Hana didn't hear Haazi approaching.
She was too lost in the memory—her cat's soft purr, the warmth of its fur, the way it used to curl against her chest without fear. The way she'd woken one morning to stillness instead of breathing. The way she'd screamed until her throat tore.
Her tears dripped down her face, hot and relentless.
She didn't notice the faint shimmer in the air around her, the way the hallway lights flickered, the way the metal door beside her began to warp from heat.
She didn't notice Haazi until he spoke.
"…Why are you crying?"
His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. … Like he was curious.
Hana didn't look up.
She didn't want him to see her like this—cracked open, vulnerable, drowning in a grief she'd buried under anger and revolution.
But Haazi stepped closer anyway.
He reached out a hand, slow and careful, as if approaching a wounded animal.
"Hana. You're—"
His fingers brushed the air near her shoulder.
And he gasped.
A sharp, pained inhale.
Hana jerked her head up just in time to see him stumble back, clutching his hand. The skin on his fingertips was torn open—raw, reddened, as if burned by invisible fire.
Her heart dropped.
"No—no, I didn't—" She scrambled back, pressing herself against the wall. "I didn't mean to—"
But she could feel it now.
The radiation leaking off her in waves. The heat pulsing from her skin. The unstable energy she'd been trying so hard to control slipped through her fingers like sand.
Her emotions were spiraling—past and present blurring, grief mixing with guilt, fear mixing with fury. She felt like she was splitting in two.
Haazi stared at his injured hand, then at her.
His expression wasn't angry.
It was worried.
"Hana," he said softly, "you're losing control."
She shook her head violently. "I—I'm fine. I just—"
But the lights above them flickered again, buzzing like angry insects. The air shimmered. The floor vibrated beneath her boots.
She wasn't fine.
She was dangerous.
Haazi hesitated only a moment before reaching into his pocket. His hand trembled—not from fear, but from pain. He pulled out a small device, thumb hovering over the trigger.
"Hana," he warned, "I'm sorry."
She barely had time to inhale.
A sharp crack split the air.
Electricity surged through her body, snapping her back into the present like a slap across the face. Her back arched. Her breath caught. Her vision flashed white.
Her hair—normally soft, flowing, almost weightless—lifted in a static halo, strands sizzling at the ends. The glow beneath her skin flickered violently, then dimmed.
When the shock faded, she collapsed forward, catching herself on trembling hands.
Her tears slowed.
Her breathing steadied.
The storm inside her quieted to a low, exhausted hum.
She blinked several times, the world coming back into focus.
She heard the cats behind the glass. Saw the warped metal door. And the faint scorch marks on the floor where she'd been sitting.
And Haazi—standing a few feet away, chest rising and falling, his injured hand still bleeding.
He didn't move toward her again.
He didn't speak.
He just watched her with an expression she couldn't decipher—somewhere between fear, sympathy, and something else entirely.
Hana wiped her face with the back of her hand, her voice barely a whisper.
"…I didn't mean to…"
Haazi didn't answer.
But he didn't leave either.
And somehow, that made her feel an even stronger ache.