The boat's engine cut to a low hum as Vanya guided it toward the building's new entrance — a jagged, wind-broken window on the sixth floor, the only reliable way in or out now that the flood had claimed everything below it. A narrow platform of scavenged wood and salvaged railing had been built out from the opening weeks ago, sturdy enough to dock against, and Vanya eased the sleek hull up alongside it with practiced precision.
"Home," Harold said, some relief audible in the single word despite the uneventful trip back.
"For now," Vanya said, already stepping onto the platform, boat rocking gently behind her.
Persephone followed, crossbow slung comfortably over one shoulder, the easy, unbothered smile she'd worn through the entire supply run still settled over her features, though something quieter moved behind her eyes now that the performance had less audience to justify itself for.
