Rhayne's fingers are hooked into the back of my shirt.
She hasn't let go since we turned around to walk back down the slope. Not gripping—hooking. Two fingers through the fabric, maintaining contact the way a child holds onto a parent's coat in a crowd.
She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.
I let her.
Oliver reads the situation before I have to explain it.
He taps Lola's shoulder and points toward a stall selling mechanical salvage—springs, pressure valves, couplings.
Lola's head turns. Her eyes lock.
Oliver steers her away from us without making it obvious.
Good man.
We head back to the creep lab.
We enter the Blue Light District. Past the blanket. Past the old man. Through the workshop—forge, weapons racks, the smell of cold metal and cured leather again. Boris pulls two stools from beneath a low workbench and drops them on opposite sides of a scarred wooden table.
He sits. I sit. Rhayne stands behind me, her fingers still in my shirt.
