Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen: The Newspapers. Zhedya sat in the hard plastic chair, looking more human than anyone had ever seen him. He wore simple grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, his usually perfect blonde hair a messy, slept-on tumble. Dark circles hung under his eyes, which were fixed on Ian’s still face, tracing every line, every pale eyelash. He’d been there all night, holding Ian’s hand, his thumb moving in slow, steady circles over Ian’s knuckles, a silent prayer. Then, a miracle. Ian’s fingers twitched. Zhedya froze, his own breath catching in his throat, forgotten. He stared, unblinking. Ian’s fingers curled weakly, tightening around Zhedya’s hand. It was the gentlest pressure, but it felt like an earthquake. Ian’s eyes stayed closed, but a faint, tired smirk touched his dry, cracked lips. His voice, when it came, was a dry, raspy whisper that scraped the quiet room. “Why is it,” Ian murmured, each word an effort, “that every single time I wake up
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