Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

4 - Fragile

"It's just a bruise. I've been through worse."

Connor looks sceptical, "You've been through worse?"

"Yes. It's just a few bumps and bruises. I don't need to go to the hospital. Please." You try to think of an excuse. "Just trust me. I'm not in critical condition. Hospitals just bring up... bad memories for me. I try to avoid them unless absolutely necessary." You hope using the excuse of a traumatic experience will prevent him from trying to pry any further.

"But—"

You interrupt, your voice sharper, "Connor, please. I'll be fine. I'll rest at home. I just need a little time."

There's a moment of silence between you. Connor looks at you closely, his suspicion growing. But there's nothing in your expression that reveals your true nature—just a mix of genuine exhaustion and determination.

Finally, Connor sighs, clearly conflicted but nodding in agreement as his LED switches back to blue.

"Alright. But if anything changes, I'm taking you straight to the hospital."

"Thank you." You speak softly, sighing in relief.

"Let's get you home immediately. We'll leave everyone else here to wrap things up."

"Okay." You agree to accept this favourable outcome.

The driver of the car, who had been quietly watching the unfolding scene with a mix of curiosity and concern, eventually decides that he is justified in making his departure based on your adamance that you are not seriously injured. Without a word, he climbs back into his vehicle, and drives away. It might have been nice to at least get a fucking sorry, but as he fades into the distance, you decide it was better that he didn't get involved.

"Actually, how did you find me here?" You ask, realising how fast he came to your aid.

"I had been observing the security cameras, keeping an eye on all the floors in case you ended up having trouble, which you did." Although his comment was meant to be harmless, you still felt a bit of unintended condescension in his tone.

"I see." You let out a weary sigh, the weight of your aches pressing heavily on your body, as if begging for a respite. Despite the flicker of unease about him being the one to take you home, exhaustion washes over you, dulling your worries and urging you to surrender to the comfort of rest.

The taxi ride is quiet, the engine hums beneath you like a distant lullaby, a rhythm that should soothe, but instead stirs the tension in the air between you. Your body aches, each movement of the car exacerbating the injury. It's a strange feeling, the pain—not quite human, but raw and relentless. The low throb in your spine is constant, as though every bump in the road pushes your body further out of alignment, reminding you of the toll it's taken. You can feel the tightness in your chest, the dull ache spreading through your limbs, a discomfort that shouldn't be there.

Pain is a visitor you've known all too well, but tonight, it's not just a shadow; it's the weight of a thousand broken gears grinding against each other. It doesn't just sting or ache, tonight, it's a mechanical rebellion, a deep thrum of malfunction pulsing through your system. You're not used to failing.

Every part of you wants to curl up into a ball and shut down, but you can't. Not now. You force yourself to sit still, your hands clenched in your lap are iron bars, rigid and unyielding, as though every muscle is resisting the truth of the situation. The silence between you and Connor is uncomfortable, thick with the unspoken tension that hangs in the air. You wonder if he notices how much you're hiding. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don't dare meet his gaze. You don't need him to see the cracks in your carefully constructed mask.