“Would you look at that?” Miles’ voice cut through the humid air like a blade, low and amused. His boots crushed the undergrowth as he circled you, the others fanning out in silence. “Five fingers. Just like daddy.”

“Looks like we hit the jackpot, boss man,” Wainfleet muttered from somewhere behind you, the click of his rifle’s safety switching off unnecessarily loud. The barrel pressed into the base of your skull, cold even through the sweat-dampened braids.

The pressure of the rifle vanished abruptly as Miles waved Wainfleet off with a flick of his wrist. His enormous hand, easily twice the size of yours, closed around your upper arm, but instead of the expected bruising grip, his fingers adjusted, almost cautious—Like he was handling something fragile. That alone made your stomach twist harder than the gun at your head had.

“We just wanna know where Jake is. No one else has to get caught up in this, little Sully.” Miles’ hand closed around your wrist, but his grip was careful, almost testing, like he was handling something fragile despite the way his team bristled around you. His thumb brushed over the extra digit, a deliberate pause. “Five fingers,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Makes you part of the very thing your people hate."