Page 26 of Piston

Abruptly, he stops in front of a nondescript door, turning to face me. His obsidian eyes bore into mine, glinting with an emotion I can't quite place.

"Listen, Jenny." His gravelly voice is low, urgent. "Before we go in, you need to brace yourself. Piston... he's in bad shape. Real bad."

My heart seizes, fear clawing at my throat. "How bad?" I manage to choke out.

Mason's jaw clenches. "He's alive. That's what matters. But he took one hell of a beating. Broken bones, head trauma..." He trails off, shaking his head. "It ain't pretty."

I swallow hard, steeling myself. "I need to see him, Mason."

He searches my face for a long moment, as if gauging my resolve. Finally, he nods. "Alright. Just... prepare yourself, yeah? It's gonna be a shock."

With that, he turns back to the door, his hand on the knob. I take a deep, shuddering breath, my heart pounding against my ribs. This is it. The moment of truth.

As Mason pushes the door open, I send up a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening. Please, let him be okay. Let me be strong enough to handle this.

Then I step into the room, my eyes immediately seeking out the figure on the bed. The sight that greets me knocks the air from my lungs, my knees nearly buckling beneath me.

Oh god, Piston...

The soft glow of the bedside lamp can't hide the brutal reality before me. Piston lies motionless, his body a patchwork of bandages and mottled bruises. One eye is swollen shut, his lip split and crusted with dried blood. His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, each one seeming to cost him.

I'm frozen, my mind struggling to reconcile this broken man with the strong, vital Piston I know. A choked sob escapes me, tears blurring my vision. This can't be happening. It can't be real.

But it is. The proof is right there, in the stark white of the bandages, the angry red of his wounds. In the stillness of his form, so at odds with his usual coiled energy.

Mason's hand on my shoulder startles me, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. "Take your time," he murmurs. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

I nod, not trusting my voice. I'm dimly aware of him leaving, the door clicking softly shut behind him. But my focus is solely on Piston, on the man I've come to care for more than I ever thought possible.

I move to his side on shaky legs, sinking into the chair beside his bed. Up close, the damage is even more horrific, each wound a silent testament to the hell he's endured. Tears slip down my cheeks unchecked as I reach out, my hand hovering over his.

I'm afraid to touch him, afraid of causing him more pain. But I need to feel him, to reassure myself that he's still here, still fighting.

Gently, so gently, I take his hand in mine. His skin is warm, his calluses familiar against my palm. I stroke my thumb over his knuckles, mindful of the scrapes and bruises.

"I'm here, Piston," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere. We're gonna get you through this, you hear me? You're going to be okay."

I don't know if he can hear me, if he's even aware of my presence. But I keep talking, murmuring words of comfort and encouragement. I tell him how strong he is, how brave. How much he means to me, to all of us.

And as I sit there, clinging to his hand like a lifeline, I make a silent vow. I will do whatever it takes to help him heal, to bringhim back from this. I will be his strength, his rock, his reason to keep fighting.

Because he's not just a brother, not just a friend. He's so much more. And I'll be damned if I let him slip away.

So I settle in, preparing for the long haul. For the sleepless nights and the painful days ahead. For the tears and the frustration and the small victories.

I'm in this for the long run. For Piston. For us.

With a deep breath, I reluctantly release Piston's hand and stand up, my legs stiff from sitting for so long. I lean down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages.

"I'll be back soon," I promise him, my voice barely above a whisper. "You rest now, okay? I've got some things to take care of."

I force myself to turn away, to walk out of the room and leave him behind. It feels wrong, like I'm abandoning him. But I know I can't stay here forever. There's work to be done.

As I step out into the hallway, I nearly collide with Mason. He's leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.

"How is he?" he asks, his voice gruff.

I shake my head, feeling the tears threatening to spill over again. "Not good. He's... he's really hurt, Mason. Why the hell is he here and not in a hospital?"

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