Thank God for gravity

Summary

In which Wolfgang has a few things to add about Veronika, and Whispers' past comes to light. Sort of.

"Sense? What, like quantum physics? Like a particle that can be here and not here? Or sense like gravity? A force that no one knows why exists. Only that if it didn't exist… if there wasn't this mysterious attraction… this pull between objects… then none of this would exist either."

— From S1E7, "W. W. N. Double D"

A/N:

Did you miss me? I sure hope so! Here I am, with the answers you've (hopefully) all been waiting for. If this makes you feel things, feel free to give me a holler in the comments section below. Or toss food items at me. I'm hungry.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter with the better format :)

July 12, 2017

Was he dreaming? Or was it a memory?

The images Will saw in his mind were hazy. It was still dark out. He was stirring in his bed, on the brink of waking up. Riley's embrace from his back tightened as if she had sensed his distress. He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself to fall back asleep. He heard voices in his head that didn't belong to anyone he knew, and he felt warm. But he was in Paris, and he knew the temperature was on the chilly side that night.

Then the blurry images slowly zoomed into focus, and he was surrounded by yellow. The sun hung low outside the window of what appeared to be a small wooden house. A kettle was burning on the stove. On the wall hung a large, fading photograph of two boys, one older than the other, with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning from ear to ear.

There were three people seated around a dining table, and they appeared to be in deep discussion. Will's presence in the memory had no form, he concluded as he looked down at his body and saw nothing. He was a phantom, and he felt like an invader, intruding on something private but not wanting to back away.

"How many are like us?" a woman asked.

Will nearly jumped. He could have sworn he'd heard that voice before––but not in real life. Only in memories. He walked closer and examined the three people, identifying the wavy-haired Greek woman as the speaker right away. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes that reminded him of Riley during the early days of their connection. On her left was a man with unruly black hair and a dazzling smile that revealed the bronze glow at his cheeks.

And next to them was a pale, bespectacled man with mousy brown hair, wearing an enthusiastic smile Will could never picture on the older version. Milton.

They appeared to be in their early twenties.

Was he getting better at invading the Headhunter's dream mind? Or was it a fake memory, made up by the man to lure him in? Either way, Will was determined to stay.

In response to the woman's question, young Milton pushed up his glasses. "I'm assuming there is a genetic predisposition involved, though it's most likely a recessive gene. By my calculation, there should be tens of thousands of us. At the very least."

"Yeah, I bet they're hard to find." The other man smirked, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier. "No one would go running around, telling people they have voices in their head. Heh. Imagine that."

The woman (Leonora, a voice in Will's head whispered, a voice that sounded like Milton's but so unlike his) nodded slowly. "Do all the people like us come in groups of three?"

Will was awash with a sense of curiosity mixed with foreboding.

It was Whispers' Cluster. All dead, Angelica had said. He still talks to them in his sleep. Kala had told them her hypothesis that Blockers would start to wear off slightly earlier when one became desensitized to their effects, and the user would have to take a larger dose if they wanted to keep their minds isolated. A vicious cycle.

Looking at the memory now, Will couldn't help but wonder whether the Headhunter slept on Blockers to shield his mind from invaders or himself.

"I believe groups could be larger, or smaller, depending on how many were born at that moment in time, and how many are still alive at the time of the rebirth." Milton tried to act casual, but Will could feel him beaming at the way his Cluster-mates gave him their full attention.

"So many horrible things going on in this world." Leonora's lip trembled as she imagined all the ways their potential Cluster-mates could have perished before they were reborn. Her hand tugged at the sleeve of her dress to cover her forearm, which Will noticed was covered in purple bruises. "I wish we had the chance to know all of us."

The messy-haired man (Ismael, the voice said again, louder this time, as if a ghost was whispering in Will's ear) leaned forward, beaming. "Why limit our interactions? What if we can find other groups? People who understand us."

"Is this safe?" Milton asked.

"Good point, Nora. But we can't reach a conclusion if we keep everything hidden."

