Evie’s grip tightened on her bat as she felt the weight of Locke’s gaze. She turned her head just enough to catch him in her periphery—the faceplate hissing down over his features, rifle steady, his presence like a wall at her back.

Roscoe was pressed close to her hip, ears pinned, a low vibration humming in his throat as he stared at the floating faces.

Evie drew a slow breath through her nose and gave Locke a single nod, sharp but sure.

[color=#697DFF]“I’m good,”[/color] she murmured, voice low enough for only him to catch. Her eyes softened a fraction behind the words. [color=#697DFF]“Helmet on. You know the drill. If I start losing it, you drag me back.”[/color]

Then she turned back toward the stair.

The masks hovered there, swaying faintly in currents of air she couldn’t feel. Rage snarled. Joy leered. Disappointment pressed thin and sharp. But her gaze fixed on the one that sagged under the weight of sorrow.

It looked… tired. Hollowed. A mirror of the grief she’d seen too many times in hospital beds and field cots.

Her steps slowed as she approached, Roscoe whining low in his chest but keeping with her until she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

[color=#697DFF]“Stay, boy.”[/color]

She crouched just slightly, extending her free hand. The bat hung at her side, its tape-scuffed grip slick against her palm as her other fingers brushed the air.

And then—slow, deliberate—Evie reached out and touched the sad mask.