The apartment felt too quiet after that.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Just… watchful.
As if the walls themselves had learned how to listen.
I stood near him for a long moment after my last words, still aware of the bond pulsing deep inside my chest, slow and steady, like it had accepted something before the rest of me had fully caught up.
Let them watch.
I had meant it.
At least, I thought I had.
Now, standing in the aftermath of another impossible night, with shattered glass glittering across the floor and the city still pretending to be normal beyond the broken window, I wasn't sure if that had been courage…
or exhaustion.
He didn't move.
Didn't step closer.
Didn't step away.
But I could feel the shift in him anyway.
The bond was making that harder to ignore now.
Every silence had shape.
Every pause had meaning.
Every inch of distance—or lack of it—felt louder than words.
"You should leave this place before dawn," he said at last.
I blinked.
The words struck with surprising force.
"Leave?"
"Yes."
I frowned immediately.
"Why?"
His gaze shifted toward the broken hallway.
"Because they now understand too much."
A chill slid down my spine.
"That sounds dramatic."
"It is accurate."
I let out a quiet breath, rubbing my hand against my arm as though that might ease the sudden cold settling under my skin.
"You said they wouldn't attack directly again."
"They will not."
"Then why do I have to leave?"
"Because direct force is no longer their preferred strategy."
That answer sat badly with me.
Too much like everything else he said when the truth was worse than the words he used to carry it.
"What strategy, then?" I asked.
His expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
"Isolation."
The word landed heavily.
I stared at him.
"You mean they'll try to separate us."
"Yes."
The bond pulsed once in my chest.
Sharp.
Immediate.
As if it understood the threat better than I did.
I crossed my arms tightly.
"And leaving somehow fixes that?"
"No."
"Then what's the point?"
A pause.
Then—
"Movement creates uncertainty."
That made me frown harder.
"So your plan is to keep moving until they can't predict us."
"For now."
I exhaled through my nose.
"That sounds suspiciously like another temporary answer."
"It is."
Of course it was.
I turned away, pacing a few steps through what remained of my living room, stepping around the worst of the broken glass.
My apartment was a mess.
My life was worse.
And now he was telling me I had to leave the only place that still vaguely belonged to the old version of me.
I hated how much that hurt.
"This was my home," I said quietly, more to myself than to him.
Silence answered me for a second.
Then—
"I know."
I turned at that.
Really turned.
Because there was something in the way he said it that made me stop.
Not indifference.
Not practical detachment.
Something else.
Something almost careful.
And that made everything worse.
"Do you?" I asked softly.
His gaze held mine.
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
But it didn't feel empty.
It felt like something fragile neither of us was willing to touch directly.
I looked away first.
Of course I did.
Because if I kept meeting his gaze like that, I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be able to pretend this was still simple.
It wasn't.
It hadn't been simple for a long time.
Maybe it had never been.
"I can't just disappear before sunrise," I said finally, forcing my voice back into something steadier. "I need clothes. Things. My phone. My documents."
"You will take what is necessary."
I gave him a tired look.
"You really have no emotional attachment to normal life, do you?"
"No."
"That was rhetorical."
"I am aware."
Despite everything, a weak laugh almost escaped me.
Almost.
Then the bond shifted.
Not violently.
Just enough.
A low pull under my ribs.
A warning.
My head turned instinctively toward the bedroom.
The air there felt different.
Wrong.
Did he feel that too?
"Yes," he said before I could ask.
I hated how much we were getting used to that.
To this.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A test."
That word again.
Everything was a test now.
Everything was pressure and response and hidden things waiting to see what broke first.
I stepped toward the bedroom without thinking.
He was in front of me instantly.
Not rough.
Not sudden enough to frighten me.
But immediate.
A barrier.
A refusal.
"No."
I lifted my chin.
"It's my room."
"And they know that."
I stared at him.
For one reckless second, irritation won over fear.
"So what, I'm supposed to just let them take over my apartment one room at a time?"
His gaze darkened slightly.
"You are supposed to survive long enough to be angry about it later."
That answer might have been infuriating if it hadn't also made awful sense.
I pressed my lips together and stepped back.
Fine.
I hated that he was probably right.
Again.
The silence stretched, but only for a moment.
Then—
My phone lit up on the table.
The sound made me jump.
Not because it was loud.
Because it was normal.
