"I know. But I want to."
He set the bag on the counter and began unpacking. Tomatoes. Apples. A loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper. A container of soup that was still warm.
"Sit."
"I'm not hungry."
"Sit anyway."
I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, worn from weeks of restless sleep, and I sank into it like it was trying to swallow me.
Matt handed me a bowl of soup and a spoon.
"Eat."
"You're bossy."
"Someone has to be."
He sat in the chair across from me—the one he'd brought from the bar, the one that didn't match the rest of the furniture, the one that had become his spot.
"You added more to the wall."
"Yes."
"Who's the new one?"
"A buyer. A handler. A facility in Prague."
"Prague?"
"There's a clinic there. Petrova Clinic. They do... behavioral modification. Conditioning. The same kind Gabriel did at the Institute."
Matt's jaw tightened.
"And you're going after them."
"I'm going to find out what they know."
"And then?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."
"Maybe you should."
"Maybe. But not today. Today, I just need to keep going."
The soup was chicken and rice, the same kind he always brought.
I ate it slowly, spoonful by spoonful, savoring the warmth. The bread was soft, still warm from the oven, and I tore off a piece and dipped it in the broth.
Matt watched me eat.
Not in a way that made me uncomfortable—just present, just there, a reminder that I wasn't alone.
"You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
