The hospital became their new, grim reality. Martin refused to return to his own bed, planting himself in a hard chair in the corner of Sadie’s room. He was a silent sentinel, his own injuries secondary to his vigil. The family waited through the long hours of the next day, but Sadie remained unconscious, her stillness a deepening source of fear.

  Jennifer and Caleb arrived in the afternoon, their faces pale with shock. Jennifer’s eyes went from Martin’s bandaged form to Sadie’s small, motionless one in the bed, and she had to turn away, leaning into Caleb’s silent support. The hope of the vaccine felt like a cruel joke in this sterile, wounded space.

  That evening, the police came. Two officers with notepads asked Martin for his account. He spoke in a monotone. “I don’t know what happened. I was at the party. I heard the protesters outside. Their chants… they were talking about burning houses. I called it in.”

  It was a lie of omission, polished and simple. He couldn’t say he’d known for hours. He couldn’t say he’d sat in an alley and listened to the plot solidify. He couldn’t say a part of him had wanted it to happen.

  The officers nodded. “It was a radical faction that hijacked the protest. Your call helped us intercept them before they could hit their secondary targets. You did the right thing, son.”

  You did the right thing. The praise was acid on his tongue. He nodded mutely, the weight of their thanks like stones in his pockets, dragging him deeper.

  ---

  At 3 AM, the hospital was a tomb of humming machines and whispered grief. Martin stood in the hallway outside Sadie’s room, the truth a live wire in his chest. How long do I hide? he thought. The truth is, I knew. I’m a monster. What dignity am I even protecting? I have none.

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  He pushed the door open. The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of monitors. His father was asleep in a chair, head bowed. Andella and Loria were slumped together on a small sofa, exhaustion having finally claimed them.

  And then he saw her eyes. Open. Watching him from the pillow.

  His heart didn’t leap with joy. It clenched with a cold, slick fear. He moved to her bedside. “Hey,” he whispered. “You’re awake. Are you okay?”

  “My head hurts,” she murmured, her voice raspy. “But I’m fine.”

  He sat on the edge of her bed. The moment he did, she spoke again, her gaze clear and direct.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “About what?” he asked, the evasion automatic.

  “About what’s wrong with me. I can’t move my legs.”

  A chill, colder than any he’d ever felt, shot down his spine. He looked at her, so small in the bed, so bravely facing the unknown. For a fleeting second, he saw his parents hovering over him in a different hospital room, the same terrible secret on their tongues.

  He heard himself say, “Are you sure? Have you tried hard enough?”

  Sadie gave a weak, confused chuckle. “What does that mean?”

  He hadn’t meant it as a joke. He was stalling, just as they had. Is this how it feels? he wondered, a pang of awful empathy cutting through his self-loathing. If I don’t tell her, will she end up like me? Bitter, broken, waiting to die?

  He took her hand. It felt small and cool in his. “Sadie… what would you do if someone told you… you’d never dance ballet again?”

  She understood then. Her eyes filled with a defiant sheen. “I’d tell them I’m going to dance as long as I live.”

  “Why are you lying to yourself?” The words were out before he could stop them, harsh and blunt.

  She flinched, staring at him as if he were a stranger. Was this the brother who had preached hard work and determination? The one who had promised to watch her win?

  She clung to that memory. “I’m not lying. I’ll find a way. Hard work pays off. You said that.”

  But Martin was no longer that brother. He was a creature of guilt, and he saw only one path—the path of crushed hopes, because that was the path he was on. He thought he was guiding her, sparing her a worse fall later.

  “If you keep lying, and the truth hits you… you won’t be able to handle it.” His voice was low, urgent with a twisted sense of care. “For your own good, you need to think of a future you can actually see. A real one. You… you weren’t even that good at ballet anyway.”

  The final blow, delivered not as an insult, but as a grim, “helpful” fact.

  He stood up, unable to bear the look on her face—a look of dawning horror, as if the world was dissolving around her. He left the room without looking back.

  In the empty hallway, the question echoed in the hollow of his soul: Have I embraced being a monster? If he had, then nothing was left. He could try to fight for change, like Oliver said, but every action he took only spiraled into greater ruin. He was exhausted by it all.

  All he wanted was to feel free. And in his twisted calculus, freedom and monstrosity were starting to look like the same thing.