Alex does not feel exactly brave when he walks out of the Rodrigo estate. He feels cold, and not the poetic kind, but the kind that seeps through fabric and settles in bone because the night air outside the gates carries no protection with it. The iron gates close behind him with a soft mechanical hum, and the sound irritates him more than a slam would have because it means the estate does not acknowledge loss; it simply continues functioning.
He keeps walking, even though part of him expects someone to call his name, to drag him back, to remind him that leaving was never really his choice to make. But no one does, and that absence presses heavier than hands ever did.
The city beyond the estate is alive in a way the manor never was. Cars pass too close, headlights washing over him without recognition. Somewhere nearby, oil crackles in a roadside pan, and the smell of fried plantain mixes with exhaust fumes. Someone laughs loudly. A couple argues over something trivial. Life continues, indifferent, and for a moment Alex almost resents it because the world should feel different after what he has survived.
He flags down a taxi, and when the driver rolls the window down and squints at him, Alex gives the address of his family's apartment...where they had once lived. The driver shrugs, unlocks the door, and as the car pulls away, Alex finally allows his shoulders to drop, not in relief but in exhaustion, because holding yourself together for months is a full-time occupation.
The apartment is worse than he remembered even though ut hasn't been barely two months since he left, and that is saying something. The stairwell smells faintly of damp clothes and old soup , and when he climbs the four flights with steady steps, his legs burn in a way that reminds him he has been living too comfortably. The landlord meets him at the door, And insisted that Alex paid a sum before he slept in the Apartment...The thin man with impatient eyes counts the cash he gave him twice before handing over the keys. No questions are asked, which suits Alex just fine because he has run out of answers to give.
Inside, the room is small but functional, and he walks its length slowly as if testing the boundaries of a cage that no longer exists. The window sticks when he tries to open it, so he puts his weight into it, and when it finally gives, cool air spills in, carrying distant traffic noise and the sound of someone's television playing too loudly next door. It is messy and imperfect and real.
He sits on the bare mattress and stares at his hands. They are steady, which surprises him, because leaving should feel monumental, yet what he feels instead is an unsettling quiet, like standing in the aftermath of a storm and realizing the damage has not fully registered yet.
At the estate, the silence is not quiet. It is tense.
Antonio stands in his office with a tablet in hand while security footage replays on the screen, showing Alex walking through the gate without hesitation. He watches the footage twice, then a third time, not because he expects it to change but because repetition gives him the illusion of something he couldn't explain. When the head of security begins to explain that no order was given to stop him, Antonio lifts a hand, and the explanation dies mid-sentence because excuses are inefficient.
"So he packed nothing?" Antonio asks, his tone even though his jaw is tight.
"Yes, sir."
Antonio nods once, then dismisses them, and when the door closes, he sets the tablet down carefully instead of throwing it, because anger is useful only when directed. He begins making calls, quiet ones, subtle ones, and by the time he finishes, three different sources are already tracing rental listings within a ten-kilometer radius.
Raphael does not bother with subtlety. He storms into the office without knocking, and the air shifts immediately
"You let him walk out," Raphael says, and although it sounds like an accusation, An accusation that should have been going to him instead.
Antonio does not rise to it. "He walked," he replies calmly, which only fuels Raphael further.
"You could have stopped him."
"And confirmed he was a prisoner?" Antonio finally looks up, and something sharp flickers in his eyes. "Would that have made you feel better?"
"Mind you we are in this situation because you couldn't take your meds don't blame me"
Raphael's mouth tightens, because the answer is complicated and neither of them are in the habit of admitting to weakness. He turns away first, dragging a hand through his hair, and mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to regret.
Meanwhile, Alex spends his first night in the apartment listening to the building breathe. Pipes clank intermittently, someone coughs through the wall, and a baby cries on the floor below, and all of it is chaotic in a way that should be irritating but instead feels grounding. He lies on his side, staring at the faint streetlight glow leaking through the curtains, and when sleep finally comes, it drags him into dreams he cannot fully remember yet wakes from with his pulse racing.
The next morning, he wakes before sunrise, not because he is rested but because his body has been trained to anticipate intrusion. For a few seconds, he lies still, listening for footsteps that never come, and when he realizes there is no guard outside his door and no shadow moving under it, something inside him loosens cautiously.
He finds work by the third day, and the café owner hires him after tasting a sample dish he improvises from leftover ingredients. The kitchen is cramped, the knives are dull, and the dishwasher hums too loudly, but when Alex rolls his sleeves up and begins chopping vegetables, he feels something close to normalcy return. He works efficiently, nods when spoken to, and keeps his past locked behind his teeth.
Then, on the fourth morning, the nausea hits without warning.
He is stirring broth when the smell turns metallic in his nose, and suddenly the room tilts, not dramatically but enough that he grips the counter to steady himself. One of the waitresses asks if he is sick, and he forces a small smile, says he probably skipped breakfast, and steps outside for air.
The street spins slower than his thoughts.
He counts days in his head while leaning against the brick wall, his palm pressing unconsciously against his lower abdomen as memory aligns itself with uncomfortable clarity. The nights blur together at first, then sharpen, and when the realization settles, it does not explode; it sinks.
The whole phenomenon, he had seen it with a neighbor before, he had even helped her to the hospital. But how ... that's not possible..?
"No," he whispers to himself, in denial
Back at the estate, a report slides across Antonio's desk confirming a rental agreement signed under a false name that is not false enough. Antonio studies the address quietly, then forwards it to a trusted contact without commentary. Raphael, however, does not wait for permission; he drives past the building that evening, parks half a block away, and stares at the lit windows as if one of them might reveal Alex's silhouette.
He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles pale, then releases it because storming inside would not fix what has already been broken.
Inside the apartment, Alex stands in the bathroom staring at his reflection under unforgiving fluorescent light. He looks thinner, sharper around the edges, but his eyes are clear, and when he rests his hand against his stomach again, this time deliberately, a slow, dangerous thought forms.
If this is real, then everything changes.
He straightens, washes his face with cold water, and meets his own gaze in the mirror with fear.