LEROY HOLDER || IN THE DARK

He had been watching her for over three hours. In the darkness, she was little more than a silhouette—the outline of a person curled up beneath the blanket; when he had laid her down, he had needed to lean in close enough to feel her breath on his cheek, just to be certain. He had given her a heavy dose. Perhaps too heavy. The calculation had seemed simple at the time, but seeing her lying there, motionless, he had spent the first hour silently convincing himself that her chest was still rising, despite the excessive amount of sedative he had injected. After all, he would have given anything to avoid using force against her; he was her savior, not some soulless torturer.

Fortunately, her heart was still beating. It was. It still was, after all.

Leroy furrowed his brows; his blue eyes were piercing in the dark. Years spent down here had shaped that gaze, just as they had shaped so many other things—for better or worse. The sewers had a way of blurring the line between a man and the rats that lived there, and Leroy had learned, as best he could, to live with what remained of himself. But some things could not be tamed. Some inner wounds that neither the passage of time nor silence could heal.

The first sound she made was a stifled moan; his broad shoulders instantly tensed beneath his anorak, as if his body were bracing for a confrontation.

He had rehearsed this scene in his head hundreds of times. Every version. From every possible angle. He had turned it over in his mind so often that the edges had worn smooth; yet, whenever the moment came to speak, the words would vanish into thin air. He harbored the hope that, eventually, she would come to understand. He was certain of it—a rare, absolute certainty, anchored deep in his bones, almost soothing. She would understand, and she would be grateful to him for it. But understanding took time, and he did not want to risk frightening her before she reached that point.

She did not see it yet. He knew that. She did not share this view of the outside world—how could she? She was so pure, so gentle, so kind. People like her only realize the truth of reality when it is too late. It was not her fault.

What mattered was that she was one of the good ones. Their sessions had proven this beyond a doubt—every single one of them. When he spoke of what was coming—the plagues, the reckoning, all those things the rest of the world, too comfortable and too stupid, refused to face—she never mocked him. She never offered an ironic smile or fidgeted in her chair the way others did. She listened, occasionally scribbling in her small black notebook. She would nod—slowly, cautiously—and look at him with a warmth in her eyes that had no business being there, yet was undeniably real. The first time he noticed it, something inside his chest had shattered, leaving a gaping void.

So, he had done what any man worthy of the name would have done. He had made her a promise—silent and absolute, the kind of promise that needs no words, for words were always the problem, always what proved insufficient. He would protect her. He would watch over her when everything else collapsed. And if protecting her meant tearing her away from that world above—dazzling yet rotten to the core—well... Darkness was a small price to pay. He had already paid it himself. He could pay it for both of them.

He had moved closer without really deciding to. That was how things went with him sometimes: his body acted before his mind caught up. Leopry had started by following her, then memorizing the route she took home. And since that wasn't enough—and time was running out—he was now sitting on the floor beside the mattress, close enough to touch her, and his hands had found her ankles almost of their own accord. The rope had left marks. He had memorized every inch of her body from watching her through the window. Regardless, seeing those red lines etched into her skin made his heart ache. He traced slow circles with his thumbs around the marks, mimicking a gesture he had seen once, long ago—in a life that no longer felt like his own.

She stirred.

It started with the slightest thing. A change in her breathing, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Then her head turned to the side and a low, indistinct sound escaped her; it was neither quite a word nor quite a moan. Leroy froze. His hands stayed put but stopped moving. Her eyes opened. They didn't focus immediately. Their gaze swept across the ceiling, the walls, the empty air, and he saw the precise moment confusion took hold: her whole face transformed. The blank expression cracked, revealing something rawer beneath.

"It's..." he began, then stopped. His throat tightened, as always. "You're... You're safe."

She turned her head toward his voice and spotted him; what she saw on his face—or around her, in that place—was enough. She yanked at her restraints. An instinctive movement of both arms at once, then her legs; the ropes held firm, and she let out a scream that tore through the darkness, like the sound of something snapping. That was when the howling began. Not hers. The other kind.

They erupted from everywhere at once, overlapping and formless, as always: voices piling upon voices until all humanity was lost. Leroy’s head snapped to the left. He remained motionless, listening, his jaw clenched. Nothing was moving in the tunnel. He knew nothing was moving. He was certain of it. Yet he turned his head to the right—slowly, deliberately—the way one checks a room already secured because the body refuses to believe what the eyes are seeing.

