by Elle Park
Only the sounds of our breaths fill the contained air, our ears no longer privy to the world beyond these walls. I know that the match has started not because I feel anything out of the ordinary, but by the subtle change in expressions. My gaze is on the boy, who is obviously concentrating on his form of attack, but through my peripheral, I can sense more than see that everyone is nothing short of entranced—even more so than when they were watching the maevons.
The problem with the match is that it can only end when there's a clear winner and loser. I was told that they usually don't last very long at all—almost never more than half an hour—but, technically, there is no set time limit. The fresh memory of that conversation is enough to elicit a heavy sigh, but I'm not confident enough in the control of my orb to do even that, worried that my focus will waver if I so much as blink wrong. I remind myself that I just need to endure this for a few more minutes, when I will finally be able to feign defeat.
After a controlled count to exactly three hundred seconds, I decide it's time to start the show. Apparently, this boy can influence one's breathing, so I start by clearing my throat, followed by a gentle cough. Since it needs to be believable, I mold my features to indicate panic, pain and fear as my dry sputters quickly escalate into full blown wheezing. I grip my throat as though I'm clawing for air, my enthusiasm sure to stain the skin at my neck. Ready to give the signal, I begin raising my right hand, only to be stopped without conscious consent.
I can't breathe.
It's no longer an act when I hiccup insufficient bubbles of oxygen. My ribs are aching and my chest is tight, and I feel like my head is being filled with helium. I think I hear a dull thump, but dismiss it as part of the pounding in my ears. It's only when the strain eases and my vision begins to clear that I sense that something is off—well, besides me, that is.
Tentatively looking at our makeshift windows, I see the collective gaze of the slightly horrified but mostly confused crowd—and it's not me they're staring at. No, it appears all eyes are on the boy, and as I follow their line of sight, I can understand why.
He's on his knees, choking on his own attempts to breathe. The veins in his forehead are threatening to burst, his eyes are wet and bulging, and his once pale complexion is now as red as the blood we drink. Partially hidden beneath his splayed fingers, I catch blotches of blue and purple wrapped around his throat, as if someone tried to squeeze the life out of him.
I easily spot Nolan standing near the front of the crowd, fear swirling in the depths of his blues. His lips are spread apart, and though his gaze is fixed on the spectacular disaster that I'm all too guilty of causing, I can tell he's not really seeing either of us. He's too busy spinning the wheels in his head, desperately trying to think of a plan or an excuse—anything to get us—me—out of this mess.
Outside, heads are leaning close to each other and mouths are forming unreadable words. The excited chatter that I saw rather than heard suddenly hits my ears full force as I realize the glass walls have vanished, making me feel even more vulnerable than before. A loud voice overpowers the others, and all too soon, the ballroom becomes completely vacated.
"What do we have here?"
Well, not completely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FOUR MEN AND one woman—all of whom I've never met before—are standing a few feet away from us, with Nolan and his father, Alan, also among them. Most appear cautiously curious, one has an angry—practically hostile—glint in his eyes, and the woman seems nothing short of absolutely delighted.
My heart, somehow instantly and all at once, jumps to the base of my throat, the shells of my ears and deep into the pit of my stomach, all while threatening to pound its way out of my chest. The whites of my knuckles blend in with the surrounding floor as my fingers, stiff and crooked, dig into the hard, unrelenting surface. Attempting to breathe through a sudden wave of nausea, I let my head drop and my gaze lower—only for it to land on one of the main causes of my distress.
The boy is still on the ground, but instead of sitting on his knees like me—like he was just moments ago—he's lying in a sort of loose fetal position. And he's not moving. I mean, he's not dead, if the subtle rise and fall of his torso is of any indication, but he's definitely unconscious—and from the looks of it, he won't be getting back up any time soon.
I know I did that to him.
And now, they do, too.
So, this is it, I guess. With all the chaos and confusion that has been thrown my way, I like to think I did relatively well in the face of reality—however surreal my reality seemed at times. I did what I could to try and make sense of it all, but even with everything I've done in the hopes that maybe I could have a shot at this bizarre life I never asked for in this bizarre world I never knew of, it was all for nil.
It's my fault for thinking I could actually do this. I got carried away by any and all hints of progress, allowing myself to conveniently forget that I'm completely in over my head. Optimism is something I've grown to deny myself, having experienced my fair share of the disappointment it inevitably results in. And I know better than to believe that mere disappointment is all I'll have to deal with this time.
What will they do with me? It's easy to imagine a few potential scenarios, all of which leave me either dead or in some form of... discomfort. After all, I did see first-hand the insane arsenal that they not only own, but literally made themselves. Whether I'll be viewed as a threat that needs to be eliminated, or treated as the rare subject of a live science experiment, one thing is for sure: I'm absolutely screwed.
Panic is invading everything from my limbs to my senses, and the sound of my own fear is so deafening that it nearly drowns out the lazy footsteps currently clicking their way toward me.
"Well, this is certainly interesting," I hear Alan say. Oddly enough, his voice provides me with about as much relief as I can expect in this situation. Rationally, I know that his ties with Nolan in no way mean that I can expect any allegiance from him, but naturally, it's a little hard for me to remain rational right now. "Unexpected, but interesting."
