He keeps walking.
The walk from Tribunal to apartment takes thirty-four minutes. I count each step, each minute shaved off by cutting corners or breaking stride on the up-ramp. My body wants to move faster, but I force it into measured, predictable rhythms. Anything else would look like panic.
I reach the building, key in, climb three flights. I scan the hall before opening the door. All clear.
Inside, it’s colder than when I left. The air system kicks in at intervals, but I keep it on the edge of tolerable. The cold slows down bacteria, keeps the living from getting too comfortable.
I expect Elliot to have moved—maybe to the bedroom, maybe to the bathroom, maybe out the window, even though the window doesn’t open. But he’s exactly where I left him.
He’s curled in the left corner of the living room, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. He’s wearing the same shirt and pants from the night before. The bruising on his throat is darker now, yellow-purple beneath the skin. His hair is matted, eyes open and fixed to the wall, but not seeing anything.
He doesn’t track me as I enter. Doesn’t flinch at the door, or the sound of the bag hitting the table.
I walk to the kitchen, open the fridge, close it. I open a water bottle and leave it on the counter. I peel off my jacket, hang it, kick off my boots. Everything is done in the same sequence as always. He notices. I see his eyes flick to the boots, then back to the wall.
He doesn’t move until I’m three meters away. Then, he jerks backward, hits his head on the plaster. His hand goes to his mouth, fingers pressing so hard the knuckles turn white.
I freeze. Not out of surprise, but because sudden movement is a bad idea.
He bites his lip. Hard. Blood beads at the corner, then runs down. The smell is sharp, coppery. I feel it in the back of my throat, the way you do after a broken nose.
He’s waiting for something. A hit, a shout, maybe the knife. I do nothing.
“Bathroom is open,” I say. My voice comes out gravel. “So is the bedroom.”
He looks at me, not through me, for the first time. There’s calculation there, but not hope. Just trying to predict the next event.
“You can shower,” I add. “There’s clothes in the dresser.”
He nods but doesn’t move, blood dripping onto his wrist.
I back away. Slow, the way you retreat from a wild dog.
Sitting at the table, I open my laptop, bring up the Tribunal’s interface. The files are still locked, but I know the logs are being updated in real time. I watch the red indicator at the top right of the screen, waiting for it to turn yellow or green. Seventy-two hours. It’s already down to seventy.
How am I going to get the Director to agree?
I type notes on the day, log the security protocols, update my own status. Every six minutes, I look up. Elliot hasn’t moved.
After an hour, I get up, walk to the hallway, and lean against the frame. I listen for breathing. It’s there, fast and shallow.
“Go shower,” I say. No inflection, just instruction.
He hesitates. Then he moves, legs stiff, arms hanging. He walks past me, close enough that I could reach out, break his neck. He knows it. There’s no fear in his body language—only certainty.
The water turns on. The sound is louder than I expect, echoing off the tile. I sit back down, finish my report, and wait.
Twenty-three minutes later, he emerges. He’s wearing a new shirt, two sizes too big. His hair is wet, dripping onto his collar. He’s cleaned the blood from his face, but his lip is split, swelling.
He stands in the middle of the living room, arms at his sides.
I nod at the bedroom. “You can sleep. Door locks from inside.”
He nods back. He moves to the room, but pauses at the threshold.
“Thank you,” he says. The words are raw, like he hasn’t said them in years.
I wait until he’s inside, then listen for the click of the lock.
