“Stop,” I say quietly.
Kimberly freezes mid-step, one foot still lifted, her weight balanced on the ball of her back foot like she’s about to bolt or throw a punch.
“Why,” she asks.
“Don’t move,” I repeat. “Tell me what you see.”
She exhales slowly through her nose, eyes tracking left, then right, then up.
“Two corridor intersections within sprinting distance,” she says. “One to my left, one behind me. The one behind me is darker, which either means bad lighting or someone deliberately shot the strip.”
“Good,” I say.
Her jaw tightens.
“There’s a low vibration through the floor,” she continues. “Probably a generator somewhere below us. Which means this hallway might be carrying power cables in the walls. Which means it’s not structurally empty, which means it would collapse in a predictable way if something heavy hit it.”
I blink.
“Again,” I say.
She shifts her gaze.
“There’s a camera dome in the ceiling corner behind you,” she adds. “It’s old. Not municipal spec. Private security. Probably offline, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”
I don’t tell her she missed the heat distortion against the far wall that marks a ventilation outlet.
I don’t tell her she didn’t clock the asymmetry in the scuff marks near the left intersection that suggests someone heavier than her uses that corridor regularly.
Those corrections come later.
“You expect me to be scared,” she says, still not moving.
I tilt my head slightly.
“I expect you to be overwhelmed,” I reply. “Scared would be healthy. Overconfident will get you killed.”
Her mouth twitches.
“I am extremely not overconfident right now,” she says dryly. “I just don’t see how panicking improves my odds.”
It’s the wrong answer.
It’s also the exact right one.
“Move,” I tell her.
She lowers her foot and steps forward, slower now, shoulders loose, head up, eyes moving constantly.
I walk behind her, far enough back that she has to operate without my physical presence bleeding into her spatial awareness, close enough that I can catch her if she missteps and her leg gives out.
Her arm is still in a compression wrap beneath the jacket I scavenged for her, her movements stiff and careful when she forgets to mask the pain, but she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t ask for breaks. She doesn’t make jokes when her breathing gets shallow or her balance wobbles.
She just keeps going.
“Threat profiling,” I say. “What do you look for first when someone enters your space.”
“Hands,” she answers immediately. “Then eyes. Then gait.”
