A soft sigh escaped Ryker's lips and mingled with the steady patter of water droplets falling from his skin onto the shower tiles.

The steam danced around him, enveloping him in a gentle embrace. His shoulders trembled despite the warmth that had long since driven the cold from his bones and muscles. His fingertips spasmed and twitched at irregular intervals.

"Fucking hell," came the curse low and rough from his lips.

Ray lowered his gaze, looked at his trembling palms, and watched for a few heartbeats as they filled with the pattering drops, overflowing, and the water continued. He felt the warm rivulets between his fingers and heard the monotonous, soothing splashing.

He had just calmed down.

The adrenaline that had energized his body had subsided.

Nothing had happened to Liam. The pills had finally started to work, and then ...

Cursing again, he tussled his hair, wholly soaked again from the long shower, and hung in thick, dark strands in his face.

Just at that moment, that damn doctor turned up!

He wouldn't have cared if he'd looked at the boy. After all, Liam had almost drowned and was undoubtedly hypothermic. This condition was more dangerous for a child than for an adult. After all, Ray only wanted Liam to be well.

But no, then Dr Taylor wanted to examine him, too.

At this point, at the latest, he saw red. Neither Dr Taylor's words nor Eve's well-meaning attempts at reassurance could change that. He was old enough to know for himself when he needed a doctor's help and when he didn't. After all, he had only been in the water for a few minutes. After all, he had only been in the water for a few minutes and...

He was fine.

He was always fine.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Even though a part of him knew he was lying to himself.

Fingers still buried in his hair, he closed his eyes. With a soft groan, he let his forehead sink against the cool, steamy tiles. He forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His senses seemed taut as a bowstring and, at the same time, cloudy as if through a veil. The jets of water hit his shoulders and back like small hailstones. Slowly, the tight grip on his hair loosened until he finally lowered his hands.

To be precise, he had been avoiding doctor visits for several years since his discharge from active service with the Seals. He dreaded the memory of white walls, sterile rooms, and the acrid smell of disinfectant. He kept seeing the silver surgical instruments smeared with red blood in his mind's eye and hearing the equipment beep. It took him a lot of strength and effort to get the prescription for his tablets.

"I'm fine," he mumbled as if trying to convince himself.

They had often tried to keep him in the practice for longer on days like this. Expired vaccinations, checking his vitals, adjusting his medication - Dr Murphy always found a new reason.

But Ray always managed to evade his doctor's grasp. Appointments, visits of some kind. Any excuse to disappear as quickly as possible.

He instinctively twisted his arm when these thoughts arose, so much so that he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Then he felt his back and winced as his fingertips touched the ink-darkened skin.

The area felt flat and smooth, but the sensation disappeared as he moved his fingertips further. In its place were inconspicuous bumps that covered his skin. Hidden by the tattoo, barely visible to the eye, but his sense of touch was not fooled. The scar tissue wrote the story of his past directly on his body. No matter how much he suppressed it or told himself he was fine.

Forever scarred by the consequences of his last deployment far from home. He felt the rough hands of his comrades and the military doctor trying to squeeze the many bleeding wounds so that he didn't lose any more blood and his life in the dirt. He could think nothing. There was only pain. Indescribable, horrible pain that shook his body.

But it only got worse. Sloppiness, which was due to both the distance to the nearest base and insufficient medical knowledge. The doctors in the hole that called itself a hospital and he was still suffering the consequences today: The splinters in his body pressed on his nerves and repeatedly triggered seizures. Too close to the spinal cord, they told him. Too risky to remove it. It was safer as long as they didn't move.

Excuses for him ... Nothing but excuses!

These bunglers had botched the operation. The metal from the shrapnel was a risk in many ways, not just because of the seizures that had almost cost him his life and, most recently, his job with the Seals. The shrapnel could poison him permanently if he didn't risk a life-threatening operation one day.

