The words are quiet, costing her something to say.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and uncomfortable. She’s sitting on the bed. I’m standing by the window. The room feels smaller than it is, the air thick with things neither of us knows how to address.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, needing to break the silence as much as obtain information.
“Aurora is sending an extraction team as soon as the storm lifts,” she says.
“When will that be?”
“Not sure. A day. Maybe two.”
“Right,” I say, my tone neutral, though the thought of spending two days in this room with her leaves me anything but neutral.
We’re quiet again. A little less awkward now.
“I don’t know your name,” I say impulsively.
She looks up, surprised. “You don’t?”
“No.”
She studies me for a moment, trying to determine if this is some kind of tactic.
“Nadia. My name is Nadia Frost.” She pauses, as if waiting for me to show some kind of acknowledgement.
“Jericho Allon.”
“I know.” Of course she does. She came into those mountains to kill me. Probably knows everything about me that’s accessible through intelligence channels.
But I didn’t know her name. Didn’t know anything except: wolf, Aurora, dangerous. Now she’s Nadia—real, specific, a person instead of an obstacle or a threat.
The silence stretches again, filling the space between us with unspoken weight. Time passes slowly. The room darkens assunset approaches. She moves to the window and stares out at nothing, her reflection ghosted in the glass.
I stay where I am, giving her space that feels increasingly difficult to maintain.
But the question won’t stay buried. It needs asking.
“Why do you want to kill me?”
She goes completely still, every muscle locking. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Just stands there silhouetted against fading light like a statue carved from grief.
I wait. I’m good at waiting. I learned patience in interrogations, in surveillance, in all the places where silence is currency and whoever speaks first loses ground. So I wait, and the quiet stretches between us until it feels almost unbearable.
Finally: “You killed my mate.”
The words are quiet, flat, empty of accusation. Just fact delivered like a report.
She still won’t turn around.
I should have expected this. Should have guessed from the depth of rage that goes beyond professional duty, from the way she looked at me in that shelter. This isn’t about ideology or allegiance. This is personal in the way that only death can make things personal.
“What was his name?” I ask.
She’s quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then: “Chance.”
“Chance what?”
