That’s the first mistake.
Sentinel stands in the dark, watching the horizon bleed into early morning through a cracked pane of glass. The safehouse is temporary—one of many. Bare walls. No identity. No trace.
Just space.
Just silence.
Just control.
He removes his gloves slowly, setting them on the table with deliberate care.
Not anger.
Never anger.
Anger is sloppy.
This—
This is adjustment.
“They breached clean,” a voice says from behind him.
Sentinel doesn’t turn.
“Yes,” he replies calmly. “They did.”
A pause.
“They took her.”
Another mistake.
He closes his eyes briefly, replaying the moment—not the breach, not the failure—
Her.
Scout Fallon.
The way she held herself even at the end.
Not broken.
Not begging.
Watching.
Always watching.
“No,” Sentinel says softly. “She left.”
Silence behind him.
Confusion.
Good.
He turns then, finally, fixing his gaze on the man standing near the door.
