Caleb pulled the visitor's chair to the edge of Elizabeth's bed. The metal legs scraped against the tile, a harsh sound in the humming quiet, and he settled into the cold frame, his body screaming with the effort of the short walk from the hallway. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers still, and he watched her face—the pale skin, the chapped lips, the dark crescents beneath her closed eyes.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant low thrum that pressed against the silence. The heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm, each beat a small reassurance that she was still here, still alive, still breathing. He focused on the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin hospital blanket, counting the seconds between each breath, letting the rhythm anchor him.

His body was a wreck. The stroke had carved a canyon through him, leaving him weak, his thoughts slow and sticky, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. The doctors had warned him—no stress, no exertion, no exertion—but he had walked here anyway, down the corridor, past the nurses' station, into this room, because she was here and she had looked at him with hate in her eyes and said she had chosen another man.

But that wasn't right. That wasn't her. He knew it now, sitting here, watching the flutter of her eyelids, the twitch of her fingers against the sheet. The woman who had looked at him with serene certainty in the shed, who had said she loved Nicolas, who had called herself his wife—that woman wasn't Elizabeth. That was a ghost wearing her face.

The rage was still there, coiled in his gut, hot and patient. But it had no target yet. It sat in him like a held breath, waiting.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and studied her face. The bruises were fading, yellowing at the edges, but they still told a story he could read in the dark. A thumbprint on her jaw. A welt rising on her cheekbone. The split in her lower lip, healing now, a thin scab that caught the light. He had seen her body in the shed, the welts crossing her back, the broken rib, the way she curled into herself when he pulled her from the cage.

And she had smiled at him. She had said she loved the man who did this.

His jaw tightened. The rage flickered, searching for purchase.

Her fingers twitched again. A small sound escaped her lips, a breath that was almost a word, and he stilled, watching, waiting for her eyes to open. But they stayed closed, her breathing evening out, and he settled back into the chair, the cold metal pressing against his bare skin.

She was his. She had been his since the moment she walked into his shop, since the moment she knelt beside him in the kitchen, since the moment she called him Master and meant it. And some man had taken her, broken her, drugged her into loving him.

The door opened.

He didn't turn. He knew the footsteps, the crisp rhythm of a doctor's stride, the rustle of a white coat.

"Caleb."

Nathalie's voice was careful, measured. He looked up. She stood in the doorway, a manila folder in one hand, her face unreadable. Her blonde hair was pulled back, her hazel eyes fixed on him with the steady gaze of someone who had seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"She's still sedated," Nathalie said, stepping into the room. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click. "The psychiatric hold is in place. Security is posted outside."

He nodded. "What did you find?"

She crossed to the bedside, her white coat catching the fluorescent light, and held out the folder. He took it, his fingers brushing hers, and opened it. The words blurred in front of him—medical terminology, lab results, blood panels—but one line jumped out, sharp and clear.

High concentration of hallucinogens detected.

He read it again. Then a third time.

"Hallucinogens," he said, the word flat, empty.

"A synthetic cocktail," Nathalie said, her voice precise, clinical. "Designed to distort perception, break down will, and create intense attachment to the person the subject sees after administration. It's used in some forms of chemical conditioning. Experimental. Illegal." She paused, tapping the chart. "She wasn't choosing him, Caleb. She was drugged into it."

The words landed like blows. He stared at the lab report, the numbers and abbreviations swimming in front of him, and felt something crack open in his chest. The rage, the betrayal, the hollow ache of watching her smile at another man and say she loved him—it all shifted, re-formed, took a new shape.

She hadn't left him. She hadn't chosen the monster. She had been dragged into hell and forced to call it home.

"How long?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "How long does it last?"

"The acute effects should clear within a few hours. She's been off the drug for at least a day, based on the metabolites. The confusion, the attachment conditioning—that will fade as the drug leaves her system. She'll remember everything. The cage. The beatings. What she said to you." Nathalie's voice softened, just barely. "She'll need support. She'll need to know she didn't betray you."

Caleb closed the folder. He set it on the bedside table, his hand lingering on the cover, and turned back to Elizabeth. Her face was still, peaceful in a way that didn't match the bruises, the welts, the horror of what she had endured.

