Page 23 of Broken Sentinel

"She doesn't speak much," Kaplan says. "Trauma, maybe, or just caution. Can't blame her."

I kneel to bring myself to the child's eye level, maintaining a respectful distance. "You're safe here," I tell her, not entirely sure if that's true but wanting to offer some comfort. "No one's going to hurt you."

The girl tilts her head slightly, nostrils flaring as if...sniffing me. Then her eyes widen with a flash of recognition.

"You're like me inside," she says, her voice small but clear.

The words hit me like a physical blow. My heart stutters, then races. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, she reaches out hesitantly, her modified fingers stopping just short of touching my face. "They made you different, but you're hiding. Like I was hiding."

Behind me, I hear Kaplan shift uncomfortably. "What's she talking about?"

"I don't know," I lie, fighting to keep my expression neutral while my mind races. "Children say all sorts of things."

But the girl's amber eyes remain locked on mine, seeing something no one else has detected, something beneath the surface, something I've only recently begun to suspect myself.

"She needs medical attention," I say to Kaplan, desperately trying to redirect the conversation. "What's the plan?"

He hesitates, clearly evaluating whether to trust me further. "We have someone coming. A doctor who understands special cases. But not for another two days. We've been taking turns watching her, administering basic care."

I make a split-second decision that could either solidify our cover or expose us completely. "I can help. My mother was a medical tech at Eastern. I picked up a few things."

Kaplan looks relieved. "Could use the extra hands. Not many we can trust with this."

"What about my partner?" I ask, testing the waters.

Kaplan's expression closes immediately. "The fewer people involved, the better. You said yourself he's by-the-book."

Good. If they're keeping Trent out of the loop, it gives us separate access points to the network. I nod in understanding. "I'll make an excuse for extra shifts. He won't question it if I say Supervisor Kaplan assigned me."

As we discuss logistics, I remain acutely aware of the child watching me, her impossible eyes seemingly peering straight through my Sentinel training to something more fundamental.

You're like me inside.

What does she see?

What am I becoming?

Before I can consider it further, the chamber door slides open, and Trent steps in, his expression shifting from concern to surprise to carefully crafted neutrality in the span of half a second.

"Davis," Kaplan says sharply. "This area is restricted."

"Apologies, Supervisor," Trent responds smoothly. "When my partner didn't return to our section, I checked the maintenance logs and saw she'd been reassigned here. Came to see if assistance was needed."

His eyes take in the makeshift medical facility, lingering on the child for just a moment too long before returning to Kaplan. I can almost see him processing the situation, calculating risks and responses.

The girl stares at Trent with the same intensity she directed at me, but her reaction is entirely different. She shrinks back, pulling her knees to her chest in a defensive posture.

"Sentinel," she whispers, the word barely audible.

My blood freezes. One word—one single word—that could blow our cover completely.

Trent doesn't react visibly, but I know him well enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the fractional shift in his stance. He's preparing for potential conflict, evaluating escape routes and tactical options.

But Kaplan doesn't seem to have heard the child's whisper, his attention focused on Trent's unexpected appearance. "No assistance needed, Davis. Return to your section immediately."

"Of course, Supervisor." Trent's eyes meet mine briefly. "Everything alright, Mira?"

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