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Not fear.
Recognition.
Too late.
My hand shoots out, catching his arm.
“Wait.”
He stills instantly.
Trust.
Immediate.
“What?” he asks.
I scan again—faster now, sharper, pulling everything in.
Angles.
Distance.
Movement.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Which means—
“They want us to move,” I say quietly.
Logan doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t dismiss it.
He adjusts.
Immediately.
“Then we don’t,” he says.
A beat.
“We hold.”
Yes.
That’s right.
That’s—
A sound cuts through the quiet.
Soft.
Wrong.
