"I don't remember anything."

  Vomi stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, her head pounding. Had she overdosed on sedatives last night? Or last week? It all blurred together. With a groan, she pressed a hand to her forehead—only to notice the texture of her skin.

  Purple.

  Her tail was still there too, flicking idly at her side.

  She willed the transformation to recede, but nothing happened. Again, she tried, and again, it refused to listen. That wasn’t normal. Usually, it would subside after a few attempts.

  Sitting up, she took in her surroundings. This definitely wasn’t Night City. The scattered leather clothes, metal scrap furniture, and dry desert air told her she was in a Nomad camp.

  Also, she was naked.

  At least her underwear was still around—though not on the bed. She grabbed it from the floor, along with a shirt that definitely wasn’t hers, and started dressing. That’s when she noticed the man still asleep beside her.

  Vomi frowned. "Must’ve been a wild night."

  Despite the situation, she felt strangely… at ease. As if she had finally tamed the thing inside her, no longer bottling it up until it exploded. Last time she showed her symbiote form—really showed it—was in front of David, and it took all her concentration to keep it in check. But now? Now it just was, and that didn’t bother her as much as it should.

  Brushing off the thought, she stepped out of the tent—a makeshift room built from melted scrap metal—and was immediately greeted by the harsh desert sun. Her eyes adjusted in seconds, scanning the unfamiliar faces of the camp.

  No Nomad clan she recognized. Must’ve been a small one, barely known in Night City or among the bigger Nomad families. But if they were concerned about a stranger in their midst, they didn’t show it.

  Instead, they welcomed her like an old friend.

  "Hey, you're up!" One of them, a broad-shouldered man, grinned and handed her a bottle. "Have a drink! We ain’t goin’ anywhere, might as well keep the party rollin’!"

  Vomi shook her head with a tired sigh. "Thanks, but my head’s already killing me. I don’t even know where I am right now."

  A woman laughed. "Shit, yeah, you were psycho-crazy yesterday. I mean, everyone wanted a piece of you."

  Vomi narrowed her eyes. "Wanted a piece of me?"

  The woman smirked. "Relax, you only went home with one gonk—who, by the way, is still passed out in your tent. And don’t tell him I called him a gonk."

  Vomi turned back to the tent. Then to the camp. Then back to the tent.

  Yeah. She definitely fucked the clan’s leader.

  "Fuuuuuuuuuuck..." She groaned, rubbing her temples as her headache somehow got worse.

  "Hey, don't stress too much. At least Owen will be easier to deal with when he wakes up," one of the Nomads chuckled. "He's kind of an asshole when he goes too long without getting laid."

  Vomi sighed. "I can only imagine. But—where am I?"

  "Just outside of Las Vegas," another Nomad answered casually, biting into a kebab.

  "LAS VEGAS?!" Vomi shot up, eyes wide. "HOW THE FUCK DID I END UP IN NEVADA?!"

  The group collectively winced, covering their ears. She wasn’t the only one nursing a hangover.

  "We ran into you on our way back from a gig in Sacramento," the first guy explained, still offering her a beer. "We passed through Night City, saw you partying, and, well… Owen invited you along. You didn’t exactly resist. Seemed like you needed to cut loose. Not to mention, you're hot as hell."

  "Thanks..." Vomi muttered flatly, snatching the beer from his hand and chugging it.

  The woman from before raised an eyebrow. "Damn, she’s really thinking hard about all this."

  Vomi finished the bottle in one go and let out a small burp. "Not as strong as I thought it’d be."

  "The fuck?" one of the Nomads blurted. "That’s one of the strongest brews we’ve ever made and sold! What do you drink, rocket fuel?"

  Vomi considered saying yes. Instead, she kept her mouth shut.

  "Anyway," she said, taking a seat near the unlit campfire, "where can I get a ride back home?"

  The kebab guy shrugged. "Might take a while. Half the clan went to LA for supplies. You’ll be here for a few hours, maybe a whole day."

  "But don’t worry," another Nomad grinned. "We barely know each other. Let’s fix that. I’ve never been to Night City—what’s it like?"

