The decompression chamber on the UN stealth transport smells of recycled air, stale sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.
I sit on the edge of the padded bench, my heavy tactical gear stripped down to my thermal underlayer. My hands are heavily bandaged, the nerve damage from the Mariana Trench frostbite sending a constant, dull throb up my forearms. Every time the transport hits a pocket of turbulence, my bruised ribs protest with a sharp, biting ache.
Across the narrow aisle, Kade is slumped against the bulkhead.
He is stripped to the waist, his chest heavily wrapped in sterile gauze where the kinetic slugs bruised his skin. His left sleeve is pinned neatly to his chest, the empty space a stark, permanent reminder of the price we paid. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallo
