The compound in the aftermath of the storm was a wounded creature. Daylight revealed snapped branches littering the courtyard, a gutter torn loose and dangling like a broken limb, and a film of salt spray coating every window, making the world beyond look smeared and unreal.
But the real damage was invisible. It hung in the silence between Rafe and Yasmine, a chasm carved by the raw terror she'd witnessed and the desperate, fleeting touch he'd allowed. For three days, he was a ghost. Mireya, to everyone's relief, had departed with the clearing skies, leaving behind a vacuum that felt heavier than her presence. The Handler, Mr. Rhodes, was gone too, his chilling ultimatum a ticking clock only Yasmine could hear.
Rafe threw himself into repairs with a furious, silent energy. He was up before dawn, his silhouette moving across the rain-slicked tiles of the roof as he secured the gutter. He worked alongside David, hauling debris, his muscles straining under a simple, sweat-darkened grey t-shirt. He spoke only when necessary, his voice stripped of even its usual gravelly resonance, reduced to monosyllabic efficiency.
Yasmine watched him from her window, a now-familiar ache settling in her chest. The man who had held her face with such devastating tenderness was gone, replaced by this relentless, closed-off machine. She understood it. She'd seen the crack in his armor, the ghost that lived behind it, and his only recourse was to weld the breach shut with work and distance.
On the fourth morning, the silence became unbearable. Sleep had been a fractured series of images: the photograph on the floor, the woman with her smile, Rafe's broken whisper—"You're real." She gave up on rest just as the first hint of pearl-grey light touched the horizon.
Pulling a shawl over her nightdress, she stepped onto her balcony. The air was cool and clean, scrubbed by the storm. And then she heard it.
A rhythmic, brutal thud-thud-thud from the training yard below.
She leaned over the railing.
Rafe was there, in the half-light. Shirtless. He was attacking the heavy, sand-filled punching bag that hung from a reinforced beam, his movements a study in controlled violence. Each strike was precise, powerful, his entire body coiling and releasing like a spring. The muscles of his back and shoulders rippled under skin sheened with a fine layer of sweat. The old scars—the long one along his ribs, the pucker near his collarbone—stood out like pale landmarks on a map of tension.
This was not exercise. This was exorcism.
He didn't see her. He was lost in the rhythm of his own punishment, his breath coming in sharp, controlled grunts with each impact. The bag shuddered on its chain, absorbing the force of a past, of a rage, of a fear he could articulate with his fists but not with words.
Yasmine watched, transfixed and heartsore. This was the damage. This was the price of whatever he had done, whatever had been done to him. It was in the functional power of his body, in the grim set of his jaw, in the absolute solitude of his predawn ritual.
He worked until the sky blushed pink, until his knuckles were raw and a faint tremor of exhaustion finally entered his arms. He stopped, bracing his hands on his knees, head hanging, his back rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths.
Only then did she move, slipping back inside her room. She dressed quickly, her mind made up.
She found him not in the training yard, but in the small medical room off the kitchen. The door was ajar. He was sitting on the edge of a vinyl-padded table, head still bowed, a first-aid kit open beside him. He was dabbing at the split skin on his right knuckles with a piece of gauze, his movements clumsy with fatigue.
She knocked softly on the doorframe.
He didn't startle. He'd likely heard her approach. He just looked up, and the exhaustion in his eyes was a vast, deep ocean. The flint was gone, the storm was quieted. There was only a profound, hollow weariness.
"You should let me do that," she said quietly, stepping into the small room. It smelled of antiseptic and old liniment.
"It's fine," he muttered, but the protest was weak.
She didn't ask permission. She simply walked over, took the gauze from his unresisting fingers, and tossed it in the small bio-bag. Then she selected a fresh antiseptic wipe from the kit.
"Give me your hand."
He hesitated, his gaze searching her face. She saw the war there—the instinct to retreat, to maintain the distance, warring with the bone-deep tiredness and the memory of the connection they'd shared in the dark. The tiredness won.
Slowly, he extended his right hand towards her.
It was the first time she'd truly held it. It was large, the palm broad and calloused, the fingers long and strong. The new split across the knuckles was an angry red, beading with fresh blood. The older, white scar she'd seen before ran like a seam across the back. This was a hand that had built and broken, that had comforted and condemned.
Her own hand trembled slightly as she took it. His skin was hot, almost feverish from exertion. She carefully cleaned the wound, her touch as light as she could make it. He didn't flinch. He just watched her, his breath the only sound in the room.
The silence wasn't empty now. It was thick, charged with the memory of his forehead against hers, the ghost of his plea. She focused on her task, applying a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, then deftly wrapping the knuckles with a bandage.
"You don't have to punish yourself," she said softly, not looking up, securing the end of the tape. "I saw… what I saw. It doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything," he replied, his voice a low rasp. "You saw the archive. You saw the cost. That room… it's where hope goes to die. It's a ledger of my failures."
She finally looked up, meeting his storm-grey eyes. "Who was she? The woman in the photo?"
A shutter came down. "Someone I couldn't save." The answer was final, a door slammed shut on that particular grave. He looked down at her hand, still cradling his. "You shouldn't be this close to me, Yasmine. Not after seeing that. The things I've touched… the darkness I carry… it stains."
"You held my face," she whispered, the words escaping. "You told me I was real. That wasn't darkness. That was…"
"A moment of unforgivable weakness," he finished for her, pulling his hand gently from her grasp. The loss of contact was a cold shock. "A moment where I forgot what I am. A weapon doesn't get to seek comfort. It only knows how to inflict damage."
He stood, towering over her in the small space, but he seemed smaller somehow, diminished by his own conviction. "Stay away from the west wing. Stay away from the training yard at dawn. And for God's sake, stay away from me."
He walked out, leaving her alone with the smell of antiseptic and the ghost of his heat on her fingertips. The intimacy of the wound had been offered and then brutally rescinded. The cage felt smaller than ever, and the Keeper, she realized, was its most mangled prisoner.