Sovereign of the Deep

Ren lay on the hospital bed—not because he was injured, or sore, or even tired. Just… lazy.

The kind of lazy that wrapped around your bones after too much thinking. Too many questions. Too many things that didn't make sense.

He stared at the ceiling for a while.

His arm drifted up. He turned his palm, studying the skin—still pale. Still thin. But now it looked… normal. No cracks. No bleeding. The large blue veins that once ran beneath the surface were gone.

Like his body had just… decided to stop falling apart.

Weird. Really weird. 

He let his arm drop back to the bed with a soft thud. The sheets rustled.

His mind flicked back to yesterday—the boy with the glass wristband and corporate-coat swagger, showing up like it was all routine. The jug of water. The bathroom. The pool. The blackout.

The healing.

That part still messed with him.

He'd gone in aching, bleeding, barely holding himself together—and come out feeling… fine.

Better than fine.

Like someone had rewound his injuries while he napped.

What the hell had even happened?

His mind wandered to his mother.

She used to make him shower three times a day. Always had extra bottled water stacked in the corner. Not a few. Dozens. Crates. Like she was prepping for some personal drought no one else knew about.

Back then, it felt obsessive. Annoying. Ritualistic.

But maybe… maybe she knew something. Maybe she'd always known.

He didn't like that thought.

Why wouldn't she say anything?

Why let him go through all those years thinking he was just sick, cracked, fragile?

No explanations. Nothing.

He turned his head toward the window. Watched a bird land on the ledge and hop once before fluttering off again.

He didn't want to overthink it. Not now. Not after yesterday. The migraine had come out of nowhere then, slicing through his skull like a wire saw. He didn't want a sequel.

He sighed, long and low, then let his gaze drift away from the window—

Toward the only warmth left in the room.

Anya.

She hadn't moved in hours. A blanket was curled around her small shoulders, her knees drawn up tightly to her chest in the hospital chair beside his bed. From a distance, she didn't look nine.

She barely looked real.

She looked like an echo. Like something soft left behind after the world had shattered.

Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks blotchy from tears that had dried and returned again. Her tiny arms wrapped around her legs like she was trying to become smaller than her grief would allow.

Ren sat up slowly, legs dangling over the side of the bed. Damp strands of hair clung to his cheeks, darker than usual. His body no longer hurt—not in the way it had yesterday—but something in his chest felt heavy. Thick. Cold.

"Hey," he said softly, like he didn't want to break her. "How are you holding up?"

His voice barely reached her. The room was quiet, save for the dull hum of machinery and the gentle patter of rain against the windowpanes. The whole world felt wrapped in glass.

Anya didn't answer at first.

Then, slowly, she raised her head.

Her eyes were red. Swollen. Ringed with that hollow look children shouldn't know how to wear. There were tears clinging to her lashes—like they'd gotten stuck and didn't know how to fall.

"I miss them."

Her voice cracked in half.

Ren's breath caught. He didn't move. Didn't blink.

Anya sniffled, wiped her face, tried to act like it didn't matter—but it did.

Her lip trembled.

She shook, as if the sadness inside her was too big for her small frame to carry.

"I know," he said quietly.

He reached out and placed a hand over hers. She flinched—not from him, but from the chill. His touch was always cold.

Anya shook her head. Her eyes filled all over again.

"No, you don't."

Her voice was stronger this time. Almost angry. And then the dam finally broke.

The tears spilled fast. Full sobs wracked her chest. She buried her face in the blanket, her body curling tighter, like if she folded in enough, she'd disappear from the pain altogether.

Ren stared at her.

And he hated himself.

Because she was right.

He didn't understand—not fully. Not in the way she needed him to.

He missed them. He was sad. He could ache in his own way. But grief?

Real, raw, soul-splitting grief?

That thing that poured out of her now like broken glass and ocean water?

He couldn't reach it.

Even when his body cried, his mind stayed still.

