"I wasn't suggesting you should."
"Then why are you still sitting there?"
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Because you're going to need someone who knows how Webb thinks. His patterns. His methods." A pause. "And because I owe you this. The answers. The closure." Another pause. "The chance to put a bullet in him yourself, if that's what you need."
I should tell him to leave. Should handle this alone.
Instead I pull up Webb's file. Start working.
After a moment, he does the same.
Talia findsme in the corridor outside. I'm taking a break. Need air that doesn't smell like Dexter's presence.
She leans against the wall beside me. Doesn't speak immediately. Smart woman.
"You don't have to forgive him to work with him," she says finally.
"I know."
"You just have to decide what matters more. Your anger or your answers."
I look at her. The human woman who went from cargo to queen in six weeks. Who killed to protect the monster who owned her. Who looks at me like she recognizes something.
"What if they're the same thing?" I ask.
Her smile is sharp. All edges. "Then you'll fit right in around here."
She walks away before I can respond. Before I can ask what she sees in me that makes her think I need the reassurance.
Before I can admit she's right.
Late that night.My quarters. Alone.
I pull out the box.
I keep it in the back of my closet, behind the tactical gear I hope I'll never need again and the body armor that's saved my life twice. Small. Unmarked. The kind of container designed to be forgotten.
Inside: mission patches from the units I served with. A cracked comm unit from the Sigma-9 extraction, still stained with blood that might be mine or might be Holt's. Three medals I never picked up because walking into a ceremony meant looking at people who knew what happened.
And underneath it all: a photograph.
The unit. All of us. Before.
Sergeant Holt is grinning, arm around Vasquez. They're both dead now. Died in the first thirty seconds of the ambush, before they knew what was happening.
Webb is there. Smiling. Friendly. The intelligence officer everyone trusted.
And Dexter. Younger. His turquoise skin catching the sunlight of whatever moon we were training on. His electric eyes clear. Happy.
His hand is on my shoulder.
I remember the moment. Remember who took the photo. Remember being happy in a way I'd forgotten was possible until I saw this again.
I trace the edge of the photograph. Don't touch his face. Can't.
The door chimes.
I know who it is before I check the camera feed. Know it in the way my spine straightens, the way my pulse kicks up despite six years of training it not to.
