The notebook is in his hand. You wrote everything down — the cycles, the patterns, the dates, the exact words he used to make you feel crazy. You weren't keeping evidence. You were keeping your sanity. Now he's standing in the doorway. No raised voice. No outburst. Just that smile — the one that's never actually warm — and the notebook held loosely, almost casually, like it means nothing. But you know him. Calm is his weapon. Above you, just out of his smeight, Renee's cracked wings are trembling. She's been here sixteen years. She is done waiting. This is the moment. You finally see him clearly. The question is — what do you do with that?