"I don't want to hide anymore." Leonora looked down at her body, and Will cringed in sympathy, not wanting to imagine what other scars were hidden.

Milton sounded resolute. "We'll get you out."

"But Xanthus would never—"

"Not if we have anything to say about it." Ismael shook a raised fist, and Milton nodded, making Leonora laugh a little, breaking her frown.

"But how should we go about the investigation?" Milton asked.

Ismael perked up. "Actually—"

His Cluster-mates looked at him and waited for him to continue, but he chose that moment to do a dramatic pause, making Milton groan in mock-annoyance.

"I heard—"Ismael drawled, puffing out his chest—"that there's a scientist here in Egypt who studies mutations in the brain. She did an interview with the Daily News. I read it a few days ago. But she also said she travels a lot, so who knows if she'll even be home?"

"What's her name?" Milton asked. "Perhaps I've read one of her works."

"Dr. Ruth El-Saadawi. I think she wrote a bunch of stuff on brain mutations, starting in the 60's. Dunno if she's studying our kind of brain, though."

Milton frowned when he realized the name didn't ring a bell. And he thought he was well-versed in the field of neuroscience. "I suppose we can try. Does she live far?"

"Cairo should only be a day's journey by train. I can manage."

Leonora put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure we can trust her?"

"You two can come with. Not physically but—"Ismael gestured at the two of them, invisible visitors in his living room—"you know what I mean."

"What if it's a trap?" Leonora asked.

Ismael looked at Milton, who nodded. "Only one way to find out."

There was something heroic about returning to the station after he'd been shot.

Detective Mun knew he wasn't gravely injured from some epic Cops vs. Evil Corporate Gangster Chase he'd see on TV. But he had to admit, when his partner had called the hospital and informed him that the footage of the Gala had been erased, that Joong-Ki Bak was a bigger problem than he'd initially suspected.

And if meeting Joong-Ki's sister had taught the detective anything, it was that the Baks had a propensity for worming their ways out of trouble with spars, car chases and—he couldn't believe it when he first saw the news—garage explosions. So maybe this case wouldn't be so different from an action movie after all.

In hindsight, it was probably reckless of him to have rehearsed what authoritative, punchline-worthy statement he'd say to Joong-Ki during the arrest but not expect the man to pull a gun on him. Of course a man who'd hire killers to murder his own sister—purely speculation at this stage, he reminded himself—would be paranoid enough to carry a weapon everywhere.

But his failure to capture Joong-Ki the first time had only made him more determined. He always loved a challenge, and right now, Miss Bak's case was the biggest one. Lieutenant Lee had offered to hand over his case to another detective and enroll him in witness protection, but he'd insisted on carrying out the investigation himself. Because how could he pass up the chance to serve justice on one of the most influential businesspeople in the nation?

(And hopefully get a second chance for a rematch with Sun Bak?)

The station had pulled up her file after she'd escaped from prison, and Detective Mun had had the opportunity to browse through lists of stellar academic achievements and diplomas. The more he looked, the more he realized he couldn't link the persona in the official documents with the woman he'd fought at the graveyard.

But, he thought with a smirk, her old schools had also sent forth an impressive list of suspension records. Fighting in the schoolyard seemed to be a frequent occurrence back in her day. It wasn't really a surprise, considering how prone Miss Bak seemed to be to solve her problems with her fists.

Though this time the problem seemed to be an intangible one.

An anonymous "good samaritan" had forwarded the recovered footage from the Bak Summer Gala to the Seoul Metropolitan Police. And, in hindsight, it did seem odd that Miss Bak, someone with no other family or friends, was able to escape prison at the exact minute their clearance system was overridden.

It was almost like a hacker had been looking out for her.

Perhaps Joong-Ki Bak wasn't the only one with more questionable resources than the police could account for if her mysterious escape from the country were any indication. And if both of them had allies in the shadows, it would undoubtedly make it harder to capture Mr. Bak and locate Miss Bak to collect her testimony. But if being a cop had taught Detective Mun anything, it was that even the most resourceful villains leave a trail.

