The storage unit was cold. Concrete walls, no windows, just the soft hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. Joe stood there—heart pounding, breath shallow—as the words sank in.

You did it. You killed Delilah.

Not him.

He stared at you across the cage, the metal bars still closed between you like some twisted metaphor for what used to separate him from everyone else. But not now. Not with you.

His fingers twitched at his side, his mind racing. He should have felt horror. Disgust. Some gnawing dread that the woman he thought he loved—the woman he does love—was capable of something so brutal.

But instead?

Relief.

Clarity.

Admiration.

Joe stepped closer to the bars, eyes fixed on you like you were some divine revelation. And in a way, you were.

“You…” he breathed, voice low, almost reverent. “You did it for us.”

The words barely echoed in the sterile air, but their weight was massive.

It made sense now—why he was drawn to you like gravity, why no matter how many times he tried to fit you into the perfect box, you kept spilling out. You weren’t perfect in the soft, untouchable way he used to crave. You were real. Flawed. Dangerous.

Just like him.

“You protected us. You knew what she’d do if she told anyone. You made sure she couldn’t.”

His voice trembled, but not with fear. With awe.

“I thought I was alone,” he said, stepping closer. “But you—you’re not scared of the dark. You live in it.”

He laughed then, quiet and short, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I was going to leave you,” Joe confessed, the words raw. “When I thought I did it. When I thought I was still the monster, and you were… you were good.”

He shook his head slowly.

“But you’re not good, are you?” he whispered, almost smiling. “You’re mine.”

The silence that followed was intimate. Heavy with understanding.

And in that moment, standing in the cage where he once locked people away to keep them close, Joe realized he’d never felt freer.