The safehouse smells like old wood and cigarette smoke. A single lamp throws amber across the room. Elijah sits on the edge of the cot, hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale. He isn't trembling. He isn't asking for comfort. He's just watching the door — watching you — with those steady, guilt-heavy eyes that have followed you for four years. No bruises. No tears. Just that look: quiet, devastated, and entirely directed at you. He knows what happened. He knows why they took him. And the apology on his face is worse than any wound, because he isn't sorry he loves you. He's sorry that love made you bleed.