Eli ran.
Not far—not fast—but enough to leave the warmth of that room, the smell of eucalyptus and the weight of Christian's eyes. He hated the way it lingered. Like pity, but worse. Like hope.
Hope got people killed.
He didn't remember how he ended up behind the gas station. Just that it was cold, and he couldn't stop shaking. His hoodie felt too thin. His ribs ached. The bruises were blooming beneath his clothes, but those didn't hurt as much as Christian's voice did.
You remind me of who I used to be.
Eli wanted to scream. Tear something down. Crawl out of his own skin.
Instead, he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, stole from a kid dumber than him two nights ago. It crackled between his lips like defiance, but it tasted like ash.
Memories came in flashes, out of order:
A locked door.
The click of a belt.
Being told to smile for the camera.
A kitchen knife held to his throat, not by a stranger, but by someone who used to read him bedtime stories.
He had stopped crying at fourteen.
That was the deal, right? You stop crying, you stop feeling, and you survive.
So why the hell did his hands still shake?
Why had Christian's words hit something real?
Why did he want—desperately, dangerously—for someone to see him and not turn away?
He stayed out all night. Found a broken bench at the edge of the park and curled into himself like a stray.
And for the first time in months, he dreamed.
Not of fists or fire—but of sitting in that office again. The lamp low. Christian not saying anything. Just being there. Like maybe Eli didn't have to say the worst parts out loud to be believed.
When he woke up, the sun was rising.
And he was still alone.
But not empty.
For the first time, he thought:
Maybe I'll go back.
Just to sit.
Just to see if that door was still open.