#confirmitygate

He is certain they will be caught.

There is no version of this where Brenner doesn’t already know. No blind spots in a place like this. Henry can almost feel it—the pause before the strike, the patience of someone who enjoys waiting for the exact right moment to ruin everything.

Any second now.

And yet—

She reaches for him.

Her fingers brush his wrist, tentative but real, and Henry’s breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound. He stares at the point of contact like it’s a wound, like it’s a miracle.

He can’t believe she’s here. He can’t believe she risked her life just to find him.

The thought is too big, too bright. It hurts.

How? How did she know where to look? How did she learn the rules, the uniforms, the numbers, the way everyone here learns to disappear? For a scary, awful moment, he wonders if this is all in his head—if the white finally hollowed him out enough to start imagining her.

He almost asks her to say his name.

But fear clamps down hard and fast.

If they don’t move quickly, if they don’t think, they’re both going to pay for this.

He pulls his hand away.

She looks at him, confused, hurt flashing across her face, and it twists something deep in his chest. He shakes his head, small, urgent.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. His eyes dart to the door, to the corners of the room, to places he knows are watched even when they look empty. “You have to go.”

She steps closer instead.

Henry feels panic bloom, sharp and blinding.

Maybe she thinks she’s saving him. Maybe she thinks love is enough to break a place like this. She doesn’t understand—how could she?—that if they’re caught together, there will be no mercy. Not for him. Not for her. Not for them.

“Please,” he says, voice cracking now, fear no longer hidden. He doesn’t care if she sees it. “You don’t know what they’ll do.”

Nobody has ever been this good to him. And that terrifies him more than anything.

The room is empty. Too empty. No alarms. No footsteps. Just the low hum of electricity and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

There is only one way out. And it's so risky it hurts. One misstep and everything would be ruined. Even more ruined than it already is.

His powers coil uneasily beneath his skin, restless, reactive—like they recognize her presence even if his mind refuses to trust it. He could fight the guards. He could break doors, walls, everything in their way.

But he’s scared.

Scared of losing control. Scared of becoming the thing everyone already believes he is.

The images of the disaster he had caused months ago at the Creel's house starts to appear in his mind like flashes. They hurt. They hurt a lot. And she doesn't understand that they could hurt her too, once she witnesses what he's capable of.

She notices how scared and vulnerable he is. She doesn’t know what he can do. Not really. She’s seen flashes too, hints—but not the full weight of it. Not the destruction. Not the aftermath.

What if he terrifies her?

What if she looks at him the way everyone else eventually does—with fear, with regret, with distance?

What if saving her and letting her out, far away from that white, horrible place that he hates so much, means losing her anyway?

Henry backs away another step, torn between instinct and longing, between the urge to protect her by letting her go and the unbearable need to hold onto her.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t let you see that part of me.”

The white walls listen.

And somewhere beyond them, Brenner waits.

She shakes her head before he can say anything else.

“No,” she whispers. “Please—just listen.”

Her voice is unsteady, but determined, like she’s holding herself together with the same care she used to hold him. She glances once at the door, then back at him, as if deciding he’s worth the risk.

“I’ve been having dreams,” she says. “Since the night you disappeared. Since I left.” She swallows. “Or since you did. I don’t know which it was anymore.”

Henry stills.

“They weren’t normal dreams,” she continues quickly, afraid he’ll stop her. “They were too clear. Too detailed. I could see everything—the rooms, the lights, the way they look at you here. I could feel how tired you were. How scared.”

Her hands tremble as she presses them together.

“It was like… I was inside your head. Seeing the world through your eyes.” Her gaze lifts to his, searching. “I know it sounds crazy.”

Henry’s breath catches painfully.

“I kept waking up knowing things I shouldn’t,” she says. “The rules. The numbers. The way you’re not supposed to look at the guards for too long. I tried to tell myself it was grief. Guilt. But it never stopped.”

She steps closer, careful, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t.

“So I thought—maybe it was you. Maybe you were calling for me.” Her voice breaks slightly. “And I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t leave you alone with that doubt.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself.

“I never left because I hated you,” she says softly. “That night at your house—I was breaking too. And I was scared if I stayed, something terrible would happen. But not because of you.”

Her eyes shine now, unshed tears clinging to the edges.

“I should’ve explained. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

Henry feels something shift inside him—slow, painful, real.

“I missed you,” she admits, almost like a confession. “More than anything. Every day felt wrong without you in it. And when the dreams kept coming, I realized… I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

She looks at him, open and vulnerable in a way that makes his chest ache.

“So yes,” she finishes quietly. “Maybe this is insane. Maybe it’s dangerous. But I had to know. I had to see you.”

Silence settles between them—heavy, but not empty.

For the first time since the lab took him, Henry doesn’t feel like he imagined her.

He feels seen.

Henry doesn’t answer right away.

He looks at her like she might dissolve if he breathes wrong.

“You really saw it?” he asks finally, voice rough. “All of it?”

She nods. “I felt it.”

Something inside him twists—sharp, familiar, terrifying.

“That’s not normal,” he says quietly. “People don’t just… dream like that.”

He lowers his gaze to his hands, fingers curling slightly as if they’re dangerous things.

