Eva twisted Maya's hair the wrong way again.
Maya winced. "Stop that."
"Sorry, sorry." Eva loosened her grip, tried a different angle. Her fingers were clumsy—she hadn't done this in years, hadn't touched anyone's hair since Lily's, since before. But Maya had asked, and Eva had said yes, and now here they were.
Zoey sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall, watching. Lena was beside her, braiding a small section of her own hair absently, her eyes half-closed.
Warden sat in the corner with the kid. He was showing her something in his notebook—a drawing, maybe, or a diagram. She signed back slowly, patiently, her visible eye soft.
"This is nice," Zoey said. Her voice was quiet, almost surprised. "I forgot what this felt like."
"Girl zone," Lena said. "That's what we should call it."
Maya snorted. "Girl zone? That's terrible."
"You got a better name?"
"Anything. Literally anything."
Eva laughed. It was small, barely a sound, but it was real. Maya twisted around to look at her, eyes wide.
"Did you just laugh?"
"Shut up." Eva pushed her head back forward. "Hold still."
"You laughed."
"I said shut up."
Lena leaned toward Zoey, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So. Love."
Zoey's head snapped up. "What?"
"Love. You and—" Lena gestured vaguely toward the door, toward where the boys were probably standing guard, or brooding, or whatever it was they did when they weren't here.
Zoey's face went red. "I don't—there's nothing—we're not—"
"Didn't say any names."
Zoey's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I hate you."
Lena grinned. "That's not what your face says."
Warden looked up from the kid's notebook. Her visible eye moved across the room—Eva and Maya, Zoey and Lena. She didn't sign anything. Just watched.
The kid tugged her sleeve. She looked back down at his drawing.
Eva finished the braid—lopsided, messy, barely holding together. Maya touched it carefully, felt the uneven strands.
"It's perfect," she said.
Eva looked at her hands. "It's really not."
"It's perfect because you did it."
Zoey groaned. "You two are disgusting."
"Says the girl blushing over—"
"LENA."
The roar shook the walls.
Maya's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide. "I know that roar."
---
They ran.
The facility doors burst open, and the grey light hit their faces. Wolfen stood at the edge of the clearing, Leo beside him, Jordan a few steps behind. Leo's mouth was moving—arguing, probably, or complaining—but the sound was swallowed by the next roar.
The Forgotten Sentinel stood at the tree line.
He was bigger now. Nearly a hundred feet, his armored body blocking out the sky, his tail sweeping through the trees like they were grass. His eyes—those ancient, glowing eyes—were fixed on the facility. On them.
"Tell him to shut up," Wolfen said. "I'm tired."
Leo sighed. "Shut up."
The Sentinel roared again.
A black liquid pooled at the base of the facility walls, rising, taking shape. Shadow emerged, his human form still new, still learning how to stand still.
"Sorry," he said. "He's been frustrated lately."
Eva walked forward.
The Sentinel's massive head turned toward her. His nostrils flared. He bent—slowly, carefully, like a mountain learning to bow—and sniffed her.
She put her hand on his nose.
The Sentinel's eyes closed. His breathing slowed. The tension in his massive body eased, muscle by muscle, scale by scale.
Eva stood there, her palm against his warm hide, and felt him calm.
"I know," she said quietly. "I miss her too."
The Sentinel made a sound—not a roar, not a growl, something softer. A whine, almost. A question.
Eva didn't have an answer.
Behind her, Warden watched.
She saw Lena, standing close to Jordan, her hand brushing his. Saw Zoey, her eyes flicking to Wolfen and away. Saw Leo, trying to hide his exhaustion behind a scowl. Saw Maya, watching Eva like she was afraid Eva might disappear.
And Wolfen.
He stood apart, his hands in his pockets, his golden eyes fixed on the Sentinel, on Eva, on nothing. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Warden knew that look.
Her version of him had worn it for years. After Leo died. After everything fell apart. After he'd burned those camps to the ground and come back with nothing but ash and silence.
She didn't know how to help him. She didn't know if she could.
But she knew he needed it.
She signed something to the kid. He nodded, tucked his notebook under his arm, and stayed close to her side.
The Sentinel raised his head. He looked at Eva one last time, then turned and walked back into the forest, his footsteps shaking the earth, his tail disappearing between the trees.
Eva stood alone in the clearing, her hand still raised, her face unreadable.
"Eva," Maya said.
Eva lowered her hand. Turned. Walked back toward the facility, toward the doors, toward the grey light and the waiting.
She didn't look back.
Warden watched her go. Then she signed to the kid again.
He translated quietly, for no one but himself: "She's going to be okay."
Warden hoped she was right.