Chapter 3

His tone had softened, laced with sympathy.

"We can figure out the rest later."

I looked at him, then at the eerily clean coffee table, and finally nodded.

The entire drive to the precinct, my mind was racing, trying to find the glitch in reality.

The night Julian knocked on my door was last Wednesday.

I remembered it clearly because I had worked late. I had grabbed a cup of instant ramen from the convenience store downstairs, planning to have a sad dinner.

As I approached my building's entrance, I saw a shadow slumped against the brick wall.

I gasped, instinctively stepping back.

The shadow moved, and a voice, raspy and broken, called out, "Harper."

It was Julian.

I stood frozen. The cup of ramen slipped from my hands, rolling to a stop near his dirty sneakers.

He took two agonizing steps forward, and the streetlights illuminated his face.

He was unrecognizable. His face was a map of purple bruises, his lip was split, one eye was swollen shut, and his clothes were tattered rags. His exposed arms were covered in a horrific lattice of old and new scars.

He was limping heavily, his left leg dragging.

"Julian?" my voice cracked.

He nodded weakly.

I rushed to him, my hands hovering over his body, terrified of hurting him. He was a walking open wound.

In the end, I just stood there, tears streaming down my face.

"How... how are you..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.

He looked at me through his one good eye, a faint, emotional glint shining through the pain.

"Harper, I escaped," he whispered.

The details after that were a blur. I remember helping him up the stairs, guiding him to the sofa, and frantically grabbing my first-aid kit.

His injuries were worse than they looked. His back was covered in angry whip welts—some scabbed over, others still oozing blood.

His feet were a mess of popped blisters and thick, dirty calluses.

I cried the entire time I applied the antiseptic, my hands shaking.

He remained incredibly quiet, only letting out a sharp gasp when the alcohol stung his raw skin.

Once I finished wrapping him up, he leaned back against the sofa, looked at me, and suddenly said, "Harper, don't call the cops."

I blinked. "Why?"

"The people who ran that place... they have people everywhere. The police won't help."

"I saw a guy try to report them once. They sent him right back. He didn't survive the night."

"But we can't just—"

"Harper." He reached out and squeezed my hand. "Just let me catch my breath first, okay? I’ve been running for three years. I just want to be safe with you for a few days."

Looking into his desperate eyes, I nodded.

Over the next week, I called in sick to work and stayed by his side.

He was too weak to move much, so he spent most of his time in bed. I cooked for him, kept him hydrated, and wiped his feverish brow.

He didn't talk much. Whenever I asked about his time at the labor camp, he would shudder and shake his head, saying he couldn't bear to relive it.

When I asked how he survived those three years, he just looked at me and said, "By thinking of you."

There was one moment, while I was heating up some soup, he watched me from the kitchen doorway and said, "You still have the same habit. You always let it boil over first, then panic and turn the heat down."

I smiled. "How did you know?"

"You used to make me soup when we lived in our college dorm."

"Like that time I had the flu, and you insisted on making some terrible vegetable broth that tasted like hot dishwater. I couldn't swallow a single sip."

Now, sitting in the back of the police cruiser, staring at the blurred city lights outside, I scrutinized every single memory from the past week.

His words. His gestures. The way he looked at me.

Everything was so normal.

He remembered my favorite foods, the places we used to go, the stupid arguments we had.

At one point, I casually mentioned how much I missed my old cat who ran away years ago.

He immediately said, "You mean Milo? The chubby orange tabby? You cried for two weeks and searched every shelter in the city."

If this man wasn't Julian, how could he possibly know these intimate details?

***