Page 49 of Fractured Loyalties

He didn’t come back at all.

This house at night feels like a cathedral no one worships in anymore. The lights are low, soft golden fixtures tucked into corners, casting long shadows that stretch toward me like something thinking. The silence has its own gravity. No music. No footsteps. No whispered murmurs from the beach below.

I drift to the kitchen, only to fill the kettle and set it to boil. The motion feels rehearsed, like I’m acting out the illusion of a normal life. Tea in the middle of the night. As if a warm drink could fix the ache I don’t know how to name.

Steam hisses from the kettle. I pour the water over a bag of chamomile, though I hate it. It tastes like breathing in a dusty room. Still, I drink it.

The back deck calls to me. Glass doors reflect my shape in ghost form, so I open them just enough to step out. Cold air rushes into my lungs. The ocean moans below, black and endless.

This is where we stood the first night I got here. When I asked if I was safe here.

I grip the deck railing. The wood is damp with salt. My tea burns the inside of my lip. I don’t care. If pain is the currency, I want change back.

I don’t know what he did tonight. Only that he walked into darkness, and he's yet to return.

And I hate that I care. Hate how much my chest twists with the waiting.

When the door clicks softly behind me, I don’t turn right away.

He’s back.

His silence is weighty. I don’t look at him. I let the ocean speak for us.

Then I say, flatly, not turning, “Was it worth it?”

His voice is low. Rougher than usual. “No.”

I finally look. He’s still dressed in black—the same fitted tee from earlier, stretched across his chest, slightly rumpled butclean. The joggers hang low on his hips, fabric unmarked, his stance composed.

“Then why go?”

“Because I had to remember what I am before I forget it entirely.”

I take a slow sip, eyes not leaving his. “And?”

He moves closer, each step deliberate. No theatrics. Just weight.

“I remembered too well,” he says.

He doesn’t step outside, not yet. Instead, he leans against the railing beside me, eyes on the black water like it owes him something.

“I went to Discentra,” he says.

I blink slowly. The name tastes like metal.

“That place with the glass and the—Dominic,” I say. Not a question.

He nods once.

“What were you looking for?”

His jaw clenches. “Permission. To be the thing I used to be.”

“And did you get it?”

He shakes his head. “No one can give it to me anymore. Not even him.”

I set the mug down on the railing, harder than I mean to. “So what now, Elias? You walk in shadows for a few hours, remind yourself you’re not a monster, and expect me to be waiting with fucking chamomile?”