Max Donman sat on the edge of his sister’s hospital bed, a few strands of blonde hair falling across his face as he watched her sleep.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the monitoring machines and a single wall lamp that cast long, pale shadows across the white sheets. Becky’s chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythms, her face relaxed in a way it rarely was when awake. Her blonde braid lay coiled on the pillow like a sleeping snake.

The door to the ward stood open.

"Rebecca," he said quietly, testing whether she was truly under.

No response. Only the steady beep of the machines.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Max moved his fingers slightly. The door eased shut on its own with a soft click, cutting off the sound of the hallway completely. Silence settled around him like a blanket.

A small smile caught his lips as he watched her rest, almost at peace for once. He reached beneath his shirt and drew out a pendant on a black thread. It had been on him for years. He held it in his palm, the metal warm from his skin.

On one side was a small photo of Becky, younger than she was now, bright-eyed, mischievous grin. He flipped it over. Sherry stared back at him from the other side. Long brunette hair, younger face, eyes full of fire even then. The image pulled him back instantly.

***

The city had been chaos that day. The army moved through the streets of Goth like a storm, dragging out anyone who counted as a liability to the small walls. Shouts and cries filled the air. Dust hung thick under the harsh sun, mixing with the smell of fear and unwashed bodies.

"I’m an ability user!" a man shouted as soldiers threw him onto the back of a truck.

The infected had outlasted what the city had prepared for. The walls had offered a flicker of life without them, and now survival had narrowed to the fittest. The food couldn’t stretch to everyone inside the camp.

Max watched from the roadside, only ten years old, as the soldiers ran the operation with brutal efficiency. They were cutting the numbers in half.

"Capture randomly," a bald soldier barked, shoving Max aside so hard he fell onto the dusty ground.

A bulky soldier carrying a girl under his arm saw it. The girl was fighting the whole way, kicking and twisting. The soldier crossed to the bald officer, tapped his shoulder, and when the man turned, backhanded him across the face.

"How dare you touch a Donman?" the bulky soldier growled, already crouching toward Max.

Max’s eyes were locked on one thing only: the girl with the long hair, still struggling wildly.

"Sorry, Lord Donman," the bald man muttered, wiping blood from his lip.

As the bulky soldier reached to lift Max, the girl twisted violently and sank her teeth into his arm. He cursed and let her go. She tried to run. He caught her by the hair and yanked her back down.

Max watched as the soldier hauled her up again, furious, tucking her back under his arm like a sack.

"Please, let me go," the girl shouted, still fighting.

The soldier reached again to help Max up, but Max’s eyes stayed fixed on the girl. Her face was clear now as she resisted, fierce, scared, unforgettable.

The man pulled Max to his feet and turned back toward the truck. Max tapped his leg.

"Sir," Max said, voice small but clear. "She’s a Vayne."

The soldier stopped. Turned to the girl. "Are you a Vayne?"

The girl didn’t answer. She looked at Max instead.

"Are you sure?" the soldier asked Max.

"Yes," Max said.

The girl was let go immediately. The soldier moved off, leaving the two children alone on the dusty roadside. The girl lifted her head to look at him, breathing hard.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Max," he said. "What’s your name?"

"Sherry." A pause. "And who are the Vayne?"

"Let’s get away from here first," Max said, taking her hand. "I’ll explain later."

At the edge of the tents, Max’s mother spotted him. She had been searching since he slipped away.

***

Max looked down at the pendant again, his thumb brushing slowly over the small image of young Sherry. The metal was warm from his skin, the edges slightly worn from years of being carried close to his heart. On the bed, Becky’s eyes fluttered open, lashes catching the soft blue glow of the monitoring machines.

He tucked the pendant back beneath his shirt in one smooth motion.

"Max," she said, voice still thick with sleep as she focused on him. "You’re still here?"

"Yes." He shifted closer on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Where else would I be?"

She sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room.

"You need a drink?" Max asked. He moved his fingers in a small, precise gesture. Becky nodded weakly.

The door opened a crack. A glass of juice floated in from the hallway, gliding smoothly through the air straight into his waiting hand. Condensation beaded on the cold glass as he passed it to her.

She forced herself up against the pillows, wincing slightly, and took the glass. "Thanks."

He watched her drink, the way her throat moved with each swallow, the faint tremble in her hand as she held the glass. She caught him looking.

"What?" she asked, lowering the glass.

"You slept with him," Max said, eyes locked on her, voice low and even. "Didn’t you?"

"What?" Becky lowered the glass further, surprise cutting through the exhaustion. "No. Why would I? On the first day?"

Max sighed. He had noticed the change in his sister since she got a new partner — something subtle in the way she carried herself, in the tone of her voice when she spoke about Abram.

"Why do you hate him so much, Max?" Becky asked, setting the glass on the bedside table with a soft clink.

"I don’t hate him," Max said. "I have a feeling he could be a problem for the reason we came inside the walls in the first place."

"Come on." Becky straightened her legs under the sheets, grimacing at the pull in her ankle. "Bram’s a nobody who grew up outside the walls. How could he stop our mission? And who would be crazy enough to tell him about it?" She paused, searching his face. "Unless you told someone. Did you?"

"No," Max said.

"Then we’re safe," Becky said.

"It’s just instinct."

"Is this about Sherry, Max?"

He went quiet for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Then he reached out and brushed his thumb gently against her cheek, the touch careful, almost tender. "No. Why would you think that?"

Becky held his eyes. Something passed between them, heavy, unspoken, layered with years of shared history and secrets neither of them named out loud.

The room felt smaller with that silence hanging in the air. The machines continued their steady, rhythmic beeping, the only sound breaking the tension between brother and sister.