And underneath all of that, underneath all the carnage still him. Citrus and wood and leather, clean and sharp, the exact scent I pressed my face into the pillow trying to find, the one I convinced myself I'd imagined and inflated and built up into something that couldn't survive contact with reality.
I didn't imagine it.
His hands are shaking.
The hands that just snapped a man's neck. The elegant, capable, piano-playing, bone-breaking hands of Elio Marchetti are trembling against my back as he holds me tight.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, which might actually be true at this point, thanks three weeks of the world's worst diet, and drapes his jacket over my shoulders. Still warm. Still him.
I burrow into it like it can swallow me whole, closing my eyes.
Except I don't keep them closed, because my brain is a beast of its own and it demands data even now. Especially now.
The hallway is a slaughter.
Bodies slumped against walls. Spent casings across the floor like the world's most fucked-up confetti. A wall blown wide open, rebar twisted outward, wires sparking in the gap. Fluorescent lights mostly dead. The ones still working flicker and buzz in that sick half-light I'll associate with this place for the rest of my life, however long or short that turns out to be.
I don't look at the faces.
I look up instead. Ceiling tiles. Missing ceiling tiles. Grey-gold sky through the breach. Real sky, the first I've seen in what feels like a lifetime.
I count doorways to keep myself from thinking about what's between them.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Count his steps. Steady. Even. Boots crunching on debris. Plaster, glass, things I'm not going to think about.
Doors are being forced open as voices rise behind each one, women's voices, Italian and Romanian and languages I don't know, spilling out into the corridor.
How many of us were there?
Don't think about that right now.
I press harder into Elio's neck and count his heartbeats instead.
"Matt." His name comes out before I can stop it, muffled against Elio's neck. "He was here he was taken into a room where they ra?—"
Elio doesn't slow as his grip tightens and his jaw sets against the top of my head.
"The others too," I press. "We can't leave them here."
"We're not going to," he murmurs into my hair before he shifts his weighed looking back at one of his men. "Take them. Everyone we can find."
Real light hits my face
Gray-gold morning. Not fluorescent, not flickering, not processed through concrete,actual dawn, actual sky, actual air that isn't filtered through suffering and fear. The brightness almost hurts, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced in my entire life. I'm crying again, which is getting really old really fast, but apparently my tear ducts missed the memo about maintaining composure.
Cold air stings my exposed skin. But it's good cold. Clean cold.
Free cold.
The first breath tastes like smoke and something green underneath. Grass, maybe. Or trees. Or just the earth itself, still growing, completely indifferent to what happened inside these walls. The world beyond them never stopped.
Tears stream down my cheeks. Silent now. Warm against the cold air. I don't wipe them. My hands are still fisted in Elio's shirt and I'm not letting go. Not yet. Not for a while. Possibly not ever.
From another exit, supported by two men in tactical gear, Matt stumbles into the dawn. His face is swollen, his wrists raw. He squints against the light like he forgot the sun existed.
Then he sees me. In Elio's arms. Wrapped in Elio's jacket. Face pressed to Elio's neck.
