The name hung in the air between them like a wire pulled taut.
Specter.
Zara's fingers were numb on the rifle. Not from cold, from the word. From the way it traveled through her nervous system on pathways that shouldn't have existed anymore, reaching a place in her skull that the erasure had emptied but not destroyed. A room with no furniture. A lock with no key. Except the key was a word, and the word was her name, and the door was opening whether she wanted it to or not.
*A hallway. White. Fluorescent light humming at a frequency that the human ear wasn't supposed to register but that her augmented cochlea picked up and filed as background noise. Someone walking beside her, footsteps synced, stride matched, the particular rhythm of two operatives moving in formation without needing to communicate because the formation was encoded in their bodies the way breathing was encoded in their lungs—*
The memory hit and released in under a second. A flash. A taste of something sterile and cold. Then gone.
The Ghost on the western walkway hadn't moved. Twenty meters of concrete bridge between them. The operative's pale gray eyes were fixed on Zara with an intensity that had nothing to do with targeting and everything to do with recognition, the particular shock of finding something you'd been told was destroyed.
"You're dead," the Ghost said. Not an accusation. A statement of fact that the facts were contradicting. "Specter was terminated. Full erasure. Seven years ago."
Zara's mouth worked. The rifle was pointed at the Ghost's center mass, but her trigger finger was slack against the guard. The conditioning, Specter's conditioning, the thing she'd inherited without asking, wouldn't let her fire. Not yet. Not while the Ghost was talking instead of fighting. The conditioning recognized a fellow operative the way dogs recognized their own breed: instinctively, beneath the level of conscious decision.
"I'm not Specter."
"Your reflexes are."
A burst of automatic fire from the northern side of level four shattered the moment. CSD soldiers pushing from the stairwell perimeter, expanding their foothold, and the sound broke whatever held Zara and the Ghost in their strange suspension. Zara snapped left, toward the stairwell, toward the fight that was real and immediate and didn't require her to answer questions about a name she didn't remember earning.
The Ghost didn't follow.
---
The CSD's stairwell foothold was growing.
Sixteen soldiers on level four now, the breach team feeding bodies through the exit in ones and twos during every suppression cycle, the transport weapons hammering the structure's open faces to keep the Saints pinned while the infantry expanded. They'd taken three pillars on the northern edge and were pushing south, using the concrete columns as stepping stones, each captured pillar giving them cover for the advance to the next one.
Kael was everywhere. Not physically, she held the central column position, her rifle working with the mechanical regularity of someone who'd passed through exhaustion into the territory beyond it where the body operated on something other than energy. But her voice was everywhere. Adjustments. Corrections. The particular tactical language of a commander who was managing a shrinking perimeter with the competence of someone who understood that management was the only weapon she had left.
"South position, shift your fire left. They're using the pillar shadow. Left, two degrees. There."
"Walkway team, hold. Hold. Don't waste rounds on the bridge. Wait for bodies."
"Medic to the central column. Garath's hit."
Zara reached the eastern flank. Two Saints fighters behind the interior pillars, firing north into the CSD perimeter. A body on the concrete between them, Cell Seven, male, early thirties, a round through his left eye that had ended everything instantly. The fighters on either side of him hadn't moved him yet. No time. The body lay where it had fallen, and the fighters stepped around it the way you step around furniture in a dark room, acknowledging the obstacle without examining it.
She shouldered in beside the left-flank fighter and fired north. Her cybernetic eye found targets, CSD soldiers behind pillars, exposed elbows, helmet edges, the fragments of human geometry that extended beyond cover when cover was a concrete column and the human body was wider than concrete. She fired at the fragments. Hit one, an elbow, the round shearing through the joint, the soldier's arm jerking back with the wet crack of bone giving way to metal moving at velocities bone wasn't designed to resist.
*Aim for the joints. Armor doesn't cover the joints. The body bends at seventeen major points, and every bend is a gap.*
The knowledge arrived without invitation. Specter's knowledge. The tactical education that the Ghost program had installed in a body that was now Zara's, surfacing under combat stress the way bruises surface after impact, delayed, inevitable, discolored versions of an event that had already occurred.
She fired at another joint. A knee, exposed below a pillar's edge. The round hit. The soldier's leg buckled. He fell sideways from cover, and the right-flank fighter put two rounds into his chest before he reached the ground.
Fast. Efficient. The particular economy of violence that Specter had been built for.
Zara's hands were steady. That was the part that frightened her. Two years in the pits had given her comfort with violence, but the pits were messy, improvisational, bodies colliding without precision. This was different. This was surgical. Her body was performing actions that her brain recognized as lethal choreography, target identification, vulnerability assessment, strike execution, with a fluency that exceeded anything she'd learned in the Underground.
She wasn't fighting like Zero. She was fighting like someone else.
