Her voice changes.
I hate that.
I hate the softness because softness means the truth has teeth.
“He went after Ron,” I whisper.
Nara says nothing.
My heart lurches so hard the monitors complain again.
I remember Kauss’s voice in fragments. Not like a dream. Like sound filtered through deep water. I love you, Evie Mercy. I loved you when you waved at me in the rain. I wanted keys. I wanted a door where I belonged.
I thought maybe I imagined it. Pain medicine does strange things. So does blood loss. So does falling out of a third-story window because a burned psychopath shoots you after breaking into your apartment.
But Mira’s face tells me I heard enough.
“He was here,” I say.
“Yes.”
“He told me.”
Her eyes soften. “Some of it, I think.”
I press my left hand against the sheet. “He thinks he has to end it alone.”
“He promised he’d come back.”
“Men say all kinds of romantic bullshit right before they get themselves killed.”
“That is not an inaccurate statement.”
“Help me up.”
“No.”
“Mira.”
“No. You are post-op, concussed, bleeding internally twelve hours ago, and held together by Alliance-grade nanites that are doing the medical equivalent of screaming into a pillow.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“He’s going to kill Ron.”
Mira’s jaw tightens. “Ron deserves worse than death.”
“I know.” My voice cracks. “That’s why I have to go.”
She looks at me for a long, hard moment. “You are not making sense.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you are being concussed and in love.”
“Both can be true.”
