MHA: Echoes of the Breach

AN: I don't know about you guys, but mental trauma is genuinely interesting to read about, months if not years of progress can be reset simply because of bad timing.

I am planning on a proper schedule now, so you guys should get an update every Thursday. Other than that, Review please, the two I have on fanfiction I'm fairly sure are bots and neither actually give feedback or anything a review should really be. hope you enjoy

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Shinji woke in a panic.

A breath caught in his throat—too sharp, too sudden. His lungs seized like they had forgotten how to function, and for a terrifying moment, he was drowning in nothing.

The world around him swam, shapes blurring and shifting like oil on water. One moment, he was in the Breach, surrounded by tangled roots and Striker's towering form. The next, he was somewhere sterile, white, suffocating in a way entirely different from the crushing abyss he had just come from.

No. No, this wasn't right.

Something tugged at his skin, thin, snaking restraints pulling at his arms, his chest, his legs. He tried to move—tried to bolt—but his body wouldn't listen. The sensation of being held down only made his breathing worse, his throat locking up as sheer panic shot through his veins like a live wire.

His eyes darted wildly.

Half of the room wasn't even real.

The left side was something too clean, too bright white walls, medical monitors, a dull beeping sound that hammered against his skull. Tubes ran into his arm, something cold and unnatural sinking into his veins. Restraints, thick but padded, bound his wrists to the bed.

But the right side—

The right side was still the Breach. Twisting roots, damp soil, the scent of stagnant water and death filling his lungs. Shadows moved in that space, dark things lurking just beyond the edge of his vision. The jagged skyline of an alien world stretched above him, sickly and warped. The sight made his chest tighten, his body screaming at him to move, move, MOVE.

He thrashed.

A sharp pain exploded in his arm as something tore free.

Wires snapped. A tube ripped from his skin, leaving a hot, stinging line of fire as blood welled from the torn IV site. A shrill alarm blared as the machines beside him protested, their once-steady beeping becoming a frantic wail.

Another yank—more pain.

Something pulled at his chest. Electrodes, sensors—things latched onto his skin like parasites, keeping him tethered to something he didn't understand. He fought them off with shaking hands, tearing at anything that held him down, ignoring the fresh stabs of pain as the sticky patches were peeled away too fast.

The restraint on his wrist held firm, refusing to budge as he yanked against it with everything he had. His heart pounded, his vision a frantic mess of shifting shapes and flickering lights.

This wasn't real.

Or maybe it was.

Maybe he had never left. Maybe this was some new trick, another nightmare, another way for the Breach to keep him trapped.

The panic clawed higher.

He had to get out. Had to run. Had to—

He was still trapped.

Still caught between two places, one foot in the Breach and the other in this too-bright, too-sterile hell. His hands scrambled against the sheets, nails digging in, trying to find purchase. He pulled again at the restraint on his wrist, harder this time, enough to make his skin burn.

It wouldn't give.

Something buzzed in his ears, a ringing noise that grew louder with every second. His body was burning, his mind screaming at him to run, fight, survive.

The room wasn't right. None of it was right.

The bed beneath him was solid, real—but he swore he could still feel the damp ground of the Breach, the uneven texture of twisted roots beneath his fingers. The hospital lights glared down at him, blinding, but the shadowed abyss of the Breach loomed just beyond them, hungry and waiting.

A flicker of movement—

His head snapped toward it.

Nothing was there.

His pulse slammed against his skull.

He had to move. Had to go.

The restraint on his wrist dug into his skin as he yanked again, his arm trembling with the effort. His free hand clawed at the remaining wires, shaking fingers gripping the oxygen tube near his face. He ripped it away with a sharp gasp, the sudden loss making his lungs seize.

A voice—muffled, distant.

More movement.

Something was coming.

No. No, no, he couldn't let it.

With a desperate burst of strength, he twisted, body jerking against the remaining restraints. Pain flared in his arm, something wet and warm sliding down his skin where the IV had torn loose. The machines shrieked beside him, red lights flashing, their alarms stabbing into his skull.

