Echo didn’t have attachments.

Not to the Insurgents. Not to the people who ran the camp. Not to the ones who fought, bled, and died for this so-called cause. They were just a means to an end—people who happened to be heading in the same direction as him, nothing more. He helped them because it kept him alive. They used him because he was useful. That was the arrangement. Simple.

It was a fact he had to remind himself of constantly.

Because if he didn’t, the lines started to blur.

They were just a bunch of hardened soldiers and ex-military types, all stiff postures and clipped orders, more comfortable counting bodies than understanding them. People like that didn’t do attachments. They didn’t care, not really. So why the hell should he?

So no, he wasn't upset about what was happening to Myles. No, he wasn’t lingering near the reinforced window that overlooked the basement cell where they kept him. No, he didn’t care. Not even a little. Stop asking.

He yanked the straps of his gear tighter, adjusting the weight of his pack as he prepped for another run. The cold air filtering through the cracked walls of the safehouse felt sharper today, biting at his skin even through layers of fabric. Maybe he was just tense. Maybe he wasn’t breathing as evenly as he should have been.

“They’re acting like he doesn’t have a brain in there,” Echo muttered, voice laced with a sharp, bitter edge. The words left his mouth before he could stop them, slipping through the cracks in his usual indifference. He scoffed, as if trying to cover for himself, shaking his head.

It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, forcing the tension out of his body as he turned toward the door. He had a run to do. A job to complete. Myles wasn’t his problem. None of this was his problem.

So why did it feel like it was?