The killer survived the surgery.
Barely.
The bullet had torn through muscle but missed the artery by inches.
He was restrained to the hospital bed.
Guards outside the room.
IV line in his arm.
Bandages wrapped tight around his leg.
He didn't look angry.
He didn't look defeated.
He looked calm.
---
The city called Pocho a hero.
Press outside the hospital. Department praise. Morrison shaking his hand.
He didn't feel like one.
He didn't feel anything specific.
Just quiet.
His wife was discharged the same day.
Wrist in a cast.
Bruises fading.
She didn't ask how it ended.
She just looked at him.
"You're still here," she said.
"Yes."
But the way she said it didn't feel relieved.
It felt measured.
---
That night, Pocho asked to see the killer alone.
Morrison hesitated.
"You sure?" Morrison asked.
"Yes."
"Keep it short."
Pocho nodded.
---
The hospital room was dim.
Machines humming quietly.
The killer turned his head slightly when Pocho entered.
"You came," the killer said.
"Yes."
"No yelling this time."
"No."
Pocho stood near the foot of the bed.
Not close enough to touch.
Not far enough to seem distant.
"You saved them," the killer said.
"Yes."
"You could've killed me."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
"I needed it to end properly."
A faint smile.
"That's what you tell yourself."
Silence.
Pocho didn't rush the conversation.
He didn't press.
The killer studied him.
"You're not angry anymore," he said.
"No."
"That's new."
"Yes."
The killer shifted slightly, wincing.
"You know why I did it," he said.
"Because you wanted control."
"No."
Pause.
"Because I was tired."
Pocho didn't interrupt.
"I didn't want to disappear quietly," the killer continued. "I wanted someone to understand."
"You attacked strangers."
"Yes."
"You attacked my wife."
"Yes."
"And that's understanding?"
The killer's eyes held steady.
"You needed me."
Pocho didn't respond.
"You were drifting," the killer said. "Routine cases. Paperwork. Noise."
"You don't know that."
"I watched you before the first attack."
That landed.
"I knew you wouldn't stop," the killer continued. "I knew you'd push. I knew you'd sacrifice."
Pocho's face didn't change.
"You think this was about victims," the killer said. "It wasn't."
"Then what was it?"
"You."
Silence filled the room.
"I wanted to see if someone like you would break," the killer said quietly.
"And?"
"You did."
Pocho didn't deny it.
"You screamed at the wrong man," the killer said. "You grabbed him. You lost control."
"Yes."
"And then you corrected."
"Yes."
The killer breathed slower now.
"You adapted," he said.
"Yes."
"That's disappointing."
Pocho looked at him.
"You wanted me unstable," he said.
"Yes."
"You wanted me angry."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The killer's eyes shifted slightly toward the ceiling.
"Because anger is honest," he said.
"And calm isn't?"
"No."
Silence.
Pocho stepped slightly closer.
"You think you finished something," he said.
"I did."
"You didn't."
The killer looked back at him.
"I didn't lose," he said softly.
"I finished."
Those words again.
Pocho understood now.
The killer wasn't claiming victory over him.
He was claiming completion of his own purpose.
He had found someone who would go the distance.
Someone who wouldn't quit.
Someone who would carry the weight.
"You don't know who you are without me," the killer said quietly.
Pocho didn't react.
Because that part was true.
The machines beeped steadily.
The killer's breathing slowed further.
"I was honest about what I was," he said faintly.
"Were you?" Pocho asked.
"Yes."
Pocho stood there for a long moment.
Then he said something simple.
"You were tired."
The killer's eyes shifted slightly.
"And you chose to hurt people instead of stopping."
No reply.
"And I chose to stop you."
Silence.
"You don't get to define what that means."
The killer exhaled slowly.
Almost a laugh.
Then:
"You'll keep hunting."
His voice was barely audible now.
"Even when there's nothing left."
His eyes stayed on Pocho.
Then they didn't.
The machine changed tone.
Flat.
Steady.
Finished.
---
Pocho stood there without moving.
He didn't feel relief.
He didn't feel triumph.
He felt something else.
Absence.
He walked out of the room quietly.
Morrison looked at him.
"It's done," Morrison said.
"Yes."
"Good work."
Pocho nodded.
But inside, something had shifted permanently.
The killer had been wrong about many things.
But not about one.
The hunt had changed him.
And now the hunt was gone.