The weight of betrayal still sits heavy in my chest as I stand outside Eliot's door. Parker's words echo in my mind—"You're supposed to wonder 'why?' Hardison. That's who you are." She's right, of course. But wondering why doesn't make the memory of drowning any less real, any less terrifying.

I knock once, twice, and wait. The sound of movement from inside stops abruptly, followed by silence that stretches too long. When the door finally opens, Eliot fills the frame—shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin, hands wrapped in what looks like bloodied tape from what must have been an intense workout.

His eyes meet mine, guarded and unreadable. No greeting, no question—just that same neutral expression he wears when he's trying to hide something.

"What do you want?" His voice is low, rough, like he's been yelling or maybe just hasn't spoken in hours.

I came here for answers. For closure. For something that will make the panic attacks stop and let me breathe again without feeling water filling my lungs. But standing here, seeing the tension in his shoulders and the way he's already preparing for a fight, I suddenly question whether I'm ready for whatever truths he might reveal.

"I need to know why," I hear myself say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the trembling in my hands. "Why me? Why didn't you tell me about Moreau? Why did you let me nearly drown?"

Eliot's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or pain—as he steps aside wordlessly, gesturing for me to enter his apartment.