Chapter 172
The air was cold.
Winter woke before the artificial lights buzzed to life overhead. He hadn’t slept, not really. Just brief flashes of shallow dreams broken by the distant churn of machines. He lay still on the thin mattress, watching the faint rise and fall of Zara’s chest beside him. The shadows moved slowly across her face, softening the sharp edges of her fatigue.
Winter sat up slowly, careful not to disturb either of them. His body ached with the familiar stiffness of tension. He glanced down at Zara—her dark lashes trembled against her cheek, lost in some dream.
For a moment, he simply watched her, committing every line of her face to memory, every soft breath. Then he bent over and pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger just a second longer than necessary.
She stirred, but didn’t wake.
He slipped from the bed, his movements practiced and noiseless. The floor was cold, as always, the edges of winter never quite gone in this concrete tomb they called a base. Winter crossed to Leo’s cot and crouched down, gently brushing the boy’s curly hair from his face. The child made a sleepy murmur, mouth moving as if still caught mid-sentence in some dream.
But Winter’s hand froze halfway through tucking the blanket.
Boots slapping metal. Muffled shouts. Machinery. Something that didn’t belong to morning routine.
He stiffened. His hand slid instinctively to the holster at his belt—empty. He hadn’t worn it to bed. Still, he stood and moved quickly to the door.
Outside the hallway was dim, bathed in red emergency lights. Just a precaution—power-saving protocol for dawn hours—but the color made everything feel more urgent.
He jogged silently down the corridor, toward the muffled noise, toward the metallic tang of adrenaline that clung to the air.