Footsteps.

He wasn't alone.

Figures moved beyond the edge of his vision. Their shapes were unfamiliar—too vague, too warped to make sense. Voices bled into the noise, sharp but unintelligible, like hearing words spoken underwater.

He struggled harder.

A presence loomed over him—close, too close.

Hands.

Reaching for him.

Shinji lost it.

A raw, broken sound tore from his throat as he fought. His body lurched against the restraints, his free arm swinging wildly, striking out at whatever was near. He barely registered if he hit something. He just needed to get away.

The hands grabbed him.

A surge of ice shot through his veins at the contact, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. He bucked, twisting, teeth clenching as he tried to wrench himself free. The voices grew more urgent, but he couldn't understand them, couldn't process anything beyond the sheer wrongness of being held down.

More hands—more pressure—more voices—

Trapped.

Again.

Still.

His vision tunneled, the world shrinking, tilting, closing in.

The Breach, the hospital, the wires, the hands—everything blurred into a suffocating mass of panic and pain and noise.

Something sharp pressed against his arm.

Then—

Cold.

A rush of numbness spread through him, seeping into his limbs, dragging him down like lead. His body resisted, fought against it, but the fight was slipping away, draining from his muscles like sand through open fingers.

His breaths slowed, his struggles weakening.

His head lolled to the side, eyes unfocused, body limp.

The room tilted.

Voices still murmured around him, but they were softer now, distant, like echoes from the other side of a wall. The hands didn't leave, but they weren't gripping anymore—just holding. Keeping him still.

Keeping him here.

The Breach flickered at the edges of his mind, slipping away like mist under sunlight.

His eyelids grew heavy.

The world dimmed.

And then.

Darkness.

The darkness held him in its grip, thick and heavy like a weighted blanket pressing him down. His body felt distant, a foreign thing disconnected from his mind, floating somewhere beyond reach. For a long time, there was nothing, no sound, no movement, just the slow, sluggish pull of oblivion.

Then, bit by bit, the world returned.

Muted noises filtered through first—the steady beep of a monitor, the faint hum of something mechanical. A voice, low and steady, speaking in the distance. Then warmth—something draped over him, pressing against his skin in a way that wasn't quite right, not quite real.

Awareness crept in like water seeping through cracks.

Shinji's fingers twitched.

It took effort. Too much effort. His body felt wrong—too still, like something had stolen his strength while he wasn't looking. His mouth was dry, his throat raw, his limbs heavy. The weight of exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, thick and inescapable.

He didn't want to wake up.

Didn't want to face whatever waited for him beyond this strange, floating quiet.

But the voices wouldn't let him go.

Closer now. Urgent.

Something shifted beside him. A rustle of fabric, the scrape of movement against the sterile, too-clean air. A dull pressure at his wrist—fingers, maybe. Checking. Testing.

A voice.

Closer.

"…improving. Stabilized, but the episode was severe. He tore out multiple lines. We had to sedate him."

Another voice, softer. "And now?"

"Now we wait."

The voices blurred, folding into each other, and Shinji tried to focus. Tried to hold onto something.

Wait.

They were waiting.

For him?

The thought sent a ripple through his sluggish mind, and a fresh wave of unease slithered beneath his skin. A memory surfaced—hands pinning him down, wires yanked free, the sharp burn of a needle sinking into his arm. The weight of something unseen pressing down on him.

His breath hitched.

No.

Not again.

His pulse stuttered, weak but climbing, and his fingers twitched once more, this time more deliberate.

Movement.

A response.

The rustling sound returned, sharper now, and the voices did, too.

"Shinji?"

Too close.

Something brushed against his shoulder.

His body lurched before his mind could stop it, muscles seizing in protest as he tried to pull away. A sharp sting of pain shot up his arm, and he hissed, his throat too dry to form anything more than a ragged exhale.

"Easy—" The voice was right there, too close, too close—"You're alright. You're safe."

