Page 84 of Born in Fire

Dr. Martinez’s expression softens. “That’s understandable with amnesia. Your brain is struggling to process withoutcontext. We’ll run some tests, see if there’s a physical cause we can address.”

She steps away to speak quietly into her phone, but my hearing is unnaturally sharp.

“…anomalous readings… temperature inconsistent with… blood work rushed… specialist from Seattle… unusual case…”

Something in her tone triggers alarm. Not danger exactly, but a sense that I shouldn’t remain here. That being studied is a threat. I don’t understand the instinct, but it pulses through me with undeniable urgency.

Nurse Wilson returns with water and a granola bar. “Doctor’s ordered some tests, but they’ll take a while to set up. You must be hungry.”

The food tastes like dust but satisfies a gnawing emptiness. While I eat, I take in the room with strange clarity: the window large enough to climb through, the cabinet likely containing supplies, the hallway visible through the partially open door with its exit sign glowing red in the distance.

“I’ll be right back with some forms,” Nurse Wilson says. “Just rest for now.”

As soon as she leaves, I move with unexpected purpose. The cabinet yields scrubs—blue cotton pants and a top. The counter holds slip-on shoe covers. I dress quickly, movements fluid despite my mental fog. The clothes are too big, but they’ll do.

I pause at the door, listening. Voices at the nurses’ station, Dr. Martinez on the phone again: “…never seen readings like these… completely anomalous… keeping her overnight for observation…”

No.

The certainty rises from somewhere deeper than thought. I cannot stay.

The hallway stretches in two directions. Left leads to the nurses’ station. Right leads deeper into the hospital. I turn right,moving with quiet confidence that belies my inner confusion. My body seems to know what to do, even if my mind doesn’t.

I follow exit signs, avoiding eye contact with the few staff members I pass. No one questions the woman in scrubs, walking purposefully through the corridors. A service door presents itself at the end of a quiet hallway. The alarm panel beside it gives me pause until I notice the tape covering the sensor—someone’s convenience is now my salvation.

Outside, the air has cooled as afternoon fades toward evening. The hospital parking lot opens to a road that leads to a two-lane highway stretching in both directions. Mountains rise to the east, but something pulls my attention southwest. An invisible tether tugging at my center.

I stand at this crossroads, this division between what should be safety and the unknown beyond. Logic says to stay, to let the doctors help, to wait for memory to return. But something deeper than logic—something instinctive and certain—tells me my answers lie elsewhere.

Southwest. Toward mountains painted gold by the setting sun. Toward something—or someone—calling me without words.

I take my first step in that direction, then another. The pull strengthens with each movement, confirming my choice. I don’t know who I am or where I’m going. But somehow, I know I’m heading in the right direction.

Chapter 25

Dorian

Cold, pristine, lifeless. Caleb’s penthouse fits him like a second skin—filled with clean lines and calculated emptiness. Nothing out of place. Nothing with a goddamn pulse.

Except now there’s a leather jacket thrown over his designer chair. Scuffed at the elbows, worn thin at the collar. Elena’s. The kind of jacket that’s seen shit, survived it, and kept its owner warm through the worst of it.

I pace the length of the living room, my boots too loud against the polished floor. The Heartstone pulses on Caleb’s desk, locked in its transparent prison. It looks different since Caleb met Elena: more radiant, more complete. Its pulse is stronger. Even from here, I feel its pull—ancient, hungry. The dragon in me stirs, drawn to power like a junkie to a fix.

“Sit down, Dorian.” Caleb doesn’t look up from the documents spread across his desk. “You’re making the place feel small.”

“Your placeissmall.” I keep moving. “All this space, and you’ve given it the personality of a fucking hotel room.”

He ignores me, used to my shit. Elena doesn’t. She looks up from her mother’s journal, eyes tracking my movement like I’m a grenade with the pin pulled.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks.

“What day is it?”

She exchanges a look with Caleb. That little silent conversation thing they’ve started doing. It makes my teeth ache.

“Thursday,” she says.

“Then three days. I think.” I shrug. Sleep means dreams. Dreams mean Juno’s face, her laugh echoing through my head before dissolving into the sound of concrete crushing bone. “I’m fine.”

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