---- Chapter 13 Khloe Rojas POV: The dust and the stench of blood were a constant presence in Al-Tharbia. The sounds of distant explosions were the country ' s heartbeat. This was my new reality, a world away from the gleaming skyscrapers and sterile art galleries of my old life. Here, life and death were raw, immediate, and stripped of all pretense. And | had never felt more alive | wasn't an architect anymore. | was a doctor, or something close to it. ' d used my new identity to enroll in an accelerated medical program, rediscovering a passion |' d abandoned years ago for architecture. Now, | worked for a humanitarian aid organization, a nameless, faceless doctor in a place the test of the world tried to forget. Our field hospital was perpetually overflowing. We were short on supplies, short on staff, and short on time. | learned to set bones, stitch wounds, and triage patients with a grim efficiency | never knew | possessed. One afternoon, they brought in a little girl, no older than seven. Her leg had been mangled by shrapnel. She was terrified, her dark eyes wide with pain, but she didn't cry. The children here learned to be quiet. Crying attracted the wrong kind of attention. ---- | knelt beside her, giving her my most reassuring smile. | cleaned the wound as gently as | could, my movements practiced and sure. She winced, but her gaze never left my face. | gave her a small piece of chocolate | had been saving. Her eyes lit up, a small, brief flash of childhood in the midst of hell. "Dr. Aris," a voice said behind me. "Let me take over." | looked up. It was Dr. Gordon Murray, the lead surgeon in our camp. He was a kind, steady man with warm eyes and a quiet strength that everyone here leaned on. He was also, improbably, someone | knew from my past. We had been in the same pre-med program in college before | switched my major to architecture. | nodded, surrendering the little girl to his more capable hands, and moved on to the next patient. Later that night, long after my shift had ended, | sat in my small, spartan room, staring at the wall. Sleep was a luxury | rarely found. The faces of the people | couldn't save were always waiting for me in the dark. Here, in this crucible of suffering, the wounds Julian had inflicted on me seemed to shrink. My broken heart, my stolen voice, my shattered life... it was all so small compared to the daily struggle for survival | witnessed here. | had found a new purpose, a reason to get up in the morning that had nothing to do with love or revenge. It was about saving one more person, easing one more bit of pain. It was about making a difference, ---- however small. My mentor, Dr. Evans, often found me working late into the night, organizing medical supplies or studying surgical texts. "You need to rest, Aris," he'd say, using my new name. | would just shake my head and use the simple sign language I'd learned to communicate while my voice was healing. There's too much to do. He would sigh, a sad smile on his face. "The world will still be broken in the morning. Save some of that fire for tomorrow." There was a soft knock on my door. | opened it to find Gordon standing there, holding a small, covered bowl. "| noticed you missed dinner again," he said, his smile gentle. "Thought you might be hungry." He was always doing things like that. Leaving a bottle of clean water by my cot, saving me a piece of fruit from the rare fresh supply shipments. He remembered me from college, even after all these years. He had expressed his surprise at seeing me here, but he never pried, never asked about the scars on my neck or why | no longer spoke. He simply accepted me as | was. He started teaching me more advanced sign language, and | found myself looking forward to our quiet "conversations" at the end of the day. ---- | politely signed my refusal of the food, but he just shook his head. "Doctor's orders," he said, his eyes twinkling. He gestured to my neck, where a faint scar from the surgery was still visible. "And as your doctor, I'm ordering you to eat." He paused, his expression turning more serious. "And to let me check that scar tomorrow. It looks irritated." For the first time in a very long time, | felt a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with fever or anger. It was a gentle, unfamiliar feeling. Trust. | stepped aside and let him in.