He hoped he could find the people behind the scenes before they find him.

The Paris flat was as over-the-top romantic as Rajan's villa in Positano, if not more.

It was a simple two-story building, and the outside walls were painted a light sunset yellow. Though it was in the middle of the city, the way Kala liked it, the building was tucked in a smaller alley away from the tourist-packed main streets. Outside, the windows frames were painted off-white, and underneath them were rectangular gardening pots holding pink and purple flowers in a species Wolfgang couldn't name.

All of this gave the building a sort of story-like aesthetic that reminded Wolfgang of those watercolor postcards in the arts and crafts store he used to pass by on Leipziger Street on his way to the key shop.

Just the sort of place Kala would have liked to call home, he'd thought, when Kala had first wheeled him down the stone-paved way, pausing to wave at a friendly old man who was carrying a paper bag full of groceries. (He'd wanted to walk, but Kala and Felix had practically bound him to the wheelchair.)

The cozy interior of the flat would have been enjoyable had they not been on the run. It was a three-bedroom place with lots of wooden furniture that blended in well with the apple green walls, clearly not intended to hold a Cluster of eight and company. Though by this point sharing a sleeping space was the least of their concerns. After the nursing home, the mold-free couches and beds seemed like luxuries.

By night time that day, everyone had arrived in this new hideout, and the entire group sat around the living room discussing the next step, including Wolfgang, who, despite Kala's protests, insisted on staying up late to see if he could offer some insight from his unfortunate first-hand experience.

Bug had called an hour ago to tell them that the BPO vehicle transfers were sporadic. He'd ventured it was a strategic move to throw him off. After all, he'd pointed out, Whispers should know better than to underestimate Nomi's "crime-fightin' Charlie's Angel squad" after Riley and Will had slipped from him in Iceland.

Will settled into a couple's armchair with Riley as everyone else took seats in the living room. "I saw the Chairman," he told Wolfgang, bringing him up to speed. "Chairwoman, actually. Jonas said her name is Veronika Makarova."

Wolfgang looked like he was going to be sick. He froze in his seat, and Felix opened his mouth to ask what the fuck was going on, but decided against it. Kala inched closer to him and frowned, concerned.

"Is she"—Wolfgang paused to calm himself. Many people shared that name, after all—"is she connected with Vor?"

Amanita raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know?"

"With his fucking family? He knows all about gangsters," Felix told her.

"Do you know anything else about her?" Nomi asked.

Wolfgang shook his head, but he was frowning. His hands were clasped tight on his lap, and he looked down, blue-eyed gaze boring a hole into his knuckles. His Blocker had worn off a few minutes ago, and everyone was hoping he could share whatever he might have learned about the Chairman in his days as a hostage, if anything. The Cluster felt a tension in their shared mind like unrelenting fingers threatening to pull the connections apart.

"Wolfgang," Kala prompted, putting a hand on his back. "Did your family ever mention the name? Did they…"—she shut her eyes, hating herself for bringing up his family's criminal past when it could upset him—"Did they… collaborate?"

He looked up, first at Kala, then at a tense-looking Will and Riley. "Did you get a memory of her?" his voice was tense.

Will nodded. Riley clutched his hand, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the memory he'd gathered from Whispers' head. It came out blurry in their shared minds, and Riley closed her eyes too, hoping their energies could combine and make the image clearer. Eventually, the memory zoomed into focus.

Wolfgang got a glimpse of the Russian woman in her entirety: white blouse, blood red lips, steel blue eyes that looked like they could cut into his mind even as a Sapien. He felt a buzzing in his ears as he lost balance in his seat, and his back hit against the back cushions of the couch, but he was too busy gasping for air to notice the pain or Kala's voice asking him what was wrong. He shut his eyes tight.

Did he roll off the couch? He thought he might have heard a thud among all the buzzing in his ears, which grew louder until he was only conscious of the darkness and the noise that amplified every ragged breath. And had the floor always been so cold?