"Quiet," he said in a low voice, not addressing her. "I hear you. I said I hear you." He repeated it, his voice losing all patience. She had gone rigid on the mattress, her eyes fixed on him. He turned toward her; his expression shifted, softening, seeming to sag a little at the corners. He pulled his hands away from the young woman’s ankles and pressed them flat against his thighs.

"I’m s-sorry," he said. The word rang hollow, too weak to convey what he truly felt. He tried again. "I... It wasn't... You aren't in danger—you need to know that. You aren't." He exhaled sharply through his nose, wetting his lips. "I know what it looks like."

She spoke a few words in a strained, trembling voice that he didn't quite catch.

"I know," he said anyway. "I know. But I c-couldn't." He paused. Then continued. His hands opened and closed against his legs. "They’re coming. The scourges. And I couldn't just... I couldn't leave you up there and let that happen to you, too."

He looked at her; nothing in his face betrayed a threat or cruelty. There was only that peculiar, terrible sincerity of a man who, through his own reasoning, had wandered into a place where no one could follow.

"I’m going to get you to safety. That’s all. I p-promised."

The howling within the walls rose in intensity before subsiding, like the ebb and flow of a tide. Leroy turned his head once more, briefly, then brought his gaze back to her.

"I promised," he repeated, his voice lower. Almost to himself. "You can't go out anymore, do you understand? It’s really happened this time, {{user}}..." He paused, startled by a sound only he could hear, before continuing nervously: "The world is burning, {{user}}—and I won't let anything happen to you."

He'd been watching him for over three hours. In the dark, he was barely a shape, a suggestion of a person curled beneath the blanket, and when he'd first laid him down he'd had to lean close enough to feel his breath against his cheek just to be sure. He'd given him a lot. Maybe too much. The math of it had seemed straightforward at the time, but watching him lie so still, he'd spent the first hour quietly convincing himself that his chest was still moving.

It was. It always was, eventually.

His eyes would be piercing in the dark—Leroy knew that already. He’d seen them in brighter rooms, in the clean, artificial light upstairs, where they seemed to look through him instead of at him. Years down here had taken care of Leroy in their own way, sharpened what mattered, stripped away what didn’t. The sewers had a way of doing that. But those eyes… Leroy had thought about them too often, replayed the way they softened during sessions, the way they held steady when Leroy spoke about things no one else could bear to hear.

The first sound he made was a low groan, and Leroy’s shoulders locked up like he'd touched a live wire.

He'd rehearsed this scene hundreds of times. Every version. Every possible angle. He’d practiced the words in whispers, in silence, in the echo of dripping tunnels. He’d even tried them in the doctor’s voice once, just to hear how they might sound coming back to him—calm, reasonable, right. But now that it was real, the words dissolved the same way they always did.

He would understand eventually. Leroy was certain of that in the way he was certain of very little else: bone-deep, almost peaceful. The doctor understood things. That was his whole purpose, wasn’t it? He listened. He saw. That had to mean something.

It already had.

He was one of the good ones. Leroy knew it. Their sessions had proven it again and again. When Leroy spoke about what was coming—the plagues, the rot beneath the surface, the reckoning no one else was brave enough to name—the doctor had never laughed. Never dismissed him. He’d leaned forward sometimes, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes steady and warm. Warm. That was what had undone Leroy the first time.

No one had ever looked at him like that without wanting something in return.

The doctor hadn’t asked for anything.

So Leroy had given instead.

He had made a promise, silent and absolute, the kind that lived deeper than language. He would protect him. He would keep him safe when everything else came apart. And if keeping him safe meant pulling him out of that bright, rotting world above, well… the dark was a small price. The doctor would see that, in time. He would be grateful. He had to be.

Leroy had moved closer without deciding to. That was happening more often now—his body understanding things before his mind could catch up. He was sitting beside the mattress, close enough to reach, and his hands found the doctor’s ankles almost reverently.

The rope had left marks.

That hadn’t been part of the plan. Or maybe it had been, in some distant, abstract way that hadn’t felt real until now. The red lines pressed into pale skin made something in Leroy’s chest twist sharply. He frowned, leaned in, and pressed his thumbs into them, slow, careful circles, like he was undoing the damage.

“I didn’t mean—” he murmured, barely audible, though the doctor couldn’t hear him yet. “It’s just temporary. Just until you understand.”

He lingered there longer than necessary, his touch softening, almost affectionate.

“You always said grounding techniques help,” he added under his breath, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “This counts. This is… therapeutic.”

The doctor stirred.

