"What?" From the darkness.
"Coyote. False alarm." I flip the safety on and stand. The lights come back on.
Wren is standing by the couch with the shotgun shouldered, pointed at the door. Face pale, sweat on her forehead, trembling—not fear, adrenaline dump. The weapon is steady.
"Hey." I cross the room. "Weapon down. Safety on."
She blinks, looks at me like I'm resolving from static. Then she lowers the gun, fumbles for the safety.
"It was just a coyote?"
"Yeah. Tripped the laser wire."
She sags. The shotgun clatters against the wall. She runs both hands through her hair. The laugh that comes out is somewhere close to a sob. "I thought that was it. I thought?—"
"I know."
"My hands won't stop." She holds them up. Violent tremors. "I can't turn it off."
I study her. Dilated pupils. Rapid, shallow breathing. The raw, frantic energy of a system overloaded. The photos. The surveillance. The sudden certainty that someone trained and specific is moving toward this mountain. It's too much signal hitting too fast.
She needs silence.
"Wren."
Her eyes dart toward me. "I'm okay. I just need a minute. Let me check the logs again, make sure the digital ghost is still?—"
"No." I step into her space. "No more screens. No more thinking."
"But I have to?—"
"You have to stop." I take her wrists. Her pulse hammers against my thumbs like something caged. "You're red-lining. You need to shut it down."
"I don't know how." Her voice cracks. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the photos. The gun. Ivan."
"Then don't close your eyes." I hold her gaze. "Let me do it for you."
A pause. She searches my face.
"Trust me?"
The same question I asked at the bar. On the bike.
She nods. "Yes."
"Go to the bedroom."
"Kade—"
"Go."
She turns and walks to the back room.
I take one breath, lock down my own adrenaline, and pick up my t-shirt from the back of the chair.
She's standingby the bed when I enter, looking like someone who has forgotten what stillness feels like. The sun is setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the quilt.
"Strip."
