Addison adjusts her grip, fingers tightening around Kate’s wrist. “Good. Then keep moving. Don’t look around. Don’t stop. Just follow our steps.”
Kate swallows hard, gaze flicking everywhere at once—shattered glass, smoke, bodies moving too fast. Her hand trembles when it curls into Addison’s sleeve.
“I don’t like this,” she whispers.
“I know,” Addison replies without missing a step. “But you’re doing great. Just stay with me.”
Kate’s eyes find me then, locking on like I’m a fixed point in a shifting landscape. She looks at me the way people look at exits they’re afraid will disappear.
“James?” she mutters, barely audible.
I’m here, close enough that my presence blocks the open space in front of her. I don’t soften my voice as I bark more commands.
“We need to keep moving.”
She flinches, then obeys.
Another explosion rattles the street ahead. Kate freezes for half a second too long. I grip her elbow, firm enough to anchor, not hurt. “Kate. Now!”
She sucks in a breath like she’s been underwater too long, then nods. “Okay. Okay.”
I don’t offer reassurance; I don’t have the language for it. I offer direction and proximity, and that will have to be enough.
We hit a choke point where the crowd bottlenecks around a collapsed barrier. People surge, panic turning sharp. Someone falls, and more screams follow. I step forward, raise my voice just enough to cut through.
“Single file. Now.”
Authority is a currency, and I spend it without hesitation. Addison moves first, pulling Kate with her. I follow, clearing the rear, eyes scanning for movement that doesn’t belong.
Halfway down the block, an armed group breaks from an alley ahead. I change course without breaking stride, cutting us through a narrow market lane—stalls abandoned, produce crushed underfoot. Kate slips on something wet; I catch her again, haul her upright, my grip firmer this time.
“Eyes up,” I say.
She nods, swallows, and forces herself to look forward.
A vehicle backfires nearby, and she jumps, fingers curling into my sleeve. I feel it through the fabric—the way her hand tightens like she’s anchoring herself to something immovable.
We move faster, walking through more twists and turns, until the embassy walls come into view. Marines are already repositioning as the city roils beyond. I flash credentials I shouldn’t have to explain, and the gate opens just enough. I usher them through, one hand still at Kate’s back, until we’re past the perimeter.
The gates slam shut behind us, and only then do I stop and let the tension drain just enough to acknowledge what I’ve done. Addison turns to me, eyes sharp, questions lining up behind them. Kate is staring at me again, really staring this time, like she’s trying to reconcile two incompatible images.
I don’t give them answers. I never planned to, but I’ve already crossed the line that mattered. Leaving was the rule, but staying was the choice I made instead.
And choices, I know better than anyone, have consequences.
I guide Kate and Addison deeper into the compound, away from the entrance. Habit keeps me scanning rooftops, windows, and shadows that no longer matter. My body doesn’t trust safety just because someone tells it to.
Kate’s hand slips from my sleeve when we stop, but I still feel the ghost of it there. She looks smaller now that the immediate threat has passed—shock settling into her bones. Her face is pale, eyes too bright. She hasn’t started shaking yet, which means it’s coming.
Addison stays close to her, one hand braced at Kate’s back, the other already tugging a medic’s attention with the kind of authority that comes from experience. She knows how this works. She’s been here before.
I take a step back, creating space without leaving. A Marine eyes me, then looks at the blood on my sleeve and the weapon I still haven’t holstered. He clocks me as an asset or a liability—I don’t care which—and moves on.
Kate’s gaze follows me as I retreat half a step, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she looks away. I don’t meet her eyes. If I do, I won’t leave when I need to.
The embassy courtyard hums with the aftermath—survivors being counted, names checked against lists. Somewhere inside, phones are already lighting up with headlines and alerts. The story is being written in real time, stripped of nuance, flattened into something palatable.
I don’t belong in that story.
