Perfect.
I take out my blade.
Not the one I use for fighting—the one I use forcarving. The one with the fine edge I’ve sharpened since I was old enough to hold metal.
I kneel beneath the dish and carve on its underside—slow, deep, angled so it won’t catch light.
GO TO THE CAVE
She’ll understand.
The cave isn’t just where we made love. It’s more than that. Years before she arrived, before any of this started, I reinforced that cave. Stocked it with supplies, reinforced the inner wall with metal mesh and native stone. A place I thought I might die in.
Now it might be the only place we survive.
When I’m done, I slide back into the hills, climb to my perch. And wait.
Night falls slow.
Jillian’s the last one to return to the sleeping quarters. She moves with purpose. Unhurried. Practiced. The game she’s playing—she’s winning it.
I watch as she checks over her shoulder once, then again. She’s counting steps. Calculating distance. Planning.
She walks toward the filtration units.
Stops.
Looks down.
Kneels.
She sees it.
She reads it.
And shedoesn’t react.
Gods, she’s good.
She rises, glances once around, and continues on like nothing’s changed. Like her whole life didn’t just shift again.
Another hour passes.
Then she slips out.
Not a run.
Awalk.
Steady.
Measured.
But she’s carrying a pack now. Her gait’s a little different—weighted. She’s playing it safe, acting the part until the edge of the shadows kisses her boots.
And then?—
She bolts.
