From the stairwell, Brock's eyes tracked the figure pacing the racks until Harper slid into view.
She came around the corner and nearly collided with him. Both of them went rigid under the fluorescents. No move to draw, no scramble for cover. Just locked there, staring.
"Shit," Brock spat, hand slamming flat to the cinderblock. His pulse hammered, teeth grinding. "What the fuck is she doing? Why did she stop?"
Nolan shifted beside him, braced in the frame. His eyes never left the glass. "I don't know," he said, low and edged. His tongue ran over his teeth, shoulders tight. "But so did he."
Skiv straightened, the tablet sagging in his hand. When he spoke, his voice came rough, almost disbelieving. "I thought you were dead. You survived the yard ambush?"
Harper's fingers slipped from her pistol grip, her arm falling slack at her side. Her throat worked before the words came, halting. "Yes… no, I—" Her breath hitched. "I saw you. In the van, when the Den got raided. You were dead. I saw you."
His body went rigid. He drew in a breath, shoulders rising once before he shook his head. "No. I wasn't there. I was at Jana's." His gaze flicked over her face. "By the time I heard about the raid, it was already over." He paused. "The van? What van?"
Words jammed in her throat. He was standing there, breathing, arguing with a memory she'd carried like a weight. Heat pricked at the corners of her eyes, vision thinning around the edges as the fact of him alive pressed in.
Skiv's gaze dragged down to the emblem stitched over her chest. He went still, breath catching, then looked back at her. "Harp…" The word came out hoarse. "You're in their colors."
Her stomach lurched. "It's not what you think," she rushed, words tumbling. "They took me—dragged me out of the yard. I didn't choose this. They kept me locked up, broke me down, shoved me into their kit like it means something. I'm not—"
Skiv shook his head, quick, almost desperate. "It's fine. It's okay." His voice softened, like he was trying to steady her. "You're here now." He stepped closer, lowering his tone as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Come with me, Harper. The Maw picked me up not long after I got out. They're good people. We can go now—back stair, service lift. We'd be gone before anyone even noticed."
His eyes locked to hers, bright with something raw and aching. "Come on, Harp." His fingers closed around her forearm, light but solid, like he was afraid to grip any harder.
For a second the world snapped into a different shape. Out of this building with his hand on her, doors and corridors behind them, night air on her face instead of recycled vent chill. Yes surged up in her chest, tight as a held breath. She found herself leaning into the touch before she even thought to move.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Nolan and Brock were a hallway away. If she ran now, they'd come down on him too. The sting of tears burned at the corners of her eyes, vision blurring for a moment before she dragged in air.
"I can't…" The whisper scraped out raw. "They'll—"
"Shh." Skiv lifted his free hand, palm out, the plea soft as a touch. "You can. I've got you." His thumb brushed her sleeve, his other hand still warm on her arm. "Come with me, Harp. Right now."
Her chest tightened, air caught between ribs. Want and dread pulled in opposite directions, locking every muscle. She didn't move, her hand shaking as she stared at his.
Then a flicker of motion pulled at the edge of her vision. Beyond Skiv, through the wired glass of the hall door, a figure filled the frame—broad shoulders, posture tight, worry plain in his eyes as he stared in.
Harper's gaze snapped to Brock, her breath catching. For a moment their eyes locked, and she saw that worry deepen as he registered the shine of tears at the corners of hers.
Skiv felt the change in her. His hand stayed on her forearm as he turned, following the line of her stare until he saw the man standing in the hall. For a second he just stared at Brock, shoulders gone rigid.
When he whipped back toward her, his face was different. Whatever softness had been there burned out, rage flaring up in its place.
He moved before she could pull in a full breath. His grip cinched hard on her arm and he drove sideways, dragging her with him. "Skiv—" was all she got out before her back hit steel.
The rack took her weight with a violent shudder, metal screaming against its bolts, the edge gouging her spine. Pain detonated through her, a raw cry ripped from her as the air left in one burst. He didn't let the impact carry her away from him; his chest slammed in after, pinning her to the frame.
She clawed at his sleeve, twisting, but his weight stayed locked to hers, holding her upright against the rack before she could fold. His shoulder jammed up under her chin, snapping her head back, grinding her face into the steel until her teeth clicked together. She bucked hard, hips slamming against his, panic driving, but his thigh cut across and trapped her legs, pressing her flat to the metal.