  Vomi exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Her tail mirrored the motion. "Do yourself a favor. Stay away. That city eats people alive."

  One of the younger Nomads nudged her, eyeing her tail with curiosity. "I gotta say, your tail is preem. How do you even control that? What kind of chrome is it?"

  "That's a little too personal, don’t you think?" Vomi quipped, wrapping her tail around herself protectively, like a mother shielding her child.

  The Nomad smirked but didn’t push the question. Instead, he asked, "If Night City’s so bad, why are you going back?"

  "Family’s there. Can’t just leave them behind."

  The conversation drifted after that, Vomi explaining the chaos of Night City—what she did for work, how the city somehow thrived despite being labeled the worst place to live in North America, and the gangs that ran the streets. In return, the Nomads shared their way of life—jobs, skills, hobbies, and their own brand of lawlessness.

  To Vomi, they were like outlaws straight out of an Old West movie—moving from place to place, pulling off big scores, keeping tight-knit bonds like one big, chaotic family. Apparently, this particular group had only been together for a few months, calling themselves The Scorpios. Decent name. Generic as hell, but she kept that opinion to herself.

  "A Ripperdoc, scientist, and merc?" one of them asked, impressed. "Gotta say, mad respect, lady."

  "And yet, you still look like that," another Nomad—bigger, but more solid than fat—said with a small frown. "I envy you."

  Vomi waved dismissively. "Easier said than done. Gotta work hard to stay in shape."

  That was a complete lie. The symbiote took care of her physique effortlessly, keeping her in peak condition without a second thought. No workouts, no diets—just biological perfection on autopilot. No need to rub that in, though.

  For a split second, her thoughts flickered to BioTechnica. They’d definitely tried replicating “Past Vomi's” work by now. But as far as “Present Vomi” knew? Nothing had come of it.

  "Still," another Nomad chuckled, raising his drink, "good shape’s a good shape."

  Vomi sighed and grabbed another beer, popping the cap off with her thumb before taking a sip. It wasn’t as strong as the drinks she was used to in Night City, but it was decent.

  “So, you guys just roam around, pulling gigs and staying off the grid?” she asked, looking around the camp.

  "Pretty much," the first Nomad confirmed. "Jobs here and there—sometimes corpo work, sometimes good ol’ fashioned smuggling. Whatever pays and keeps the engines running."

  "Sounds exhausting," Vomi muttered, stretching her legs.

  The woman from earlier, the one who mentioned Owen, chuckled. "Better than dealing with corpos breathing down your neck twenty-four-seven."

  "Yeah, fair," Vomi admitted.

  She still wasn’t sure how the hell she ended up here, but at least they weren’t trying to kill her. If anything, they seemed too friendly. Maybe it was because of whatever wild shit she pulled last night, or maybe they were just like this. Either way, she needed a plan to get back.

  Owen, the so-called clan leader, was still passed out in her tent. She could probably squeeze some information out of him when he woke up, assuming he wasn’t too much of an asshole.

  As she finished her drink, she felt someone nudge her arm. "Since you’re stuck here for a bit, might as well make yourself useful," the kebab guy said, tossing her a set of keyshards.

  Vomi raised a brow. "What’s this?"

  "Archer’s outta gas. You drive, you siphon."

  She blinked. "You want me to go steal gas?"

  "We call it resourceful acquisition," he grinned.

  Vomi sighed, shaking her head with a frown, "Yeah, alright. Why the hell not?"

  Vomi had to admit—driving with a tail was a pain in the ass. Literally. No matter how much she shifted in the seat, it still felt awkward, and there was no real way to get comfortable. The Archer Quartz roared as it cut through the desert, carrying her and two Scorpios toward a CHOOH2 station currently occupied by Raffen Shiv.

  According to Jason, who had handed her the keyshard to the Archer before they left, these Raffen had been squatting in the area for a while. Even though the Scorpios were a smaller outfit compared to some of the bigger Nomad clans, dealing with Raffen was always a headache.

