“We’re not out yet,” I tell her, low enough that even the bones can’t hear it.
Her fingers tighten.
I feel everything.
The hitch in her breath.The jitter in her pulse.The aftershock is still shaking her spine like it doesn’t want to let go.
The blade hangs loose in my grip. My senses stretch thin and sharp—the way they only ever do when fear and purpose collide full-force inside my chest.
This is where I live now.
In the space just before something breaks.
We round a bend—
—and the mosaic waits for us.
Saint Michael.
War locked in glass and gold.
His wings explode across the wall in a riot of jeweled feathers. His sword glows, righteous, and he raises it high. His foot pins a devil to stone, halo blazing above a face too calm for a man committing holy murder.
I stop.
Half a breath.
The angel stares back at me.
Judging.Pleading.Lying.
Pia notices.
Of course she does.
She steps closer—not in front of me, not beside me—just close enough that her shoulder brushes mine and something inside my ribs snaps quietly into place.
“That’s who you think you are,” she whispers.
Not mocking.
Searching.
I don’t look at her.
I don’t look away from the angel either.
“No.”
The word lands heavy in my gut.
“That’s who I’m becoming.”
It isn’t said for drama.It isn’t meant to sound brave.
It’s a fact.
It tastes like rust.