"Skiv—stop—" The plea rasped out, thin, desperate, but he didn't loosen. He caught her wrist and slammed it into the upright of the rack. Bone hit metal and lightning shot up her arm, skin tearing raw along her knuckles. She tried to yank free, but he wrenched her hand higher, her nails scraping uselessly at cold steel.
His forehead smashed into her cheekbone, a short, savage crack. Stars burst across her vision, skull snapping back into the rack. A bell rang high and endless behind her eyes, copper flooding her mouth before she could drag in air. Her knees threatened to drop out from under her, but he stayed on her, chest pinning her to the frame.
His boot hooked behind her ankle and kicked it out, stripping the rest of her footing. Her weight sagged, caught between him and the rack, breath ragged, and he bore it easily, twisting her trapped arm up and out, slow enough that she felt every inch. Tendons screamed. His forearm drove across her jaw, wrenching her face aside into the rack. Cold metal bit into her back, the steel frame shuddering with each broken breath. He kept working her arm higher, patient and merciless, ratcheting her shoulder until the joint felt ready to tear.
Brock pressed to the wired glass just as Skiv slammed Harper into the racks. The impact rattled the frame, vibration climbing his arm. He seized the pull handle and wrenched. Nothing. Steel held like a wall poured in place. He hit it with his shoulder; the frame barked back, lock unmoved. "Nolan!" The shout came raw, too loud for a job meant to be silent.
Nolan stepped in beside him and dropped to a knee at the jamb. One glance told him what he needed: the door didn't flex, the edge showed no light, just solid steel locked hard. "Mag lock's holding it shut," he muttered, breath tight. "We're not getting through with muscle."
"Then kill it." Brock's palm smacked the panel, demand and order at once.
Nolan had his penknife out, blade biting into the screws on the mag lock's faceplate, shoulders hunched as he worried them loose. One slipped, screeching across the metal; his jaw flexed before he set it again. The cover peeled back, board crammed, wires snarled. He thumbed insulation off in fast, practiced scrapes and bridged copper ends. A click answered, faint coil hum like a held breath—but the magnet stayed locked.
Nolan spat air, shaking his head once. "Still hot. Backup's feeding it."
Pressed flat to the rack, Harper let everything go slack for a single breath, letting Skiv's weight roll over the resistance he thought he had. Then she twisted into the pain instead of away from it. She tucked her chin and rolled her head under his forearm, shoulder slipping low, carving out an inch of space he hadn't meant to give. The hold shifted, and she dragged the wrist he had pinned up the upright until skin burned, fingertips clawing for the round of his knuckle and peeling it back.
He crushed closer, thigh heavy across her hips to smother her sidearm. She raked her heel down his shin; his weight hitched. Her free hand shot up for his ear, fingers biting in, and she drove that same forearm across his throat, forcing his head aside just enough to steal another inch.
He dipped under the pressure on his neck instead of fighting it, weight dropping as he rolled his forehead back into her, grinding hard along her cheekbone until her vision burst white. Then he walked her sideways along the shelving, trying to feed her face-first into the upright. The rack shuddered, cables rattling against their ties, heat humming against her spine. She drove an elbow toward his liver; he rode it out on muscle and mashed her wrist harder into the post, fingers scrabbling for a better hold that never came. Dust lifted in the air, grit catching in her throat, breath harsh between them.
His hand slid for her hip, scrabbling toward the pistol holstered there. She caught his wrist, wedged it between belt and bone at her hip, and sank her teeth into his shoulder through cloth. Fabric and skin gave under the bite; salt and copper hit her tongue as he jerked, a raw sound tearing loose—half snarl, half grunt. "Harper—" Warning or plea, she couldn't tell. She tore free before he could smash her head again, breath hot with the taste of his blood. His shoulder bunched as he tried to walk her farther down the row, dragging her like she weighed nothing.
She let him have half a step, then planted and whipped forward, driving her forehead into the bridge of his nose. Enough to ring it, stop short of breaking. His head rocked; the grip on her wrist faltered. She spun off the post, ripping free with a strip of skin.
He came back fast, hand shooting for her throat the same instant she drove up for his elbow. Both landed; his forearm slammed into hers, bone on bone, his fingers clawing close but finding nothing. They crashed together, locked so tight she tasted old coffee on his breath and felt how familiar this body still was against hers.
