A beat. Then—
“Photographer.”
I open my eyes. “You’re joking.”
“Embedded media, international press. Peace talks attract cameras, and you’ll be one of them.”
“That puts me in the open.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t do open.”
“You’ll adapt.”
Of course I will. I always do.
“Timeline?”
“Tight. You’ll deploy within forty-eight hours.”
That leaves no space to sit with it, or room for reconsideration.
“Your credentials will be in place. Name, background, portfolio. All will be handled.”
I don’t respond immediately. I don’t need to, because he already knows the answer. This isn’t about consent—it’s about alignment.
“Send the details,” I declare finally.
“I already have.”
The line clicks dead before I can add anything else.
I lower the phone and sit there for a moment, the decision settling into place without resistance. The irritation eases. The noise in my head quiets. Somalia is enemy territory, but it’s also how I fix my mistake.
5
KATE
The cab smells faintly of stale coffee and someone else’s cologne, the kind that lingers long after the person has gone. I’m wedged into the backseat, knees pulled in, fingers twisted together so tightly my knuckles ache. The city slides past the window in blurred streaks of early-morning gray and gold—Los Angeles half-awake and pretending this is just another ordinary day.
It is not.
My stomach has been in free fall since I woke up, that hollow, swooping sensation that usually only comes with bad news or regret. I keep swallowing like I can force it back into place, like my body might listen if I concentrate hard enough.
Across from me, Addison looks… infuriatingly fine.
Her hair is sleek and glossy, pulled back into a low ponytail that somehow looks intentional instead of rushed. She’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a tailored coat. Her makeup is subtle but sharp—clean liner, concealer exactly where it needs to be, lips neutral and perfect. She looks ready to head towards purpose.
I look like someone who barely survived the night.
My sweater is wrinkled from where I yanked it on half-asleep. My hair is pulled back in a messy knot that refuses to behave, loose strands already escaping like they know I don’t have the energy to fight them. I skipped makeup entirely except for a rushed swipe of concealer under my eyes, and it shows. My head throbs in time with the bumps in the road, a dull, insistent reminder that I didn’t sleep well while preparing for this trip.
Addison watches me over the rim of her coffee cup, eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I mutter.
“The quiet spiral. You get this look like you’re internally drafting your own obituary.”
