Dante slid his thumb across the room as if he could swipe the danger away. He stood, long and precise, and moved toward the door like a man who could already see the chessboard and every piece that might move. He didn't lock it — not yet — but he closed it with a soft, final click that sounded like a punctuation mark. The apartment felt smaller after that sound, as if the walls had tightened to keep whatever sat outside at arm’s length.

“Stay here,” he said, because it was what he always said when the air went thin and the world narrowed to protect or punish. He'd said...