The silence in the safehouse was a physical thing, colder than the rain still dripping from Capol’s coat, sharper than any knife. It was the sound of a code shattering, a brotherhood holding its breath. Julian’s eyes were wide, fixed on the smear of blood on the floor—the stain of a reckless gamble. Vince’s jaw was a granite knot, his gaze a raw, furious question. Jerry, exhausted and pale, still leaned heavily on Lucy, his presence a living testament to Capol’s broken trust and Pat's betrayal.
Capol ignored them all. He knelt beside Pat on the cot, his hands still shaking from the adrenaline and the terrible relief that she was alive. He wasn’t a doctor, but his hands moved with an instinct born of years in the field, tearing away the sleeve of her shirt to get a better look at the wound
