I am alone.
My hands fall from my face. I am trembling, my whole body shaking with a violent, silent tremor. I stare at the empty space where he stood. Cassian Kostas. The brother.
The initial shock begins to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. My mission has changed. It is no longer enough toescape. To survive, I have to understand. I have to knowwhy.The answer is locked inside him, the key is the name I now possess. It’s a piece of leverage. It’s a weapon.
I need to be smart. I need to be strategic.
The shower shuts off. I shove the phone back onto the sofa cushion, my heart hammering against my ribs. He emerges a few minutes later, a towel slung low on his hips. He moves to the kitchen, gets a bottle of water then retrieves a pair of dark sweatpants and a t-shirt from a dresser, pulling them on. He thinks he’s in control, he thinks he’s managing me.
He sits in a chair across from the sofa, a book in his hands, pretending to read. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. An hour passes. The sun begins to set, painting the loft in shades of orange and blood red. I remain a statue of a broken girl.
Finally he sighs, a sound of quiet frustration. He puts the book down and rises. He walks over to the coffee table, picks up the untouched bottle of water, and then he does something I don’t expect; he crouches in front of me again.
He is so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. His face, now level with mine, is a study in cruel perfection. It’s the face of a fallen god from one of his homeland’s myths, all sharp lines and brutal beauty. High cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, a jawline that looks sharp enough to cut glass. Every line and plane of his face is sculpted with a classical Hellenic precision, as if a master carved him from marble. But there is no life in the stone, only a cold, ruthless perfection. He is a statue of a god of war, beautiful to behold, but built only for destruction. The architect of my nightmare is a masterpiece of form, and the paradox of it makes my stomach turn.
“You need to drink something,” he says, his voice a low murmur. He thinks this is kindness, he thinks this is care.
I look into his dark eyes, eyes that are a mirror of the smiling boy in the obituary, and I finally use my key. My voice is quiet. A fragile, trembling thing, but the words are a blade.
“Your brother,” I begin.
His body goes rigid. The mask of gentle concern evaporates. His eyes narrow to slits.
I take a breath, my heart pounding in my ears. This is it.
“Leonidas,” I say, the name feeling heavy and dangerous on my tongue. “What was he like?”
The reaction is instantaneous and volcanic. It’s not just shock. It’s a complete system failure. His hand, the one holding the water bottle goes slack and it drops to the floor, rolling away unnoticed. All the color drains from his face, leaving behind a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. His control, the one thing that defines him, shatters into a million pieces.
“What did you say?” he breathes, his voice a raw, strangled whisper.
“Leonidas Kostas,” I repeat, my own voice gaining a sliver of strength. “Your brother. I want to know what he was like.”
He launches to his feet as if he’s been electrocuted, his chair scraping violently against the concrete floor. “How do you know that name?” he roars, the sound echoing in the vast space. It’s not a question; it’s an accusation. His face is a terrifying canvas of rage and violation.
“I looked it up,” I say, my voice shaking but my gaze holding his. “The crash. I looked up the other victim.”
“Liar!” he snarls, taking a step toward me. “Who have you been talking to? Who told you that name?”
He’s advancing on me, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He thinks I have an outside contact. He thinks his prison has been breached. His rage isn’t just about the name; it’s about his loss of control.
“Nobody told me anything,” I say, pressing myself back into the sofa.
“Then how?” he demands, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. He’s standing over me now, his shadow swallowing me whole.
He’s too close. I’ve pushed too far, but I can’t back down now.
“The note,” I whisper, the admission hanging in the air between us. “The one you left on the map in the folder. ‘Leo. Icarus.’”
His face goes blank. The rage vanishes, replaced by a look of such profound, naked exposure that it’s like watching a man have his skin peeled off. He stumbles back a step, as if I’ve physically struck him. He looks at me, then around the loft at the cage he’s built, and he seems to see it for the first time. He sees the madness of it all, reflected in my eyes.
He can’t handle it. The exposure is too much. With a guttural roar of pure, undiluted agony, he turns and punches the concrete wall. The sound is a sickening crack of bone and plaster. He doesn’t even seem to notice.
He whirls around, his eyes wild with a pain I have no name for. He looks at me one last time, his chest heaving. Then he turns and storms toward the door. He grabs a set of keys from a bowl on the counter, wrenches the heavy steel door open, and slams it shut behind him.
The deadbolt, which he had always locked from the inside, remains open.
I am alone.
