Code turned the moment I called his name.
The whistle didn't stop. It kept going—low, tuneless, almost cheerful—while he looked at me with an expression that was open and completely calm. In that second I understood the calm was the real threat. Not the blades. Not the blood drying in dark streaks across his face. The calm. A man who could look at a room he'd just emptied of life and feel nothing worth naming.
"Don't put a finger on her."
It didn't come out as a request. It came out the way Bala used to give orders—flat, final, absolute. The words left my mouth before I'd decided on the tone.
The whistle cut off mid-note.
