The silence after Hale's death was deafening.
Emily knelt beside his body, her breath ragged and uneven, her fingers still wrapped around the hilt of the knife buried in his throat.
The warmth of his blood seeped through her gloves, mixing with the grime and sweat on her skin.
The man who had haunted her nightmares, who had reshaped the Resistance through betrayal and manipulation, was finally gone.
And yet, there was no relief.
Only an emptiness, as though something vital had been cut away, leaving a raw, exposed wound.
"Emily."
Lena's voice echoed softly through the earpiece. "Is he—?"
"He's dead," Emily said, her voice hollow.
A long pause. Then: "Good."
But Emily could hear the uncertainty beneath Lena's single word.
They'd won a battle, but the war had already evolved beyond Hale his network, his plans, his contingencies — they didn't die with him.
They would ripple outward, unseen currents beneath the surface, until the next wave crashed down on them.
