"Protein bars don't count."
"They're efficient."
"They're depressing." He moved toward my kitchen. "When's the last time you had real food?"
I tried to remember. "Tuesday? Maybe Monday. Time blurs together."
"Christ." He started opening cabinets, making disgusted noises at their emptiness. "No wonder you're shaking. You're running on adrenaline and obsession."
"It's worked so far."
"Until it doesn't. Until you make a mistake because your blood sugar crashes mid-mission." He found my refrigerator equally barren. "We're ordering food. Now. And tomorrow I'm taking you grocery shopping like actual humans."
"I don't—"
"Non-negotiable." He already had his phone out. "Thai food? Chinese? Pizza?"
"I don't care."
He looked at me steadily. "Choose something. One small decision that isn't about death or missions or hunting. Just food you might enjoy."
It felt monumental, this tiny choice. "Thai. Medium spice. Pad see ew."
"There. Was that so hard?"
"Yes."
He laughed, quiet and real. "We're quite a pair, aren't we? Can't remember to eat, can't stop hunting, can't exist outside our damage."
"But we're very good at our damage."
"The best." He finished ordering, then moved back to the murder wall. "Show me everything. Every connection, every theory. If we're doing this, I need to know what you know."
So I did. Spent the next two hours walking him through three years of obsessive research. He asked sharp questions, made connections I'd missed, added information from his own sources. We ate Thai food straight from containers while discussing body disposal methods and network hierarchies.
It should have been macabre. Instead, it felt like coming home.
"There," I said finally, showing him the last section. "That's everything. My entire purpose mapped out in string and photos."
"It's impressive. Obsessive and probably unhealthy, but impressive." He set down his food, studying me. "You know this won't bring him back, right? Gabriel. Even if you burn down everything he built, he's still gone."
"I know." I touched his photo one more time. "But it's all I know how to do. Hunt, kill, follow patterns. He made me too well."
"He made you sharp. That's not the same as well." Nathan pulled me away from the wall, back into his arms. "Sharp things can choose what they cut."
"Can they?"
"We'll find out." He kissed my forehead, the gesture achingly gentle. "Tuesday. The Volkovs. We'll start there and see where the pattern leads."
"Together."
"Together." He held me closer. "Two broken things making productive mistakes."
I let myself settle against him, memorizing this new feeling. Safety that wasn't about weapons or walls. Connection that wasn't about shared violence (though that was there too, humming between us like electricity). Just two damaged people choosing to aim their sharp edges in the same direction.
"Nathan?"
"Mm?"
