Page 46 of Echo: Line

The thoughts spiral but my hands stay steady. Years of field medicine, of treating wounds in worse conditions than this. The suture needle slides through skin. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound except for that measured breathing.

"You did good out there," I say quietly. Anything to distract from the pain. "The shots you took. Controlled trigger discipline."

"I killed more people today."

"You survived. That's what matters."

"Does it get easier?" She watches me work, eyes too dark. "The killing?"

The question deserves honesty. "No. It gets familiar. That's not the same thing."

Three stitches. Four. The needle pierces skin with resistance that never stops feeling wrong. Taking damage is one thing. Inflicting it, even to heal, carries different weight.

"How many?" she asks. "How many people have you killed?"

The needle pauses. Just for a second. "You really want that answer?"

"Yes."

"Enough." I don't elaborate. Don't need to. "Eight years of active duty. Then the Committee extractions. Now this." Thesuture slides through. "Some I remember. Most I don't. The ones that stick are never the ones you'd expect."

She's quiet. Processing. The profiler in her probably analyzing my tone, my body language, looking for signs of what those numbers cost.

"Does it haunt you?" she asks.

"Some more than others." Another stitch. Five. "The ones who deserved it haunt me less than they should. The ones who were just following orders—those stick around."

"Which ones do you see when you close your eyes?"

Nobody's asked me that before. Not the psych evaluators after Afghanistan. Not the debriefers when I went rogue. Not Kane, even though he probably knows the answer.

"Kabul," I hear myself say. "A kid—couldn't have been more than sixteen—manning a checkpoint. Orders said anyone at that checkpoint was hostile. Rules of engagement cleared me to shoot. So I did."

Six stitches. Seven. The rhythm keeps me grounded when the memory tries to pull me under.

"Found out later the Committee had paid his family to put him there. Knew we'd eliminate anyone in position. Used him as bait to justify an airstrike." The suture pulls tight. "He never fired a shot. Never even raised his weapon. And I put two rounds in his chest because orders said so."

"Alex—"

"Don't." The word comes out harsher than intended. "Don't tell me it wasn't my fault. I pulled the trigger. That's on me. Always will be."

She reaches up with her good hand. Touches my wrist. Not pulling me away from the wound, just making contact. Grounding us both.

"I wasn't going to," she says quietly. "I was going to say I understand why you carry it."

The knot in my chest changes. Not loosening—just changing shape into something I don't have words for.

I finish the last stitch. Twelve total. Clean work considering the circumstances. The bleeding's stopped. Edges aligned. It'll scar, but she'll keep full mobility.

"Done," I say.

But I don't move away. Can't make myself step back when she's this close, this vulnerable, this real.

My hands rest on her shoulders—one on unmarred skin, the other carefully avoiding the fresh stitches. Her skin is warm under my palms. Warmer than it should be in this cold cabin. Heat radiating from exertion and adrenaline crash and the weight of what's building between us.

"Alex." My name sounds different in her voice. Softer. More dangerous.

"I shouldn't have done that," I say quietly. The words taste like ash. "Kissed you."