Then, as if his consciousness was hurled through a tunnel that traveled back in time, colors and sounds and smells and tastes began unwinding in his mind's eye. Unbeknownst to him, the same images played through the heads of everyone in his Cluster.

No, not images. Memories.

Wolfgang was four when he first found out he had an aunt, and it was not from some sort of warm and memorable family gathering. His aunt didn't visit his home in Berlin, presents in tow, gushing over how big her nephew had grown.

It had been a mistake that he knew about his mother's half-sister at all.

He remembered that day because it was one of the few days his father wasn't in the house, one of the few days he didn't hear plates shattering and his mother crying in the kitchen while he banged on the locked bedroom door to his own room, begging his father to let him out. His father had traveled back to Russia a day ago for some kind of business negotiation, and he and his mother were left alone.

They were safe.

Or so they had thought, until that night, a woman—the same woman from Will's mind, who had barely aged well over the years—stormed into their living room, blonde curls ever so impeccable though she looked like she had run all the way here. As soon as she saw Wolfgang, her eyes had bored into his with such hatred, he felt his face burn.

"Your husband," the woman shouted, seething, "has the audacity to show up in Saint Petersburg?"

She had spoken in Russian, but he had understood. It was the language his mother spoke to him in when his father was out, their little secret. Because secrets keep people together.

Instead of answering, his mother had turned to him. "Go to your room, Wolfgang, dear," she said, calm and soft as ever, giving him a forced smile.

"But—"he tried to protest. His mother shook her head, frowning in that I'll-talk-to-you-later kind of way she always did when one of his father's clients came storming in. They were only allowed to lock their front door at night time.

He ran to his room and left a gap on his door so he could see the angry woman. Her nails were long and acrylic with the ends sharpened. In his imagination they grew into claws, sharper than the dagger brooch on the left collar of her black trench coat. And the dark red of her nails and lips reminded him of blood.

From a distance, the woman almost looked like his mother. They mirrored each other in the way they held their ground, feet apart in a defensive stance. But everything about her was off. Her blue eyes made him shiver.

"Did you really think you can keep hiding from me?" he heard her ask.

"Please, Nika. Leave me be."

"Don't. Call me that."

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

"You think an apology can fix everything?" Veronika scoffed. She stepped closer, glowering in a way that made Wolfgang take a sharp breath.

"What more do you want?"

Veronika turned her head towards Wolfgang's room, and he quickly hid behind the door, heart thumping in his little chest. "I want you," she said these words slowly, "to suffer like I did."

"I'm sorry she hurt you. You never told me. But you—"

Veronika sneered. "Your mother is a monster. She deserved what she got."

"Haven't there been enough deaths?" His mother's voice trembled.

"Have there? There are others like her."

"Please, not this—"

Veronika pointed at the closed door behind which Wolfgang was still hiding, peeking one eye out, his ears perked, trying to take in every word. "He's like her, isn't he?"

"What?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Zorina. I know you had him tested." The corners of her mouth quirked up for a second when his mother had tried, and failed, to hide her shock. "Your mother was a freak." She spat out the last word. "And so is he."

"Whatever you have against me, don't let Wolfgang suffer for my mistakes."

"Oh, sister," Veronika laughed, her voice shrill, making the hair stand up on Wolfgang's arms. "You think everything's about you?"

His mother crossed her arms. "So what?" She raised her voice. "You're going to hurt a child?"

"No, hardly. I'm not going to do anything."

Before his mother could react, Veronika had reached over and lifted his mother's shirt, revealing bruised ribs and fading scars. He heard her laugh.

"Just as I thought," she said, letting go of the shirt. Her heels clicked as she made her way out the door. She paused and turned back before she stepped out. "You can't protect him forever," she told her. "Sooner or later, he'll have to face Anton alone."

"Look who's back from sabbatical," Kareem said when Milton came into the room.

