“Yes.”
“And the twins.”
“Yes.”
There it is. The hierarchy I cannot stop circling. My father’s death didn’t move Alessandro far enough. My danger did.
That should make me feel valued. It makes me feel sick.
Because value arrives too late, wearing blood on its shoes.
“I hate that it worked,” I say.
Teresa’s hands pause over a folded sheet. “What worked?”
“Him choosing.”
The room goes still. Or perhaps I do.
“I wanted him to choose before. For my father. For the code he claims matters. For truth. For justice. For literally any principle that didn’t require my body becoming relevant.” The words come out sharper now. “But he didn’t,” I continue. “He chose Dante. Then he chose me. And the second choice did what the first one should have done.”
Teresa looks at me. “You’re allowed to hate the order of things.”
“I’m developing quite a talent for it.”
“Yes.”
She smooths the sheet once more, then lets it fall into place. The room settles with it. Order restored where nothing required restoring.
I watch her hands. The efficiency. The lack of hesitation. Teresa doesn’t ask what a room is for. She makes it usable. That’s the difference between surviving a system and living inside it.
“I can’t undo it,” I say.
“No.”
“I can’t make it mine.”
“No.”
“I can’t fix the order it happened in.”
“No.”
Three closed doors. Cleanly shut.
Good. That leaves fewer variables.
I look around the room again. Really look this time, not as a map of exits or a container of risk, but as a space I occupy.
Temporary. That’s how I’ve treated it. From the first night. Even after I refused the exit. Even after I stayed. Even after I knew I wasn’t leaving. Temporary is easier. Temporary doesn’t require investment. Temporary doesn’t root.
Temporary is a lie.
“There are five exits,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I know where all of them lead.”
