Her fingers slide from my back to my wrist.
Not stopping me.
Holding.
Like she felt something just die inside me.
And she’s the only one standing over the body.
I move past the mosaic.
The angel stays frozen—trapped in glass and lies forever.
We don’t slow.
The tunnel slopes downward now. The cold grows teeth. The dark gets heavier. Every breath feels like it’s scraping my lungs raw.
Pia stumbles.
I catch her without breaking stride.
She doesn’t thank me.Doesn’t apologize.
She keeps moving.
Damn, she’s strong.
Not in the pretty way men like to romanticize.
In a way that survives.
In a way that comes out of hell scarred and swinging.
We pass carvings along the walls—names, half-erased prayers, obscene saints etched by hands that ran out of hope centuries ago. They built the church on bones.
Every foundation here is a corpse wearing a lie.
“Why are you so sure they’re following us?” she asks.
I don’t hesitate.
“Because they stopped chasing.”
Her breath fractures.
I don’t soften it.
“When men panic,” I say quietly, “they’re loud. They rush. They bleed everywhere. When they go quiet…”
I glance down the dark vein of stone ahead.
“…that’s when you worry.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Because they’re thinking.”
“Because they’re hunting.”
