The murmuring in the room had taken on a restless, nervous rhythm—people talking in hushed voices, casting glances at Winter, Zara, and the soldiers guarding them. The momentary relief of Winter stabilizing had passed, leaving behind the suffocating feel of everyone's suspicions of them.
Winter let out a slow exhale beside her, shifting slightly, his movements sluggish. He was still too pale, but his eyes were clearer than before. She squeezed his hand, grounding herself. He's here. He's fine.
A soldier stepped forward, boots scuffing against the concrete floor. "How is he?" His voice was rough, exhausted. The insignia on his shoulder marked him as Lieutenant Harlow—one of the higher-ups still standing.
"Stable," Zara answered tightly. She didn't like how he was looking at Winter—like he was assessing a threat, not a man.
Harlow didn't seem convinced. "He was bitten."
"It wasn't the mist," she snapped, sharper than she intended. "It wasn't the same."
