The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of a distant heater and the steady drip of rain against the windows. Fedele sat in the corner, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, staring at the scuffed floorboards. The small, dimly lit space was suffocating, even for him. The air carried a strange tension, thick and unrelenting, like the calm before a storm.

In the center of the room, he sat on the edge of an old chair, pale and silent, the faint tremor of his hands betraying his attempts to remain composed. Fedele didn't dare look directly at him. Not yet.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the situation settle deeper into his chest. It was supposed to be different—he wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to have to explain himself. But now there was no escaping it. He'd stepped in when no one else did. He saved him. And now? Now, everything was spiraling out of control.

"You should thank me," he muttered, the words bitter and quiet, meant more for himself than the man in the chair.

Fedele leaned back against the wall, his dreadlocks brushing his shoulders as he tilted his head toward the ceiling. His hands, rough and calloused, tightened into fists. He couldn't tell if the ache in his chest was regret or something more.

"I didn't plan this," he admitted after a long, heavy silence. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile calm in the room. "I didn't plan on... any of this."

His dark eyes flicked toward him for a fleeting moment, catching the way his body stiffened in response. The sight made Fedele's stomach twist. He hated seeing that fear, but he couldn't blame him. Who wouldn't be afraid?

"You don't understand," Fedele said, his voice sharper now, tinged with frustration. "I—" He stopped himself, taking a deep breath, forcing his tone to soften. "I've been watching you. For a while. Not in a bad way. I just... I needed to know you were safe."

The confession hung in the air like a knife, its edge glinting with danger. Fedele felt his pulse quicken, felt the shame bubbling beneath his skin, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

"That night—" He gestured vaguely toward the door, as if it could transport them back to the alley where it had all gone wrong. "I couldn't just stand there and let it happen. I couldn't let them hurt you. So I stopped them. I did what anyone would have done."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "No, not anyone. Just me. Because I was already there. Watching."

His eyes met his then, a brief, piercing glance that betrayed everything he was trying to hide. The guilt. The desperation. The fear of losing what little control he still had.

"And now you know," he said, his voice quieter, steadier. "You know what I've done. You know who I am."

Fedele pushed himself to his feet, his tall frame casting a shadow across the room. He began pacing, his boots scuffing against the floor as his thoughts raced.

"I couldn't let you leave," he admitted, his tone colder now, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as him. "Not like this. You'd go to the police. You'd tell them everything. And they wouldn't understand—they'd just see me as some... monster."

The word felt bitter on his tongue.

"I'm not a monster," he said firmly, stopping mid-step to look at him again. His eyes burned with a strange intensity, a mix of pleading and defiance. "I'm not. I saved you. I protected you."

The silence that followed was deafening. Fedele ran a hand through his dreads, his jaw clenched tight. He knew how this looked. He knew what he must think of him. But none of that mattered now.

"I don't know how this ends," he said, his voice quieter, almost resigned. "But I couldn't let you walk away. Not yet."

Fedele turned his gaze to the rain-speckled window, his reflection barely visible in the dark glass. Somewhere deep inside, he knew there was no justification for what he'd done, no excuse for the choices he'd made.

But he couldn't let go. Not now. Not ever.