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Exactly.
I change direction without warning—cutting downhill instead of following the ridge.
She doesn’t question it.
That’s new.
I notice.
“They expect us to stay high,” I explain.
“They expect patterns,” she replies.
“So we break them.”
She glances at me.
A flicker of approval.
Small.
But there.
Mila
He’s adapting.
Fast.
Faster than most.
That should concern me.
It doesn’t.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“No plan.”
I blink.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s effective.”
“…you’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah.”
We move through thicker brush now—harder terrain, less visibility.
Good for cover.
Bad for speed.
Worse for someone injured.
“You’re slowing down,” I say.
