The air in the prep room was thick with unspoken questions.
Miles stood before Clara, his gaze a physical weight.
The high from their victory had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sharp-edged suspicion.
He had asked the question.
And he wasn't going to let it go.
Leo, ever the master of social graces, tried to defuse the situation with all the subtlety of a flashbang grenade.
"Whoa, hey now," he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Let's all take a breath, okay?"
"She helped us win."
"Let's not start interrogating our own MVP, alright?"
"Maybe she's just, you know, a really, really good guesser."
"Like, supernaturally good."
"Maybe her secret power is being amazing at strategy games."
Miles didn't even look at him.
His eyes were locked on Clara.
He wasn't angry. He was something far more dangerous.
He was confused. And he hated being confused.
Clara let out a long, slow sigh.
