She nods. “That’s what I thought.”
My jaw tightens. “And you’re sitting here eating toast and drinking tea like a person who plans to survive it.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I do.”
That’s when it gets me. Not the danger. Not the manipulation.
The calm.
The way she’s already adjusted, already standing on ground she hasn’t shown anyone else yet.
I lean forward, forearms braced on my thighs, and for the first time since she asked the question, I don’t try to soften my voice.
“You don’t get to carry that alone,” I say.
She exhales slowly. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good,” I reply. Then, quieter, “Because if you’re bait…they don’t get to choose what bites.”
A beat passes. Then she reaches out – not for reassurance, not for grounding – and rests her fingers lightly against my wrist. Steady. Intentional.
“I knew you’d say that,” she says.
I cover her hand with mine without thinking. The humour doesn’t come back. Nor do the jokes. But something else settles instead. A quieter, more dangerous resolve.
And for the first time since I walked into this room pretending everything could still be normal, I stop trying to be the one who keeps it light.
Because this isn’t about morale anymore.
It’s about making sure that if they’re watching they learn the wrong lesson.
EVERY PART
Monsters (Acoustic) - Ruelle
Kayla
That night I find Ghost in the stairwell having snuck out of the room for…something. Space. Air, maybe. Or just a change of scenery. I don’t know. It’s impossible to sleep with the weight of Nightshade’s gaze, his guilt, boring into me at all times. I just…needed a breather, I guess.
Ghost isn’t hiding. He never does. He’s sitting on the step between floors like the building forgot to tell him where he belongs, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced, gaze angled somewhere past the concrete wall.
He looks up when the door opens.
No flinch. No startle. Just a slight shift of attention, like a lens adjusting.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“I slept.” I shrug. “I just…finished early.”
His mouth tilts, barely. “That’s usually when it gets loud.”
I step inside and let the door close behind me. The air is cooler here – dust, concrete, old paint. No coffee. No food. No effort at comfort.
I sit two steps above him. The movement is smooth, balanced, instinctive. My body knows exactly where it’s going.
We’re quiet for a moment. Ghost watches the stairwell, not me. He gives me space even when proximity would be easier.
“You’re moving differently,” he says eventually.
