Red didn't usually hesitate.
Not when it came to blood, or bone, or the kind of decisions that left people whispering her name like a warning.
But tonight, she stood by the window and didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The city below was blurred by frost, her reflection barely there in the glass. A smudge in someone else's world.
Behind her, the com crackled.
"Status?" Lincoln's voice.
Calm. Measured. Not even a flicker of concern. Like he always sounded.
She pressed her finger to the earpiece. "Clear. Target didn't show."
A pause.
Not long. Not enough to register if you didn't know him. But Red knew him.
And Lincoln didn't pause unless he was thinking.
"Come in," he said. "You're done for the night."
That was the second thing. Lincoln never pulled her early.
Not unless he saw something she didn't.
She turned from the window, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"Because I said so."
Click.
Line dead.
Red stared at the wall. Her knife was still holstered, her fingers twitching with the absence of its weight. She didn't like being called off. Didn't like being protected. Especially not by him.
But this wasn't softness. Lincoln didn't do softness.
He did strategy. He did control. He did necessity.
So what had he seen tonight that she hadn't?
She peeled off her gloves slowly, thoughts ticking through every variable. Every shadow. Every unfinished sentence.
If he said she was done for the night, she believed him.
If he said stop, she stopped.
Because Lincoln didn't waste words. And he didn't protect people unless he had a reason.
She trusted him. With her life, with her silence, with the sharpest parts of herself.
But something in his voice tonight…
It wasn't a lie.
It wasn't fear.
It was weight.
And whatever it was he was carrying—he hadn't told her.
Not yet.
So Red pulled her gloves back on, sat in the dark, and waited.
Because when Lincoln was ready,
he would tell her.
He always did.
He always would.
Right?