The CSD soldiers noticed. The fire from the eastern flank had shifted, from suppressive to precise, from the volume fire of desperate defenders to the targeted shooting of someone who understood exactly where the armor wasn't. Two soldiers pulled back from the eastern pillar advance, retreating to deeper cover, and the eastern push stalled.
But the western push didn't.
---
The eastern Ghost hit the walkway debris blockage at speed.
Zara heard it, the crash of a body hitting the piled debris that Kael's fighters had dragged across the eastern walkway entrance, the particular sound of someone with augmented strength applying that strength to an obstacle that augmented strength could solve. The debris shifted. Metal screamed against concrete. A gap opened in the blockage, and through the gap came a shape that moved the way all Ghosts moved: too fast, too fluid, wrong.
The Ghost came through low, under the top layer of debris, sliding across the walkway floor on one hip with a sidearm in his right hand. He fired as he slid, two shots, precise, aimed at the fighters who'd been covering the entrance from behind the nearest pillar. The first round hit the pillar. The second hit flesh.
A Saints fighter, Cell Seven, the one who'd called out the first drone strike, staggered backward from the pillar with his hand on his abdomen. The round had entered below the tactical vest's front panel, through the gap between the panel and the belt line, and the fighter's face went white in the half-second between impact and pain. He sat down. Not voluntarily. His legs stopped working and the sitting was what happened when legs stopped working and gravity didn't.
The Ghost came to his feet on the other side of the debris pile. Inside the perimeter. Fast, moving toward the interior positions, the sidearm tracking left and right for targets.
Kael's voice: "Eastern breach! Ghost inside the perimeter!"
Two fighters swung toward the Ghost. The Ghost was faster. He moved between the pillars like water between rocks, each column used for a fraction of a second of cover before the next lateral movement carried him to the next. The fighters fired at where he'd been. The Ghost fired at where they were. One fighter dropped, leg shot, a round through the thigh that dropped him to the concrete with a cry that the parking structure's acoustics turned into an echo that bounced off every surface.
Sev intercepted.
Not with a weapon. With the parking structure.
She'd been at the eastern side of level four, working the barricades, and when the Ghost breached she didn't run toward the operative. She ran to the support column nearest the Ghost's path, the concrete pillar that held the ceiling slab of level five above the floor of level four, and she pulled the cable she'd looped around its base during the initial setup. A cable connected to a second cable connected to a support brace that she'd weakened during the barricade construction, the particular engineering sabotage of someone who understood structures well enough to know which parts could be compromised without collapsing the whole.
The support brace gave way. Not the pillar, the brace that reinforced the ceiling slab's connection to the pillar's capital. The ceiling slab above the Ghost's position lurched. Two inches. Not a collapse, a shift, a displacement, the concrete overhead moving just enough to shed its surface layer in a cascade of fragments and dust that fell on the Ghost like a localized avalanche.
The Ghost stumbled. The debris hit his shoulders, his head, his weapon hand. Concrete dust filled the air around him, blinding, choking, converting the clear sight lines of a combat engagement into the zero-visibility chaos of a structural failure. He fired blind. Two rounds into the dust. Both hit concrete.
The Saints fighter at the nearest pillar fired into the dust cloud. Not aimed, volume, filling the space where the Ghost had been with rounds that didn't need to be precise because the Ghost couldn't see well enough to dodge.
A hit. Zara heard it, the particular sound of a round striking subdermal armor, the dull impact that was harder than flesh and softer than steel. The Ghost grunted. Moved. Out of the dust cloud, toward the eastern walkway, retreating through the debris pile with the augmented speed that even a damaged Ghost could produce. He hit the debris, went over it, one hand on the top edge, the body vaulting, and was on the walkway, moving back toward the adjacent building.
Blood on the debris pile. Not much. The subdermal armor had caught most of the round's energy, but some had penetrated, enough to leave a smear on the twisted metal, enough to confirm that Ghost operatives could bleed if you dropped a ceiling on them first.
"Sev." Zara moved to the engineer's position. Sev was on one knee beside the compromised support column, her hand on the cable, her face covered in the same concrete dust that had blinded the Ghost. "What was that?"
"Structural persuasion." Sev wiped dust from her eyes. "The ceiling slab is supported at sixteen points on this level. I can compromise three more before the structural integrity becomes genuinely dangerous. Each one gives us a debris drop in a four-meter radius around the column. One-time use. Once the slab layer sheds, the column is bare."
"Three more ceiling drops."
"Three. And Commander, the next one might bring down more than ceiling fragments. This structure is old. The rebar connections are corroded. I can guarantee debris. I can't guarantee the debris stays above ankle level."
A weapon that might kill the enemy. A weapon that might kill the user. The kind of tool that the situation was producing because the situation had consumed every tool that was better.
