Chapter 5 – Last Hope

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime.

Max stepped into the paediatric ICU floor like a soldier entering sacred ground. Everything smelled sterile – disinfectant, floor wax, filtered air – and beneath it, a faint undercurrent of something colder. The scent of waiting. Of endings that hadn’t arrived yet but were circling.

He hadn’t been back here since the day she received the final diagnosis. He was told she was in irreversible decline. Only a few days left. This was the final straw that pushed him to truly desperate measures.

The corridor stretched ahead, fluorescent lights flickering overhead in cold repetition. Nurses moved like ghosts in blue and white scrubs, their faces tired, polite, forgettable. Machines beeped from behind closed doors. A child coughed down the hall. Somewhere, a TV played a cartoon with the sound too low. Time here had a different rhythm. Every second dragged like an anchor across the soul.

Room 805.

He stopped outside it, hand resting on the steel handle. His heart pounded—slow, heavy thuds like fists against a locked door. He didn’t want to see her like this again. Not wired up, not pale and sunken, not still. But he had to.

He pushed the door open.

And there she was.

Liz.

Sixteen. Pale. So still she might’ve been a statue sculpted in grief. Her face was the same, but smaller somehow, cheeks hollowed by time and starvation. An oxygen tube looped gently under her nose. Her lips were dry, cracked at the corners. Her skin was too white, too thin. The kind of paleness that only happened when someone stopped being alive in any way that mattered.

She looked like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of a dream. Or was it a nightmare?

Even now – trapped in wires and tubes – there was something luminous about her. Her hair spilled over the pillow in soft, silver-blonde waves, tousled but untouched by the decay of sickness. The strands caught the light like moonlit silk. Her skin, though pale, still held the faintest rose-gold hue beneath the surface, as if her blood hadn’t completely forgotten how to circulate. Faint freckles dotted her cheeks and nose – a detail Max had always loved, because April had had them too.

Her lips were parted slightly, a soft pink, dry at the corners. Her chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, the only movement in a body that looked sculpted from stillness. A thin silver necklace rested against her collarbone, the tiny pendant – a charm shaped like a bullet casing – motionless, as if even it was holding its breath.

Her eyebrows, gently arched, framed closed eyes that Max remembered as a fierce, stormy green. Eyes that used to narrow when she was focused and roll when she thought he was being ridiculous. Now they were shut. Peaceful. Empty.

Too still.

He sat down slowly, unable to stop staring.

Wires snaked from beneath the hospital gown—into machines, into bags, into her veins. An IV drip tapped rhythmically like a metronome counting down the last moments of something sacred. Her hands were folded neatly atop the blanket. Someone had painted her nails a dull lavender. Probably a nurse trying to make her look “normal.”

A soft beep marked each beat of her failing heart.

Max stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a hush.

For a long moment, he couldn’t move.

He stood there – this broken man full of stolen fire, golden veins, and secrets too terrible for language – watching his daughter drift somewhere far beyond his reach.

The room was dim. Only one window, half-covered by the pull-down blinds. Outside, Singapore buzzed in the distance. But inside, the air was thick. Still. Sacred. A temple of silence.

He took a step forward.

The breath caught in his chest.

His boots made no sound on the tile. He stopped beside the bed and lowered himself into the chair. His fingers hovered over her wrist for a second before he finally touched her – just the tips, gently against her pulse point.

Warm.

Barely.

“Hey, kiddo…” he whispered.

His voice cracked.

She didn’t move.

Of course she didn’t.

He sat there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her face. Her lashes were still long. She always hated that. Said they made her look like a doll.

Max felt something burn behind his eyes.

He squeezed them shut. His jaw clenched. His chest ached – not the fire this time, but something deeper. Older. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something until the bones in his hand snapped and bled.

But instead, he reached forward.

And took her hand in both of his.

It was small. Fragile. But hers.

“I’m here,” he said. “I made it.”

Still no answer.

He let out a breath that shook.

“I don’t know what the hell’s happening. I don’t know what I’ve become. But I didn’t come back from that motel just to lose you.”

Only the monotonous pulse of the heart monitor replied.

The fire in his chest stirred.

Not violently. Not hungrily.

It responded. Like an animal sensing grief. Like something inside him wanted to help.

Max looked down at their joined hands. His fingertips glowed faintly. Gold. Soft. The same feeling as when he’d summoned the flames in the bathroom.

