Two weeks had passed.
The curse no longer tore through Izana's body the way it once had. It no longer seized him without warning, no longer dragged him to the edge of consciousness with brutal force. The wounds it had left behind had closed, the violent surges quieted—but it never truly released him.
It lingered.
It lived in the aftermath.
In the constant tremor beneath his skin, subtle but unrelenting. In the weakness that came without warning, stealing the strength from his limbs as if it had been borrowed and never returned. In the headaches that pressed behind his eyes like a vice. In the dizziness that came in slow, rolling waves. In the sudden nosebleeds—sharp, humiliating reminders that healing did not mean freedom.
Izana had learned not to react.
Not outwardly.
The meeting had lasted hours.
He sat at the head of the long table, blindfold secure over his eyes, posture straight despite the strain burning through his spine. His hands rested calmly in front of him, fingers still, betraying nothing of the way his muscles ached or how the pressure behind his eyes had been building since the second hour.
Around him, the members of his mafia family remained silent unless spoken to. They spoke only when addressed. No one raised their voice. No one challenged him. No one shifted unnecessarily in their seat.
They didn't need to.
Even weakened, Izana was still the Don.
His presence alone was enough to command obedience. His voice—steady, cold, precise—cut through the room whenever he spoke. Orders were given. Decisions finalized. Consequences understood without needing to be explained.
By the time the meeting ended, the room was heavy with silence. Respect. Fear.
Izana rose from his chair slowly.
The world tilted violently beneath his feet.
For a brief, dangerous second, blackness crept at the edges of his vision beneath the blindfold, and the pressure behind his eyes flared sharply. His body swayed—but only slightly.
No one noticed.
He didn't let anyone see.
He turned and left the room alone, ignoring the instinctive movement of his men rising behind him. He did not wait for anyone. He never did.
By the time he returned to the mansion, dusk had long since settled into night. The modern structure loomed ahead of him, all glass and sharp architectural lines, glowing softly against the dark sky. Lights reflected off polished stone and steel, the house standing quiet and imposing—just as it always did.
He entered without announcement.
Normally, the halls would have been empty at this hour. Quiet. Predictable.
They weren't.
Leah stood near the base of the stairs.
Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, shoulders relaxed but her posture attentive, as if she'd been waiting. As if she had chosen this exact moment.
Izana slowed involuntarily.
He hadn't expected that.
Something unsettled flickered beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
"Welcome home," she said gently.
Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she already sensed something was wrong.
Izana nodded once and kept walking.
The floor felt unsteady beneath him, as if the ground itself had shifted. His vision dimmed slightly beneath the blindfold, pressure building behind his eyes until it throbbed in time with his pulse. He adjusted his pace, slowing his steps, forcing his breathing to remain even.
It wasn't enough.
Leah turned, watching him more closely now. Her brows knit together, concern flickering across her face as she took in the way his shoulders were just a fraction tenser than usual.
"…Izana?"
He didn't answer.
The lightheadedness hit hard and sudden, like the air had been ripped from his lungs. His steps faltered, one foot catching slightly on the marble floor.
Leah moved instinctively, reaching out—
Then stopped herself.
Her hand hovered in the space between them before she pulled it back quickly, fear and uncertainty flickering across her face. "I—sorry. I know you don't like—."
"Help me."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Barely audible. Shaky. Stripped of command.
The hallway went silent.
Leah froze.
He had never asked anyone that. Not once.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, searching his face as if to make sure she'd heard him correctly. "How?" she asked quietly.
His jaw tightened, pride clashing violently with the weakness dragging him down. Every instinct screamed at him to retract the request, to endure it alone as he always had.
"Upstairs," he said at last, voice low. "Just… guide me."
She nodded immediately, not hesitating. "Okay. I won't touch you."
And she didn't.
She walked close—close enough that he could sense her presence, close enough to anchor himself by sound alone. She matched his pace instinctively, slowing when he slowed, pausing when he did. She narrated every step, every turn, her voice steady and calm.
"Step here… there's a turn… another step."
When he swayed, she adjusted without reaching for him. When he paused, she waited.
It took longer than usual.
The staircase felt endless.
But they made it.
Inside his bedroom, Izana moved on instinct. He crossed the room and reached for the switches, turning on every light.
The sudden brightness flooded the space, harsh and unforgiving.
Leah blinked. "Izana... your eyes—."
"I'm fine," he said shortly.
He didn't explain.
He didn't tell her that he needed her to see. That he wouldn't risk her stumbling in the dark because of him. That the sharp pain blooming behind his eyes was easier to endure than the thought of her afraid.
He crossed the room slowly and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
The moment he did, warmth spilled down his face.
Leah saw it instantly.
"Oh—your nose—."
She didn't wait for permission. She rushed into the ensuite bathroom and returned with a roll of toilet paper, stopping several feet away from him, careful not to cross an invisible line.
"I'm not going to touch you," she said quickly, breathless. "I promise."
She tore off a few pieces and held them out toward him.
Izana stared at her hand.
He hated taking things from people. Hated the vulnerability of it. Hated the implication that he needed something, that he couldn't handle it alone.
But the blood kept coming.
Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out and took the paper, pressing it to his nose. His hand trembled slightly, though he willed it not to.
Leah stayed where she was, watching him with quiet concern. She didn't move closer. Didn't speak.
Something unfamiliar twisted in Izana's chest.
It wasn't pain.
It was worse.
A dull, aching pressure that spread slowly, like something trying to crack open inside him. He swallowed hard, dismissing it immediately.
The curse.
It had to be.
Then the curse reacted.
The pressure exploded outward, sharp and vicious, stealing the breath from his lungs. His fingers clenched in the paper, knuckles whitening as heat surged through his veins.
Leah stiffened. "Izana?"
"Don't," he hissed, breath uneven. "Stay back."
The curse pulsed again, furious—possessive—as if punishing him for something he couldn't name.
For asking.
For accepting.
For letting her help.
He forced himself to breathe through it, jaw locked tight until the pain dulled to a manageable throb.
When he finally lowered his hand, the bleeding had slowed.
Leah didn't move.
She didn't speak.
She just watched him, eyes full of questions she didn't ask.
Izana sat there under the harsh lights, chest tight, head pounding, trying to convince himself that the ache beneath his ribs was nothing more than the curse misfiring.
But deep down, somewhere he refused to look—
He knew that wasn't true.
And the curse did too.