Unfortunately, that relief only lasts until the next person speaks up.
"Interesting is most certainly not the term I would use to describe this... turn of events," one of the men grits out in a raspy, almost scratchy voice.
"I've never seen anything like it," another one muses in a sort of nasally, high-pitch.
"What exactly is it we're looking at?" This one sounds gruff and deep, and I'd be willing to bet it belongs to the only giant here, whom I caught sight of during my earlier scan of the room.
"Does this mean the party's over? Boo," the woman drawls in a bored yet sultry tone, contrasting with her excited expression from earlier.
A throat clears, and I don't have to look up to know that it's Nolan's. "Well, as much fun as I'm having—really, I'm having the time of my life—I don't think standing and staring is going to get us any answers." He takes a moment to release a long, fake sigh. "But if you guys insist, let's at least get some chairs because—no judgment here—I'm pretty sure I heard someone's knees creak just now."
I'm not sure if anyone even heard him, as a pregnant pause fills the already tense room.
Resigned to my fate, I lift my head until it's aligned with my neck, confident my features won't betray the terror and turmoil scrambling my brain and shocking my nerves. I'm not prepared for the sight that greets me, however, and now my brows are tightly furrowed. I thought I'd be restrained—not that I'd particularly need to be—or dragged away or something along those lines, but they aren't even looking at me, much less strapping me with chains and embedding bullets into my flesh.
All eyes—except for Nolan's, whose gaze is anxiously and continuously shifting back to me—are on the immobile boy. They're commenting and speaking openly with each other, and I can hear their voices perfectly fine, but I'm too intent on discerning Nolan's strange look to consciously register the words being spoken.
There's a f
lurry of emotions swirling in his blues. Most of the fear from earlier has dulled and cleared, but I can see that there's something else he's trying to keep hidden: guilt. What I don't know, is why. If, miraculously, I somehow managed to avoid being caught on The Union's radar, shouldn't we be relieved? I was before I caught the pleading look he's been sending me, and now, if possible, I'm even more worried than before.
"I think it's clear the kid needs medical attention," Alan says. "The clinic—"
"No," the raspy voice snaps. It belongs to an older man, his face lightly wrinkled and his gray hair neatly groomed. A pair of glasses, round and delicate, rests on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. "We already have too many witnesses as it is. Until we have more information, the situation must be kept contained." He's British, if his accent is anything to go by.
"I agree with Frederick." The owner of the nasally voice is a short Asian man, his beady eyes almost as shiny as his smooth, bald scalp—at least, the part of it that isn't covered by a very obvious and fairly intimidating dragoon tattoo. "He best be examined by Gonzalez."
"Just what I was thinking, Lei. Better hurry, too," Nolan adds, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Arty doesn't like doing autopsies—don't know why, but he practically faints when he sees a dead body."
"Arturo will have to report to us directly," the giant says. Despite his hulking frame and what appears to be a permanent scowl on his face, he speaks in an almost soft, gentle manner.
"And the boy will be questioned as soon as he regains consciousness," Lei says firmly. His words slither off his tongue in an unsettling manner, and I'm so distracted by his snake-like character that I nearly miss what he said entirely.
The boy will be questioned.
They think he's the anomaly.
"If he regains consciousness," Alan mutters.
"As for the girl..." Frederick stares at me with a mix of emotions—none of them good.
I guess I'm not off the hook, after all.
"A win is a win, Freddie," Nolan says, quickly interjecting before the older man can continue. "I expect dear, sweet Kaia here to start her new position as an operative first thing tomorrow—unless, of course, anyone has a problem with that." He raises a meaningful brow, again cutting in just as Frederick opens his mouth. "If I may so add," he tilts his head, slipping his hands into his front pockets, "any objections will be objected to by me. And let me just say two words to remind you all of how persistent I can be when it comes to enforcing my beliefs." He pauses to take a breath, waiting until a throbbing vein appears on a certain someone's forehead. "Taco Tuesday."
His words are met with a grunt, a groan and a chuckle. I'm also pretty sure I can hear one or two or all of them rolling their eyes—save for Frederick, who probably believes the gesture to be juvenile and, therefore, below him.
"Very well," the British man says, steam practically blowing out of his ears. "I'm sure no one here has enough time for you to waste—that is, any more than you already do."
"Great! Now that that's settled, I'm out," Nolan says, maintaining a light, nonchalant demeanor. His strides are long and even as he makes his way toward me, but I can tell he's restraining himself from doing a full-on sprint, probably worried that they'll change their minds and have me sent to some dark, dingy dungeon—and, frankly, I am, too. "Come on, pet," he slings his arm over my shoulders, leading me away from the mumbling members of The Union, "let the old geezers deal with cleanup—it's what I always do," he states with a wink. This time, I actually see the eye-rolls.
Alan chuckles but stops abruptly. "Hey," he shouts at our backs, "I'm not a part of the geezers, right?" When his son doesn't reply, he yells even louder. "I'll have you know, I'm considered a young dad around here—hot, even!"
