Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
Andrea woke on the floor where she'd collapsed, body aching, throat raw, eyes burning like she hadn't slept in days — because she hadn't. Not really. Her mind felt scraped clean, like something had dug through it and left claw marks behind.
She sat up slowly.
The apartment was still.
A blanket had been placed over her shoulders at some point. She hadn't noticed. That bothered her more than the nightmare.
She stood, muscles tense, already scanning exits.
The kitchen light was on.
Tom was there. Hoodie. Messy hair. A faint bruise blooming purple along his ribs where she'd hit him.
Her stomach twisted.
"I didn't mean to—" she started.
"I know," he cut in gently.
That somehow hurt worse.
He handed her a mug. Tea. Chamomile. Something normal.
She didn't take it.
"I could've killed you," she said flatly.
"You didn't."
"That's not the point."
He studied her for a long moment. "Then what is?"
She looked past him, at the city stretching endlessly beyond the windows.
"There is no safe version of me," she said. "Not anymore."
Silence settled between them — heavy, intentional.
Finally, Tom spoke. "How did it start?"
She stiffened.
"No," she said instantly.
"Andrea."
"I said no."
He nodded once. Then surprised her.
"Okay," he said. "Then I'll tell you what I see."
She glanced at him, wary.
"I see someone who learned that being soft gets you destroyed," he continued. "Someone who survived something ugly by becoming uglier. And someone who's still alive — even though she hates herself for it."
Her jaw trembled.
"That doesn't make me good," she whispered.
"I didn't say it did."
Across the apartment, a door creaked.
Georg stood there, already dressed, phone in hand, expression unreadable.
"You're not as buried as you think," he said.
Andrea's head snapped toward him.
"What."
"There was a woman downstairs last night," Georg continued calmly. "American accent. Watching the building."
Tom's blood ran cold.
Andrea didn't react — and that reaction was worse than panic.
"How long?" she asked.
"Ten minutes," Georg said. "Long enough to be sure."
Gustav appeared behind him, worry etched into his face.
"Someone from Atlanta?"
Andrea closed her eyes.
Flash.
A woman with a gold ring tapping against a table.
You're good at this. Don't make me regret trusting you.
"Yes," she said quietly.
Bill came out last, eyes rimmed red. "Andrea… what did you do over there?"
She laughed — bitter, exhausted.
"What didn't I do?"
The room felt smaller.
"They don't let people walk away," she continued. "Not people who know where bodies are buried. Not people who stopped being afraid."
Tom's voice dropped. "Are we in danger?"
She met his eyes.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No drama.
Bill swore under his breath.
Gustav stepped closer to Andrea. "Then we deal with it together."
Her lips curled — not in gratitude.
"You don't understand," she said. "They didn't send him to scare me."
"Then why?" Georg asked.
"They sent him to see if I'm still useful."
That landed like a gunshot.
Andrea's hands clenched.
"I left because I was starting to enjoy it," she admitted. "The control. The silence after."
Tom's chest tightened painfully.
"And now?" he asked.
Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
"Now I don't trust myself."
For the first time, she looked genuinely afraid — not of the past, not of violence.
Of herself.
Tom stepped forward anyway.
"Then we lock doors," he said. "We don't leave you alone. And if someone thinks they can pull you back—"
Andrea cut him off sharply.
"If they threaten you," she said, eyes darkening, "I won't hesitate."
"That's exactly what scares me," Bill whispered.
Andrea looked at him.
"Good."
Her phone buzzed.
Once.
She froze.
Slowly, she pulled it out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
You always did hate unfinished fights.T.
Her blood ran cold.
Bill noticed immediately. "Andrea…?"
She sat down hard, like her legs had finally given up.
"It's not a man," she said.
Tom frowned. "Then who—"
"Tory Nichols."
The name hit the room like a live wire.
Gustav stiffened. Georg's expression sharpened instantly.
"Tory?" Tom repeated. "From—"
"Atlanta," Andrea finished. "From everything."
Her hands shook now. She didn't hide it.
"She was like me," Andrea said quietly. "Or maybe worse. She didn't flinch. She didn't pretend."
Bill whispered, "Why is she here?"
Andrea looked at the city beyond the glass.
"Because she knows I ran," she said. "And she wants to see if I'm still weak enough to feel guilty… or strong enough to finish things."
Tom's voice was low. "Finish what?"
Andrea closed her eyes.
"Us."