The camera zoomed in just as the second window blew out. Third floor. His bedroom.
The fire wasn’t loud on screen. It rolled out of the frame like it had been waiting to breathe. Smoke thick and crawling. Glass rained from the frame. Pieces scattered across the sidewalk like broken promises. I knew that window. I knew that room. I knew the shape of the sheets he’d made me bleed into.And I knew he hadn’t been in that bed since I left.
But still?—
“Oh.”
Agony ripped through me, like a rib cracked open. That building held more than his name. It held the last place I felt chosen. The last place I felt real.
This wasn’t about killing him. This was about burning thelast place I had been real.The place I had curled against his chest and slept like I wasn’t made of teeth. They weren’t trying todestroy him. They were trying toeraseme. The man beside me chuckled.
“No one was home,” he said. “Shame. But you get the point, right?”
“You were his home,” he said, too casual. “So we burned it.”
I didn’t blink.
Because I knew what came next.
If they thought that house held him?—
They never understood what it meant to be Wolfe’s.
I didn't answer. I'd already seen the point. And soon, Wolfe would too.
The screen flickered. Went black again. Silence pulsed in its place. I stared into it like it could stare back. And I realized?—
They weren’t just trying to hurt him. They were trying to unmake him. By taking me. By burning every space I had ever touched. By showing me exactly what it looked like to be erased. But I wasn’t gone yet.
And Wolfe? Wolfe was still breathing. Which meant they’d made their final mistake. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. Not even when the screen went black.
I closed my eyes. Squeezing them tight. I wanted to scream again. I wanted to tear at the leather straps cutting into my wrists, wanted to claw through the chair, the wall, the fucking city. But I stayed still. Because stillness was the only weapon I had left.
The door opened behind me. No sound, no warning. The only sign was the shift in the air, the subtle shift of pressure, like the room itself knew who had walked in and was already bracing for impact.
I didn’t turn. I couldn’t. But I felt him. The clean one. The man with shoes that didn’t touch dust. The one who set the cameras, controlled the angles, directed the grief.
I opened my eyes. He circled slowly. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted me to feel it. The calm of a predator with nowhere else to be.
When he came into view again, I didn’t look away. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes scanned my face with a precision that made my stomach twist. He didn’t smile. Not this time.
“I think you misunderstand your role here,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
He crouched, folded his body with a grace that didn’t match the room, didn’t match the stink of old blood under the bleach, didn’t belong in a place where people like me were made to bleed.
“You think this is about you,” he said. “But it’s not.”
He leaned in closer. His voice dropped.
“It wasneverabout you.”
I felt my jaw tighten. Not from fear. From clarity.
“Camille,” I whispered.
He nodded.