Nolan merely grumbles, practically shoving me through the door. Once we're safely back in the hallway of The Liberty, he releases a long, deep exhale—so long and deep that he actually runs out of breath in the process.
"That was close," he says, rolling his shoulders before linking our arms.
I don't utter a word as we step into the elevator, walk across the lobby and swiftly leave the building. Thankfully, we don't run into Edward and his grandsons. I know if we did, we would have been forced into another bout of shallow small talk and meaningless pleasantries—something Nolan would have genuinely and enthusiastically welcomed—and I just don't have it in me to smile and nod and pretend I'm listening when my mind is sparking and sizzling with every minute that passes, threatening to shut down completely if it doesn't explode first.
It's only when we get home and Nolan tries to distract me with promises of fresh sushi from the outskirts of Kyoto that I decide to clear the air and, hopefully, the mess that is my thoughts. He's currently sprawled over the couch, thumbing through the screen of the tablet as he diligently attempts to avoid my gaze. He's also humming loudly and out of tune, probably thinking the noise will be enough to prevent an interrogation.
"What's going to happen to him?" I get straight to the point, knowing he'll understand whom I'm referring to. When he pretends to have not heard me properly, I repeat my question slowly and clearly, not willing to let it go unanswered.
"And by him, you mean..."
"The boy who doesn't know he took the fall for the girl that made him literally fall—unconscious and half-dead, no less."
"Oh, him."
"Yes, him."
"Right. Right, right, right. Well," he sighs before cradling his jaw in the palm of his hand, his elbow crooked and resting against the arm of the couch, "he'll be fine. Probably."
I wait for him to elaborate, and when he doesn't, I arch an unimpressed brow. "That's it? Fine?" Probably?
"I mean, there will probably be a small investigation to find out what happened—or, more specifically, why it happened—but I'm pretty sure they won't find a reason to persecute him."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, for starters, he's not you."
He's not me.
That's just the problem, isn't it?
Growing up the way I have, I learned to always put myself before others. I did what I could to better my life, and that included using people whenever I felt I could gain something from them. I take advantage and I manipulate, but I was never malicious—cruel, maybe, but not malicious. What I did was never executed with the intent to deliberately harm or drag someone through the mud, but simply to advance or promote myself.
I didn't enter the Cage Match knowing that the boy would become my scapegoat, but that doesn't make me feel any better about the situation or my role in it. And it's not that I particularly care for him. I don't even know him. He's a stranger to me, just like I was a stranger to him—which is exactly what brings me to my current predicament.
He didn't know me or what he was getting into. He was unjustly sacrificed not only for what I did or didn't do, but because of what I am. Whether I planned or expected this to happen is irrelevant. I watched him go down and didn't do anything about it. I got away because I let him take the fall. I walked out of that room, and he got dragged into the depths of what might possibly become his own personal hell.
But I think what's really bothering me is the fact that if we were to go back in time, and I was faced with the decision of either speaking up or staying silent, I would choose the latter. Again. It has reminded me of the kind of person I am—something I barely, if ever, thought about over the years. I'm selfish and self-centered, and almost no kind act comes from the goodness of my heart. But I never contemplated my morals or felt ashamed of my cunning ways, because if I did, I would have broken down before I ever made it this far.
I became the person I needed to be to get the life I wanted to have.
At least, that's what I believed until very recently. This is definitely not how I envisioned my life turning out. And now, so many things are out of my control, like sand slipping through my fingers—and I'm drowning in it. I'm in a completely different league now, and batting my lashes or throw
ing a doe-eyed look is no longer enough to keep me in the game, let alone in the lead.
I'm not sure where exactly my mind is trying to take me, but I know I should turn around while I still have the chance, before I get lost in a place that, so far, I have done well to avoid.
Nolan's ringing phone means I have until the end of his call to find my way, to straighten my spiraling thoughts and pull myself together.
"Hey, buddy," he greets brightly. Nolan basically considers everyone his buddy, so I have no idea who's on the other end of the line. However, it's not so much whom he's speaking to that piques my interest, but rather what they're talking about. All I have to work with, though, are nothing but a few meaningful hums, an awkward chuckle, and a constant flickering in his unreadable eyes. "Great," he grins, suddenly meeting my gaze, "appreciate the update, my friend. I'll see you when I see you."
Tossing his phone onto the cushion beside him, it lands with a dull thud. Then, followed by a startlingly loud clap of his hands, he bounces to his feet and heads straight for the delivery-chute.
"So, good news, sweets," he says, not bothering to turn around or look over his shoulder. "They couldn't get anything out of the kid—obviously—so they're closing the investigation. But since nothing was actually solved, I guess it would be considered a cold case... Speaking of cold, I'm thinking ice-cream for dessert, yeah? I know just the place. Oh, and are you okay with pizza for dinner? Well, I already ordered... Henry! Where are you? Have you run away?" He glances at his watch. "He's probably meditating again. I wonder if that stuff even works..."
I can tell he's rambling and that he's withholding some, if not all, of the truth. But I don't call him out on it. I don't demand he share every single thing that was said over the phone. I don't demand he give me answers—because I don't want them. I don't want to know.