"Mark the columns. Tell Kael which positions to keep clear."
Sev nodded. Moved. The engineer with the improvised weapon and the corroded building and the particular confidence of someone who understood that structural integrity was a spectrum, not a binary, and that the spectrum had useful points between "safe" and "collapsed."
---
Thirty-one minutes.
The receiver crackled and Maret lunged for it. Static. She adjusted. More static. The window wasn't open, the thermal convection in the flood zone cycling through patterns that didn't align, Viktor's voice somewhere in the electromagnetic noise but unreachable.
"Nothing," Maret said. "The windows are getting shorter. The water temperature is changing, the transports' fans are churning the surface, disrupting the convection layers."
The battle was destroying the communication channel that the battle depended on. The CSD's transports, idling in the flooded street, their fans agitating the water, were changing the thermal dynamics that created the signal windows. The longer the battle lasted, the harder it became to confirm that the broadcast was still coming.
Twenty-nine minutes. Maybe. If the timeline held. If Jin's modifications to the Pipeline's control node worked. If the pipe network's signal infrastructure was intact enough to function as an antenna. If the CSD didn't find Viktor and Jin in the Pipeline before the broadcast was ready.
If. If. If. The word was a foundation made of paper, and Zara was building a building on it.
Deshi appeared at the communications station. The canteen in his hand. His face carrying nothing, not grief, not anger, not the particular expressions that adults wore when they were processing loss. Nothing. The blankness of a boy who'd put everything that wasn't functional into a box and closed the lid and was operating on what remained, which was the job, which was water, which was enough.
He held the canteen out to Maret. Maret took it. Drank. Handed it back. Deshi moved on. The route. The schedule. The discipline that was the wall between him and the room on the other side of the wall where his grandfather's body lay under a jacket that Hana had pulled from the supply stores because it was the only covering available and because even in a parking structure under siege, the dead deserved to be covered.
Zara watched him for two seconds. Then she turned back to the fight.
---
The female Ghost hit the western barricade twenty-three minutes before the broadcast.
Not hard. Not the explosive breach that the eastern Ghost had attempted with his speed and sidearm and the particular aggression of an operative executing a standard assault protocol. The female Ghost came to the barricade and stopped. Stood on the walkway side, three meters from the concrete-and-rebar barrier, her pale gray eyes visible over the top edge.
Zara was ten meters away, at the interior pillar position, covering the western approach. She swung the rifle toward the Ghost. Found the sight picture. The Ghost's face in the reticle, young, angular, the subdermal armor ridge along her jaw catching the ambient light from the transport spotlights.
The Ghost raised her hands. Not surrender, display. Showing that they were empty. The sidearm holstered. The hands open, palms forward, the universal human gesture that predated language and augmentation and the particular complications that both had introduced to the simple act of communicating without violence.
"I'm not coming over," the Ghost said. Clear. Audible. The walkway carrying her voice to Zara's position with the acoustic efficiency of a concrete channel. "Not yet."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Talking." The Ghost's gray eyes moved across the interior of level four, the barricades, the fighters, the civilians under the ramp, the bodies on the concrete. Reading the position the way Zara would read it, the way any Ghost would read it: threat assessment, force disposition, structural weaknesses, tactical options. "Your people can't hold this position. You know that. Twenty minutes, maybe less, the soldiers below will push your eastern flank and the position collapses."
"We'll hold."
"You'll die. All of you. The civilians under the ramp, the boy with the water. The medic. Everyone." The Ghost paused. Her hands were still raised, still empty. "Specter wouldn't have let that happen."
The name again. The key turning in the lock that Zara didn't want opened.
"I'm not Specter."
"Your combat patterns say otherwise. I've seen the archive footage. The way you move, the way you fire, the way you shifted to joint targeting during the eastern engagement, that's Ghost Protocol Module Seven, close-quarters adaptive targeting. Standard operative issue. You're running on training you don't remember receiving."
"What do you want?"
The Ghost lowered her hands. Slowly. The movement deliberate, each centimeter a negotiation with Zara's trigger finger. "I've read the documents. The ones your defector carried to the transport. The harvesting data."
"And?"
"And I have questions." The Ghost's voice changed, not softer, not harder, but different. The institutional accent of the program still there, but beneath it, something that the conditioning was supposed to have eliminated. Doubt. "The documents show extraction quotas. Operative source coding. Memory harvest volumes linked to operative identification numbers."
Zara waited.
"My identification number is in the data. Operative 14-7. My extraction quota, the volume of civilian memory harvested through my operations over the last three years, is four hundred and twelve terabytes." The Ghost's jaw tightened. The subdermal armor ridge shifted with the muscle movement. "Four hundred and twelve terabytes of human experience. Taken from people I was told were criminal elements. Resource allocation targets. Population optimization subjects."
