The guard steps aside.
Our eyes meet for half a second and I see that fury again, blazing behind brown eyes I don't recognize.
Then I'm past him. Down the hallway. Moving on autopilot because my brain has stopped processing and my hands are screaming and the only thing left in my head is a single, desperate imperative:get away.
Find somewhere to break.
I make it to a spare bedroom. Into the bathroom. The lock clicks behind me and my legs finally surrender, dropping me to cold tile.
I don't know how long I stay crumpled on that floor.
Long enough for my hands to stop bleeding. Long enough for tears to dry into salt tracks on my cheeks. Long enough for rage to fade back into the numbness I've learned to survive inside.
I'm about to stand when I hear it.
Footsteps coming from just outside the door.
And heavy breathing, ragged like someone is fighting for control.
Ewan.
I freeze, not moving an inch as I listen to the footsteps pace. Three steps one way. Three steps back. Over and over, like whoever's out there can't decide whether to stay or go.
Then, a soft thud. A fist against the wall.
I brace for the door to splinter open. For hands to drag me out and finish what the glass started.
Instead, a whisper. So quiet I almost miss it.
"Je vais le tuer pour ça."
The pacing stops. The breathing steadies. Then there is nothing. Silence stretching so long I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.
I wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full five minutes of holding my breath before I finally unlock the door.
The hallway is empty.
I must have imagined it. My broken mind conjuring voices in languages I barely remember. Inventing comfort where none exists.
I close the door and press my forehead against the wood, eyes squeezed shut.
But I can still hear it.
Je vais le tuer pour ça.
TWENTY
TRISTAN
The blood under my nails isn't mine.
I know this. I watched it get there.
Watched it seep into the creases of my knuckles while I knelt on cold marble and cleaned up the mess he made of her.
But I keep scrubbing anyway.
The water eventually runs clear, but I don't stop. Soap under each nail. Between every finger. Across the lines of my palms like I can erase what they failed to do.
