Sannet’s safe house hid behind a prayer board no one tended and a panel no one would bother kicking. She worked the latch by feel—two taps, a twist, a push—and the plate swung enough for them to slip through sideways.

  Inside: a long, narrow room with a bent desk, two pallet bunks, a water drum with a hand pump, a coil burner that had seen better decades. The light was a single battered lamp, the kind that made corners look deeper than they were.

  “Quiet first,” Sannet said, voice low. She checked the vents, laid a strip of mirror under the door, thumbed a tiny charge into the jamb. She moved like the space knew her and liked her anyway.

  Minka didn’t sit. She prowled once along the wall, listened to the corridor’s breath, then settled in a crouch by the door, blade across her knees, head tilted. Not restless—watchful.

  Sannet sets water to heat. “Tea,” she said, which was as close to comfort as she allowed herself. She didn’t look at Leanna’s throat bandage; she’d already clocked it, counted the spare dressings, logged the pulse in the girl’s neck.

  Leanna eased onto the lower pallet and started unlacing a boot one-handed, the other hand bracing her ribs. She grimaced, then looked up as Viola’s shadow fell across her.

  Viola didn’t say anything. She just dropped her satchel on the floor, dumped it out, and knelt. Rations, water tabs, a half-charged pack, a roll of sterile gauze, a little vial with Fran’s neat handwriting. With theatrical care she set a bent spoon on the desk like a relic, then tossed Leanna a clean cloth.

  Leanna caught it, pressed it to her throat, then fished in the pile and passed Viola a packet of water tabs without meeting her eyes. Viola flicked two into the drum, rolled the pump, sniffed the first flow, pulled a face, rolled again until it ran clear. She filled a cup, swirled it, took a sip, made a show of not grimacing. Leanna’s mouth twitched.

  They worked around each other in small circles. Leanna laid out their ammo on the desk—two half-spent magazines, a scatter of loose rounds—and began counting, tapping each with her nail. Viola shook a ration brick like she could hear quality, then cracked it in half and pushed the larger piece toward Leanna without comment. Leanna tore it, then slid a corner back across the desk until the halves matched. Viola pushed the extra back again. Leanna pushed it forward. Viola sighed and accepted. A tiny détente, declared in crumbs.

  Steam began to thread from the kettle. Sannet poured into three dented cups, set two on the desk and one near Minka’s boot. Minka didn’t touch hers. Not yet. Sannet didn’t press.

  Leanna unrolled Fran’s tape and peeled the old dressing off her throat. She hissed once, went still, then began wiping the skin clean. Viola wordlessly held out the fresh pad. Leanna took it, hesitated, and handed it back. Viola raised an eyebrow—seriously?—but she leaned in anyway, hands surprisingly gentle. She smoothed the tape down, patted it twice, then tapped Leanna’s chin lightly: done. Leanna flashed a quick, small look of thanks that wasn’t quite a smile. Viola answered it with an exaggerated bow that said you’re welcome and also I’m the greatest medic alive; Leanna rolled her eyes and flicked a crumb at her.

  Sannet watched without watching. She took the far wall, back to concrete, eyes on the door, making herself a hinge the room could swing on. Every so often her gaze drifted to Minka—the set of her shoulders, the slowed tick of her pulse visible at the throat, the way her thumb tracked the blade’s edge without quite touching it. Sannet’s jaw eased a fraction when Minka finally reached back and, without looking, collected her cup. She drank like it was medicine, not comfort, but she drank.

  The room found a rhythm—soft clinks, the scrape of whetstone, the whisper of water. Leanna checked the charge on a pack, frowned, shook it, slapped it back down. Viola reached over, pressed two contacts, made it flicker to life, presented it with a flourish. Leanna bumped her shoulder in thanks. Viola bumped back harder. Leanna shoved her playfully; Viola shoved back and almost tumbled onto the floor, catching herself with a low laugh that broke something tight in the air.

  Sannet spread a scrap of paper on the desk and sketched with a stub of graphite: three circles, two crosses, a line that wasn’t quite straight. She didn’t narrate. The map lived in her wrist, in the tilt of her head as she weighed what would burn and what would hold. Leanna watched from the corner of her eye, matching the lines to places she remembered from another life. Without a word, she reached out and nudged one of the circles a finger-width left. Sannet paused, considered, then marked an arrow there. Viola tapped the paper near a cross—question. Sannet shook her head—bad air, collapsed. Viola scrunched her nose and drew a little skull. Sannet huffed something that could have been a laugh.