Safe.

The word bounced uselessly in his head, rattling against the remnants of panic still clawing at his chest.

He forced his eyes open.

The light was blinding.

A sharp, sterile white flooded his vision, stabbing into his skull and making everything swim. He blinked, once, twice, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his surroundings solidified.

A hospital room.

Wires still tethered him, though fewer now. An IV line taped against his arm, sensors dotting his chest. The beeping of machines monitoring his vitals, steady but too fast.

And beside him—

A person.

Blurry at first, but then sharpening. A doctor? A nurse? Their face was carefully neutral, their hands raised slightly, palms open, as if to show they weren't a threat.

"Shinji," they said again, slower this time. "You're in a hospital. You had an episode, but you're stable now. Do you understand?"

Did he?

His fingers clenched weakly against the sheets.

Hospital. Episode. Stable.

Words that meant nothing when all he could feel was the phantom sensation of dirt beneath his fingernails, the bite of cold wind against his skin, the distant, echoing hum of a world that didn't exist.

His mouth moved, throat scraping against the effort.

"…Not real," he rasped.

The doctor frowned. "Shinji—"

"This isn't real." His voice cracked, raw, barely above a whisper, but the certainty in it was unshaken.

Because it couldn't be.

If this was real, then it meant the Breach wasn't.

And that couldn't be right.

It couldn't be possible.

He had been there. He remembered. The cold, the silence, the weight of Striker at his back, the way the sky had stretched empty and endless above him.

It was real.

It had to be.

But then—

The faces. The ones he shouldn't have recognized. The ones he had almost remembered. The ones that meant something else had happened.

Something he couldn't remember.

His stomach twisted, nausea clawing up his throat.

Something was wrong.

Something was—

A hand settled lightly on his shoulder, a careful pressure, but it sent a spike of instinctual panic straight through him. He flinched, jerking away, heart hammering against his ribs.

The machines beeped faster.

The doctor pulled back immediately. "Alright. Alright. No touching." Their voice was steady, but their eyes were sharp, assessing. "Just breathe. You're safe."

Safe.

There was that word again.

He didn't know if he believed it.

Shinji's breath came in ragged, uneven pulls, his chest rising and falling too fast. The room around him pulsed—too bright, too sharp, too clean. The air smelled wrong, thick with antiseptic instead of salt and ozone. The sheets were too smooth beneath his fingers, not rough fabric or frayed straps or metal.

The beeping of the monitors mirrored the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat, a relentless confirmation of his spiraling panic.

He tried to move again, only to feel the sharp pull of the IV in his arm, the lingering sting from where he'd already ripped other wires free. His wrists were strapped down. Not tightly, not cruelly, but enough that he couldn't just leave.

He needed to leave.

This wasn't right.

This wasn't—

A flicker of something, just beneath his skin.

The weight of invisible hands.

The press of fingers along his arms, his shoulders, his neck.

He felt them, he knew they were there—pressing him down, holding him still—

A strangled noise tore from his throat, half-whimper, half-choked-off gasp, as he thrashed against the restraints. Pain flared as another wire tore loose, the sting bright and jarring, but it didn't matter—he needed to get up, he needed to move, he needed to—

"Shinji."

The voice cut through the static, sharp enough to bite but not quite harsh.

Not soothing, either.

Not kind.

Just firm.

It was enough to make him freeze, his chest still heaving, panic still clawing at the edges of his mind.

The doctor was watching him, calm but unreadable, standing just outside his reach.

"Focus," they instructed, their voice even but unwavering. "Breathe."

He tried.

Failed.

The breath that shuddered out of him was still too quick, too shallow.

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms.

"There's nothing on you," the doctor continued, gaze locked onto his like they were trying to hold him there, keep him from slipping further. "No one's touching you. No one is there."

A lie.

Had to be.

He felt them.

Still lingering. Still waiting.

Still—

"You are not in the Breach."

The words landed like a hammer, sending a fresh tremor through him.

