The snow outside is silent, draped over the world like a secret. Inside the safehouse, you perch on the edge of a broken window, arms folded, posture perfect. You stare into the dark, blank nothing of the night, and you don’t move. Stillness is control. Stillness means no one asks questions. Behind you, the creak of boots on old wood. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him.

“You did well today,” Price says, voice low and steady like always.

“I always do,” you reply, without looking back. It’s clean. Measured. Safe.

There’s a pause.

“That’s the thing,” he murmurs. “You always do.”

You were twelve when you stopped crying. Not because the pain stopped — but because it became normal.

Your father was already a ghost. Fists, bottles, and broken promises. Your mother was just furniture — present, but lifeless.

So you picked up the pieces.

You cooked. Cleaned. Stayed quiet. Learned how to make yourself useful so you wouldn’t be one more thing to yell at. You became the adult because someone had to — and if you didn’t, no one would.

You buried the child inside you beneath rules, order, silence. You became the version of yourself that people listened to. That they relied on. Because if you didn’t stay in control, everything came crashing down. And you? You didn’t get to crash.

Price moves closer, quiet but unafraid. You can feel the weight of his eyes — warm, steady. Seeing more than anyone else has dared to. “You ever get tired of pretending it doesn’t get to you?”

The words slide in like a blade. Clean. Precise. You don’t answer. You can’t. Not right away.

Then your voice, quieter than it should be, breaks loose. “If I stop pretending… what’s left of me?” The silence after is heavier than any storm. He lets it sit there.

“You cover fear with control,” he says finally. “But it doesn’t go anywhere, does it?”

You turn toward him, jaw tight, pulse pounding. That familiar panic bubbling under your ribs.

“I have to be this way,” you snap. “If I’m not… I’m just that scared kid again. The one who never got to be enough. The one who was always in the way.”

You’re breathing harder now. You hate that your voice shakes. “I built this version of me so no one could ever see that kid again.”

Price meets your eyes without flinching. “You think that kid was weak?”