Noah tore the hospital apart.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Quietly. Precisely. Like violence folded into bone.
He checked rooms that weren't Evan's.
Asked nurses who hadn't seen him.
Stared at security guards until they stuttered apologies.
Walked the same hallway three times, as if repetition might summon a person back into existence.
"He was unconscious," Noah said to the charge nurse, voice flat. "He couldn't have gone far."
The nurse shook her head. "There was no discharge order. No visitor log either. He just… left."
Left.
As if Evan were a misplaced file.
As if people simply did that—disappeared between heartbeats.
Noah stood in the middle of the corridor, hands on his hips, breathing too fast, then too slow.
He felt something hollow open behind his ribs.
He called Evan.
Once.
Twice.
Straight to voicemail.
He didn't leave a message.
He didn't trust his voice not to break apart into pieces that wouldn't fit back together.
Kai found Noah sitting on the hospital steps.
Not slumped.
Not crying.
Just staring at the street like he was waiting for it to explain itself.
Kai didn't speak at first.
He sat beside him.
Close enough to share warmth.
Far enough not to invade.
"He does this sometimes," Kai said gently, after a while.
Noah didn't look at him. "Disappears?"
"When things get loud inside his head." A pause. "He told me once."
Noah's jaw tightened. "You knew?"
"I knew he runs when he's scared," Kai said quietly. "Not where he goes."
Noah dragged a hand down his face.
"I was supposed to protect him."
Kai shook his head. "You're not God, Noah."
A weak attempt at humor. A human one.
"He's strong," Kai added. "Stronger than he looks."
Noah laughed once.
It came out wrong.
"He weighs nothing when he collapses."
Kai didn't reply to that.
He just sat with him while the city kept breathing.
Evan didn't know how long he walked.
Streets blurred.
Lights smeared.
People passed like shadows projected onto glass.
His body moved without asking permission.
His mind was somewhere else.
Every sound felt too sharp.
Every color too loud.
Every thought a broken mirror.
He stopped at a crosswalk and forgot why.
He sat on a bus bench and forgot where he was going.
His phone buzzed.
Noah's name.
He watched it until the screen went dark.
"I can't," he whispered to no one.
He didn't know what he meant.
He just knew that if Noah looked at him right now, something inside him would crack wide open and never close again.
So he walked.
And walked.
And walked.
Until the city became unfamiliar.
Until he became unfamiliar.
Across the street, behind a café window fogged with steam, someone watched him pass.
Not hurried.
Not concerned.
Interested.
Evan's posture.
The way his hands shook.
The way his eyes searched for something that didn't exist anymore.
A man paid for his coffee.
Stirred it twice.
Left exactly three coins on the counter.
He followed at a distance that didn't feel like following.
A shadow that never touched.
A presence that never announced itself.
Careful.
Patient.
Practicing ownership.
That night, Noah slept sitting up on his couch.
Phone in his hand.
Lights on.
Shoes still on his feet.
Kai texted once:
He'll come back.
Noah stared at the message.
He didn't answer.
Because what he wanted to say was:
If he doesn't, I don't know what I am.
And somewhere in the city, Evan stood on a bridge, staring at black water moving like memory.
And somewhere else, something watched him breathe.
And waited.