"She told me she hated me," he said, the words falling out before he could stop them. "In the hallway. Before they took her to the exam room. She looked at me like I was nothing."

Nathalie was quiet for a long moment. "She was still under the influence. The drug makes you hostile to anyone who threatens the attachment. You pulled her from the cage. You were a threat to the reality the drug had built for her."

He nodded slowly, the logic settling into him, cold and clear. She hadn't meant it. The hate, the rejection, the choice to stay with the monster—none of it was real. It was chemistry. It was a poison injected into her blood to turn her into something she wasn't.

The rage found its target.

Nicolas.

The man who had taken her, beaten her, broken her, drugged her into loving him. The man who had called her his wife. The man who would come back to the shed and find her gone.

Caleb's hands curled into fists on his thighs. The weakness in his body didn't matter. The stroke, the amnesia, the slow recovery—none of it mattered. He was going to find Nicolas, and he was going to make him pay for every welt, every bruise, every tear she had shed.

"Caleb." Nathalie's voice cut through the red haze. "You're still recovering. You can't—"

"I can." He looked up at her, his grey eyes hard. "I will."

She held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, her jaw tight. "I can't stop you. But I'm telling you, as your doctor, that if you push yourself too hard, you will die. The hole in your heart is closed, but the damage from the mercury is still there. Your body needs rest."

"Rest." He almost laughed. "She was in a cage for eleven days. She was beaten. She was drugged. And you want me to rest."

"I want you to survive long enough to kill him."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and honest. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the steel beneath the doctor's calm. She wasn't trying to stop him. She was trying to make sure he lived to do it.

He nodded once. "I hear you."

It wasn't a promise. They both knew it.

Nathalie turned to check Elizabeth's vitals, her fingers gentle on the woman's wrist, her eyes scanning the monitor. "Her heart rate is stable. The sedation will wear off in the next hour or so. She'll be confused, disoriented. She'll need to see a familiar face first."

"I'll be here."

"Good." Nathalie pulled the blanket up, tucking it around Elizabeth's shoulders. "I'll be at the nurses' station if you need me."

She left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

Caleb was alone with Elizabeth again.

The silence settled back into the room, thicker now, heavier. He watched her face, the flutter of her eyelids, the twitch of her lips. She was dreaming, he realized. Or remembering. He didn't know which was worse.

He reached out, his hand hovering over hers, not quite touching. Her fingers were pale against the white sheet, the nails chipped, the skin raw at the knuckles. She had fought. She had fought hard, before the drug took her, before she was forced to surrender.

His hand closed over hers. Gently. Carefully.

Her fingers twitched. A small sound escaped her lips, a breath that was almost a word, and her eyelids fluttered, the movement visible even in the dim light.

He held still, watching, waiting.

Her breathing changed, deepening, quickening. Her fingers curled around his, a reflex, a instinct, and her eyes opened.

They were cloudy, unfocused, swimming in confusion. She blinked, slow and heavy, trying to find something to anchor herself to. Her gaze drifted across the ceiling, the walls, the machines—and then it found his face.

The confusion cleared. The fog lifted. And something in her eyes cracked open, raw and desperate and achingly familiar.

"Caleb?"

Her voice was a ruin. Hoarse, scraped raw, barely carrying past her lips. But it was her voice—not the serene stranger who had smiled at him from the cage, not the hollow thing that had said she loved another man. This was Elizabeth, really Elizabeth, and the sound of his name on her tongue hit him like a blade between the ribs.

He leaned forward, his hand tightening around hers. "I'm here."

Her eyes searched his face, frantic, hungry, like she was trying to memorize him. Tears spilled over her lashes, tracking down her temples, disappearing into her hair. She tried to sit up, her body jerking against the bed, and he rose, one hand on her shoulder, easing her back down.

"Easy," he said. "Easy. You're safe. You're at the hospital."

"Hospital." The word came out broken, a sob wrapped in a question. She blinked, her gaze darting around the room, taking in the machines, the IV, the pale walls. "How—how long—"

"Eleven days." He said it flatly, letting the number land. "He had you for eleven days."

Her face crumpled. The tears came faster, her breath hitching, and she turned her head away, her hand flying to her mouth. A sound escaped her, high and thin, the kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper than the throat.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just held her hand and let her break.

