Quinn found Paisley in the bathroom.
The door was locked, which already felt wrong. He knocked once, then again, sharper. When she didn’t answer, his chest tightened, and he forced it open.
She sat on the edge of the tub, knees drawn up, eyes distant. Blood dotted the porcelain, small and controlled, like she’d practiced not making a mess. A razor lay on the counter beside her, lined up neatly with the sink.
For a moment, Quinn couldn’t breathe.
“Pais,” he said, keeping his voice low, careful not to startle her. “Hey. Look at me.”
She didn’t at first. When she did, her face folded. Shame came fast, then fear, then the kind of resignation that hurt the most.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, like she was apologizing for existing.
Quinn moved slowly, crouching in front of her. He wrapped a
