The syringe sat in the center of the table like it was glowing.
Glass. Sterile.
Filled with sothing amber—thicker than water, more sacred than blood.
"It's a cure," he whispered.
He didn't et my eyes.
He hadn't for days.
I stared at it.
The vial mocked .
We'd lost friends for it.
Run through smoke and screaming for it.
Watched a child get torn apart at the checkpoint for it.
And now he tells —now—that he's had it all along?
"You said it was gone," I said, my voice flat.
"You told the lab was empty. You let watch them die thinking there was no hope left."
I reached for the syringe.
He slapped my hand away. For a smoother reading experience, visit MV&LEMPYR.
"It's not ready."
His voice cracked.
"It's not tested. One dose. One chance. And—"
His words trailed off.
"And what?" I demanded. "You thought you should decide who gets it?"
His silence was the answer.
I stepped back, nausea and fury twisting in my gut.
He'd been a field dic.
One of the ones trying to save us when the governnt fell.
I loved him for that.
But now I saw the syringe was never just dicine.
It was power.
And he was afraid to lose it.
"You're infected," I whispered.
Not a question.
A revelation.
He turned away, but the way his fingers twitched, how his breath quickened—
I knew.
"You've been using suppressants," I continued. "Buying ti. Keeping close. Keeping this secret."
He didn't deny it.
Just said: "I didn't want to die before I said goodbye."
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I reached for the syringe again—slower this ti.
He didn't stop .
"It's your choice," he said, softly.
"Inject … maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't.
Inject yourself… if I turn, you'll have to put down."
His eyes finally t mine.
"And if you waste it on soone like , we'll never know if it could've saved soone better."
I held it in my hand.
So light.
So deadly.
The storm outside howled.
Lightning flashed over the shattered windows.
Inside, there was only us—two ghosts orbiting a miracle.
I didn't inject him.
Not yet.
Not then.
Instead, I set it back on the table and sat beside him.
We said nothing.
Because so secrets need silence to settle in the soul.
That night, he slept on my shoulder, shivering like the fever was already winning.
I held him tighter.
Not because I forgave him.
Not because I knew what I'd do.
But because no one deserves to die without being held.
And in the morning, if he was still breathing—
then I'd decide.
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