Adrian's POV
The silence after violence is always the loudest.
It follows you home, sits beside you in armored vehicles, clings to the corners of rooms long after blood has been scrubbed from the floors. It is not peace, it is the echo of what was almost lost.
Kelly is still sleeping.
That fact alone is a fragile miracle.
She is in the east wing now, my wing, wrapped in white sheets that smell of antiseptic and lavender, the monitors beside her whirring softly like mechanical guardians. The doctors said exhaustion. Shock. No permanent physical damage.
They did not say trauma, but it is written all over her anyway.
I sit in the chair beside her bed, my elbows on my knees, and my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ache. I haven't left in hours. I won't. Every time her breathing stutters, my chest locks like a trap.
I failed her.
That truth does not soften no matter how many ways I turn it.
