My jaw tightens.
Rylan.
Established. Familiar. A specific kind of hate.
He’s not guessing. He’s poking a bruise he helped put there.
Adrian notices immediately. He doesn’t ask—just holds his hand out.
I don’t give it to him. “Don’t.”
He lets his hand drop. No argument. Just a look that says: fine. Keep bleeding in private.
“That bad?” he asks.
“Bad enough.”
Declan steps closer, voice low. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”
He’s right.
That’s the point. That’s the leverage. The Whisperer isn’t aiming for my guilt—it’s aiming for collateral. Team. Program. Anyone standing near me.
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Then say something useful,” Dante pushes. “Because silence is starting to cost us.”
I tuck my phone into my jacket and pull the zipper up like it seals the conversation. “I’ve got it.”
Cole watches me for a long second. “That means you’re about to move.”
I don’t answer. I grab my hoodie, shove my arms through it, already halfway gone in my head.
Adrian steps into my path—not blocking me, just close enough to force eye contact. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s because it matters.
“If you’re going to play leverage,” he says, voice low, “don’t do it blind.”
“I’m not.”
“Then loop us in.”
“Not yet.”
Declan’s mouth tightens. “That’s a choice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
I head for the door.
Dante calls after me, “At least tell me you’re not about to do something sloppy.”
I don’t slow. “I don’t do sloppy.”
Outside, the cold cuts clean, the sky still that ugly gray that comes before morning decides what it’s doing.
My phone buzzes again before I can pocket it. Same number.
Careful who you stand next to. Some people draw attention just by breathing.
