The night hasn't yet passed into memory—like the comfortable weight of Logan's knife in his hand, it lingers. It had been work, by the end, cutting them up. The sound of rending fabric—he couldn't let them scream—stopped bothering him. When he hit metal, the intricate framework they were stretched over, it'd been an inconvenience. Work, then something like euphoria.

What did that say? What does it say?

He studies her, dragging out the moment to see how her words hold up. “Maybe not.” He believes her; that's not what hollows out his voice. “But it won't make any difference to him.” He lets out a breath. The sky overhead seems boundless, the cold intimate, pressed up close. William suppresses a shiver.