Marlowe
Preacher cleared me within ten minutes — no injuries besides a shallow cut on my forearm I hadn't even noticed getting — and Nova met me outside the medical tent with an expression that said she'd already heard more than I wanted her to.
"King carried a spare kit over here himself." She said it like a headline. "Personally. Didn't send a runner. Didn't delegate. Walked it over here like Preacher doesn't have hands of his own."
"He's thorough."
"He is not *thorough,* Finch, he's—" She stopped, shook her head, laughed under her breath. "I've watched that man run this club for two years. I've never once seen him fuss over anybody. Not like that."
I didn't have a good answer, so I let her lead me toward the mess hall instead, my forearm stinging under a fresh bandage, my whole bod
