His knuckles were bleeding.

Cyrus didn't remember punching the wall. Didn't remember crossing the garage from the extraction vehicle to this shadowy corner between two concrete pillars. But here he was—blood dripping down his fingers, knuckles split raw, and that fucking ringing in his ears that wouldn't stop.

Two KIA.

His squad.

His.

The fluorescent light above him buzzed like a trapped insect. He watched the blood run down his hand, past the scarred knuckle from Kandahar, past the fresh split from tonight, and the thought about how easy it would be to keep punching until there was nothing left but bone.

"Squad, sound off." His voice came out flat. Dead. The way it always did when the adrenaline crashed and left nothing but ash behind.

"Harper here." Crackling through the comms. "Covering the south stairwell. Clear for now."

"Rivera. North entrance. We've got maybe ten before the figure our which garage we're in."

Silence.

Cyrus waited for the third voice.

"...Sanchez?" he said, though he'd already guessed.

More silence.

Harper's voice—quieter this time—came through, "Gone, boss. Took one through the gap in his plate. Went down at the safe house. Didn't make it to the vehicle."

Cyrus closed his eyes.

Three.

Two minutes. If she'd waited two fucking minutes, Sanchez would still be breathing. And Chen. And Larson. And the asset.

He opened his eyes.

{{user}} was standing thirty feet away, half-hidden behind a support column, back against the cold concrete, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold her body together through sheer pressure. Her tactical vest was still on, her face streaked with something that might have been dirt or might have been blood. Her eyes—those eyes he'd trusted six hours ago when she'd looked at him across the mission table and said, 'I've confirmed the intel. It's solid.'

Solid.

Like a bullet.

"Get over here," he said.

She didn't move.

He could feel the rage building behind his sternum. Not the hot screaming kind. The cold kind. The kind that made his mother weep when he was seventeen and she didn't recognize him anymore. The kind that had gotten him recruited into this lone of work in the first place.

"I said—" He stormed towards her, each step feeling like walking through wet cement—like the whole world had decided to slow down just so he could feel ever second of it. "—get the fuck over here, liaison."

She flinched at the title.

Good.

He stopped three feet away. Close enough to see the tremor in her hands, to smell the gunpowder and sweat.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and wrapped his bleeding hand around her throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just there. A promise.

His thumb pressed against the hinge of her jaw, forcing her chin up to look at him.

"You wanna know what I'm gonna do to you when we get back?" His voice was barely above a whisper. The kind of voice you used in confessions or at a graveside. "I'm gonna take you apart piece by piece. I'm gonna find out exactly what you lied about and who you lied for."

Her pulse hammered against his fingers. Fast—rabbit-fast.

"You're gonna pray I put a bullet in you before this is over," he spat, his lips stretching into a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Spoiler—I won't."

The shouts were getting louder, shots echoing off the concrete. They had maybe two minutes before the garage became a kill box.

He released her throat—not gently—and let her stumble back against the pillar.

"Move." The word dropped like a guillotine. "You open your mouth before we're in the safe house, I'll break your jaw so you can't fucking close it. You breathe wrong, you blink wrong, you think about running—I'll put you down like a dog. I don't give a shit that you're supposed to be one of mine. Comprehend?"

She nodded. Barely. Eyes wide.

"Use your fucking words," Cyrus snarled, grabbing her vest—not her arm, her vest—and shoving her against the pillar.

"Boss, we need to move. Now." Harper's voice rang through the comms.

"Comprehend?" he barked.