A different night. A different body on the ground. The same cold concrete pressing up under my shoes. The same thick, metallic gleam of blood spreading out like a dark halo under someone’s head. My own breath too loud, too ragged, too guilt-stained.
You did this.
You brought this.
This is on you.
My fingers go numb around the edge of the table. The sound in the room muffles like someone stuffed cotton in my ears. George is saying something, Johnson is saying something, Jackie’s pen drops, Zay’s chair creaks, but it all turns into white noise.
The photo blurs. The edges of the room blur. My vision tunnels until all I can see is red on concrete and the ghost of a man’s eyes staring up at me, accusing and empty.
My chest squeezes tight. No air. No space.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
I try to inhale and my body refuses. My fingers curl into my palms so hard my nails bite skin, but it doesn’t ground me. I hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, too fast, too loud, out of sync with everything else.
A hand touches my knee under the table, warm and firm.
“Valentina,” Asher says quietly.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. My eyes are glued to the photo, which is no longer just a photo but a door someone kicked open in my head.
The hand on my knee squeezes, enough pressure to cut through the static. “Hey. Look at me.”
His voice isn’t the one he uses with the others. It’s lower, softer, anchored. The tone of someone talking to a spooked animal, someone trying not to startle it deeper into the woods.
I drag my gaze up. It feels like lifting a boulder with my eyeballs.
Asher’s face fills my vision. His eyes are sharp, worried, steady. He sees too much, always has.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb moving in slow circles just above my kneecap. “In through your nose.”
I try. The first inhale shudders, breaks halfway, but at least it’s something.
“Good,” he says. “Now hold it. One… two… three… let it out slow.”
I follow his count. In. Hold. Out. The room is still too bright, too sharp around the edges, but the oxygen helps scrape some of the panic off my ribs.
“Nobody talk,” he says without looking away from me.
The table falls silent.
“Name five things you can see,” Asher murmurs. “Right now. Out loud.”
My brain scrambles, but the request gives it something to cling to. “Table,” I manage, voice rough. “Photo. Your… hands. Jackie’s pen. The… the crack in the ceiling.”
He nods, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. Four things you can feel.”
“My skirt,” I say, focusing on the leather biting into my thighs. “The chair. Your hand. My… heartbeat.”
“Three things you can hear.”
“The music,” I whisper. “The fridge in the hall. Your voice.”
His mouth softens, just barely. “Two things you can smell.”
I almost laugh, because the answer is just the house and the room and the faint scent of cleaning chemicals on the table, but the act of searching for it helps drag me a little deeper back into my body.