For a moment, I didn't know if I was dead or alive.
My body felt weightless, as though I were floating above the floor. I reached out for something solid—anything—but the world slipped past me like smoke: cold, elusive.
A muffled scream. Footsteps. A man's voice—low, urgent—cursing under his breath.
I tried to open my eyes, but pain came first. Sharp. Searing. It bloomed in my shoulder like fire. I gasped—a broken, ragged sound.
"Janica, stay with me. Don't close your eyes. Please—stay."
Jason.
His voice cut through the fog. I blinked once. Twice. The world swam into view—red and white smearing together. Hospital walls. Fluorescent lights. Blood.
My blood.
Jason's face came into focus. His shirt soaked. Eyes frantic. Hands pressing down on my shoulder, desperate to stop the bleeding.
I screamed.
"You're okay, baby," he lied. "You're going to be okay."
A second shadow moved behind him. A nurse. Then another. One of them shouted something I couldn't understand.
"Sir, you need to let go—we've got her!"
"She's bleeding too fast," Jason snapped. "You let go, she dies. Save her. Please."
More hands. More voices. I was being lifted, wheeled, dragged—every motion sharp and jarring. Each one another burst of agony through my shoulder. The ceiling spun overhead, lights flickering like strobe flashes of a nightmare.
Commands overlapped in chaos. One nurse shouted vitals. Another called for blood. Someone cursed. I couldn't tell if it was pain or panic holding me tighter.
Jason ran beside the gurney, ignoring everyone trying to stop him. He shoved through like a man possessed, gripping my hand. Just before the double doors swung shut, his fingers brushed mine one last time.
"Jason…" My voice was nothing but a whisper.
"I'm right here," he said, voice breaking as the doors closed between us. "I'm not leaving."
The lights blurred above me, pulling me further into the dark. I tried to hold onto him—his voice—but the pain was stronger.
I wanted to ask—
Who were they?
Why me?
What does he know that I don't?
But darkness had claws. And it pulled hard.
I let go.
I woke again to quiet dim lighting and a slower heart rate. The pain was dull now, numbed by something in the IV. My shoulder felt heavy, wrapped tight. Breathing was hard, but I was breathing.
Jason wasn't there.
For the first time, I noticed a vase of wilted roses on the table, a blanket folded neatly at the edge of the bed. Someone had stayed. Maybe for days.
I tried to shift, but even the smallest movement made my body scream in protest. My mouth was dry. My throat, raw.
I turned my head and saw Jason asleep in the corner chair—head tilted back, arms crossed. He was still in the same shirt, the bloodstains faded now.
A sob rose in my chest, small and broken.
I didn't even know why I was crying. Relief. Fear. Pain. All of it.
Somehow, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly—bloodshot, exhausted. When he saw me awake, something shattered behind his eyes.
In the next heartbeat, he was out of the chair and at my side. He sank to his knees beside the bed, his hand finding mine—warm, trembling—as if he needed to feel I was real.
Without a word, he pressed a shaky kiss to my forehead.
"You made it," he whispered hoarsely against my skin.
"Barely," I rasped, my voice cracked, my throat painfully dry.
Jason leaned back just enough to look at me, still gripping my hand like a lifeline.
"How long... how long have I been out?" I managed to say.
His mouth pressed into a tight, grim line. "Three days," he said quietly.
Three days? It hit me like a punch to the gut. Time I couldn't remember. Time he must have sat there, waiting, hoping.
A thousand other questions rushed to the surface, and I couldn't stop them. "What about the man who attacked me? Was he caught? Are we safe now?"
Jason didn't immediately answer. He seemed to be weighing something inside, before finally speaking.
"They haven't caught him yet," he said quietly. "But the hospital's on high alert. We're safe for now, but they're keeping a close watch."
I nodded, trying to process it all. I wanted to ask more, but my body felt like it was about to collapse in on itself.
He stayed close, his gaze never leaving me.
"You need to rest," he said, voice low and rough. "But after that—we talk. I owe you the truth. About everything."
I blinked, throat dry. "About what exactly?"
Jason looked away, jaw clenched. "It's complicated," he murmured. "And dangerous. I just... I didn't want you dragged into this for now."
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenching again. That same haunted look I'd seen when I first woke up returned. It wasn't just guilt—it was fear.
The silence between us stretched, growing heavier with each second. Something twisted in my chest—pain, confusion, something sharp enough to steal my breath.
He still wasn't telling me anything. Still circling around the truth like it might bite him.
I couldn't take another risk, couldn't stay another minute in the dark. Even if my body screamed in protest, I had to know. I had to force the answers out of him before I lost myself to the darkness again.
Frustration bubbled up—slow, bitter, burning past the ache. I pushed myself to sit up, gritting through the pain. My shoulder lit up in agony, and I faltered, gasping.
"If you're not ready to talk," I rasped, breathing hard, "then leave."
Jason's head snapped toward me, shock flashing in his eyes.
"You can't just be here and—" My voice broke. I bit down the tears. "You don't get to protect me with silence—not when that silence is killing me."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
For a moment, the room was unbearably still—except for the beeping of the heart monitor, too fast, betraying how much the effort had cost me.
Jason dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to scrub away the guilt.
Then, without facing me, voice rough with defeat, he said, "She didn't just die of cancer, Janica. She was silenced."
For a moment, I just stared at him.
And then the tears came—hot and heavy, falling before I could stop them.
"What?" I choked out.
Jason stood, his face twisted in guilt, in grief.
"She was investigating something," he said. "She found something she shouldn't have. And now they think you know."
My whole body trembled. The words barely made sense. My already broken world was shattering all over again.
There was fear in his voice, but it was controlled, buried deep, but still there. Like he wasn't just afraid for me… but for what might happen if I ever knew everything.
My mind raced, tripping over the horror of what Jason had said, heart pounding so hard against my ribs it hurt.
Silenced?
Found something?
The thoughts tumbled, chaotic, cruel. What had my mother seen? So she never trusted me with anything?
What secret had cost her life—and now maybe mine too? Oh, Mother.
I remembered one night—late, past midnight—when I'd found her in the living room, phone pressed to her ear, her back hunched like the weight of the world had settled there. She'd jumped when she saw me, shoved a folder beneath the couch cushion, and smiled too quickly. "Go back to bed, baby," she'd said, but her voice had shaken.
I never asked what she was hiding. I thought she was just tired. God, I was so wrong. How much had she buried to protect me? And how much of that danger was still buried in my name?
"Jason… what are you saying?" I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "You think this—what happened to me—it wasn't random?"
He said nothing.
The silence was worse than an answer.
"You think they're trying to kill me… because of something she did?"
Still, no answer.
The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, buzzing in my ears.
A tremor built inside me—part rage, part grief, part the helplessness of lying there, broken and bleeding while the world spun without sense.
"Say something," I whispered hoarsely, my voice shaking, barely holding together. "Don't just stand there."
My hands clenched weakly against the blanket. If my body had obeyed me, I would've risen, would've slammed my fists against his chest, anything to make him speak. Anything to make him look at me.
But I couldn't move.
The betrayal in his silence hit harder than any bullet.
Tears welled up, hot and furious, spilling down my cheeks.
I hated him in that moment—for knowing, for hiding it, for standing there like he was the one who had been shattered.
"Jason," I choked out. "You owe me the truth. You owe me."
Finally, he turned to face me, and I saw the war behind his eyes.
The guilt. The fear.
And the terrible, bleeding truth he didn't want to say.
I stared at him, my voice cracking. "Jason, what did she find? What did she know?"