He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but doesn't push. Instead, he passes me two small white pills. "Take these. They'll help with the edge."
I dry-swallow them without asking what they are. Pain meds, anti-inflammatories—it doesn't matter. What matters is getting back on my feet. I can't afford weakness. Not now.
"How bad is it going to get?" I ask, breaking the silence.
Elias's mouth tightens into a thin line.
"The town?" Knox says without turning. "Depends how deep Granger wants to cut."
People have started gathering. Small clusters dotting the square, faces tight with worry, voices hushed but carrying on the cold morning air. Some hold phones, recording, documenting. Others clutch each other, seeking comfort in proximity.
The Forge perimeter wasn't fast enough.
Whispers are already spreading.
When Logan reaches down to help me stand, those whispers turn into stares.
I feel them like physical touches—wary, suspicious, afraid. They don't know who I am, just that I was there when the bullet hit. That I bled on their clean, quiet streets.
That maybe I'm the reason their town isn't safe anymore.
Dana stands outside her bookshop, speaking in calm tones to concerned locals. Her silver-streaked hair catches the morning light, lending her an air of authority that seems to soothe the people around her.
But even Dana can't stop the rumor mill once it starts turning.
"Was it a gang hit?" a man in a flannel jacket asks, voice carrying across the square.
"Is The Forge under attack?" A woman clutching a coffee cup, knuckles white around the cardboard.
"Who was the woman?" This from an older man with weathered skin and narrowed eyes.
"Did she bring this here?" The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and pointed.
I feel them all—the stares, the suspicion, the fear curdling into something darker. My heartbeat quickens. This is how it starts. How communities turn on outsiders. How innocent people become targets.
Logan steps forward, mouth opening to address the crowd, but before he can speak, Leo Tran jogs up with a toolkit slung over his shoulder. His dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, his expression tense but focused.
"Saw the tape. Heard the shot," he says, voice low, eyes darting between us. "You want me to jam local radio lines?"
"We're not at blackout yet," Asa replies, equally quiet. "But keep the civvie channels warm."
Leo nods, understanding the unspoken message. Be ready.
Across the street, I spot a woman—polished, perfect, poised in crisp jeans and a cream sweater that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She stands with arms crossed, phone pressed to her ear, lips moving in urgent whispers.
I don't need to hear her to know what she's saying. I can read it in the narrow set of her eyes, the curl of her lip as she glances our way.
"Told you they were dangerous."
The crowd swells, voices rising in a discordant chorus of fear and questions. Logan stands frozen in the center of the street, eyes scanning rooftops, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. Knox and Ryker hover near the edge of the gathering, weapons down but visible—a silent warning.
People are scared.
And scared people need a villain.
I feel the shift like static electricity in my chest—a charge building, seeking the path of least resistance. If I don't say something now, the town will choose the wrong villain.
Me.