Like his sadness was a distant ripple instead of a wave.

Like someone had muted him from the inside out.

Would it always be like this?

Would he carry this echo of pain forever—unspent, unresolved—haunted by a scream that never came, and a silence that never ended?

Not healed.

Not broken.

Just… stuck.

He wanted to rage with her. To scream. To cry loud enough to shatter something. Anything.

But he couldn't.

So he did the only thing he could.

He stood. Walked slowly to her side. Then knelt down, low, so she wouldn't have to look up to see him.

And he wrapped his arms around her.

Anya crumpled against him, grabbing fistfuls of his hospital gown like she was drowning and he was the last solid thing left.

Her sobs hit his chest like punches.

"She died trying to protect us," he murmured. "Dad too. You know that, right?"

She nodded into his shoulder—but it didn't stop the crying.

"I wanted to tell Mom I was scared," she whimpered. "I didn't get to. She was so calm, and then she was just—"

The word shattered in her throat. She couldn't finish it.

Ren pressed his cheek against her head. His own breath was steady. Too steady.

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

But he didn't.

Not really.

Anya's next words came strangled, between gasps.

"Why did they have to fight?" she choked. "Why did he kill them?"

Her voice shook with fury and grief, raw and wild and unfiltered.

"Who's going to make him answer for it?" she demanded. "Who's going to make him pay?"

Ren didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Because he didn't know. Because the memory of Anele standing there—towering, composed, untouchable—was still carved into his brain like a scar.

Anya's voice cracked, trembling with fear and frustration.

"You saw what he did, Ren… even if the cops were there, they couldn't have stopped him. He's not even human. No one can stop someone like that."

Ren pressed his forehead to hers. Their skin, too different—hers warm with grief, his cold with restraint.

"I don't know," he admitted, and that truth nearly broke him. "But I swear, Anya…"

His voice lowered, steady but soft.

"I won't let you feel this kind of pain again. I won't let you be that helpless. Not ever. I'm here, Anya. We're all we've got now… but I'll try to be enough. I'll always be here."

Her breathing hitched. The sobs slowed, thinned into shaky breaths. But she didn't pull away.

She clung to him like the promise was the only thing left she could hold.

"Promise?" she whispered.

Ren closed his eyes. His hand tightened gently around her back.

"I promise."

And outside, the rain kept falling—slow, patient, quiet.

As if the sky itself was grieving something it couldn't explain.

***

KNOCK KNOCK.

Ren groaned.

Not because he was tired. Just… socially unprepared.

He rolled off the edge of the hospital bed and padded toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a wet sock. His hospital gown clung damply to his skin—as always—and his hair dripped a lazy trail down his neck.

He opened the door with a sigh already brewing in his chest.

Standing there was Sami.

And of course, he looked like he'd just stepped off the cover of Effortless Living: Rich Kid Edition.

"Hey," Sami greeted, flashing a casual wave and a lopsided smile that said I'm probably late, but also undeniably charming, so you can't be mad at me.

He wore a soft, light-grey turtleneck—oversized but not sloppy—paired with loose black jeans that somehow fell just right over dark grey combat boots. They were scuffed at the toes, worn just enough to look intentional. His black-glass ring caught the hall light as he held up a bottle of water and a shopping bag.

An earring dangled from his left ear—one sleek chain ending in a shard of obsidian glass. Like he'd decided accessories were a sport, and he was winning.

"Can I come in?"

Ren realized he'd been staring. Not admiring. Just… processing the level of detail. Like Sami had been styled by someone with too much budget and not enough restraint.

He stepped aside.

"Yeah. Sure. Come in," Ren said dryly, gesturing at the painfully average hospital room.

Sami smiled and breezed in like he owned the place.

Ren watched him glide across the floor, already heading toward Anya with a faint nod of acknowledgment.

She was still curled up in the hospital chair—silent, knees drawn to her chest, her small frame barely shifting at Sami's presence.