Kareem was in a worse state than Milton remembered. His hair stuck to his forehead and the sides of his face with sweat, his lip was split with an angry dark red gash down the middle, and the bruise around his left eye only darkened since the last time Milton saw him. A metal basin filled with blood-stained towels was placed on one side of the recliner, and a machine to the left showed elevating heartbeats, even though Kareem tried to appear calm. But then, he wasn't the only one looking worse for wear.

"Have you decided to come forward with the information on Veracity?" Milton tried to sound nonchalant. He preferred to keep his hands clean and have a Hazsuit carry out the physical aspects of an interrogation. But at the moment, as the man smirked with blood-stained teeth, he could see the appeal of punching the prisoner himself.

"What, and let you miss out on all the fun?"

"If you've been working against us for a long time, Mr. Asghar, you should have already gathered that we have a way of obtaining what we want. Your resistance is futile."

"Well, that's too bad." His smirk only grew wider. "I was rather hoping I'd won."

Milton stepped forward and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up from his chair so that their faces were a mere inch away. "I don't like games"—he said through clenched teeth—"or attitudes"—their foreheads were touching now—"or people who think they can outsmart me."

"Hmm." Kareem raised a teasing eyebrow. "Do you not like me because I'm evasive? Or because you can't break me?"

Sighing, the Headhunter grabbed a stool nearby and sat down next to the recliner. "I was offering you one last chance to come clean," he said, shrugging. "But I suppose I'll have to give you a little reminder."

Ice blue eyes locked with brown, and four pupils dilated as Milton pushed their minds outside their physical bodies. They were plunging into the depths of a tunnel that had no end. Then the ground formed beneath their feet into wooden floorboards in different shades of brown, placed in a pattern familiar to the Egyptian.

Kareem felt the mid-afternoon breeze carrying the tangy smell of the ocean, and, looking around, he found himself in the living room of his childhood home. There were three people seated around the dining table, but they were in deep discussion, not mindful that they were being watched.

One of them he recognized as Milton. It was like looking a younger version of the Headhunter through a two-way mirror, a ghost from the now cold-blooded shell of a man who stood next to him, also invisible to the past version of himself.

Kareem remembered that day. It was the last day he ever saw his brother.

Ismael had reassured his Cluster-mates that he could embark on a journey to Cairo to find Ruth El-Saadawi, hoping she could explain the reason behind their connection, and he had never come back.

Ismael had told Kareem that all he'd seen on the day of his rebirth was a scared old man—his Father, Kareem knew now—who had backed into a corner before he was shot by a masked murderer. If it weren't for the series of strange events that happened the days after, he would have thought the vision was a nightmare, and nothing more. Back then the thing he craved most was an explanation.

It had been years since Kareem had last seen his home, and the nostalgia was overwhelming, though the fact that he left on the same day as Ismael, who had never returned, gave him shivers. Still, Kareem found himself rooted to the place, bathing in the memory of a time before he had lost his brother. Before everything had gone south. It almost felt like time was frozen in a happier moment.

But it wasn't, because Kareem heard a familiar cold chuckle that certainly didn't belong in this memory. Kareem tried to snap out of the trance. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation in his physical body, on the stone-hard recliner chair and the air-conditioned room that was too cold, on the metallic smell of his blood. And then he was back, and the machine that detected his heartbeats beeped faster.

But Milton had been back long before him, he knew as soon as he saw the sneer on the Headhunter's face that towered over him. His Mother had told his Cluster that Sensates were most prone to mind invasion when they were immersed in a memory, out of touch with their physical bodies. Swearing, he shut his eyes and tried to focus on the canoe and the gush of the water and ashes, but found himself frozen in a space that could only be described as the in-between point before what he wanted to see and what Milton wanted.

There was the sound of ice crackling, and the ground shifted beneath his feet.

