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Tor ventured back to the tree line.

Pike sat on a root with his forearm wrapped in a field-kit bandage, which meant it was serious. Usually he stuck with it’s fine. Drayce was photographing the residue the dissolved creature had left near the tree line: not the Rift’s usual kind, but something manufactured. Someone’s signature, built in, deliberate. Tor crouched beside the residue and studied it.

Precision. Someone had built these creatures the way Tor built patrol schedules, with detailed knowledge of the terrain, the targets, and the gaps. The fifth creature had been in position before the engagement began. “This was the new rotation.” Tor kept his voice level. “I changed it four days ago.”

“Yes.” Drayce’s eyes stayed on the residue. “They had the update.” Neither of them said the number. Four people had that schedule.

Tor photographed the residue and sent it to Bexley. She would find out what it was. She would check it against everything, including whatever Gerri Wilder had already casually decided to know, and she would add a sixteenth pen to her case. Maybe a seventeenth. “Residential zone breach goes in the report.”

“Obviously.”

“Elder Council gets the summary at first light.”

“They’re not going to like it.”

“They don’t need to like it. They need to move on it.”

Pike, from the root: “If we survive this, I’m requesting less emotionally complicated enemies.”

“You’re off rotation.” Tor nodded at Pike’s bandage. “It’s a surface —”

“Two days.”

“One and a half.”

“Two days.”

“I can do one day, six hours if I —”

“Pike.”

Pike opened his mouth.

Drayce gave him a flat stare that said everything.

“Two days.” He said it like a man accepting terms under duress. “Also, I want a pastry. Hazard pay.”

“We’ve discussed the ops budget —”

“The enemies were emotionally complicated. I spent eleven minutes on the left flank with no backup, and the whole time they were running grief tactics on me. I was genuinely emotionally engaged in resisting them. That is emotional labor. Emotional labor deserves a pastry.”

Drayce turned to Tor, sternness on his face. “Fine. One pastry.”

“Make it a good one. Something from Fiora’s batch. Not the ones Valene makes when she’s annoyed.”

“You can tell the difference?”

“Valene’s annoyed pastries have a — texture. Still good, but the texture communicates her emotional state.”

Drayce tipped his face to the sky. He had chosen this team twenty years ago and still stood by it, even on the days he needed a reminder of why. “Fiora’s batch. Two days.”

“Acceptable.” Pike stood, favored the arm, and started back toward the trailhead. He stopped after four steps. “Your arm.” Tor didn’t answer. Pike made the face he made when he had a million things to say and had, for once, decided to say none of them. He turned and walked on. Drayce fell in beside him without comment, which was its own kind of comment.

Tor stayed at the tree line for a moment. The residential zone was quiet. The streetlamp where he’d caught the creature still glowed. Three hundred yards from Mirelle’s house, he’d had a quarter-second’s warning, and that had been enough. He pulled out his phone and opened it, but not the monitoring app.

He texted Mirelle: The patrol ran long. I’ll explain Thursday. Still on.

He waited.