Chapter 11: The Echo of the Thumb

The morning air was brittle, the kind of cold that made the lungs ache before the desert sun had a chance to burn through the haze. I sat on my cot, staring at the small, cracked mirror in my locker. I hadn't touched the camouflage makeup in days. The white patches on my jaw and neck felt like a bared secret, but the silence in the bunk room was no longer predatory—it was watchful.

Viper walked past, his boots heavy on the plywood. He didn't look at me, but he dropped a fresh roll of athletic tape on my footlocker. "Wrap those ribs, Ramírez. You’re breathing shallow. I can hear it from three bunks away."

"Thanks, Sergeant First Class," I muttered.

"Don't thank me. Just don't pass out on my mountain."

He moved on, and I caught Jax watching me from across the aisle. He looked like he wanted to say something, perhaps apologize for the weeks of standing by while Thorne played his games, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. Instead, he just nodded—a silent acknowledgment of the bridge we were starting to build.