"Brought water… and clothes," Sami said, holding out the bag. "Figured the paper gowns weren't your thing."

Ren took the water and downed it in one go. He dropped the empty bottle on the nearby table, then accepted the bag—eyebrows lifting as he peeked inside.

Soft fabric. Still creased from the packaging.

'Hah… this is expensive. Above my pay grade. I better flag it early.'

He looked at him.

"These are new."

"Mm-hm."

"I'm not paying you back," Ren said, in the firmest voice he could muster.

Sami chuckled.

"No need to. They're yours."

Ren narrowed his eyes. Kindness like that always came with a receipt—even if it didn't show up right away.

Sami just smiled, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand.

5:33 PM.

"We'll head out at six."

Ren didn't look up right away. His fingers were still brushing the edge of a folded hoodie nestled in the bag when he spoke.

"You said you'd be here by two. I was starting to think you weren't coming."

Sami sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Got busier than I expected. And the rain…"

He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the soft patter still tapped at the glass.

"Yeah, I hate rainy days."

Then he glanced at Ren—that sideways, deliberate look he wore whenever he knew he'd just said something annoying.

"Oh—no offense."

Ren blinked. "Huh?"

But Sami just grinned, breezing past it like it didn't need explaining.

"I'll give you guys a minute to get dressed. Gonna grab a coffee."

And with that, he turned and slipped out, the door clicking softly behind him—leaving the two of them alone again.

Ren stared at the space he'd left behind like it might still echo.

Then, with a sigh, he rummaged through the bag. He pulled out a smaller bundle and placed it beside Anya's bed, nudging it gently toward her.

She didn't respond, but she looked down at it—just once.

"I'll go first," he muttered, grabbing his clothes and ducking behind the flimsy divider at the edge of the room.

It wasn't much—just a folding panel and two faded hospital walls—but it was privacy.

He emerged a minute later, tugging the sleeve of a clean ocean-blue hoodie over one wrist. It clung to his frame, still a little damp from the constant humidity of his body. The joggers were charcoal-black, comfortably loose, knotted lazily at the waist. His dark sneakers squeaked once against the floor as he stepped out.

He ran a hand through his hair—pointless. Still wet. Still clinging to his cheeks like ivy.

Anya moved without a word, gathering her bundle and disappearing behind the divider.

When she reemerged, it felt like time slowed.

The hoodie was too big—light grey, soft, drowning her small frame like a blanket she hadn't asked for. Her sleeves covered her hands. Her sweatpants bunched unevenly at the knees.

She didn't fix her hair. Just let it fall in tangled wisps over her face.

But she walked on her own. Sat down gently at the edge of the bed.

Like she was still trying to be strong, even with all her pieces undone.

Just then, the door clicked again.

Sami returned, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

"You look less like a patient," he said, eyeing Ren with a grin.

Ren gave him a flat look. "Thanks. You look like a credit card had a baby with a runway model."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sami said brightly.

He checked the time.

6:01 PM.

"You guys ready?"

Ren nodded. Anya didn't speak, but she stood. Adjusted her sleeves.

That was answer enough.

"Perfect." Sami spun on his heel, already halfway to the door.

"Let's go. Don't worry about checkout," he said, flashing a double finger-gun over his shoulder.

"I covered it on the way in. Your bed's probably already booked for someone else."

Ren didn't respond. He was afraid that if he did—if he thanked him out loud—Sami might take it back.

Truth was, even with the districts linked through shared commerce, each one ran its own ledger.

District 6 might've collapsed, but the bills would still come.

And now that he'd woken up in District 4—the Platinum City, of all places—he'd done the math.

His hospital stay could've bought him a house in the lower districts.

They hadn't saved his life.

They'd just made sure he could never afford it.

They should've let him die.

His fingers tightened slightly at his side.

He didn't look at Sami. Just followed him, quiet and stunned.

'Whoever you are, Sami… may the heavens bless you.'