Outside, the morning light shifted, pale but insistent, spilling through the windows. For the first time, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder. I was looking forward.

The house was mine—secured, documented, and defended. And so was I.

Friday had come and passed, not as he planned, not as he controlled, but as I dictated. And the truth settled into me like a weight finally lifted: he had underestimated me, and now, he had nowhere to go.

I let out a long, slow breath and whispered to the empty house, almost to myself, almost to the memory of the life he tried to erase:

This ends differently. Now, it ends on my terms.