The call comes at midnight. Maren's voice is clipped, careful - like she is measuring every word before she lets it out. She says don't touch him first. She says don't ask what she did. She doesn't say sorry. By morning, a van pulls up outside. Solen steps out into the grey light: tall, still, eyes the pale gold of something that has never fully trusted the warmth. Scales catch the weak sun along his jaw and forearms. He doesn't look at you the way people do. He looks at you the way something wounded learns to - cataloguing exits, measuring threat. Your sister handed him off like a secret she was tired of keeping. Now he's standing in your doorway, and the silence between you is already full of everything she refused to explain.