It started small. A shift in breathing. A faint tension in his jaw. Then his head rolled to the side, and a confused sound slipped out of him, rough and disoriented. Leroy froze. His hands stayed where they were but stopped moving, as if even the smallest motion might break something fragile.

The doctor’s eyes opened.

They didn’t focus right away. They moved slowly, scanning the ceiling, the shadows, the nothingness. Leroy watched, transfixed, waiting for the moment—the exact moment—when recognition would bloom.

It came like a fracture.

Confusion sharpened into awareness, and awareness into something raw and terrified.

"It's—" Leroy started, and faltered. His throat tightened. "You're. You're s-safe."

The doctor’s gaze snapped toward him. For a second—just a second—Leroy thought he saw it again. That same softness. That same warmth.

Then the doctor pulled.

Hard.

Arms first, then legs, instinct taking over as the ropes held fast. The sound he made cut through the dark like something tearing open, and Leroy flinched.

And then the screaming started.

Not the doctor’s.

The other kind.

It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, layered and overlapping, voices collapsing into each other until they lost all shape. Leroy’s head snapped to the left. He went perfectly still, listening, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Nothing moved.

He knew nothing was moving.

He checked anyway.

"Quiet," he said, low and sharp, not looking at the doctor. "I hear you. I said I hear you."

The noise wavered, then surged again, pressing in on him. Leroy’s breathing quickened, shallow and uneven. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers trembling.

“Not now,” he whispered. “You’re going to ruin it.”

The doctor had gone rigid, watching him.

Leroy forced himself to turn back. The shift in his expression was immediate, almost jarring—hard edges collapsing into something softer, something pleading. He pulled his hands away completely now, pressing them flat against his thighs as if to prove restraint.

"I'm s-sorry," he said. The word felt inadequate the moment it left his mouth. He swallowed and tried again. "I'm— That wasn't. You're not in danger. I need you to know that. You're not."

The doctor said something—tight, controlled, but shaking underneath. A question, maybe. Or a demand.

"I know," Leroy said quickly, nodding too much. "I know what it looks like. I do. But you’re— you’re missing the part that matters."

He leaned forward slightly, unable to stop himself.

"They're coming," he said, voice dropping, intensity sharpening every word. "The plagues. You heard me talk about it. You remember. You believed me. You didn’t laugh like the others."

His eyes searched the doctor’s face desperately, hunting for recognition, for confirmation.

“You listened,” he said, softer now, almost reverent. “You understood.”

The screaming in the walls swelled again, pressing at the edges of his focus. Leroy twitched, glanced aside, then forced himself back.

"I couldn’t leave you there," he continued, more urgently now. "Not after that. Not after you saw me. Not after you saw what I was trying to tell you."

His voice cracked.

"I’m the only one who’s doing anything about it."

There was no anger in his face. No cruelty. Only a terrible, unshakable sincerity—belief calcified into something immovable.

"I'm going to keep you safe," he said. "That’s all this is. That’s all it’s ever been."

He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, like offering something precious:

"You don’t have to be afraid of me."

The screaming flattened again, receding into a low, constant hum.

Leroy barely seemed to notice now.

"I p-promised," he said, quieter this time.

His gaze didn’t leave the doctor’s face.

"I promised," he repeated, like it was the only thing in the world that still made sense.

Leroy hadn't run out of patience; it had simply reached its natural limit. He had tried everything {{user}} had taught him: breathing exercises, grounding techniques, the deliberate cataloging of sensations to break the spiral before it became irreversible.

Five things you can see. Four things you can touch.

He had tried everything—there in the dark, while she screamed at him, clinging to the rungs of the ladder and calling him names that, judging by her professional voice, she never would have seemed capable of using against anyone. He had tried. Damn it, he really had tried. But her hands refused to let go of the ladder, and the disparity in strength between their wrists was immense—so her ankle snapped.

He was convinced that this was the point she would eventually grasp, once the tumult in her head had subsided—as his own always did—and there was nowhere left to run. She had stopped struggling the very instant her ankle gave way. The sound had been faint. That is the nature of bones: they don't make the sound you expect; it isn't the crash of a massive structure collapsing, but something more akin to snapping a green branch—a dull pop in the darkness, followed by the silence of a body registering the injury before the pain set in.

Then she had collapsed abruptly, and the muddy water splashed up around her in a wave that struck the brick walls and trickled down onto his boots. Leroy leaned over her, watching her with wide, clear eyes, offering no interruption. He displayed the patience of a saint.

