Del's eye opens to pain.
Not sudden. Not sharp. Just: there. Constant. Every part of him screaming in different frequencies.
Fuck.
His ribs are the worst. Each breath is broken glass grinding. The rib that snapped yesterday—it's not aligned right. He can feel it. Pressing against something it shouldn't press against. Lung maybe. Muscle. Something soft that crunches when he breathes wrong.
He lies still. Eyes closed. Cataloging damage.
Left eye: swollen completely shut. The eyelid is tight. Hot. Infected probably.
Right eye: works. Barely. Opens to a slit. Everything is blurry. Double vision at the edges.
Nose: broken. Breathing through it makes a whistling sound. Blood crusted in both nostrils. Can't clear it. Hurts too much to try.
Mouth: tastes like copper and rot. Three teeth loose on the left side. Tongue has a cut that won't stop bleeding. Keeps filling his mouth. He has to swallow it or spit. Swallowing hurts less.
Ribs: at least one broken. Maybe two. Right side. Every breath is agony. Can't lie on that side. Can't lie on his back. Has to curl on his left. Even that hurts.
Knee: destroyed. The joint is swollen to twice normal size. Hot. Throbbing. The scab is completely gone. Raw meat exposed. Weeping clear fluid mixed with blood. Infection spreading. He can see the discoloration creeping up his thigh. Green-gray at the edges. Bad.
Hands: these are what matter.
He opens his right eye. Lifts his hands in front of his face.
Fingers shake. Not from fear. From damage. Nervous system shocked. Muscles compromised.
But they move.
He flexes each finger individually. Slowly. Testing.
Right hand: all five fingers functional. Thumb aches. Knuckles swollen. But they work.
Left hand: ring finger and pinky are numb. Not paralyzed. Just: no feeling. He can move them but can't feel them moving. The crushed hand from weeks ago—Vence's beating aggravated old damage.
Two fingers with no sensation.
He stares at them.
Can he do what needs doing with two numb fingers?
Has to.
No choice.
He picks up a small stone near his head. Palms it in his right hand. Transfers it to his left. The numb fingers don't grip properly. The stone slips. Falls.
He tries again.
And again.
By the tenth attempt, the stone stays in his palm. Barely. The grip is weak. But it holds.
Good enough.
Has to be.
He lies back down. Carefully. On his left side. The broken rib on top. Less pressure that way.
His hand finds the rock in his pocket. The one he's been carrying. His thumb traces the surface. Eight marks. Each one a groove worn into the stone. Each one a crack.
He doesn't count them. Doesn't need to. His thumb knows.
Stops on the eighth mark. Stays there.
Doesn't think about what it represents. Doesn't let himself.
Just: feels the rough stone. The marks. The weight of it.
Puts it back in his pocket.
Doesn't sleep.
Just: lies there. Thinking about tomorrow.
About the twelve containers Vence has. About which ones will pass. Which ones won't.
About standing in front of fifty people and making them believe.
About what happens if they don't.
---
Morning comes slowly. Gray light through cracks. Temperature dropping. His breath fogs.
Footsteps.
Light. Careful.
Del doesn't move. Doesn't open his eye. Just: listens.
Someone crouches nearby. Fabric rustling. Knees settling on stone.
"You awake?" Tam's voice. Quiet.
Del opens his right eye. Slit.
Tam is there. Holding something wrapped in cloth.
"Brought food," Tam says. "Not much. Half a ration."
He unwraps it. Bread. Hard. Moldy on one edge.
"Can you sit up?"
Del tries. Gets his left arm under him. Pushes.
The broken rib shifts. He gasps. Can't help it. The pain is white.
Tam reaches out. Helps. Gets Del sitting. Leaning against the rubble wall.
Del's vision goes gray. Black spots spreading. He focuses. Breathes. Shallow. Controlled.
The spots recede.
Tam hands him the bread. "Eat slow."
Del takes it. His hands shake. He breaks off a small piece. Puts it in his mouth.
Chewing hurts. His loose teeth shift. One almost comes out. He steadies it with his tongue. Keeps chewing.
The bread tastes like ash and mold and blood from his cut tongue.
He swallows. It goes down hard.
"Water?" Del asks. Voice barely there. Ragged.
Tam hands him a container. Small. Cracked ceramic. Maybe a cup inside.
Del drinks. Slow. Small sips.
The water is contaminated. He can taste it. Bacterial. Mild. But definitely not clean.
Doesn't matter. It's water.
He drinks half. Saves the rest.
"How long was I out?" Del asks.
"Most of yesterday. All night. Morning now."
"Vence?"
"Hasn't come yet. But he will. He's been talking it up. The performance. Tomorrow morning. Everyone's going to watch."
Tomorrow.
Del looks at his hands. At the shaking. At the two numb fingers.
"The containers?" he asks.
"Vence has them. All twelve. Locked in the warehouse. Guarded."
Del nods. Winces. His neck doesn't move right.
"Anyone else been here?"
Tam hesitates. "Lira came. Last night. Late. Didn't stay long. Just looked at you. Then left."
"She say anything?"
"No. But she looked... I don't know. Like she was deciding something."
Del files this away.
"Anyone else?"
"The old man. The one with one arm."
Del's chest tightens. "What did he want?"
"Said he was checking on you. But he wasn't looking at you like someone checking an injury. He was watching. Studying. Taking notes in his head."
Tam shifts weight. "He asked me about the collapsed section. About what you did down there. If I saw anything strange."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Said you went deeper to check. Came back with more containers. That's all I saw."
"He believe you?"
"Don't know. He didn't call me a liar. But he didn't look convinced."
Silence.
Del eats more bread. His stomach churns. Empty too long. The food sits wrong. But he keeps it down.
Tam watches him. "Can you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Tomorrow. The performance. Can you actually do it?"
Del looks at him. "You think I can't?"
"I think you're half-dead. I think your hands are shaking. I think breathing looks like it's killing you." Tam pauses. "And I think whatever you're going to do tomorrow—you need to do it perfectly. While everyone's watching."
Smart kid.
"Yeah," Del says. "I can do it."
"How?"
Del doesn't answer. Just eats more bread.
Tam doesn't push. Just sits there for a moment.
Then: "I'll bring more tonight. If I can."
He stands to leave.
"Tam."
The young man stops. Looks back.
Del meets his eyes. "Tonight. Late. I need you to do something."
Tam's expression doesn't change. But his posture shifts. Tenses.
"What?"
"The warehouse. Where Vence keeps the containers."
"I can't get in there. It's guarded."
"Guards sleep. Everyone sleeps eventually."
Tam's jaw tightens. "What do you want me to do?"
Del holds his gaze. "You'll know when the time comes. I'll tell you tonight. Before the guards change."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting now."
Tam stares at him. Long moment.
Then nods. Once. "Tonight."
He leaves.
Del sits there. Breathing carefully.
His hand finds the rock in his pocket. Traces the eighth mark.
Doesn't think about what he's asking Tam to do. About the risk. About using him.
Just: accepts it. Necessity.
Keeps practicing with the stones.