"Programs don't sacrifice for others. Don't feel guilt or shame or joy. Don't build new connections that overwrite old ones." His hand cupped my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "You're not empty, Bunny. You're the fullest person I know. Full of rage and pain and terrible purpose, but also... this. Whatever this is between us."
"This could just be trauma bonding. Shared psychosis. Two broken people using each other—"
"Do you believe that?"
I wanted to say yes. Wanted to keep things simple, defined, controllable. But looking at his face in the pre-dawn darkness, I couldn't lie.
"No," I whispered.
"Neither do I."
He kissed me then, soft and careful. Not trying to start anything, just... connecting. Reminding me that my mouth could do more than scream or submit. That my body had learned new patterns in the months since escape.
When we broke apart, I was crying. Silent tears that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than emotion. Like my body was purging poison through salt water.
"I can't lose myself again," I said. "I can't go back to being his thing. I'd rather die."
"You won't lose yourself."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." He shifted us so I was straddling his lap, facing him. Eye to eye, no hiding. "I promise you won't lose yourself. Because I won't let you. Because you're too strong to break that way again. Because you've built something new in the ruins of what he made."
"What if it's not enough?"
"Then we build more. Fight harder. Whatever it takes." His hands framed my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I love you. You hear me? I love exactly who you are right now. Not who you were or who you might become. This person. This moment. And I'll fight for you—against him, against your conditioning, against your own mind if necessary."
The words broke something in me. Or maybe mended something. It was hard to tell the difference anymore. I collapsed against him, sobbing into his shoulder while he held me steady. Not the careful tears of earlier but something raw and ugly and necessary.
"I'm scared," I admitted between sobs. "Scared of seeing him. Scared of killing him. Scared of what happens after."
"I know."
"I might freeze. Might revert. Might call him Daddy and beg—"
"Then I'll remind you who you really are."
I pulled back to look at him. "How?"
"However I need to. Words. Actions. Violence if necessary." His expression was fierce, protective. "I'll shoot him myself if I have to. If it means keeping you safe from what he made you."
"No." The word came out sharp. "No, I need to do it. Need to be the one who ends him. Otherwise I'll never be free."
"Then I'll make sure you can. Whatever support you need, whatever reminders, whatever anchors—I'll be there."
I believed him. I had to believe him. The alternative was drowning in my own fractured psyche before we even reached the facility.
I rocked against him slightly, needing contact. Not sexual—everything felt too raw for that—but necessary. Physical connection to remind my body it had learned new responses. That pleasure didn't have to come with pain, that touch could be safety instead of control.
"Tell me I'm yours," I whispered. "Tell me I belong to you now, not him."
"You're mine." No hesitation. "Every broken piece, every sharp edge, every survival instinct—mine to protect. Mine to fight for. Mine to put back together when you fall apart."
"Tell me you'll still want me after. When the hunt's over. When there's no mission holding us together."
"I'll want you until my heart stops beating. Maybe longer."
I pressed my forehead against his, breathing the same air. "Tell me we survive this."