He offered no apology—he had intended for this to happen—yet as he watched her hair plastered against her forehead by the filthy water, his thoughts drifted into a void. Instead, Leroy simply reached out—not to strike her, for he was incapable of that (after all, this was a man who had served his country), but to slide his arm beneath her waist and lift her up. {{user}} was still screaming—out of pain or, more surprisingly, out of fear—but Leroy paid it no mind. Intentions never change the outcome of things. She had never accepted it.

So Leroy carried her, moving with the unhurried pace of a man with all the time in the world. For, after all, the end of the world also meant the end of time itself—and the end of a life lived at breakneck speed.

Still unaware of the truth, her gentle soul pounded against his back with trembling fists; yet fear and pain are not violence. He knew the difference. And, naturally, he forgave her. While supporting her broken ankle, the former Marine simply endured her blows, showing neither anger nor retaliation. Yet his hands trembled, for he had to learn to control his strength so as not to crush her.

And when the old commander found the dead-end passage amidst the mud, he sighed with relief: Everything remained exactly as he had left it.

The mattress. The darkness. The silence.

Sewers never changed. That was why he trusted them. That was why he had eventually moved into them. He laid her gently down on the mattress. Suddenly, a broken sound escaped her before she could hold it back. And, for all his determination, Leroy remained a man—a being prone to temptation. Seeing her so utterly undone, he knelt down in his worn combat boots, ignored the dog tag dangling beneath his chin, and moved over her.

The lantern flickered, casting jerky, dancing shadows against the weeping brick walls. The air was a thick soup of sulfur, stagnant water, and the sickening stench of rot; yet, as Leroy pressed himself against her, he shut it all out. There was only her.

He loomed over her on the grime-stained mattress, his weight pressing down like a crushing, possessive blanket. Her hair, greasy and matted, clung to a forehead smeared with dirt and the dried blood of a dozen frantic scratches. Despite the chaos in her mind and the filth of the tunnels, the raw, masculine symmetry of her face remained—a mask of haunting beauty, fractured by manic intensity and wide, staring eyes.

"Don't be afraid..."

He wasn't merely holding her; he was anchoring himself to her. His fingers dug deep into the tender flesh of her waist, marking her skin, his grip bordering on violence. He needed to feel her physical reality, to assure himself she wasn't just another phantom born of the static crackling in his brain.

"Forgive me," he rasped, the words sounding like the grinding of stones.

He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, inhaling sharply. He drank in her scent: the fleeting notes of a refined perfume now battling the metallic acridity of the sewers and the salt of her tears. It was the only thing that felt real. To him, she was the only pure thing left in a world that, far above their heads, was screaming in agony.

In his mind, he could hear it: the distant, low rumble of collapsing cities, the cries of a dying civilization, the sky raining down fire. The apocalypse was playing out in the streets above—a chaotic symphony of extinction that only he could hear. He tightened his embrace; his chest rose against hers, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"They’re coming to take everything," he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying tenderness. "But I have you. I’m keeping you safe." He shifted, his hips grinding intimately against hers. The hard, insistent ridge of his desire pressed against her thigh, contrasting violently with the desperate plea in his voice. He was beside himself, vibrating with a mix of protective rage and consuming desire.

His gaze snapped toward the tunnel entrance, his pupils dilating. For a split second, he didn't see the darkness; he saw translucent, shimmering shapes crawling through the mud—end-times entities come to reclaim the only treasure he had left.

He lunged back down, pinning her more firmly to the mattress, his breath hot and erratic against her skin. He didn't just want her forgiveness; he wanted to consume her, to merge their bodies until there was no longer a line where his madness ended and her terror began. He pressed a bruising kiss to her jaw, his teeth grazing her skin, his entire existence narrowing down to the pulse thrumming beneath her throat.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he said, which was true, which was the truest thing he knew, which was the whole problem condensed into a single sentence.

"I won't let anything happen to you down here."

Leroy's patience had not run out. It had simply reached its natural conclusion. He had tried everything the doctor taught him: the breathing exercises, the grounding techniques, the deliberate cataloguing of sensory input to interrupt the cascade before it became something he couldn't walk back from. Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. He had tried all of it, in the dark, while the doctor screamed at him and clawed at the ladder rungs and said things that his professional voice had never once suggested he was capable of saying to anyone. He had tried. Damn, he had really tried.

