Just like that.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
Something inside me snaps.
I move.
Fast.
The cry tears out of me before I can stop it as I rush forward, my hands reaching for him—for my father—like I can pull him back.
“Papa—”
His eyes fly open.
I freeze.
A sharp gasp rips from my chest as I stumble closer, my hands flying to his face, to the blood soaking through his hair, his temple. It’s warm. Too warm.
“Papa?”
For a second, I think I’m imagining it. That grief has already broken something in me.
But then—he moves. Violently.
His body jerks upright, a harsh breath dragging into his lungs like he’s been underwater too long. His hand clamps around my wrist with brutal force, dragging me closer.
Alive.
He’s alive.
“Papa!” Relief crashes into me so hard it almost buckles my knees. “Come with me—I’ll get you out, we’ll—”
“????!”
The word cuts through me like a blade.
Silence.
His voice is sharp. Commanding. Not a father’s comfort—a leader’s order.
He rips his hand from mine only to grab me again, harder this time, his grip unyielding as he pulls me toward the door.
“You will come with me,” he says, each word strained but absolute. “You cannot stay.”
“Papa—”
“No.”
There’s no room for argument.
Not in his tone. Not in his eyes.
Only urgency.
Only fear.
Not for himself.