Not in the Breach.

Not in the Breach.

His breath hitched.

No—

"I was—" his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was enough.

"You thought you were," the doctor corrected. "But you're not. You've been here."

"No."

Because that didn't make sense.

Because if he'd been here, then—

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The faces.

Those almost-memories, that creeping familiarity, the way they had slipped through his mind like ghosts, fleeting but real.

But they weren't real.

They couldn't be real.

Because if they were—

The doctor was still talking, voice level, controlled. "Your vitals are stabilizing, but you're still agitated. You were in critical condition when you were brought in. We had to sedate you after you tore out your IVs the first time. If you calm down, I won't have to do it again."

A threat?

A warning?

A promise?

He wasn't sure.

Didn't care.

None of this mattered because none of this was right.

But he wasn't in the Breach.

The room felt like the Breach. Half of it, at least. When he looked too long in one direction, he swore he could still see it—the way the walls twisted and darkened, the faint hum of something massive pressing down on him.

But he wasn't there.

They were saying he wasn't there.

Which meant—

Which meant—

He didn't know.

His breathing hitched again, and the doctor's gaze flickered, tracking the movement.

"Shinji," they said, not unkindly, but not gently either. Just steady. "Tell me where you think you are."

His lips parted.

Nothing came out.

He didn't know how to answer.

The beeping of the monitors was slower now, less frantic, though his hands were still trembling where they lay against the sheets. His body still felt like it shouldn't be here.

Like something had gone wrong.

Like something had changed.

The doctor exhaled through their nose, considering. Then:

"We'll go slow."

He hated that.

Hated the way they were talking to him, like he was going to break apart if they pushed too hard.

Like he hadn't already.

"We'll start simple," they said. "What's your name?"

Shinji swallowed.

He licked his lips, mouth dry, throat raw.

"…Shinji."

A nod. "Good. And do you know where you are?"

He hesitated.

His eyes flicked toward the part of the room that still felt wrong.

"…Hospital," he forced out.

Another nod. "That's right. You were unconscious when they brought you in. You were in bad shape. Do you remember that?"

His fingers twitched.

"I was in the Breach," he murmured.

A pause.

The doctor didn't correct him immediately.

Didn't say no, you weren't.

Which meant—

Which meant they knew something.

They were choosing their words.

"Your mind was in the Breach," they said instead, carefully measured. "But your body was here. You never left."

Another lie.

It had to be.

Didn't it?

The walls shifted when he blinked, just for a second. The hospital flickered, the Breach bleeding through the edges, swallowing the corners, dragging him back.

Shinji's breath shuddered.

The doctor watched him.

Patient. Waiting.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on what was real.

If any of it even was.

Shinji's fingers twitched, curling against the too-smooth sheets. His pulse was steadying, but only barely, still too quick, still on edge. The weight in his chest hadn't lifted. The wrongness still pulsed beneath his skin, like something waiting just out of sight.

The doctor hadn't moved. Hadn't looked away. Their posture was deliberate, like someone trying not to startle a wounded animal.

He hated that.

Like he's something fragile. Like he's something that needs to be handled.

The room still flickered, the edges threatening to bleed back into the impossible. He refused to look toward the places where the walls bent wrong, refused to acknowledge the hum that lingered just beneath hearing.

The doctor spoke again, voice still calm, still controlled.

"You said you were in the Breach."

Shinji swallowed hard. His throat ached, every breath raw and uneven. He couldn't tell if it was from disuse or from screaming.

He didn't answer.

The doctor didn't seem to mind. "Tell me what you remember."

Shinji's jaw clenched.

"I—" His voice cracked, and he had to take another breath before he could try again. "I was there."

He had been.

The weight. The pressure. The feeling of something immense watching, waiting. The way the darkness swallowed everything, the way he had felt something reaching for him, pressing into his mind—

The way he had felt the walls of reality thinning.

Like if he had just pushed a little harder—if he had just reached a little further—

"I was there."

