No friction.
Just readiness.
I don’t like it.
The sense settles low in my chest, heavy and insistent, before I can put words to it. Before I can work out what, exactly, I’m reacting to.
Something feels off.
Too quiet. Too ordered. Too calm.
There’s a storm coming.
SHOWED YOU THE SEAMS
Empires - Ruelle
Kookaburra
Twenty-four hours later Valentine’s knock seems like he’s doing me a courtesy. Apparently he had sent a message to Bones’ burner phone from Tex to tell us he was coming, and so we all gathered together to wait and see what he has to say.
Two taps. A pause. One more. Measured, patient, inevitable.
He was always going to catch up to us eventually, and I don’t doubt for a second that he’s known where we are this whole time. So the question remains, what hashebeen doing in the days that have passed since our ‘escape’ from the facility?
I intend to find out.
The room has been wrong since yesterday. Too tidy. Too quiet. Like the hotel itself is holding its breath. Honey is on thebed nearest the door with a takeaway coffee he hasn’t touched. Ghost is by the window, watching the street like it might explain something. Nightshade and Bones are sat on one of the double beds, playing cards. I don’t ask where they got them. Hatchet stands up before the third tap lands, already moving.
Snow is still MIA, which becomes more worrying each day.
Hatchet checks the peephole. His shoulders don’t rise. His breathing doesn’t change. He turns to me once, waiting. Not asking. Tracking.
I don’t want this. But that doesn’t matter. I nod and Hatchet unlocks the door.
Valentine steps in without hesitation, as if the threshold is an administrative detail. He carries nothing. No bag. No folder. No visible weapon – though of course that doesn’t mean he isn’t armed. He doesn’t scan the room like someone expecting trouble. His eyes settle on me immediately and hold.
“Kayla,” he says, voice even. But my name sounds like a label when he says it. Something printed. Something filed.
Hatchet closes the door behind him, controlled, quiet. Then he moves the pad of paper closer to the edge of the table. The pen lies across it, straight as a rule.
Valentine’s gaze flicks to Hatchet and away, a brief acknowledgement that feels like a professional courtesy. I hate him for it.
“Thank you for allowing me in,” Valentine says.
He doesn’t mean it. It’s form. It’s bureaucracy wearing skin.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Valentine’s mouth shifts, almost relieved. Not because I’m hostile. Because I’ve removed the need for small talk. No more dancing around the issue. And – I hope – no more bullshit.
“To correct a misunderstanding,” he says. “I believe I have some intel that can fill in the blanks for you. And we can work together to figure out next steps.”
Honey’s posture tightens by a fraction. Ghost’s attention sharpens. Hatchet watches Valentine without blinking.
“A misunderstanding,” I repeat.
“Yes.” Valentine’s voice stays level. “You’ve made decisions based on incomplete information. I’m here to ensure you are not acting under false pretences.”
