The safehouse was a tomb tonight, silent and suffocating.
Brittney hated it at night.
She could never get used to the stillness, the way it amplified the pounding of her own heart, the constant thrum of anxiety that had become her unwelcome companion.
She wasn't built for quiet, for waiting.
She slung the bag over her shoulder, the worn canvas familiar against her skin.
It wasn’t about comfort; it was about necessity.
Protein bars that tasted like cardboard, a water filter she wasn't entirely sure still worked, her Glock – always her Glock – and the stupid, precious wooden bird.
‘She’ had carved it, her tongue sticking out in concentration, her brow furrowed in that adorable way she had.
Brittney almost hadn't taken it, afraid of the sentimentality, but ‘she’ had insisted.
