"It has its rewards," Vincent replied carefully. "Helping people reclaim their identities."
Prometheus's smile tightened. "Identity is such a fluid concept, isn't it? We're all shaped by the people who... make us who we are."
"Some people need unmaking," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Vincent's fingers dug into my knee in warning. Too direct.
Ana looked between us, confusion flickering across features so achingly familiar it hurt to breathe. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Just philosophical musings," Prometheus smoothly redirected. "Luka has always been fascinated by the malleability of the human mind. It's part of what drew him to Dr. Matthews' work initially."
"You two seem very close," Ana observed, studying us with that particular tilt of her head that hadn't changed since childhood. "How long have you been together?"
"Not long," Vincent answered before I could. "But sometimes you just know."
"I understand completely," she said, smiling at Prometheus. "Lincoln and I had an unusual courtship as well. He was my guardian first, you know. Raised me after my parents died when I was very young."
The crystal fractured further under my grip, drawing blood I barely noticed.
"Your... guardian?" Vincent echoed, revulsion barely concealed.
"I know it sounds unconventional." Ana continued, oblivious to the horror on Vincent's face. "But we didn't develop romantic feelings until I was much older. Lincoln was always very proper about boundaries."
Proper about boundaries. I thought of Milan. Of champagne that tasted wrong. Of hotel sheets against bare skin and six nights I couldn't fully remember.
"How admirable." Vincent's voice strained with the effort.
A waiter appeared with appetizers—small plates of traditional Serbian dishes I recognized from my childhood. Ajvar spread on crusty bread. Kajmak cheese. And at the center of the table, a large platter of cevapi studded with chunks of pork, glistening under the restaurant lights.
"Ah, I took the liberty of ordering," Prometheus said, gesturing to the spread. "Traditional Serbian cuisine. I thought it might remind you of simpler times." His gaze flicked briefly to the pork-filled cevapi before returning to mine, satisfaction lurking behind his polite smile. "Ana particularly enjoys this version."
The calculated cruelty made my vision blur. This wasn't nostalgia. This was psychological warfare. Making me eat the food of the people who had slaughtered my family, in a restaurant flying their flags, while sitting across from my sister, who now believed she was one of them.
"You're from Serbia originally?" Ana asked, interest lighting her features. "I was born in Bosnia, but Lincoln tells me my heritage is Serbian. That's rare to meet another expatriate."
I stared at my sister, memories flashing behind my eyes—our mother warning us never to tell the Serbian soldiers where we were from, teaching us to hide our Bosniak names, the night we watched from a crawl space as they dragged neighbors from their homes. And now Ana sat across from me, smiling, proudly claiming the identity of our family's killers.
Vincent's hand tightened on my knee again, but this time it wasn't a warning. It was support. He vibrated beside me, physically restraininghimself from exposing the horrific truth of what Prometheus had done.
"Tell me about your charity work," Vincent said, steering the conversation to safer ground. "Lincoln mentioned you work with refugee children?"
Ana's face lit up. "Yes! We help reunite families separated by conflict. Last month, we connected a brother and sister from Syria who'd been searching for each other for eight years."
The cosmic joke burned deep. My sister helped reunite families while sitting across from her twin brother, wearing the ring of the man who'd torn us apart.
"Sometimes families find each other after decades, but they're complete strangers by then," she continued. "Sometimes people are better off not being found. The memory of someone can be kinder than the reality."
Each word carved deeper into my chest. She had no idea she was dissecting her own brother with philosophical musings about lost siblings.
"An interesting perspective," Prometheus said, studying me over the rim of his wine glass. "What do you think, Luka? Is it better to remember or to forget?"
"I think some memories find us whether we want them or not," I answered, meeting his gaze directly. "I think buried things don't stay buried forever."
A hint of displeasure flickered across his perfect facade. "Perhaps. But memories can be... managed. Controlled. With the right techniques."
"What kind of techniques?" Vincent asked.
"Exposure therapy. Cognitive restructuring." Prometheus's smile never reached his eyes. "I'm something of an amateur psychologistmyself. Particularly interested in memory reconsolidation. The science of rewriting traumatic experiences."
