“Isa—”
His eyes open, still glassy and fogged, and his gaze darts across the room.
But when he sees me, still and waiting in the chair, he stops.
The fog shifts, just enough clarity pushing through.
“Dom,” he croaks, voice shredded.
I nod once.
He blinks, then studies me harder this time. Like he’s measuring something beneath my skin.
“You look like hell,” he croaks.
I raise an eyebrow.
He lets out a broken sound that could almost be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I look worse.”
A silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty. It’s heavy. Familiar.
He stares. That thousand-yard stare starts to fracture, memories slipping back in jagged pieces. His jaw clenches. He looks away. Shame blooming slow in the hollows of his face.
His wrists pull slightly against the restraints, then he stills. Breathes in slow through his nose.
“Fuck…” His voice barely holds. “I hit you.”
I don’t move. Just watch him.
His eyes flick back to mine, and there’s something in them that wasn’t there before. Something softer. Raw.
“I didn’t know. When you came in the room back then… my head—” he swallows hard. “I wasn’t here. I saw someone else. Someone from there. I just… reacted.”
His voice cracks at the edge. “I’m sorry.”
I blink once. Then reach out, press my hand lightly to his wrist, just below the strap.
Not pulling. Not holding. Just there.
It’s a:I get it, you’re still my brother.
It’s not forgiveness. He doesn’t need it. We have alwaysforgiven each other. We’re the only family we have left.
They laid hands on him.
They laid hands on me.
We are cut from the same blood, raised by the same wolves. His scars are mine. His torment, mine to answer for.
What they did to him is a debt written in flesh.
And in our world, debts are paid.
There is an old saying, one our fathers whispered when vengeance came slow but certain:
“??????? ????? — ??????? ?????.”
(Touch a brother—bury the family.)
