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But the guilt is a living thing in my chest, writhing and insistent, and I need him to acknowledge it. Need him to be angry so I can carry some of this weight instead of watching him shoulder all of it with that infuriating stoicism that makes me want to scream.

"You gave up everything for me," I say, my voice coming out sharper than intended, edged with something that might be anger or might be desperation. "Your freedom. Your career. Your entire future. And you're acting like it's nothing."

"It's not nothing." He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, each step measured until he's standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "It's the most significant decision I've ever made. But Elara, I need you to understand something."

His hand comes up, cupping my face with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity burning in his eyes, the tension I can feel radiating through his body.

"I would do it again," he says quietly, each word deliberate and weighted. "I would make the same choice every single time. Because the alternative—the world where you don't exist—is unacceptable to me. Do you understand?"

Tears prick at my eyes, hot and unwelcome and entirely inappropriate when we have work to do. "I don't deserve⁠—"

"Don't." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, the callus catching slightly on my skin, cutting off the self-deprecation before it can fully form. "Don't do that. Don't diminish what you're worth by deciding what you deserve."

I swallow hard, blinking back the tears because crying won't help anything, won't change anything, won't make this any less of a disaster of my own making.

"Okay," I whisper.

"Okay?"

"Okay." I take a breath, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight, steadying myself against the tide of emotion. "Let's just finish packing."

He studies my face for another moment, like he's searching for cracks in my composure, cataloging every micro-expression for signs of imminent breakdown. Then he nods and releases me, his hand falling away and taking some of that warmth with it.

"There's one more filing cabinet," he says, turning back to his methodical dismantling of eight years of academic life. "Bottom drawer. Can you grab those files while I start on the bookshelf?"

I move to the cabinet he indicated, kneeling down on the industrial carpet to access the bottom drawer. It's stuffed full—manila folders packed so tight they barely move when I try to pull them out, the metal drawer groaning in protest. I have to wiggle the first few free, reading labels as I transfer them to a box.

Student Evaluations 2019. Curriculum Development Notes. Ethics Seminar Rosters.

Boring academic detritus. The kind of paperwork that accumulates over years of teaching, each file representing hours of work that probably doesn't matter anymore now that he's been placed on leave.

I reach deeper into the drawer, my fingers brushing past folders with innocuous labels, and then⁠—

My hand stills.

Wedged between two thick folders near the back, partially hidden behind a stack of what looks like conference materials: Initiation Records - Sovereign Bastards 2024.

My breath catches in my throat. My pulse kicks into a rhythm that's too fast, too hard, thundering in my ears.

I glance over my shoulder, but Alexander is focused on the bookshelf across the room, methodically removing volumes and stacking them in neat rows, his back to me. The line of his shoulders is tense, controlled, the way it always is when he's working through something difficult.

My fingers close around the folder's edge. I ease it free with the kind of careful silence I've perfected over weeks of snooping where I shouldn't, of stealing information from people who would kill me if they knew. The folder slides out with barely a whisper of sound.

It's thicker than I expected. Heavy. The kind of weight that comes from extensive documentation, from secrets recorded in official bureaucratic detail.

I flip it open on my lap, angling my body so Alexander can't see what I'm looking at, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

The first page is a roster. Names listed in alphabetical order with detailed information beside each: hometown, age, major, sponsor, status. It's formatted like a spreadsheet, clinical and organized, reducing human lives to data points.

I scan down the list, my pulse picking up speed with each name that isn't his, each entry that brings me closer to what I'm looking for.

Henderson, Mason - Burlington, VT - 19 - Political Science - Sponsor: M. Hale - Active

Laurent, Christopher - Boston, MA - 20 - Economics - Sponsor: J. Harrington - Active

Morrison, David - Portland, OR - 21 - Pre-Law - Sponsor: W. Carter - Withdrawn

And then, near the bottom, the name that makes the world tilt sideways: