Page 85 of Buried Past

I started coffee, letting the familiar routine—water, beans, the electronic beep of our new machine coming to life—create a soundtrack of ordinary life against the backdrop of images of federal arrests and courthouse steps.

When I returned with two mugs, Dorian still hadn't moved. The photograph of him had disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage of Hoyle escorted through an underground parking garage.

I set Dorian's coffee on the side table and settled back into my chair. The news cycle moved on—weather, traffic, and advertisements for breakfast cereal. They'd condensed the end of our nightmare into fourteen minutes of coverage, sandwiched between commercials for luxury sedans and weekend sales events.

Dorian finally spoke. "I thought it would feel like something. Like a release."

I examined his profile—the sharp angles of his face thrown into relief by the television's flickering light. "What does it feel like instead?"

"Empty. Like someone stole half of what I was carrying on my shoulders."

It was hard to hear his confession. I'd assumed vindication would bring relief, satisfaction, and an emotional crescendo that matched the scale of what we'd endured.

Dorian lifted his mug. "I keep replaying it. The scene in my head. How it was supposed to end."

I sipped and listened.

"Flashbangs. Boots on the ground. Justice with teeth. I wanted to see them dragged out in chains. Wanted cameras capturing every moment of their humiliation."

The violent imagery didn't surprise me—I'd harbored similar fantasies during the worst moments of our time in hiding. I wanted to see our hunters become the hunted, and watch them experience the same fear and helplessness they'd inflicted on others.

"I expected something too. Something like the cannons in the1812 Overture."

"But it didn't come." Dorian set his coffee down harder than necessary, liquid sloshing against the rim. "Just quiet headlines, sealed indictments, and a whisper that I exist."

I sighed heavily. "We were ready for a war, but it ended in a press release."

He stared at me. "They deserve worse."

"They do, but we didn't."

My observation was a powerful one. We'd armed ourselves with weapons and contingency plans, prepared for blood and violence and the kind of climactic showdown that would haveleft bodies scattered across warehouse floors. Instead, justice had arrived through proper channels—federal prosecutors, sealed indictments, and the bureaucratic machinery of law enforcement doing what it was supposed to do.

"The real win isn't spilling more blood. It's surviving in a world free from them."

We'd survived. Not only the bullets and warehouses and federal manhunts, but the thing that had tried to hollow us out from the inside. We'd made it through with our capacity for love intact.

Maybe it was a victory we hadn't expected—not the dramatic vindication of action movies, but the quiet triumph of choosing peace over revenge.

An hour passed while Dorian watched the television silently with the sound turned down. Finally, he spoke again. "I should've stayed dead."

I winced and crossed to the couch without a second thought, cradling him in my arms. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

I whispered, "We've already survived the worst."

He lifted his head enough to look at me, eyes wide and hollow but still focused. Still present.

"You walked out of hell, Dorian." I kept my voice level.. "This? This is sunlight. It might be scary, but it's still the light."

He nestled his head into my shoulder. "I don't know if I can live like this. Visible. Known. With everyone watching."

He was terrified of being seen by others beyond me. I wove the fingers of my right hand together with his. "You don't have to figure it out today. You've got all the time in the world. One day at a time. Don't run today."

He held on like I was the only solid thing in his world. The rest of the day unfolded in restless fragments. Dorian moved through my apartment like he was searching for something he couldn't name—unable to settle anywhere for more than a few minutes.

I retreated to my laptop, handling the administrative debris of taking an extended leave from work. I emailed Kayla to explain why I'd disappeared from our shift rotation.

Early in the evening, my phone rang. It was Michael.

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