Was that who I was right now?
He rushed toward me, helping me steady myself back on the bed.
“I’m right here,” he said. Softly. Soothingly.Wait…I remembered him.His face. His voice. His presence. I knew who he was. Did that mean Brock hadn’t succeeded?
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was painful and dry. Too painful.
“Take it easy,” Reaper said, bringing a glass of water to my lips. Now, more things around us caught my attention. A white bandage peeked from beneath his torn shirt, spotted with blood. Dark stubble covered his jaw, thicker than I remembered from the favela safehouse. Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes. His weapons rested within reach—a handgun on the nightstand, knife strapped to his thigh.
Isipped on the water he had given me, struggling with each sip. His eyes remained locked on me, staring as if I were his salvation. The only thing that mattered.
I remembered him.
Remembered how we met. How he protected me. How he saved me. How he nearly died.
“You’re awake.” The relief in his voice cut through his usual control. Slowly, he moved the glass away from my mouth, placing it on the small side table. I wanted to apologize for the mess I’d made when I threw up, but I couldn’t force the words past my lips.
“Don’t try to talk yet.” He slid an arm behind my shoulders, supporting my weight as he helped me sit up. The room tilted alarmingly, but his arm was steady, anchoring me against the vertigo. Nothing made sense. How did I get here?Where were we?It took a few moments for my surroundings to fully settle in and for me to realize Iwasn’tin danger.
“Where are we?” I managed, my voice raspy but functional.
“Safe house outside São Paulo.” He set the glass down but didn’t return to the chair, instead perching on the edge of the bed. “Specter arranged it.”
I glanced around the room with more focus now. The peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling suggested age, but it was clean. A small table held an array of medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, an IV bag, and several unlabeled vials.
“How long?”
“Two days.” His eyes never left my face, assessing. “You’ve been unconscious since we got you out.”
Two days. The knowledge sat heavy in my stomach. How did they get me out? How did he find me? What happened to him while I was away? So many questions lined up, yet it was difficult to voice them. I remained silent for a long moment, trying to process everything, which was difficult, given that there were so many things I couldn’t recall fully.
“The compound they used...”
“Designed to break down identity centers in the brain,” he finished. “Specter gave me an antigen after the extraction. I administered it once we were here.”
My fingers drifted to the needle marks on my arm. Beneath my touch, the skin twitched involuntarily. Blue-black veins radiated outward from each puncture, fading to a sickly green at the edges.
“Your system is clearing it,” he said, nodding toward my arm. “The color’s fading.”
I noticed now the evidence of his vigil—a blanket and pillow on the floor beside my bed, protein bar wrappers and water bottles neatly stacked. He hadn’t left me.
“The safe house is isolated,” he continued. “Ten kilometers to the nearest neighbor. Reinforced doors and a security system with motion sensors covering a half-kilometer perimeter.”
I realized I was wearing different clothes—soft cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt. Not what I wore to Café Bella.
“Did you...” I looked down, unsure how to ask.
“Your clothes were contaminated.” His voice remained matter-of-fact. “I had to clean the injection sites properly. I was… careful.” The slight hesitation was his only acknowledgment of the intimacy. “There are clean towels and clothes when you’re strong enough to shower.”
Another tremor shook my hand. Without comment, Reaper reached out and steadied it with his own. His touch was warm, solid—an anchor against the trembling. I turned my palm upward, threading my fingers through his.
His eyes met mine, a question in them.
I was safe—or, at least, so I told myself—yet there was one thought that refused to abandon the depths of my mind. It was all I could think about.
“I need to know you’re real,” I whispered. “That I made it back.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening I never would have believed possible when he first tracked me through São Paulo.
