The room shifts with that admission.
Because men like him aren’t supposed to say that out loud.
“They’ll regroup,” the man presses. “Carter will lock her down. Debrief. Protect—”
Sentinel lets out a quiet breath.
“You’re still thinking tactically,” he says.
A slow turn.
A colder gaze.
“This was never about holding her,” he continues. “It was about understanding her.”
The man doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t understand.
Of course he doesn’t.
Sentinel moves to the table, pulling up a still image on a small, isolated screen.
Grainy.
Partial.
But enough.
Scout—on the floor.
Logan Carter—kneeling in front of her.
Close.
Too close.
Sentinel watches the frame for a long moment.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
The man steps closer, cautious. “What am I looking at?”
Sentinel tilts the screen slightly.
“Tell me what you see.”
The man studies it. “He’s checking her condition. Standard recovery—”
“No.”
The word cuts clean.
“That’s not what that is.”
Another pause.
“Then what?”
