Page 46

My eyes cut to him. “You what?”

“I figured it out,” he says, calmly. “A while ago.”

I blink. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“You weren’t ready.”

I laugh. Sharp, bitter. “Ready for what? You to drop me off at the nearest checkpoint with a pat on the head and a good luck wish?”

“No.”

“Then why?—”

“Because I’ve done worse.”

His voice is flat. Final.

I stop. The fight drains from my chest.

“Roja…” I whisper.

He leans forward, elbows to knees, mirroring my posture. “That case under the bed? That’s not a keepsake box. It’s a tactical kit. I built it after I left enforcement. Has enough gear to disappear or destroy a room. Depending on the day.”

I stare at him.

“I worked black contracts for the Coalition. Extraction, erasure, loyalty enforcement. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want questions.”

I whisper, “Why’d you leave?”

He shrugs, slow. “Stopped believing in the flags they wrapped bodies in.”

We sit in silence.

The weight of our pasts is a physical thing in the room. A gravity.

I finally ask, “Do you think it matters? What we did?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Only if it keeps us from doing something better now.”

I blink hard. “And what’s that?”

He looks at me. Really looks.

“Keeping each other alive.”

CHAPTER 16

KELSEA

Roja’s room feels like the inside of a weapon—cold metal ribs, low light humming from old filaments, corners too tight for comfort. And still, I don’t move. I sit on his narrow cot, one leg folded beneath me, watching him as he pulls his shirt back over his head with a stiffness that says everything his mouth won’t.

The silence stretches between us like a frayed wire. He doesn’t know what to do with it, and neither do I.

I hold the scarf in my lap. The one he gave me weeks ago. The one I used to practice with until my hands blistered. I run it through my fingers like it might give me the words I’m choking on.

He glances over. “You should sleep.”