“And him,” she agrees.
There’s no bravado in it. No fire. Just facts laid out in a line they all point back to the same place.
“I don’t see another way,” she says. Not asking. Stating.
“There isn’t one,” I tell her. “Not one that ends it properly.”
Hatchet writes then, quick and precise. He turns the pad so we can see.
If we don’t finish it, it finishes us.
Kayla’s mouth tightens.She nods once.
“I need it to be done,” she says quietly. “I can’t leave it open. Not after everything.”
Closure. She doesn’t use the word, but it’s there all the same, sitting between us like something solid.
I understand it too well to comment.
Ghost finishes eating, folds the carton neatly, lines it up with the others on the desk. “Then we go back,” he says. “And we end it.”
No one argues. No one dramatises it.
Hatchet closes the pad and sets it aside. Decision made.
Outside the window, the city keeps moving, oblivious. Inside the room, something settles into place, heavy and deliberate. For a moment, it almost feels like resolve.
That’s the part I don’t trust.
Kayla sets the food down like she’s made up her mind about something else entirely.
Not the island. That’s already decided. This is different – quieter. More internal.
“I’ve got a plan,” she says.
No buildup. No emphasis. Just a statement dropped into the middle of the room like it’s been there the whole time and we’re only just noticing it.
Ghost looks at her, expression unreadable. I don’t move. Hatchet’s eyes lift from the pad, attention sharpening.
“I always had one,” she adds, as if she’s correcting an assumption none of us actually made. “It didn’t start like a plan. More like…a direction.”
She gestures vaguely, as if the shape of it exists somewhere we can’t see yet.
“I’ve been adjusting it as things changed,” she continues. “As we learned more. As people showed their hands.”
No one interrupts. No one asks what the plan is. That’s the thing. We don’t need the details yet. We’re not at that stage.
I study her while she talks. She’s calm. Not performative. Not trying to sell us anything. This isn’t a speech. It’s an inventory being taken out loud.
Hatchet writes, quick strokes, then turns the pad.
You didn’t tell us.
Kayla’s mouth twitches.“I didn’t need to. Not until now.”
He considers that, then inclines his head. Acceptance.
Ghost pushes off the desk and folds his arms. “You sure it still works?”
