August's eyes, sharp as broken glass, cut through Lily's carefully constructed narrative. His face remained a mask, but a flicker of something, a predatory calculation, replaced the earlier confusion. He didn't believe her. Not a word.
"You said I couldn't hurt you." His voice was a low growl, a rumble that vibrated the thin air. "Why?"
He stepped closer. One hand, scarred and powerful, reached out, lightly tracing the curve of her jaw, then the delicate line of her throat. A jolt, cold and unwelcome, ran through Lily. Her composure, usually steel-plated, wavered.
"Huh?" The word escaped her, breath caught in her lungs. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs.
His fingers lingered, a feather-light touch that promised menace. "Why can't I do anything bad, Lily?"
"It's... it's because," she started, her mind scrambling. The heat of his touch, the memory of his strength from their last encounter, warred with her practiced deception. She needed something absolute, something he couldn't dispute, even without his memories. Something ingrained in the city's twisted code.
Her teeth bit down on her lip, a sharp pain she welcomed. "Because of the pact," she managed, the words tasting like ash. "The Blackwood-Vance pact."
His eyebrows rose, a slow, deliberate movement. "Pact?"
"Yes. A... a binding oath. Between our families, our organizations." Lily spoke faster, trying to weave the lie thicker, more impenetrable. She remembered the whispered legends of old Veridia, the forgotten treaties between crime families, the ancient blood debts. "To harm me, August, would be to break that accord. To shatter a truce that keeps this city from tearing itself apart."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His gaze was unblinking, dissecting her. She felt a cold sweat prickle her skin, but she met his eyes with defiance, with an unwavering stare that dared him to find the falsehood.
"It's a sacred vow," she insisted, injecting a note of almost religious conviction into her tone. "Made under the gaze of the Five Families. To breach it... that carries a penalty you wouldn't want to collect."
For the first time since he'd cornered her, August's rigid expression cracked. A deep frown marred his brow. His hand, still at her throat, clenched briefly, then dropped away as if burned. A small, ornate letter opener, which he'd been idly turning in his fingers, clattered onto the polished floorboards.
A tiny wave of relief washed over Lily, quickly replaced by a fleeting stab of guilt. Guilt was a luxury she couldn't afford. She had sown a seed of deception, a poisonous bloom, but it was for her survival. Her poker face hardened, an iron mask in the dim light.
"You understand," she said, her voice regaining its usual cool command. "Some things are beyond personal grievances, even for a man like you. Even one without a memory."
---
Unexpected turns, Lily mused, were Veridia's favorite pastime. One moment, you thought you held the reins, the next, the carriage was careening off a cliff.
Hours later, the acrid scent of disinfectant and stale bandages clung to Lily like a second skin. She stood over a patient, a young man named Kai with eyes like haunted pools, whose hands, mangled and bone-deep bruised, lay on a sterile cloth. He was a promising sculptor, before a misunderstanding with the Cerberus Syndicate left him in this state.
"Are you certain it was an industrial press, Silas?" Lily asked, her voice low, her instruments glinting under the clinic's weak surgical lamp. "Not a deliberate act?"
Silas, her grizzled assistant, a man whose face held more scars than history books, grunted. "Boss, the kid swore on his mother's grave. 'Accident,' he said. 'Slip and fall,' they reported. But that Cerberus lot... they don't do accidents." Silas clutched a bloody cloth, his brow furrowed with concern.
Lily hardened her gaze, examining the crushed metacarpals. They looked like shattered porcelain. A grim sigh escaped her. "This needs more than a patch-up. It's intricate reconstruction."
Kai's mother, a slight woman with worry etched deep into her features, wrung her hands. "He lives for his art, doctor. Says he can't feel his fingers. If he can't work..." Her voice trailed off, thick with unshed tears. "This city... it takes everything."
"I'll do my best." Lily leaned closer, her sharp eyes scanning every hairline fracture. "Fortunately, the nerve endings are mostly intact. We can repair this. It will take time, and a careful hand."
Silas, standing by with a tray of tools, spoke softly, "What if they come back, Boss? Finish the job properly?"
"Then we'll be ready." Lily picked up a delicate set of forceps. "Besides, the lad's hands are his life. We don't turn away a life, Silas." She paused, her eyes, usually vibrant with focused intensity, seemed dimmer under the stark light. Dark circles shadowed them, stark against her pale skin.
