Andrea didn't sleep.
She lay on the edge of the massive bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling as rain tapped against the glass like fingers begging to be let in. The room was beautiful — expensive, clean, safe.
It meant nothing.
Her hands were clenched so tight her nails cut into her palms. She didn't feel it.
Atlanta crept in anyway.
Concrete.
Blood on knuckles that weren't shaking anymore.
A voice screaming her name — not in love, but in warning.
She sat up suddenly, breath sharp, lungs burning like she'd been underwater too long.
Get up.
Check exits.
Listen.
Old habits never died. They just waited.
A soft knock hit the door.
Once.
Careful.
She was on her feet instantly, silent, body already angled toward the door like a weapon waiting for permission.
"Andrea," Tom's voice. Low. Hesitant. "It's me."
She unlocked the door but didn't open it fully.
"What."
Not what's wrong.
Not are you okay.
Just what.
Tom flinched — barely, but she saw it.
"I heard something," he said. "Thought you might need—"
"I don't."
The words came too fast. Too sharp.
Tom exhaled slowly. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
That did it.
She laughed — once. Bitter. Empty.
"You don't know me anymore."
Tom stepped closer, eyes searching her face. "That's why I'm asking."
Something in her snapped — not loud, not dramatic. Just a quiet fracture that spread too fast to stop.
"You want to know what Atlanta was?" she whispered.
He nodded.
Her eyes went dark.
"It was survival," she said. "It was learning how to hit first. How not to hesitate. How to shut down parts of yourself so you don't feel it when someone begs."
Tom's stomach dropped.
"Beg for what?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned away, pacing the room like a trapped animal.
"I learned how much pain a body can take before it breaks," she continued flatly. "I learned how easy it is to disappear people who think you're weak."
"Andrea," Tom said, voice cracking now. "What did they do to you?"
She stopped.
Turned.
"They didn't do anything," she said quietly. "I did."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Down the hallway, Bill stood frozen, hand half-raised to knock. Georg was behind him, expression unreadable. Gustav lingered near the kitchen, heart pounding — all of them hearing enough to know something was very wrong.
Tom stepped back like she'd struck him.
"You're scaring me," he said.
"Good," she replied. "You should be."
Her breath finally started to shake — traitorous, weak. She hated it.
"I don't have nightmares," she said. "I relive things. Over and over. Wide awake. I don't cry. I don't scream. I don't get comfort."
Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
"I get quiet."
Tom reached for her instinctively.
She grabbed his wrist mid-air and twisted — not enough to hurt, but enough to prove she could.
His eyes widened.
"Don't," she warned softly.
She let go immediately, stepping back like she'd been burned.
From the doorway, Georg spoke for the first time.
"That wasn't instinct," he said. "That was training."
Andrea's gaze snapped to him.
Bill swallowed hard. "Jesus… what happened to you?"
She looked at all of them then — really looked.
And for the first time, something like shame crossed her face.
"I didn't come back to be fixed," she said. "I came back because I was running out of places to go."
Gustav stepped forward, gentle but firm.
"Then you don't have to run here."
Her jaw tightened.
"I don't know how to stop."
The words fell like a confession.
No one moved.
Tom finally spoke, voice rough. "Then stay. Even if it's ugly. Even if it hurts."
Andrea stared at the floor.
For one terrifying second, she looked like the girl she used to be.
Then the walls slammed back up.
"I sleep with the door locked," she said. "And if I wake up screaming, don't touch me."
Tom nodded immediately. "Okay."
She hesitated.
"…Okay."
She shut the door.
Behind it, she slid down against the wall, breathing hard, eyes burning — not with tears, but with something worse.
Because she wasn't afraid of the darkness anymore.
She was the darkness.
And Tom just invited it inside his home.