“Don’t let command take it,” he whispered.
I thought he was delirious.
I wore it because guilt has weight, and some weight belongs on skin.
Now men were killing for it.
The second fake officer stepped inside.
Careful now.
Angry.
Gun up.
I stayed behind the post and listened.
Boot pressure on wet floor.
Left side favor.
Holster creak.
Breathing through nose.
He was trained, but impatient.
People like that hated silence.
So I gave him some.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then I said, “Who sent you?”
He fired into the post.
Splinters cut my cheek.
“Cinder wants what she lost.”
She.
That single word moved through me like ice water.
Cinder was a woman.
Nine years of reports had said male.
Nine years of assumptions.
Nine years of wrong hunting.
I looked toward the kitchen.
Gone.
Good.
The fake officer advanced.
“Last chance, Ten.”
I said, “You first.”
