“Nazeera,” Warner says, sounding unusually impressed. “That’s . . . great.”

“Better than great,” I add. “That’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” she says. “But I should get going. The sooner I start flying, the sooner I can get started, which hopefully means that by the time you reach base, I’ll have made something happen.”

“But what if you get caught?” I ask. “What if you can’t do it? How will we find you?”

“You won’t.”

“But— Nazeera—”

“We’re at war, Kishimoto,” she says, a slight smile in her voice. “We don’t have time to be sentimental.”

“That’s not funny. I hate that joke. I hate it so much.”

“Nazeera is going to be fine,” Warner says. “You obviously don’t know her well if you think she’s easily captured.”

“She literally just woke up! After being shot! In the chest! She nearly died!”

“That was a fluke,” Warner and Nazeera say at the same time.

“But—”

“Hey,” Nazeera says, her voice suddenly close. “I have a feeling I’m about four months away from falling madly in love with you, so please don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

I’m about to respond when I feel a sudden rush of air. I hear her launching up, into the sky, and even though I know I won’t see her, I crane my neck as if to watch her go.

And just like that—

She’s gone.

My heart is pounding in my chest, blood rushing to my head. I feel confused: terrified, excited, hopeful, horrified. All the best and worst things always seem to happen to me at the same time.

It’s not fair.

“Fucking hell,” I say out loud.

“Come on,” Warner says. “Let’s move out.”

ELLA

JULIETTE

Max is staring at me like I’m an alien.

He hasn’t moved since Anderson left; he just stands there, stiff and strange, rooted to the floor. I remember the look he gave me the first time we met—the unguarded hostility in his eyes—and I blink at him from my bed, wondering why he hates me so much.

After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, I clear my throat. It’s obvious that Anderson respects Max—likes him, even—so I decide I should address him with a similar level of respect.

“Sir,” I say. “I’d really like to get dressed.”

Max startles at the sound of my voice. His body language is entirely different now that Anderson isn’t here, and I’m still struggling to figure him out. He seems skittish. I wonder if I should feel threatened by him. His affection for Anderson is no indication that he might treat me as anything but a nameless soldier.

A subordinate.

Max sighs. It’s a loud, rough sound that seems to shake him from his stupor. He shoots me a last look before he disappears into the adjoining room, from where I hear indiscernible, shuffling sounds. When he reappears, his arms are empty.

He stares blankly at me, looking more rattled than he did a moment ago. He shoves a hand through his hair. It sticks up in places.

“Anderson doesn’t have anything that would fit you,” he says.

“No, sir,” I say carefully. Still confused. “I was hoping I might be given a replacement uniform.”

Max turns away, stares at nothing. “A replacement uniform,” he says to himself. “Right.” But when he takes in a long, shuddering breath, it becomes clear to me that he’s trying to stay calm.

Trying to stay calm.

I realize, suddenly, that Max might be afraid of me. Maybe he saw what I did to Darius. Maybe he’s the doctor who patched him up.

Still—

I don’t see what reason he’d have to think I’d hurt him. After all, my orders come from Anderson, and as far as I’m aware, Max is an ally. I watch him closely as he lifts his wrist to his mouth, quietly requesting that someone deliver a fresh set of clothes for me.

And then he backs away from me until he’s flush with the wall. There’s a single, sharp thud as the heels of his boots hit the baseboards, and then, silence.

Silence.

It erupts, settling completely into the room, the quiet reaching even the farthest corners. I feel physically trapped by it. The lack of sound feels oppressive.

Paralyzing.

I pass the time by counting the bruises on my body. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time looking at myself in the last few days; I hadn’t realized how many wounds I had. There seem to be several fresh cuts on my arms and legs, and I feel a vague stinging along my lower abdomen. I pull back the collar of the hospital gown, peering through the overly large neck hole at my naked body underneath.

Pale. Bruised.

There’s a small, fresh scar running vertically down the side of my torso, and I don’t know what I did to acquire it. In fact, my body seems to have amassed an entire constellation of fresh incisions and faded bruises. For some reason, I can’t remember where they came from.

I glance up, suddenly, when I feel the heat of Max’s gaze.

He’s staring at me as I study myself, and the sharp look in his eyes makes me wary. I sit up. Sit back.

I don’t feel comfortable asking him any of the questions piling in my mouth.

So I look at my hands.

I’ve already removed the rest of my bandages; my left hand is mostly healed. There’s no visible scar where my finger was detached, but my skin is mottled up to my forearm, mostly purple and dark blue, a few spots of yellow. I curl my fingers into a fist, let it go. It hurts only a little. The pain is fading by the hour.

The next words leave my lips before I can stop them:

“Thank you, sir, for fixing my hand.”

Max stares at me, uncertain, when his wrist lights up. He glances down at the message, and then at the door, and as he darts to the entrance, he tosses strange, wild looks at me over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid to turn his back on me.

Max grows more bizarre by the moment.

When the door opens, the room is flooded with sound. Flashing lights pulse through the slice of open doorway, shouts and footsteps thundering down the hall. I hear metal crashing into metal, the distant blare of an alarm.

My heart picks up.

I’m on my feet before I can even stop myself, my sharpened senses oblivious to the fact that my hospital gown does little to cover my body. All I know is a sudden, urgent need to join the commotion, to do what I can to assist, and to find my commander and protect him. It’s what I was built to do.

I can’t just stand here.

But then I remember that my commander gave me explicit orders to remain here, and the fight leaves my body.

Max shuts the door, silencing the chaos with that single motion. I open my mouth to say something, but the look in his eyes warns me not to speak. He places a stack of clothes on the bed—refusing to even come near me—and steps out of the room.

I change into the clothes quickly, shedding the loose gown for the starched, stiff fabric of a freshly washed military uniform. Max brought me no undergarments, but I don’t bother pointing this out; I’m just relieved to have something to wear. I’m still buttoning the front placket, my fingers working as quickly as possible, when my gaze falls once more to the bureau directly opposite the bed. There’s a single drawer left slightly open, as if it was closed in a hurry.