  Chris stares at her, incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?! Vincent will kill that boy. He makes a mean cup of coffee, but I seriously doubt his skills translate to close combat.”

  Alex snorts, unamused. “Oh, don’t worry. His dad’s a pro at making portals. This Vincent guy won’t know what hit him.”

  Chris blinks, stunned by the sudden shift in information. Torn between coaxing Alex back into the fray or simply asking more questions about the soon-to-be breakthrough that is portal technology, he ultimately decides on the more pressing issue. “You’re seriously going to let them do this alone?”

  Alex groans, a deep, almost bone-deep fatigue in her expression. “Chris, I thought we were all in agreement that I moved away from situations like these? I might’ve whined when you first suggested it, but five years later, and I am grateful for the career change.”

  Chris deadpans. “And now you’re an alien and a threat to the world.”

  Alex holds up a hand, her voice sharp. “Okay, pump the brakes—I just found out about the alien thing thirty minutes ago.” She exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And for the record, I haven’t been a threat to the world since ‘45.”

  Chris lets out a humorless chuckle. “You think Vincent cares? All he sees is someone different—someone he’ll do anything to get rid of.”

  Alex stiffens, her spine straightening as she leans in closer. “And yet you went after this maniac alone. You could have been killed!” Her voice softens just a fraction. “Chris, I am the last person you should be trying to die for.”

  Chris looks her in the eyes, his expression hardening. “You don’t tell me who to die for.”

  Alex’s jaw tightens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’d prefer you didn’t die at all, actually.”

  Chris leans back in the bed, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve helped people in this sorry little world more times than historians can count—”

  Alex scoffs. “Pretty sure the people on the receiving end wouldn’t see it that way.”

  Chris sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the headache that’s surely building. “I just wanted to look out for you for a change. Help you. You know… return the favor.”

  Alex’s eyes soften, just for a moment. “Are you kidding me? You gave me and Akio a home. A real family. Something I haven’t had in… ever.”

  There’s a beat. The weight of it settles between them.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, “I owe you for life.”

  Chris smiles, the warmth of it genuine, as though everything else in the world is momentarily on hold. “I know you’re not one for sappy gestures, but…”

  He spreads his arms, grinning as he looks up at her. “Come here.”

  Alex hesitates, then rolls her eyes with a half-smile. “…Fine.” She leans in, wrapping her arms around him. “But only ‘cause I’ve had a really shitty day.”

  Chris chuckles, tightening the hug. “We both need this, then.”

  The door creaks open, breaking the moment with the softest of intrusions. A nurse—mid-thirties, a little too aware of the intimacy she’s interrupting—steps inside with a tray in her hands.

  “Sorry to break up a tender moment,” she says, half-smiling. “But he really needs to eat something.”

  Chris perks up immediately, his eyes lighting with hope. “Well, it’s about time!”

  He tugs at his IV, but Alex smacks his hand away with an exasperated look. “A man can only go so long on liquid goo,” he mutters, disappointment already setting in.

  The nurse sets the tray on his lap, and Chris stares at the plate of Jello with utter disbelief. His excitement deflates like a punctured balloon.

  “…Look at that,” he says, poking the Jello with a resigned sigh. “It’s even more goo.”