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“You don't have to be alone to be strong, Vesper,” he says quietly, his tone carrying none of his twin's intensity.

“This isn't about being strong. It's about…” I trail off, searching for words that won't come.

“Finding yourself in the aftermath,” he finishes for me. There's understanding in his eyes that makes my chest ache. “I get it.”

“Do you?” I challenge softly.

Oscar’s lips curve into a sad smile. “More than you know.” He reaches out, his fingertips barely grazing my arm. “Just remember that walls keep people out, but they also lock you in.” He presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head, then turns and walks away, disappearing into his room—leaving me truly alone with my thoughts.

VESPER

I jolt awake,sweat-slicked and gasping, the phantom scent of copper and gunpowder clinging to my nostrils. My hands clutch at empty sheets beside me, and for one disorienting moment, I panic before remembering—I asked for this. I demanded space.

I'd ordered them to leave me alone. To allow me to think, and process killing my uncle, the photos, and finding out The Collector is medically raping my brother. Just as he had doneto me. Since I put that bullet through Mario's skull, Z has been suffocating me with his protection.

But now, in the darkness of my empty bedroom, I almost wish he'd ignored me.

I pull my knees to my chest, trying to shake the images from my nightmare—Luca strapped to a medical table, The Collector's wielding instruments that make him scream. And then the memory that wasn’t a dream at all. Mario’s face twisting in shock as I pulled the trigger, his body crumpling like a marionette with cut strings.

“Fuck,” I groan, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.

A soft creak from the corner of the room makes me freeze mid-breath. I’m not alone. My head snaps up, scanning the shadows—and that’s when I see him.

Zaire sits motionless in a chair by the door to my room.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss, but there's no real heat behind my words.

He looks terrible. His usually immaculate appearance is gone, replaced by a disheveled ghost of himself. His dark hair is a mess, and the shadows ringing his under eyes suggest he hasn’t slept at all. He’s still wearing the same clothes from the night before.

“Couldn't stay away, moya koroleva.” His voice is rough, scratchy. “Not when I know what haunts your dreams.”

I should throw something at him. Should scream at him to get out. Should remind him that I specifically told him to leave me alone. Instead, I clutch the sheets tighter, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat.

“You couldn’t give me one day?”

The silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of our breathing. Zaire stands there, hollow and worn, but his lips stay firmly shut.

“Seriously?” I push the covers away, suddenly too hot, too confined. “All I asked for was one day to process the shit show that is my life, and you couldn't even do that.”

He finally moves then, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his fingers tremble. “I tried, Vesper. Then I heard you screaming.”

Something in my chest constricts painfully. I hadn't realized I'd been screaming aloud.

“So, what, you've just been sitting there watching me sleep?” I push myself up against the headboard.

“Watching over you,” he corrects, his voice soft but unapologetic. "There's a difference.”

I want to be angry—I should be angry—but the raw honesty etched into his features makes it impossible. The fight drains out of me like water through cupped hands.

“Z…” I trail off, not even sure what I want to say.

He stands slowly, like any sudden movement might shatter the fragile air between us. “I'll go if you want. But I need you to know something first.” He takes a step closer, then stops, respecting the invisible boundary I've drawn. “What happened with Mario, with Luca—none of it falls on you alone.”

“I pulled the trigger,” I remind him, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

“And I would have done the same.” His jaw tightens, voice steady. “Mario deserved worse than a quick death.”

The mattress dips as Zaire sits on the edge of my bed, still maintaining distance, but close enough that I can smell his familiar scent—sandalwood and gunmetal. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us, waiting for permission.