His forearm crushed across her face, angling down for her throat. Training took over—chin tucked, hands in, shoulder jammed under his elbow. He poured in after it, closing the gap, pressure riding up into her jaw until her molars lit. She stamped for his knee, scraped shin, missed, then shoved the rack's edge between his arm and her neck and caught a breath.
He slid tighter along her side, trying to hook her leg again. She dropped her weight, let one knee dip so his sweep caught air, ripped her hand down along his arm, skin burning under her nails, and drove the heel of her palm into his ear. He reeled half a step, kept his back to the door; she crowded into that inch, forearm braced across his collarbones, fighting forward.
He dropped under her hands and wrapped her tight, chest to ribs, arms locking her in. A hooked leg scythed behind hers and took her feet, and he drove through. Tile came up fast and ugly; her shoulders hit first, skull bouncing an instant later, white light bursting behind her eyes. The breath left her in a flat sound as he rode her down and sealed the weight, knee heavy on her hip, shoulder smashing her far arm to the floor. He pinned her left wrist under his knee, legs laced tight around hers so her kicks were nothing but noise. His right forearm slid across her cheek, turning her face aside as he settled in over her.
Brock saw Harper slam down, Skiv's weight crushing her, her head bouncing off tile. His gut twisted. He smashed the door again, metal booming down the corridor. "Nolan!"
"I know, just hold the fuck on," Nolan snapped from the panel, knife clamped in his teeth while both hands tore deeper into the reader's guts. Wires spilled like veins across his fingers, stripped copper sparking as he twisted them together. Sweat ran down his temple, jaw locked. "Lock's on a battery pack. Not just the wall."
Brock wrenched the pull until steel moaned, shoulder driving again, rage hammering bone to frame. Nothing. He shoved his face to the slit, breath fogging glass—Harper pinned, Skiv grinding her flat. He punched the jamb, voice raw. "Open it!"
"I'm trying!" Nolan barked, voice tight and low, full of teeth. He bridged another set; a relay clicked, the coil hummed overhead, the magnet still holding. "Come on, you bastard—let go."
Skiv sank down over Harper, weight grinding her into the tile. His forearm stayed hard across her cheek, keeping her head turned. One knee parked on her hip, pinning her beltline so the pistol stayed trapped.
"Stop," he rasped, breath hot and close, dust thick in it. The sound scraped raw, somewhere between warning and plea. "Don't make me put you out. I can still walk you out of here."
Her jaw worked against his radius, words crushed out thin. "Let me go."
"Not to them." His grip shifted, forearm sliding from her cheek to the hinge of her jaw, palm spreading across her throat. He pressed down, not choking yet, but the promise of it lay heavy in the pressure. His face hovered close, eyes searching hers. "Breathe, Harp. Tap. I'll take you—"
She answered with claws. Her free hand speared up and raked his face from cheekbone to brow; skin went under her nails, wet and sudden. He snarled; his head jerked, the crossface slipping rough across her windpipe. She jammed her knuckles between his forearm and her throat and bridged hard, hips snapping to buck his weight. He chased it, but she scraped sideways on the tile, freed her right leg just enough to shove a knee between them, and rolled to her side, dragging a mouthful of air that hurt on the way in.
She surged up to a knee and hurled herself forward—body a single drive for the crash bar, everything in her pitched at that strip of metal. The wired glass filled with Brock's shoulders, his fist hammering; his face was close enough now that she could see the fear blown wide in his eyes. For a moment their gazes caught, her scrambling on tile, him braced against steel with nothing to offer her but his hands on the useless handle. She flung her hand toward the bar—
Skiv caught her beltline and the back of her shirt mid-flight and ripped her sideways, a violent arc that smashed her into the server rack's edge. Steel carved into her ribs; the corner hammered kidney and hip; her teeth clacked hard enough to spark her vision. The impact punched the breath flat out of the room. Cables quivered like struck strings, a panel rattled free, her palms slapped down to keep from crumpling as his chest hit her back and the rack shuddered under both of them.
He ripped her off the rack like a drawer—back, down, twist—and dumped her face-first to the tile. He landed heavy on top, chest welded to her spine. His right arm snaked under her chin, locking clean for a breath—biceps crushing one side of her throat, forearm closing the other. His left hand caught his right biceps, his free palm pressing the back of her skull, hauling her deeper. His boots hooked around her ankles, heels dragging her legs straight while his hips pressed hers flat to the floor.
