Evening had already settled by the time Drogo’s car reentered the main road, the sky deepening into a heavy indigo that swallowed the last traces of gold at the horizon.
The forest disappeared behind them, replaced gradually by dim stretches of highway lit only by passing headlights and the occasional reflective sign flashing briefly in the dark.
Drogo drove in silence with his jaw set tighter than usual; one hand stayed firm on the steering wheel while the other rested against the door.
His discarded shirt lay sealed inside a plastic bag on the passenger floor, the faint scent of antiseptic from the spare he had pulled on mixing unpleasantly with what still lingered in his memory.
In the back seat, Mathieu — or Samson, as he had introduced himself — lay slumped against the leather, breathing slowly and heavily, as though exhaustion had overtaken him completely. The performance was now careful, subdued rather than dramatic.
After several minutes, Drogo spoke without turning his head. “Which way did you say it was to your house?”
There was a rustle behind him.
Mathieu pushed himself upright slowly, rubbing his face as if emerging from a fog. His voice came out roughened but steadier than before. “Take a left up ahead.”
Drogo followed the direction without comment, the car easing into the turn just as a brightly lit gas station came into view on the corner, fluorescent lights humming against the darkened sky.
“Pull in there,” Mathieu added.
Drogo’s brow creased faintly. He guided the car into the station and shut off the engine, the sudden quiet inside the vehicle amplifying the low hum from outside.
“Why?” he asked, glancing into the rearview mirror.
Mathieu opened the door with visible effort, stepping out as though his limbs were heavier than they should have been. He leaned briefly against the car before straightening, exhaling.
“Karen kicked me out,” he said with a tired sigh. “Taking me back there right now would just make things worse. She’d probably call the cops and twist it into something ugly.”
The explanation came easily. And believably.
In truth, the last thing Mathieu intended was to let Drogo anywhere near their actual address — especially not the newly purchased house that would raise questions far beyond what either of them were prepared to answer. But the lie wore a convincing coat of humiliation, and humiliation was rarely questioned.
Drogo studied him for a moment, irritation flickering across his face. He clearly wanted to challenge the statement, analyze it, or press further.
But the evening had already deteriorated into something far removed from the peace he had sought in the forest, and the prospect of entangling himself further in Karen’s personal affairs felt like stepping willingly into quicksand.
He exhaled through his nose.
“Very well,” he said at last, the words clipped but restrained. “You can manage from here?”
Mathieu nodded faintly, avoiding direct eye contact. “Yeah. I’ll figure something out.”
Drogo did not respond. He simply restarted the engine, gave a short, almost dismissive nod, and pulled away from the station.
As the gas station lights receded in his rearview mirror, silence returned to the car, though it no longer carried the serenity of the forest. It felt heavier now, cluttered with questions that refused to settle.
Karen kicked him out.
The phrase repeated itself in his mind, not because it was shocking, but because it aligned too neatly with the fragments he had already observed.
Her volatility. Her pride. The way she seemed perpetually braced for conflict, as though calm itself were an insult.
Yet something about the entire encounter unsettled him.
A man driven to drink and needles in order to silence the noise in his own head did not reach that state overnight. It suggested erosion.
Evidence of slow, persistent damage.
How toxic was she behind closed doors?
Or was Samson simply weak?
Drogo’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel as the traffic light ahead shifted from green to amber.
No. He exhaled.
Weakness alone did not explain the puncture marks, nor the despair in his voice when he spoke of not being seen “as a man anymore.” That had not sounded fabricated. It had carried a raw, unguarded self-hate.
But then again, people were capable of performance when it suited them.
His thoughts drifted back to Karen’s calculated self-injury, the precision with which she had cornered him morally.
That had not been the action of someone careless or emotionally disorganized. It had been strategic.
So what, then, was the truth of her relationship?
Was she dismantling her boyfriend slowly?
Or was Samson manipulating her in return?
Or were they simply two unstable forces colliding repeatedly and mistaking the wreckage for intimacy?
Drogo frowned as he turned onto his street.
He did not like variables he could not categorize.
And Karen Benjamin, it seemed, came with more of them than he had initially calculated.
Later that night…
The house was quiet, with the hum of the city outside softened by the thick walls and drawn curtains.
Karen sat at the small table in the living room, the chandelier lights casting light over the sketches spread before her. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning the meticulous lines and shading as her fingers traced the abstract symbols.
“Hm…” she crooked her head. “So this is the tattoo you’ve been hiding, Dr. Vetter?” she asked finally, her words coming out as a statement rather than a question.
Mathieu leaned back against the counter with crossed arms, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Yeah. Best I could render it,” he said calmly. “Almost the perfect copy of what’s on Drogo’s skin. My memory’s photographic, but even I had to be careful.”
Karen studied the sketches in silence, her lips pressed together with furrowed brows.
Something gnawed at the edges of her mind, tugging at a memory the longer she stared. Her gaze narrowed.
“This looks… very familiar,” she murmured. Her fingers moved over the lines again, tracing shapes that seemed impossibly precise.
And then it hit her. Her eyes widened. “I know where this tattoo is from. It’s the—”
A sharp knock at the front door interrupted the thought, jarring in the stillness of midnight. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“What the fuck?” she muttered, standing. The clock glared back. It was almost midnight. Even Mathieu stood at alert.
Karen then moved to the door cautiously, peering through the peephole to view the figure on the other side.
Annabelle. Karen’s brows arched high.
She opened the door.
The girl stood there; her shoulders slumped, her body trembling. Her clothes were soiled with dirt and streaked with rough marks.
Her face — half obscured by bruises — was turned slightly downward, but the tears streaking her cheeks were unmistakable.
She stared at Karen with wide, frightened eyes.
Karen’s hands twitched on the handle. “What the…” she muttered, disbelief threading her tone.
Mathieu, noticing the tension in Karen’s posture from behind, leaned forward from the living room. “Who is it?”
Karen didn’t answer. She slammed the door, cutting off Annabelle’s muffled sobs.
The sound scraped through the wood, but Karen’s expression remained blank.
Mathieu frowned, stepping closer. “Who was that?”
It took her a moment to recalibrate before responding. “Some kid… that’s Dr. Vetter’s patient.”
“What?” Mathieu blinked. “So… why did you shut the door?”
Karen’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what she’s doing here. How the fuck did she even find this place?”
Mathieu shook his head, exasperated. “Karen, you can’t just shut the door in a kid’s face.”
The sobs outside grew louder. Mathieu moved toward the door, shoving Karen aside.
Opening it just enough to peer out, Mathieu sighted Annabelle’s face glistening with tears in the dim light as she trembled in fear and exhaustion.
Mathieu slammed the door shut, spinning to face Karen. “Did you really just do that? Shut the door on a crying girl? How horrible of a person could you be?”
Karen tilted her head. “You shut it too,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s not exactly… heroic.”
Mathieu opened his mouth, then paused, his lips twitching. He had no defense.
Karen’s tone had already sliced the tension in two, leaving only the absurdity of two adults squabbling while a frightened child waited outside.
Outside, Annabelle’s sobs persisted despite the shut door.
Karen exhaled slowly, relaxing her shoulders as she returned to the sketches on the table.
Her fingers hovered over the paper, her eyes narrowing once more at the lines Mathieu had drawn, as though what happened hadn’t just happened.
Mathieu muttered under his breath, “You’re really going to let her cry out there?”
Karen didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence that followed was loud enough.