CHAPTER 47: WIT AND STRATEGY

  Suryel lay still longer than anyone expected.

  Not because she was compliant.

  Not because she was docile.

  But because stillness had always been faster than resistance.

  She remembered the rhythm of the Infirmary before she even opened her eyes.

  The way it breathed without lungs.

  The early stirrings of it.

  The soft hum of embedded sigils warming gradually across the ceiling, light brightening by fractional degrees to mimic a dawn that never fully committed.

  A dawn that never truly belonged to anyone.

  Just like the Infirmary itself never belonged to her.

  No matter how many times she’d tested its edges.

  No matter how many times she’d mapped its exits in her head, counted footsteps between stations, memorized the cadence of the Healers’ shifts.

  Her anomaly stirred faintly under her skin, reacting to motion nearby.

  Not flaring.

  Just…

  Listening.

  Somewhere down the hall, fabric snapped.

  A crisp, surgical sound.

  A tray clinked into place, metal on crystal, precise enough to startle a nearby patient who muttered an oath in a string of words she didn’t recognize.

  Another voice murmured reassurance.

  Footsteps crossed.

  Overlapped.

  Diverged.

  Healers moved around her with quiet precision, routines overlapping like clockwork gears that had learned not to collide.

  They didn’t notice her at first.

  Not until the anomaly in her body shifted in response to their movement.

  A faint pulse rippling outward like a held breath released too soon.

  She kept her eyes closed.

  Counted.

  Then Raphael arrived exactly when she’d expected him.

  Not early.

  Not late.

  His footsteps were quiet, decisive, the kind that didn’t ask permission to exist.

  They simply informed the space that he was now part of it.

  He carried the scent of antiseptic and something herbal beneath it, grounding and sharp.

  It annoyed her more than the tether ever had.

  He didn’t greet her.

  He didn’t need to.

  Presence alone had weight enough.

  “Vitals.” He said, voice leveled, addressing the room rather than her.

  Cold, gloved fingers found her wrist.

  Two fingers only.

  Precise.

  Calibrated.

  Never too firm, but always enough to remind her that she was not in charge of this interaction.

  The anomaly within her pulsed lightly in response.

  Curious.

  Testing boundaries.

  Never flaring outright.

  “Don’t...” Raphael said mildly, eyes tracking her readings on the monitor. “And I already know you’re awake. Your breathing is too controlled for someone who’s supposedly asleep.”

  From the corner, Helel guffawed.

  The sound cut through the quiet like a dropped instrument.

  A few nearby patients choked back laughter.

  Someone coughed conspicuously, pretending not to listen.

  The banter between Raphael and Suryel had become a small, illicit amusement among the infirmary residents.

  A human thing.

  Predictable.

  Comforting.

  Something to watch between pain cycles.

  Raphael sent Helel a single look.

  Helel froze mid-smile, eyelids fluttering shut theatrically as if struck by sudden sleep.

  The smirk betrayed him immediately.

  Suryel cracked one eye open, just the barest sliver.

  “I didn’t do anything.” She muttered, voice still rough in the an early morning of disuse.

  “Mmhm.” Raphael hummed, adjusting the tether at her wrist.

  Just a fraction tighter.

  The hum sharpened, a subtle warning she felt more than heard. “And yet… here we are.”

  Aggressive care, she thought sourly.

  The phrase surfaced uninvited.

  He wasn’t gentle.

  But he was precise.

  Pillows shifted beneath her shoulders, repositioned to relieve pressure she hadn’t noticed building.

  Bandages were checked, resealed.

  A soft pulse of light skimmed her ribs, sinking deep enough to make her teeth buzz.

  “Pain level?” Raphael prompted without looking up.

  “Annoyed.” She replied instantly and blunt.

  “That is not a number.” He countered, tone even.

  “Fine, five.” She rolled her eyes, gaze tracking the ceiling.

  Raphael paused.

  His eyes flicked between her and the monitors. “Lie.”

  She huffed, refusing to argue further.

  He replaced the bandage anyway, fingers pressing just enough to remind her that yes, she was still injured, and yes, he knew exactly how much.

  When he finished, he handed her a small cup.

  Thick.

  Pale.

  Suspicious.