Harper's pulse thundered against bone; her vision flickered. His jaw tucked against her temple, stubble scraping her skin, breath pouring hot into her ear, close enough to feel every word.
"Five-count, Harp," he murmured, soft enough it almost sounded kind. "That's all it takes. One… two… quiet." His palm stayed locked at the back of her head, steady the way it had been on Den runs when he shoved her behind cover, only now it pushed her deeper into the choke. "Don't fight it. Just a little sleep. In a blink you'll wake and we'll be gone."
His cheek pressed to hers, voice rasping through grit and memory. "You remember. How we steadied each other. Same thing now. Trust me, Harp. I'll walk you out."
She went for teeth. She turned her head and bit down hard, cheek and jaw between her molars. Skin split; copper burst across her tongue. He snarled in her ear and jerked, reflex cinching his grip. The choke shifted from clean technique to something rougher, his arm sawing deeper across her throat.
Her breath scraped ragged against his biceps, barely sound. Both hands clawed for his top wrist—peel, pry, nails digging—fighting for space. She wrenched her jaw sideways into the crook of his elbow and stole the smallest sliver of air. Black crowded her vision, her ears roaring with cotton and pressure as he buried the hold, chin grinding into her temple.
She flung her near leg long and kicked his boot off her ankle, then rolled toward the rack, dragging his choking arm with her. The crook of his elbow slammed into the steel upright, pressure shifting sudden and ugly, and for a moment she dragged in a mouthful of air that felt borrowed.
He felt the wedge and ripped his arm clear, hauling her off the rack's leg. She bridged hard and twisted into him, shaking his remaining hook loose with the turn. They rolled—half a tumble—her shoulder slid past his chest and she hit flat on her back.
He followed like a blanket, smearing close, knees biting into her hips. One hand slapped the tile beside her head for balance while the other fisted in her hair at the crown and dragged her head off the floor. Blood from the ragged bite in his cheek dripped hot onto her jaw, his own wound feeding back into her teeth-bared snarl.
His posting arm dropped, forearm sliding across her throat, bone grinding into the notch while the hand in her hair hauled her neck up into it. No clean choke—just crush. His biceps bullied one side of her neck, the back of her skull jammed hard into the tile. "Stop fighting me, Harper," he growled.
Sound turned to grit. Her vision hopped and smeared.
Through the glass Brock saw Harper flat on the tile, Skiv's arm crushing her throat. Her heels scraped, teeth bared, his blood streaking her jaw. She jerked once, twice, weaker each time. Brock slammed the door so hard the frame shook. "Nolan! She's going under—get it open!"
Nolan didn't look up. Knife clamped in his teeth, both hands buried in the panel, he stripped wire with a thumbnail. Sparks spit, LED blinked, coil hummed like a hornet nest. He twisted a bridge, waiting for the click—
Nothing. The hum climbed, mocking.
"Fuck!" He ripped the knife free, scraping insulation so fast it bit his hand, blood streaking the steel. "Secondary circuit. They doubled it."
Brock hammered the glass, rage shuddering his chest. "Then kill the feed! Now!"
Nolan's jaw clenched, eyes locked on the tangle, knife poised. "Working it—seconds."
"She doesn't have seconds!" Brock roared, fist pounding until his own split.
Harper's nails scraped at Skiv's wrist, useless against the grind of bone into her throat. His grip in her hair tightened, dragging her head forward until her jaw jolted and her neck screamed. The hold wasn't clean anymore—just pressure and pain, crush wherever he could get it.
She tore at her belt with her free hand, fingers scrabbling blind until they hooked the hilt. For a breath she only held it, knuckles whitening around the handle. This was Skiv. The one who'd dragged her over fences, shoved her into cover, laughed in her ear in the Den. She'd spent weeks sure he was dead like the rest. The thought of putting steel in him made her stomach lurch. His arm kept grinding down. Dark crept in at the edges of her sight, turning everything narrow.
The knife slid free, flat along her forearm, edge hugging bone, her breath rattling through her teeth as the world pinholed.
Brock saw the flash of steel at her belt and his stomach flipped. "Now, Harper—do it—" He slammed his palm against the glass, his voice raw.
Nolan hissed through his teeth, twisting bare copper. A relay clicked, the coil's hum climbed. "Come on, come on—" Sparks spat, sweat rolling down his cheek.