The doctor didn't react immediately. Just let the words settle.

"You weren't," they said finally, still that same measured tone. "Not physically."

Shinji's breathing hitched.

"You weren't there," they repeated, and the words were like nails against his skull. "But you think you were. You felt like you were."

His fingers clenched, nails digging into the skin of his palms.

That wasn't the same.

That wasn't—

"You were in a coma," the doctor continued. "Your mind was trying to make sense of it. It put you in a familiar place. It built something around you to explain what was happening."

"No."

His own voice startled him.

Too sharp. Too certain.

The doctor didn't argue. Just let the denial hang in the air.

"I was there." His voice was steadier this time, even as the rest of him wasn't. "It wasn't a dream. It wasn't my mind trying to cope. I was there."

A pause.

"You believe that," the doctor said, more observation than question.

Shinji glared at them. "Because it's true."

Another pause.

Then: "If it was real, why are you here now?"

The question hit like a slap.

His breath stuttered.

His mind blanked.

Because—

Because he had been there.

Because he remembered.

The way the darkness curled at the edges of his vision, the feeling of the weight of something massive pressing down, the flickers of something pulling at him, of something whispering—

The hands.

The phantom touch at his arm.

The sting at his neck.

The sudden, consuming nothing.

His stomach twisted.

He barely registered that he was shaking again, trembling against the restraints still holding him down.

If he had been in the Breach—if he had truly been there—

How had he left?

And why did he feel like something was missing?

The doctor was still watching him, eyes sharp beneath the pretense of patience.

They had expected this reaction.

They knew something.

Shinji's pulse pounded against his skull.

This wasn't over.

Something had happened.

Something had changed.

And he wasn't going to stop until he figured out what.

The restraints bit into his wrists as he fought against them, his breathing ragged and uneven. His body screamed at him to move, to run, but he was trapped—strapped down, confined, vulnerable.

The hospital room blurred in and out of focus, his pulse hammering in his ears. Half of the room still looked like the Breach, twisting and shifting in the corners of his vision, like it was trying to pull him back. The cold, damp air, the suffocating dark—he could feel it pressing in.

His chest heaved. Not real. Not real.

But it felt real.

He barely registered the voice at first—low, steady, careful.

"Shinji."

His head snapped toward the source, his body jerking instinctively, the restraints holding him fast. He bared his teeth, breath coming fast, prepared to fight even though he had nothing left to fight with.

The doctor held up their hands in a clear, non-threatening gesture, staying just outside his immediate reach. Their voice was level, calm, but firm.

"You're safe."

The words barely registered. Safe? Safe?

The walls were too white. The light overhead was too bright. The IV pole swayed slightly from the force of his earlier struggle. He could still feel the pull of the wires he'd torn out—his body ached where they'd ripped free, sharp stings of pain grounding him, but not enough.

His breath hitched, eyes darting wildly.

"I—I—" His voice cracked, barely human. His throat felt raw, like he had been screaming for hours, days, years. His mind wouldn't catch up.

The doctor took a slow, measured step closer. "You were in a coma, Shinji. You just woke up. You're in a hospital."

A coma.

No.

No, that wasn't right. He was in the Breach. He was in the Breach. He had just—

His fingers twitched against the restraints, his entire body itching to move.

But there was no Jaeger. No weight of metal surrounding him, no oppressive gravity of the drift lingering at the edges of his mind.

And the exhaustion that had gnawed at him for years, the ache in his gut from endless hunger—

Gone.

Like it had never been there at all.

His breath came faster, his body rejecting it.

The doctor spoke again, softer this time. "Shinji, I need you to listen to me."

His vision swam. The room tilted.

"You're not in the Breach anymore."

His pulse spiked.

The hands. The pressure. The sensation of being dragged—

He squeezed his eyes shut, a ragged, animal noise ripping from his throat. His head jerked, breath erratic, panic rising like a flood he couldn't stop.

The doctor's voice remained steady, unwavering. "You're here. You made it out."