  As Vomi parked a safe distance away, Jason sighed. “Didn’t expect this many of ‘em around here.”

  Mark, the other Scorpio, scanned the station and frowned. “At least ten. If we go in guns blazing, they’ll be ready. Their iron’s top-notch… for Raffen, I mean.”

  Vomi leaned forward. “I doubt you guys have a rifle with a suppressor, right?”

  “Nope,” Jason shook his head. “We usually don’t need to. Most of the time, the fight comes to us.” Then, after a moment of thought, he added, “We could hack their comms. Send out false alarms, get them to spread out, and pick them off from a distance.”

  Mark sighed. “I’m no Netrunner, Jason.” Then he turned to Vomi. “You got any quickhacks?”

  Vomi’s optics flared crimson for a brief moment. “Yeah. Their firewall and daemons are garbage. Just give me a sec.”

  Jason let out a low chuckle. “Ain’t that convenient?”

  “Alright, done.” Vomi stood up from the driver’s seat as the other two got out. “I can make them spread out. You two handle the rest.”

  “Roger.” Jason nodded. “Mark, take the left. I’ll go right.”

  “Got it,” Mark replied firmly.

  Vomi hopped onto the car’s hood, letting them get into position. She tapped into the Raffen’s systems, sending out motion sensor alerts, false maintenance failure notifications, and triggering a few blinking lights to pop. Sure enough, the Raffen got spooked, breaking into smaller groups to investigate.

  From her perch, she counted six outside, five inside, and one lone lookout on the roof. The perfect opening.

  She spotted a rock on the ground, picked it up, and tossed it in the air once to gauge its weight. Too light. Wouldn’t take much effort.

  WHOOSH

  The rock punched through the lookout’s forehead like a bullet, dropping him instantly.

  Less work to do.

  “Got the guy on the roof,” Vomi said through her agent, her voice calm. “They’re spreading out. Wait for my signal.”

  “Thanks,” Jason acknowledged.

  “Alright,” Mark added.

  The Raffen were so oblivious to their surroundings that Vomi let out a sigh of boredom. Sure, this was the most efficient way to deal with them, but it wasn’t… fun.

  Wait…

  When did she start thinking like that? Why was she even thinking like that?

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  She shook her head, pushing the intrusive thoughts aside. Focus.

  Vomi scanned the scene again. Jason could take down at least four before they had a chance to react, same for Mark. That was eight out of ten. That left two, which meant she could dart forward and handle them herself.

  The problem? Those last two were inside the building. The remaining four weren’t moving either—likely guarding something important. If the Raffen had people stationed outside, that meant whatever was inside was worth protecting. She could use the rock trick again to take out one, but that would alert the other three—assuming Jason and Mark played their part.

  Time to make a call.

  “Take out everyone outside. I’ll handle the ones inside.”

  “Just say when,” Jason whispered.

  “Ready over here,” Mark confirmed.

  Vomi stopped leaning against the car, grabbed two rocks, and took off toward the station.

  “Now!”

  Jason fired first, landing clean headshots. Blood sprayed across the sand as bodies dropped. Mark took out three with his pistol, then finished the last one with a knife throw to the throat.

  Vomi closed in, throwing both rocks at the two near the windows. Their skulls caved in on impact, their heads practically bursting from the force. Without stopping, she hammered the door open, her tail whipping forward and coiling around one Raffen’s neck. A sharp twist—snap. At the same time, her “Monowire” sliced clean through the last one’s carotid artery.

  And just like that, it was over. A clean execution.

  “Clear!” Vomi called from inside.

  “Clear over here!” Jason confirmed.

  “All clear on my end!” Mark echoed.

  The three regrouped inside, Vomi’s gaze landing on a heavy safe in the corner—the very thing the Raffen had been guarding.

  “Oh, would you look at that,” Jason said, grinning as he pointed at it. “So that’s what had them holed up in here.”

  “I’ll get the CHOOH2 filled up—both the cans and the Archer. You two figure out what’s in that safe,” Mark said, already heading outside.

  “Could’ve left one of them breathing,” Jason muttered, nudging a corpse with his boot. “Might’ve known the code.”

