On the edge of the bed, Jonah sat rigid. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, his eyes fixed on the glowing crucifix mounted on the wall. The dim light cast long, jagged shadows across the ceiling, swaying slightly with the tremble of his breath.

The apartment was still. No footsteps in the hall, no knock at the door. Just the hum, the shadows, and the weight of his own guilt pressing down on his chest like a stone.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. It didn't matter. The night was his only witness, and it had seen this scene a hundred times before.

Finally, Jonah pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady. He crossed to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass, looking down at the city lights blurring below.