  Suryel eyed it like a personal insult.

  She held it warily as far away as possible. “Ugh… What is that?”

  “Something you will drink.” Raphael replied.

  His mouth curved faintly.

  Not quite a smile.

  More like anticipation, possibly hinting a mischief— Or revenge.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “It smells like regret.” She said, cringing when she sniffed it.

  “Correct.” He said, eyes twinkling briefly before he corrected his expression to professional neutrality.

  Her hesitation earned her a single raised eyebrow.

  An eyebrow carrying the collective authority of every Healer who had ever chased a patient down a corridor with righteous fury and a knock-out syringe.

  “Drink.” Raphael said calmly. “Or I count to three and you drink anyway.”

  She squinted at him. “…You wouldn’t.”

  “He would,” Yael said gently from the next bed, unhelpfully reinforcing his threat.

  “Yep, absolutely would,” Helel added, eyes bright with traitorous delight.

  “One.” Raphael counted, calm as ever.

  She drank, gagging halfway through— The sound she made was undignified and sincere. “That’s criminal!”

  “And yet—” He said, handing her a cloth and a juicebox. “You remain alive.”

  Across the infirmary, other patients pretended not to watch.

  A few didn’t bother pretending.

  By the third day, Suryel had memorized the Infirmary’s pulse.

  Healers rotated on the quarter hour.

  Meals arrived warm, never steaming.

  Logistics precision.

  Assistance appeared without announcement when needed, and vanished just as smoothly.

  Raphael came and went like a tide.

  Unimpressed by drama.

  Responsive only to data.

  The tether itself became a conversational instrument.

  It hummed softly when she was calm, sharpened when her thoughts strayed toward motion.

  A single lean.

  A subtle shift.

  Her elbow locked mid-motion.

  Raphael didn’t look up from his notes. “No.”

  “I wasn’t leaving.” She said too quickly.

  “You were considering it.” He replied flatly.

  “…Maybe.” She said, sheepish.

  Finally, he met her gaze.

  Dark, flat, eyes carrying the weight of someone who had raised siblings, patched warriors, possibly wrestled demons, and outlasted catastrophes.

  The first escape attempt came that afternoon.

  A sanctioned stretch became a pivot.

  The pivot became a sprint.

  Less than thirty seconds to the corridor.

  There were multiple screams, shouts, clangs.

  And then there was silence.

  Before Raphael came back and deposited her unceremoniously back onto the bed.

  Helel’s laughter echoed.

  He perched on a chair like it owed him rent, snickered openly, pocketing a trinket from Yael. “Told you.”

  “You’re not strapping me down.” Suryel declared, hair wild, bandages fresh, lungs burning.

  “I already did.” Raphael didn’t glance up from the sigil array hovering above her torso.

  Fingers braided light into containment runes with practiced ease.

  The tether hummed like an insult.

  Not painful, yet infuriating nonetheless.

  Her eyes burned with that particular mix of exhaustion and defiance, sharpening her anger rather than dulling it.

  The kind that whispered, move anyway.

  Helel watched with fascination, chin propped on his hand, still lounging on the chair nearby, wings twitching. “I give it three minutes before she bites him.”

  “She already tried that yesterday.” Yael murmured quietly, wings folded neatly. “It didn’t end well.”

  Suryel snapped, hearing them. “Traitors.”

  “I warned you.” Yael said mildly.

  Immune.

  Built up by time with Helel and the others.

  Necessary steel for dealing with a little sister prone to chaos.

  Raphael straightened finally, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck, and fixing her with a stare that had survived understaffed wards and patients who thought pain made them special.

  “You fractured two ribs, destabilized your left humerus, and your anomaly spikes whenever you get emotional.” He said evenly. “You are not walking. You are not stretching. You will remain in this bed.”

  “What?! I heal better when I move!” She snapped, fingers digging into the mattress.

  “You worsened your injuries trying to outmaneuver six healers.” Raphael stepped closer, palm braced on the bed rail. “You would have broken your neck.”

  A flicker of an image crossed her mind.

  Authority.

  Vast and inevitable, crushing worlds by existence alone in her memories.

  But Raphael wasn’t Authority.

  He didn’t argue.

  He didn’t explain.

