Raven stood at the armory bench, ankle taped tight under the tactical boot. The tape bit when she shifted weight. Functional. Not perfect. She didn't favor it. Four days since the ambush, and the body still remembered the sprain like a debt unpaid.
Small vials lined the steel. Clear, amber, one the color of old blood. She measured each dose by eye, then by feel—dropper to skin on the inside of her forearm, quick press, wait for the faint burn that meant it had taken. Caruso-signature counters. She knew the Viper's preferred vectors the way she knew her own knife's balance. Skin contact. Sleeve brush. Door handle in the right light. He didn't waste breath on needles or gas. He let the world carry his work.
She capped the last vial. Slid them into the flat pouch at her hip. The knife stayed sheathed. No point drawing it yet.
Vincent leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. He watched her hands. Not the vials. The way her fingers moved without hesitation.