The monitor beeped, steady and relentless. The fluorescent lights hummed. And Elizabeth cried, her shoulders shaking, her body curling into itself as the memories crashed over her—the cage, the belt, the gravel, the voice that told her she loved him until she believed it.

Minutes passed. Or hours. He lost track.

When her sobs quieted, when her breathing began to even out, she turned her head back to him. Her eyes were red, swollen, raw. But they were clear. Clear in a way they hadn't been since he pulled her from the shed.

"I remember," she whispered. "I remember everything."

He waited.

"The cage. The gravel. The belt." Her voice cracked on the last word, but she pushed through. "He made me say it. Over and over. That I loved him. That I was his wife. Every time I stopped, he—" She stopped, her throat working. "He hit me again."

Caleb's jaw tightened. The rage flickered in his chest, hot and bright, but he held it in check. She needed him steady. She needed him present. The rage could wait.

"I didn't want it," she said, and her voice broke on the words, splintering into something raw and desperate. "I didn't want any of it. I fought. I fought so hard. But he kept—he kept—"

"I know." His voice was low, rough. "I know, Elizabeth."

Her hand found his, gripping with a strength that surprised him. Her fingers were cold, trembling, but they held on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.

"I told you I hated you," she said, the words spilling out, urgent, frantic. "In the hallway. I remember. I said it and I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't mean it, he made me—"

"I know." He squeezed her hand, cutting off the spiral. "Nathalie told me. The drug. It made you hostile to anyone who threatened what he'd built in your head."

She stared at him, her eyes searching his face, looking for the lie, the crack, the place where he would pull away. He held her gaze, steady, unflinching.

"You came for me," she said, and it wasn't a question, but she said it like she needed to hear it out loud. "You found me."

"Sarah found you. The photographs. The traffic-cam still." He shook his head. "I was in a coma. I didn't know—"

"But you came."

He nodded.

She closed her eyes, her grip on his hand loosening slightly. A long, shuddering breath escaped her, and when she opened her eyes again, there was something new in them. Something harder. Something that matched the cold thing living in his chest.

"He's still out there," she said.

"Yes."

"He thinks I'm still his."

"He'll go back to the shed." Caleb's voice was flat, certain. "He'll find the cage empty. And he'll come looking for you."

Her lips parted. A flicker of fear crossed her face, there and gone. "You're going to kill him."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She was quiet for a long moment. The monitor beeped. The lights hummed. Her fingers traced slow circles on the back of his hand, a motion she probably didn't realize she was making.

"I want to be there," she said.

He blinked. "No."

"Caleb—"

"No." He leaned forward, his grey eyes holding hers. "You're not going anywhere near him. You're going to stay here, under Nathalie's care, until I come back. And I am coming back."

"You don't know that." Her voice was sharp, cutting. "You don't know what he's capable of. I do. I spent eleven days learning exactly what he's capable of."

"That's why you're not coming."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

"I'm not losing you again."

The words landed. He watched them hit, watched the fight drain out of her, watched her shoulders slump against the pillow. She turned her face away, but not before he saw the tears sliding down her cheeks again.

"I was so scared," she whispered. "Every second. I was so scared I was going to die in that cage, and no one would ever know what happened to me."

He rose from the chair, the metal scraping against the tile, and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she turned to look at him, her eyes wide, her breath catching.

He reached out. His hand found her cheek, cupping it gently, his thumb brushing the tear track on her skin. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing, a small, broken sound escaping her lips.

"I'm not going to let that happen," he said, his voice low, steady. "You're mine, Elizabeth. You've been mine since the day I walked into your shop. And I don't let go of what's mine."

She opened her eyes. The tears were still there, but something else too—a spark, a flicker, the first sign of the woman he knew.

"Promise me," she said. "Promise me you'll come back."

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. Her breath was warm against his lips, her skin soft beneath his palm.

"I promise."

Caleb held her forehead against his for another long moment, breathing her in—the antiseptic smell of the hospital clinging to her skin, the faint warmth of her, the tremble in her shoulders that she was trying to hide. He pulled back slowly, his hand still cupping her cheek, and met her eyes.

