Shade lay face down in the mud, each breath he tried to draw into his lungs feeling like a knife stabbing his chest. There was a metallic taste in his mouth; he coughed, and a dark, red liquid splattered onto the mud. Blood. The masked man's final, brutal blow had damaged him internally.
The sky had darkened. A fine, needle-like rain began to fall slowly upon him. The cold drops hit his face, the back of his neck, his wounded body, mixing with the mud and streaming off him. He was trembling, not from the cold, but from shock.
He tried to move, but his body betrayed him. Every muscle, every joint screamed in pain. He could only writhe, flailing helplessly in the mud. The rain spread the blood and filth on his face further, degrading him.
Is this all?
The masked man's scornful, disappointed voice echoed in his mind, mingling with the sound of the rain. In his mind, those words had inflicted deeper wounds than the physical blows. He hadn't just been defeated; he had been humiliated. The man had belittled and rejected his potential, his intellect.
He remained there for a while longer, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour, as the rain intensified, streaming off him like a torrent. The cold was numbing him, dulling the pain somewhat. But the pain in his mind refused to be numbed.
Finally, mustering all his willpower, he managed to get to his knees. Every movement was torture. He stood up, staggering. He moved towards his car, through the mud, with slow, heavy steps. He carried the imprint of the masked man's knee on his back, blood and mud on his face, and a deep fissure in his soul.
He barely managed to get into the car. He turned the key but didn't start the engine. He just turned on the wipers. The wipers swept back and forth, clearing the rain and mud from the windshield, but they couldn't cleanse the stain inside Shade.
He rested his head on the steering wheel. The rain drummed on the car roof like a timpani. He closed his eyes. The defeat was heavier than the physical pain. Because this defeat wasn't just about losing a fight; it was about losing faith in his own identity, his own worth. The masked man hadn't just pinned him down; he had stripped him of being 'Shade'.
---
In the car, accompanied by the monotonous rhythm of the wipers and the sound of the rain beating on the roof, everything replayed in Shade's mind. His eyes were closed, his forehead still against the steering wheel; he was his own executioner.
Mistake. Acting alone, without saying a word to Sierra. Pride. That damned pride. Not trusting his team, seeing himself as superior to them. Ignoring Harvenn's warnings.
Mistake. Falling for the masked man's game. That photo and message he'd sent to provoke him... A foolish challenge. Luring him to exactly the place, under exactly the conditions, he wanted. Giving him complete control.
Mistake. The biggest one: Attacking without thinking. That moment, that burst of anger... Casting aside all his professionalism, all his training, and acting on a primal instinct. Everything the masked man had said about him was true. He had become a slave to his emotions.
In his mind, Dr. Kael's lifeless body and Logan's hospital bed materialized. What had happened to them was the result of his thoughtless decisions. He had acted not like a detective, but like someone seeking revenge.
And now, in this desolate field, covered in mud and blood, he was paying the price. Not just for a physical defeat, but for a defeat of character.
The rain began to ease. Shade slowly raised his head. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror: the swelling under his eye, his split lip, his face covered in mud and dried blood. But the real wound was in his eyes. The sharp, focused light was gone, replaced by a deep void and regret.
He started the engine. This time, he wouldn't go to the office or home. He would go to the hospital, to Logan's side. He didn't know what he would say when he got there. Perhaps nothing. He would just be there. Maybe he would call Sierra and Harvenn, set aside that damned pride, and finally learn what it truly meant to be a team...
---
Shade remained in the car for a while longer, until his breathing slowly returned to normal. With every breath, the ache in his chest reminded him mercilessly of its presence. Then, he moved into action.
First, he reached back to remove his heavy, wet trench coat. The fatigue in his shoulders and the bruised muscles turned this simple motion into torture. As he pulled the coat off, his vision swam for a moment, his head spinning. He tossed the coat onto the back seat; the mud and rain stains left dark marks on the fabric.
Next, he turned to the rearview mirror. The wretched state he was in had never been clearer. The blood that had trickled from the corner of his mouth had smeared his chin and shirt collar. He raised a hand—it was still trembling—and used the tail of his shirt to try and wipe his mouth and chin. The cloth was stained with blood, but at least it cleaned away the visible evidence. It wasn't cleanliness; it was a form of restoring dignity.
The bruises under his eyes and the scratches on his face would remain. They were the physical mementos of this night.
He took a bottle of water from the car's glove compartment. He took a sip; the cold water felt revitalizing as it went down his throat. Then he poured some into his palm and splashed it on his face, especially around his eyes. The cold water had a shock effect, clearing his mind, dispersing some of the numbness.
He looked in the rearview mirror again. His face still looked beaten and exhausted, but the dull, shocked expression in his eyes was gradually giving way to a shaken, yet functioning, consciousness. His body was fragile, but his mind was awakening. This time, not with anger, but with the heavy wisdom of a bitter experience.
As the car moved slowly along the wet road, an old life was receding for Shade. The new one was hidden in a fog filled with pain and regret. But at least he now knew what had gone wrong. And that, perhaps, was the first right step he could take.
