The wheelchair glided to a halt before a simple, white door. The medical bay's private washroom. It was a functional space, designed for hygiene and efficiency, not luxury.
Flynn stepped forward, his intention clear. He was going to lift her from the chair and carry her inside. But Enzo, returning with a sleek, metallic case, moved faster. He positioned his body between Flynn and the chair, a subtle, challenging block.
The air began to crackle again.
"I can walk," Elara said, her voice quiet but firm.
The tension broke. Both men froze, their hands hovering uselessly in the air. A flicker of hurt crossed their faces before being quickly suppressed. They stepped back, giving her space.
Enzo placed the case on the floor by the door. "New clothes are in here," he said, his voice low. "And other... things. If you need anything, just call. We'll be right outside."
Elara gave a small nod of thanks. Using the doorframe for support, she pulled herself to her feet. She stepped inside the washroom and, without looking back, pressed the control panel. The door slid shut with a decisive, satisfying click, locking her in and them out.
Outside, Flynn and Enzo exchanged a look. It was a look of shared frustration, raw possessiveness, and an unyielding determination that they would, one way or another, win her. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The competition was already declared.
Inside, the moment the door sealed, Elara's facade crumbled. She leaned her back against the cold metal, her legs giving way. She slid to the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The mask of the fragile, amnesiac girl fell away, and the scientist emerged. Her eyes, no longer wide and fearful, were sharp, focused, and icily calm.
She pushed herself to her feet and took in her surroundings. The washroom was small but functional — white tiles, a compact shower stall, and a simple sink. But it wasn't the fixtures that caught her attention. It was the medical data terminal embedded in the wall beside the mirror. A standard feature for monitoring patient vitals, it also provided access to the medical center's information network.
She walked towards it, her bare feet silent on the cool floor. She reached out a tentative finger and touched the screen.
The terminal shimmered to life. A glowing interface materialized, displaying the emblem of the Aethelgard Empire and a search bar. It was connected. Not as powerful as a dedicated data console, but it was access.
Her heart leaped. Information was power. And she was starving for it.
Her fingers, still trembling slightly, moved across the screen. She typed in the two words she had clung to: "Montgomery" and "Aethelgard".
The results flooded the screen. Images of Flynn and Enzo in full military dress, decorated with medals. News articles detailing their heroic exploits in the Outer Rim wars. They weren't just soldiers; they were decorated war heroes, Majors, and the heirs to one of the Empire's most powerful and ancient military dynasties.
A cold knot formed in her stomach. She was entangled with apex predators at the very top of the food chain.
She kept digging. "Biological Signal". "Female". "Mating Heat".
She read with the speed and precision of a researcher cramming for a final exam. The world's bizarre social structure began to crystallize. Females were not just rare; they were the biological key to evolution for the male population. Their very presence could soothe the violent, energy-induced "mating heat" that periodically drove males into a state of homicidal madness. They were revered, protected, and treated like priceless treasures.
This explained the twins' intense, almost pathological reactions to her. It wasn't just attraction. It was biological imperative.
She scrolled further. "Female Protection Bureau." The results appeared — a government agency with sweeping authority over unregistered females. Transport, registration, assignment. Her stomach tightened. She had a leash around her neck, and she didn't even know who held it yet.
Her hands trembled as she typed her final, most critical search query: "Genetic Null".
The results were sparse, heavily redacted. But she found what she was looking for. A handful of historical case files. Individuals whose biological signals were unreadable, unclassifiable. Each case ended the same way. The subject was transferred to a secure, off-world facility known only as the "Blackstone Institute." There were no records of anyone ever leaving. The subtext was clear: they were dissected, studied, and disposed of.
A chill, colder than the cryogenic gas from the pod, washed over her. She stared at the screen, and for a moment, the scientist in her wanted to understand — to know what made her different. But the survivor in her knew better. Some questions were luxuries she couldn't afford. The only question that mattered now was: how do I stay alive? Her lie was no longer just a strategy; it was the only thing standing between her and a vivisection table.
Protect the lie. Expand the lie. Become untouchable. The thought was cold, clear — a survival instinct honed sharper than any blade.
She knew she had to cover her tracks. Her fingers hovered over the terminal, her heart pounding. She'd never used a system like this before. The interface was intuitive but alien. She fumbled through the menu options, her first attempt pulling up a diagnostic screen instead of the settings. She bit her lip, forced herself to breathe, and tried again. After two more wrong taps, she finally found the system settings. Her hands were shaking badly now. She selected what she hoped was the right option — data management — and hesitated. What if clearing the history itself triggered an alert? She had no choice. She tapped through the confirmation prompts, her finger slipping once and nearly canceling the process. When the screen finally displayed "Local Cache Cleared," she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She wasn't sure if she'd gotten everything. But it was the best she could do.
Only then did she allow herself to move towards the shower. She turned the dial, and a stream of perfectly heated water cascaded from the ceiling. She stepped under the spray, the water washing away the grime of the crash, but it couldn't wash away the cold fear that had taken root in her soul.
She had to control the twins. She had to make them her protectors, her shield. She had to bind them to her so tightly that they would defend her against their own world.
Outside the door, Flynn leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. He could hear the faint sound of the water running. His throat felt tight, his jaw clenched. He imagined the water sluicing over her pale skin, and a possessive heat coiled low in his gut. He closed his eyes, trying to etch the sound into memory. It was irrational. It was primal. He didn't care.
Enzo stood a few feet away, his eyes closed. He was trying to catch her scent through the thick door, but all he could smell was the sterile air of the hospital. It was maddening. His fingers twitched at his sides — the urge to simply open the door, to see her, to ensure she was real, was almost overwhelming. He forced his hands still.
Twenty minutes passed. The water shut off. Another ten minutes of silence. Flynn checked his chronometer for the third time, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Enzo paced the corridor like a caged animal, his boots making soft, impatient sounds on the polished floor.
"She's taking her time," Enzo muttered.
"She's recovering," Flynn replied, his voice clipped. "Let her be."
The brewing tension was cut short by the soft hiss of the door's lock disengaging.
They both snapped to attention, straightening their uniforms, their expressions shifting from hostile to eagerly expectant in a fraction of a second.
The door slid open.
A cloud of warm, steamy air wafted out, carrying her scent. And then she appeared.
She was wearing the clothes Enzo had ordered — a standard-issue, black military-style tunic and pants. But on her, they were anything but standard. The tunic was far too large, the wide collar dipping low to reveal the delicate, snow-white curve of her collarbone. The sleeves were rolled up, showing slender wrists. The pants were so long she had to cuff them multiple times, exposing slim, bare ankles. Her dark hair was damp, clinging to her neck and cheeks.
She looked small. Lost. And devastatingly beautiful.
Flynn's breath caught in his throat. His carefully constructed walls of self-control threatened to turn to rubble.
Enzo's heart hammered against his ribs. He stared at the droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes, his mouth suddenly dry.
Elara paused in the doorway, pretending not to notice the way their gazes devoured her. She tilted her head, a picture of innocence, and offered them a small, shy smile that didn't reach her calculating eyes.
"So," she asked, her voice soft and sweet. "Where do we go now?"
The question hung in the air — a test, a provocation, a beginning. Flynn and Enzo looked at each other, then back at her. In that moment, neither of them realized that they had already lost. The real question wasn't where she would go. It was how far they would follow.