"I'll be back before you wake up," he said. "Rest. Let Nathalie take care of you."

Elizabeth's hand caught his wrist before he could stand. Her grip was weak, her fingers trembling, but the look in her eyes was steel. "Don't underestimate him."

"I won't."

"He's not stupid, Caleb. He planned this. The cameras, the timing, the drug—he planned all of it before he ever touched me." Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. "He's patient. He's careful. And he likes to watch."

He nodded once, the information settling into place. "Then I'll be patient too."

He rose from the bed, the mattress releasing him, and stood looking down at her. The bruises on her face were darker in this light, the yellow-green edges spreading like a map of everything she had endured. He wanted to stay. He wanted to climb into the bed beside her and hold her until the shaking stopped and the nightmares faded. But Nicolas was out there, and every minute Caleb spent in this room was a minute the man could use to disappear.

He turned and walked to the door. His hand found the handle, the metal cold beneath his fingers, and he paused.

"Elizabeth."

"Yes?"

"When I come back—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. He didn't know how to finish that sentence. When I come back, we'll talk. When I come back, I'll hold you. When I come back, I'll kill the man who did this to you. All of them were true. None of them were enough.

She answered anyway. "I know."

He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The fluorescent lights were harsher here, the white walls pressing in from all sides. A security guard sat in a chair outside the door, a heavyset man with a bored expression and a holstered sidearm. He looked up as Caleb emerged, his eyes tracking the younger man's movements with practiced disinterest.

"Don't let anyone in except Nathalie," Caleb said. "If someone claims to be family, check with her first."

The guard nodded. "Yes, sir."

Caleb walked down the corridor, his bare feet silent on the linoleum. He was still naked, he realized dimly—he had been naked since the hospital, since the chaos of the rescue, since someone had thrown a sheet over him and he had shrugged it off because he couldn't stand the feeling of fabric against his skin. The nurses had given him looks. He hadn't cared.

The exit doors swung open at his approach, the night air hitting him like a wall. Cool and damp, carrying the smell of rain and asphalt. He walked to the parking lot, his body aching with every step, the weakness in his legs a constant reminder of what the mercury had done to him.

He found Maggie's car where they had left it, a dark sedan tucked between two SUVs. The keys were still in the ignition. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cold against his bare skin, and started the engine.

The drive to the house took twenty minutes. He spent them in silence, his hands gripping the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The streetlights passed in a steady rhythm, casting shadows that shifted and stretched across the dashboard. He thought about Nicolas. He thought about the cage. He thought about Elizabeth's voice, raw and broken, saying I remember everything.

The rage was still there, coiled and patient, but it had changed. It was no longer a wildfire, burning through him without direction. It was a blade now, cold and sharp, waiting for the moment it would be needed.

He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.

The house was dark. No lights in the windows, no movement behind the curtains. Sarah and Maggie would still be at the shed, waiting for Nicolas to return, watching the gravel path and the rusted door. They had probably tried to call him. He had left his phone at the hospital.

He climbed out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath his bare feet, and walked to the front door. His hand found the knob, and he paused. Something was wrong. He could feel it, a prickle at the base of his skull, a shift in the air that didn't belong.

The door was unlocked.

He had locked it before he left. He was certain of it.

He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning in the silence. The living room was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen, a faint glow spilling through the doorway. He stepped inside, his bare feet silent on the hardwood, and let the door swing shut behind him.

And then he saw him.

Nicolas sat in the armchair by the window, the one Caleb always sat in when he wanted to watch the street. His legs were crossed, his hands resting on his knees, his posture relaxed and easy, like a man waiting for a friend to arrive. He had dark hair, dark eyes, an average build that would disappear in a crowd. His face was unremarkable—the kind of face you passed on the street and forgot a second later.

But his eyes. His eyes were wrong. They were flat, empty, the eyes of a man who had turned off whatever made him human a long time ago.

Caleb stopped in the center of the living room. His heart was pounding, his body screaming at him to move, to attack, to close the distance and wrap his hands around the man's throat. But something held him back. Something in the way Nicolas sat, the way he watched, the way he didn't flinch or reach for a weapon.

He was waiting.

And Caleb wanted to know why.