But this time, it didn’t hurt.

Not yet.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to hers. He shut his eyes.

And in that stillness, he whispered.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know if this will work. But I know you can’t wait anymore.”

His voice dropped.

“If this goes wrong… I’m sorry.”

His hand tightened slightly around hers.

The fire listened.

And in that quiet room of beeping machines, stale air, and shattered dreams, Max Jaeger prepared to do the one thing he swore he’d never do:

Experiment on his daughter.

But what choice did he have?

…………………

The room felt colder now.

Max stood beside the hospital bed like a man approaching an altar – half-prayer, half-execution. Liz’s heartbeat monitors pulsed in the background, slow and mechanical, a metronome marking the seconds of a life in limbo. Outside the window, clouds thickened over the Singapore skyline, turning the morning light grey.

He reached out. Stopped.

His hand hovered inches above hers.

What if this was the last mistake he ever made?

What if he burned her?

What if this demonic infection in his chest – this twisting, golden inferno caged in bone and soul – leaked into her veins and hollowed her out like it had tried to do to him?

What if he gave her something she couldn’t handle?

She stirred slightly in the bed, a breath catching in her throat, like a whisper of recognition. It broke him.

“I’m sorry,” Max breathed. “I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”

His hand touched hers.

Soft. Cold. Real.

It hit him like a sucker punch. The weight of memories. Her first words. Her first bike crash. Late-night movies and spilled popcorn. Her scream in the fire. Her silence after.

His other hand cupped her cheek. Her skin was smooth, almost waxen. Still warm but fading. Her lashes didn’t flutter. Her eyes stayed shut.

Max leaned down, forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he said. “Come back. Or… if you can’t... fight.”

And he closed his eyes.

Something in him cracked.

Not broke – opened.

The fire surged in his chest, rising like a tide. Golden light bled from beneath his ribs, his veins illuminating his arms, his neck, the back of his eyes. It surged through his fingers into hers. The pain was immediate and breathtaking—like someone tearing the nerves from his body one strand at a time. But he didn’t pull back.

His soul reached for hers.

And found it.

Faint.

Distant.

Like a candle deep underwater. Flickering against the dark.

Max focused harder. He pushed every ounce of his will into that thread of light. Every memory. Every scrap of love. Every scream he'd buried since the fire.

Liz didn’t stir.

Then…

A tremor.

Tiny. In her hand.

The golden fire pulsed. Her body shuddered beneath the sheets. Her head tilted back slightly, lips parting in a silent gasp. A faint, impossible glow bled from her skin—soft crimson, like a coal catching flame. Her aura ignited around her like mist lit from within.

Red.

Not warm. Not soft.

Violent. Alive.

Her brows furrowed. Her fingers twitched.

The connection snapped.

Max collapsed backward into the chair, gasping like he’d run a marathon underwater. His vision blurred. His bones screamed. Every drop of energy he had bled out of him like a lanced wound. He felt hollowed. Starved.

His muscles trembled.

His hands were shaking.

But Liz was breathing differently now. Deeper. Stronger. Her cheeks had more colour. The scratches on her temple – scars that the doctors couldn’t explain – were fading as he watched, the skin knitting itself smooth.

She didn’t wake.

But something inside her had.

Max tried to speak, but no words came.

The red aura still shimmered faintly around her like a heartbeat, before slowly retracting – folding inward like a sleeping animal.

He leaned back and exhaled through gritted teeth.

“What the hell did I just do…”

…………………

Max sat slumped in the chair beside Liz’s bed, every muscle trembling, skin slick with sweat. His breath came shallow and uneven. Whatever he had done, it had drained him. Left him hollow, like someone had scooped his insides out and replaced them with coals and wire.

But Liz was different now.

He could feel it. Not see, not hear – feel. Like the pressure change before a lightning strike. Something in the room had shifted.

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

And the world... bent.

Just slightly.

Not like the hallucinations from pain or fever. This was sharper. Cleaner. The colours around him didn’t just shift – they deepened. The edges of the room fuzzed for a second and then snapped into clarity.

The nurse standing outside the glass door – her silhouette shimmered faintly. A soft pale-blue haze clung to her, feathered at the edges like mist in moonlight. The doctor beside her glowed silver-white, steady, dull, fading out near his hands.

