Not peaceful quiet.
Wrong quiet.
Heavy.
No voices.
No boots shifting on the porch outside.
No low murmur of radios or the quiet rhythm of men who never truly relax.
Just wind brushing against the trees.
And my daughter’s frightened cry.
I sit up too fast, the room tilting as my head spins.
“Shh… it’s okay, sweetheart,” I whisper, pulling her against my chest.
Her tiny body trembles against mine.
But my heart is already pounding.
Something is wrong.
Saint should have checked in by now.
He always does.
Always.
I glance at the clock on the small table beside the bed.
Too much time has passed.
My stomach knots.
I stand, wrapping the baby tighter in the blanket before stepping into the main room.
The air inside the cabin feels tense.
Wolf sits at the table, a map spread out in front of him.
Trigger stands near the radio equipment, speaking quietly into a headset.
Marco is at the window, staring into the dark forest outside like he’s expecting someone to step out of it.
All three of them look… tight.
Controlled.
But tense.
“Where’s Saint?” I ask.
No one answers.
The silence stretches.