  The kettle hissed itself out. The safe house settled deeper. For a while, the only conversation was hands.

  Leanna stood and moved toward the door, rolling her shoulder to test the bandage’s pull. She stopped beside Minka and crouched there, not quite touching. Minka didn’t look over, but her breath shifted—aware, eased—and the tip of her blade dipped a fraction. Leanna reached for the cup by Minka’s boot, felt it, found it empty, and swapped it for hers without meeting Minka’s eyes. Minka’s hand lifted in reflex—hey—but Leanna was already gone, returning to the desk with the empty so Sannet could refill it. Sannet did, quick as a thought, and slid it back along the floor. Minka caught it without looking. She drank.

  Viola finished sorting the rations into neat stacks purely so she could ruin the neatness, then began repacking with the lazy precision of someone who liked her chaos to function. She added two packets to Leanna’s pile, one to Minka’s, none to Sannet’s. Sannet waited until Viola wasn’t looking and tucked one into her own pack anyway. Viola spotted it in the reflection of the mirror strip, made a show of sighing, and slipped another into Sannet’s pocket when she passed with the water. Sannet didn’t react. Viola grinned to herself, victory achieved.

  The quiet held until it didn’t. Minka set her blade aside, stood in one smooth motion, and stepped away from the door at last. The room tilted around that choice. She crossed to the desk, not to the map, but to Sannet.

  Sannet straightened, set her cup down, met her halfway.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  For a moment they simply looked at each other—two storms measuring the space, deciding whether to pass or clash. Up close, the new lines on Minka’s face showed; up close, the tired in Sannet’s eyes did too. Leanna stilled by the bunk. Viola stopped mid-fuss with a strap and let it hang.

  Minka didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

  “Why didn’t you come sooner?” she asked.

  It wasn't an accusation, not exactly. It wasn’t forgiveness either. It was the ugly, necessary middle—raw and honest, laid between them like steel.

  Sannet didn’t look away. The hand she’d kept on the desk flattened on the paper map, smudging a line. Her mouth opened, then closed, as if she’d just measured every answer she could give and found none that would make the room easier.

  Minka stepped in until the paper map crackled beneath Sannet’s palm. Her jaw was iron; her eyes were the green of a storm about to split.

  “You should’ve been there,” she said—flat, sharp, thrown like nails. “When Nova dragged us in. When the black site air tasted like old coins. When we had to fight to survive. You were supposed to be there.”

  Sannet’s fingers lifted, graphite smudging her skin. “I was late.”

  “You let it happen,You are Sannet, if you really want, you could just teleport in and teleport us out.” Minka snapped, louder now, anger finding a fresh edge. “Don’t hide behind windows and odds. I hear him in that—Dad’s little philosophy. Rough her up, let her ‘explore the world,’ she’ll be shaped nicely. You left us in that hole to see what I’d become. Another experiment for dad’s cabinet of clever cruelties. You wanted me to see what would happen so you could tell him more stories about it.”

  Leanna flinched like the words had teeth. Viola didn’t move, but the dented tin cup in her hand groaned.

  Sannet took the hit. When she answered, the words were bone-clean—and harder. “That sounds like him. It is not me. And it ends here.”

  Minka’s chin lifted, daring her to go on.

  Sannet did. “Yes—Trazyn likes this. He likes people under glass, struggling into the shapes he names. He would call what happened to you ‘character.’” She shook her head once, sharp. “I am not his instrument anymore. I cut the strings. And I hate him, Minka. Not the quiet kind. The kind that scorches the mouth when you say his name. He pressed his will into me and called it purpose. I will never forgive him for what he did to me. He doesn’t get to control me anymore.”

  The room listened. Water creaked in the drum. Leanna’s fingers found the edge of Minka’s sleeve and pressed once—here.

