"Freedom is never free, even when offered with quiet eyes."
It was a week later when Lorenzo returned to the crumbling house in Lausanne.
The city was soaked in winter rain, the sky the color of bruised steel, clouds pressing low as if to crush the world beneath them. The street was quiet, the cold sharp enough to bite through his coat as he stepped out of the car, boots landing in a puddle that rippled outward, distorting the reflection of the house in broken circles.
He hated this place.
Hated the smell of mold, the flicker of the broken porch light, the way the curtains twitched when he approached. The house was rotting from the inside out, a hollow shell of what it once was, much like the people inside.
He knocked once, the sound echoing down the damp street. No one came.
He knocked again.
Finally, the door opened, a crack at first, then wider, revealing Élise's father, his sunken eyes darting between Lorenzo and the street behind him.
"You have the money?" Lorenzo asked, his voice calm, quiet, the softness of it more terrifying than if he had shouted.
The man swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.
"No… please, just—just give us more time…"
Lorenzo stepped forward, forcing the man to stumble back, allowing him to enter. The warmth inside was suffocating, thick with the smell of unwashed clothes, cheap wine, and the metallic scent of fear.
Élise was there.
She was standing in the same place as before, the chipped mug in her hands, her white hair tied back, the violet of her eyes stark against the pallor of her skin. Her gaze met his, just for a moment, before dropping to the floor, but not before he saw it.
Resignation.
She was used to men like him coming to take, to threaten, to leave empty spaces behind.
She didn't know yet that he had not come to take, not exactly. He didn't know why that mattered.
Her father was speaking again, rambling, promises spilling from his cracked lips like dirty water.
"We'll pay, we will, I just need time—my wife, she's ill, and the jobs, they don't pay enough, and Élise, she—"
Lorenzo's eyes flicked to Élise, who flinched at the sound of her name, the mug trembling slightly in her hands.
"How old are you?" Lorenzo asked.
The room fell silent.
She looked up, blinking, her lips parting slightly before the words came.
"Nineteen," she whispered.
Her father looked at Lorenzo, then back at her, confusion mixing with the fear on his face.
Lorenzo nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, then stepped forward, closing the distance between him and her father.
"You will not have the money," Lorenzo said quietly, "and you will not get more time."
The man began to shake, his mouth opening to protest, but Lorenzo raised a hand, silencing him.
"But I will take the debt."
Her father's eyes widened. "Wh-what does that mean?"
Lorenzo turned his head, looking directly at Élise, holding her gaze.
"It means she comes with me."
The silence that followed was loud.
Her father sputtered, shaking his head, words tripping over themselves in panic. "No, no, you can't, she's—she's all we have, she helps us—"
But Élise said nothing.
She was frozen, eyes wide, the violet darkening as tears welled up, but none fell. She held the mug tighter, as if it could save her, her knuckles white.
Lorenzo took a step toward her.
"You will come with me," he said softly, his dark blue eyes locking onto hers, pinning her in place. "And the debt will be considered paid."
Her father was still begging, falling to his knees now, clutching at Lorenzo's coat, but Lorenzo ignored him, focusing only on her.
Her lips trembled, parting as if to speak, but no sound came.
He saw it then—the flicker, the small, fragile hope that fought to live inside her, even after everything.
"You will be safe," Lorenzo said, softer this time, almost so quietly she might have imagined it. "No one will hurt you."
She blinked, and a single tear slid down her cheek, leaving a clean line through the dirt on her skin.
He turned away before she could see what that tear did to him.
Lorenzo signaled to Matteo, who appeared in the doorway, stepping inside with quiet efficiency. Élise's father scrambled to his feet, shouting, begging, cursing, but Matteo held him back, the man's words dissolving into sobs.
"Get your things," Lorenzo said to her.
She didn't move.
For a moment, he thought she wouldn't, that she would refuse, would choose to stay in this rotting house with the people who hurt her because it was all she had ever known.
But then she set the mug down, carefully, precisely, as if it were the last fragile piece of her life she could control.
She turned and disappeared into the small hallway, the sound of a door opening and closing echoing softly.
She returned minutes later with a small, worn bag pressed to her chest, her hair loose around her shoulders, her violet eyes shining with unshed tears. She stood in the doorway, looking back once into the house, at the man still weeping, at the walls that had watched her grow up in fear.
Then she stepped forward, past Lorenzo, out into the cold.
The air hit her like a slap, sharp and clean, the rain turning her white hair to silver, sticking it to her cheeks. She shivered, pulling the bag tighter to her chest, her eyes on the ground.
Lorenzo stood beside her, watching her, the rain dripping from his hair onto his coat, his hands in his pockets.
"Get in the car," he said quietly.
She hesitated, glancing back one last time, then moved forward, climbing into the black car that waited at the curb, the door closing softly behind her.
As Matteo started the engine, Lorenzo glanced at her in the back seat. She was staring out the window, watching the house as it grew smaller and smaller, until it disappeared around a corner.
She didn't look at him.
She didn't say a word.
But as they drove away, leaving the broken house behind, Lorenzo felt something in the air shift, something small and fragile but alive.
It was not freedom yet.
But it was the beginning.