She looked up as I approached, and I saw the problem immediately. Her left cheek showed the faint outline of a handprint. Someone had hit her. Hard enough to leave marks that hadn't faded completely.
Rage moved through me like voltage, pure and white-hot. Someone had put their hands on the person who'd been protecting us for weeks. Misato was untouchable in my mind—the steady foundation that kept our chaotic squad functional. Seeing her marked like this triggered protective instincts I didn't know I possessed. The kind that made me want to find whoever did this and introduce them to Overclock at point-blank range.
"Who?" The word came out flat and dangerous, stripped of its usual casual edge.
"It doesn't matter." Her voice carried that same defeated quality I'd heard on the stairs.
"Like hell it doesn't." I unlocked my door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let her enter. The hinges made their usual faint squeak. "Someone hit you. That matters. That matters a lot, actually."
