Zein sat up with a start. The white of the room stung his eyes.
His breathing was racing, and cold sweat soaked the back of his neck. He looked around with panic lurking in every corner of his mind: a hospital ward, sterile, with rows of empty beds that accentuated the silence. Beside him, Lyra rested her head on the edge of the mattress, overcome by sleep in an uncomfortable chair.
He was still dazed, trying to reconstruct the pieces of what had happened that day.
As he looked down, he noticed the bandages covering much of his torso and arms. Then, the memory hit him. It wasn't a blurred image, but the physical sensation of steel sinking into flesh. He remembered every detail: Patoshe's weight, the heat of the blood erupting between his fingers, the sound she made as she died.
Suddenly, he felt his palms grow damp. A viscous heat seemed to materialize over his skin; it was her blood, flowing again between his hands. Desperate, Zein began to scrub them against the white blankets. He rubbed them with fury, again and again, trying to tear away that invisible but persistent sensation staining the immaculate sheets.
The rough struggle woke Lyra, who looked at him, confused and frightened.
Nausea rose through his throat like an acidic tide. Zein reached for a metal basin at the side of the bed and vomited. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, a bitter reminder of what he had done. Lyra tried to move closer to help him, to settle him, but as soon as her fingers brushed his shoulder, Zein shoved her hand away with a violent strike.
—Don't touch me! —he screamed.
Lyra backed away, fear reflected in her eyes as she watched Zein hunch over himself. His hands trembled uncontrollably, as if they were trying to detach themselves from his own arms.
Not knowing what to do, Lyra hurriedly left the room. Minutes later, she returned accompanied by Kio, Kiomi, Alexander, and Naoko, who entered the ward with urgency marked on their faces.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, the sound cut out. Zein's hearing vanished, replaced by a sharp and persistent ringing that isolated him from reality. He saw how their lips moved, how they gestured, but he heard nothing of what they said.
It was Kio's touch, her hand resting firmly on his shoulder, that brought him back. The noise of the hospital returned all at once.
—Are you okay? —she asked him.
Zein immediately looked away. No matter how much Kio tried to move his face so he would look her in the eyes, he resisted. His pupils moved erratically, jumping from one point of the room to another, fleeing from any visual contact. Finally, Kio held him with a bit more force to compel him to focus.
—What happened? —she insisted.
—Congratulations —Kiomi suddenly intervened—. You've taken a very important asset away from those pigs.
—I don't deserve any praise, not for what I did... —Zein murmured, sinking his head.
Kiomi approached with slow steps and leaned against the headboard of the bed, invading his personal space. She looked at him with a coldness that cut the air. This time, Zein couldn't look away.
—Don't misunderstand me. I would have preferred for you to die there with the others, instead of having to see your face again —she spat—. You'd be better off dead.
Without waiting for a response, Kiomi turned around and left the ward.
—Kiomi! —Alexander shouted after her, but she had already disappeared down the hallway.
It was then that, on the other side of the room, Zein saw something that made his blood run cold. Amidst the shadows of the corner, that dark figure observed him with a perverse smile that seemed to widen with his misery.
«I was right,» Zein heard inside his head.
The shadow dissolved into the air, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Zein, his heart hammering against his ribs, looked down at his hands once more.
—I have killed someone. My hands are stained; I feel the blood sliding through my fingers —Zein said, his voice broken by tremors.
At that moment, a hand reached out toward him holding a white handkerchief.
—Then, clean yourself up —a masculine voice said.
—Huh? —Zein looked up, surprised.
In front of him stood a man he didn't know. He had tanned skin, short brown hair, and black eyes that transmitted a veteran calm. His military uniform fit a body marked by years of service.
—You are a man who has done what others lack the courage to do so that their own can keep breathing —the man declared.
—You don't know me. You don't know anything about me. I haven't been able to save anyone around me... it's been that way since Ilmenor —Zein responded, his shoulders sagging—. My hands have been stained for a long time.
—Then clean yourself up well —the stranger insisted—. Clean yourself so that, the next time you have to protect someone, your hands don't slip from the blood of those who are no longer here. If you are going to carry their deaths, make sure your grip is firm.
Zein remained speechless, processing those words that cut through his self-pity in such a direct way.
—Come on, get up. Let's go somewhere with fresh air —the man extended his hand, inviting him to leave that suffocating room.
On the rooftop, the wind blew with a force that swept away the hospital smell, while the sun began to hide on the horizon. The man walked to the edge and took out a small glass bottle with an amber liquid. Without drinking, he tilted the bottle and poured a stream into the void.
—I have names engraved on my back, Zein —he said, his gaze lost in the drop—. If I listen closely, I can still hear them screaming in the wind. But the wind keeps blowing and we are still here. Drink some fresh air.
The man pointed with the bottle toward the horizon, where the first lights of the city flickered in the twilight, reminding him that the world, despite everything, had not stopped.
—Look at all those lights; each one is a life. If you give up now, the lights that depend on you will go out because you won't be there to defend them. The world is much bigger than your guilt, Zein.
Zein felt the cold hitting his face and lowered his gaze, overwhelmed.
—I... I'm not someone that great. I wasn't able to protect them. I couldn't even save those who were by my side.
The man let out a short, almost imperceptible laugh that was lost in the wind.
—That's why you joined the resistance, isn't it? Because no one can do it alone.
Zein kept silent, processing the words. The ringing in his ears had finally dissipated, replaced by the natural whistle of the air. He looked at the man beside him, intrigued by that calm that seemed forged in a thousand battles.
—Who are you, really? —he asked, his voice gaining firmness.
Before the man could respond, the rooftop door swung open. A nurse with a severe expression stepped out into the cold, pointing furiously at the puddle of liquid on the floor.
—Hey! I've told you a thousand times that you can't bring alcohol here, let alone pour it on the floor! This is a hospital, not a tavern!
The man's expression changed instantly. He adopted an air of false innocence and shrugged while quickly hiding the bottle.
—A thousand apologies, miss. My hand slipped because of the chill night, you know how it is... —he said with a mischievous smile.
The woman went back inside, slamming the door. The man waited for the echo of the slam to fade and looked at Zein with a spark of pride in his eyes.
—I'm the one who leads this resistance, boy. So if you ever feel that the weight of that backpack is too much for you alone, you know where to find me —he said, pointing to himself with his thumb.
—Thank you... truly —Zein murmured, looking at the ground, feeling for the first time in days that the knot in his chest was loosening.
The man slung an arm over Zein's shoulders, drawing him close in a gesture of camaraderie.
—By the way... what did you say your name was? —Zein asked, realizing they were only just beginning to know each other.
—My name is Miguel, nice to meet you —he responded, smiling—. How about we go grab something to drink? Whenever I drink, my worries grow smaller.
—I'm too young to drink; I haven't even turned twenty yet —Zein said with a nervous laugh, his first in a long time.
—Doesn't matter, I'll treat you to something else. The point is to share the moment —Miguel responded, ruffling his hair with a rough and affectionate movement.
—Sure —Zein nodded, letting out a soft smile as they walked back inside, leaving behind the silence of the rooftop.