Leo's POV
Where the hell was I? And why was he here? The hero of the domes. Humanity's golden boy. Right there. Inches away from the strange bed I was in.
I'd only ever seen him on the public boards, larger than life, always perfect in his uniform or his gleaming Aegis, Valkyrie. Never this close. Never… like this.
The propaganda vids were garbage compared to the real thing. Up close, in that narrow strip of glow, he looked almost unfairly handsome. More real, sharper lines, not flat like the posters. Blond hair, longer than it looked in the official clips, fell across his forehead. A dark stubble shadowed his jaw and chin, not styled, the careless scruff of someone too busy, or too tired to shave.
His brow was furrowed even in sleep, etched with a faint frown as if something still troubled him deep down. And yet the rest of his face looked peaceful. Too peaceful. More than anyone had a right to be in this world. Especially him. I'd never imagined someone like Callan Pierce sleeping so unguardedly.
My heart jumped, thudding so hard I felt it in my palm where my hand rested over my chest.
Then everything came crashing back. The nightmare. The memories. The Nephilim attack wasn't just a bad dream; it was real. That thing had fallen. On my building. On me.
I should be dead. Crushed under tons of alien flesh and concrete.
Somewhere in the fog, I remembered Valkyrie turning toward my balcony. Had Pierce actually seen me? No way. No one noticed people like me. We disappeared all the time, and no one asked questions. Especially not someone important enough to pilot an Aegis.
Yet here I was. Alive. And there he was. Sleeping in a chair beside me.
Nothing made sense. And nothing in this world comes free. No one helped without expecting something in return. Especially not heroes or their handlers.
Whatever this place was, I needed to go. Now.
The moment I moved, pain flared through every muscle, searing enough to make me wince. My body felt like it had been beaten to a pulp, then run over by a transport shuttle for good measure. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony. Still, I forced myself onward, inching toward the edge of the bed.
My fingers brushed unfamiliar fabric, softer than anything I'd touched in years. The blanket slid away, revealing a medical gown I didn't recognize.
A medical gown? Panic rushed in. Someone had undressed me while I was unconscious. My skin crawled. Hospital. Medical care. Energy Credits. Thousands upon thousands of credits I'd never be able to pay back.
Even working myself to death with double shifts from now until forever wouldn't cover a serious medical bill. This was why people ran during Nephilim attacks; it was better to die in an instant than to survive with debt that would kill you anyway.
Reaching the edge of the bed, a neat stack of folded clothes on a small table caught my eye. Not mine. Mine would've been stained with dome grime, patched a dozen times. These looked new, or at least well-kept.
A glance back confirmed Pierce was still asleep in the chair. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths. How long had he been sitting there? And more importantly, why?
I had to leave before he woke. Before I learned the price of being saved.
Thankfully, the bed was silent as I slid off. My legs were less discreet, buckling immediately and providing minimal support even for my featherweight frame.
"Shit," I muttered, catching myself on the edge of the bed. I froze, watching Pierce for any sign of movement. Nothing. He remained asleep, head tilted at what had to be an uncomfortable angle.
Bit by bit, dragging myself toward the table took torturous patience. Finally there, I ran my fingers over the fabric. Good quality. Too good.
Slipping on the shirt, it fit exactly. So did the pants. That was… unsettling. I didn't bother with the underwear. Nothing I wasn't used to in the domes when supplies ran short.
A jacket lay crumpled on the floor, too big for me, but I snatched it anyway. The sleeves hung well past my hands. Didn't matter. It smelled good. Clean, with a hint of something masculine and unfamiliar, but strangely comforting.
Pierce's jacket. Had to be. High-grade material like this would fetch a small fortune at the underground markets. No one would believe I'd actually met the golden pilot, but the quality would speak for itself. Enough to make a dent in whatever astronomical medical bill was waiting for me.
Now that my eyes had adjusted, I scanned the room for anything useful. A fridge-like unit stood in the corner. Water, maybe? But opening it would make noise. Too risky.
The door was my priority. My escape route. It was positioned far behind where Pierce slept, a slim advantage that might give me a head start if he woke.
Inch by inch, I crept along the perimeter, careful to stay far from the sleeping pilot, until my fingers closed on a door handle.
Freedom.
That was too easy. Which, in this world, was the biggest red flag of all.
The presence behind me registered a second too late. I squeezed my eyes shut until stars bloomed behind my lids, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood. No one else was in the room.
