Serena:
The floor creaked when I moved.
That was all it took.
Nico’s eyes snapped to mine from where he leaned against the kitchen doorframe—shoulder bruised, shirt torn, blood still drying in a streak down his ribs. He hadn’t said a word since we got back. None of us had. The safehouse was too quiet. Like the silence that follows a bomb blast. Not peace. Just the space where grief and fury decided who got the final word.
“I need to clean that,” I said.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
I crossed the room slowly, every step an invitation or a dare—I wasn’t sure which. My pulse thudded louder than the thunder had. My fingers curled around the first-aid kit, though it felt stupidly small in my hands, like trying to fix a hurricane with gauze.
Still, I opened it.
And final
