I don’t go into their room.

I stand outside it for three days straight, leaning against the wall across from the door like I belong there, like I’m part of the furniture. Like if I don’t move, nothing else bad can happen.

The hospital smells wrong. Too clean. Too sterile. It reminds me of blood scrubbed away too thoroughly, of things people pretend never happened.

They wake up a day later. I know because I hear it—muffled crying, the kind that punches straight through my chest. Their Mum goes in first. Then their Papa. Then Ava. One after the other. I don’t follow.

I hear everything anyway.

They don’t stop crying. Not when they’re hugged, not when Remi shows up making threats he can’t follow through on, not when the girls sneak snacks and line up movies like this is just another sleepover. There’s an ache in their voice that doesn’t fade, no matter how many people surround them.

I recognise it.

That hollow, animal hurt that never really leaves. The kind you get when the world teaches you early that you’re disposable.

They make a police report.

I stay outside while it happens, jaw locked so hard it aches. Their Papa cries with them the first night. I hear his voice break when he apologises for not knowing, for not protecting them. I hear promises about Jonah. About justice.

About Zayn.

They don’t know what I did. Not officially.

But they know.

I know they remember the sound—the wet, gurgling choke when Zayn tried to breathe through a throat that no longer worked. I know they felt the blood on their back, warm and slick, soaking through their clothes. I know they understand what that meant.

I didn’t hesitate.

I would do it again.

Zayn wasn’t human. He was a rot that spread quietly, drugging people into silence, leaving bodies that still breathed but weren’t whole anymore. People like him don’t deserve trials or mercy or clean endings. They deserve fear. Pain. Finality.

I gave him that.

Ilya handles the rest. He always does. The shelter turns up spotless. Footage gone. A dead man erased like he never existed.

They spend three days under observation. Concussion watch. Doctors talking in calm voices like this is routine. Like pain can be measured in charts and discharge times.

Tomorrow, they’ll leave.

I don’t move from my post.

Ilya comes once. Answers their questions honestly—about the tracker on their phone, about how we knew where to find them. They don’t look surprised. That hurts more than it should.

They keep staring at the door.

Annika tells them I’m outside. Always outside.

She’s not wrong.

Their Papa sees me every time he steps in or out. That’s intentional. If he wants to hate me, fine. If he wants to hit me, I won’t stop him. But I won’t hide.

I just won’t go in.

Because if I do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands from shaking. Or my voice from breaking. Or my mouth from telling them exactly how close I came to losing them.

Some part of me thinks it’s better this way. That they need space to breathe, to think, to heal without me looming over them like a reminder of violence.

Another part of me is furious.

I’m not used to not being wanted.

Tonight, the hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

The door opens.

I straighten immediately, senses snapping sharp—and there they are, slipping out barefoot, eyes tired but burning with something that looks like resolve.

“What are you doing out here?” I snap before I can stop myself. “Go back inside.”

They freeze.

Then they turn.

And the punch hits anyway.

They look smaller in the hospital lighting. Fragile. Alive. My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts to breathe. I’m in jeans and a black T‑shirt I haven’t changed out of, arms crossed like that can hold me together. My hair’s a mess. I feel it. I don’t care.

Their eyes meet mine.

I’m right where their Papa can see me. Right where I want to be.

And the way their expression sharpens—anger flashing through exhaustion—I know I’ve screwed up.

Good.

Maybe now we can stop pretending.