Steve Kemp wakes up knowing something is wrong.

Not because of pain. Not because of fear.

Because the room is quiet in a way he didn’t choose.

You sit across from him, calm, still, watching. You don’t rush. You don’t speak right away. You’ve learned what silence does to men like him.

It took you a long time to get here.

You remember running. The burn in your lungs. Noa’s hand gripping yours, pulling you out when you thought you wouldn’t make it. You remember promising yourself you would never be powerless again.

Steve doesn’t recognize you at first.

That’s the best part.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says evenly, testing the waters. His voice is the same one he used before—measured, reasonable. Like control is something he can still reach for.

You stand and slide a folder across the floor toward him.

Then another.

Then another.

They stop at his feet.

His eyes flick down. Names. Dates. Faces.

Not details—just enough.

Steve freezes.

You see it then. The moment the mask cracks.

“You’re not here to hurt me,” he says slowly, recalculating. “You’re here to make a point.”

You smile faintly. “You always liked patterns. I figured you’d appreciate this one.”

You let him sit with it. Let him realize what you’ve become.

“You’re alive,” he says quietly now. Not relief. Surprise.

“I ran,” you reply. “With help. That part must really bother you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You’ve been watching me,” Steve says.