Damian says no.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t soften it or dress it up as concern. He simply looks at me and says it once, flat and final, like the word itself should be enough to end the conversation.
“No.”
We’re standing just outside the operations bay, the final briefing wrapping up behind us in a low, controlled murmur. Agents move past in measured bursts of motion, vests secured, comms checked, weapons tested and re-tested with mechanical precision. The air smells like metal and anticipation, sharp and sterile. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slams shut. The sound echoes longer than it should, ricocheting off concrete and nerves.
“I’m coming in,” I say.
Damian doesn’t look away from me. His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping once like it’s resis