  “No need,” Vomi replied, crouching to the safe’s level. “Just a sec.”

  She pressed her ear against the metal and turned the combination dial with careful precision. A few rotations later—click. The safe popped open.

  “Huh,” Jason said, mildly impressed.

  Vomi glanced inside and sighed. “Not much of a score. Just some datashards and a few credit shards.”

  “Raffen intel is usually useless, yeah,” Jason said, scooping up the shards. “But doesn’t hurt to check.”

  Slotting them into his neural interface, he skimmed through the contents, letting out the occasional uninterested grunt—until something made him whistle.

  “Yeah, most of this is garbage,” he said, pulling out one particular shard. “But this one’s got a gig plan.”

  Vomi took it and scanned the data. Looked like a simple trade route—a lone merchant running goods to the Aldecaldos. Smuggled or stolen, most likely, but the shard didn’t specify what exactly was in the shipment. The only clear detail was that the trader would be passing through Scorpios territory.

  “Not much to go on,” Vomi said, handing it back.

  “That’s for Owen to decide. Either way, solid work here.”

  “Cans are full!” Mark’s voice carried in from outside. “We’re good to go!”

  “Great. I need to get back to my own place,” Vomi said, already making her way to the exit.

  Jason followed. “Rest of the shards were just Raffen big shots talking bullshit. Nothing useful—except one of them got roasted for chipping a Studd.”

  Vomi chuckled. “Poor bastard. Tiny dick joke and morale damage for life.”

  “Imagine him becoming their leader. Every argument would turn into a dick joke.”

  Laughing, they made their way back to the Archer and started the drive toward camp. The sun had climbed high in the sky—midday already.

  “I didn’t think you were a Netrunner too,” Mark commented, watching the dunes roll past the window. “You wear a lot of hats for someone so young.”

  “Oh, you don’t even know half of it,” Vomi sighed.

  “Like what?” Jason asked, glancing at her.

  “Never mind.”

  Vomi pressed the gas pedal a little harder.

  The Scorpios welcomed the group back like they had just returned from a quick grocery run instead of raiding a Raffen station—just another day in the life of a Nomad. Drinks flowed freely, and Vomi found herself fielding even more questions, both about Night City and the raid she’d just pulled off.

  Then, finally, someone important arrived.

  Owen.

  “Howdy, Owen,” one of the Scorpios greeted as he passed by.

  Owen gave a small nod, adjusting his well-worn cowboy hat before turning to the table where everyone was gathered. His gaze landed on Vomi.

  “Hey, girl. Didn’t expect you to still be here.” He tipped his hat slightly. “Still, glad to have you around. These fools treating you right?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Owen,” one of the Scorpios chuckled. “No one’s dumb enough to put themselves between you and your woman.”

  “I never said I was his woman.” Vomi raised a brow. “It was just a hook-up, nothing more.”

  That statement settled into her mind with a strange weight. The male part of her still felt... conflicted about having slept with another man. She didn’t remember it, but the thought of it wasn’t entirely... unwelcomed. Maybe it was because “he” had spent eight months living in Vomi’s body, adapting to the life that came with it. But that didn’t erase the past.

  “I know,” Owen said, unfazed by the dismissal. He was still grinning. “You were just partying, stress relief and all that. No need to commit to something you don’t want to.”

  “Shit, the sex must’ve been good for Owen to take it that well.”

  “Fuck you,” Owen shot back, jabbing a finger at the offender. “But yeah, it was real intense.”

  Vomi felt her face heat up instantly, her purple skin doing little to hide the sudden blush.

  “Oh, look at that—you got her embarrassed,” a woman teased. “Ain’t that cute?”

  “Alright, alright, enough about my sex life,” Owen said, raising his hands to put an end to the teasing. “So, where you headed next? And—sorry if this is rude—but we never got your name.”

  “Vomi,” she introduced herself. “And I’m heading back to Night City. My biz is there, my family… my whole life is there.”

