Samantha stood in full combat gear, the same as the rest of her squad. The air around the sitting room buzzed with anticipation, blades humming as they were sheathed, boots scuffing against tile.
But her focus shattered the moment the door creaked open.
Zephyr staggered out of his room.
His hair was a mess. His eyes sunken. His clothes looked like he'd slept in it—if he'd slept at all. He clutched a notebook like it was more vital than a blade, and there was something in his gait—half-drag, half-drift—that made her snap.
Before she could stop herself, the words came out.
"Why."
Zephyr blinked at her, confused. "Huh?"
That look—like he didn't even understand what he'd done wrong—made her feel like she'd lost grip of herself.
"Why are you like this?" she pressed, stepping toward him. She didn't wait for him to speak.
