Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Eight
Ahmet returned just before dawn, exhaustion sitting deep in his bones. He stripped, showered, and let the hot water pound the grit of the night off him until his shoulders finally sagged. He cleaned and dressed the wound with practiced care, taped it down, then pulled on clean clothes that smelled faintly of detergent and something citrus, Markus' doing.
The apartment didn't feel like his anymore.
The lights were dimmed low, warm instead of harsh, like always. A soft glow spilled from lamps he never turned on. The fridge hummed fuller than it ever was. It was stacked with containers labeled in Markus's blocky handwriting, notes stuck to the door with instructions that boiled down to: 'Microwave them when she returns. Eat in love. None of you two should die before tomorrow.'
