Judy shook her head, her features tight with frustration. "It doesn't matter what we think.
What's done is done. Albert's orders were clear-save him. No matter the cost."
Cenilera's lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes lingered on Edwin. His pale, fragile form lay motionless beneath the tangle of wires and tubes, his once-vibrant energy reduced to a faint spark. "To think someone like Albert, once a beacon of wisdom and reason, would use his own son as a test subject..." Her voice faltered, the weight of her thoughts evident. "He's not the man I knew. Not anymore."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Judy and Aninlie exchanged uneasy glances, the unspoken tension curling between them.
This wasn't the Doctor Cenilera they knew-the pillar of composure and confidence. This was someone rattled, haunted by the face of the boy before her.
Aninlie finally broke the silence, her voice tentative. "You know him, don't you?"
"Cenilera's shoulders sagged slightly, her hands pausing mid-motion. "I used to," she admitted quietly. "Back then, he was just a boy who'd come in with scraped knees or bruises from playing too rough with his friends. Always so full of life... and now?" Her voice grew bitter. "Now, look at him. Broken.
Beaten. Locked away in some cell like a criminal. Why? For what? To save the rest of us? It doesn't feel right."
Judy's voice was barely above a whisper.
"He's been through hell. To think he even tried to." She swallowed hard, her words faltering. "The wound, those shards-it didn't look like anything l've ever seen. It's like he... it's like he was tearing himself apart from the inside."
The doctor nodded. "Exactly. His skin shows a single, clean wound, but internally... it's like he tore himself apart."
The beeping of the monitor punctuated the quiet that followed, a grim reminder of how precarious Edwin's condition remained. After a long pause, Judy straightened. "I should give the guards an update before my shift ends. That James guy's liable to have a panic attack if we don't."
"Wait," Cenilera said, her voice firm as she rose to her feet. "I'll handle it. You and Aninlie stay here. Keep an eye on him. If anything changes, call me immediately."
Judy and Aninlie exchanged hesitant looks but nodded. The door clicked shut behind Cenilera, leaving the nurses alone in the room with the unconscious boy. The weight of what they'd just witnessed lingered, heavy and oppressive.
Aninlie glanced down at Edwin, her voice soft. "Do you think he'll make it?"
Judy hesitated, her gaze fixed on the faint rise and fall of his chest. "I don't know.”
“Then do you think he really caused the damage they say he did? I heard they had to use explosives to contain him,” Aninlie murmured.
Judy tightened her grip on the clipboard she held, her eyes never leaving Edwin. “Does it really matter? Whether we know the truth or not, our job is to heal him. But… if I’m being honest? I believe it.”
Aninlie frowned, folding her arms as she studied Edwin’s frail form. “Then he really is a monster. Worse than what’s beyond the walls, maybe.”
Aninlie hesitated, glancing toward the closed door. “I think Doctor Cenilera would know better than us.”
“She would’ve said something by now if this were natural,” Judy replied, her tone firm. “This? This is Albert’s doing.”
"Then he really is a monster," she said, her voice tinged with something between pity and fear. "Worse than what's beyond the walls, maybe."
"That's probably why Albert keeps him locked up," Judy replied, her tone thoughtful, laced with a curiosity she couldn't suppress.
"The bigger question is whether this strength came from Albert's experiments... or if Edwin was already this way before."
The air grew tense, their words hanging heavy between them. It was a conversation neither of them was brave enough to finish.
Their voices fell silent as the door creaked open, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Doctor Cenilera entered, her steps deliberate, her face drawn with a weight she carried better than anyone else in the compound. The room shifted around her, the quiet authority in her presence suffocating any further whispers.
"You can both go now," she said, her voice calm but brooking no argument. Her eyes barely flicked to the nurses as she crossed the room. "I'll take it from here. Thank you for your help."
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Judy nodded, setting the clipboard on the counter. "We'll be at the nurses' desk. Page us if you need anything."
Without another word, the two nurses slipped out, leaving Cenilera alone with Edwin.
For a long moment, she didn't move. She stood by the door, her eyes fixed on him. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room, the erratic spikes that had once dominated its screen replaced by a more even rhythm. His chest rose and fell steadily now, each breath quiet and fragile.
Slowly, she approached the bed, her movements as deliberate as her words. She replaced his IV bag with practiced hands, her fingers gentle as if afraid her touch might shatter him.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered, the words more for herself than for him. Her voice cracked, the weight of guilt pushing against her composure. "You should've been free, far away from all this. But instead..." She trailed off, her shoulders sagging under the weight of what she couldn't say.
She leaned over him, studying his face. The bruises had begun to fade, leaving behind a pale canvas marked by exhaustion. His closed eyes twitched slightly, as if caught in the remnants of a nightmare. Her own breath hitched as she reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
"It pains me to see you like this," she murmured, her voice trembling. "You're fighting so hard, even now. I don't know if you're fighting us or for yourself, but... I'm sorry for what we've done to you."
Her words hung in the air, raw and
unguarded, a confession spoken to someone who couldn't hear her—or wouldn't remember if he did. The apology felt hollow, a plea to absolve her own guilt rather than ease his suffering.
The weight of her sorrow lingered in the room, unspoken but palpable. In the stillness, it was as if Edwin could hear her silent apology, though neither of them could ever truly escape the shadow of what had been done.
She sat by his bedside for a moment longer, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The faint hum of the monitor and the soft hiss of the IV were the only sounds in the room.
Finally, she stood, her movements slow, as if reluctant to leave. The weight of her sorrow lingered in the sterile air, unspoken but palpable. And though Edwin remained still, unconscious and oblivious, it felt as though he had heard her all the same.
"I need to go back now," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes lingered on his face, a flicker of something hopeful breaking through the sorrow. "Please wait for me."
The words trembled on her lips, carrying more weight than she intended, as though they were a promise-to him, to herself, to the part of her still desperate to make things right.
The weight of her sorrow lingered in the sterile air, unspoken but palpable. And though Edwin remained still, unconscious and oblivious, it felt as though he knew she was there. His rigid expression softened, the tension easing from his features, as if her presence alone was enough to quiet the pain, if only for a moment.
———///////———
Albert sat alone in his office, his gaze fixed on the surface of his desk as though the answers he sought might somehow be etched into the wood. Two empty mugs stood at his side, faint rings of coffee staining their rims—a quiet testament to his unraveling composure. The weight of sleepless nights bearing down on his shoulders. The fluorescent light above cast an unforgiving glow over the cluttered workspace, making the gleaming insignia on his closed laptop seem almost accusatory.
His hand reached for the phone, fingers hovering— trembling above the receiver as though the device itself might burn him. He hesitated.
"It's been two hours," he murmured, breaking the silence. His voice sounded foreign, brittle. "If something had gone wrong, they would've called by now."
Still, doubt gnawed at him. His fingers twitched, a nervous tremor he couldn't quite suppress. The words sounded hollow, even to himself.
He pulled his hand back, pressing it against his temple as though trying to steady the chaos in his mind.
"I can't risk losing him," he muttered, the words thick with something between desperation and resolve. "Not now. Not when everything depends on him."
His fingers twitched, hovering over the phone again, they lingered for a moment longer before falling back into his lap. The thought of dialing-of hearing news that could unravel everything-was too much. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint hum of machinery. A knock at the door broke it like shattering glass. Albert straightened, dragging a hand down his face as the door creaked open.
"Come in," Albert called, his tone clipped.
Robert stepped inside, his uniform slightly disheveled, his expression worn but composed. He didn't speak right away, as though gauging the mood in the room.
Albert's voice was sharp. "What is it? Do you have news?"
"I have news about your son."
Albert's heart jolted, though his face betrayed nothing. "Tell me."
Robert nodded. "He's alive. Stable," he said carefully. "The doctors think it'll be a while before he's discharged, but we were lucky this time."
Albert exhaled sharply, though relief barely softened his features. "Go back down there," he said briskly. "Tell them to restrain him.
Watch that wound closely. If anything changes, you report to me immediately.
Understood?"
Robert hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Sir, with all due respect, he's in no condition to 'try anything! When we brought him in, he was hanging by a thread."
Albert's eyes flashed, his voice hardening.
"Trust me. Once he wakes up, he'll try again."
Robert lingered in the doorway, uncertainty flickering across his face. Finally, he ventured, "Sir, what's really going on? What happened with Edwin in—“
"That's enough," Albert snapped, cutting him off. His tone brooked no argument. "What they're saying doesn't concern you. Your job is to follow my orders. Nothing more.
A tense silence followed before Robert nodded curtly. "Yes, sir."
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed felt heavier, suffocating. Albert leaned back in his chair, staring at the desk as though he could will away the chaos surrounding him. For a moment, he simply stared at the desk, at the broken shards of his resolve. Then, with a sharp motion, he flipped open his laptop.
The screen illuminated the dim room, its cold blue glow casting sharp shadows across his face. An image filled the display: a crystalline structure, deep blue and unnervingly vibrant.
It was housed behind reinforced glass, surrounded by a maze of wires, monitors, and machines that hummed with latent energy. The crystal seemed almost alive, its faint pulse mocking him.
Albert's expression twisted into something dark-disgust, regret, anger all colling together like a venomous knot. His hands balled into fists as he stared at the screen.
"I should've been more careful," he muttered, his voice low and bitter. "I should've locked you away with everything else. Then I wouldn’t have lost you."
The frustration boiled over, and his fist slammed against the desk. One of the empty mugs toppled to the floor, shattering with a piercing crack that echoed through the sterile room. Albert barely glanced at the broken pieces, his focus still fixed on the screen, on the crystal that had upended his life.
His shoulders sagged, his head bowing as though the weight of his own thoughts might crush him.
"If only I could go back," he whispered, the words heavy with anguish and the crushing weight of hindsight.
The crystal continued to glow, cold and unfeeling, as though indifferent to the chaos it had wrought. In its reflection, Albert's face looked drawn and hollow, a man teetering on the edge of his own unraveling.
“I hope you can handle what is to come my son.
This time, you will be pushed far beyond your limits.” Albert bursted out laughing maniacally.