Page 58 of Vital Signs

Safe. What a fucking joke. I was drowning in my own skin while my brain offered me the same bargain on repeat: one hit and the ghosts would stop haunting me.

Twenty-four hours. When the clock finally struck midnight, death would have been an improvement. Twenty-four hours since my last hit and everything was chaos—racing heart, aching muscles, skin that was wrong in every possible way. Dehydration made my thoughts fuzzy and my lips crack.

This was the moment. The breaking point where I either chose connection or chemicals, love or oblivion, hope or the needle.

"Please," I whispered, the word torn from the deepest part of my desperation. "Please, just a little. I don't need to be high. I just don't want to die."

The begging turned into sobs. The suffering wasn't just physical anymore. I was terrified I'd never feel human again, that I'd broken something in myself that couldn't be fixed.

"I don't want to die," I choked out. "I'm dying. Why won't you help me?"

"You're not dying," Misha whispered, arms wrapping around me. He held me together through pure determination. "Your body is healing. It just feels like dying."

"Same fucking thing." I clung to him, desperate for something solid while the world kept shifting. "How is this healing? How is torture healing?"

"Because you're not numbing it anymore. You're experiencing everything your body's been trying to tell you for four years." Hishand stroked through my sweat-soaked hair. "The pain means you're alive."

My phone buzzed against the floor. Jimmy McCoy. "Got that good shit today. Quality product, fair price. Hit me up."

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. One word. One meeting. One needle and all of this stopped.

What would Tyler think of me if he knew I was considering making that call?

"Give me your phone," Misha said quietly.

My chest tightened. "What?"

"Your phone. Give it to me."

I clutched it against my chest, the screen still glowing. "I need it. What if there's an emergency? What if—"

"Hunter." His voice was gentle but firm. "Give me your phone."

We stared at each other in the dim van. Both of us knew what this meant. I was too weak right now to make the right choice.

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't choose you over this. Not right now. I'm not strong enough."

"I know." He held out his hand. "So let me choose for you."

My hands shook as I placed the phone in his palm. The moment I handed it over, my shoulders slumped. Surrendering that phone felt like handing Misha a twenty-pound weight.

Misha pocketed the phone without looking at the message. His other hand found mine, fingers interlacing in a grip that felt like absolution.

"How long?" I asked, voice raw.

"How long what?"

"Until this stops. Until I feel human again."

He was quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Days, maybe. But you're not doing it alone."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they terrified me. Days more of this. Days of pain I could end in twenty minutes with one phone call.

But Misha had the phone now. Had taken the choice away so I wouldn't have to make it.

I should have been angry. Trapped. Instead, all I felt was relief.

"Don't give it back," I whispered. "No matter what I say. No matter how much I beg. We have to stop Wright. For Tyler. For—just don't give it back."