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"My father would bring me to our village mosque," he said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet space.

"Before dawn prayers. Just the two of us.

He would let me help him prepare, lighting the lamps, straightening the prayer rugs.

" His eyes were distant, seeing not the Acropolis sanctuary but a village mosque from decades ago.

"He said it was an honor to serve the house of God, even in small ways. "

I stayed silent, recognizing the gift he was giving me. These precious fragments of his past had been preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of his memory .

"I haven't prayed since I was six years old," he confessed. "Not really. Not the way my father taught me. Sometimes... in the beginning... I would try. But it felt like blasphemy after what I'd done. After collecting forty-eight pennies for forty-eight souls I'd delivered to the afterlife."

"I don't think faith works that way," I said gently. "I don't think it's something you can lose the right to."

Luka's smile was sad, touched with a wisdom beyond his years. "Maybe not. But some stains don't wash out, Vincent. Not even with prayer."

He moved toward me then, reaching for my hand. His fingers intertwined with mine, warm and solid, anchoring him to the present even as his mind had been traveling through the past.

"Thank you," he said simply. "For coming here with me. For seeing this part of me, too."

"Always," I promised, squeezing his hand. "Wherever you need to go, whatever you need to show me, I'm here, Luka."

We stood there in the quiet sanctuary, hand in hand, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of our future hanging in the air around us.

Something significant had happened tonight.

Some barrier within Luka had softened, allowing me to glimpse more of the boy he had been, the man he might have become.

Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that this sharing, this opening, came at a cost I didn't yet understand.

That there was a reason for his suddenly urgent need to show me these hidden parts of himself.

My professional instincts screamed warnings I couldn't—wouldn't—fully process.

Because acknowledging them meant facing the possibility that Luka was preparing for something terrible. Something final .

But I couldn't bring myself to confront him directly.

Couldn't force the words past the selfish knot of fear in my throat.

Because if my suspicions were correct—if he was planning something suicidal involving Prometheus and Ana—I didn't know if I was strong enough to stop him. Or brave enough to help him.

Back in our quarters, a fragile silence stretched between us. Luka moved around the space, touching objects as if logging them in his memory. He lingered on the paperback I'd left on the coffee table, a mug with dried coffee rings, the plant cutting I'd been nurturing on the windowsill.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I found him standing by the window, silhouette outlined against the artificial night lighting of the Acropolis. His reflection in the glass revealed eyes too bright, too focused on whatever mental calculations were running behind them.

"Come to bed," I said softly.

He turned, the manufactured shadows painting his face in stark relief—all sharp angles and hidden depths. When he nodded, the motion carried a weight that made my chest ache.

In bed, we lay facing each other, close enough that our breaths mingled in the narrow space between us. His fingers traced my brow, the slope of my nose, the curve of my lips as if committing them to tactile memory.

"I meant what I said earlier," he whispered, voice rough at the edges. "I love you, Vincent."

"I know." I caught his hand, pressing my lips to his palm. "I love you too."

Something flashed in his eyes. Pain, determination, fear, all braided together into an emotion I couldn't name.

He leaned forward, closing the space between us, his lips finding mine in a kiss unlike any we'd shared before.

Not demanding or hungry, not playful or teasing.

This kiss held the quiet desperation of a prayer, a plea, a promise.

I tasted salt and realized he was crying.

Luka—who had faced death and delivered it forty-eight times without flinching—was silently weeping as he kissed me.

His shoulders shook under my hands, his breath hitching against my lips.

I pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, holding him together as something essential finally cracked within him.

"It's okay," I murmured against his temple, though we both knew it wasn't. Nothing about this was okay.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, arms wrapped around me so tightly it bordered on painful. I didn't complain. I'd bear any discomfort to keep him this close, to delay whatever moment he was preparing for.

"Stay with me," I whispered into his hair. The words carried my unspoken plea: Don't leave. Don't sacrifice yourself. Don't choose vengeance over us.

His body tensed. Instead of answering, he pressed his face harder against my neck, lips moving against my skin. "I love you," he whispered, then again, "I love you," and again, the words becoming a broken mantra, each repetition more fractured than the last. "I love you, I love you..."

The desperation in his voice told me everything his words didn't. This wasn't a promise to stay. This was goodbye.

I tightened my arms around him, as if I could physically anchor him to this moment, to me, to life itself. But I said nothing. What argument could I offer against a decision I could see was already made?

I lay awake long after his breathing deepened, stroking his hair, memorizing the weight of him in my arms. Tomorrow would come regardless of my vigil, bringing whatever storm Luka had sensed on the horizon.

For tonight, I could only hold him and pretend that love alone might be enough to save us both.