Delaney's apartment. 9 PM.
Victor sat on the guest room floor, back against the bed, drawing in a notebook Amore had packed for him. The door was closed but not locked. He could hear Delaney on the phone in the living room. Her voice sharp. Angry.
"—can't just dump him on me and disappear—"
"—important work, Amore, you don't understand—"
"—few days means few days, not indefinite—"
Victor kept drawing. A house. Flames. Stick figures with their arms up.
The same picture he always drew.
Footsteps approached. He didn't look up.
The door opened. Delaney stood there, phone still in hand, frustration carved into every line of her face.
"Did you eat the sandwich I left you?"
Victor looked at her. Said nothing.
"The sandwich. On the counter. Did you eat it?"
He understood every word. Just didn't feel like answering.
"Great. Perfect. Starve then." She turned to leave.
"Was... how you say... суха." He stumbled over the English word. "Dry. Bread dry."
Delaney stopped. Turned back slowly.
"You speak English."
Victor shrugged. "Little bit."
"A little bit." Her voice went very cold. "So this whole time, when I've been—you've understood me."
"Sometimes. Not all words."
"But enough."
He went back to his drawing. Added more flames.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You not ask if I speak. You just... yell. Tell me 'go room.' 'Eat.' 'Clean.'" He mimicked her sharp tone. "Like dog."
Delaney's jaw clenched.
"I wasn't—I don't have time for this. I have work to do."
"Yes. Always work." Victor's pencil scratched across paper. "Amore say you always work. Never... никога..." He searched for the word. "Never time for family."
"Amore doesn't know what she's talking about."
"She say you angry person. Lonely person." Victor looked up at her. "She right, I think."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
"How old are you?" Delaney asked finally.
"Eleven."
"Eleven-year-olds don't talk like that."
"Eleven-year-olds in Bulgaria see много неща. Many things. We grow up... how you say... бързо."
"Fast."
"Yes. Fast."
Delaney stepped into the room. Looked at his drawing. The house. The flames. The figures.
"What is that?"
"Home."
"Your home in Bulgaria?"
"Was home. Before." He added another figure. Smaller. "This me. This майка ми—my mother. This..." He hesitated. "This father."
"Where's your father now?"
"Dead." Victor said it flatly. Matter-of-fact. "Two years. Fire."
Delaney's expression flickered. Something almost like recognition.
"The house?"
"Yes. He sleep with cigarette. Mother pull me out. But house..." Victor scribbled harder, darkening the flames. "Gone."
"I'm sorry."
"You not sorry. You not care." He set down the pencil. "You want me gone. I hear you on phone. 'Find someone else.' I understand this."
Delaney sat down on the edge of the bed. Tired suddenly.
"It's not personal."
"Yes it is." Victor picked up the pencil again. "Everything personal. You just pretend not."
"You're eleven."
"And you old. But you not smarter." He glanced at her. "You just... more alone."
"Jesus Christ." Delaney rubbed her face. "Does Amore know you talk like this?"
"Amore not listen. Like you." He started a new drawing. This time just eyes. Lots of eyes. "Everyone too busy for listen. Too busy for see. So I watch. I learn. I speak when need."
"And you didn't need to before now?"
"Before you think I stupid kid who not understand. Is easier. People show real self when they think you not understand."
Delaney stared at him. This eleven-year-old Bulgarian kid who'd been playing her since he arrived.
"What have you seen then? What's my 'real self'?"
Victor drew another eye. Then another. "You scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Yes. Very scared. You work work work—" He made frantic motions with his hands. "—because if you stop, you think about... something bad. Something you run from."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know scared person. I am scared person too." He tapped the drawing. "After fire, I scared all time. Every sound. Every smell. I think 'fire coming again.' Mother say is... trauma? Yes. Trauma."
He looked at her directly.
"You have trauma too. I see it. In how you..." He gestured vaguely. "In how you not look at people. In how you angry for everything. In how you clean hands много пъти—many times—like washing something off."
Delaney's hands, resting on her knees, curled into fists.
"That's enough."
"You ask. I tell truth." Victor went back to drawing. "You not like truth. This why you alone."
"I'm alone because I choose to be."
"Лъжец." He said it softer this time. Not contempt. Just observation. "Liar. You alone because scared. Because..." He searched for words. "Because let people in is... dangerous. So you push away. Work instead. Make people... enemies? Yes. Enemies. Easier than friends."
Delaney stood abruptly.
"I'm not having this conversation with a child."
"See? Run away. Like always." Victor didn't look up. Just kept drawing eyes. "Is okay. I understand. I run too. From fire. From memory. From..." He paused. "From mother in hospital who maybe die."
His hand had stopped moving.
"She's not going to die," Delaney said.
"You not know this."
"Amore said it was just—"
"Amore lie to make me feel better. But I hear doctors. I understand more than they think." His voice was steady. Clinical. Too adult. "Mother very sick. Maybe come back. Maybe not. So I here. With you. Person who not want me. Because no one else want me either."
The silence stretched.
Delaney sat back down.
"Your mother's going to be okay."
"You still not know this."
"No. But..." She struggled. "But being scared doesn't help. Sometimes you just have to... keep going. Do the work. Focus on what you can control."
"Like you do."
"Yes. Like I do."
Victor finally looked at her. "And you happy? This make you happy?"
Delaney opened her mouth. Closed it.
"No," she said finally. "It doesn't make me happy."
"Then why you do it?"
"Because it's all I know how to do."
Victor nodded slowly. Like that made sense to him. Like he understood completely.
"Майка ми say something before hospital. She say..." He frowned, translating. "'If you only know one thing, you only have one thing. But if one thing break, you have nothing.'"
"That's... depressing."
"Yes. Very depressing." Victor picked up his pencil. "But true, I think. You have only work. So when work not enough..." He gestured at her. "You this. Scared. Angry. Alone."
"When did you become a therapist?"
"When did you become so... как се казва... broken?"
The word landed like a punch.
Delaney stood again.
"I'm going to make dinner. Real dinner, not sandwiches. You're eating it even if the bread is dry."
"Okay."
She reached the door.
"Delaney?"
She turned.
Victor was looking at her with those too-old eyes.
"Is okay to be scared. Mother say this too. 'Fear not bad. What you do with fear—this is what matter.'"
"What are you doing with yours?"
"Drawing. Talking. Trying not run." He held up his notebook. "What you do with yours?"
Delaney didn't answer.
Just walked out.
Closed the door quietly behind her.
In the kitchen, she stood at the counter, hands pressed flat against the cold surface.
An eleven-year-old Bulgarian kid had just read her better than any therapist ever had. Better than anyone in years. Because she'd thought he didn't understand. Had shown her real self. And he'd seen it all.
Her phone buzzed.
Marshall
Got eyes on the targets again. Elena's apartment building.
Work. Focus on work.
That's all she knew.
Even if it was breaking her.
Even if an eleven-year-old could see it.
Even if she was exactly as alone as he said.
She opened the fridge.
Started making dinner for two.
And tried not to think about fires, or trauma, or mothers in hospitals, or the fact that a scared kid with a notebook full of flames understood her better than she understood herself.
Work. Only work. Everything else was just noise. Even when the noise was telling the truth.
> Chapter complete. Continue to next chapter? [Y/N] █