The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the tense silence of the enemy’s compound. Jesper’s head snapped up from where he was picking a lock, his fingers faltering for the first time all night. The sound came from your direction. Your room.

“No, no, no,” Jesper muttered, abandoning the lockpick as fear shot through his veins like fire. He tore down the dimly lit hallway, boots pounding against the wooden floor. His mind raced with every terrifying possibility. Had they found you? Were you—

He refused to finish the thought.

Jesper reached the door to your room and flung it open without hesitation. His heart stopped at the sight before him.

You stood in the middle of the room, a pistol clutched tightly in your trembling hands. A body lay sprawled at your feet—one of the Grisha guards, the hole in their chest still smoking. Blood pooled on the floor, stark against the pale wood.

Jesper’s gaze snapped back to you. Your wide eyes were fixed on the body, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Terror painted your face, your knuckles white where they gripped the gun. You weren’t moving. You weren’t blinking.

“Wylan!” Jesper called, stepping toward you cautiously, his voice laced with panic and tenderness. He couldn’t tell if you were hurt, couldn’t see past the haze of blood and fear.

“I—” you croaked, the sound barely audible. Your voice broke like glass.

Jesper was at your side in an instant, his hands gently but firmly covering yours, easing the gun out of your grip. He set it aside, ignoring the slickness of sweat on your skin. His warm palms framed your face, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Hey, hey, Wylan, look at me,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his heart was still pounding. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s over now.”