FAYE
Behind us, broken glass crunched as Helen stood and began assessing the room.
She moved with extra care, stepping over bodies, checking pulses that no longer existed.
“They were prepared,” she said after a moment. “No markings.”
“So… nothing that tells us who they are,” I said.
“No,” she agreed. “And that worries me more than if there were.”
She crouched again, this time to wipe the blood from her hands. I noticed then that she had a shallow cut along her forearm.
“You’re bleeding,” I pointed out.
She glanced down dismissively. “I’ve had worse.”
She was stronger than I imagined. “That’s not comforting. Let me help,” I muttered.
She chuckled softly and allowed me to clean it anyway. As I dabbed at the wound, my phone suddenly vibrated.
The sound felt too loud in the quiet r
