Maya Cole remained a ghost of herself. She neither refused nor accepted anything. She simply existed.

She ate whatever Callahan Meyer put in front of her. She allowed him to do whatever he wanted. But her eyes remained hollow, staring through him at something he couldn’t see.

To Callahan, that emptiness was far more terrifying than the biting hatred or active resistance he’d expected.

Until the day Alexandria Rodriguez called.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen illuminating with that familiar name. Callahan glanced at Maya, who lay with her eyes closed on the hospital bed, and stepped into the hallway.

He answered. Alexandria’s wailing voice cut through the silence. "Callahan! Help me! Mom and Dad kicked me out—they don’t want me anymore! My depression is spiraling. I’m suffering so much, I don’t want to live! Where are you? Please, come back! I can’t go on..."

In the past, those miserable sobs might have softened his resolve, prompting him to book a flight back without a second thought.

But listening to her now, Callahan felt only a cold, corrosive disgust.

"Alexandria," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "If you want to end it, do it somewhere else. Don't waste my time."

The sobbing on the other end ceased abruptly, leaving only heavy, stunned gasps.

"Cal... Callahan? How can you... how can you talk to me like that?" Alexandria’s voice sharpened into a shriek.

"Listen closely," Callahan interrupted, his tone sharp as a razor. "First, whether your depression is clinical or performative is something you know, and I know. Do you want me to send you the medical records and the doctor’s audio recordings to refresh your memory?

"Second, from this day forward, don’t call me again. Stop harassing Maya. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to use my resources to ensure you spend some quality time reflecting in a cell. Good luck."

He ended the call and blocked the number.

He exhaled a ragged breath and turned back toward the room, only to freeze. The door was cracked open.

Maya was awake, sitting against the headboard, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

Callahan’s jaw tightened. A surge of panic rose in his chest. He moved toward the door, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of agitation. "Maya, I..."

"It’s unnecessary."

Maya interrupted him, her voice dull. She turned her gaze toward the window.

Those three words hit him like a physical blow. All the explanations Callahan had prepared died in his throat. He stood there, gripping the edge of the doorframe until his knuckles turned white, watching her retreat back into her shell.

His heart felt heavy, hollowed out by her indifference. She was right. It was unnecessary. No matter his stance on Alexandria, no matter his epiphany—it meant nothing to her. She didn’t want his guilt, his compensation, or his love.

A few days later, Maya was discharged.

Callahan insisted on driving her to her apartment. Maya didn’t object. Or perhaps, she simply didn't care.

The car pulled up in front of the brick apartment building. Callahan got out first, walking around to open her door. Maya stepped out on her own. It was dusk, and the streetlights were flickering to life with a dim, yellow glow.

Then, it happened.

A man in a black face mask and cap lunged from the shadows. A knife glinted in the pale light, aimed directly at Maya. Everything moved too quickly for her to process.

"Look out!"

Callahan’s pupils dilated. His mind went blank, but his reflexes took over. He spun instinctively, pulling Maya into his arms to shield her, turning his back to the blade.

*Thwack.*

The sound of metal piercing flesh was dull, yet sickeningly distinct. Callahan shuddered violently, a pained grunt escaping his throat, but he only pulled her tighter. The attacker attempted another strike, but several bystanders roared and tackled him to the ground.

Callahan felt a searing heat bloom across his back. Warm liquid quickly soaked through his shirt.

He looked down at Maya, his voice trembling with exertion, though tinged with a flicker of disbelieving relief. "Maya... are you... okay?"

Maya was pinned tightly in his arms, the sharp, metallic scent of blood filling the air. She looked up, meeting his gaze inches from her own.

His skin was pale as paper, beads of cold sweat clinging to his forehead. Yet, his eyes were startlingly bright, filled with the raw terror of almost losing her and the relief of her safety.

She could see her own stunned face reflected in his pupils.

And then, that light flickered and began to fade beneath her icy gaze.