Damien’s POV

The station smelled of oil coffee and stale paper, the kind of place that has its own weather. I found Harrow before he found me; he was at the end of a corridor speaking to one of the detective. When he saw me his shoulders relaxed , as if some weight had eased between us.

“You made it,” he said, not as greeting so much as confirmation that I existed in the same space as the rest of the living that morning.

We walked together toward the holding wing like two men who had ...