"You will."
She reached out her hand.
"Come with me. Let me take you somewhere safe. Let me introduce you to someone who can help you understand what's happening to you."
"I don't trust you."
"You don't have to trust me. You just have to come with me."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll keep hunting. Keep killing. Keep falling apart until there's nothing left. And one day, you'll wake up in a room like this one, and you won't remember how you got there, and you won't remember who you are, and you won't remember why any of it mattered."
I didn't trust her.
I didn't believe her.
But I followed her.
Because following was the only thing I knew how to do.
The hallway stretched before us, dark and endless, and Rue walked ahead of me with her sure and steady footsteps. The walls pressed closer. The ceiling lowered. The air grew thick and warm, and I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, my upper lip, the small of my back.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can rest."
"I don't need to rest."
"Yes, you do."
She didn't look back.
"You've been running for weeks. Hunting for weeks. Killing for weeks. You're exhausted. You're starving. You're falling apart."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
She stopped in front of another door—wooden this time, old, with a handle that looked like brass.
"This is where I leave you."
"What?"
"Someone else will take you the rest of the way. Someone you can trust."
"I don't trust anyone."
"You trusted Gabriel."
"That was a mistake."
"Maybe. But you survived. You're still here. You're still fighting."
She turned to face me, and her face was soft now—almost kind, almost human.
"That's more than most of us can say."
