I feel it.
His gaze on me.
Still there.
Still holding.
And somehow—
I know this isn’t over.
Not even close.
59
Russ
The transport is loud.
Not from chaos.
Not from gunfire.
Just engines.
Steady.
Constant.
The kind of noise that should mean things are under control.
Should.
Doesn’t quite feel like it yet.
I sit across from Clay, watching him.
Because someone has to.
He’s upright now.
Barely.
Back against the wall, arms folded like that, somehow makes him look stronger than he is.
It doesn’t.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I tell him.
He doesn’t even open his eyes.
“I am resting.”
“You call that resting?”
“I’m not moving.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