"You found me," Nicolas said. His voice was calm, almost pleasant, the voice of a man discussing the weather. "I have to admit, I didn't expect it. Not this fast."

Caleb didn't answer. He stood in the dark, his hands loose at his sides, his grey eyes fixed on the man who had taken Elizabeth.

Nicolas tilted his head, studying him. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Caleb's voice came out flat, empty, matching the man's calm.

"Someone bigger. More imposing." Nicolas gestured vaguely with one hand. "You're just a kid. What are you, nineteen? Twenty?"

"Old enough to know what you did."

"I'm sure you do." Nicolas leaned back in the chair, his hands settling on his knees. "She told you everything, I imagine. The cage. The belt. The drugs." He said it like he was listing groceries, his voice carrying no shame, no guilt, no heat. "She was strong, your Elizabeth. Stronger than I expected. Way too stubborn for her own good."

The rage flickered, hot and bright, but Caleb held it in check. "That's why you used the drugs."

"Of course." Nicolas smiled, a small, thin thing that didn't reach his eyes. "You can't break someone like that with pain alone. Pain makes them fight harder. Pain makes them dig in. But drugs—" He shook his head, almost admiring. "Drugs take away the choice. They take away the fight. They make the cage feel like home."

Caleb's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. But he didn't move. He stood in the dark and listened, because something in Nicolas's voice, in his posture, in the way he talked about Elizabeth like she was a project, a puzzle he had solved—something in it demanded attention.

A silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Nicolas watched him, his flat eyes unblinking, and Caleb watched back, the two of them suspended in the dark like predators circling each other in a clearing.

"Sit down," Nicolas said. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Caleb didn't move. "Why are you here?"

"To talk."

"Talk."

"Yes." Nicolas gestured to the couch across from him. "Sit. I'm not armed. I'm not going to attack you. If I wanted you dead, you would have died in that hospital bed."

The words hung in the air, cold and matter-of-fact. Caleb felt them land, felt the implication settle into his chest like a stone. The mercury. The IV line. The twenty-minute window.

"You poisoned me."

"I did." Nicolas said it without hesitation, without apology. "Not to kill you. If I wanted you dead, I would have used a larger dose. The mercury was meant to slow you down, keep you out of the way while I worked on Elizabeth. I needed time to break her properly, and I knew you'd come looking for her eventually."

Caleb's vision blurred at the edges. The rage surged, hot and violent, demanding action. But he held it in check, his body trembling with the effort. "You almost killed me."

"Yes. The dosage was miscalculated. I'll admit that." Nicolas tilted his head, his expression unchanged. "But you survived. Which means you're either very lucky or very stubborn. I'm betting on stubborn."

Another silence. Caleb's breath came slow and deep, his hands trembling at his sides. He should kill him. He should cross the room and wrap his hands around the man's throat and squeeze until the light went out of those flat, dead eyes. Elizabeth was in a hospital bed because of this man. Elizabeth had been broken, beaten, drugged, because of this man.

But he didn't move.

Because something in Nicolas's voice, in his stillness, in the way he talked about the worst things Caleb had ever heard like they were chess moves in a game long since finished—something in it held him in place.

He crossed to the couch and sat down.

The cushions creaked beneath his weight. He sat on the edge, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. Across from him, Nicolas watched with that same flat, unreadable gaze.

"Why?" Caleb asked. The word came out rough, scraped raw. "Why Elizabeth? Why me?"

Nicolas was quiet for a long moment. His fingers drummed once on his knee, a brief, restless motion, and then stilled. "I saw you," he said. "At the shop. I saw the way you moved, the way you looked at the equipment, the way you talked to her." He nodded toward the hallway, toward the shop that existed in another life. "You knew what you were doing. You knew exactly what you wanted and how to get it. There aren't many men like that."

Caleb watched him, waiting.

"I saw you as a rival," Nicolas continued, his voice carrying the same flat calm, the same casual detachment. "A competitor. Someone who understood what I understood—that some people are meant to be owned, and some people are meant to own them. You had built something here. A house. A collection. A life where you were in control."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, mirroring Caleb's posture without seeming to realize it. "And I wanted to take it from you. I wanted to bring you down. Not because I hated you. Not because you had wronged me. But because you were the only person I'd ever seen who was playing the same game I was."

