"Remember," Cain said, letting his gaze sweep across them all, "patience does not mean idleness. Every silence is a blade. Every quiet step is a strike waiting to happen. We are not prey hiding from a predator—we are the hand waiting for the pulse to slow before we close the throat."
The words landed heavy. None of them spoke.
And in that silence, Cain allowed himself one private thought, sharp and cold:
If they think they can outwait me, they're already dead.
The silence stretched, dense as smoke, wrapping the small chamber in weight. Cain's eyes lingered on each of them—Hunter steady as ever, Susan restless, Roselle sharp and assessing. He saw the truths written in their bodies more clearly than their faces: Hunter's patience, Susan's fire, Roselle's hunger. Tools, all of them. Sharp edges waiting for the right hand.
He was that hand.
