Page 168 of Dark Night of the Soul

“How long ago was that?” I asked, curious.

“Longer than I want to admit.”

And I wondered—was he ancient, too? Immortal, too? Was that a prerequisite? But I didn’t ask because my throat tightened at the way he sounded. Grateful.

“That was the day the Quiet Watch stopped being an illusion,” he added. “And became a second chance.”

I looked at Kincade then. At the lines of his face. The weight he carried even when unconscious.

“He does that,” I said softly. I reached for him again. My thumb traced the back of his hand. Still warm. Still here. “Decides people are worth saving. Even when it takes pieces of him.”

Ludwig’s gaze followed mine.

“And that,” he said, “is why we’re all still here.”

And why Decker hated him.

Because he was willing to give people a second chance.

Because he dismantled systems from the inside without a thought for his own safety. Because, I realized, that part never mattered to him.

People did.

Choice did.

Then, because my brain couldn’t sit inside the terror without trying to put it into boxes—because I needed to understand what I watched happen—I asked the question that had been clawing up my throat for hours.

“He got shot through the gut,” I said, flat, like if I made it clinical it wouldn’t make me shake. “He almost bled out. A surgeon stitched him together like he was… like he was human.”

Ludwig didn’t look away from Kincade when he answered.

“He bleeds like a man,” he said. “He breaks like a man. He just doesn’t stay broken the way you do.”

My throat tightened.

“So, bullets don’t kill him.” It came out sharper than I meant it to, like an accusation. I was angry at the universe for giving me this loophole and still making me suffer.

“No,” Ludwig said simply. “Not usually.”

Not usually.

The two words landed with a cold kind of warning.

I stared at him. “Define usually.”

That earned me a quick, assessing glance. Like he could see the exact moment I became dangerous.

“There are rules,” he said. “Old ones.”

“Of course there are,” I muttered. “There are always rules. There’s probably a handbook. Or a laminated card. Maybe a PowerPoint.”

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he went still again—serious, careful.

“Lead is damage,” he said. “Pain. Blood. Shock. Enough of it will put him down. Long enough for someone to do something stupid.”

My fingers tightened around Kincade’s.