HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 10: OFF-KEY

The door opened again an hour later. No tray this time. Just Damien with two mugs. Coffee in one, water in the other. He didn’t ask which Elias wanted. Set the coffee on the side table and kept the water.

“Rule 10,” Damien said, sitting back in the chair from last night. “You talk until I tell you to stop.”

Elias pulled the blanket higher. Still warm. Still a problem. “About what. You already got his name.”

“His voice,” Damien said. “Off key. Terrible. Your words. I want the song.”

Elias looked at the wall. At the floor. Anywhere but Damien’s face. “It’s stupid.”

“Rule 3,” Damien reminded him. “No lying. If it was stupid, you wouldn’t remember it.”

The room went quiet except for Nairobi outside and the faint tick of a clock Elias hadn’t noticed before. He sighed, gave in before the fight even started.

“He used to sing while he worked. Always the same one. Some old radio tune from when he was young. He’d hit every note wrong. Like violently wrong. I’d hide in my room and cringe. But he sang louder if he thought I was listening.”

Damien leaned forward. Elbows on knees. “Sing it.”

“No.”

“Rule 9,” Damien said, calm as steel. “You don’t get to decide.”

Elias glared. “You want me to humiliate him?”

“I want you to keep him alive,” Damien said. “Ghosts die in silence. Sing.”

Elias closed his eyes. Took a breath. Then, barely above a whisper, he mangled the melody just like David used to. Three lines. Off key. Violently wrong. His voice cracked on the last word.

When he opened his eyes, Damien hadn’t moved. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t mocked. He just lifted the water and set it in Elias’s hands.

“Again,” Damien said softly. “Louder this time. So the room hears him too.”

Elias stared at the water. At the man who counted debts and breaths and now forced him to carry a tune. He hated Damien for it. Hated that it felt like being held together.

He sang again. Louder. Still terrible. Still his dad.

Damien watched him the whole time. Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, jaw tightening. A company call. He answered on speaker without leaving the chair.

“Damien,” a voice crackled. “We need someone on the Westlands project.”

Damien didn’t blink. “Take care of it,” he said. Flat. Final.

A pause. Then the voice again, more careful this time. “Is Mr. Elias there?”

Damien’s eyes stayed locked on Elias. “Baby is right here.”

Elias froze. Coffee mug halfway to his lips. The word dropped like a stone in still water.

He set the mug down before his hand shook it to the floor. “Did you just address me as baby in front of your workers?”

Damien took the mug from him, set it aside. “Rule 8,” he said like nothing happened. “No wasting food I pay for. Drink.

Outside, Nairobi moved on. Inside, Elias had 1,094 meals left. And a new title he didn’t ask for: MINE AND BABY.