Page 113 of Fractured Loyalties

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I go to the mirror. The one beside the closet. Not to fix anything. Just to see myself as I am.

I look older.

Not tired. Not scared.

Prepared.

And in the middle of all that stillness, my reflection holds a question I haven’t asked out loud:

What if this isn’t about me at all?

What if I’m just leverage?

Just the soft part of Elias, someone finally figured out how to press on?

Because the timing doesn’t feel like a coincidence. The Lyon signal. The perimeter ping. The work Elias didn’t talk about last night. He tried to be quiet about it—but quiet isn’t the same as invisible.

He’s walking into something bigger than Caleb.

And I think whoever’s pulling the strings wants to know how many pieces of him they can rip free before he breaks.

My stomach twists. Not in fear.

In fury.

I get up. Move to the closet.

Pull down my bag. Not the emergency one. Not the old one.

The one I packed for here. With clothes that say I expected to stay.

I reach for the knife I tucked into the side pouch. I unwrap it, check the blade. It’s still sharp. Still quiet.

And I place it on the nightstand beside the bed.

Not because I need it right now.

But because if they’re watching, I want them to know something.

I’m not the soft part.

And if they touch him, they’ll learn that the hard way.

The sun is higher now. The house no longer glows—it glares. Light slices through the window slats like knives, and everything feels too sharp, too exposed.

I close the curtains.

The darkness is immediate. Heavy. But welcome.

It gives me something to push against.

I go back to the kitchen and make a second cup of tea, but I don’t drink it. I just hold it, fingers curled around the warmth, letting the steam fog the edge of my vision.

Then I check the comm panel. Quiet.

Too quiet.

I set the tea down just as my phone chirps softly.

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