Rodion's count strip ran like a thin river of blue across the stone. It pulsed steady, a heartbeat someone had ironed flat and taught to behave: hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. The light wasn't bright, more like moon on wet slate, but it was enough. Each pulse touched boots, then knees, then shoulders, until bodies remembered how to agree. The room had its own breathing—the Whiteways' slow wheeze through vents and ribs—and that wanted to pull minds off the beat. The strip gave them a spine to stand on.
Mikhailis lifted his hand only a little, two fingers high, thumb tucked. Line captains caught it and passed the meaning with their shoulders, not with their mouths. He kept the gesture small on purpose. Big signals woke big egos.
Small doors, many locks, he thought, and let his hand fall.
"Sky left, Ankles right," he said. His voice stayed low, sanded at the edges. "Archers split now."
