OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: OF WARNINGS, PULSE MONITORS, AND THE BOY

"She shut down from within," Mom says. "Psychogenic unconsciousness. It's when the brain flips the switch—forces shutdown—because the emotions are too much."

I glance back at Riyee. The lines of her face are too still. Too quiet.

"What kind of distress does that?" I ask. Low. Flat.

Mom hesitates. Then: "The kind that doesn't fade. That roots itself so deep, your body never forgets."

I wait.

She continues. "Lyle told me what happened when I asked about her medical history. Years ago. She was thirteen. There was an attempted abduction on Celestine grounds. Broad daylight. A blind perimeter spot their surveillance missed."

My jaw tightens.

"She was the target." A pause. "And Xythe got there first. Fought the attacker. Protected her."

My eyes lock on Riyee's pale fingers under the blanket.

Still.

"He was stabbed. Lost too much blood. Collapsed on top of her." Mom's voice is softer now. But cold with memory. "He coded twice on the way to the medical wing. His heart stopped—twice. In her arms."

I breathe in. The air feels thin.

"She watched him die. Not just bleed. Die. And though he survived... something in her didn't." Mom straightens. "Blood doesn't always mean injury, Khaizer. Sometimes it means memory. Her body recognized the script. Same scene. Different decade. Saw it happen again. You and Xythe—both bleeding. History repeating."

I run a hand over my face. And for a second—just a second—I see it.

The flashback. Not mine, but hers. The way her eyes locked on mine before she fell.

"She didn't faint from shock," I murmured. "She fainted because, in her mind, it was happening again."

Mom nods. "Exactly."

"She's not weak."

"She's not," Mom agrees. "But even the strongest minds have scars. And some don't heal straight."

She stands. Touches my shoulder.

"Call me when she wakes. She will... when her mind believes it's safe."

The door shuts behind her. And I'm left alone again.

With the weight of a truth I hadn't seen. And the girl who still hasn't opened her eyes.

I stay. I don't speak. I just watch her.

Then—

"Don't... die."

Her voice. Barely audible. Frayed at the edges. Like it's clawing its way out of a nightmare.

I snap upright.

Her fingers twitch—then curl. Slipping into mine like they've always belonged there. Like they never stopped reaching, even when her mind did.

I don't move. I just hold on.

Because this—this—is her first anchor back.

I lean in, forehead nearly touching hers.

My voice drops low, quiet, a vow wrapped in frost:

"I'm not going anywhere, Love."

And I mean it.

Not just in the stay-by-your-side way.

But in the if-you-lose-your-way-I'll-remind-you-who-you-are way.

Her brow twitches. A breath escapes.