The ops wing is quieter mid-afternoon, which is when I do the restocking run. It’s the kind of task that turns a person into part of the furniture. And furniture hears everything. Today it’s printer paper for the briefing room, a replacement ink cartridge, two reams of security clearance forms that nobody touches but someone keeps ordering.
I know these shelves better than the people who use them. I know which doors don’t latch all the way, and which corridor has the right hum for a conversation someone thinks is private.
I’m passing the secondary ops room when I hear Viktor’s name, something in the tone of it. I ease my pace, hands steady on the cart, and pull my magic in close until I’m little more than a smear at the edge of the eye.
The door isn’t fully shut. Two voices. One of them is Nadia—Jericho’s mate.
“—brought him in to dig around for the mole. Kept it off the org chart.”
A beat.
“How far off?”
“Far enough that nobody knew. He’s been in and out for months.”
Then Nadia’s voice drops below what I can catch, and I’m already three steps past, the cart wheels quiet on the concrete.
I file it: an outside contractor, unlogged, digging. Viktor doesn’t trust his own read of things lately, which means the failure is sitting heavier than the briefings let on. Which means whatever I’ve been feeding out has landed somewhere.
My pulse jumps frantically.
They’re onto you.
I pull in a breath and keep my steps even.
Calm down. There’s no proof of anything.
But my nerves won’t settle. The dread is always there anyway, low and steady, a knot in my stomach that never quite loosens.
I return the cart and sign the form. The rest of the afternoon closes over me the way it always does—quiet, unremarkable, nothing to pay attention to. It doesn’t settle me. I skip dinner and tell Kaylin I’m turning in early with a book I downloaded. The truth is I’m still wound too tight. She doesn’t push.
It’s past midnight when the buzzing under my mattress drags me out of sleep. The burner glows in the dark of my cubicle. I grab it fast and glance around out of habit, though no one’s listening at this hour. Our quarters are communal, but each of us has an enclosed cubicle for privacy.
The voice is the same as always—flat, businesslike, no personality in it at all.
“We need an update.”
I swallow. “There’s an update on the wolf who escaped. He ran into one of your teams. Got away.”
“We don’t need you to tell us that. We already know.” Curt. Impatient. “We need intel on movements.”
“Um.” I clear my throat. “There’s talk about something with the eastern relay on Thursday.”
“What are they doing? Extraction? Team allocations?”
I shake my head in the dark. “I don’t know. I hear things. But strategic planning and personnel take longer. People don’t talk about that around someone carrying a box of printer paper.”
“Then listen harder. This has no value.”
“I’m trying. I swear.” My voice comes out a hoarse whisper.
A pause.
“Your sister sends her regards.”
My heart clenches. I’ve rehearsed how I answer this. Practiced exactly how to sound, so it won’t come out too desperate.
It comes out desperate anyway. “How is she?”
