"She’s important to you," he says. "What happened to her is fucked up and it’s the least we could do."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from spilling out all the bittersweet emotions bubbling up.
We walk in together. Sign in, clip badges, take the elevator to the third floor. Bane beside me with the folder under his arm, looking like a man who does this every day—visits hospitals, sets up apartments, arranges security for nineteen-year-old down-on-their-luck girls he's hardly met.
Room 356. The door is open halfway.
Wren is in the bed by the window. Hospital gown, thin blanket, dark hair washed and tucked behind her ears. She's smaller than her voice through the wall suggested. Than I remember. Split lip closed. Bruises fading to yellow-green. An IV in the back of her hand.
She looks up. Sees me. Her whole face opens.
"Max."
"Hey." I pull the chair to her bedside. "Wren, this is Bane."
Bane steps forward. He doesn't extend his hand—reads the room, reads her, knows that a large man reaching toward a girl in a hospital bed is a gesture that needs to be offered, not imposed. Instead he sets the folder on the bedside table.
"We spoke on the loading dock," he says. Voice gentle.
Wren's brow furrows. Her eyes move over his face—searching, pulling at something half-submerged. "You gave me a card," she says slowly. "On the stretcher. I remember your hands. They were bleeding."
"Yeah." Bane glances at his knuckles. The scabs are gone now but the skin is still pink and new. "That was me. I brought some things for you."
He walks her through it. The apartment—photos on his phone, swiping through rooms she's never seen. The account, the amount, her own card. The security detail—a woman named Reeves, former military, who will be available but invisible. He explains it all slowly and clearly.
Wren listens. Her eyes get wider with each detail. By the time he finishes, her hands are gripping the blanket edge so hard her knuckles are white.
"I can't accept this," she whispers. "This is too much. I can't—"
"It's already done." Bane pockets his phone. "The lease is signed. The account is active. Reeves starts tomorrow." Hepauses. "You don't owe anyone anything for this, Wren. Not me. Not Max. Not anyone. It's yours. No strings."
Wren's chin trembles. She looks at me. I nod.
"He means it," I say. "The Graves don't do strings. They do..." I search for the word. "Thorough."
Bane's mouth twitches. He straightens up. Buttons his jacket—the mask going back on.
"I'll be in the car," he says. To me. His hand finds my shoulder—squeezes once, warm, brief. "Take your time. Call me when you're ready."
He nods to Wren. She watches him leave with an expression I recognize because I've worn it.
The door clicks shut behind him.
"Max." Wren's voice is barely there. "Who is he?"
"My stepbrother." The word sounds wrong. Sounds right. Sounds like a container too small for what it's holding. "One of them. He was in the facility with me. He volunteered to come in—traded himself so I wouldn't be alone."
She stares at me. "He walked into that place on purpose?"
"Yeah."
"For you?"
"Yeah."
She processes this. I watch her turn it over, checking for the catch.
"There's no catch," I say, because I know what she's looking for. "I looked too. I don’t think there is one."
