Page 93 of Psycho Pack

The gentle sway of the train does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my gut. I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly, as I scan the opulent compartment for the hundredth time. My fingers twitch, itching to grab a weapon that isn't there. We're surrounded by luxury, but all I see are potential threats.

Ivy's scent drifts to me, honeysuckle tinged with anxiety. The urge to comfort her, to wrap her in my arms and shield her from whatever dangers await us, is almost overwhelming.

Every instinct is screaming that we're walking into a trap.

Surhiira.

The name echoes in my mind like a death knell. Everything I know about the isolationist nation clashes violently with our current situation. They don't welcome outsiders. They certainly don't invite them aboard pristine white trains with smiling attendants and endless platters of food.

It doesn't make sense.

None of this makes sense.

My eyes drift to Plague, who sits rigidly by the window, his gaze fixed on the snowy landscape rushing past. His words about"connections" replay in my head, each repetition only deepening my unease. What kind of connections could possibly grant us safe passage into a nation known for greeting trespassers with lethal force?

I'm trying to rationalize it.

Trying to come up with some kind of explanation.

Maybe Plague saved someone important during his time as a civilian doctor. Someone with enough influence to pull strings even in Surhiira. Maybe even a Surhiiran. It's a comforting thought, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.

If it were that simple, why the secrecy?

Why the evasion?

He would've told us if that were the case.

Wouldn't he?

I'm pretty damn sure he would at least want to tell Ivy. They've built a bond, however shaky the foundation. He wouldn't want her to be afraid. She doesn't seem any more nervous than she usually is around people she doesn't know—hell, even people shedoesknow—but I can tell from the way she jumps and glances around at every new sound that she's on edge.

Maybe he wouldn't tell me, but he would tell her.

If it's that simple, at least.

So he's hiding something.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustration building as I try to recall anything substantial about Plague's background. But the harder I grasp for details, the more they slip away like smoke.

How is it possible that after all these years fighting side by side, bleeding together, I know next to nothing about the man?

My eyes drift to him again. He's still staring out the window, jaw clenched, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on his thigh.

A nervous tic. Interesting.

Usually, he's the picture of cold precision.

Detached.

But not now.

Now, he looks... haunted.

I think back to when Plague first joined our unit, years ago. The details are frustratingly hazy. I remember being impressed by his surgical skill, his ability to patch us up after the bloodiest missions.

But where did he come from?

What was his life before the Ghosts?

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