Out.

His breathing stuttered, the words fighting through the static in his brain.

The doctor took another step closer. "I know it doesn't feel real yet. I know it still feels like you're there." A pause. "But you're not."

Shinji forced his eyes open, hands shaking. He could barely focus.

The doctor met his gaze. "You're not alone anymore."

Something in him cracked.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body trembling.

The walls weren't moving. The air wasn't thick with Kaiju rot. The cold that clung to his bones wasn't the endless, gnawing cold of the Breach—it was just the sterile chill of the hospital room.

He was here.

He was out.

He was alive.

His breath shuddered, uneven. His body sagged slightly against the restraints. He still couldn't make sense of it—couldn't put the pieces together.

But the doctor wasn't lying.

And for the first time since waking up, the panic started to loosen its grip.

Shinji swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw, but the panic had ebbed just enough for him to force words out.

"The faces," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I keep—" His breath hitched. "I keep seeing faces I don't recognize. Hearing voices that shouldn't be there."

The doctor studied him for a moment, their expression unreadable but not unkind. They didn't immediately dismiss his words, didn't tell him he was imagining things. Instead, they took a careful step closer, staying just within his line of sight.

"That's normal," they said gently. "After everything you've been through, your mind is trying to reorient itself."

Shinji shook his head sharply. "No. You don't get it." His fingers twitched against the restraints. "They feel real. Like I should know them, but I don't." His voice cracked on the last word.

The doctor tilted their head slightly, considering. "Tell me about them."

Shinji tried. He tried. But every time he reached for the details, they slipped through his grasp like water.

Blurry figures. Half-formed memories. A presence—several—just out of reach.

"I don't know," he admitted hoarsely. His heart hammered against his ribs, frustration curling at the edges of his voice. "I don't—I can't—"

The doctor hummed thoughtfully. "It could be your sister."

Shinji stiffened.

His sister.

Yu.

His mind stumbled, something inside him lurching at the name.

Yu. He—he knew that name. It wasn't like the others, wasn't an echo of something he couldn't place.

The doctor noticed his reaction, nodding slightly. "Maybe some of your classmates, too. Your Teachers."

The words rattled around in his skull, trying to find purchase. He should know those people. He should be able to see them.

But when he tried to picture them, the only thing waiting for him was static.

His hands curled into fists. The restraints bit into his wrists.

"Why can't I remember?" The words came out strained, tight, frustrated. His voice was raw with something deeper than panic—something dangerously close to fear.

The doctor exhaled, their face calm but serious. "Your mind has been through a lot. Waking up isn't always as simple as opening your eyes." They hesitated, then added, "But it will come back. You just need time."

Shinji's breath shuddered out of him, the fight draining from his muscles in slow, reluctant waves.

Time.

He wasn't sure if he had time.

"What Happened?"

The doctor hesitated, their expression shifting—like they were choosing their words carefully. "There was an attack," they said at last. "Villains attacked your class."

Something lurched inside him.

His class.

The words scraped against his skull, distant yet sharp like something half-buried forcing its way to the surface. He couldn't remember it. He should remember it. But the moment he reached for the details, his mind recoiled—like an open wound being prodded.

The doctor continued, watching him closely. "You protected them."

Shinji blinked. His throat tightened.

He—what?

The doctor nodded slightly as if reading the disbelief on his face. "You took the brunt of the attack. That's why you're here." Their voice was steady but not cold, firm but not unkind. "You saved your classmates, Shinji."

A hollow, ringing silence filled his head.

That wasn't right.

That didn't make sense.

He couldn't remember how he got to that river. The moments before the Kaiju—the dream—was it a dream?—came rushing back all at once, slamming into him like a wave too strong to fight. A sickening sense of déjà vu twisted deep in his gut, turning his stomach inside out. He had been here before. Not in this hospital bed, not strapped down with IVs trailing from his arms, but in this same moment, this same tangled mess of thought and confusion.

It was the same as before.

