CANDICE.
The clock struck eight.
I walked into the briefing room like a corpse that hadn’t realized it was already dead.
My eyes were swollen and red from hours on the floor. Dried blood still stained the corner of my mouth and the sleeve of my shirt no matter how many times I had tried to wipe it away. My hair hung in tangled strands around my face. My clothes were wrinkled and carried the smell of sweat and tears. I hadn’t slept more than an hour. I hadn’t eaten. Every step felt like wading through thick mud.
I looked destroyed.
And I knew it.
Voss noticed immediately.
Her sharp, experienced eyes swept over me the moment I crossed the threshold, cataloging every detail — the blood, the exhaustion, the way my hands trembled at my sides, the hollow, broken look in my eyes. She didn’