She dragged the blade in tight against her arm and turned her head as far as his grip allowed, catching Skiv's face in the corner of her vision. His cheek was streaked with her blood and his, eyes wide and wild, and under the rage there was something that looked like fear. For half a breath she hesitated, throat crushed against his forearm, the word don't curling useless behind her teeth. He didn't ease. The pressure only climbed.
She drove the knife in, small and ugly, a short shove of wrist and shoulder. Steel slid under his ribs through cloth; heat spilled over her knuckles, slick and sudden.
His jaw clamped, teeth grinding. A sound tore loose—raw, animal. His frame jolted, the arm across her throat wrenching crueler on reflex, crushing until her vision shrank coin-small and the world tunneled.
Brock's fist hammered the frame. "Nolan! Now!"
"Don't fucking rush me!" Nolan yelled, knife scraping insulation. Another click, another hum, the lock still holding.
Harper drove the blade again—ragged, off-angle, tearing more than cutting but still buried in him. Skiv's forehead cracked into hers, skull to skull, and white burst through her vision. The ceiling grid fractured into pieces she couldn't hold. Blood slicked her teeth when she gasped against his arm, copper running down her chin.
A UPS beeped flat in the racks, one hollow note. Brock's stomach dropped; for a moment he thought it was her—the monitor sound of a body letting go. He pressed his forehead to the wired glass, knuckles splitting on the jamb. "Breathe, Harper. Breathe!" His voice scraped raw, an order dressed up as a plea.
Harper didn't hear him. Her hand hitched again, wrist flicking under bone, the knife finding another seam on muscle memory alone.
Skiv jerked, breath ripping out of him like fabric tearing. The pressure on her throat spasmed, faltered, then cinched again—weaker, but still enough to crush. Blood spilled over her wrist; his weight sagged heavy, no direction left. His fingers stayed tangled in her hair, holding her there even as his body failed him. His eyes stared wide, unfocused, jaw working like he meant words that wouldn't come. The choke stayed only by reflex, bone holding the last order his body remembered.
Harper's vision funneled to black, her knuckles slick, her own body slackening even as the blade worried deeper by inches.
The coil finally choked, the hum stuttering once before dying. A relay thunked heavy in the frame, final as a gavel.
Nolan tore his hands back, sparks snapping. "Go!" he called, twisting clear—
Brock didn't so much hear it as feel it. He ripped the pull with everything he had, the door jerking wide, hinge screaming. He threw himself through, shoulder clipping steel on the way in, but he didn't stop.
Then he was on them—his fist seizing Skiv's collar and yanking. The body came back in one hard wrench, forearm tearing off Harper's throat and dragging his hand out of her hair in the same motion, strands ripping from her scalp. Dead weight skidded across the tile, scuffing loud, blood spreading fast into the grout lines. Harper's fingers twitched after him, catching nothing but air where his shirt had been before her arm went slack.
Brock dropped to his knees at her. "Harper. Hey." The voice he found was shredded and soft. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, sliding past him like she couldn't hold the sight.
He slid one hand under her skull, cradling the back of her head, and used his thumb to tip her chin up just enough to clear the line of her throat without cranking her neck. His other hand braced high on her chest to steady her as he leaned in. He let it go long enough to hook his thumb past her lip, sweeping her mouth open—copper and spit, nothing to clear—then brought it back to keep her shoulders from slumping as he held her airway open. "With me," he rasped. "Breathe."
Her chest hitched once, shallow as a twitch. A jagged gulp followed, then another, thinner. The third caught and rattled, her muscles going slack, her head and shoulders dropping heavier into his hands until he said, "Again," and she dragged it up raw
He shifted, propping her against the rack and his thigh so the angle of her neck stayed open. Bruising was already rising, dark where bone had driven deep. He didn't press it. His fingers slid from her collarbone to her carotid, searching until he felt the thud stammer back under skin. Relief cracked through his chest. "Good. Stay with me. In… hold… out."
Boots scraped tile behind him. Nolan slipped through the door, knife still in one hand, eyes cutting first to Skiv sprawled in the blood. He dropped to a knee, pressed two fingers to the side of Skiv's neck, leaned in a moment. Nothing. With the same hand he slid under the hem of Skiv's jacket, fingers finding a wallet in the inside pocket. He palmed it and tucked it away one-handed before he looked up and gave Brock a short nod. "He's gone."
