One week after Alexander's arrest.
Katherine was recovering, the cuts were healing, the bruises fading to yellow, and her cracked rib was still tender but manageable.
I was equally battered. My shoulder was sore from the recoil of shooting Alexander, and my knuckles were split from the fight at the CIA facility.
We're standing in front of the bathroom mirror, both shirtless, cataloging the damage.
"We look like we survived a war," Katherine said.
"We did survive a war. Multiple wars."
She traced a scar on my chest. An old one from the Morrison betrayal over a year ago.
"How many more?" she asked quietly.
"However many it takes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
We're not hiding or running, only preparing.
Because twelve of Charles Sterling's students were still out there, and they're coordinating, planning, and coming for us.
And this time, we're ready.