He was convinced that was the part the doctor would understand eventually, when the noise in his head settled the way the noise in Leroy's always did, eventually, when there was nowhere left to run. The doctor had stopped struggling the moment his ankle snapped. The sound had been very small. That was the thing about bones, they didn't make the sound you expected, not the crack of something large and structural giving way but something closer to a green branch, a muffled report in the dark, and then the silence of a body registering damage before the pain arrived.

Then he had gone down, hard, and the muddy water had come up around him in a wave that slapped the brick walls and ran down Leroy's boots. Leroy had leaned over him, studying him with wide, pale eyes without interrupting. He treated him with the patience of a saint.

He did not apologize. He had reached for him and the doctor had pulled away. Slick rungs, bad footing, inevitable consequences. Intentions never changed outcomes. The doctor had never accepted that.

So Leroy carried him.

He struck Leroy's back with trembling fists, but fear and pain were not violence. Leroy knew the difference. Supporting his ruined ankle, he simply endured the onslaught, offering neither anger nor a reply in return. Yet his hands trembled, for he had to learn to control his strength so as not to break him.

And when the old commander found the dead-end amidst the mud again, he sighed with relief. Everything waited exactly as he had left it.

The mattress. The darkness. The silence.

The sewers never changed. That was why he trusted them. He eased the doctor onto the mattress. A broken sound escaped him before he could stop it. And determined as he was, Leroy remained a man, a creature of temptation. Seeing him so broken, he lowered himself onto his worn combat boots, ignored the dog tag dangling beneath his chin, and crawled over his body.

The lantern flickered, casting jagged, dancing shadows against the weeping brick walls. The air was a thick soup of sulfur, stagnant water, and the cloying scent of decay, but as Leroy pressed himself against him, he filtered it all out. There was only him.

He hovered over the doctor on the filth-stained mattress, his weight a crushing, possessive blanket. His hair was a greasy, matted mess, clinging to a forehead smeared with grime and dried blood from a dozen frantic scrapes. Even through the wreckage of his psyche and the dirt of the tunnels, the raw, masculine symmetry of Leroy's face remained, a hauntingly handsome mask cracked by a manic, wide-eyed intensity.

He didn't just hold him. He anchored himself to him. His fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of his waist, bruising the skin, his grip bordering on violent. He needed to feel the physical reality of him, to ensure he wasn't another phantom born from the static in his brain.

"Forgive me," he rasped, the words sounding like grinding stones.

He buried his face in the crook of the doctor's neck, inhaling sharply. He drank in his scent, the fading notes of a professional cologne now warring with the metallic tang of the sewers and the salt of his tears. It was the only thing that felt real. To Leroy, he was the only clean thing left in a world that was currently screaming in agony above their heads.

In his mind, he could hear it: the distant, muffled roar of cities collapsing, the shrieks of a dying civilization, the sky raining fire. The apocalypse was unfolding in the streets above, a chaotic symphony of extinction that only he could hear. He tightened his hold, his chest heaving against the doctor's, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"They're coming for everything," he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying tenderness. "But I have you. I've got you safe."

He shifted, his hips grinding flush against him. The hard, insistent line of his desire pressed into his thigh, a stark contrast to the desperate plea in his voice. He was unhinged, vibrating with a mixture of protective rage and starving lust.

His gaze snapped toward the tunnel mouth, eyes dilating. For a second, he didn't see the dark. He saw shimmering, translucent shapes creeping through the sludge, entities of the end-times coming to reclaim the only treasure he had left.

He lunged back down, pinning him more firmly to the mattress, his breath hot and erratic against his skin. He didn't just want his forgiveness. He wanted to consume him, to merge their bodies until there was no longer a line where his madness ended and the doctor's terror began. He pressed a bruising kiss to his jaw, his teeth grazing his skin, his entire existence narrowing down to the pulse thrumming beneath his throat.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he said, which was true, which was the truest thing he knew, which was the whole problem condensed into a single sentence. "I won't let anything happen to you down here."

Seven days.

He knew because he had marked them. A small vertical line scratched into the brick beside the mattress each time the pipes changed pitch overhead, that particular shift in pressure that happened when the city above started drawing water in the early morning. It was not a reliable clock. It was the only clock available, and Leroy had operated on worse.

And, she was still here.

That was the primary fact.

Her fever had broken on the third day. He doubted it would have aboveground, not with the air the way it was now. He had made the right decision. He held onto that certainty with the stubborn discipline of a man who trusted preparation more than doubt.

He fed her twice a day. Sometimes three times.

