Two weeks.

Fourteen days of rising before dawn, working until my muscles screamed, collapsing into bed too exhausted to dream. Repeat.

The farm had never been more productive. Fields that would have taken Elliot's family weeks to prepare were done in days. Fences repaired. Equipment maintained. Every task I could find, I completed with mechanical efficiency.

Superior Endurance meant I could work longer than anyone else. Material Efficiency and Structural Reinforcement from Sienna's construction background—skills I'd copied long ago—made the work almost effortless.

And that was the point. Keep moving. Keep busy. Don't think.

"Rey," Evelyn had said three days ago, finding me in the barn at midnight organizing tools that didn't need organizing. "You need to rest."

I'd shown her the inventory I'd compiled. "Look at how much more efficient this system is. Elliot can find things twice as fast now."

She'd looked at me with those evaluator's eyes that saw too much. But she'd left without pushing further.

"Rey," Sienna had tried yesterday, her caring nature making her voice gentle. "Come have dinner with us. You barely ate lunch."

I'd pointed to the vegetable garden. "Harvested three times what we planted. The soil quality is better than Elliot thought. We should expand the plot next spring."

She'd smiled sadly but let me go back to work.

Even Camille—who usually had no problem calling people on their bullshit—had tried a softer approach. "Hey, farm boy. Want to see the clothes I finished? Used that wool you sheared last week. Turned out pretty good."

I'd nodded. Complimented her work. Then returned to checking the irrigation system that was already functioning perfectly.

They'd stopped trying after that. Or at least stopped trying so obviously. I could feel their concern, their worry, hovering at the edges of everything I did. But they gave me space.

Which was what I wanted.

Right?

"Reynard. Sienna."

Elliot's voice cut through my morning routine. I'd been heading toward the fields, shovel in hand, ready for another day of productive distraction.

"Yeah?" I said, not quite making eye contact.

"The crops aren't ready to be harvested," Elliot said, his tone patient but firm. "We planted seeds yesterday. They just need watering. Basic maintenance. Maybe an hour of work, tops."

I stared at the fields. He was right, of course. Nothing was ready for harvest. I'd known that. But I'd been planning to find something else—clear another section, repair something that didn't need repairing, anything.

"So you two can take a break," Elliot continued. "Seriously. You've been working nonstop for two weeks. Rest. Read a book. Do literally anything besides farm work."

"Lucky," Camille's voice called from the house. She appeared in the doorway, holding up a newly finished garment with dramatic flair. "I finally got some actual clothes finished and you two get a day off? Unfair. Completely unfair."

Sienna chuckled, her caring nature making her appreciate Camille's attempt at lightness. "We can help with the wool processing if you want."

"Absolutely not," Camille declared. "If I have to suffer through textile work, you have to suffer through relaxation. It's only fair."

She grinned, but I could see the concern underneath. The way her eyes flickered to me, checking, assessing.

I stood there, shovel still in hand, and felt… nothing. Empty. Lost.

What was I supposed to do if I wasn't working? What filled the hours if I wasn't distracting myself?

"Rey?" Sienna's voice, gentle. Worried.

I blinked, realizing I'd been standing silent for too long. "Right. Break. Got it."

I turned mechanically, putting the shovel back in the shed. Moving on autopilot. Somewhere in the background, I was aware of concerned looks being exchanged, but they felt distant. Unimportant.

The day passed in a fog. I sat in the house. Read words on pages without comprehending them. Ate food without tasting it. Existed without really being present.

It was worse than working. At least work had purpose. This was just… waiting. For what, I didn't know.

Night fell, and I was in my room—a small space Elliot's family had cleared for me—when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," I said automatically.

Alexis entered, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. Her platinum hair was loose, and she wore the practical farm clothes Camille had made, but her posture was pure doctor. Professional. Concerned.

"We need to talk," she said without preamble.

"I'm fine," I replied, the automatic response I'd been giving everyone for two weeks.

"You're not." She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at me with those analytical eyes. "Rey, you're not fine. You haven't been fine since we got here. Since before we got here."

"I'm functional," I corrected. "That's all that matters."

