Ghost hasn’t moved at all. He stands a little apart from the rest of us, head tilted, eyes unfocused in that way that usuallymeans he’s halfway through a pattern the rest of us haven’t even noticed yet. His fingers tap once against his thigh, then still.
“At least they’re not fucking,” Honey mutters, more to break the tension than because he believes it matters.
Snow stops pacing and turns. “How do you know?”
I snort before I can stop myself, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor. “We’d fucking hear it. The whole hotel would.”
That finally cracks something. Hatchet exhales hard through his nose – silent, but unmistakably amused. Honey huffs a laugh and then immediately looks guilty about it. Even Snow’s lips twitch before he catches himself, the moment of levity burning off almost as soon as it appears.
The door stays shut.
Seconds stretch. Then minutes. Not many, but enough that the initial adrenaline has nowhere to go and starts curdling into something colder. I let them sit with it for a bit longer before straightening and dropping my eyes back to the pattern on the carpet, counting swirls. There’s no point pretending we’re just waiting. We’re always better when we’re doing something.
“Kayla’s asleep,” I say finally.
Snow freezes. “How do you know?”
“Because if she weren’t,” I reply, “Nightshade would have opened the door already.”
Hatchet’s gaze flicks to me briefly, then back to the door. Agreement.
“That doesn’t mean she’s fine,” Snow says.
“No,” I agree. “But she’s functional. There’s a difference.”
Snow crosses his arms, mirroring Hatchet without realising it. “I don’t like him deciding this alone.”
“He’s not deciding alone,” I reply. “He’s buying time.”
“For what?”
I hesitate, just long enough to be honest. “For her to rest and wake up without six sets of eyes on her and the weight of what almost happened pressing down all at once.”
Ghost finally speaks, voice low and thoughtful. “He’s also drawing a line.”
Snow’s eyes snap to him. “Between who?”
Ghost’s gaze doesn’t shift from the door. “Between what happened and what comes next.”
“Whatever comes next,” I say calmly, “won’t be solved by barging into the room and demanding answers from someone who’s just survived something we don’t fully understand yet.”
Snow’s jaw tightens. “So we just wait?”
“Yes,” I say. “We wait. And we prepare.”
“For what?” Honey asks.
I don’t answer him straight away. The truth is still settling, still arranging itself into something coherent and ugly at the edges. “For the possibility,” I say finally, “that this wasn’t a failure.”
Snow frowns. “What does that mean?”
Before I can answer, the lock clicks.
Every one of us stills.
The door opens a fraction, and Nightshade fills the gap, expression unreadable, eyes sharp and assessing like he’s already clocked every reaction we’ve had out here. He looks tired in the way only controlled people ever do – everything held so tightly there’s no room left to show it.
“Keep your voices down,” he says quietly.
