King is counting weapons like it’s a religion.
Out loud. Slow. Deliberate. Each piece laid out with obsessive precision across the metal table, his fingers moving with the easy familiarity of someone who’s done this too many times to still feel anything about it. Magazines. Sidearms. Knives. Comms. Each one lined up like a prayer answered in steel.
“Thirty-six,” he mutters. “Thirty-seven. You know, if one of these goes missing, I’m blaming you.”
I don’t respond. I’m standing by the open storage cage, arms crossed, gaze unfocused as I watch him work. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, the air smelling like oil and steel and disinfectant. Everything here is controlled. Cataloged. Predictable. The kind of room built to make men feel like chaos can be sorted into neat rows if you just stack enough ammunition between yourself and the world.
Unlike my head.
Nurses finally stopped flinching when I walked past the med bay, stopped pretending I didn’t intimidate the hell out of them every time I asked if she was really ready to be discharged.Bedrest. Limited activity. Observation. As if any of that means something when the real damage can’t be seen on a scan. As if a chart can tell me whether she’s sleeping or whether every white hallway on this base still makes her feel like she’s suffocating.
I tell myself I’m thinking about Mikhail. About the pattern Moe’s running through processors in Seaborn. About timing and logistics and retaliation. About the fact that men like Mikhail don’t stay still long enough to regret anything.
I tell myself a lot of things.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts sharp through the room, and something in my chest tightens before I even look at the screen. I already know. Some instincts don’t need confirmation.
Her father’s name stares back at me. Will.
I answer it on the second ring. “Jon.”
There’s no accusation in his voice. That somehow makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says, too casual, too careful. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of Delilah. She hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. That’s not like her.”
I straighten, forcing calm into my posture, into my tone. Years of command smooth my voice into something steady and unremarkable. “She’s been busy,” I say. “School schedule’s been heavy. I can see if I can track her down.”
A pause. I can hear the unspoken worry in it, the kind that only comes from knowing your kid too well. “I’d appreciate that,” he says quietly. “Just… have her call me when you find her, yeah?”
“Of course,” I reply. “I’ll make sure she does.”
We hang up, and the moment the call ends, the pressure I’ve been holding back slams into place behind my ribs. My jaw tightens hard enough to ache. It feels like swallowing a live wire. One more lie stacked on top of all the others. One more thing I’m keeping together with both hands and a bad excuse.
King looks up from the table, one eyebrow lifting. “Trouble in paradise?”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Inventory good?”
“Perfect,” he says, smirking. “Unlike your mood.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I’m already moving, phone in hand, boots hitting the concrete floor with purpose. I don’t slow, don’t explain. I don’t trust myself to.
King’s voice follows me as I shove through the door. “Tell her I said hi!”
I don’t flip him off. That’s restraint. Barely.
The rain hits me the second I step outside.
Not heavy—more like a persistent drizzle that soaks through without asking permission. The sky is split between gray and gold, sunlight breaking through in thin, defiant streaks that catch on wet pavement and glass. Everything smells like wet earth and ozone and the sharp metallic scent the air gets right before dark.
And there she is.
Delilah is stretched out on the grassy hill just beyond the perimeter fence, jacket spread beneath her like she doesn’t care if it gets ruined. One knee bent, one leg straight, boots muddy, headphones in. Rain darkens her hair, clings to her lashes, beads on her throat and tracks down the column of it in slow, silver lines. The grass around her is flattened by the damp, and still she looks like she belongs to the ground more than the base ever did.
She looks… still.
Too still.
