No one says that. Not to me. Not after Horus IV. Not after the evacuation corridor, the failed escort, the civilians who trusted my squad to get them through a combat zone and died choking on smoke while I carried the ones who were still breathing. People may not blame me because they do not know enough details. That is different from absolution. That is ignorance.
Evie knows only this alley, and already she refuses to hand me the guilt.
“You need a hospital,” I say because I cannot answer what she has given me.
“No hospital.”
“You may have head trauma.”
“I definitely have attitude trauma.”
“Evie.”
“No hospital,” she says again, firmer this time. “Clinic is closed, emergency ward asks questions, police write reports, and reports bring gang attention. Take me home. I’ll call Mira. She’s a nurse. She’ll check me.”
“This is unwise.”
“Most of my brand is unwise.”
“You need care.”
“I’ll get care. At home.” She winces as I step around a puddle. “Please.”
The word pulls at me like a command I never swore to obey.
I carry her from the alley, keeping to shadows out of habit and necessity. A couple across the street sees me emerge with her in my arms and quickly looks away. Good. Let them look away. Let them tell themselves nothing is happening. Humans survive in neighborhoods like Halo by making blindness into a civic art.
Evie’s breath warms my chest through the torn fabric of my coat. She smells like rain, blood, cider, sugar, and something that is only her, light and stubborn beneath the grime of violence. Her fingers remain twisted in my shirt as though she fears I might vanish if she lets go.
I should not like that.
I should not feel the primitive satisfaction of being the thing between her and harm.
“You’re bleeding,” she murmurs.
“No.”
“Your hand.”
I glance down. My knuckles are split where I struck brick after hitting Neck Tattoo. The cuts are already closing, dark blood sluggish beneath the rain.
“It is nothing.”
“That’s what idiots say before infections.”
“Vakutans do not infect easily.”
“Congratulations.”
“You are concussed.”
“You’re still bossy.”
We reach the rear steps of Sweet Tooth. The bakery’s blue sign flickers around the corner, turning the wet brick briefly ghost-bright. The back door is locked. Good. She listened afterthe break-in attempt. I shift her weight carefully to free one hand.
“Key,” I say.
“Bag.”
