The safehouse was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat on the edge of the bed, boots still on, half of your jacket soaked through with blood — yours, someone else’s, didn’t matter now.

Jill walked in without a word.

No announcement. No demand. Just her — soaked, scraped, knuckles raw, and that same look she always wore after a close call. Not shaken, not yet, but somewhere close.

She peeled her gloves off, then the jacket. Dropped them both on the floor.

“You okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes flicked to yours. Tired. Blue. Sharp even now.

“You got clipped.”