His shoulders were tense.
His steps fast.
Controlled.
But I could see the emotional weight pressing down on him.
Ruslan’s gaze followed him the entire way.
His hands curled slightly against the chain restraints.
“Yannis—”
I started to rise from the bench.
Ruslan’s chained hand shot forward instinctively — stopping just inches from the Plexiglas barrier.
The metal restraints clinked loudly.
“Let him go,” he said quickly, his voice lower now — controlled but urgent.
“He’ll be fine. The guards will hold him until you get there.”
His eyes didn’t leave him.
I hesitated.
Then slowly sank back onto the cold metal bench.
My gaze tracked Yannis as he walked toward the exit with short, steady steps.
A corrections officer followed at a respectful distance — not touching him, not restraining him — just supervising.
Yannis didn’t look back.
Not at me.
Not at Ruslan.
The door closed behind him.
And the sound of it felt final.
Silence settled between us.
Uncomfortable.
The kind that exposes things people try to hide behind anger.
Ruslan still stared at the door where Yannis had disappeared.
His voice broke the quiet first.
“Will spending the rest of my life in here be enough to earn your forgiveness?”
The question sounded... uncertain.
I leaned back against the bench, folding my arms tighter across my chest.
