Morning comes softly, as if afraid to touch the ruins of the night before. A thin line of sunlight filters through the cracked shutters and rests across Dante’s shoulder where he sleeps beside me on the couch. For the first time in days, there’s no echo of gunfire in my head, no rush of footsteps, no whisper of fear climbing up my spine. Only the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the faint scent of coffee grounds left over from yesterday.

I don’t move at first. I just watch him. His face, usually carved in stone, looks younger when he’s asleep, the edges smoothed by exhaustion. A dark lock of...