Night moved differently once the camp knew.
Weapons passed from hand to hand in silence— metal clinking softly, straps tightening, bolts checked with practiced restraint. A rifle sailed through the dim firelight and a camp member caught it clean, hands firm, eyes already scanning the dark before they turned and melted back into the treeline.
Hale fell into step beside me as we moved between tents, our shoulders nearly brushing. His presence was steady—anchoring in a way I hadn't realized I needed.
"The gunshots must've attracted them," he murmured, voice barely louder than breath.
I swallowed.
"I should've let you use a suppressor," he added quietly. "That one's on me."
I opened my mouth to respond, but he stopped walking.
From his jacket, he pulled a handgun and, without ceremony, twisted a glass bottle onto the barrel—crude, ugly, effective enough for a few shots. He held it out to me.
I hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then I took it.