Max blinked hard. Rubbed his eyes.

Still there.

He turned back to Liz.

And froze.

Her aura was a furnace.

Not flickering anymore.

Not passive.

Red. Deep and arterial. It pulsed slowly around her like a living halo, angry and protective. A shield of fire and violence. Power without shape – yet.

It wasn’t just red – it was the colour of rage forged into purpose. Deeper than fire. Thicker than blood. A signal flare from whatever hell she was clawing her way through.

He couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t just a colour.

It was her.

Her rage. Her will. Her fight.

Even unconscious, she radiated more than most people he’d ever known. That red wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t warmth. It was blood. It was battle.

It was the same red he’d seen in her cheeks when she was little and angry at some injustice – someone had kicked a dog, or stolen someone’s lunch money, and she’d stormed in with fists raised and eyes blazing.

But now it glowed.

Now it warned.

Max leaned forward, breath shallow.

“What are you turning into…” he whispered.

And then he caught it.

His own reflection – in the glass of the room.

Gold.

His whole body shimmered with a deep, internal light. It wasn’t just around him – it was inside him, running through every vein. His aura was heavier, sharper. Like fire forged into wire. A pressure that pushed outward in waves, flickering when he breathed.

He stood slowly. Stepped toward the glass.

The nurse noticed him. Her expression softened, then shifted – something like unease. Like she felt the weight of what he’d become, even if she didn’t understand it.

Max looked past her.

Down the hallway.

Every person he saw carried a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer. Most were greyish-white, thin as cobwebs. A few with dull silver. One man hunched on a bench had a weak red-orange flicker, trembling like it was about to go out. But none were like Liz.

None were like him.

He wasn’t sure he was human anymore.

Not entirely.

And neither was she.

…………………

The door clicked shut behind him.

Max leaned against the cool wall just outside Liz’s room, chest heaving. His legs trembled – not from weakness, but from exhaustion that went deeper than flesh. A kind of spiritual bleeding. Like something inside him had been torn open and hadn’t quite closed.

He looked down at his hands. They still shook. Still shimmered faintly with gold, pulsing with each heartbeat. He could feel the drain. Not like muscle fatigue – more like gravity pulling harder now. Every movement took effort. Every breath carried weight.

He’d given her something.

Not all of it. But enough that he felt... hollow.

The hallway was quiet. No alarms. No voices. Just the dull hum of machines behind walls and the faint crackle of overhead fluorescents. A janitor pushed a mop down the far end of the corridor, oblivious to the storm that had just passed two rooms over.

Max closed his eyes.

He could still feel her. Not in the way a father feels a daughter – emotionally, through memory or instinct – but through something more. A thread. Still there. Still taut. But changed.

The connection between them had evolved.

He’d passed something into her. Not just power, but part of himself. And he wasn’t sure what that meant.

The power inside her hadn’t flared again, but he could still feel its echo. The way a battlefield holds the silence of gunfire long after the shots have stopped.

He rubbed his face with both hands. Everything felt heavier now – his breath, his limbs, even his thoughts.

He could see auras. Summon fire. Crumple steel. Endure pain. And now… he could awaken others. He hadn’t meant to give Liz power, he’d meant to save her. But whatever he’d passed on, it had changed her.

And he wasn’t sure what it had cost.

Now she was glowing like a shining red blade, and Max still didn’t know what kept her comatose. Her body had healed – visibly, but her mind hadn’t surfaced. She wasn’t waking up. And that meant only one thing.

Something was still in there with her.

Something fighting to hold her down.

He wasn’t finished.

He’d crossed the first threshold and found a storm waiting on the other side.

Max pushed away from the wall and walked to the end of the hall. Through the glass, he could see the city below – Singapore spread like a circuit board, blinking quietly under the morning sun. Cars moved in smooth patterns. People walked on tight schedules. The world didn’t know what had happened.

Didn’t care.

He did.

He opened his hand.

Golden light flickered again, low and reluctant.

It didn’t soothe him.

It felt like a warning.

Aamon was gone. But other things still stirred in the dark corners of the world. Things that were deeper. Bigger. And Max knew – whatever power he’d taken, whatever door he’d kicked open – he’d only seen the beginning.

He clenched his fist and turned back down the corridor.

Toward Liz.

Toward the truth.

And toward whatever hell he had to walk through to bring her back.