  Her anomaly flared, heat skittering under her skin like sparks hunting tinder.

  Raphael caught her wrist instantly.

  “Don’t even think about it.” He warned.

  “I wasn’t—” She started, eyes still darting sideways.

  A passing healer yelped as a tablet burst into flames mid-step, dunked quickly into a water jug.

  Suryel’s breath hitched. “Whoops.”

  Raphael leaned closer, voice low, firm. “You want to fight? Heal first. Then we can argue.”

  The words landed harder than any restraint.

  Care.

  Aggressive.

  Unapologetic.

  Helel whistled and whispered excitedly. “Wow. He’s not even yelling.”

  “He doesn’t need to.” Yael replied quietly. “He’s already won.”

  Raphael pointed at them without looking. “And you two— Quiet. You are patients, not commentators.”

  “Yes, Boss,” Helel chirped, wings snapping.

  Other patients stifled laughter.

  Raphael turned slowly.

  The look he gave could have sterilized instruments. “Say it again.”

  “Sir.” Helel corrected instantly, wings snapping still.

  The argument ended not in surrender, but negotiation.

  The tether stayed.

  Movement was limited.

  Suryel agreed to stop attempting to sit up unassisted.

  Raphael agreed to explain himself every time.

  A fragile truce, testing the limits of each other’s patience.

  By afternoon, Raphael returned with a thin book, bright red cover. “Read. You require stimulation that does not involve annoying me, picking fights with Helel, or planning your next escape attempt.”

  She opened it slowly. “These stars have… smiling faces.”

  “Yes.” He confirmed flatly.

  She looked up. “Are you mocking me? This seems… For kids.”

  “No.” He said, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging. “I am meeting you where you are.”

  Helel leaned in eagerly. “Oh! That one’s about realm layers.”

  Yael added, calm, smiling faintly. “Simplified, but accurate.”

  Suryel’s curiosity sharpened.

  Simple diagrams, bold arrows, layers stacked like a child’s drawing of the cosmos.

  She read, asked questions.

  Yael answered gently.

  Helel added chaotic footnotes.

  Raphael pretended not to notice, but made notes in turn.

  Boredom she hated.

  He could work with that.

  Cages she hated.

  That was harder.

  Aether IV drips refused.

  Raphael replaced them with solid food and aggressively frequent snacks, observing her palate carefully, notes forwarded with specified requests to Logistics.

  Raphael countered each move with.

  “No.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Again and I will sedate you.”

  She tested.

  He adapted.

  Evenings blurred into pattern and negotiation.

  Food replaced drips.

  Snacks became currency.

  Medicine taken with commentary.

  Bones were reset through clenched teeth and wet eyes.

  Micro-movements tested the tether like chess nudges, Raphael countered every test with calm inevitability.

  Michael and Gabriel visited, checking logistics and providing morale.

  Laughter punctured the ward.

  Later, Raphael met Metatron.

  His report floating between them as he gave his assessment.

  “She is not… noncompliant.” He said tone clipped. “She is strategic, learns patterns quickly. Responds to explanation more than enforcement, reacts poorly to silence.”

  “Because silence resembles abandonment.” Metatron replied gently. “How does she respond to care?”

  “She stabilizes when cared for.” Raphael admitted. “She’s devouring all the books… and snacks that Gabriel brought.”

  Metatron nodded once in acknowledgement.

  Dismissed.

  He returned to the Infirmary, calculations already running through his mind.

  He felt it before he saw it.

  Quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Her bed was empty.

  The healer on watch went pale. “We… Didn’t see her leave.”

  Yael was sitting upright, misplaced guilt sharp.

  Helel hovered, panic restrained.

  “She was here. Then she wasn’t.” Yael said before he could ask.

  Orders flew.

  Searches began.

  Raphael stood still, staring at the empty bed.

  Then he turned, already tracking his missing patient himself, concluding two things.

  She hadn’t run.

  She had waited.

  He closed his eyes once.

  “Suryel.” He said softly. “Why?”

  Author’s Note:

  Aww she took after Helel more than Yael.

  Poor Raphael hahaha.

  My nurse friend felt so pissed when I shared this character. He said, he would 100% restrain this patient too. Probably in a padded room. LOL.