"Lately, Silas, I'm..."
Her old, battered rotary phone, perched on a cluttered shelf, suddenly shrieked. Lily flinched. She recognized the number – the private line for the Blackwood Sanatorium, where August Vance had been confined. Excusing herself with a curt nod, she moved to a quiet corner, her heart beginning a frantic flutter.
"Blackwood," she answered, her voice taut, betraying nothing.
Her mature, calm demeanor, which had steadied a grieving mother and a trembling assistant, evaporated. Her knuckles, already white from gripping the receiver, turned bloodless. She began to pace, a caged animal, chewing on a fingernail until it threatened to break. "What do you mean?"
It had been nearly a month since August had roused from his vegetative state, a phantom returned from the brink. The sanatorium staff had confirmed his amnesia, a convenient blank slate. She'd just spent an hour manipulating that slate. And now this.
"I can't tell when he's going to wake up," the voice on the other end, Dr. Albright, stated clinically.
Lily stumbled, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't... don't joke, Albright. I spoke to him. He was lucid. He was... on his feet." She felt a wave of nausea. She'd risked everything, confronted him, spun a desperate lie.
She heard Albright clear his throat, an uncomfortable sound over the wire.
That night, after Lily had blurted her audacious "pact" lie, August had swayed, his eyes rolling back, before collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. Lily had immediately called the sanatorium, arranging his transport back, her every nerve raw with anxiety. She’d spent sleepless nights since, picturing him waking, remembering, coming for her. The terror of her own lie, "a murderer's pact," had clawed at her. Why that, of all things?
"No, Lily. It's... it's more complex than that." Albright's voice was cautious.
"Complex how?" she demanded, her voice rising to an urgent whisper.
"Brain scans show full consciousness has returned. A medical marvel, honestly, given his previous state. And the cognitive tests... they're surprisingly robust. But there's a complication."
Lily held her breath, bracing for the next blow.
"I can't tell you when he's going to wake up."
"But you just said he's conscious!" A hot wave of frustration washed over her. She pressed a hand to her neck, where August's fingers had been.
"He's exhibiting rare symptoms, Lily. Extremely rare."
"Rare what?"
"Hypersomnia," Albright finally supplied, the word a foreign taste in Lily's mouth.
She touched her lips, confused. "Sleeping Beauty Syndrome, some call it. We've run every test imaginable. There's no detectable brain damage, no physiological cause we can pinpoint. It's a diagnosis of exclusion, a theory."
Lily stared blankly at the peeling paint of the wall. She was getting used to the absurd, the inexplicable, in this city that thrived on both.
"We'll continue to monitor, but if it proves to be this syndrome..." Albright paused, his uncertainty palpable.
"Then?"
"Once he falls asleep, he could remain in that state for days. A week. Ten days. Even longer." Albright's voice softened, as if delivering a death sentence. "Currently, Lily, he's been asleep for twelve days."
A strange, dizzying relief began to bloom in Lily's chest. She struggled to process it, to react appropriately.
"For now, we'll keep him here. But I wanted to update you."
As Albright moved to end the call, Lily found her voice, a sudden, desperate cry. "Doctor, wait!"
She took a shaky breath, lifting her straw hat, letting the cool air brush her damp forehead. "So, to be clear... August Vance is awake, mentally. But no one knows when he'll actually open his eyes again, correct?"
"Precisely. We can't predict it."
"Huff." A choked, near-sobbing sound escaped her. The coiled anxiety that had tightened her chest for weeks unravelled all at once. Her eyelids, squeezed shut, trembled. "Thank you. Thank you so much, doctor."
"Pardon me?" Albright sounded bewildered.
A breathless, choked laugh bubbled from Lily's throat. She sagged against the wall, utterly spent, yet incandescently relieved. The lie. The pact. She could now explain it away, tell him it was a fever dream, a hallucination born of his illness. Or simply deny it outright when he finally woke, perhaps weeks from now, his memory still fractured. Her desperate gamble had bought her more than time. It had bought her freedom.
"Just... thank you, doctor. Thank you for everything."
Returning to Kai's bedside, Lily found his mother still weeping quietly. Lily's face, though tired, held a newfound, fierce optimism. She picked up a scalpel, its blade gleaming. "We'll revive these hands," she declared, her voice firm, resolute. "He'll sculpt again. I promise you."
The Iron Lily's lie had just bought her a reprieve.