He unlocks the door with a key from his pocket. The hinges creak. The air inside is stale, closed-up, the smell of a space that hasn't been used in months. He hits a switch and a single bare bulb flickers to life overhead, harsh and yellow.
I step inside. He follows. Closes the door. Locks it. Deadbolt, chain, a third lock I don't recognize. His hands move through the motions automatically, muscle memory taking over while the rest of him runs on fumes.
The safehouse is small. Like… way smaller than the apartment I used to stay in.
Two rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen that's really a counter with a hot plate and a mini fridge. The walls are bare concrete, painted white sometime in the last decade but yellowing now. One window in the main room, covered with a heavy blackout curtain. One bed, pushed against the wall. A couch that's seen better days. A table with two chairs.
It's nothing like the compound. No marble, no crystal, no orchids. four walls and a roof and a door that triple locks from the inside.
It's perfect.
He hasn't spoken since we got in the car. Not a word. Just held my hand and stared out the window and breathed in that slow, controlled way that tells me he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.
I watch him now as he moves through the safehouse. Checking corners. Testing the window latch. Opening the bathroom door and scanning inside before closing it again. He's still in tactical mode. Still clearing rooms, assessing threats, running protocols. His body doesn't know the mission is over.
I stand in the middle of the room and let him work. There's nothing I can say that will bring him down faster than his own exhaustion. So I wait.
He finishes his sweep and stops by the window, pulling the curtain aside an inch to scan the street below. The light from outside cuts a thin line across his face. Blood and sweat and something else. Something hollow.
"We're clear," he says. His voice is rough. Scraped raw.
"Okay."
He lets the curtain fall. Turns to face me. And I see it. The tremor in his hands that he's been hiding since the car. The way his jaw is locked so tight the muscle jumps beneath the skin. The wildness in his eyes that hasn't faded, that's still running hot even though the fight is over.
He's not okay. He's very far from okay.
I cross to him slowly. Not rushing. Giving him time to realize that I’m here. I’m okay. I’m alive. It's the way you approach a wounded animal. Careful. Deliberate. Showing your hands.
I stop in front of him. Close enough to touch but not touching yet.
"Hey," I say softly.
He blinks. Focuses on me like he's seeing me for the first time since the rescue. The wildness in his eyes flickers, wavers, and underneath it I see exhaustion so profound it makes my chest ache.
"Hey," he says back.
I reach up and touch his face. My fingers find his jaw, the rough scrape of stubble, the hard line of bone beneath skin. He flinches. barely. A tiny involuntary jerk, like he forgot what gentle contact feels like.
"Let me help you," I say. "Okay?"
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't pull away either.
I start with the vest.
The Kevlar is heavy, heavier than I expected. I find the velcro straps at his sides and pull them loose, one by one, the ripping sound loud in the quiet room. The front plate is cracked down the middle, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from a central impact point. I run my fingers over it and feel the dent where the bullet hit.
Two inches higher and it would have missed the plate entirely. Two inches higher and he'd be dead.
I swallow hard and lift the vest over his head. He helps, raising his arms, ducking through the neck hole. The vest hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Underneath, his shirt is soaked. Sweat and blood, some of it his, most of it not. The fabric is stuck to his skin in places, dried stiff with things I don't want to think about. I grip the hem and pull itup, and he raises his arms again, and the shirt joins the vest on the floor.
The bruise takes my breath away.
It covers most of his chest. Deep purple at the center, fading to red and yellow at the edges, spreading across his sternum like a dark flower blooming under his skin. The impact point is obvious. A circle of black and blue directly over his heart, where the bullet hit the plate and the plate hit him and the only thing between Leone Costa and death was two inches.
I press my hand to it. Flat. Feeling the heat of the bruise, the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.
