Zelda zipped the tent flap shut behind her and turned to face the work. Her clinic sat at the edge of the junkyard, canvas walls hiding what she did inside. She wanted a real trade hub here someday, with Sinclair opening the doors she couldn't. For now, she had a tent, a kit, and the discipline to keep moving. Sinclair pushed through the flap pale and sweating. He carried a weathered board under one arm, pinned with old hospital maps and a folded surgical chart. He set it down like proof of something. "Found this on my way. Thought you'd want it. Also, I'm bleeding through my shirt, gal." She sat him on the cot and cut the fabric away. The wound was deep and dirty. He'd hidden it the whole walk in. Zelda pulled her messenger kit from the shelf. She unrolled it and reached past the bandages for a sealed diagnostic wand — prewar, calibrated, the kind of tool a field medic shouldn't have. Sinclair's eyes tracked it. He said nothing, but he saw. She passed it over the wound and read the screen. "You're not just a medic," he said quietly. "You're the whole operation." She didn't answer. She threaded the suture and went to work, the base radio humming low in the corner. When she finished, he was steady, and she was exposed. Sinclair touched the edge of the cot. "Guilt's a lousy negotiating partner. So is pretending. I'm in deeper now, friend. Tell me what you actually need." Zelda met his eyes and, for the first time, nodded.

Morning came hard. Sinclair was still on the cot when a runner slid a note under the tent flap. The handwriting was Achilles'. One line: Sleuth's Haven. Now. Come alone. Zelda folded the note and pocketed it. She told Sinclair she'd be back before the bandage needed changing. He didn't ask. He knew the look. The old detective office sat three blocks past the fence. Brick walls, a faded sign, filing cabinets inside that nobody had bothered to loot. Achilles was waiting by the window. Marcus stood behind him in the shadow of a cabinet, arms folded, saying nothing. A prewar Vault-Tec map was spread across the desk, frequency marks circled in red. "They're already listening," Achilles said. He tapped the map. "The dish under your yard is live. Same channel a dead scavenger was running. Somebody well-funded knows what Marcus is sitting on." He slid a small object across the desk. A photograph, creased to softness, of Zelda's own face. Younger. Cleaner. "Kira Dallas gave me this. She knows who I used to be. She knows who you used to be too." Marcus spoke once. "He's leaving tonight. Unless you give him a reason." Then he stepped back and let the silence work. Zelda picked up the photograph. She didn't flinch. She set it face-down on the map and put her hand flat over both. "You want proof the plan works. Here it is. Sinclair knows everything now. The four of us hold Red Hills' hub or nobody does. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm telling you I already bet my life on this, and I'm still standing." She met his eyes. "Stay, and I'll show you the inside of the operation by week's end. Walk, and you take that picture with you and explain it to whoever's paying you next." Achilles looked at the photo a long moment. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down. "One week," he said. Marcus nodded once and left. Outside, an eyebot hummed past the window, slow and searching. Zelda watched it go. The alliance was whole now — and somebody already knew it.