Stone calls out from behind us. "Time."
Leo nods. Doesn't look at me. His hand comes out of his pocket — briefly, just a second — and his fingers brush mine. Not a grab. Not a hold. Just contact. Knuckle against knuckle. Aspark of warmth that jumps from his skin to mine and settles in my chest.
Then he peels off. Walks toward Red House. Doesn't look back.
I watch him go. The way he moves now — fluid, quiet, the wolf in his walk.
They don't promote problems. They re-home them.
Chapter twelve
Lumi's session is in a different building this week.
Sven doesn't explain why. He walks me out of Red House and across the yard and instead of turning toward the therapy building near the tree line, he takes me east. Toward the second building. The one I noticed on my first walk with Stone — bigger, newer, more windows.
Gold House.
It's obvious the second we're close enough. Where Red House is reinforced concrete and bolted doors and the specific architecture of a building designed to hold things that want out, Gold House looks like an actual school. Windows that aren't barred.
Sven steers me past the entrance, not through it. We're taking a path that runs alongside the building — a paved walkway connecting Gold House to a smaller annexe. Lumi must be set upin there. New location, probably because Sven doesn't want me walking through open yard anymore.
But the path goes right past Gold House's common area windows. And the common area is occupied.
I see them before I hear them. Six, maybe eight guys. Some sitting. Some standing. One playing cards at a table. Another reading — actually reading, an actual book, a paperback held in one hand with his legs stretched out on a couch. A TV is on. Someone laughs. The sound carries through the glass, muffled but clear.
They look like people.
Not the tight-jawed, flinch-ready bodies of Red House. Not the scent-reactive, bench-gripping, wall-pressing survival mode I've been living in. These guys are relaxed. Loose. Present in their bodies in a way that says they've made peace with what those bodies do.
This is what the system says success looks like. Contained wolves who learned to sit still.
I don't know if that's hope or a warning.
One of them is standing near the window.
He's not doing anything. Just standing. Cup of something in his hand — coffee, tea, whatever Gold House residents get that Red House doesn't. He's looking out the window at the path, at the yard, at nothing in particular.
He's tall, a chest that tests the fit of his gold shirt. His hair is lighter — brown, maybe dark blond, cut shorter, maintained. Clean-shaven. Everything about him is maintained. Controlled. He looks like someone who spends significant energy making sure every part of himself is exactly where it's supposed to be.
His face is —
I don't finish the thought. Because he turns his head and sees me.
He goes still.
Completely, absolutely still. The cup in his hand stops halfway to his mouth. His chest stops moving. For a second I think he's stopped breathing. Every muscle in his body locks into place simultaneously, like someone hit pause on a machine that was running perfectly until this exact moment.
His eyes lock onto mine through the glass. Blue. Clear, sharp blue. And what's in them isn't heat or hunger.
It's fear.
Cold, controlled, immaculate fear. The fear of a man who has been building a structure inside himself — discipline, compliance, the careful architecture of a person who passes as stable — and just felt something shake the foundation.
My left wrist does something new. Not the deep pulse. Not the warm ache. Something different. A tremor. A vibration so faint I'd miss it if I weren't paying attention.
I stop walking.
Sven's hand is on my arm instantly. "Keep moving."
