The basement screens lit the room in cold blue light.
We replayed the bridge footage.
Frame by frame.
I leaned forward; elbows braced on the desk.
There she was.
Fighting the wheel.
Gun out the window.
Returning fire.
My jaw tightened — not in anger.
In pride.
“That’s my girl,” I muttered under my breath.
She didn’t fold.
She didn’t freeze.
She fought.
We advanced the footage.
The crash.
The rollover.
I forced myself to watch.
She crawled out bleeding.
Went back for her friend.
Picked up the weapon.
Then—
Hand-to-hand combat.
I watched her move.
Clean. Efficient. Controlled.
That wasn’t street fighting.
That was training.
“She’s precise,” Jace murmured.
“I know.”
She pivoted. Broke a wrist. Dropped a target with a knee strike.