His gaze flicked to Harper—slumped against Brock's thigh, jaw held open by his hand, breath scraping in shallow, uneven pulls. Nolan's jaw tightened once, then he met Brock's eyes. "Keep her breathing." Quiet, flat. Trust handed off in three words.
He pushed to his feet, wiped his hand on his pants, and turned for the server stack. By the time he reached it he already had his kit out, cable and drive in his fingers. He jacked into the tower's USB port and set on the data like the fight hadn't happened.
Harper's pulse thrashed under Brock's fingers, wild, dragging her back to the surface. She blinked, eyes clearing in fits, darting like she was still trapped in the choke. Then her hands pressed to the tile, shaky but insistent, and she tried to shove herself upright.
"Easy." Brock slid his hand from her neck to her shoulder and caught her before she could tear loose, palm steady but firm. She twisted anyway, body still in fight-or-flight, every nerve screaming to move.
"Harper. Stop." His voice came low, right at her ear, shredded but steady. "You're out. He's done."
Her eyes flicked to him, unfocused but trying. The words dragged through the haze; her muscles loosened, the fight bleeding out of her. She slumped back against his thigh, jaw trembling, chest hauling in rough air.
She tried again, smaller—hands braced on his forearm, a stubborn push. He set his palm flat to her collarbone and held. "No." Not harsh; immovable. "Stay with me. Eyes here." His other hand cupped the base of her skull so her head didn't loll. Her breath stuttered, then fell in step with his count again.
The rack's UPS gave a flat beep. She flinched like the sound had teeth; Brock felt it run through her into his arm. "Ignore it," he said—to her, to himself. "Not you. In. Hold—out." She coughed once, tried to swallow; the scrape told him enough.
Her pupils were still blown wide but starting to track. Her breath caught on the hold; he counted her through until one exhale didn't splinter, then the next. A tremor built from a fine shimmer to a full shake that rattled her against him. He set his hand heavy on her shoulder and let her push against something that wouldn't move until it eased.
"I need to—" she rasped, her gaze dragging past his shoulder toward Skiv on the floor, lying in the blood, too still to be anything but gone. Her hand slipped off Brock's forearm, trying to turn, to pull herself that way.
"No." Two fingers under her jaw brought her back, his forehead almost touching hers. "You need to breathe." He made the word need a place to stand, not a command.
Nolan came over only once the stack was dead—fans quiet, LEDs dark, drive already in his pocket. He dropped to a knee opposite Brock, not crowding. Two fingers found the pulse behind the bruise at Harper's throat, light as a tap.
"Firefly," he said, low. "Look at me, kid."
She dragged her gaze to him. He held it for two slow breaths, counting them against his own. "There you are." His palm settled on her shoulder, warm and steady. She flinched at the contact, a reflex jolt under his hand, and he eased the pressure without letting go.
He looked at Brock. "You've got her?"
"I've got her."
Nolan gave a short nod. "Good." His gaze swept the room once, quick and precise. "Payload's on me. Camera's blind. Local recorders are dark." Then back to Harper, voice softer than he ever used in front of the crew. "Job's done. You're clear. He'll carry you out."
His hand stayed on her shoulder. He felt the faint start of a push there, the tremor still running through her, and eased her back with a steady pressure. "Not yet," he murmured. "Let it settle a minute."
They let the minute stand. Brock kept her anchored—jaw tipped, shoulder steady, his chest the metronome. "With me—slow in, slow out." The tremor ran through and began to ebb; her eyes started to track instead of float. Nolan watched the door and the edges, counting quiet time by breaths instead of seconds. The rack's fan coughed and settled. No one hurried it.
When the next exhale didn't crack and the one after held, Brock said, "Now," not a question—timed to her breath. He slid an arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders, forearm cradling the base of her skull so the neck stayed neutral. She tried to help and couldn't; that was fine. "Easy." He lifted. She folded into his chest on instinct, the way a drowning body goes quiet when the shore is finally real, and a small, stubborn breath found space at his collarbone.
Nolan took the door, lights as they were, nothing touched that hadn't needed touching. As Brock stepped past the body, Nolan's gaze caught on the knife lying in the spread of blood. He bent, nudged it clear of Skiv's hand with his boot, then scooped it and slid it away into his own waistband, out of Harper's eyeline before he followed them out. Brock didn't look at Skiv. He didn't let her.
He carried the air she'd just remembered how to take and all of her weight like it didn't cost him a thing, and the three of them left the room where the past had stood up and fought.