"…Olivier."
The man who should have been six years in his grave stood there in polished regalia, royal blue and silver catching the light, alive and impossibly whole.
Gabriel felt the weight of déjà vu press down, an old wound torn open in the space of a heartbeat. His fingers tightened against the bedding, the strategist in him already pushing past the shock, sharpening thought against the blur.
"You're supposed to be dead," Gabriel said, his voice low, dangerous, and steadier than he felt.
Olivier stepped closer, unhurried, the medals on his chest catching the light with each measured movement. Then, with a gesture so familiar it carved through six years of silence, he reached out and let the back of his gloved knuckles brush against Gabriel's cheek.
"This isn't the first time I've been poisoned, Gabriel," Olivier said softly, almost amused, "but I didn't expect they would dare touch you as well."
Gabriel went still.
