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“Efficiency is about choosing the right investments.” I shoulder my gear bag. “Some yield better returns than others.”

“And what kind of return am I, Ash?” The question carries weight, like he’s asking something else entirely.

“The kind that requires a cost-benefit analysis.” I meet his eyes directly. “Still running the numbers.”

His laugh is soft, dangerous. “Take your time. But remember—some opportunities have expiration dates.”

I nearly snort at that but somehow swallow the noise.

“Things are changing. You’re changing.” The quiet certainty in his voice freezes my blood, turning my veins to glass.

His gaze drops to my concealed arm—the exact spot where the thorns spread beneath my sleeve like something alive and hungry.

As we hike out of the forest, the strange words Litvak spoke repeat in my mind. Each repetition louder than the last until they’re screaming inside my skull. The thorn patterns on my arm pulse beneath my sleeve in time with the chant, like the rhythm feeds them, helps them grow.

The faces in trees no longer hide. They watch openly now, bark shifting to form expressions that shouldn’t exist. The moon follows me despite cloud cover, its spotlight finding me no matter how I try to blend with shadows.

For a moment, I think I see her again—the woman with forest-green eyes—standing among shadows. She raises a hand in what might be a greeting.

Or warning.

I stumble, nearly falling. Davis catches my elbow before I hit dirt. I flinch away from his touch as if scorched, nausea rolling through me in waves.

The forest knows me. Trees lean toward my footsteps, and the ground feels more solid than anywhere I’ve ever walked. Part of me feels an answering pull toward the darkness between trees.

And somewhere deep beneath military conditioning and forced humanity, something wild and ancient unfurls—like a heartbeat thumping for the first time after decades of silence.

2

ASH

Beneath my sleevemy arm pulses—a living thing with its own heartbeat. Each furtive glance reveals veins gone wrong.

Not blue. Not red.

Brown.

Spreading like infection.

I tug my sleeve down for the hundredth time.

Our vehicle speeds through darkness, my arm screaming with alien heat beneath my sleeve. Each throb sends crystalline shards through my chest until breathing becomes deliberate war.

Davis leans forward from the front seat and hands me a steaming travel mug. “Figured you could use a recharge.”

I take it without thinking. Sip. Perfectly sweet.

“You remembered how I take it?”

“Two sugars, splash of cream, dash of vanilla.” He doesn’t turn around, but I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hardly rocket science when you pay attention.”

Lie. Davis doesn’t guess. He observes. Catalogues. Remembers everything.

“Paying attention is one thing. Memorizing my coffee preferences is another category entirely.”

“I notice details about people I care about.” The words carry weight beyond their surface meaning.

The team’s chatter dissolves into white noise as I press my forehead against the window, glass fogging instantly where my skin touches. My reflection in the glass looks wrong—features too sharp, eyes too bright. A stranger wearing my face like an ill-fitting mask.