What silence we carry

Maverick was sitting at the edge of the table, arms folded, boots still caked with ash.

"We move at first light," he said. "There's no way they're not tracking her already. We stay too long, we get surrounded."

Kenneth nodded, still pacing.

Johnny leaned against the wall with a tired grunt. "We're not exactly subtle."

Shylo stood by the doorway, arms crossed, quiet as always.

Amari said nothing.

He sat with his head lowered, jaw tight. That quiet kind of boiling that simmers under the skin. The kind that doesn't shout—it just leaves.

He stood fast.

The chair scraped loud against the wood floor.

"Where are you going?" Maverick asked, already knowing.

"Out," Amari muttered, pushing the door open without looking back.

It slammed shut.

Everyone froze for half a second—just long enough for the tension to dig in deeper.

Shylo's head turned toward the door.