Not yet.
Darwin inches toward me, still wringing his hands. He always does that—like he’s trying to squeeze out guilt through his skin.
“Jillian,” he says, voice small. “I’m… I’m so sorry. He was your friend.”
I nod. Just once. Let my eyes go glassy. Let my breath hitch. It’s not a lie, not really—Iamsorry. Just not for the reason he thinks.
Darwin’s gaze flicks sideways, toward Ciampa’s office. The professor hasn’t emerged yet. That’s odd. He’s usually first on the scene when there’s attention to grab or a camera to preen for. But now?
Now he’s quiet.
And when hedoescome out, his eyes are too dry.
“Such a tragedy,” he says, smooth and calm. “We must stay strong. Carson would have wanted us to persevere.”
I want to scream.Don’t you dare tell me what Carson wanted.
I force my mouth into a trembling line. Let one tear fall. Just one. It’s enough. Enough to satisfy the narrative.
Ciampa walks among the group like a pastor at a funeral, offering platitudes with gentle pats and falsely weighted words. No one notices how little he’s affected. Or maybe theydo, and they just don’t want to see it. He looks relieved. Like a variable has resolved itself. Like this is all… manageable.
And Darwin, gods bless him, still follows in his wake like a loyal shadow.
I turn away.
Behind my eyes, I see Carson. Not the mangled body. Theboy.Nervous and overeager, always asking questions with one hand half-raised even when nobody was calling on him. He made terrible coffee. Always tripped over his own feet. And hebelievedme. Believed in me.
He warned me. “If something happens to me…”
It did.
And now it’s my turn.
But not yet.
I bite my cheek until I taste blood, and let the pain steady me.
I have to be smart. Carson’s compad is still hidden. I haven’t opened it yet. Don’t even know what it holds. But Iwill. Tonight. When everyone’s asleep or sedated by grief or rage or whatever twisted comfort Ciampa pumps into them next.
For now, I cry when they cry.
I kneel with the others when they form the vigil ring near the burned-out comms pole.
I listen as Grady paces and plans and tells us all the Odex will be hunted, that the perimeters will be double-guarded, that we are not safe until that “beast” is put down.
I nod when I’m supposed to.
I say nothing.
But my mind is already moving in a different direction.
And gods help them all if they’re wrong about the monster.
Because they’re hunting the wrong one.
Tonight, I don’t leave a cookie.
I don’t whisper half-hopeful nothings into the dark like a fool trying to summon kindness from a nightmare. I just stand there, just beyond the camp’s outermost beacon, where the ground turns jagged and wrong, and I let the silence swallow me.
