The fire crackled weakly in front of him, a glowing red circle in the middle of a camp on edge. Night had fallen, heavy and warm, sticky with exhaustion and dried blood. Dylan remained motionless, his silhouette hunched as if he were mourning ten men. A perfect image of a traumatized survivor.
But in his head, chaos raged.
He had to leave. Before the interrogation. Before the curious glances turned into suspicion. He knew how these guys operated: a lone survivor, a vague report, and above all, a mark that shouldn't be there. They'd slit him open under a flashlight to see what he was really hiding.
His hand clenched around the gem beneath his shirt. It pulsed slowly. As if it, too, was thinking.
"Damn it, I screwed up…" he thought. "I was good, yeah. Too good. The kind of lie that reeks of skill, not panic. The kind they don't forget."
