The Missing Pattern

Fragile Chains Part 24

Later that afternoon, I was finally discharged. Not that it felt like freedom. Calvin insisted on pushing the wheelchair himself, navigating the hospital corridors with practiced ease. I hated being this helpless, this exposed, but fighting him would've been pointless. My body wasn't in any condition to rebel.

He paused outside Yang's room. My heart tightened at the sight of my friend, motionless in the bed, surrounded by the hum of machines. His parents were halfway across the world, unaware of how broken their son looked here in the stillness. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the rhythm of the ventilator.

Calvin stepped inside, pulling an MP3 player from his pocket. Without a word, he placed it on the small table by Yang's bed and hit play. The soft cadence of an audiobook filled the room, a lifeline of sound in an otherwise lifeless space. On our way out, Calvin stopped a nurse and said, "Make sure it stays charged. I'll be loading new books remotely." The nurse nodded, and Calvin's face softened for just a moment, a glimpse of the man who always found a way to care—even when no one else did.

I smiled faintly despite myself. Calvin's compassion was an anchor, even if it annoyed me at times.

He wheeled me into the elevator, and we descended in silence. By the time we reached the parking lot, I was exhausted from the simple act of existing. Calvin carefully loaded me into the car and drove us to his place. No explanation. No discussion. Just action.

At his apartment, he carried me in like I weighed nothing one again, placing me gently on the bed. I watched him pack a bag methodically, his every movement precise and calculated. When he was done, he lifted me again—this time, with the bag over his shoulder—and carried me back to the car.

It was strange, feeling so reliant on someone else. I hated it. But I needed him, and I wasn't sure which truth stung worse.

We finally made it to my place. Calvin carried me inside, placing me carefully on the sofa like a fragile piece of glass. He settled beside me, flipping on the TV without a word. I don't even remember falling asleep. When I woke, my head was in his lap, his arm draped over me, steady and unyielding.

His voice broke the silence. "Time for your medicine and dinner."

I groaned, but he didn't give me a choice. He helped me to the bathroom, closing the door behind me, but not straying far. By the time I emerged, he was waiting to wash my hands and carry me back to the couch. The doorbell rang, and Ford stepped inside, balancing bags of food.

Ford stood in the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow across the dimly lit room. His sharp, calculating eyes swept over me, his expression unreadable. He wasn't just looking—he was assessing. Ford was always like that, dissecting people the same way he approached missions: methodical, precise, leaving nothing unchecked.

"Harper," he said, his tone clipped and professional, though there was a flicker of something softer underneath. Concern, maybe. "You good?"

I scoffed, the weight of the day pressing against my chest. "Peachy."

Ford's lips quirked in a faint, humorless smile, but he didn't push. He shifted his attention to Calvin, and the two exchanged a quiet conversation just out of earshot. Calvin's posture was as rigid as Ford's, both of them locked in a silent understanding. Guardians of the broken, watching over me like I was some fragile thing.

It made my skin crawl.

"I'll be outside," Ford said finally, his voice steady and unyielding as ever. "Keeping watch."

Calvin nodded. "Thanks."

Ford didn't linger. His footsteps were heavy but purposeful as he left, and the door shut with a dull thud. The room felt smaller without him, quieter but no less stifling.