So, after everything that had happened, should he again put his life in the hands of the white coats? Even though the memories still haunted his dreams today? And that they kept him awake whenever he had an appointment? No, he couldn't do it even though he knew there was a big difference between a hospital in America and one in the Middle East.

The scars, both physical and mental, would never completely disappear. Like the marks on his body, the memories had burned themselves deep into his mind and paralyzed all reason like poison.

His fingers ran over one of the bumps. Hissing, he opened his eyes and withdrew his hand as if he had banished himself. At the same time, his head detached itself from the tiles.

"Enough," he growled to himself, turned off the tap with a jerky movement, and stepped out of the shower. "This isn't your life anymore; it hasn't been for a long time. You're not there anymore."

He reached for one of the towels and paused briefly. Just a breath away from the soft fabric. Suddenly, the sight of Liam in the armchair and Eve's worried look flashed through his mind.

That was no longer his life; it was true. But was this life, the endless acting, and the constant lying, really what he had been looking for?

Ray shook his head, grabbed the towel, and rubbed his hair wildly. A creaking floorboard gave him pause. Hurried footsteps could be heard outside the bathroom, which seemed to be moving even faster. A slight smile crept around the corners of his mouth as if of its own accord. He reacted like a flower to the warming sunshine that Liam spread as a matter of course.

The boy was impossible to miss. His steps were light as a feather, not as heavy as his, Eve's, or Riona's. Shortly afterward, Chief's claws clicked across the floorboards, and he heard the boy giggling softly again.

Shortly afterward, Ryker flitted through the corridor like a ghost and closed the door to his room with a click. Short, tan shorts and an old, grey-mottled tank top covered his skin as he walked through his room, and his smile wouldn't go away.

Liam was resilient. He shook his head, barely noticing. Sometimes, he wished he was a child again. The light-heartedness you had at that age was a blessing. You had no worries, no problems. You didn't think about the next day; you just lived freely and carefree. Even when dark thoughts arose, they didn't weigh you down for long. What adults could hold firmly in their grip was carried away by the wind like a leaf in a child's heart. The fear and shock of the accident seemed to have been forgotten by the boy, although barely an hour ago, he had been clinging to his mother, sobbing and choking.

A throaty cough shook his body as if on cue and made his face contort, as this fit lasted longer than the previous ones. Again, he tasted the water on his tongue, felt the goose bumps spreading up his arms, and finally shaking him as he gasped for air.

"Shit..." he croaked. How long would this water spitting last?

A few hours? Days? What was normal? Annoyed, he tried to remember, but to no avail.

He leaned against the wall momentarily, supporting himself and inevitably drawing his attention to the chaos in his small room. Soaked clothes lay scattered on the floor. Small puddles and dark stains had already formed under the fabric. Then he remembered Riona's joking threat that he shouldn't damage the floor with his clothes.

Groaning, he pushed himself away from the wall and grumbled incoherently into his beard. His muscles didn't thank him as he bent down to pick up his trousers and pants from the damp parquet floor. The fabric had barely been lifted from the floor when there was a loud, muffled thud.

Ryker's eyes widened, and then a jolt went through his body.

"Shit!" he cursed loudly as the black crate lay motionless on the dark wood like a fallen soldier. Carelessly, Ryker threw his things aside and bent down to pick up the object.

"Oh no," he gasped in near panic. "No, no, no! This can't be happening! Please, please work!" His voice sounded almost pleading as he frantically pressed the button on the side and stared at his mobile phone's deep black display repeatedly.

In the rush and worry about Liam, he had wholly forgotten his smartphone when he jumped into the lake. It had accompanied the whole swimming trip into the ice-cold water. And unlike the modern devices the teenagers had, his was a damn fossil, which meant nothing other than: not waterproof.

Cursing, he lowered the mobile phone. The display remained black.

"Anything but that," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could no longer deny the inevitable: it was probably ruined. Exhausted and resigned, Ray slumped down on the bed.

The mobile phone might be a little use to him here, but he still needed it. Contacts, appointments, addresses. He had everything saved on it.

Damn.

This was clearly not his day.