The Headhunter stood next to him as they witnessed a bearded man in a fisherman's hat on the docks of Venice board a boat, inside which two passengers, a young man and Kareem himself, stood up and bid the fisherman good day, setting down a backpack. Kareem shifted into the body inside his memory, and move back next to the leather sack. His hands, but not his, tore open the zipper, revealing bottles upon bottles of black capsules in clear bottles, and powders in plastic bags, and syringes…

The images around him shifted, and he was in the airport, pretending to wait for his luggage as he bumped against a middle-aged man and slapped a bottle of Blockers into his hands, but this time he also reached for the wallet inside the man's jacket, opening it to reveal his ID. The momentum that came with rapid mind-reading was something Kareem was familiar with thanks to his training.

He used to find it pleasant, the quick shift in of color and sound and smell. But back then he was the one in control. He heard Milton chuckle next to him and felt his blood go cold.

Now, wasn't that easy?

Everyone, even Jonas, and Mavis knew better than to ask Wolfgang questions. They sat around in silence as Wolfgang pulled himself up from the ground, ran off and shut himself in the room he shared with Kala, not bothering to use his cane. Lito had quietly filled Hernando and Dani in on what happened, and Nomi did the same with Amanita before everyone decided to go to bed and hope things would work out the next morning, save for Sun and Felix, who had volunteered to take the first guarding shift.

Kala looked at Felix, who nodded and gestured for her to follow Wolfgang alone. She hesitated when her hand touched the doorknob, not knowing what she'd find. Kala expected him to be withdrawn. Or crying? But Wolfgang had never cried in person since she had learned to shed his tears. Or maybe he was angry, and she dared not think what rage could drive him to do.

But then she heard a muffled sob, and the door flew open even though she didn't remember turning the knob, or shutting the door closed, although she did hear a click. She sat next to Wolfgang on the bed. He didn't acknowledge her presence but didn't inch away when she moved closer. They sat in silence for a while, and the buzzing in Wolfgang's head pulsed through the Psycellium. A bottle of Blockers sat on the nightstand, reminding her that his exposed mind was vulnerable to prying, but she decided to wait.

For once, she couldn't soothe his pain with a memory of drizzle.

He turned, slowly, and their eyes met. But his pupils were unfocused, his gaze lost in a world beyond this one.

"I used to see my mother's ghost," his voice was gruff when he spoke again, and it was barely louder than a whisper. "He used to say I was delusional."

She didn't need to ask to know who he was. It was common knowledge that Wolfgang had spent his life hiding things about himself thanks to that man. Still, it was a wonder how little she, and the rest of the Cluster, knew about Wolfgang's past, though what memories they did gather snuck their ways into everyone's nightmares.

"Was she like us?"

He shook his head, looking down at his lap. "She never got the chance."

She realized he had never told them what happened to his mother, but she didn't wish to pry until he was ready. He frowned as he picked up the thought. "She's dead because of me," he told her. "It was my fault. She moved to Berlin with him when she found out she was pregnant. She hadn't even told him yet—"

"Don't." She shook her head. "Wolfgang, you can't blame yourself for what"—

"She's dead because of me!" he repeated and kicked the nightstand with his foot. He hadn't expected it to tip over, but it did, and one of the drawers fell out, landing right in front of them with a loud clatter. He felt Kala flinch. It was about time she saw him for who he was. Really, it was incredible someone like her had stayed with him for so long.

He turned to face her, fists clutched in anger directed at himself. "If I wasn't—"

He had expected her to back away after he'd lost his temper, but her eyes bore into his with a sharpness he had seen only once before, back at the key shop. She still remembered what he'd said. Maybe everything would be easier if I wasn't—

"Don't," she said again, volume raised.

He gave a small startle before shaking his head, burying his face in his hands. The buzzing in his head hadn't stopped since he'd first recalled his memory of Veronika. It ebbed and flowed with a numbness that had nothing to do with Blockers. Then the buzzing grew into indistinguishable voices, and when Kala tried to make out who the speakers were, she felt her head spin.

So she leaned into Wolfgang, embracing him from the side, hoping her body warmth could help the buzzing subside, but it only worked to intensify the emotion until she was struck with the pain that she'd come to associate with loss.

