The old checkpoint smelled like melted plastic and ghost fire.
Safehouse 17-B had once been a rail junction beneath District 10's southern freight yard — before Black Halo set it ablaze during a siege. Now it was just carbon-scarred walls, half-dead terminals, and a trickle of warm, recycled air that barely qualified as breathable.
Hernan shut the door behind them.
Aya dropped onto the nearest supply crate, exhaling like her bones had been holding in screams. The light caught the burn mark below her collarbone — red, raw, ringed with torn fabric. She winced as she peeled her coat off.
Renz said nothing. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, goggles still in place. Too still. Too centered.
Hernan knelt beside the med kit, silent.
He'd already memorized Renz's posture. No signs of adrenaline fatigue. No sweat behind the neck. The man hadn't exerted himself. Not in that hellfire of a fight. Not once.
"Let me see it," Hernan said, voice calm.
