Page 56

For that brief moment, I wasn't seeing the assassin, the weapon Prometheus had crafted.

I was seeing the little boy from Bosnia, before the world shattered around him.

That glimpse made my throat constrict painfully, as if someone had wrapped their fingers around my windpipe.

I'd fallen in love with the killer, but seeing the child he'd been, the innocence that had been methodically stripped away, that hurt in places I didn't know could ache .

"My grandmother made something like this," I said, surprising myself with the memory. "A different recipe, but that same comforting smell."

"Food is the one thing that crosses borders without passports," Luka replied. "My mother's soup was famous in our village. People would bring her vegetables just for an invitation to dinner."

The main course arrived then. The centerpiece was a large pot of sarma, cabbage leaves stuffed with ground halal lamb and rice.

Surrounding it were piles of ?evapi, small grilled sausages with somun bread, a dish of djuvec, a vegetable and rice casserole, and a platter of burek, flaky pastry filled with minced meat.

"It's exactly how I remember," Luka whispered, more to himself than to me.

His fingers hovered over each dish like he was afraid they might disappear if he touched them.

Then his hand spasmed, a tremor running from fingertips to shoulder as his eyes glazed over momentarily.

A flashback, maybe—his mind caught between then and now, between the food before him and whatever horrors followed his last taste of these dishes.

He blinked rapidly, throat working as he swallowed whatever emotion had surged up. "She used to make this for Eid al-Fitr when Ramadan ended. The whole family would come."

"Your mother?"

He nodded, serving me a portion of sarma.

His hands weren't steady. Twice he had to pause, drawing a deep breath through his nose as his eyes fixed on some invisible horror hovering above the table.

"Eid was my favorite holiday. Everyone dressed in their best clothes, the house filled with relatives, food everywhere.

" He paused, a shadow crossing his face.

"The last Eid we celebrated together was three weeks before the soldiers came. "

Luka carefully served each dish, fingers hesitating over the food as if touching relics.

He explained each component reverently, his voice softening to the hushed tones reserved for sacred texts or confessionals.

Twice, his hands trembled so violently he had to set down the serving spoon, jaw clenched and eyes closed until whatever memory had ambushed him receded.

"I haven't had proper sarma since I was six years old," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The implication hit stole my breath. Luka hadn't allowed himself these connections to his past since his parents were murdered, since Ana was stolen, since Prometheus dismantled everything that made him human and rebuilt him into a weapon. Until now. Until me.

What terrified me wasn't just the beauty of this moment. It was its finality. This felt like a man making peace with his ghosts before walking into a battle he didn't expect to survive.

"Well, better late than never," I said, taking a bite of the savory cabbage roll.

As we ate, Luka continued sharing fragments of his life before—tales of summer thunderstorms plunging the village into darkness, his father's voice rising melodically during prayers at the mosque, his mother patiently guiding his small hands through the delicate layers of baklava for special occasions.

Each story, each bite of food triggered another memory, and I watched Luka transform. His rigid shoulders loosened, his vigilant eyes stopped scanning for threats. The assassin receded as childhood memories pulled him back to a time before violence had rewritten him.

When the baklava arrived for dessert, dripping with honey and pistachios, I finally asked the question that I'd wanted to all evening.

"Why tonight, Luka? Why this dinner, these memories, now? "

His fork paused halfway to his mouth, then lowered back to his plate. The openness in his expression flickered, like a candle in a draft.

"After seeing Ana..." he began, voice tight as a wire about to snap.

He stabbed at the baklava, flaking it apart without eating any.

"After seeing what he did to her, how he erased everything about us.

.. I realized she doesn't remember any of this.

The food. The traditions. Our childhood. It's all just... gone."

I wanted to push for more detail, but Luka looked up, something raw and bleeding in his gaze. "I needed someone else to know. Someone to remember what was stolen from us. In case I..." He cut himself off sharply.

In case he didn't make it.

My stomach knotted violently. This wasn't just a sentimental dinner.

This was a man preparing for the possibility of his own death.

Sharing his history, his childhood, his faith—not as part of our growing relationship, but as a desperate attempt to preserve what remained before whatever he was planning.

"I wanted to give you this," he said softly. "A piece of my past. The person I was... or might have been. Before Prometheus. Before everything."

"Why now?" I pressed gently.

His eyes met mine, blue and intense in the low light. "Because no one else knows this part of me. Because I want someone to remember there was more to me than just..." His throat convulsed, Adam's apple bobbing as he forced the words past obvious pain. "Than what he made me."

"Luka," I said, squeezing his hand. "You're still that person. Those parts are still in you."

"Are they? Sometimes I wonder if anything survived. If anything remains of who I was meant to be. "

"It did," I insisted. "I see it every day. In how you protect me. How you love me. How you laugh with me, how you’ve cried with me, held me." I held his gaze steadily. "That's not training. That's you. The real you."

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, hope, a complex mixture of emotions I couldn't fully interpret. Then he reached across the table and took both my hands in his.

"I love you, Vincent." His voice was raw, each word ripped from somewhere long scarred over, yet absolutely certain. "I need you to know that. I love you in a way I didn't think was possible after everything I've been through."

The words hung in the air between us, simple and profound. We'd danced around this declaration for weeks, expressing our feelings through actions rather than these three direct words. Hearing them now, in this place filled with the ghosts of his past, I was left momentarily speechless.

When I found my voice, it emerged thick with emotion. "I love you too, Luka. So much it terrifies me sometimes."

His eyes closed briefly, as if my words caused him physical pain. When they opened again, they shone with an intensity that took my breath away. He raised my hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that felt like a vow.

"There's one more place I want to take you tonight," he said. "If you're willing."

"Of course. Where?"

"You'll see."

The multi-faith sanctuary occupied a quiet corner of the Acropolis, far from the bustling central plaza and vibrant nightlife district.

From the outside, it resembled a simple stone building, unadorned except for a small symbol above the door.

The circle contained representations of various religious iconography.

"I didn't even know this place existed," I admitted as we approached.

"Most people don't," Luka replied. "It's not advertised. Just... available. For those who need it."

As we reached the entrance, Luka hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle. I watched as he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle rather than entering a place of worship.

The interior was dimly lit, the space divided into different sections representing various faith traditions.

A small Christian chapel occupied one corner, complete with altar and crucifix.

A Buddhist meditation area with cushions and a simple shrine filled another.

A modest Jewish section featured a Torah ark and menorah.

But Luka led me toward the Islamic prayer space, a simple room with intricate geometric patterns on the walls and plush prayer rugs covering the floor. At the far end, a small alcove was set into the wall—the mihrab, indicating the direction of Mecca.

At the threshold, Luka stopped. "Shoes off," he murmured, already bending to remove his own. "This part's sacred."

"You want me to wait out here?" I asked softly, uncertain of my place in this clearly personal moment.

"No," Luka replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just... be quiet. That's all."

I followed him into the space, careful to mirror his respectful posture. Though I'd been raised in a nominally Christian household, I recognized the sanctity of the space—the same hushed reverence I'd felt in cathedrals and old churches.

Luka moved through the prayer area carefully. He approached the wall adjacent to the prayer niche, his fingers trailing lightly over the intricate patterns carved into the stone.

For several minutes, he simply stood there, eyes closed, palms flat against the wall. I remained where I was, giving him space for whatever communion or remembrance he needed.

When he finally opened his eyes and turned to me, there was a peace in his expression I'd never seen before, as if some long-held tension had finally, if temporarily, released its grip.