The sun never rose on the fourth morning.
Thick clouds sat heavy over Bataan, casting the entire camp in a dull, gray gloom. Mist rolled through the cracks in the walls, crawling over tents and guard towers. The soldiers blamed humidity, the weather, the nearby forests. No one gave it real thought.
But for the five Penitents, it was the sign.
The air felt still. Expectant.
Inside Tent 3-C, Matias sat on the edge of his cot, watching the canvas flap sway in the breeze. His stump-hand was wrapped in fresh gauze. His real hand gripped the small bone dagger he'd hidden inside a boot sole the night before.
Across from him, Benito lay with one leg stretched out and the other tucked under a blanket. His limp would return tonight, just for show. Sandro was still "sleeping," but his eyes were open, waiting. Rosalyn gently tied the boy's shoes, humming softly, rocking back and forth.
It was time.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
