“Yeah. For another hour, maybe.”
“You look like hell,” Tony said, landing soft on the dock.
Clint stood.
A low hum built behind the treeline. Not thunder. Not a quinjet. It was deeper—like the planet itself groaning. The sky split. Not the snap. Something else. Orange and raw, spinning open like a wound reversing.
“You look like a ghost,” Clint replied.
The lake was still. So still that the reflection of the cabin didn’t ripple, and the stars looked like pinned needles of light in a frozen sky. Clint sat on the dock, feet inches above the water, and watched the suitcases by the cabin door. The years had taught him that silence wasn’t empty. It was just waiting.
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