Not with weapons. With touch.
His thumbs press along the volunteer’s upper spine in slow, deliberate lines. The kid’s shoulders drop fraction by fraction, tight muscles unspooling under the steady pressure.
“Breathe,” Flavius says softly. “In through the nose. Out the mouth. Let the exhale pull the tightness out with it.”
The volunteer obeys. I can see the change in his posture even from several feet away.
“Good,” Flavius murmurs. “Your body knows how to fix itself. Sometimes it just needs reminder.”
Something in my chest squeezes.
This is the third time I’ve seen him do it this week. Word is spreading quietly—if your back hurts, if your shoulders feel like stone, go let Flavius do that thing he does.
He’s taken to calling it bodywork.
I call it evidence that the future is already unfolding in front of us.
The volunteer catches sight of me and flushes, as if being caught receiving kindness is somehow embarrassing. He thanks Flavius in a rush and hops to his feet with an experimental roll of his shoulders.
“Better?” Flavius asks.
“Yeah,” the young man says, eyes wide. “Way better. Thanks, man.”
Flavius nods once. No flourish. No show. Just quiet satisfaction.
When the volunteer disappears around the corner, Flavius looks up properly.
Our gazes meet.
I don’t have to say anything. My face must be telling the whole story.
His body goes very still.
I cross the space between us in nineteen steps. My brain counts them because it can’t not.
He turns toward me as I approach, searching my expression like it’s a map.
“Sophia,” he says quietly. “Tell me.”
I hold the words in my mouth for one second, letting myself feel them before I give them voice.
“They believed me,” I say. My voice cracks on the second word. “The Office of Research Integrity. They… upheld the complaint.”
Something bright and dangerous flashes through his eyes—relief, pride, fury on my behalf, all braided together.
“What did they say?” he asks.
“That she misappropriated my work,” I answer, the clinical phrase tasting unexpectedly satisfying. “That the model is mine. That my name goes first.” I swallow. “They’re forcing a correction. And an apology.”
He exhales as though a long-held burden has finally lifted.
“Good,” he says. Simply. Deeply. “Very good.Bene.”
I laugh once—short, breathless. “They cited my documentation,” I add. “Every note. Every timestamp. They said my records matched the institutional files down to the day.” I look at him.“All those sessions I typed up the moment I got back to my cabin. That’s what did it.”
He tilts his head, that small, crooked, almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “You documented everything. Every session. Every word. Every time” His mouth curves. “I always said your notes were a weapon.”
I make a small, helpless noise. “Thank you,” I say. “Again. Still. For standing with me in this.”