  “Convenient,” Minka said, but the bite wavered, “You always find ways,” she went on, jabbing a finger against Sannet’s chest, one hard tap. “That’s your trick. That’s why I—” the word soured on her tongue “—hoped. I kept looking at the door because I thought you’d be in it.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened and frayed at once. “I counted seconds on a wall with nothing but pure darkness. I told Viola and Leanna to keep quiet when I couldn’t hear my own head. I pretended I knew what I was doing so they wouldn’t see my hands shake. I kept thinking—if you walked in, I wouldn’t have to choose.” Her breath hitched; she hated that it did. “I don’t want this.”

  The space between them narrowed to a blade’s width.

  “I don’t want to lead,” she said, the words raw as skin after a bandage. “I don’t want to point and pray and make the wrong thing sound like a plan so they don’t fall apart before I do. I wanted you to come through a door and say ‘this way,’ and I would’ve followed, and I wouldn’t have had to pretend I was built for this.”

  Viola slid a cup along the desk until it touched Minka’s knuckles; Minka drank. The metal rattled against her teeth. She set it down like it might bite her back.

  Sannet reached—slow enough to refuse—and set two fingers at the back of Minka’s hand. Warm. Steady. “You shouldn’t have had to,” she said. “But you did. And you got them here. Every step you took, it was the right choice at that moment. Even if you don’t know it, you are a natural leader.”

  Minka’s mouth trembled; she bit it still. “Don’t make it noble. I kept moving because I was afraid to admit I was scared. Anger felt like control. It still does.” Her eyes flicked at Leanna, at Viola. “I don’t want to be the reason they get hurt.”

  “You’re the reason they’re here,” Sannet answered, quiet as a hand on a wound. “And I am here now. If you want me in front, I’ll take it. If you want me beside you, I’ll be there. If you want a minute to breathe, breathe. I can hold it.”

  Sannet let out a breath. “One more truth: I had the panel primed. Blind spots stacked. Beacon ready. Then Woods changed the language—deployment, not transfer. If I cracked Delta-09, Nova’s system might’ve given me sixty seconds—enough to push you into a corridor designed to kill anything that ran. The shaft to the complex would've been sealed. You’d be trapped between her and the thing in the plinth. And I’d be on the wrong side of a wall I couldn’t open again.” She swallowed it like glass. “I made the call I hated. I stood down. I ran outside to the only door I could re-open. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t kind. It kept the path alive. I will not be late again.”

  Minka closed her eyes, the anger still there but showing the threads beneath—fear, grief, the love that learned all the wrong words to speak itself. When she opened them, they were wet and hard both. “You don’t get to be late again.”

  “I won’t,”

  Minka huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt. “Prove you’re done—with him. He’ll want a report. He’ll try to frame this like he planned it.”

  “He doesn’t get a report,” Sannet said. “He won’t get anything from us.”

  The anger that had been holding her upright began to feel heavy instead of useful. Minka’s shoulders squared, like bracing for impact. She stopped too close and, for a breath, did nothing at all.

  Sannet did not move first. She simply remained—hands loose, weight grounded, leaving the choice where it belonged.

  Minka made it. Not a lunge, not a collapse—just the last inch closed. Her brow skimmed Sannet’s collar; one hand found the seam of Sannet’s sleeve and caught, as if testing whether it would hold.

  The first breath snagged. The second broke.

  The sound that followed was raw and unadorned, the kind a person makes only when the room has agreed to keep it. Heat and salt bled through canvas; her shoulders shook, then steadied against Sannet’s chest.

  Sannet’s arms lifted and folded around her, firm without binding. One palm settled at the back of Minka’s head, fingers gentle in her hair. “I’ve got you,” she said, quiet and clear. She didn’t hush or explain. She matched her breath to Minka’s until the jaggedness softened.

  Leanna turned toward the wall and studied a flaw in the paint as if it mattered; her eyes shone and she allowed them to. Viola threw an arm over her face and let silence do the kindness.

  They stayed standing, neither giving way. When the sobs thinned to small, embarrassed hiccups, Minka eased back just enough to draw her own air. Her lashes were wet, her mouth unsteady.

  “Okay,” she managed—meaning not cured, but understood.

  “Okay,” Sannet answered—meaning not leaving.

  Outside, the city ground on. Inside, the room seemed to widen by a breath, as if the walls had learned to hold them without pressing. For the first time since the black site, the night felt like something they might pass through together.