That meant—
"Didn't know Dome civilians liked going commando under borrowed clothes," he murmured. Hot breath tickled my ear as words rasped close, deep, and masculine. Thick with sleep, the sound rumbled from his chest like distant thunder, the kind of tone that commanded attention without trying, rough at the edges but controlled at its core.
My legs nearly gave out as his body pressed close behind me. Callan Pierce. Not asleep after all.
I twisted sideways to escape, to slip away, but Callan's arm dropped to block my path. I hadn't noticed he had raised it above my head. I turned the other way. Blocked again. Trapped between his arms, caged without contact.
I couldn't tell if he was toying with me or if he was actually dangerous. Judging from the muscles in his arms, which were defined even in the dim light, he could probably crush my windpipe like snapping a ration stick.
"By the way, that's a closet door," he said, amusement threading through his voice.
Figures. All hope of escape crumbled in an instant. I'd stake my life on a closet door. I glanced frantically around the room, mentally marking every potential exit. There had to be another way out. If I could just—
"There are four doors in these quarters," Callan continued casually, as if reading my thoughts. "Closet. Bathroom. My office. Main exit. Which is locked with biometric security, by the way. But feel free to try them all."
I turned to face him, but couldn't bring myself to look up. The floor beneath me was smooth, nothing like the cold steel panels of the dome. Everything about this place was wrong, unfamiliar.
I needed to think fast. My mind raced through a thousand possibilities in seconds. Attempting to speak produced no sound; my throat was too dry from fear and whatever medication they'd pumped into me. Only a rasp came out.
I swallowed hard, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
"How much is it?" I croaked.
"How much is what?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
Forcing myself to meet his gaze revealed only shadows obscuring his face, though I could feel his eyes studying me like I was some strange specimen.
"What do I need to do? To repay you?" My voice cracked. "I only… I have 1,000 credits left in my account. That's all."
Tears slid down my cheeks, hot with humiliation. I hated crying. Hated the weakness. But exhaustion had stripped my defenses bare.
That's why my parents always smiled, even at the end. It was easier to accept the terrible things coming than to fight them. Men weren't supposed to cry. But at that moment, I wasn't even a man. I was prey caught in a trap, waiting for the predator's terms. The realization burned worse than the tears.
"Wait, no—fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—" Callan stepped back abruptly, his arm swinging behind him and hitting something on the wall.
The space blazed brightly. Flinching violently, I felt my eyes sting as if someone had thrown acid in them. I hadn't seen full illumination in years.
Dizziness swept over me, causing me to lose my footing. Through watering eyes, I noticed Callan was also grabbing his head like a madman, cursing repeatedly.
"Fuck, fuck—" He was struggling too, but when he saw me falling, he lunged forward.
Before I could process what was happening, his hand caught my arm, steadying me. I dropped to my knees, disoriented. Callan loomed above me, one hand on the back of my head.
The difference between us was unfairly disproportionate. He towered over me, at least a foot taller, with broad shoulders and the solid build of someone who had never known true hunger.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want to scare you."
Then, without warning, he bent down and scooped me up. One arm behind my back, the other under my knees. Bride style. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, which wasn't far from the truth.
My stomach lurched violently at the sudden elevation change, the room spinning around me in a nauseating blur. Blood rushed from my head, leaving me momentarily blind as dark spots danced across my vision. I swallowed hard against the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat.
His muscular arms wrapped like steel bands around my thin frame, crushing me against his chest. The closeness was suffocating. I shrank into myself, painfully aware of how I must look, like a half-starved child, not a grown man.
A weak protest was all I managed, my half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open against the painful glare. My fist connected with his chest in what was meant to be a punch, but probably felt like a pebble hitting a wall. He didn't even flinch.
"I need to take you to medical," he said, barely holding back panic. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, face flushed with an intensity that made him look unhinged, like someone teetering on the edge of control.
"No, no, please," I begged, pushing against him with what little strength I had. "Just drop me. Let me go. I can't go there."
Callan ignored my pleas. He turned toward a door right beside the fridge-like unit. Stupid layout. The door slid open automatically as he approached—some kind of eye scanner, I realized—and he started moving with alarming speed, almost running with me cradled against his chest.
Lifting my head enough to see past his arm revealed something that made horror seize my entire body.
"It can't be," I whispered.
