He hums low. “Already am.”
CHAPTER 35
VROK
The sim grid glows hot underfoot, casting pale light across Roxy’s face as she wipes sweat from her brow with the edge of her sleeve. Her breathing is sharp and even. I can tell she’s holding back a grin.
“Three hostiles, low wall, north sector,” she says, breath hitching slightly.
I nod, pulling back just enough to watch her stance reset.
“Sniper too,” I say, nodding to the overwatch tower in the hardlight projection. “I’ll peel high, draw his line. You go low, break the triangle.”
“Copy,” she says, then after a beat, “Don’t improvise.”
I arch an eyebrow.
She shrugs. “You get twitchy in tight quarters.”
I suppress a grin. “Twitchy?”
“Yeah,” she says, turning to move into position. “Your version of patience is war crimes in slow motion.”
The simulation pulses again—red warning flares, countdown clock humming as the scene locks in.
I watch her take her spot behind cover, limbs loose but coiled, like she’s just waiting for permission to drop the hammer.And for the first time in too long, I don’t feel the twitch in my fingers to do it all myself.
Iwait.
Roxy darts first, low and fast. Her form’s not textbook—it’s better. Adapted. Real. She slides under a crumbling frame and fires off two clean shots that pin the pair on the left, giving me the opening.
I take the vertical route, leaping up the support scaffold, boots grinding hard against the frame as I vault to the next level. The sniper’s barely got time to recalibrate before I’ve knocked his rifle clean from the perch.
“Clear high,” I mutter into the comm.
“Low's done.”
We converge mid-grid, breath fogging the hologram. No injuries. No reckless final gambit. Just clean, cold execution.
The sim ends.
Roxy slumps to the floor, grinning now. “That’s two minutes shaved.”
I check the display. “No civilian risk. Collateral minimized. No unnecessary fire.”
She eyes me. “That last part is new.”
“I’m evolving,” I say, dropping beside her.
“You’re retraining.”
“Same thing.”
She leans back on her palms, sweat darkening the line of her collar. “This feels different.”
“It is.”
She studies me. Not romantically. Not with soft concern. Like a squadmate.
