Inside, the walls met without any glass breaking them apart.
Right away I see it - not scared, just tuned in like a person who checks escape routes before picking a seat. One doorway breaks the space. Heavy. The sort that stays silent even if footsteps pass close by outside. Stone makes up the walls, deep colored. Light sits dim and cozy, the manner high-end spots use shadows to seem planned instead of heavy.
A puddle sits where no one expected. The surface holds a wet mark near the edge.
It stays untouched by me.
Folks hired by Rafe Volkov hold positions around the space, caught in that quiet act guards often perform when pretending not to watch - eyes darting anywhere but your face, yet noticing each shift you make. A strange stillness wraps around their stance, focused elsewhere though nothing escapes them. Movement registers in small ways: a flicker near the door, another by the window, someone half-hidden behind shadows.
Last thing I did was allow the tracking.
Hands rest still, folded quiet in my lap. Spine holds upright, steady without effort. Eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the wall, not seeing much at all. Breathing happens - slow, measured, deliberate. This isn't peace. It's labor. Each breath pulled forward by will, not ease. A body trying to catch up with itself. One step behind a moment too big to name. Just now realizing how far it stepped into fire.
The door opens.
A figure appears by himself. Rafe Volkov walks in without anyone else.
This catches me off guard. Not on the outside - my face shows nothing - but inside, I take notice. Most men in his role would send junior staff to handle first meetings. That he arrives personally, so soon, suggests only two possibilities.
Curiosity runs deeper in him than rules permit.
Maybe I've shifted more than I meant to.
Across from me he settles, no question about the chair. No introduction offered. None of that usual show people with power so often feel compelled to give - the staged arrival, the silence meant to be noticed, the unspoken claim of being the center whenever they walk into a space.
He just sits.
He turns his eyes toward me.
He gets the tale from me.
Later, pieces come out. Not everything at once - too staged, otherwise. He gets it like someone who lived it might speak: broken bits here and there. A detail pops up mid-sentence, then silence. Begins halfway through, stumbles toward the start, suddenly leaps ahead. Memory does that, when breath hasn't caught up and nerves won't settle.
Damon - that's who they named my brother.
Few months back, they grabbed him.
Out near the southern edge of the Commission's zone, smugglers run their routes using fake cargo runs as disguise - a setup that quietly expanded over twenty-four months. That detail came from Damon, shared just before they grabbed him. He reached out on a line I'd never seen, speaking hushed and rushed like people do when seconds matter more than breath.
Since then, silence. Not a word has come my way. Time passed without notice. His voice faded into the background of things forgotten. Still nothing.
The city gave me shelter when there was no other place left. Not just because the ones holding him operate outside every known system, untouchable by normal means. A whisper reached me - at this point I looked down, almost without meaning to, a small give-away of weight behind words - saying Rafe Volkov's Commission stood alone in having real sway over such deep-rooted connections.
I look up.
Outside unfolded without my say, I admit. Help is why I'm here, I say to him.
Silence.
Something about him stays fixed, right where he landed when he first took the seat. Not even a small roll of shoulders, nor a hand touching chin like most do while tracking words being told. Motionless, yet somehow louder than anyone shifting or sighing could ever be. Like quiet can weigh heavier than motion. Stillness filling the room more than steps or gestures ever might.
Staring back at him feels right since even hurt animals show courage - I proved that before, so sticking to it matters now.
It was him who spoke. Not loud, just quiet. He said it like this: the name of your brother
"Damon Cross."
"And yours."
"Lena."
A name lands without follow-up questions. It slips into place instead of vanishing into queries about contact or identity. He takes it quietly, face unchanged. As if each word tips a scale already leaning from moments before. One small weight among many, balanced without sound.
"You moved before the shot landed," he says again.
Words match those spoken before. Tone stays flat. No blame here. Almost curious.
Might change my reply later, if I feel like it.
I'm just not feeling it.
"I heard something," I say again. "I told you."
Stillness filled the room. A pause stretched out. Then nothing moved.
Then he stands.
He speaks without a question mark. You will remain, his words settle like dust.
"I don't have anywhere else to go," I tell him.
This truth stands clear, spoken now that I'm here within these streets.
Toward the door he walks, while my eyes stay fixed on his back - fine. Right here suits me best. Within these walls. Close enough to feel his pull. Everything unfolding just as expected.
He stops by the doorway, still facing forward.
"The water is clean," he says. "You should drink it."
He leaves.
Staring at the glass, I pause. The water sits still inside it. A quiet second passes by. Light hits the surface just so. My eyes stay fixed without trying. Thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
After that, a sip follows - glass in hand. Suddenly, thirst meets relief.
I say that must be why my throat feels so dry.
It wasn't due to him seeing my plate untouched.
It isn't that attention stings more now compared to before.
Just thirsty.
That's all.