  “As I mentioned earlier,” Jason chimed in, raising a beer bottle to get everyone’s attention, “the rest of the clan is still out gathering supplies. It’ll be a while before you can catch a ride back.” He turned to Owen. “Speaking of which, I need to talk to you about a new gig.”

  “Oh?” Owen’s interest was piqued. “Alright, let’s hear it. Come with me.”

  With that, the two men left the table to discuss business, leaving Vomi with the rest of the Scorpios.

  Still slightly flushed, she cleared her throat and tried to steer the conversation away from that topic. “S-so… you guys do anything besides drinking around here?”

  “Yeah, one of us plays guitar,” Mark said before turning and calling out, “Hey, Kenny! Get over here—bring your thing!”

  “On it!” Kenny shouted from the other side of the camp, already grabbing his guitar.

  “G-guitar?” Vomi stammered, the word catching her off guard.

  The last time she touched one was back at the studio… and it was impossible not to see their faces—the faces of The Refused—every time she picked up an instrument.

  “Yeah, and he’s the only one here who can actually play,” Mark said as Kenny sat down at the table.

  “Hey,” Kenny greeted, adjusting the guitar on his lap.

  “Hey,” Vomi replied, her voice a little distant.

  “Play something for us, will ya?” Mark prompted.

  An acoustic guitar at that. Rare thing these days.

  “Sure,” Kenny said, fingers strumming a quick test chord. “Let’s see…”

  As the first chord rang out, Vomi’s black-orange eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. When the first lyrics followed, her hands instinctively covered her mouth—not to stifle a gasp, but to mask the wave of emotion that hit her like a freight train.

  Kenny was playing Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears.

  "Welcome to your life, there's no turning back…"

  Her heart clenched. Tears threatened to spill, but she forced them back. That song… it made her too sentimental. Too vulnerable. The last time she’d heard it, he had been sitting next to his mother, a frail woman wasting away from lung cancer. They would listen to these old tracks together, songs from a world long gone. Take On Me had been her favorite, but this one… this one dragged Vomi straight back to simpler times, when she didn’t have to hide what she was, when she didn’t have to be a monster just to survive.

  Before she even realized it, she was singing along.

  "I can't stand this indecision, paired with a lack of vision…"

  The whole table joined in.

  "Everybody wants to rule the world…"

  THUD

  “Fuck!” Kenny cursed, nearly jumping as the guitar slipped from his hands and hit the ground. “Please tell me it didn’t break. Acoustic guitars are too expensive.”

  Jason picked it up, inspecting the body before handing it back. “No dents, no cracks. You’re good.”

  “Damn it. I always mess up that part.” Kenny scowled at his fingers, flexing them in frustration.

  That was when they noticed Vomi, sitting silently as tears traced down her face.

  “…You good?” Kenny asked, concern creeping into his voice.

  She quickly wiped her cheeks. “Yeah, it’s nothing. I just… never thought I’d hear Tears for Fears again.”

  “You know them?” Mark raised a brow. “Didn’t peg someone from the big city to be into a niche song like this.”

  “It was my mom’s favorite.” Vomi’s voice softened as she looked down. “She loved it. Made me think of her.”

  No one needed to ask. Was meant she was gone.

  Kenny gave her a light tap on the shoulder. “Sorry for your loss. Didn’t mean to dig up old baggage.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Vomi assured him before shaking her head. “But—uh—when you get to the chorus, try pacing out the crescendo more. And strum the chords like this instead.” She demonstrated with her hands. “It’ll flow better. And, y’know, keep you from dropping the guitar.”

  Kenny opened his mouth, ready to brush off the advice—he was the musician here—but she was still Owen’s girl. He figured he’d humor her.

  When he tried again, following her instructions, he made it through the tricky part without stumbling.

  The rest of the song went off without a hitch.

  As he finished the last note, the camp broke into applause—louder than usual, mostly thanks to Vomi’s voice, which stood out like something otherworldly compared to the rougher voices of the clan.

  “Huh,” Mark muttered, watching her curiously. “Didn’t think you’d be a musician too. What can’t you do?”

