Mac straightened slowly. He looked at the High Steward again. “We cooperate because we want him alive and integrated,” he said. “Not because you can close a room.”
The High Steward’s expression didn’t change, but the air acknowledged the line Mac drew.
“Good,” the High Steward said. “Then we understand each other.”
He turned toward the door, and the woman and the younger figure followed. The sealing cloak did not lift yet. The room remained muffled, trapped in that unnatural quiet.
At the threshold, the High Steward paused and looked back, his gaze settling on Mac with a weight that felt like history. “You are attached,” he said softly, as if naming something Mac had refused to say aloud. “That is both strength and liability. The Stewardry will not decide which for you. Your choices will.”
Mac held his gaze without blinking. “That choice was made already,” he replied.
The High Steward studied Reynolds for another moment.
“In time,” he said quietly, “he will have to stand without you.”
His gaze shifted to Mac and Melvin.
“We’ll begin with a few minutes.”
Then, as the Council prepared to leave, one of them paused beside Melvin and spoke quietly enough that only he could hear. “Arrangements are being made to move him stateside.”
High Steward nodded once, approval or warning, impossible to tell, then stepped out.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the room exhaled.
Sound returned like water flooding back into a pipe. The fluorescent hum regained its annoying insistence. Somewhere down the corridor,a medic cursed loudly, as if catching up on time he’d lost. Mac realized he’d been holding tension in his shoulders like armor and forced it down.
Melvin remained beside the bed, eyes on Reynolds, posture precise. His face gave nothing away, but Mac knew him well enough to read the micro-tells, the tightness around the mouth, the way his fingers flexed once as if wanting to do something violent to someone who thought governance excused cruelty.
Reynolds’ breathing was still uneven, but his eyes were clearer than they’d been. He looked at the dented rail again, then at Mac’s hand on his arm.
Mac removed his palm slowly, testing. The monitor wavered, then steadied again as Melvin kept his presence firm on the other side. Reynolds’ body tremored, but didn’t spike.
Mac felt a grim kind of relief. Not because Reynolds was fine. Because Reynolds was trying. Mac stepped closer again, not touching this time, just occupying the space as a steady point. “You did that,” he said to Reynolds.
Reynolds blinked. “Did what?”
“You stayed,” Mac answered. “You didn’t let it drag you out of yourself.”
Reynolds’ throat worked. He didn’t smile. He didn’t thank them. He simply nodded once, like a soldier accepting an order.
Mac studied him for another moment, measuring the steadiness in his eyes, the way his breathing held its rhythm even after the room had emptied of authority and pressure. Reynolds still looked shaken, but he looked present. Mac rested his hand lightly against the edge ofthe mattress, not touching him now, just close enough to remind Reynolds he wasn’t alone.
“You deserve to know what’s happening,” Mac said quietly.
Reynolds’ brow tightened. “Sir… that thing out there didn’t just bite me, did it?”
Mac shook his head once. “No,” he said.
Reynolds went very still.
Mac kept his voice level, the same tone he used explaining a bad situation before a mission stepped off.
“That thing didn’t just bite you,” he said. “It left something behind. Call it an imprint. Call it exposure. The name doesn’t matter. Your body’s adapting to it.”
Reynolds swallowed hard. “Adapting how?”
“You’re stronger already. Faster. Your senses are going to sharpen. Things are going to feel too loud, too close for a while.”
