"She needs time to process," Kane says.
"She needs better answers than 'acceptable losses.'" I release my coffee mug. Follow Reagan out of the kitchen before Kane can argue protocols.
I find her in the courtyard behind the safe house. Early morning sun casts long shadows across concrete. She stands with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing.
"I knew there would be risks," she says without turning. "I knew investigating the Committee meant exposing my sources. But I thought risk meant losing jobs or facing pressure. Not this. Not watching Kane calculate which people are worth saving and which ones get warnings and hope."
"Kane's calculating because someone has to." I move to stand beside her. "If he doesn't make those calls, everyone dies. High-value targets. Low-value sources. You. Me. The entire operation. So he does the math and lives with it. Same way I did for eight years."
"How?" Reagan turns to face me. "How do you make those calculations and stay human?"
"You don't. Not entirely." The admission tastes like ash. "You sacrifice parts of yourself so other people can survive. You build walls between the decisions and the emotional cost. You tell yourself the mission matters more than individuals. And eventually, you believe it."
"Is that what happened to you? Before Echo Ridge?"
"Yes." No point lying about it. "I became very good at breaking people for information. Very good at calculating acceptable losses. Very good at building walls so high I didn't feel anything except mission parameters." I pause. "Then the Committee killed my family. And I realized all my brilliance didn't protect the people who actually mattered."
Reagan moves closer. Close enough that conflict shows clearly in her eyes—journalist's drive to expose truth versus human grief over the cost.
"I don't know how to do this," she says. "How to help build a case that destroys the Committee while people keep dying because I asked questions."
"You carry it. The same way Kane carries every operator he's lost. The same way I carry every interrogation subject who died in my rooms. You carry the weight and you keep moving forward because stopping means they died for nothing."
"That's a terrible answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
She leans into me. I wrap my arms around her, hold her while the morning sun warms the courtyard. This moment feels stolen. Borrowed from a future that might not exist if the Committee finds us in days instead of weeks.
"We should go back inside," Reagan says against my shirt. "Figure out how to help Delaney with what we have."
"In a minute."
"Dylan—"
"Just one more minute." My arms tighten slightly. "Before we go back to work. Before Kane runs more calculations and Tommy tracks more breaches. Just one minute where we're two people who care about each other and not assets in an operation."
Reagan's arms wrap around my waist. We stand in the courtyard holding each other while the sun climbs higher. Sixty seconds of peace before reality crashes back.
It will have to be enough.
The day dissolves into planning. Reagan works with Kane on building preliminary case documents from existing evidence. Stryker coordinates with Sarah about source warnings. Khalid stays close to Reagan, offering quiet support through his presence.
I spend hours reviewing perimeter security. Checking approach vectors. Calculating response times if the Committee finds us. Building contingency plans for evacuation routes and fallback positions.
Professional distance should be easy after years of practice. Should be automatic.
It's not.
Every time Reagan moves across the command center, I'm aware of her position. Every time she speaks, I track the conversation. Every time she looks stressed, my shoulders tense with the urge to fix it.
Stryker notices. Crosses the room during a break in planning. "You're distracted."
"I'm focused."
"You're watching her instead of the displays." He keeps his voice low. "Not a criticism. Just an observation."
"I can do both."
