She exhales. “Sacred ground.”
“Something like that.”
She walks to the center of the room, directly under the widest beam of light. She stops, arms crossed, facing me. “Why bring me here?”
“Because you need to understand something.”
“What?”
I step closer. “You’re not just protected. You’re chosen.”
“I guess I know what that word means now.”
“Do you?”
She meets my gaze. “It means I’m yours. All three of you. Whether I want to be or not.”
“It means,” I say, “that we’re not letting you go.”
Then movement behind me. The door opens again.
Sting steps in first, coat already off. Rogue follows, quieter, eyes bright with that dangerous amusement.
Vi’s breath catches. She looks between all three of us, pulse visible in her throat.
“This is what being chosen looks like,” Sting says, stopping beside me. “Access. Inclusion.”
Rogue moves to her other side. “Protection that comes with a price.”
“And what’s the price?” Vi asks, voice steady despite the tremor I can see running through her.
I step closer until there’s barely any space between us. “You stop fighting what you want.”
Her eyes flash. “And what do I want?”
“This,” I say simply.
Then I reach up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and remove my mask.
The bone-white half skull comes off in one smooth motion.
Vi’s breath catches. She’s seen me without my mask before, but I’ve never really given her the time to study me.
I watch her take me in: the bald head, smooth and deliberate. The heavy blackwork tattoo crawling up my neck from beneath my collar, dark geometric patterns no one can decipher. Hard angles. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth set in a line that doesn’t soften even now.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Armen,” she whispers.
Sting’s mask hits the floor next. She’s seen him, too, but looks at him like she hasn’t. Short-cropped hair, neat and controlled. His face is leaner, more precise, every feature measured. A small, clean tattoo peeks from his wrist. He doesn’t smile. Just watches her with dark, unblinking eyes.
Rogue’s mask comes off last and his messy curls spill out, dark, unruly, refusing discipline. His face is sharper and young, with patchwork tattoos climbing his collarbone. He grins. Wide and wicked.
“Surprise,” he says.
Vi stares at us, all three of us, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You’re...” She trails off.
“Real,” Rogue finishes. “Not just masks and hands in the dark.”
Sting steps closer. “You’ve seen us before.”
