The bunker felt smaller than usual, the silent tension of men preparing for a war they weren't sure they could win. I walked toward the back office, the heavy soles of my riding boots echoing against the concrete. I found Cane hunched over the workbench, the dim light of a single bulb casting long shadows across his scarred back.
He didn't hear me enter. He was too focused on the list of names we had stolen from the facility. His finger was tracing the lines of text, moving through the names over and over. His shoulders were bunched, his entire frame, a desperate, quiet intensity.
“You’re still looking for someone,” I said softly.
Cane flinched, his hand instinctively snapping the folder shut.
“Who is it, Cane?” I asked, stepping closer.
I reached out, resting my hand on the cold met
