“When do we move?” he asked.
I checked back at the screens, at the map, at the blinking markers that represented lives reduced to data points and probabilities.
“Tonight,” I said.
Because waiting wasn’t an option anymore.
And neither was failure.
TWENTY-TWO
Novak
Caleb was exhausted.It was ten in the morning, and he’d been up all night, eyes fixed on screens, shoulders locked tight with a focus that had long since tipped into something closer to collapse. He didn’t move when I stepped into the comms room, didn’t acknowledge me beyond a brief flick of his gaze before returning to whatever data held him in place.
That wasn’t acceptable.
I crossed the room and took hold of his chair, turning it so he was forced to look at me. Up close, it was worse—pale skin, shadows under his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands he either hadn’t noticed or had chosen to ignore.
“You need sleep.”
“I’m fine,” he said, already turning back, dismissing me with ease. “Give me an hour. I just need to finish?—”
“No.”
He tried to twist away again, irritation flaring, but I was already moving. I didn’t give him time to argue; I didn’t allow the conversation to become a negotiation. I hooked an arm around his waist, lifted, and hauled him up and over my shoulder in one smooth motion.
“Novak—what the hell?—”
He hit my back with a curse, hands bracing, more in surprise than real resistance. He twisted, tried to push himself upright, carrying him out of the comms room without slowing.
“Let go of me you fucker!”
“You’re not in a condition to make decisions,” I said, voice even. “So, I’m making this one for you.”
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped, though the edge of it was already fraying. “Put me down. I’m not tired.”
I ignored him.
Up the stairs. Across the hall. Into the bedroom.
I set him on the bed, but didn’t give him a chance to get up again, pressing him back into the mattress with a hand at his shoulder, caging him there more with intent than force.
“Sleep.”
“You can’t force me to sleep,” he said, the scowl deepening as he braced his hands against the mattress and tried to push himself upright despite the obvious drag of exhaustion, stubbornness overriding sense as his body lagged his intent and his balance wavered. “That’s not how this works. I’m not—” he continued, as he made another attempt to sit up, shoulders tensing under my hand, breath catching as if the effort itself cost him more than he was willing to admit, irritation flaring because he couldn’t make his body obey the way he expected it to.
His voice cut off.
I watched the moment it happened, the exact second his body gave up the fight. The tension drained out of him all at once, his eyes slipping closed even as his mouth tried to finish the sentence. He didn’t make it.
Within seconds, his breathing evened out, slow and deep, like someone who had been running on empty for far too long.
I stayed there a moment longer, hand still braced against him, confirming what I already knew.
Asleep.
Good.
