I don’t try to open it.
I just sit on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees, hands empty in my lap.
The silence here is thick. Not just quiet—dense. Like secrets soaking into the walls. It’s too much. Too loud in my head.
I stare at the case again, then whisper, “Who the hell are you really?”
My throat goes tight.
I drop my head.
And just sit there.
I don’t know how long passes before I hear the hiss of the door opening behind me.
I freeze.
Heavy boots. A pause. Then the door hisses shut again.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just walks in. Quiet steps. Careful.
When he sits next to me, I feel the bed dip. He’s close, but he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t ask why I’m here.
I breathe slow, trying to settle the tremble in my chest. Then, without looking at him, I speak.
“If this goes bad... you don’t owe me anything.”
The words drop into the dark like stones.
He doesn’t flinch. His answer comes without pause.
“That’s not how this works.”
I turn my head slowly, searching his face.
“You keep saying that like it means something.”
“It does.”
“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes, you do,” I snap, voice suddenly raw. “You need to know who I am before you go making choices like that.”
His jaw tightens. “I know enough.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He exhales. “Try me.”
I clasp my hands tighter in my lap. “I killed someone. Not in a shootout. Not in a crossfire. It wasn’t justified. It wasn’t self-defense. It was messy, and it was personal, and I didn’t regret it.”
Silence.
Then, finally, softly: “I know.”
