Silently.
He smiles then.
Sharp. Thin.
“So,” he murmurs to thin air. “You finally came.”
Behind him, the screen goes dark.
And somewhere in the depths of the facility—he walks away.
18
Logan
The door opens without a sound.
I’m already inside the room before it finishes sliding back.
Scout is on the floor.
Not collapsed—positioned. Back against the wall, knees bent, chin lifted like she refused to let gravity win. Her wrists are free, but her left hand trembles slightly against the concrete.
Alive.
Thinking.
I don’t speak her name yet.
I don’t want Sentinel to hear it.
I cross the room in three silent steps and crouch in front of her, scanning for injuries. IV mark on her arm. Pupils steady. Breathing controlled, if shallow.
She looks up at me.
And for half a second, the world narrows in a way no battlefield ever has.
I remember her as sharp angles in a briefing room. A silhouette. A voice that cut clean through the noise.
I don’t remember her like this.
Auburn hair loose now, catching the low light like burnished copper. Green eyes—clear, unpanicked, impossibly focused despite what she’s endured.
Still assessing me.
Of course she is.
“Logan,” she says quietly.
Hearing my name from her lips does something I don’t have time to examine.
“You did good,” I tell her, voice low. Steady. “We’re out.”
Her gaze flicks past me—to the door, the ceiling, the shadows beyond.
“Sentinel?” she asks.
“He’s gone. But we’ll find him.”
