When the laughter dies down, I eye the remaining sandwich halves speculatively. "You know what would make this better?"
"What's that?"
"A little competition." I lean forward, dropping my voice conspiratorially. "Whoever finishes last has to do whatever the winner wants."
Her eyes light up with that dangerous spark I'm learning to both love and fear. "Deal."
"Three... two... one..."
We attack the sandwiches like they're mission objectives.
I force myself to take huge bites, barely chewing before swallowing. Sloane's technique is different—smaller bites but rapid-fire, like she's trying to minimize actual contact with her taste buds.
She gags once but recovers admirably. I hit a particularly thick chunk of pickle and actually whimper, which makes her snort-laugh through her mouthful.
The race comes down to literally milliseconds. But in the end, Sloane swallows her last bite a fraction of a second before I do.
"Victory!" she declares, throwing her arms up.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to shudder. "I admit defeat." I drop into an exaggerated bow. "What can I do for you, Your Highness?"
She taps her chin thoughtfully, clearly savoring her moment of triumph. Then her expression shifts, becoming more serious.
"Answer a question," she says quietly. "What's in the wooden box?"
The playful atmosphere evaporates. I straighten slowly, studying her face. "How did you know about that?"
"Remember that first night?" She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I searched for my phone everywhere. Didn't find it because you took it. But I saw a wooden chest under the bed. I didn't touch it or anything, I just... noticed."
My jaw tightens reflexively. That box holds pieces of my past I've never shown anyone—not even my team. Things I couldn't bring myself to throw away but couldn't bear to look at either.
"It's okay," she says quickly. "You don't have to?—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. I soften my tone. "No, it's... give me a minute."
I walk to the bedroom on legs that feel heavier with each step. The box sits exactly where it always has, gathering dust under the bed frame. My hands shake slightly as I pull it out.
I haul it out.
The wooden chest weighs heavy in my grip as I carry it to the kitchen, each step bringing back echoes I'd rather forget.
The box lands on the table with a dull thud. My key finds the lock—muscle memory taking over where courage fails.
Even now, my hand trembles against the lid.
Sloane waits patiently, her presence steady and undemanding. That's what gets me—how she knows when to push and when to just... be there.
"These aren't just mementos," I say finally, lifting the lid. "They're ghosts."
Inside, a collection of items lies nestled in worn velvet—each one carrying the weight of lives I couldn't save, choices I can't undo.
I lift out the first photograph. It's creased at the corners, edges soft from handling. Sixteen men stand before a desert backdrop, arms around shoulders, faces bright with the kind of laughter that only comes before the world breaks you.
"Echo-13," I explain, voice rougher than I'd like. "Before Blackout. Before half of them gone."
Sloane leans closer, studying the faces. Her finger hovers over one figure— younger, lighter, still wearing hope like armor.
"That's you."
