Another day dawns.

  I wish it hadn’t.

  I wake up already tired, like sleep was just another place to be aware of pain. I don’t move right away. I lie there staring up at the ceiling, tracing the same cracks and seams over and over again while my mind replays the last few days without my permission.

  Every moment comes back in order. The portal. The tearing white pain. The screaming. The hands. The cold. The way they spoke about us like we weren’t there. Beat for beat, it all runs through me again, relentless and precise.

  I feel sick.

  Kai is still curled into himself beside me, turned away, drawn tight like he’s trying to occupy as little space as possible. His knees are tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He hasn’t moved since I woke up. I reach out and touch his shoulder lightly, just enough to let him know I’m there. He doesn’t react.

  I try again, pressing my palm more firmly against his back. Nothing. Not even a flinch. I sigh, and pull my hand back and let it rest against my own chest instead.

  The door opens quietly, and the nurse we’ve seen most often slips in with a tray. She doesn’t try to brighten her voice. She doesn’t pretend this is normal. She sets the food down within reach and tells us we should eat.

  I don’t answer.

  Kai curls in even tighter, somehow, like the words themselves are something to hide from. The nurse hesitates, then leaves.

  The pain from the portal is still there, lingering like a low hum under my skin. Not sharp anymore, but constant, like my body never quite finished remembering what it went through. On top of it sits the anger, heavy and hot, the violation still fresh enough that I can feel it every time I think too hard.

  The door opens again later. The same nurse. Her voice is firmer this time, still gentle but edged with concern. She tells us we need to eat something. That we can’t keep doing this. I turn my face toward the wall. Kai doesn’t move at all.

  Time drags itself forward. The sun creeps across the ceiling in slow, uncaring increments, the light shifting from one corner to another while nothing inside the room changes. At some point, I hear the nurse ask if we’d like visitors.

  I ignore her.

  There’s a knock at the door a while later. Polite. Careful. It goes unanswered. Whoever it is doesn’t try again.

  Somewhere in that stretch of nothing, Kai turns toward me. I don’t see it happen. I just notice suddenly that his face is pressed into my chest, eyes open but unfocused, breathing shallow and even. He looks empty. Not asleep. Not awake either.

  That’s when I give up. I slide closer and curl around him, pulling him in without asking, my arm wrapping around his back, my chin resting lightly against his hair. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t respond. He just stays there, letting me hold him.

  The room fades. I let myself sink back into sleep, not because I’m rested, but because being awake hurts too much to justify.

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  Another day I never asked for.

  The night passes in fragments, broken only by one of us getting up to use the bathroom or drink water we barely taste. The food still sits untouched on the low table near the floor. It might as well be poison. The thought of putting anything inside me makes my stomach twist, my anger simmering just beneath the surface, hot and restless.

  Kai is different this morning.

  Not better. Not healed. But he’s no longer folded in on himself so tightly he might disappear. The catatonia has loosened its grip. He’s still quiet, still withdrawn, but there’s awareness there now, sharp and watchful.

  Dawn light creeps across the ceiling, pale and slow. I sit awake, brooding, tracing the same stretch of stone with my eyes while my thoughts circle the same dark places.

  Eventually Kai uncurls and presses against my side.

  We don’t speak.

  We don’t need to.

  What happened feels shared now, like the weight has been redistributed between us. Still crushing, still unbearable, but no longer resting on just one set of shoulders. Many hands make light work, they say. This is a very heavy load, but maybe, together, we can keep carrying it.

  The thought barely has time to settle before there’s a pounding at the door.

  I sit up too fast, pain flaring through muscles that aren’t ready for it. The knock turns into a familiar voice.

  “You better let me in, you little jerks.”

  Finn.

  He pounds again, louder. I hear a nurse scolding him, warning that if he doesn’t calm down she’ll call the guards. He ignores her completely, shouting something back I can’t quite make out.

  Kai surprises me by swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  Part of me panics at the thought of being left alone, even for a moment, so I force myself up and follow him. My body protests every step, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.

  Kai opens the door. Finn barrels in like a storm, grabbing both of us in a crushing bear hug before either of us can react. I stagger under the sudden weight, and Kai makes a small, startled sound before Finn squeezes tighter.

  Banks follows more carefully, one hand raised in apology toward the nurse, his voice calm and steady as he murmurs something conciliatory. He closes the door behind them, shutting out the hallway and the rest of the world.

  Finn releases us just long enough to ruffle his hands through our hair. Our dirty hair.

  The realization hits me out of nowhere. We haven’t bathed in days. We must look awful. I don’t have the energy to care.

  Finn shepherds us back toward the bed like we might fall apart if left standing. He sits us down gently, then drops into the chair across from us, Banks taking the other seat where our parents had been.

  Finn’s face is a mess. Relief flashes first, bright and almost painful. Then anger. Fear. Sadness. They cycle through him too fast to keep track of, all of them real, all of them raw. He fidgets, running a hand through his pale hair, bouncing his knee, clearly trying not to overwhelm us.

  Finally, he stills.

  “Do you want to talk about it,” he asks, voice careful in a way I’ve never heard from him before.

  He glances at Banks, then back at us. “Nurse Ray told us about the last group that came in. Said they were from the Imperial Science Institute. She didn’t say much, but… she told us we should talk to you.”

  I open my mouth, but Kai beats me to it.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak since he told those men no.

  “I hate them,” he says.

  His voice trembles, not with sadness, but with fury barely held in check. His hands curl into fists in his lap.

  “They violated us,” he continues. “They put things inside us.”

  Finn goes very still. Banks’s jaw tightens, his hands folding together slowly, deliberately.

  Kai’s voice rises, not to a shout, but no longer quiet either. “I hate them,” he repeats, the words sharper this time. He starts describing the tests, not in detail, just enough to make the intent clear. His voice drops with each sentence, the anger bleeding into something heavier, more exhausted.

  Finally, he stops. The room is silent.

  “They hurt Cal,” Kai says, barely above a whisper. “They hurt me.”

  Something in Finn breaks.

  He doesn’t explode. He doesn’t shout. He just leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands gripping together so tightly his knuckles go white. His breathing is uneven, eyes bright with unshed tears and something much darker underneath.

  Banks reaches over and places a steady hand on Finn’s wrist, grounding him the same way Kai grounds me.

  “I’m sorry,” Finn says, voice rough. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  It’s not enough. None of it is. But it’s something, it feels like we’re not alone in this anymore.