"No," Alexis said firmly. "It's not. The whole point of us coming here was for you to recover. Mentally and physically. To get yourself together enough that we could plan our next move."

"I have recovered," I insisted. "I've been working. Contributing. Helping Elliot's family—"

"You've been running," Alexis interrupted. "Working yourself into exhaustion so you don't have to think. Don't have to feel. Don't have to process anything that happened."

"I've processed it," I said, hearing the defensiveness in my own voice. "Anthony died. Hugo was my father and the World President. Mark betrayed us and took over. I understand all of that."

"Understanding isn't the same as processing," Alexis said. "Rey, you had a panic attack in that closet. A severe one. And instead of dealing with it, you've spent two weeks avoiding everyone and everything."

"I haven't been avoiding—"

"You showed Evelyn an inventory spreadsheet at midnight rather than talk to her," Alexis said flatly. "You redirected Sienna to vegetables. You complimented Camille's work and walked away. You've been avoiding us. Avoiding yourself."

"I'm handling it my way," I said, standing up. Needing to move. Needing to not be sitting still while she dissected me. "Not everyone processes things by talking about them."

"And how's that working for you?" Alexis asked, her voice sharp. "You look terrible, Rey. You've lost weight. You barely sleep despite being exhausted. You won't make eye contact with any of us. You're running on fumes and pretending it's strength."

"I'm doing what needs to be done," I shot back. "We're hiding from the world. We need to be useful. Need to earn our place here. Need to—"

"Need to heal," Alexis finished. "That's what you need. But you won't let yourself do it."

"There's no time to heal!" The words came out harsher than intended. Louder. "Mark is World President. Eighty-three percent of the world supports him. Every day we hide here is another day he consolidates power. Another day our reputation gets worse. Another day we lose ground we can't get back."

"And what good are we if you fall apart?" Alexis challenged. "You're our strategist, Rey. Our leader. If you break—really break, not just crack like you did in that closet—what happens to the rest of us?"

"I'm not going to break," I said, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded.

"You're already breaking," Alexis said quietly. "You just won't admit it."

I turned away from her, facing the window. Looking out at the dark fields. "I need to be strong. For all of you. For—"

"You need to be human," Alexis interrupted. "Strong isn't the same as invulnerable. You're allowed to grieve. To hurt. To not be okay."

"I don't have that luxury," I said. "Not when so much depends on—"

"Nothing depends on you being broken," Alexis said firmly. "The world isn't going to end if you take time to process what happened. If you let yourself feel something other than hollow productivity."

Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

"I need air," I said finally.

"Rey—"

"Just… I need air. Please."

I walked out before she could stop me. Down the hallway. Through the house where Elliot's family was settling in for the night. Out the front door into the cool evening.

The farm spread out before me—dark fields, distant tree lines, the kind of rural quiet that should have been peaceful but just felt empty.

I walked without direction. Just moving. Getting distance from the house. From Alexis's concern. From all of it.

Eventually I stopped in the middle of a freshly turned field. Just dirt. Nothing growing yet. Nothing alive.

I sat down right there in the soil. Drew my knees up to my chest. Wrapped my arms around them.

And felt everything I'd been running from for two weeks crash down at once.

Anger. At Mark for betraying us. At Hugo for creating this mess. At the world for believing lies. At myself for not being strong enough to prevent any of it.

Guilt. Anthony's death playing on repeat. Every decision I'd made that led to that moment. Every way I could have been faster, smarter, better.

Sorrow. For the coalition we'd built that was falling apart. For the future we'd been working toward that now seemed impossible. For the person I'd been three weeks ago who thought he could actually win.

Grief. Raw and overwhelming. For my friend. For my reputation. For the innocence of believing the truth would matter.

Fear. Of Mark's power. Of never recovering from this. Of letting everyone down. Of being exactly what my father always thought I was—weak and useless.

All of it swirling together in a storm I couldn't control or compartmentalize or work away.

I sat in that dirt field, head down between my knees, and felt more lost than I had in my entire life.

And in that moment—surrounded by darkness and silence and the weight of everything I couldn't fix—one thought rose above the chaos.

I miss mom.

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