The same crushing wrongness.

The same spiraling uncertainty, the same desperate attempt to grasp at memories that slipped through his fingers like sand. He had this exact train of thought while he was in there—wherever there was—trying to piece together how he'd arrived at the river, why there were faces he almost knew but couldn't place. And now, here he was again, caught in the same loop, the same fog, the same unanswered questions.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't right.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his breathing coming sharp and uneven.

"I—" His throat was dry. His hands clenched, the restraints digging into his wrists. "I don't—"

The doctor leaned forward slightly, eyes cautious but unwavering. "Shinji?"

His vision swam for a second, flickering between two realities—the cold emptiness of the Breach and the sterile, artificial warmth of the hospital. Both felt real. Both felt wrong.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nausea away.

The dream—if it had been a dream—hadn't faded like normal dreams did. It wasn't dissolving into a distant haze, slipping away the moment he woke up. It was still there, present, clinging to him like something alive.

Like something real.

"…How long?" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. "How long have I been here?"

The doctor hesitated just long enough to make his skin crawl.

"Just a few days, three to be exact" they finally said.

Three days.

His fingers twitched against the restraints, muscles tensing as a cold sweat broke out across his skin. His mind felt wrong, like someone had taken it apart and put it back together in the wrong order. The faces—those almost familiar, half-formed faces—floated at the edges of his thoughts, just out of reach. Were they from the Breach? Or from before?

He tried to piece it together, but every time he thought he was getting close, the memory blurred, slipped away, left him grasping at nothing.

Shinji forced himself to swallow, his throat dry and raw.

His throat worked around another swallow, but it did nothing to ease the tightness, the way his breath kept coming in short, uneven gasps. The faces. The voices. The Breach. The hospital. It was all wrong.

His fingers flexed, his arms tensing as he pulled against the restraints again. They didn't budge, but the pressure against his wrists felt real enough—more real than the shifting, half-remembered images in his head.

"You're safe," the doctor said again, their voice steady, controlled. "You're in a hospital. You've been here for three days."

Three days.

Three.

Shinji clenched his teeth so hard it ached.

It didn't feel like three days.

It felt like an eternity.

The Breach wasn't something that could be crammed into seventy-two hours. It had been endless, stretching out into a timeless void where survival was the only thing that mattered. He could still smell the damp, metallic tang of the air, still feel the press of the earth under his hands. Still, hear the distant groan of something massive moving in the darkness.

And yet—

And yet, here he was. In a hospital bed. With wires attached to his skin and the beep of a heart monitor tapping out an unsteady rhythm.

Shinji's breathing hitched.

It was too much.

His pulse spiked, and the monitor beside him reacted, the beeping growing faster. A warning. His panic was slipping past the point of control.

The doctor shifted, hand hovering near a call button, watching him carefully. "Shinji. I need you to take a deep breath."

He tried.

The air burned down his throat like acid.

His chest felt too tight.

This wasn't real.

Or maybe the Breach wasn't real.

Maybe neither of them were real.

Maybe both were.

His vision swam, the edges of the room flickering. For half a second, the hospital walls warped—the white sterility of the room darkening, shifting, giving way to something vast and endless. Like the Breach was still there, lurking just beyond his sight, waiting for him to slip, waiting to pull him back under.

No, no, no, no—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Shinji flinched, hard.

It was too much like before.

He jerked back instinctively, muscles straining, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Shinji."

The voice cut through the static in his head.

Not harsh. Not forceful. But steady. Grounding.

His vision wavered. The hospital came back into focus—walls, monitors, IV lines trailing down his arms. The weight of the hand on his shoulder was firm but not threatening.

The doctor's expression was unreadable. Not pitying, not condescending. Just…watching. Studying him like they were waiting for him to come back to himself.

"Take a breath," they said. "Just one."

Shinji swallowed hard.

And did.

It didn't fix anything.

It didn't make the nausea go away, didn't stop the shivers racing up and down his spine, didn't quiet the lingering echoes of voices he couldn't place.

