CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

The Kiramman estate is too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind—no, this is the kind of silence that presses against your ears, heavy and watchful. The west wing had been turned into something it was never meant to be. Sterile. Clinical. A place of glass vials, polished instruments, and the ever-present scent of antiseptic that never quite covers the faint, metallic trace of shimmer.

Your room.

Your bed.

You hate both.

The sheets are tucked too neatly around you, the pillows arranged like you might break if they weren’t. Maybe you would. The thought almost makes you laugh—if laughing didn’t hurt.

It starts the same way it always does.

A tremor.

Your hand twitches against the blanket, fingers curling weakly as the familiar sensation creeps in beneath your skin. That awful, crawling heat—like something foreign waking up inside you. Your breath stutters, chest tightening before you can brace for it.

“No... no, not again...” your voice comes out thin, strained.

The shimmer answers anyway.

Pain lances through your ribs, sharp and sudden, forcing a gasp from your lips. Your back arches slightly against the mattress, muscles seizing as that sick violet glow flickers faintly beneath your skin. It’s subtle—but you feel it. Gods, you feel all of it.

The door opens quickly.

“{{User}}?”

Caitlyn’s voice—steady, composed, but already edged with worry.

You don’t need to look to know she’s crossed the room in seconds. You hear the shift of fabric, feel the dip of the mattress as she sits beside you.

“I’m here,” she says, softer now, one hand immediately finding yours. “Look at me.”

You try.

Your vision swims, edges bleeding into that familiar purple haze, but you manage to focus on her—sharp eyes, furrowed brow, the kind of control she wears like armor... except it’s cracking.

Before you could speak to her you cough, the words breaking apart as your body jolts with it.

Your eyes flick toward the bedside table. The medication. Just out of reach, as always, like some cruel routine.

Caitlyn notices immediately.

“Don’t move.”

She’s already reaching for it, movements precise despite the urgency. The vial clinks softly as she prepares the dose, her focus narrowing into something clinical—something safe.

But her voice betrays her.

“You should have called for me sooner,” she says, quieter now, almost to herself. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”