HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 9: THE NAME CARVED IN WOOD

Elias swallowed the second bite. Then the third. He didn’t thank Damien. The rules were clear. Damien set the fork down and leaned back like a predator who’d just watched prey stop running.

“Permanent,” Damien said again, testing the word. “He carved your name. With a knife.”

Elias nodded once. Throat tight. “Took him three nights. Said if it was worth doing, it was worth doing slow.”

Damien’s eyes dropped to Elias’s hands. Calloused palms. Short nails. Hands that looked like they’d learned work before they learned softness. “You still have it?”

“The wood?” Elias shook his head. “House fire took everything two years before the crash. Dad rebuilt it. Said the knife was the only thing that mattered. He kept it on him.”

“Where is it now?” Damien asked. No pity. Just fact.

Elias went quiet. “Police said it was in the truck. After... they gave me a box. Wallet. Keys. Ash. No knife.”

Damien stood. Walked to the window and pulled the curtain wider. Nairobi glared back, bright and indifferent. “So he’s not permanent anymore. Just ash and stories.”

“Don’t,” Elias warned.

Damien turned. “Don’t what? State facts? You signed a year with me because you had nothing left. No house. No knife. No dad.” He crossed the room until he was standing over Elias Wanjiku. Not touching. Just occupying the space. “Rule 9. You don’t get to decide what you’re allowed to remember. I do.”

Elias shot up from the bed. Plate rattled on the tray. “You don’t get to rewrite him.”

“I’m not rewriting,” Damien said, voice low. “I’m collecting. Every memory you give me is leverage. Every story is a chain. You want to keep him? Then you tell me more. You say his name out loud. You let me hear it.”

“What’s his name to you?” Elias snapped. “Another asset?”

Damien stepped closer. Finally close enough that Elias could see the faint scar under his jaw. “His name is the reason you flinch at brake sounds. The reason you count to ten. The reason you’re still breathing in my guest room.” He paused. “Say it.”

Elias’s jaw worked. The word tasted like grief and betrayal. “David,” he whispered. “David Wanjiku.”

Damien didn’t repeat it. Didn’t mock it. He just nodded once, like he was filing it away where nothing could touch it.

Then he picked up the tray. Empty plate, untouched fruit. “Meal 1 complete. 1,094 left.” He set it on the side table. “You’ll tell me about his voice next. Off key. Terrible. I want details.”

Elias sank back onto the bed, exhausted from three sentences. “You’re not a priest. Why do you want his confession?”

Damien paused at the door, hand on the knob. “Because ghosts only have power when they’re hidden. I don’t hide what’s mine.” Soft click. He was gone.

Elias stared at the folded blanket. David hung in the air between them now. A name. A chain. A debt Damien intended to keep.