"Nathan had three years to build a false persona. You've had hours of exhaustion and adrenaline. Hard to maintain a lie under those conditions."
She takes a bite of beef stew that's probably older than she'd like to know. "What about you? How do I know you're trustworthy?"
"You don't." Simple truth. "But I'm the best option you've got."
"That's not very reassuring."
I move closer and crouch in front of where she's sitting. "This morning, watching you sleep, I realized something."
"What?"
"I can't change what happened to Tyler. But I can make sure nothing happens to you. That's not professional, it's personal. You want reassurance? Here it is—I will burn the world down before I let them touch you again."
Her breath catches, eyes searching mine. "That's... intense."
"Too much?"
"No." She sets down the MRE, leans forward until we're inches apart. "It's exactly what I needed to hear."
The air between us charges, and I should move back, maintain distance, keep this professional. Instead, I stay frozen as she reaches out, fingers tracing the burn scars on my forearm.
"Do they hurt?"
"Sometimes. Phantom pain, mostly. The nerve endings remember the fire even though the skin's healed."
She traces higher, pushing up my sleeve to see the full extent. The scars are worst at my wrists and hands, where I gripped superheated metal trying to free Tyler.
"You held on until you physically couldn't anymore."
"Wasn't enough."
"It was everything." She looks up, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
My throat closes. In two years, no one's said that to me. Everyone focuses on the failure, the loss, the what-ifs. She's the first to see the attempt as its own kind of success.
Before I can respond, her laptop chimes. She pulls back, immediately switching to work mode.
"I've broken through another encryption layer." Her fingers fly across keys. "Oh God. Sawyer, look at this."
I move behind her, reading over her shoulder. It's a list of Prometheus Network members—dozens of names across multiple agencies. FBI, ATF, DHS, and even local law enforcement in LA.
"This is bigger than I thought." She scrolls through. "They've been embedding people for years."
"Can you send this to anyone?"
"Not without revealing our location. The moment I connect to any network, they'll trace us." She bites her lip, thinking. "But I might be able to... yes. I can fragment it, hide pieces in multiple locations, set them to auto-release if we don't check in."
"Dead man's switch."
"Exactly. Give me an hour."
She works with absolute focus, tearing into the MRE and methodically portioning out the contents—protein bar first, then the main packet, her movements precise as if she's dissecting a puzzle rather than scarfing down field rations.
I watch her for a moment longer, admiring the way her brow furrows in concentration, strands of hair falling across her face, as if she's oblivious to the world.
I return to watching our perimeter, rifle slung low across my chest, eyes scanning the treeline beyond the shelter's narrow window. The morning is quiet—birds chattering in the canopy, wind rustling the leaves like a soft sigh, nothing human to set my teeth on edge.
No footfalls, no distant engine hum, just the deceptive calm of the wild. But my instincts keep prickling, that low hum in my gut warning me the silence won't hold.