She heard a kitchen timer go off. Then she wasn't in her bedroom anymore, but in Wolfgang's childhood home in Berlin, watching three men kick open the door and train their guns on a seven-year-old version of Wolfgang, who was on his way to the kitchen to help his mother prepare dinner. One of them he recognized as Balthazar, a Russian who did business with his father. He didn't remember meeting the other two.

His mother had dropped the plate she was holding, not even noticing that it had smashed into pieces on the floor. She stepped forward and stood in front of Wolfgang, blocking the pistols. "Leave him," she demanded. "He has nothing to do with this."

Wolfgang used to think gunshots were loud, not hard to miss. But when a pistol was pressed against someone's skin, the sound of a bullet piercing through flesh was dull. He would have thought the gunshot blanks if his mother hadn't collapsed to the ground, blood seeping out from the wounds on her midsection.

"You can't protect him forever," Balthazar said before the three men stashed the gun away and marched out the door.

Wolfgang knew he should have called for help, or maybe tried to go after them even though he stood no chance against guns. At school, they'd taught him the number to call in case of emergencies. But he was rooted to the spot as if he had been growing out of the wooden floor his whole life, and all he could hear was a buzzing in his head. The plate his mother had dropped was on the floor next to her, sprinkled with blood. His mother's cheek, he realized as he kneeled, was paler than the white china.

He was alone.

When the memory turned into darkness, and black faded into the present moment, he found himself back in the room he shared with Kala. She was petrified, sitting next to him, but as soon as he laid a careful hand on her shoulder, she trembled, her hair rubbing against the side of his shoulder. Then came the sobbing as she cried in his place. He wiped her cheek with his thumb, his mind blank.

For him, the tears had been long forgotten. All the emotions he had left? It was anger—not at Veronika. At himself.

"She's dead because of me," he repeated, closing his eyes. "She stayed with him because she wanted to hide me from her." And for what?

"She loved you, Wolfgang." He heard her sniffle before she held his hand, tracing the lines on his palms. "You know what it's like, wanting to protect someone you love."

He opened his eyes and took in the way she looked at him, teary-eyed, grief-stricken.

Wolfgang thought about his mother again, lying on the kitchen floor in her blood-stained robes. Everyone he had cared for had a tendency to leave too soon, he'd learned that day. But maybe, if no one cared for him anymore, people would stop getting hurt.

Kala shook her head. "I'm not leaving you," she repeated again. "And if they want to take you away,"—again,—"they're going to have to go through me."

And Kala was nothing if not determined. Wolfgang knew no amount of self-loathing would make her change her mind. But why did she believe he was worth protecting? Why did she still think he could rise above his past?

She leaned forward and put a hand behind the back of his head, pushing him forward. Her lips caught his with a fervor, an insatiable need to feel his presence, intensified by their connection. For a few seconds, he didn't remember to gasp for air. Her grip on him tightened, sheltering his body like armor.

Before she gave him another dose of Blockers, she showed him the memory of the day at the temple when he had visited her as she prayed. She'd wondered, then, if his timely appearance was Ganesha's way of giving her answers, but over the past year, she'd concluded he'd given her more than that.

He'd given her freedom.

"You are not a monster, Wolfgang," she whispered in his ear.

How do you know? Wolfgang asked.

His consciousness shifted out of the bedroom, plunging into darkness once again. A few seconds later he saw himself marching to what he believed would be his death at his uncle's, with a single gun and a hope that, should he die, he would take everyone who had hurt Felix with him to do the world a favor.

Because monsters only care about themselves, Kala thought.

Wolfgang saw himself standing in front of his bleeding uncle, gun raised. But this was the first time he saw the memory through her eyes. And all she saw, when she had looked at him as the bullets were emptied, was the same helpless boy that had kneeled in front of his mother's body, believing she would have lived if he had never been born. He had spent a lifetime keeping Felix from suffering the same fate.

The tears from her face dried, and he was the one sobbing now, head buried in her chest as she stroked his back. As Kala whispered soothing words in his ear and pulled him into bed, wrapping the blanket around his body like a shield, she made a promise to Wolfgang.

She promised she would help save him from himself.