"You're safe," I say. "You're in my apartment. No one is going to hurt you."
"You hurt people." His voice is small. "You hurt that man."
"Yes."
"You could hurt me."
"I won't."
"How do I know that?"
I don't have an answer. Nothing I say will erase what he saw, what he heard, what he now understands about the thing that's been protecting him.
So I don't use words.
I press my lips to the back of his neck. Soft. Brief. A point of contact that has nothing to do with violence.
He goes rigid against me. Every muscle locks.
"What are you doing?" he whispers.
"I don't know." The honesty surprises me. "Tell me to stop and I will."
He's quiet for a long moment. I feel his pulse gradually slow, his body gradually soften against mine.
"Don't stop," he says.
I kiss his neck again. Longer this time. My lips drag across his skin, trace the line of his spine, settle in the hollow behind his ear.
He shivers. Not from fear.
"Jace." My name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—I can't stop thinking about—"
"What do you need?"
"Make it go away." He turns in my arms, faces me. His eyes are wild, wet, pleading. "The memories. The hands. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. I need you to—" He swallows. "Replace it. Give me something else to feel."
I understand what he's asking. The psychology is simple: overwrite trauma with new sensation. Use the body to reset the mind.
It's a valid therapeutic technique. I've seen it used in Foundry reconditioning, though the applications there were considerably less consensual.
"Do you know what you’re asking?" I ask.
"No." He laughs, hollow and desperate. "Yes. I don’t know. But I know I can't keep living in that basement. I can't keep feeling his hands every time I try to sleep." He reaches up, touches my face. His fingers are trembling. "Your hands are different. You're different. Even when you're terrifying, you're—" He stops. Tries again. "You don't lie about what you are. Moore smiled while he hurt me. You don't smile at all."
I process this. File it. Calculate the risks and benefits.
The calculation takes 0.3 seconds.
"Tell me to stop," I say, "and I stop. Immediately. No questions. No consequences. Do you understand?"
He nods.
"Say it."
"If I say stop, you stop."
"Good." I roll him onto his back, settle my weight over him. Pin his wrists above his head with one hand. "Now tell me what you need."