And nothing normal had felt safe in a long time.
I looked at it.
Unknown number.
My stomach tightened.
He noticed.
"Do not answer."
That only made me look harder.
The phone kept ringing.
Then stopped.
A message came in immediately after.
No preview.
Just the notification.
Another one.
Then another.
Three in a row.
My pulse quickened.
"What if it matters?"
"It does."
I looked at him sharply.
"Then why am I not allowed to see it?"
"Because it matters to them."
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
The phone buzzed again.
This time longer.
More insistent.
I hated this.
Hated the way even the simplest things had become loaded with danger.
I moved toward the table anyway.
The bond reacted immediately—tightening, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me that even this choice had consequences.
"Do not touch it," he said.
"I need to know."
"No."
"I'm not a child."
"No."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
God, he was infuriating.
I stared at the phone.
Then at him.
Then back again.
And suddenly I realized what they were doing.
Not trying to get me physically.
Not this time.
Trying to make me resist him.
Trying to turn every instinct of independence into a fracture they could widen.
A smaller choice.
A quieter one.
But maybe more dangerous than the obvious attacks.
The phone vibrated again.
This time the screen lit fully.
A message preview appeared before I could stop myself from reading it.
Lúcia, where are you?
My breath caught.
No.
No, no, no.
That was my mother's name at the top of the screen.
Except—
No.
I had already learned that lesson.
I looked at him slowly.
He was already watching me.
Not the phone.
Me.
Waiting to see what I would do.
Because he understood it too.
This was the test.
This was the kind of separation they wanted.
Not dramatic.
Not forceful.
Just enough to turn uncertainty into distance.
If I questioned him, they won.
If I believed the screen, they won.
If I chose the wrong kind of hope—
they won.
My hand trembled slightly at my side.
"I hate this," I whispered.
"Yes."
"I hate that they know exactly what to use."
"Yes."
Another vibration.
Another message.
Answer me.
Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them.
Not because I believed it.
Because it was cruel.
Cruel enough to make the old ache in me open up all over again.
I closed my eyes for one second.
Just one.
Then opened them and stepped away from the table.
The bond eased.
Only slightly.
But enough to tell me I had made the right choice.
His gaze didn't soften.
He didn't comfort me.
He just stayed there.
Solid.
Certain.
Real.
And for some reason, that was what got me through it.
"It's not her," I said, more to myself than to him.
"No."
"But they want me to doubt that."
"Yes."
I let out a shaky breath and wiped at my face before the tears could fully fall.
"Good. Then I won't give them that."
The bond pulsed once.
Deep.
Approving.
Something in his expression changed—not softened, not exactly, but sharpened in a different way.
As if that answer mattered more than it should have.
"We leave in ten minutes," he said.
I nodded once.
"Fine."
Then, before I could stop myself, I asked—
"Where are we going?"
A pause.
Then—
"Somewhere that still belongs to me."
That answer settled strangely in my chest.
Not because it was reassuring.
Because it wasn't.
But because of the way he said it.
Like he was giving me more than a location.
Like this next step mattered in a way I hadn't fully understood yet.
I looked around the apartment one last time.
At the broken window.
At the cracked hallway.
At the space where my old life had finally stopped pretending it still fit around me.
Then I looked back at him.
At the one thing in all of this that still felt dangerous and certain at the same time.
And I understood what the creatures wanted now.
Not just distance.
Not just doubt.
They wanted movement in the wrong direction.
One wrong choice at the right moment.
One quiet fracture.
One separation long enough for the bond to weaken.
Long enough for them to get inside whatever was changing in me.
And for the first time—
I felt something harder than fear.
Resolve.
Because if they wanted distance…
then I would make the exact opposite choice.
I picked up my bag from the chair, ignoring the phone still glowing uselessly on the table.
When I straightened, he was watching me again.
Not questioning.
Not warning.
Just watching.
"I'm ready," I said.
The words were simple.
But they carried more than they should have.
Because what I was really saying was—
I know what they want.
And I am not giving it to them.
His gaze held mine for one long second.
Then—
"Good."
The bond settled deep inside my chest as he moved toward the door.
Not because this was safe.
Not because I trusted what came next.
But because I knew one thing with absolute certainty now:
Whatever waited outside was dangerous.
But so was the distance they wanted between us.
And I was done helping them create it.