At that moment, Oliver stood.
The motion was slow and deliberate, each stage of it measured and final - the straightening of his knees, the shift of his weight, the adjustment of his posture as he rose to his full height and turned away from where Lovi was still kneeling on the concrete, sobbing into his own hands.
He began walking toward the exit.
Not quickly. Not with any visible urgency. Just walking, his footsteps echoing through the warehouse with the steady, unhurried rhythm of someone whose work in this space was finished and who saw no reason to remain any longer.
And the moment Lovi registered that Oliver was leaving - the moment his brain processed through the haze of tears and terror that the one person in this warehouse whose mercy might have meant something was walking away - he lost whatever remained of his ability to restrain himself.