  Vomi laughed awkwardly. “It’s nothing. I just ran with a band of rockerboys. They taught me everything and then some.”

  "Tears for Fears is older than all of us," Kenny nodded. "Your mother had good taste."

  Jason set his beer bottle down for a moment. "Funny how it didn’t really take off when it first dropped. Great song, but back then, people were more interested in screaming ‘corpos are bad’ at the top of their lungs than appreciating anything mellow or melodic."

  "Yeah, confusing times," Mark agreed. "It's more accepted now, but still kinda niche. Unless some big name does a cover."

  "I think next year it goes into the public domain," Kenny added, raising a finger. "Means no one’s gotta pay royalties. We could make some eddies off it."

  "In your dreams, choom," Jason snickered. "Let the big leagues handle that. We’re good where we are."

  Mark glanced around the table before turning to Vomi. "What about you? Got any songs you wanna play for us?"

  "M-me?" Vomi stammered. "No—no, I’m good. I pass."

  "Oh, c'mon, don't be shy." Kenny grinned, offering her the guitar. "You gotta know something, right? Maybe a song you and your mom used to listen to?"

  Vomi hesitated, her fingers twitching. "I—Look, I—"

  "I’d like to hear something too," Jason chimed in. "Night City's gotta have some bangers we’d like, right?"

  Vomi sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. With reluctant hands, she took the guitar, adjusted it on her lap, and pressed her fingers against the strings.

  She strummed.

  It was a mistake.

  A Few Seconds Earlier

  "I see," Owen said with a smirk, turning the shard over in his hand.

  Jason had given him exactly what he was looking for—a lucky break. This belonged to some gonk who owed the Scorpios a hefty sum. The guy had been set to deliver a shipment of chems, synth drugs, and guns—enough supplies to outfit an entire Aldecaldo branch. But the real kicker? He was making the run in a stolen corporate SUV, fully equipped with all the necessary safeguards and countermeasures to deter hijackers.

  Except, thanks to the shard, they now had a blueprint of all the SUV’s fail-safes.

  This gig was worth a serious stack of eddies. And with the numbers the Scorpios had, a single SUV wouldn’t stand a chance.

  "So, how are we running this?" one of the Scorpios asked.

  "Simple," Owen replied. "An EMP should force the SUV to a stop, but that would lock it down entirely. Unless we use this." He held up another shard, hooked to a device that looked like a modified smartphone. "This will disable the lockdown protocols. The armor will drop, but it won’t be defenseless."

  "Yeah, no way a corpo ride stays passive after getting fried," another added. "It’s gonna fight back."

  "It’ll be tough," Owen agreed, "but manageable."

  In the background, Everybody Wants to Rule the World played. A few at the debrief table hummed along, splitting their focus between the gig and the music. Vomi’s voice stood out—smooth, perfectly in sync with the melody. And for once, Kenny was playing without screwing up.

  Preem.

  "What do we need, boss?"

  "An EMP, obviously," Owen said, thinking out loud. "But we also need ways to hit the driver and turrets while keeping collateral low. If anyone’s got ideas, now’s the time. The gonk’s scheduled to hit the north route in a day or two, so we’re on a clock."

  One of the Scorpios, a woman with a shaved head and a cybernetic eye, leaned forward. "We got that drone you stole last month, right? If we retrofit it with a jammer, we could scramble the SUV’s sensors before the EMP hits. Give us a couple extra seconds before it locks down."

  Owen nodded. "Not bad. That plus the EMP should give us a solid opening."

  Another Scorpio, a younger guy with grease-stained hands, chimed in. "I can rig some makeshift spike strips. Corpo rides like that probably have run-flats, but if we time it right, we might slow it down just enough before the EMP kicks in."

  "Alright, do it," Owen said, pointing at him.

  Then, another voice cut in—Jason, still holding his beer, splitting his focus momentarily to give his own advice. "We need to talk about firepower. The turrets are gonna be the real problem. If they’re automated, they’ll keep firing even if the driver’s down. Unless we can disable them fast."

  Owen exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers on the table. "That’s a problem. Anyone got armor-piercing rounds?"

