CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ALICE
The darkness is not a new concept for me; it is a heavy, suffocating blanket that smells of antiseptic and rain.
It's a familiar weight, one I've carried since I was fourteen, lurking in the corners of my mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to pull me back under.
I can hear voices—distorted, underwater sounds that ripple through the blackness.
One is high and frantic, vibrating with a terror that makes my heart ache even through the numbness.
That's Ellie.
The other is lower, a steady, authoritative vibration that feels grounded, like a heavy anchor dropped into a raging storm.
"Alice! Alice, wake up!"
I feel a hand on my neck, cold fingers pressing firmly against my pulse point.
These fingers are calloused and sure, yet they're trembling just enough for me to feel the vibration of panic beneath the surface.
"Ms. Cox, check her."
The command is quiet but absolute.
I try to pull myself toward that voice, to climb out of the deep well I've fallen into, but my body feels like lead.
Suddenly, I'm being lifted.
The sensation of weightlessness is jarring, my head lolling helplessly against a shoulder that feels like solid granite.
"Is she going to be okay? She just... she stopped talking and went white," Ellie's voice is receding now, blocked out by the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps echoing against the bathroom tiles.
"She's stubborn," the low voice mutters. There's a jagged edge of frustration in the tone, a roughness that vibrates against my ear.
"She's a witch who thinks she can walk off a concussion and a fever in the same morning."
The air changes. The humid, cramped atmosphere of the restroom is replaced by the sterile, biting chill of the Oakhaven corridors.
I force my eyelids to twitch, a sliver of harsh light cutting through the dark.
I want to tell him I'm fine. I want to tell him to put me down. But the words are trapped behind the fog.
"Move outside of the infirmary, Zade. I need space," a stern voice commands.
I hear the heavy swing of a door, but the click of the latch never follows.
My head is being lifted, and the movement hurts like a bitch.
I let out a low, involuntary groan, the pain sharpening my senses for a brief, agonizing moment.
"Don't move, Alice. Your wound has gotten wet," a voice says gently.
Ms. Cox. It's her.
I force my eyes to open, and the world slowly bleeds into focus.
She's hovering over me, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hands work efficiently on the side of my head.
When she notices I'm awake, she offers a small, tired smile.
"It's alright, Alice. It was just the beginning of an infection on the wound. I've cleaned it and applied a fresh dressing. Try not to wash your hair again for a while," she says.
I nod weakly, the movement sending a dull throb through my skull.
I hate this.
I hate being fragile. I've spent years building a version of myself that doesn't need anyone, yet here I am, horizontal on a cot, owing people for the simple act of caring for me. It's embarrassing as hell.
It feels like a crack in my armor that I can't seal.
"Rest up for a few hours," Ms. Cox continues, her tone brooking no argument. "And for God's sake, stay at home for at least three days."
Three days? Three days feels like three years.
I can't rest. In the world of Oakhaven, you don't rest—you just rise above the odds, or you get trampled by those who are still moving.
If I stop for three days, the tide will pull me under for good.
Still, I nod just to get her to stop talking.
She sighs, gathering her supplies and heading toward the door.
She leaves it slightly ajar—it doesn't even click shut.
I stare at the sliver of the hallway visible through the gap, waiting for the silence to settle.
But the silence doesn't come.
Instead, the door is pushed wider, and the giant with the amber eyes is back.