Raven sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, bare feet pressed flat to the cold floor.
The clock glowed red. 3:12. The numbers refused to blur no matter how long she stared.
Two floors down, Elias sat in holding. Alive. The shallow groove her wire had pressed into his throat would still be raw when morning came. She had walked him through the gate herself, handed him over without explanation, and come straight here. No shower. No debrief. Just the soft click of her own door and the silence that rushed in after it, thick enough to taste.
Her knives lay on the nightstand. Three of them. Old companions. The largest still carried the faint nick from the tunnel ambush. The smallest fit her palm like it had grown there. Steel edges held faint dark lines she had never fully cleaned. Moonlight from the tall windows slid across the blades and made them look wet, almost breathing.
She stared.