  One of the guys whistled. "Not unless we hit a Militech depot."

  "Then we go for weak points," Owen said. "Optics, sensor arrays. If we fry those, it’s blind."

  A few of the Scorpios exchanged glances, nodding. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was workable.

  The music in the background shifted, the last echoes of Everybody Wants to Rule the World fading. Kenny was messing with the guitar again, probably trying to line up another song.

  That’s when Owen glanced back toward the campfire. Vomi had the guitar now.

  She strummed a chord. Then another.

  The hesitation in her movements was obvious.

  THUD

  The guitar dropped to the ground, and Vomi collapsed, gasping for air as panic set in. Her chest heaved with every breath, and she tumbled to the dirt, shaking.

  “H-hey, what the hell’s going on?” Kenny shouted, eyes wide in concern for his guitar. “Wait, oh shit…”

  Jason rushed over, kneeling beside her, his voice urgent. “Someone get a doc here, now!”

  Owen snapped out of his seat and bolted toward them, his expression a mixture of worry and anger. He stopped in front of Kenny, eyes blazing.

  “What the hell did you do to her?” Owen demanded, shoving Kenny with enough force to knock him back.

  "W-wait! I didn’t do anything!” Kenny stammered, stumbling as he tried to defend himself.

  “Then why is she like this?!” Owen’s voice was fierce, demanding answers.

  Mark stepped forward, blocking Owen’s path. “Owen, chill! Kenny didn’t do shit!”

  Owen’s anger flickered, but his focus never wavered from Vomi. He dropped to his knees beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Then someone better tell me what the hell happened!”

  “I don’t know!” a random Scorpio called out, panic evident in his voice. “She was fine with the guitar, and then—then she just… fell down.”

  “Move! All of you!” The local doc arrived, pushing through the group with practiced efficiency. She knelt beside Vomi, quickly assessing the situation.

  Vomi was in no condition to respond. Her breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, her eyes darting wildly, as though she saw threats lurking everywhere. She was drowning in fear, trapped in a panic attack.

  “PTSD,” the doc muttered under her breath, her tone both frustrated and urgent. “Alright, bring me some alcohol and a mattress! Quickly!”

  The Scorpios scrambled into action, some running for supplies while others tried to clear the area, giving the doc space. Owen, still holding Vomi tightly, looked up at her with panic in his eyes.

  “Doc, what’s happening to her?”

  “Calm down, Owen,” the doc snapped as she worked. “It’s a panic attack. She’s having a flashback. It’s severe, but she’s not going to die from it. We need to get her stable first.”

  She pulled a small vial from her kit and administered a quick injection into Vomi’s arm, trying to sedate her just enough to calm the panic attack. Owen’s grip tightened around her, his jaw set in frustration.

  “Why the hell would she—”

  “Doesn’t matter right now,” the doc interrupted, pressing a cool cloth to Vomi’s forehead as she murmured softly to herself. “She’s not in danger, just needs a minute. We’re going to get her settled.”

  The mattress was quickly laid out, and Vomi was gently moved onto it. Her breathing was ragged, but with the doc's steady presence and the injection starting to take effect, she began to calm. Owen stayed by her side, his hand brushing her hair back from her face, eyes flicking between the doc and her as if waiting for some miracle to make her better.

  “Stay with her,” the doc said, glancing up at him. “Keep her calm. Let the sedative work. She’ll be fine, but we need to let her breathe.”

  Owen nodded, though his face still held deep concern. He watched Vomi’s trembling form, the tension slowly ebbing away, her breathing becoming more steady, though still a little too fast for his liking.

  “Vomi, it’s okay,” Owen whispered softly, running his hand through her hair. “You’re safe.”

  Vomi eventually drifted off to sleep, but the tension in the air only grew heavier. Everyone watched in silence, unease spreading among them.

  Kenny couldn’t shake the weight of his guilt.

  From a distance, Owen’s glare burned into him.

  “Fuck, what have I done?” Kenny muttered to himself, his voice tight with panic.

  He was in deep shit.