Stack. Destroy. Stack. Destroy.
I knew that pattern. I'd lived it.
Diego's relatives drifted through the house speaking rapid Spanish I couldn't follow. Florica had gray hair and broad shoulders and hadn't asked a single question when we'd shown up covered in blood with eight sedated children. Andrei was upstairs right now with Rafael, doing things I couldn't let myself think about.
"Eat something."
Diego materialized beside me with a plate of bread and cheese. My stomach turned over.
"No."
"Lorenzo—"
"I said no."
He set the plate down anyway, squeezing it between embroidered pillows and framed family photos on the cluttered coffee table. Icons stared down from the walls, dark-eyed saints in gold leaf watching my spiral. A crocheted blanket in deep reds draped over the couch. Everything in this house was warm, lived-in, and safe.
Rafael was upstairs dying, and these people had crocheted blankets.
"He's going to be okay," Diego said.
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I took three steps from the window to the archway, turned, then took six steps back. The loose floorboard by the window groaned under my weight.
"You don't know that."
"Andrei is good. Best field surgeon I know."
"His face was torn open." The words tasted like ash. "There was so much blood. I couldn't—"
Diego's mouth opened, then closed.
In the corner, Eight's tower went up again, block by block, her blonde hair falling in her face. The number eight on her shoulder blade showed through the borrowed t-shirt someone had given her. It was too big. She was nine years old, and someone had tattooed a number on her like cattle.
Her fist came down. Blocks scattered. One hit the wall with a sharp crack.
Jasper's glare could have melted steel.
I'd lost count of how many loops I'd made. The floorboards betrayed me every time, creaking at the window and groaning by the archway. Back and forth. Back and forth. If I stopped moving, I’d have to scream.
Andrei appeared in the archway with a blood-stained towel in his hands. His glasses had fallen down his nose, but he looked too tired to notice. The towel was soaked red. Too much red. He kept wiping his hands, scrubbing between his fingers like he could wash away what he'd just done upstairs.
"Well?" I demanded.
Andrei looked at me. His hands kept moving, kept wiping, and the silence stretched until I couldn't breathe.
"He's alive."
The floor dropped out from under me. My hand shot out, gripping the back of the couch so hard the wood frame dug into my palm. Alive! Rafael was alive.
"Barely." Andrei tossed the towel into the trash. "We gave him donor blood. Two units. He'll be weak for a while. Needs time to recover."
"But he's alive." I needed to hear it again, needed the words to be real.
"Yes." Andrei's expression remained neutral. "The eye is gone. The damage was too extensive. I did what I could to clean the wound, prevent infection, but there's no saving it."
"Can I see him?"
Andrei frowned. “Maybe I wasn’t clear. He’s resting. The damage was extensive. He might not want you to see him like this.”