The words landed like blows, but not the kind Caleb expected. They weren't accusations. They weren't threats. They were confessions, laid bare in the dark, stripped of all pretense.

"I took Elizabeth," Nicolas said, "because she was the one you loved. Not the ones you owned. The one you actually loved. I could see it in the way you looked at her, the way you touched her, the way you let her call you by your name instead of 'Master.' She was the thing that made you human. And I wanted to see if I could break that."

Caleb's hands tightened on his knees. The rage was still there, hot and patient, but it had settled into something deeper now, something that sat in his bones and waited. "And could you?"

Nicolas smiled, a thin, knowing thing. "No."

The answer hung between them, simple and absolute.

"I broke her body," Nicolas said. "I broke her will. I drugged her into loving me, into calling me her husband, into believing that the cage was home. But the moment you showed up, the moment you pulled her out of that cage, something in her remembered. Something in her chose you, even through the fog of the drugs, even through the conditioning." He shook his head slowly. "You can't manufacture that. You can't drug someone into real love. You can only drug them into believing they feel it."

Caleb stared at him. The man had taken Elizabeth. The man had beaten her, broken her, drugged her into a waking nightmare. And now he sat in Caleb's living room, calm as a summer evening, dissecting his own failure like a scientist examining a failed experiment.

"You're insane," Caleb said. The words came out flat, empty, a statement of fact rather than an accusation.

Nicolas considered this. "Maybe. Or maybe I just see the world differently than you do. Maybe I see the game board instead of the pieces."

"You talk about her like she was a project."

"She was." Nicolas said it without apology. "And I failed. That's why I'm here. To see the man who succeeded. To understand what I missed."

Caleb's jaw tightened. "You came here to study me."

"In a way." Nicolas leaned back in the chair, his hands resting on the armrests. "I could have run. I could have disappeared, changed my name, started over in another city. But I wanted to meet you first. I wanted to look at the man who built what I couldn't break and see what made him different."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and strange. Two predators in the dark, circling each other with words instead of claws.

"She hated me at the end," Nicolas said, almost idly. "Before the drugs, before the conditioning, she hated me with everything she had. And I respected that. I respected the fight in her." He looked at Caleb, his dark eyes unreadable. "You chose well."

Caleb's hands curled into fists. "You don't get to compliment her. You don't get to talk about her like she was a game you played and lost."

Nicolas's smile widened, just slightly. "And yet here I am. Talking. And you're listening."

The words hit home. Caleb felt them land, felt the truth in them, and hated himself for it.

He should kill him. He should cross the room and wrap his hands around the man's throat and squeeze until the light went out of those flat, dead eyes. Elizabeth was in a hospital bed because of this man. Elizabeth had been broken, beaten, drugged, because of this man. And here he was, sitting across from him, talking like they were old friends.

But he couldn't move.

Because Nicolas was right. There was something familiar in the way he talked, the way he watched, the way he saw the world as a game board and the people in it as pieces. It was a mirror, distorted and dark, but a mirror nonetheless. And Caleb couldn't look away.

Nicolas rose from the chair, slow and easy, his hands open at his sides. Caleb tensed, ready to move, but the man made no aggressive motion. He simply stood, looking down at Caleb with that same flat, unreadable gaze.

"You're going to kill me," Nicolas said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"I thought so." He straightened his shirt, a casual motion, almost bored. "I'd prefer you didn't. I think we have more to learn from each other. But I understand that's not how this works."

He walked toward the door, his footsteps slow and unhurried. Caleb watched him go, his body frozen, his hands still curled into fists.

Nicolas paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. He looked back over his shoulder, his dark eyes catching the faint light from the kitchen. "I'll be at the shed tomorrow night. If you want to finish this, you know where to find me."

He stepped out into the night, and the door swung shut behind him.

Caleb sat alone in the dark living room, his heart pounding, his breath coming slow and shallow. The rage was still there, burning in his chest, but it had changed. It was quieter now. Sharper. It had a face and a voice and a name, and it would wait.

He sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the silence, thinking about everything Nicolas had said. About rivals. About games. About the thing that made him human.

He thought about Elizabeth.

And he thought about tomorrow night.