Marlowe
The sight of him standing beside Sable, alive but visibly exhausted, sent a confusing rush of relief and fresh suspicion crashing through me at once.
"Preacher." King's voice carried a warning edge, cautious despite the obvious relief underneath it. "Explain. Now."
Preacher stepped forward, and I noticed, watching him move, that he carried himself with none of Sable's easy confidence — something heavier, older, weighing on him in a way that made him look considerably more fragile than the steady, capable medic I'd come to know these past months.
"I owe you the truth," he said, voice rough. "All of it, not the careful half-version I left in that letter. Sable's not just Vance's former intelligence chief, King. She's my daughter."
The revelation landed like a physical blow, and