---
Under the sterile, bright lights of the hospital corridor, Shade's condition looked even more dire. His shirt was stained with blood and mud, the bruises and scratches on his face starkly visible. His steps were heavy, his body protesting with every movement.
He reached the front of Logan's room. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Sierra and Harvenn stood by Logan's bedside. Logan was sitting up in bed, his face still pale but his eyes open. It seemed he could speak, albeit with difficulty. All three froze as Shade entered.
A moment of shocked silence ensued. Their gazes were fixed on the blood, the torn clothes, and the fresh marks on Shade's face.
Sierra, her hand going to her mouth, whispered, "My God, Shade... You... what happened?"
Harvenn said nothing. She just let her eyes travel over Shade, her expression filled not with anger, but with deep concern and understanding. Seeing him like this was heavier than any unspoken words.
Logan shifted with difficulty in the bed. He managed to force out his voice, weak and trembling: "Boss...?"
Shade stood in the doorway, under their gaze, as if all his energy had been spent just getting there. His head was bowed, his eyes on the floor. He seemed to have completely abandoned his pride.
"Logan," he began, his voice hoarse and rough. He paused, as if searching for the right words. "I... for them doing this to you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He swallowed, and even this simple motion reminded him of the pain in his chest. His face contorted.
Then, he raised his head and looked at Sierra, then at Harvenn.
"And I...I..." He paused again. Confessing was harder than he'd expected. "I made a mistake. A big one. Alone... because of my pride..."
Sierra took a step towards him, her face a mix of compassion and fear. "Shade, please, you need to see a doctor. You first."
But Harvenn, gently taking Sierra's arm, stopped her. She knew what Shade was trying to say was more important than his physical wounds.
Shade looked at Harvenn with gratitude for this silent understanding. Then, he turned his full attention back to Logan.
"I spoke to him," he whispered, his voice almost as soft as a confession. "Face to face. And I... lost. Not just the fight. Everything."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The confession hung in the air.
Then, a weak voice came from the bed. Logan looked at Shade and spoke with difficulty, but clearly: "Next time... I'll be there, Boss."
This expression of loyalty broke the last of Shade's resistance. His eyes welled up, but he held back the tears. He just nodded, a gesture of gratitude.
Harvenn finally spoke, her voice calm and firm: "Now, Shade. A doctor. The rest... we'll talk later. All of us together."
This time, Shade didn't object. Accepting the support Sierra offered him, he glanced back one more time as he left the room. At Logan's bed, at Harvenn's serious face... He was defeated, yes. But he wasn't alone. And perhaps, that was all he needed for this new beginning.
---
Shade was alone in his room in the infirmary. His ribs were bandaged, the cuts on his face stitched, and he wore clean hospital clothes. He stared out the window at the city lights until dawn broke. The void inside him was deeper than his physical wounds.
The door opened quietly. Harvenn entered and closed it behind her. The usual controlled expression was gone from her face; replaced by the strained pallor of a suppressed storm.
She stood for a moment, looking at his back. Then, she erupted.
"IS THAT IT?" Her voice cracked like lightning in the room. Shade flinched but didn't turn. "All these years, all this work... and you, following that damned pride, trying to get yourself buried? Alone? Disregarding us, disregarding me?"
She began pacing the room, her anger circulating within the confined space.
"Logan is in bed, you're here, almost... almost..." She couldn't finish the sentence, her voice catching. She paused for a moment to collect her breath. "We don't deserve this, Shade. I don't deserve this. I'm not by your side to watch these suicide attempts of yours."
Shade finally turned slowly. His face held an expression that acknowledged he deserved Harvenn's fury. "I know," he whispered.
This calm acceptance seemed to douse Harvenn's anger. Her chest was heaving, but her voice broke and softened on the next sentence. "My God, Shade..." she murmured, the anger replaced by a sudden worry. She approached, carefully examining the marks on his face, his bandaged chest. "I almost lost you."
She brought her hand, trembling, to his cheek. The contact was unexpectedly intimate for both Shade and Harvenn. Shade closed his eyes, enduring the touch.
"I... lost control," Shade confessed, his voice still low. "I couldn't stop him. There was just... rage."
"I know," Harvenn replied, her voice now calm and understanding. Her hand was still on his cheek. "But never again... you are never alone again. Engrave that in your mind, Silas. It's all of us together, or not at all."
Hearing his rarely used first name, Shade opened his eyes. In Harvenn's eyes, there was no anger, but a startling sincerity and unshakable loyalty.
"We have a lot to discuss," Harvenn added, withdrawing her hand and returning to her professional demeanor, though her tone remained soft. "But first, heal. Completely. And then... then we'll handle this from the beginning, the right way, together. We'll set the rules."
Shade nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time, emerging from the night's darkness. He had accepted defeat. His pride was shattered. But perhaps only after being shattered like this could he learn to be part of a real team.
Harvenn moved towards the door. As she left, she stopped and looked back. "If you ever do something like that again," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "I'll have you admitted to the hospital myself."
When the door closed, Shade was alone, but this time the solitude didn't feel as heavy. Because he now knew there was someone who, while she might break him, would also claim him. And that was a stronger medicine than any of his wounds.