She was statuesque.
 "What are you trying to say?"
 She lowered her voice.
 "We fix and continue what we started."
 "Austin, I already finished it. It's over now. We can't go back from the past."
 "I have to go now."
 She started to open the door, but we stopped by the tight grip of his hands.
 "You're not going anywhere, Shakkira. Can't be now."
 She eyed the masculine hand gripping her wrist.
 "Let me go," she demanded.
 "I already did. But, this time— never again."
 "Crap with your vagueness Austin," she dropped her voice hard.
 "It was crystal," he hardened his voice, tightened the grip, and met the fullness of her eyes.
 Then, he pulled her closer to him, and harshly rubbed his face, slipping towards her ears.
 "She's in danger. We've got to help her, Shakkira," he whispered in her ears. 
 She is stunned, seeing the black car beside the car they're riding.
 "We need a person like you, Shakkira. We need your skill. Please, give us one more chance. And, we'll let you soar in places you would desire to go."
A tear fell from his left eye as his voice faded. It spilled on the corner of her face 
.
"They're gone," she whispered back.
 "We have to go now."
 He rushed his hands unbuckling the seatbelt. She also did the same.
 "Help me out here," she yelled, pushing the door.
 A slam was released when they finally got out of the car. They ran across the exit door from the basement. The putrid smell of the chemicals welcomed their noses when the door pulled open.
 He gripped her wrist. She spoke none, so he did. Thick panting communicated along with the suffocation of their thumping chest.
 "Aww!"
 Fresh red blood dripped on her palms.
 "You should have been careful," he grunted inside and took her right hand.
 Red stains continued spreading on the palms. It was sticky.
 "Yo, doctor gonna treat me?" she lazed out.
 "It's just a scratch. We go on."
 She grabbed her hand back. The bleeding continued; some stains were left on his hands.
 "I have to cure it."
 "No, you don't need to. We continue."
 "It's part of my oath."
 "Forget your profession as a doctor."
 "Well, I should not— all the time."
 "I ain't your responsibility," her voice heightened.
 "As a doctor, I must treat all wounds and assist first aid treatment."
 "Could you cure a broken heart?" His mouth arched in return.
 "As a woman who learned to grow up alone, I'm used to not being anyone's responsibility," she continued, ignoring the bleeding on her palms.
 "I ain't a cardiologist. And yes, I couldn't cure a broken heart."
 Her eyes widened by his answer. No surprise, she thought he'd be speechless.
 "Forget being smart and highly educated for a while."
 "Forget being stubborn for a while," he directly stated and turned around.
 "Tsk."
 He followed him; her left hand was holding her right hand, holding back the bleeding. 
 Iris droplets sprinkled on the floor, with every pacing she made. She bit her lower lip, withdrawing back the pain she badly wanted to grunt.
 The smell of dust and mixtures of chemicals from the medicine intertwined in her lungs. She heaved beneath her lungs. She looked back. There was a drop of blood on a piece of glass beside the door. 
 It was looking at her, like a victim pointing out the criminal with its death stare, telling her she was guilty of the crime. She soaked back her breathing. She flees her eyes on the floor.
 "Oh gosh."
 She covered her mouth with her hands. The rustic smell of blood rushed inside her nostrils. 
 Red stains were following in their direction. Yet, before she could react, he grabbed him inside.
 "Shh…"
 He pointed his finger toward her. She meets his eyes. It twinkled in the middle of the darkroom like the stars drizzled in the night sky. They were close— a few inches apart— they could both listen to each other's sniffs.
 "I have to cure your wound," he whispered in the middle of the dark.
 "But, how?" She swallowed back her spleen.
 "They can trace us by the stains," he said, biting back his words.
 "They'll run blood tests. They'll track us."
 "Use your power then."
 "The control isn't all in my hands."
 "It's my blood," she insisted.
 "They won't trace me. It'll dry there. It'll leave no smell."
 "We've got a problem more than that."
 He got up and turned towards somewhere. It seemed like he could visualize the dim broad atmosphere. He vanished along with the darkness. She looked in his direction empty.
 "They'll recognize you." 
 He went back with a first aid kit on hand.
 "They won't," she assured.
He opened the bottle of alcohol. 
 "They've got your blood specimen." 
He poured it all over her hands.
"How?" Her eyes widened.
"You have to be careful next time."
 He covered her wounds.
 "Stay here. I'll be back."
 He stood up again, but she gripped his jeans.
 "How did they get my blood sample?"
 He didn't respond. He eyed the hand covered with tissues gripping the edge of his jeans.
 "Stay right here."
 "Answer me first."
 "Never mind what I told you."
 His legs successfully resisted her grip.
 She heaved a sigh and stood up.
 "Why are we here?"
 "Checking something."
 "Flashlight."
 "What?"
 "Do you have any flashlights?"
 "Nope."
 "So how are we gonna check when we can't see anything?" 
 She rolled her eyes in the darkness.
 "Just wait."
"No worries Aus, I'll wait for you even if it takes ages. I have left no choice," she cursed inside due to hesitation.
She studied the whole area, although she couldn't see any hint of shadow. 
She crossed her arms. He wasn't saying anything.
After some minutes, she heard sounds flickering. She looked in its direction and saw him. Light dominated the room.
 "Cool," she commented.
She was surprised when its broad space was familiar. Books are neatly filed on the bookshelf.
They were arranged in alpha order. "Bottomless Pit by UnoBelo" she smiled when she saw her favorite book.
 It was a meter away for a grab, sit, and chill. She studied the room. There was a gray sofa in the corner facing a small table in front of the TV screen. 
There were also divisions wherein she couldn't check what was behind these. She moved her eyes to the table. 
She couldn't be forced to stop her smile anymore when she saw the familiar thick pages on the table, on lay a mechanical pencil.
"Still doing it?" She spoke on the air.
"It's my best friend," he answered, sprinting his hands on the drawer.
"I lost it, tsk." 
He banged the drawer back.
"What is it?"
"Never mind."
She threaded her shoes towards the table. She ran her fingers on its shiny tone. 
Then, her hands snatched the sketchbook on the table.
"Old habits die hard." She plucked every page of it.
"Not exactly. It's my best friend. I have none, you know. I am left with passion."