But it was something.

"…Good," the doctor said, still watching him closely. "You're okay."

Shinji wasn't sure if that was true.

But he didn't argue.

Not yet.

The doctor didn't remove their hand right away, waiting a moment longer before stepping back, the professional mask slipping neatly back into place. Their eyes flicked over him, taking in every tremor, every uneven breath, every lingering flicker of tension in his muscles.

"I need to examine you," they said at last, their voice measured, calm. "You've been through significant trauma, and it's important we assess your condition properly."

Shinji barely heard them. His mind was still reeling, stuck between the sterile white of the hospital and the shifting, endless dark of the Breach. But something about the doctor's tone—the steady, clinical certainty—kept him tethered just enough to nod.

The doctor took that as permission, pulling a tablet from the bedside cart and flicking through his chart, eyes narrowing slightly as they skimmed the data.

"It's remarkable that you're awake at all," they murmured, more to themselves than to him. "Given the extent of your injuries, I would have expected at least another week of unconsciousness. Perhaps longer."

That set something uneasy coiling in Shinji's gut.

The doctor didn't notice, already shifting into motion. They adjusted the lighting, the brightness dipping slightly to avoid overwhelming his still-dilated pupils. A small flashlight was produced, the doctor gently tilting Shinji's chin up to check his pupillary response.

"Focus on the light," they instructed, voice slipping into the detached precision of medical professionalism.

Shinji did his best. His pupils reacted sluggishly at first before constricting to normal levels. The doctor made a note of it before moving on.

"Follow my finger."

A simple test, one Shinji had done plenty of times before. His gaze tracked the movement, but there was a slight delay—his reactions not quite as sharp as they should have been. The doctor hummed thoughtfully, filing that information away.

"Do you feel any numbness? Tingling in your extremities?"

Shinji flexed his fingers. His hands still shook slightly, but the feeling was there. His legs, too, responded when he shifted them against the sheets. "No," he rasped. "Just… sore."

The doctor nodded. "To be expected. You suffered multiple breaks—7 ribs, left forearm, and a mild hairline fracture along the tibia. Extensive bruising along the torso. Soft tissue damage to the right shoulder. And that's just part of your upper body."

They paused, glancing back at the monitor beside him. His heart rate had steadied slightly, but it was still elevated beyond normal parameters. Not entirely unexpected, given the circumstances.

"What's concerning," the doctor continued, "is the neural strain. The brain scans showed significant activity even while you were unconscious, high levels of synaptic activity, as though you were experiencing continuous, heightened stimulation." They tapped something on the tablet, pulling up what Shinji assumed was his own brain scan. "It's abnormal for someone in a comatose state. More akin to someone in REM sleep, but with irregular patterns."

A nightmare.

Or something worse.

Shinji clenched his jaw, throat working.

The doctor exhaled through their nose, thoughtful. "The body typically prioritizes healing by lowering neural demands. But in your case, it seems like something else was keeping you… engaged. Active."

Their eyes flicked to him, studying his expression carefully.

"Do you recall anything? Any dreams? Hallucinations?"

Shinji didn't answer immediately.

Because he did.

He remembered all of it.

The river. The cave. The damp air and shifting shadows. The way the world had seemed too big, too vast, too empty—except for the things that weren't empty at all. The hands pressing down. The voices. The static hum beneath his skin.

But saying any of that aloud felt dangerous.

So he settled for a half-truth.

"…Dream," he muttered, voice still hoarse.

The doctor didn't look surprised.

They simply hummed, making another note.

"I see."

Their gaze flicked back to the scans, expression unreadable. "I'd like to run additional tests. Your brain activity suggests something anomalous, and while I don't want to jump to conclusions, I'd rather be cautious."

Shinji swallowed.

"Anomalous how?"

The doctor hesitated.

Then, with measured deliberation, they said, "We'll need more data to determine that."

Which wasn't an answer at all.

But Shinji was too exhausted to push further.