Fighting Hearts
She set the loaf beside the ice gel pack she’d used countless times lately, as if sugar and cold, kindness and discipline, could together make strength.
“Let’s go,” Kai said.
“Let’s go,” Aria echoed.
At the entrance, they paused. Both donned hats, hoods, sunglasses—not hiding, but armoring their skin. Aria put her hand on the handle and, without looking at him, said:
“Red.”
Kai nodded. “Red.”
The lock clicked open. Light pooled across the marble stairwell. Below, faint murmurs: someone on the phone, someone stepping outside, the street rising in waves. Barton was already at the gate, papers in hand, speaking with the building manager.
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