Anya worked with the detached efficiency of a mortician preparing a corpse for viewing. She wiped away the blood without meeting his eyes, the cool cloth dragging over raw skin, then cleaned the wound with careful, deliberate swipes.
"Hold still," she murmured, her tone almost polite. "If you move, the coverage will look uneven."
The man flinched at her touch anyway, breath ragged. She ignored him, unscrewing a small concealer pot and dabbing over the cut. The color matched perfectly. In the dim light, the injury all but vanished, replaced by an eerily pristine cheek that looked as if nothing had happened.
I stepped closer, my shadow falling over him. His gaze darted to me, confusion creeping in alongside fear.
Cam gestured to another man, who brought over a camera on a tripod. He set it up with meticulous care, the tripod legs clicking into place, the lens facing directly at the prisoner. A faint red light blinked to life.
