"House is on alert because word is that someone on the inside knew where you would be and delivered that intel. You'll see."
As if on cue, a man in tactical black with a rifle slung across his chest passes the door, footsteps heavy even on the carpet.
The way he scans the hallway—shoulders set, eyes forward—tells me everything about the last twelve hours.
The place is a fortress now, or at least it wants to be.
Fiachra glances inside, notices I am awake, and steps into the room.
His hair is damp, as if he's just showered, and he smells faintly of aftershave and steel.
He gives Lena a look—a go get some coffee look—and she stands, tucking her blanket under her arm.
"You want anything?" she asks me, already knowing I don't.
When she's gone, Fiachra sits on the edge of the cot, not close, but close enough that I can see the red fatigue in his eyes.
He inspects my bandaged wrist, then the bruises on my face, his gaze impersonal as a police sketch artist.
"You did well," he says after a minute.
I look away.
"I did nothing."
He almost smiles, but not quite.
"Most people in that situation panic. You didn't. You kept your head. That's worth something."
I don't know if I want to be reassured, but I take it.
He says, "You'll need to talk to Ruairí. He's in the study. There's things you need to see."
"I'm ready."
He nods, gets up, and leaves.
I watch his retreat through the glass, the careful way he scans both directions before stepping into the corridor.
The gun stays visible, an accessory and a promise.
Alone, I test my body for structural integrity—flex the fingers, turn the neck, stretch the toes.
Everything works, but nothing is the same.
I get up slowly, the blanket falling away, and see the dull gray of my gown.
No dignity left in the world, but I cinch it tighter anyway.
The door isn't locked, so I open it and step into the hall.
The medical wing is empty, but the regular house is alive with motion.
Two men with rifles stand at the intersection near the main stairs, checking badges on the handful of staff who pass through.
Every third alcove has an armed presence.
Even the kitchen staff move with clipped precision, eyes down, voices at a whisper.