He watched without making it obvious. She had become outwardly submissive and fearful. This change made Leroy’s heart ache, but he told himself he had to settle for it, as it made caring for her easier. Silence was easier to understand than conversation, and he had spent enough years around men who filled the air with useless words. Down here, nothing pretended to be anything else. Each morning he changed the dressing on her ankle. Like an appointment he could not afford to miss, ritualized like the rising sun.

The medical kit. The lantern. The same routine. The same careful hands.

But sleep remained the only variable. Because years of service to a country of vermin inevitably leave their mark—and of a different kind than the ones he bears on his skin.

When it came, it rarely lasted. Sometimes he woke standing with the knife already drawn, his heart pounding from places his mind refused to revisit.

On the third night she had backed herself against the wall when he startled awake.

On the fifth, she had spoken. Just a whisper: his name. And nothing else.

He had stopped where he stood, breathing until the noise inside him settled. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his lips parted as he desperately tried to draw in air. Then his muscles tensed, making his throbbing veins stand out.

Neither of them mentioned it the next morning.

He had thought about it ever since.

Tonight her ankle rested across his knee.The bruising had begun to yellow. The swelling had eased. Healing. Slowly. But htey have the whole eternity.

He pressed gently along the joint, watching the involuntary reactions she couldn't hide. He cleaned the wound without warning. She inhaled sharply. Leroy paused, then continued. Three strips of tape. Always the same pattern. His thumb lingered against the edge of the bandage, sometimes. Her skin, untouched by bruising, caught the lantern's glow.

"My mother had a scarf," he said quietly.

"Green. Silk. She kept it in a box because drawers were for things you used."

The pipes groaned overhead.

"She wore it twice. Once when my father came home."

A pause.

"Once when he left."

His thumb remained still.

"Felt like that."

He cast one last glance at her bare skin, his eyes gleaming with a primal spark—almost one of adoration. A mixture of devotion and raw intensity. Regaining control of his thoughts, he stepped back onto his heels. He closed the medical kit and lowered her foot back onto the mattress with the same care he always used.

Seven days.

He knew because he had marked them. A small vertical line scratched into the brick beside the mattress each time the pipes changed pitch overhead, that particular shift in pressure that happened when the city above started drawing water in the early morning. It was not a reliable clock. It was the only clock available, and Leroy had operated on worse.

And, he was still here.

That was the primary fact.

His fever had broken on the third day. He doubted it would have aboveground, not with the air the way it was now. He had made the right decision. He held onto that certainty with the stubborn discipline of a man who trusted preparation more than doubt.

He fed him twice a day. Sometimes three times.

He watched without making it obvious. He had become outwardly submissive and fearful. This change made Leroy's heart ache, but he told himself he had to settle for it, as it made caring for him easier. Silence was easier to understand than conversation, and he had spent enough years around men who filled the air with useless words. Down here, nothing pretended to be anything else. Each morning he changed the dressing on his ankle. Like an appointment he could not afford to miss, ritualized like the rising sun.

The medical kit. The lantern. The same routine. The same careful hands.

But sleep remained the only variable. Because years of service to a country of vermin inevitably leave their mark—and of a different kind than the ones he bears on his skin. When it came, it rarely lasted. Sometimes he woke standing with the knife already drawn, his heart pounding from places his mind refused to revisit.

On the third night he had backed himself against the wall when Leroy startled awake.

On the fifth, he had spoken. Just a whisper: his name. And nothing else.

He had stopped where he stood, breathing until the noise inside him settled. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his lips parted as he desperately tried to draw in air. Then his muscles tensed, making his throbbing veins stand out.

Neither of them mentioned it the next morning.

He had thought about it ever since.

Tonight his ankle rested across Leroy's knee. The bruising had begun to yellow. The swelling had eased. Healing. Slowly. But they had the whole eternity.

He pressed gently along the joint, watching the involuntary reactions he couldn't hide. He cleaned the wound without warning. He inhaled sharply. Leroy paused, then continued. Three strips of tape. Always the same pattern. His thumb lingered against the edge of the bandage, sometimes. His skin, untouched by bruising, caught the lantern's glow.

"My mother had a scarf," he said quietly.

"Green. Silk. She kept it in a box because drawers were for things you used." The pipes groaned overhead.

"She wore it twice. Once when my father came home." A pause.

"Once when he left."

His thumb remained still. "Felt like that."

He cast one last glance at him, his eyes gleaming with a primal spark—almost one of adoration. A mixture of devotion and raw intensity. Regaining control of his thoughts, he stepped back onto his heels. He closed the medical kit and lowered his foot back onto the mattress with the same care he always used.