Page 24 of Vital Signs
"What about me?" I asked.
"You provide information when requested," Warrick said. "You take care of the body. Focus on that."
Stay in your lane, he was saying.
The silence stretched. Everyone waited for me to agree. To apologize. To be the good son, the grateful rescue project, the boy who knew his place.
But I’d endured two years of being protected. Two years of being told what I could handle and what I couldn't. I’d spent all that time being treated like Roche had broken something fundamental in me that would never heal.
And maybe he had. Maybe that's exactly what was broken. My ability to let other people make my choices. My willingness to be kept safe in a gilded cage.
Hunter didn't try to protect me from myself. He'd handed me a knife and trusted me to use it. He'd watched me steal evidence and didn't question whether I could handle it. He saw me as dangerous, capable, and an equal.
The family saw me as damaged goods to be managed.
I couldn't live like that anymore.
I stood, chair scraping against the hardwood. Every eye was on me.
"You want me to step back. Let you investigate 'properly.'" My voice was steady now, certain. "But I can't do that."
"Misha—" Annie started.
"No." The word came out sharp as a blade. "I'm going after Wright. With or without your permission. With or without your help."
The room went silent. River's eyes narrowed. War's jaw clenched. Xander looked like I'd physically struck him.
"Then you're on your own," River said flatly.
Something cracked open in my chest. Freedom or loss, I couldn't tell which. Maybe both.
"I know," I said. And walked out.
My room felt different.Not the sanctuary it had been an hour ago when I'd dressed to seduce Hunter and take on the world. Now it felt like a cell I'd just unlocked from the inside.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. The Laskins had saved me. Given me a home. A purpose. A family. And I'd just walked away from all of it.
For what? A dead trans kid I'd never met? A homeless addict who might not even show up?
For myself.
For the first time since Roche, I was choosing myself.
I typed a message out to Hunter:I'm heading to the clinic. You in?
Sent.
Delivered.
I stared at the screen, watching for the "read" receipt. Nothing.
Five minutes. Still nothing.
I tried calling but it went straight to voicemail.
My chest tightened. What if he'd already used? What if while I'd been arguing with my family, Hunter had been sliding a needle into his vein, choosing chemical peace over our plan?
What if I'd just burned every bridge I had for someone who was already gone?
