When I open the office door, the compound breathes again — low voices, distant movement, the steady pulse of Devil's Cut settling back into itself. She steps out beside me with a little more confidence.
Not much. But enough to notice.
We walk a few minutes before I speak.
"Are you hungry?"
The question catches her off guard.
She looks at me, clearly expecting something else — another command, another test.
"I... yeah," she says after a second. "I think so."
I nod once and turn left instead of right. Toward the inner kitchens.
The kitchen at Devil's Cut isn't what outsiders expect.
No stainless steel, no mess hall. It's warm. Wood tables scarred with use. Old appliances that have survived longer than most men who've passed through here. A few members glance up when we enter, then
