The oppressive scent of damp earth and stale fear clung to Saige, a phantom limb of her recent past. Her muscles screamed from the prolonged crouch, her jeans damp with sweat and clinging uncomfortably. Six months. Six agonizing months since she'd clawed her way out of that hell, and now she was back.

"Is this it?" Commander Grayson's voice, usually a steady anchor, was laced with an uncharacteristic tremor beside her. Saige could only nod, her throat thick with dryness, the words refusing to form. She watched him, then Jackson, and the rest of the team, their faces grim, their weapons ready.

She'd insisted on coming, planned to go inside. But the sight of the crumbling facade, the heavy, rusted gate, brought a cold dread that froze her to the core. What if he was in there? What would she do? What would he do? Her palms, slick with nervous perspiration, rubbed furiously against the worn denim of her pants. She couldn't do it. Not again.

Jackson's gentle voice, closer now, cut through her spiraling panic. "Are you okay?" He touched her arm, and the tears, long held back, finally spilled.