Page 87 of Brass

Hours pass. Eventually, I insist we break for food and rest—tactical decisions require clear heads, and we’ve been running on fumes for too long.

The cabin’s main level feels almost cozy after the bunker’s concrete functionality. I build a small fire in the fireplace while Celeste puts together a meal from our supplies.

We eat in comfortable silence, just the crackling fire and occasional owl call breaking the stillness. After days of constant movement, constant danger, constant vigilance, this brief respite feels almost surreal.

“What happens next?” Celeste asks finally. “After Ghost gets here with these Guardian specialists.”

“We analyze everything on that drive. Find Phoenix’s weak spots. Figure out how to neutralize the immediate threat while building a strategy to expose the whole operation.”

“And Torque?”

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. Torque—captured, being interrogated, maybe already dead. Another friend lost to this faceless enemy.

“We find him if we can.” My voice sounds harsher than intended. “We avenge him if we can’t.”

She studies me across the small space between us, seeing more than I’m comfortable with. “You’ve lost people before.”

Not a question. A statement. And accurate.

“Goes with the territory.” I stare into the flames, memories of fallen teammates surfacing despite my best efforts to keep them buried. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

Her hand finds mine, small and warm and surprisingly strong. The simple contact anchors me, pulls me back from darker thoughts.

“We’ll find a way,” she says quietly. “To stop Phoenix. To save Torque if we can. To make all of this matter.”

I look at our joined hands, then up to meet her eyes. This woman, who crashed into my life less than a week ago, has somehow become essential. Not just a mission. Not just a responsibility. Something I still can’t name but can no longer deny.

“We will,” I agree, squeezing her hand. “But first, you need sleep. It’s been too many hours since you properly closed your eyes.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“I’ll take first watch.” At her skeptical look, I add, “Old habits. I’ll wake you in four hours.”

She knows me well enough to recognize when arguing is pointless. Instead, she rises, still holding my hand, and tugs gently.

“Then show me this famous bed.”

I lead her to the built-in bed in the corner. It’s a real bed, not a cot—one of the few comforts Ghost allowed himself. Queen-sized with a proper mattress, though the frame is built directly into the cabin’s structure for security.

“Ghost Protocol includes rotating sleep schedules,” I tell her, still clinging to the professional distance that’s getting harder to maintain around her. “Four hours on, four off. Ensures someone’s always alert.”

“Very efficient.” She hasn’t let go of my hand. “And very lonely.”

The observation cuts deeper than I care to admit. Efficiency has been my guiding principle for so long—the one that has shaped my professional life and bled into my personal one. Efficiency doesn’t require a connection. Doesn’t invite vulnerability.

Doesn’t risk loss.

“It’s necessary,” I say, voice rougher than intended.

“Is it?” She steps closer, erasing the small space between us. “Right now? Here?”

My free hand rises of its own accord, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Celeste…”

“We could die tomorrow,” she says. “Phoenix could find us. Those men could break down the door. A million things could go wrong.”

“That’s why we maintain protocols. Discipline. Structure.”

“Or,” she counters, “that’s why we shouldn’t waste the time we have.”