Blythe didn’t speak as we walked. Just the sound of our boots and that hum of fluorescent lights. I kept a half-step behind him, not because I respected the guy—just didn’t want him seeing my face if the headache hit.

It’d been coming faster lately. Like someone driving a nail behind my eye. I could feel it teasing now. A pulse. Not yet. Not in front of them. The pain had been meaner lately—sharper, like it knew I was trying to hide it. No one knew. Not about the headaches. Not about the tumor. And I planned to keep it that way

The door slid open with a hiss. Four strangers looked up, eyes scanning, weighing. They’d already been told the basics.

Blythe gestured. “This is Meachum.”

I stepped forward, cracked a smile like it didn’t ache to exist.

“Name’s Mark.”