The Impossible

My fingers remained pressed against the scar, feeling the raised tissue beneath my touch. Four years. He said four years. The timeline matched everything I had been trying not to calculate since last night.

I withdrew my hand slowly, reaching for professionalism like a lifeline.

“Where did this happen?” I asked, keeping my voice clinical. “The stabbing.”

Ronan's expression did not change and his voice was flat.

“I spent several years in places where people weren't particularly fond of me.”

My shoulder stiffened. The answer was smooth and deliberately vague as though he had given me something useful.

“That's not what I asked.”

The corner of Ronan’s mouth twitched.

“Somewhere east.”

I kept my expression neutral. My hands were steady this time.

East. The Eastern Borderlands. Where I had driven my knife into Varek's chest. The exact place I had watched him fall. I had left him because there had been nothing left to save.

Breathe, Ivy. Breathe, Elara said, restless at the edge of my consciousness.

I drew a slow breath and pulled my attention back to the examination.

“The silver wound,” I said as I gestured to the scar—the one that made my stomach turn for entirely different reasons. “May I?”

Ronan inclined his head.

I leaned closer, examining the mark. It was precise, almost surgical.

From the angle and placement of the scar, whoever had used the silver seemed to understand werewolf anatomy intimately. It was deep enough to suppress healing and keep him weak, but positioned to avoid the major structures that would have killed him quickly.

I had seen wounds like this before. Textbooks and Hunter Guild case studies documents some of the worst forms of supernatural torture.

“This wasn't an accident,” I said quietly. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing.”

Ronan said nothing.

I looked up at him. “Who did this to you?”

Ronan's expression changed. His eyes hardened, and for the first time since he entered the room, his composure slipped.

“I don't know.”

The words were flat and final.

I didn't push. I finished the examination in silence, documented my findings, and prescribed a treatment plan for the residual silver complications. When I was done, Ronan buttoned up his shirt and left without ceremony.

The moment the door clicked shut, my knees weakened. Heat crawled up my neck, and my eyes burned as tears threatened to spill.

I stood there alone in the examination room for a long time.

Varek is dead.

He has to be.

Ronan can't be him.

Would a man really come face-to-face with the woman who killed him and calmly shake her hand? Kiss it? Let her put her hands on him without so much as flinching?

That evening, I searched the Hunter Guild records again.

The public file on Varek was easy enough to find. I had read it more than once after the incident, back when I still woke from nightmares wondering whether I'd somehow imagined what happened.

I had memorized every detail as though repetition might make it hurt less. Wanted notices from his years operating in the borderlands. Charges ranging from unauthorized crossings to suspected involvement in pack disputes. The Eastern Border incident, documented in clinical language that reduced blood and screaming to bureaucratic bullet points.

And then, at the end:

Confirmed deceased. Date: July 4, 2022

Location: Eastern Borderlands.

I scrolled past it, searching for more. For anything.

But the detailed files surrounding what happened after the border clash are inaccessible. All I found were redacted passages and sealed records that require clearance levels I didn't have. I tried searching through every medical-access portal and professional archive my credentials allowed, but each path ended at the same wall.

ACCESS DENIED.

I closed the laptop, drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, seated in the darkness of my room, staring at nothing.

Ronan Draven had a blade scar on his chest that matched the wound I gave Varek.

Ronan had spent years in the east. He also had a silver wound inflicted by someone who knew exactly how to hurt him.

And the records that might explain any of this are locked away where I couldn't reach them.

I thought about his eyes. The way he looked at me last night, amused and distant. The way he had said somewhere east as though daring me to ask more.

I thought about Varek, the blood on my hands, and the pulse I couldn't find after I'd driven the knife into him.

Was I wrong? Did Varek survive?

Or is the same man walking around Thornwood right now, calling himself Ronan Draven, watching me with eyes that know too much and reveal nothing.

I pressed my face to my thighs and tried to breathe. Inhale, exhale.

I will see him again tomorrow.

The delegation was scheduled to remain for another week, and Dr. Kane has already mentioned follow-up consultations. I have to stand in the same room with him. I would shake his hand and pretend I don't feel the ghost of Varek beneath his skin.

My phone vibrated beside me.

I reached for it.

THORNWOOD MEDICAL CENTRE

FOLLOW-UP CONSULTATION: 9:00 A.M.

PATIENT: RONAN DRAVEN

I stared at his name.

Tomorrow suddenly felt much too close.