(THO) INTERLUDE

Amy Dallon didn’t do brains.

That wasn’t just a preference, and it wasn’t just an unspoken rule. It had become gospel, repeated often enough that it was now a line burned so deep into her reputation, into the city’s understanding of her: Panacea doesn’t do brains. Everyone knew it, from the nurse and patient who whispered her name in awe, to the villain who cursed her for undoing their damage.

And yet, sometimes, Amy wondered if Gojo believed it.

He’d never pressed the issue, never asked her to try, and never once suggested she take a look at Grue—Brian, she reminded herself—still unconscious in his apartment. Gojo had pulled strings with the PRT, and by proxy with Cauldron, their secretive benefactor according to him. He had dragged her into his half-formed team, made it clear she was part of his plan, and yet… nothing. Not a single word about the one thing that might actually fix him.

Cauldron’s operatives had done everything possible. They had mended his ribs, healed the burns, and repaired the torn muscles along with every other bodily injury. And still, Brian remained unconscious, because none of it touched the place where he was truly broken, the part of him that mattered most. His mind.

And she had done nothing.

Didn’t that say a lot about her?

It should have. It should have shown she was a terrible person, a coward wrapped in a healer’s robes, too afraid to wield the power she carried in her hands. After all, she could touch the root of his suffering with a thought and a twitch of her hand, and yet she wouldn’t. And the worst part? No one called her on it.

When she finally cornered Gojo—quietly but with blunt words, because everything about him demanded forwardness when you wanted a straight answer—he only smiled that infuriating smile of his and said, “Don’t worry about it. He’ll wake up when he wants to wake up.”

She’d known instantly that it was a lie.

But she’d let it go, because pretending to believe him was easier than opening the door she’d nailed shut long ago.

Yet the question lingered. Did she have to keep pretending?

That was the irony, wasn’t it? The whole reason she’d agreed to Gojo’s so-called ‘class’ was because he promised she wouldn’t be forced. There would be mandated shifts at the hospital, no scripted speeches or actions, and especially no mother hovering over her shoulder and scolding her into the rigid shape of New Wave’s perfect healer. Gojo had sworn she’d only do what she wanted.

And the terrible truth was… she wanted this.

She wanted to break her own rule. She wanted to touch the thing she wasn’t supposed to touch. No, more than that. She wanted to test the imposed limits of her power, to push past healing sprained ankles and knitting together burned flesh. Because she wasn’t just a healer. She was a biotinker. The biotinker, if she were being honest, one of the most dangerous alive. She’d known that since her trigger event, and for two years she’d buried it under self-imposed rules.

No brains, and only healing (as opposed to more creative uses). 

Because if she slipped, even just once, she might not come back. One stray thought, one hint of anger or fear, and she could unmake someone with less effort than it took to blink. She could erase their personality with a gesture, and rewrite them into something they’d never asked to be.

Every touch was a gamble.

Especially with the one person she loved most. Victoria. Her sister. The only one who actually cared, who looked at her and saw Amy, and not just a resource to be exploited or a burden to be tolerated. Yet… even with Vicky, Amy couldn't deny the ache of temptation every time their hands brushed.

So she’d lived inside her cage of rules, safe, restrained, and undoubtedly miserable.

And now here she was, in Gojo’s apartment, listening to Brian’s shallow breathing filling the silence. She knew she could change everything with one choice. She knew that Gojo, for all his maddening grins and lies, had left her the space in the world to decide for herself. 

Her hands flexed in her lap, nails biting into her palms.

She wanted to help Brian. It wasn’t because Gojo had told her to, and it wasn’t because the team felt unfinished without him. It wasn’t even because the world, in its quiet and constant way, always seemed to demand more from her than she could give. She wanted to help him because the choice was hers, and for once, that was reason enough.

Because she was tired—so, so tired—of worrying about what might happen instead of trying. Because she was tired of being afraid of herself.

And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to find out if she could be something more than just Panacea. 

Her breath shook as she lifted her hand.

The distance between them was measured in inches, inches that might as well have been a cliff edge. One more move, and she’d topple into the abyss she’d spent her whole life avoiding.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to.

Her fingers hovered just above his hair when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“You don’t have to.”

Her heart stopped, and she jerked back, hand snapping to her chest like she’d been caught stealing. She turned to see Gojo leaning against the doorframe, arms in his pocket, and blindfold in place. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

He cocked his head to the side, smiling in that maddening, easy way of his. “It’s not necessary,” he said, as if she hadn’t just been about to break the one rule that defined her entire life.

Amy’s voice came out hoarse. “He’s not waking up. He needs—”

Gojo stepped forward and crouched down beside the bed. He reached out for her, tapping her knuckle lightly with one finger.

“Not from you,” he said. “Brian will wake up when he’s ready. You don’t need to break your rules for him. Or for me. Or for anyone. Least of all yourself.”

Amy blinked at him, stunned into silence. The words didn’t make sense. They were absurd. Nobody said things like that. 

But his smile simply widened.

“Really,” he added, straightening. “It’s not necessary.”

And with that absurd statement hanging in the air, Gojo walked back out, leaving Amy staring at Brian with her hand still trembling in her lap, caught between relief, frustration, and the quiet, resounding repetition of his words.