“I didn’t mean to,” he admits. “I didn’t even know I was doing it at first.” A hollow laugh slips out of him. “They tell me it’s just stress. That it’s nothing. But I knew it wasn’t.”

He looks back up at her, eyes darker now. Afraid.

“When I close my eyes,” he says, “I think of you. And then it feels like… I’m reaching. Like I’m falling through something.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “And suddenly I’m not alone anymore.”

Her breath stutters.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” he continues. “Because the dreams felt too real. Because sometimes I’d wake up knowing you were crying. Or that you missed me.” He swallows. “And I was right, apparently.”

He takes a step back.

“I pulled you into it,” he says. “Into my head. Into this. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't even know until now. That's why now I'm even more scared of losing you.”

She shakes her head immediately. “Henry—”

“No,” he insists, panicked now. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how far it goes. I don’t know what else I could do if I lose control.”

His hands tremble. He takes another step back from her, like distance might protect her.

“I can hurt people,” he whispers. “I already have.”

The words feel like poison in his mouth.

“And if you saw what I see—if you felt what I feel—what if one day you see too much?” His voice cracks. “What if I scare you? What if you hate me for it?”

She moves closer anyway.

“Henry,” she says softly.

He flinches at his own name, like he doesn’t deserve it anymore.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he says, desperation seeping through every word. “I don’t want to be the thing that hurts you. If staying away keeps you safe—”

She reaches for him then, slowly. Careful like he might break in a moment.

Her hand closes around his wrist, right over the number written there, thumb brushing against his pulse.

“You didn’t force me,” she says firmly. “You didn’t trap me in your mind.”

He looks at her, eyes glassy.

“You called,” she continues, gentler now. “And I answered. That’s not hurting me.”

She steps closer until there’s barely any space left.

“And you don’t scare me,” she adds. “Not like this. Not when you’re trying so hard not to be a monster.”

His breath shakes.

“I saw your pain,” she whispers. “But I also saw you. The boy who dreams in color. The boy who still thinks about someone else before himself.”

A tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it.

“I don’t hate you,” she says, pressing her forehead to his. “And I never could.”

Henry closes his eyes.

For the first time since the lab, all that white doesn't hurt.

They feel like home.

---

Henry feels it before he hears it.

That pressure behind his eyes, the air thickening—like the world is holding its breath.

Someone is coming.

She feels it too. He knows because her fingers tighten around his sleeve for just a second too long. It’s the first time fear reaches her fully, sharp and real, but she swallows it down. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t run.

Instead, she steps closer.

It’s strange—terrifying and right at the same time. As if this white, suffocating place is wrong, but being here with him isn’t. As if her body decided before her mind that this is where she belongs. With him. Always with him.

Henry turns slightly, searching her face.

“Hey,” he whispers, urgent. “We don’t have much time.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not leaving.”

Footsteps. Clear now. Heavy. Measured.

Her instinct betrays her false, masked courage—she moves behind him, pressing into his back, hiding where she knows she’s safest. Henry stiffens, then softens immediately. He doesn’t push her away. He lets himself be her shield.

“I’ll find you,” she whispers quickly, breath trembling against his shoulder. “If we get out—if we escape—I’ll find you. I promise.”

He turns, cupping her face like it’s something sacred, something fragile and irreplaceable.

“You promise? To stick with me,” he says, a note of uncertainty in his voice . “No matter what.”

She nods, eyes shining. “Always.”

The door creaks open.

White coats. Shadows stretching too long across the floor.

Henry doesn’t think.

He feels her behind him, feels the fear she refuses to show, feels the unbearable thought of losing her again—and something inside him snaps open, wide and violent and desperate.

The lights explode.

Glass shatters. Alarms scream and then choke into silence.

Black.

—

When consciousness drifts back in, it comes slowly.

Henry’s head throbs. The world feels wrong—too quiet, too broken.

He forces his eyes open.

The room is destroyed. Walls cracked like bones. Wires hang lifeless from the ceiling. Darkness everywhere, thick and absolute. There's blood on the floor. Some even dropping down his nose.

It happened again.

He panics, there's no sight of her. Terrible thoughts start drifting in his mind. How could he have done that.... What if something awful happened to her because of him?

Then he sees her.

She’s on the floor, slumped against what used to be a pristine white wall, now fractured and stained with ash. Her body is still. Too still.

“No,” he breathes, panic slicing through him.

He crawls to her, hands shaking as he reaches her face. Her eyes are open, glassy, unfocused—like she’s looking at him from very far away.

“Hey,” he whispers desperately. “Hey, look at me. Please.”

For a moment, she does.

Their eyes meet, and in that fleeting second, he sees it—recognition. Trust. That same softness she’s always given him, even now.

His heart breaks open.

“I’m here,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

Her vision blurs. The edges of the world fade to white again, but this time it’s quiet. Gentle. She lets her eyes close.

Henry catches her before her head slips.

“No—no, stay with me,” he pleads, pressing his forehead to hers. “You promised. You promised.”

The colors drain from the room.

From him.

And all Henry can think, as he holds her against the ruins of everything he’s destroyed, is that for one brief moment— she chose him.