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I throw on the shirt and underwear I grabbed—still oversized, still one of mine they brought from home, but this one doesn’t reek of memories just yet. I grab a hair tie, twist my hair into a bun. When I come back out, the room’s empty. Ruin’s gone.

Good.

I sink onto the edge of the bed slowly, hands braced on my thighs, staring at the floor like it’s supposed to hold some kind of fucking answer. My chest tightens. Not with grief. Not with fear.

With the kind of rage that smolders quietly and poisons you from the inside.

I hate that they think they know me. I hate that theydo.

And most of all? I hate that part of me is still listening. Still curious. Stillwaitingfor the next goddamn shoe to drop like I don’t already know I’m barefoot in a fucking minefield.

They haven’t shown me their faces.

They haven’t told me the rest.

And I haven’t burned the place down yet.

Which might be the most terrifying part of all.

The rest of the day drags.

Rule tries. Of course he does. He steps just inside the door at breakfast with a plate and what I assume is cold coffee. Simply waits with that stupid patience of his, standing there like some kind of wounded dog.

I simply turn away.

At lunch, I finally accept the food, because hunger trumps pride and I’m not stupid. I take the plate and water from his hands before telling him to get out, and I eat in silence. The food is good. Of course it is. The asshole probably made it himself, like feeding me will make me forgive him.

It doesn’t.

I eat everything. And I don’t say a word.

Dinner is the same. Except this time when he steps in, I have a scowl already in place.

“Seanna—”

“Don’t.” I snatch the plate from his hand. “You had your moment of honesty. Congrats. Gold star. Don’t think for one fucking second it bought you anything.”

His jaw clenches and I can tell he wants to say more—but he doesn’t.

Smart.

I point him out the door again. Eat. Stew. Let the rage cool just enough to be bearable.

I pace the room once. Twice. My muscles ache with the need to hit something, scream,fight.But the rage doesn’t boil anymore. It broods. Smolders. Lingers like a storm just waiting for someone stupid enough to step outside.

When I go into the bathroom again I catch my reflection in the mirror—hair a mess, face pale, eyes sharp and wild.

Still me.

Just… more cracked than I’d like to admit.

Eventually, I peel myself off the edge of the storm and force myself into the shower. Not because I want to feel clean—God knows that ship has sailed—but because my skin feels tight, like it’s trying to crawl away from my bones. Like if I don’t do something, I’ll lose whatever grip I’ve got left.

Hot water. Steam. Silence.

None of it helps.

I scrub until my skin is raw, until I can’t smell them anymore—except Ican.Still there. Still underneath everything.