"Stand still—don't move," Valentin barked as he slammed a palm on the desk.
"Who the hell are you?" Grace snapped before she could think. Her hands were on the clipboard; the word "unknown" hovered over a folded form.
"Special forces. Identify yourself," he said, voice low, military calm cutting through the clinic chatter.
"You're in a hospital clinic," Leo, the assistant, said. "You can't just—"
Valentin ignored him. He stepped past the reception counter, boots leaving dust tracks on the tile. His uniform was marked with a faint line of ash. A dented helmet hung from his hand. The smell of cordite and diesel dragged behind him like a shadow.
"Patient?" Grace asked, forcing a smile. "We handle civilians here."
"This is urgent," he said. He leaned over the desk. His fingers rested on the same clipboard she had been holding. "Is Estelle Marshall here? Jasper Fitzgerald here?"
"Excuse me?" Grace's voice stayed steady. She slid the clipboard back like a shield.
A man in a linen coat at the next chair made a quiet, offended noise. He had been mid-consultation and had gone still.
"Who sent you?" Leo asked. He moved to stand closer to Grace, protective and useless at once.
Valentin's gaze locked on Grace. His jaw tightened. "You're Grace Stone."
The room inhaled. Someone turned down the radio. A child waiting with a scraped knee started to cry and was hushed.
"That's me," Grace said. "Do you have
