The sirens had gone silent, yet their echo lingered in the air like a held breath.
Blue police lights still shimmered against the broken windows of the farmhouse, slicing the night into shards of color.
Between the flashes, the silhouettes of officers moved slowly, blurred, as though time itself had stopped out of respect for what had happened there.
Ferretti was giving orders, voice low and rough, his face marked by exhaustion but steadied by the resolve of a man who'd finally found his way back to redemption.
Behind him, two officers were leading the killer away. He didn't resist.
Head bowed, wrists cuffed, tears tracing silent lines down his face. Each step left a trail of mud and remorse.
"Take him away," Luca said quietly, not even looking at the man. "No one ever sees him again."
He turned then, to Adrian and Clara.
They stood side by side near the medical van, their hands clasped tightly together, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the moment. They looked like two souls who had survived a storm that had tried to erase them.
"You both need treatment," Ferretti told them, approaching. "I called only trusted people."
Adrian tried to speak, but his voice caught.
"Treat her first," he managed to say.
Clara stopped the paramedic with a small shake of her head. "No. Him first."
Her voice was soft, but it left no room for argument. She reached for Adrian's hand, and that single touch silenced every protest on his lips.
Ferretti watched them, then nodded.
"You'll have time to think later," he said. "For now, you need to disappear."
The hotel where he took them stood almost invisible in the night, a quiet place with pale walls and a flickering sign that pulsed like a tired heartbeat.
The clerk didn't ask questions. Luca handed over the keys, muttered a few words, and turned to them.
"Room 214," he said. "It's safe. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Rest, it's an order."
He hesitated before leaving. There was something fragile, human, in the way he looked at Adrian.
"Trust me. Just this once."
Adrian didn't answer. He just followed Clara down the hall, limping slightly, his hand pressed to the wound at his side.
The room smelled of rain and clean linen.
Soft light spilled from a single lamp, painting warm gold across the walls.
The bed was neatly made, impossibly white, waiting like a quiet promise.
Clara turned to him.
His shirt hung open, his skin pale under the gauze at his ribs. Despite the fatigue, his eyes burned with that familiar, impossible intensity, as if she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked softly.
"Only when I breathe," he said, trying for a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
She knelt in front of him, her hands resting lightly on his knees. The gesture was small, almost reverent. Her fingers moved to his shirt, tracing the edge of the bandage.
He inhaled sharply, realizing that what frightened him wasn't the pain, but the peace he felt in her presence.
"You're mine," he murmured against her hair, his voice hoarse. As the words left his mouth, a spasm of pain shot through his side.
Clara lifted the edge of his shirt and pressed her lips against the bandage.
"You're mine," she whispered back.
They looked at each other, really looked, and time stopped.
Adrian reached up, his fingers trembling as they brushed the line of her jaw, her neck, her hair.
Clara caught his hand and placed it against her chest.
"Feel this," she said. "It's been yours all along… even when you forgot."
Her heartbeat pulsed steady beneath his palm. He traced it, memorized it, followed it like a map back to life.
Then he drew her closer, slow and deliberate, until their foreheads touched and their breaths mingled in the quiet.
The first kiss was tentative.
The second dissolved everything: fear, pain, distance, the world itself.
His hands found her back, her shoulders, the curve of her spine, holding her like something both fragile and infinite.
Her fingers clung to him, to his wrists, his neck, his heartbeat.
The room breathed with them.
Every flicker of light, every rustle of fabric, every uneven inhale felt alive.
Outside, the city slept.
Inside, the universe realigned itself around two people who had chosen each other in the unlikeliest of moments.
He gathered her in his arms and felt her warmth seep into him, quieting every wound, every scream that had ever haunted his mind.
She closed her eyes and listened, to his heartbeat, to the tremor in his voice, to the unspoken vow between them.
There were no words left to say.
Only feeling.
They didn't love each other softly.
They loved like survivors: fiercely, desperately, as if loving was the only proof they had that they were still alive.
Every touch was a confession.
Every breath, a promise.
It wasn't escape. It was return. It wasn't passion. It was belonging.
When the world finally stilled, dawn had slipped through the curtains, gold, patient, and quiet.
Clara rested against his chest, her breath calm now, her hand tangled with his.
Adrian traced slow circles along her back, memorizing her shape in the half-light.
"I don't know if there will be a tomorrow," she whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes half closed.
"Then let's stay in this. Just now."
And in that now, nothing else existed.
No experiments, no danger, no pain, just two minds, two hearts, two souls that had finally found home in each other.