The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 457

Tears spilled down Piper's cheeks, dropping heavily onto Sloane's soaked dress.

"Sloane? Wake up—Sloane—" She grabbed Sloane's hand. It was ice-cold, devoid of any warmth.

She rubbed it frantically, blowing hot breath onto her pale skin as if she could thaw her back to life, as if her voice alone could drag Sloane back from the edge.

"This is all my fault—if I hadn't run back for that stupid trophy—if I just kept my mouth shut—it's all my fault! Sloane—please wake up! You can yell at me—you can hit me—just please, I'm begging you—"

*

At that moment, Sloane was drifting in a warm, suffocating darkness. Her body no longer felt like her own. Her consciousness fluttered like a feather caught in a vortex.

Through the haze, three smiling faces materialized.

A young, mixed-race man with a mop of messy brown curls flashed her a brilliant, toothy grin. He gave her a massive thumbs-up and said, "Sloane, you found The White Microbe! You're incredible!"

Beside him stood an elegant, middle-aged professor in gold-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind the lenses were warm and filled with pride. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, his voice resonant like a cello. "Sloane, you never disappoint."

Then, a burly, tanned man in a camouflage windbreaker pushed his way to the front. He was practically vibrating with excitement, his voice booming. "Let me see! Is that really The White Microbe? Let me see it!"

Sloane's mind was a chaotic mess.

But she recognized these men. She had seen them around campus—she had even bought them drinks.

But who were they?

And what on earth was The White Microbe?!

Suddenly, an agonizing explosion of pain ripped through her chest—

Not the dull ache from the dream, but a visceral, terrifying agony that tore from the inside out, radiating through her ribs and setting her nerves on fire.

Just beyond him was Piper, bundled in an oversized coat, her face streaked with dirt and tears. The moment she saw Sloane's eyes open, she broke into massive, ugly sobs, babbling incoherently, "Sloane, you're awake, oh my god..."

Sloane's head was spinning. The vivid phantoms from her dream were still burned into her retinas, superimposing themselves over the three frantic faces staring down at her. She couldn't tell what was real anymore.

"Garrison," she murmured on pure instinct.

Garrison leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a feather-light whisper, as if soothing a child pulled from a nightmare. "I'm right here."

Sloane looked at him. His dark eyes had lost all their usual cold, guarded walls, leaving behind only the raw, shattered vulnerability of a man who had just dragged her back from the abyss.

Her lips parted, and she asked a question that brought everything to a dead halt.

"What is The White Microbe?"