His voice is low, clipped. A man who’s done this a thousand times.

Then there’s only the hum of lights. My boots scuff concrete. And Gaz—stationed at my side, close enough to catch me if I buckle, not close enough to crowd.

My fingers curl into the pink blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Someone put it there. I don’t remember who. Doesn’t matter. It’s scratchy and thin and all I’ve got between me and the shaking.

Not a question. A confirmation.

Her gaze flicks once—from me to the masked soldier behind me. A whisper of a look. She noticed something. Something I haven’t.

The air leaves my lungs.

The masked soldier goes still. Not a statue. Granite. His chest doesn’t move. The stillness of a man who has just heard something that confirms everything he ever suspected.