Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 21 – Blood and Balance

The hum of the generator pulsed steady in the infirmary, a rhythm that kept time with the pain in my ribs.

Alex worked in silence. The gauze peeled from the antiseptic bottle with that soft hiss that always came before the sting.

“Hold still,” she said.

I tried. Her hands were gentle but firm, every motion practiced. The light overhead cast sharp halos on the white tile, making the bruises on my arms look like old maps drawn in purple and yellow.

“Neal’s watching the others,” she said after a minute. “Stacks hasn’t moved from the bay. Burns looks sick. Hawk’s just… quiet.”

“Good,” I said. “They need quiet.”

“Quiet isn’t peace,” she replied. “It’s a pause.”

She dabbed the cut on my lip, and the alcohol burned. “You went too far.”

“I went far enough.”

Her eyes lifted to mine—steady, dark, unblinking. “You broke a man’s arm.”

“He left me no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she said, but softer this time, like she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.

I winced as she wrapped the bandage around my ribs. “You think I liked it?”

“I think you’re starting to.”

That stopped me cold. I didn’t answer. She tied the last knot, clipped the gauze, and stepped back.

“I’m trying to keep order,” I said finally.

She sighed. “You’re starting to confuse order with control.”

Before I could answer, Neal’s voice came through the radio: “South bay secure. No movement. Rourke’s stable, awake but quiet.”

Alex crossed her arms. “Then go talk to him. End this before it festers.”

I nodded, stood, and buttoned my shirt slowly over the bandages. “If I’m not back in ten, wait fifteen before you worry.”

She didn’t smile. “Just come back, Pa.”

The storage room smelled of dust and iodine. Rourke sat on a cot, his right arm bound tight in a sling. Sweat had dried along his hairline. His face looked older now—less soldier, more man.

When I stepped inside, his eyes flicked up, then back to the wall.

“You here to finish what you started?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m here to make sure you can still use that arm when it heals.”

He snorted. “You should’ve thought about that before you snapped it.”

I took the chair across from him. “You tried to take command. You forced my hand.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But at least I acted.”

“You acted reckless,” I said. “I don’t fault you for wanting to lead. I fault you for endangering the people who still believe we can survive this.”

He looked up then, jaw tight. His eyes flinched just once before he masked it—shame in motion. “And what about you? You think breaking me in front of everyone made them safer?”

“It made them remember what happens when chaos takes charge.”

He sat in silence, eyes dull with exhaustion. The sling creaked when he shifted.

“You humiliated me,” he said finally.

“I didn’t want to,” I said. “But I wasn’t going to let you burn the place down.”

He studied me for a long time. “You know what the worst part is?”

I waited.

“I can’t even hate you for it.” His voice broke slightly, a tremor buried under the words.

That landed heavier than I expected.

“I just hate that you were right.”

I leaned forward. “Then make it mean something. Don’t let it rot. You’re still a good soldier. Start acting like one again.”

He didn’t answer. His gaze went distant, somewhere past me. Finally, he nodded once—small, mechanical, but it was there.

“Get out of here,” he muttered. “Before I change my mind.”

I stood. “Heal fast, Rourke. We’ll need you.”

As I reached the door, he spoke again. “You’re bleeding through your bandage.”

I looked down. He was right.

“Occupational hazard,” I said.

Outside, the air had gone still again. Neal was by the gate, eyes on the monitors. “How’d it go?”

“He’s angry,” I said. “But thinking. That’s progress.”

She nodded once. “Good. Let him stew. Fear fades faster than shame.”

I stepped beside her and looked out at the horizon. The mist that had hung low all day had turned to thin sheets of light—soft, almost beautiful.

Neal frowned. “Static’s building again.”

I felt it too—a faint vibration through the metal rail, like a whisper underfoot.

“Another pulse?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe something learning to imitate one.”

We didn’t move. We just stood there, waiting.

The hum was faint, but it was growing—steady, patient, and inevitable.

Balance never lasts long. It hums before it breaks.