Chapter 183
Raven
The mess tent smelled like reheated MREs and existential dread. Someone had made an attempt at "fried chicken"—by which I mean they'd apparently beaten a bird to death and then set it on fire as revenge.
I poked at my plate skeptically. The meat poked back.
"Is it... supposed to move?" Katya whispered, her fork hovering over what might have been mashed potatoes or possibly industrial spackle.
"Only if it's still plotting escape." I took a bite anyway. Tasted like cardboard soaked in sadness. "Mmm. Delicious war crimes."
Ethan laughed, nearly choking on his water. "You know, for someone who just humiliated a North Korean spy, you're remarkably chill about military cuisine."
"Oh, this?" I gestured at my plate. "This is gourmet compared to roasted centipede. Or raw fish eyes. Or that one time in Bangladesh when the only food available was—"
I stopped. Both of them were staring at me.
Shit. Phantom wouldn't have that knowledge. Raven Martinez, high school student, would not have eaten her way through Southeast Asia.
"—uh, that one cooking show," I finished lamely. "You know. That guy who eats weird stuff. Very educational."
"Right." Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Cooking show."
Smooth. Real smooth.
"You know what you remind me of?" Ethan said suddenly, leaning forward. His voice dropped, almost reverent. "That thing you did with Han. The way you moved. The precision. There's this legend—an assassin called Phantom. The way you—"
"Coincidence." The word came out too fast. I forced a laugh. "I mean, come on. You think I'm some mythical hitman? I'm seventeen."
"Exactly what Phantom would say." But Ethan was smiling. "It's a compliment, you know. She's... she was the best. Number one in my threat assessment notebook."
Was. Past tense. Because officially, Phantom died on that plane.
"Your notebook ranks assassins?" Katya asked, derailing what could have been a very awkward conversation. "Like... Pokémon?"
"Like threats," Ethan corrected. "Phantom was tier one. Untouchable. Undefeated. Disappeared three months ago—probably dead, honestly. But man..." His eyes went distant. "Meeting her. That was the dream."
Something twisted in my chest. Not quite guilt. Not quite pride. Something in between.
He hero-worshipped a ghost. A ghost that's sitting across from him eating rubber chicken.
"Maybe you still can," I said softly. "Meet her, I mean. Or someone like her. World's full of surprises."
Ethan's head snapped up, his expression shifting from wistful to shocked in a heartbeat. "You—you think? You think she might be alive? That I could—"
"Anything's possible." I took another bite of war crime chicken. "Who knows? Maybe you'll end up being friends."
If you only knew, kid.
His face did something complicated—joy, disbelief, hope all tangled together. Like I'd just told him Santa was real and also ran a Spec Ops unit.
"That would be..." He trailed off, actually speechless for once.
Katya kicked me under the table. When I looked at her, she was grinning.
"You're mean," she mouthed.
Yeah. But it's fun.
"Anyway," Katya said aloud, steering us back to safer waters. "I can't believe I made top six. Me! I was just here to observe for my father, and now—" She shook her head, wonder brightening her features. "When this is over, you should come to Moscow, Raven. I could introduce you to people. The military directorate. They'd love someone with your skills."
"Tempting." I wasn't lying—Russia had excellent vodka and even better intelligence networks. "But I'm kind of attached to America. Freedom fries and all that."
"Patriot." Katya's tone was teasing, but her eyes were serious. "Just promise me you won't relax. Tomorrow will be worse. Much worse."
"Always is." I followed her gaze across the tent.
Han sat alone at the far end, his plate untouched. He'd changed into a fresh uniform, but the humiliation clung to him like bad cologne. As we watched, he stood abruptly and walked outside.
Through the tent flap, I could see him in the clearing beyond. Stripped to the waist despite the evening chill. Moving through combat forms—punches, kicks, blocks. Again. Again. Again.
Each movement sharp with fury.
And every few seconds, his eyes cut toward our table.
Uh oh.
"He's going to try something," Ethan murmured. "Tonight or tomorrow. You embarrassed him in front of everyone. Men like that don't forget."
"Let him try." I popped another rubbery chicken chunk into my mouth. "I'm counting on it."