I push open my cabin door, the wood creaking under the strain as I enter the meager warmth inside.
I lay her on the old leather couch and pull a blanket over her, careful to make as little noise as possible, careful not to touch more than necessary.
Her breath catches when I do, a small hitch that speaks volumes.
Even unconscious, she's bracing for an attack.
I settle into the armchair across from her, elbows resting on my knees, tension stretching my muscles.
I watch her closely; she’s coiled tight, ready to snap. My pulse races, steady but distant—never calm since Echo-13 reshaped my existence.
Yet here I am, risking everything. I should have sent her back into the snow, maintaining the balance of safety Iron Hollow represents.
But staring at her, I find that instinct overriding the instinct for survival.
Why didn't you walk away, Logan?
The question hounds me.
It’s a logical answer that fights against the nagging tug of wanting to help.
I know the stakes of caring, that it often leads to pain.
But that thought can’t hold against the urgency in the air.
She needs help. That’s enough reason to act.
The notion that sometimes, even the most strategically-laid plans are unceremoniously torn apart by instinct lurks in the back of my mind.
As she shifts again, hands curling into fists beneath the blanket, I catch a glimpse of that dormant strength within her.
I push myself up, needing distance, needing to think about what this all means. The cabin walls seem to constrict, reminding me of choices I’ve made, ghosts I haven’t shaken.
In the kitchen, I grab a clean towel, running it under cold water.
Her forehead feels hot; feverish.
How long has she been running? Days? Weeks? Or maybe… months.
The shadows beneath her eyes tell a story of sleepless nights and relentless travel.
As I wring out the cloth, I catch my reflection in the fogged window. I've grown used to the man staring back at me.
Five years since Echo-13. Five years of burying the past. Five years of building and protecting my new home in Iron Hollow, The Forge.
And now this woman, crashing into my life like a human hand grenade.
She mentioned a drive. Said I killed her source. Said I wanted what was on the drive. And saw me as the supposed pursuer hunting for data.
Classic reporter playbook.
My jaw clenches at the thought. Journalists and their righteous crusades fortruth—as if military operations care about their deadlines and column inches.
They circle ex-soldiers like vultures, pecking away at classified details, digging into wounds that should stay buried.
The familiar itch crawls up my spine, the one that sends me walking the other direction when press badges flash.
There's a reason I chose Iron Hollow. A reason I keep to myself.
