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“Good. Remember that.”

I hang up on him and step back inside the private room with Monroe. The air is cool, perfect for a long night of resting. After what she went through yesterday, Monroe needed it. She was furious with me, but I couldn’t blame her.

Her reaction was out of trauma. While attempts on my life do not shake me, the same can’t be said for others. For normal people like her.

I step toward the bed and gently pull the covers from over her head. Her face is half turned up, the soft angles of her features making her look even more youthful than usual. Though I’m only a few years older than she is, it’s easy to forget how young she is.

Monroe has her whole life ahead of her.

Her lashes fan across the high end of her cheeks, her lips parted only just so. They’re colored a natural rosy brown that draws my gaze and makes me yearn to kiss her like this.

But then I notice the scratches and leftover bruises from yesterday’s chaos. She has a bruise on her throat and a long scratch along her jaw. Her bandaged hand is curled by the pillow, other smaller cuts nicking her copper-brown skin. Probably from when I kicked in the balcony door and the glass shattered.

I give her a gentle prod. “Monroe.”

She shifts, barely lifting her eyelids as she hums sleepily.

“Come,” I say quietly. “We have to get moving.”

The house sits crooked at the edge of the coast, half-buried in sand and forgotten by time. The roof tiles are chipped, the porch sagging with age, the whole structure leaning slightly toward the sea as if it’s been trying to return to it for years. Salt crusts the corners of the windows. The faded wooden shutters rattle in the wind. Even from the car, I can tell the hinges are rusted through.

Monroe doesn’t say anything when I kill the engine. She stares out the window, her breath fogging up the glass. Her eyes scan the shoreline as though she’s searching for someone.

Anyone else in the vicinity.

But there’s no one to be found.

No neighboring homes. No tire tracks. No footprints or traces of human sound.

Just the beach, the angry churn of the tide slamming against rock, and the slate-gray, overcast sky. We’re on the tail end of the monsoon season, the wind smelling of salt and wet sand. Soon the drizzle will pick up again. More monsoon rain is on the way.

I get out first and then walk around to her side. “This way.”

She doesn’t look at me when she climbs out. Just pulls the hood of the sweatshirt I bought her tighter around her face and follows without a word.

Things are still tense between us. The fallout from the fire hasn’t faded. If anything, I still sense some unresolved feelings on her end, like she hasn’t processed what’s happened.

I sling the bag of supplies over my shoulder—essentials I picked up at a roadside store on the way here. Toothbrushes, changes of clothes, bottled water, ramen. The kind of bare-bones survival items you pack when you’re not sure what the future holds.

The gate creaks as I unlock it and push it open. Overgrown weeds cover the small courtyard. Moss slicks the stepping stones along the path leading up to the house.

I slide the front door open and gesture for Monroe to go first.

The inside smells of dust and cedar. The ondol heated flooring groans beneath our weight, long since cooled. Paper screens frame the walls, some torn at the corners. There’s a low wooden table and a couple folded blankets caked in dust.

Not much else.

Modern luxuries like TVs and appliances aren’t present. Just the main family room and a kitchen and bathroom and windows looking out at the sea.

The wind whistles through the rafters. The water slams the shoreline. Then comes the trickle of the drizzle as it starts up.

All part of the soundtrack we’ll be listening to for the foreseeable future.

Monroe wanders slowly, trailing her fingers over a dusty beam. She still won’t glance in my direction.

I watch her expression as she explores the home. She must hate it. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. She wouldn’t be alone; I hate this place too.

I’ve owned it for years yet never come here.