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They met at a halfway house in Quezon City—an old man with cloudy eyes and nicotine fingers.
Mateo Alcaraz. Former psychiatrist. Disgraced. Retired. And once, Vinci's court-mandated counselor.
Ella didn’t speak right away. She wanted to observe how Vinci looked at him.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked like a child bracing for a slap.
“You grew up,” Mateo said. His voice rasped like old bark.
Vinci remained standing. “You told them I was schizophrenic.”
“I told them the only thing they’d believe.”
Ella sat across the table, folding her arms. “You knew about Eon.”
Mateo’s eyes flicked toward her. “He introduced himself in our second session. A charming little voice with a very specific vocabulary. Vinci would twitch his hands when Eon wanted out. He still does.”
Ella glanced at Vinci. His fingers had been flexing the entire time.
“You should have helped him,” she said.
Mateo coughed a laugh. “I tried. But the system wanted a label, not a cure. So they labeled him, medicated him, and left him to drown in his own duality.”
“Did you think Eon was dangerous?” she asked.
“I knew he was,” Mateo replied calmly. “But only to those who hurt Vinci.”
Vinci’s voice cracked. “You told my father I was just disturbed.”
“I was protecting you.”
“No. You were protecting yourself.”
Mateo’s expression softened. “And now look. He’s still in you. And she—” He turned to Ella. “—she’s probably the first thing he’s ever wanted to keep.”
Ella stood, swallowing the nausea in her throat. “You said Eon only hurts those who hurt Vinci. So why are people dying now?”
Mateo didn’t answer. He simply looked at Vinci.
And Vinci, for once, had nothing to say.
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