My HUD flashes red.
I freeze, one hand still cupping her waist, lips barely brushing hers.
“Motion alert,” I mutter.
Sable blinks, dazed. “What?”
“External sensor. Rear stairwell.”
I pull back, accessing the data stream. The readings scroll across my lens—heat signature, weight estimate, displacement pattern.
I exhale slowly.
“False alarm,” I say. “Raccoon. Again.”
She shoves my chest—not hard, but firm. “Damn it, Voltar.”
“I didn’tinvitehim.”
She steps out from under me, running both hands through her hair. The air between us crackles with static and something rawer.
Something unspoken.
“Well,” she says, voice tight. “That was… educational.”
I nod once. “Agreed.”
She doesn’t look at me.
Just turns and walks—quickly—into her room, shutting the door with a soft but decisive click.
I’m left staring at the empty hallway like it might offer an explanation.
It doesn’t.
I hitthe training room ten minutes later.
Stripped down to a sweat-streaked tank, I don’t bother warming up.
I justhit.
The punching bag isn’t regulation—it’s one I rigged from a bulk protein sack and a collection of defunct towel bins. But it’s solid.
Or it was.
My fist connects with a guttural thud. The sack lurches. Swings.
I pivot and strike again, harder.
Then again.
And again.
By the sixth punch, I hear something tear.
By the eighth, it explodes.
Feathers—why are there feathers—burst into the air like a bizarre snowstorm. The sack collapses, trailing synthetic fluff.
