OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: OF FRACTURES, FIELD ORDERS, AND THE GIRL WHO

I let my breath settle near her ear. And even though I tried to sound steady, it still came out like a confession.

"I was scared," I whispered. "Because I didn't know that part of your world. I'm scared I might lose you."

And I am. Because power doesn't protect from everything. And loving someone like her... it means accepting that sometimes, she walks into fire just to prove it won't burn her. And I'm the idiot who runs after her with buckets of ice, praying she doesn't disappear in the smoke.

Her arms wrapped around me just as tightly. "You won't," she said. Soft, fierce. "You never will."

And then—barely above silence, like it wasn't meant to be heard at all—I murmured:

"I wish I could hear yours too."

We walked to the Serpharim Wing—the infirmary. And the moment we stepped in range, it hit me—Noise. Heat. Blood. Chaos. Students everywhere. Crying, shouting, slumped against walls, limping down hallways. The crowd outside the clinic wasn't just big—it was unbearable.

My council was struggling. Triage was falling apart. No clear sorting. No medical hierarchy. And worse,

I saw students turning away—injured, confused, trying to make it back to their dorms alone.

No. Not on my watch. This wasn't how we protected each other. This wasn't how the Dela Vega line operated. I dug into my coat, found the secure line coded under a name that didn't exist on any official file:
D.V.–Omega Protocol.

Something I wrote myself—weeks ago, during the festival chaos and I was suspended, when Riyee had been targeted and no one moved fast enough except Xythe. I built it then, just in case the world shattered again. I never thought I'd need it. But I used it now.

D.V.–Omega Protocol wasn't just an emergency response. It was the language I built in silence, for the girl who kept walking into storms

"Send three units. Now. I don't care if they're prepping for surgery-reroute. Prioritize campus dispatch. I want full certification, trauma assessment, vitals. And bring enough staff. You're treating two schools, not a batch of interns."

I knew exactly what it would look like. Nepotism. Excess. Overkill.

But I didn't care. Because overkill is better than under-protecting her.
Overkill is how I sleep at night.

So when the white vans rolled into campus, silence fell. Everyone stared.

Dela Vega Medical Center.
Our name.
Our crest.
Printed clean on the van doors, stamped into the uniforms of the staff that stepped out with practiced precision—heads slightly bowed.

"Sir Khaizer."

Not Khaizer. Not President. Not Student.

Sir.

I felt every eye lock onto me.

Good.
Let them look. Let them see what it means to stand in my place. Let them see what I'll do when someone tries to harm what's mine.

I stepped forward and started assigning categories. Minor injuries. Moderate trauma. Final confirmation. I watched them file in like obedient soldiers, and I didn't even breathe until Riyee was motioned into the third van.

"No visible injuries," the nurse said. Liar.

I followed her inside anyway. She didn't stop me. She never does. The nurse checked vitals. Pulse. Reflexes. Thermals. But then—she raised Riyee's shirt just enough, and there it was.