The euphemisms. Eleanor Ashford's language, the corporate terminology that converted atrocity into process, that made the consumption of human minds sound like inventory management.
"They weren't criminals," Zara said.
"I know that now." The Ghost's hands were at her sides. The sidearm still holstered. The body still on the walkway, still outside the barricade, still in the space between assault and conversation. "I know that because your defector's evidence is specific enough to verify independently. The names. The addresses. The dates. These are people with records. Families. Employment histories. Not criminals. Not optimization targets. People."
From the stairwell side, a burst of fire. Kael returning shots. A CSD soldier trying to push the eastern perimeter farther south. The ordinary violence of the engagement continuing while Zara and the Ghost stood on opposite sides of a barricade having a conversation that the engagement didn't have time for but that the situation demanded.
"What are you going to do?" Zara asked.
The Ghost looked at her. The gray eyes, the pigment change, the side effect of neural restructuring, the cosmetic signature that marked every Ghost operative as a product of the program, held something that the conditioning wasn't supposed to allow. Not defection. Not rebellion. Something smaller, something more human: the particular discomfort of a person who'd just learned that the ground they'd been standing on was made of other people's bones.
"I'm going to hold this walkway," the Ghost said. "Nothing crosses. East or west."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now." The Ghost stepped back. One step. Two. Retreating down the walkway toward the adjacent building, her eyes still on Zara, her hands still empty. "Twenty minutes, Specter. Whatever you're waiting for, it needs to arrive in twenty minutes. After that, the lieutenant will override my restraint and send the full team."
She reached the walkway's midpoint. Stopped. Turned her back to Zara and faced the adjacent building's doorway, where the CSD assault force's walkway element would stage the next breach attempt. The Ghost stood in the middle of the bridge. Blocking it. Not blocking it from Zara's defenders, blocking it from the CSD's assault team.
The Ghost operative was holding the walkway. Against her own side.
---
Eighteen minutes.
The CSD pushed the eastern flank hard. Without the walkway element, the soldiers who'd been using the bridges to attack from the sides, the assault concentrated on the stairwell, and the stairwell was producing soldiers onto level four at a rate that the Saints' contracting fire couldn't contain. Twenty soldiers on level four now. Twenty soldiers with cover, with ammunition, with the institutional patience of a force that understood it was winning and that winning was a matter of continuing to do what it was doing for long enough.
Kael burned through ammunition. Her fighters burned through ammunition. The supply crates that had served as barricade material had also served as ammunition stores, and both uses were extracting from a finite pool. Every crate used for cover was a crate not used for ammunition. Every round fired was a round that didn't exist anymore.
The perimeter shrank. South. The Saints' fighters pulling back from the interior pillars to the final positions, the ring of cover around the civilian shelter under the ramp, the last viable defensive geometry that level four's structure offered. The ring was small. Twelve meters across. Thirty-four effective fighters in a twelve-meter circle, firing outward at a perimeter that was closing from the north and east with the measured inevitability of a force that had numbers and time and the particular mathematics that both of those things produced.
"Commander." Kael's voice. Tight. The steadiness cracking at the edges, the command register that had held through ninety minutes of fighting finding its limits. "We're at the final position. If they push past the south pillar line, there's nothing between them and the civilians."
"I know."
"How many minutes?"
"Eighteen. Maybe."
"We don't have eighteen."
Zara knew. She'd known since the stairwell fell. She'd known since the eastern flank collapsed. She'd known with the tactical certainty that Specter's training provided whether she wanted it or not, the operational assessment that processed force ratios and ammunition counts and casualty rates and produced conclusions that the assessor's preferences couldn't alter.
They didn't have eighteen minutes. They had eight. Maybe ten. The CSD would breach the final perimeter in eight minutes, and when the perimeter breached, the fight would end, and the ending would be the kind that produced bodies and silence and the particular stillness that followed violence when violence had consumed everything it had been pointed at.
Eight minutes. The broadcast was eighteen minutes away. The gap between survival and extinction was ten minutes wide, and the gap was closing.
*You've been here before. Different building. Different fight. Same math.*
The fragment hit her like a slap. Not a visual memory, a sensation. The feeling of standing in a position that the numbers said was dead, holding it anyway, holding it because the mission required it and the mission was the only thing that existed when the conditioning was running and the conditioning was always running.
Specter's conditioning. Specter's experience. The particular knowledge of a woman who'd held impossible positions before because the Ghost program had pointed her at impossible positions and said *hold this* and she had held them because holding was what she was built for.
Zara gripped the rifle. Looked at the closing perimeter. Looked at the CSD soldiers advancing through the pillar grid, methodical, patient, the institutional machinery of a force that was processing toward its objective with the inevitability of water finding its level.
She stepped out from cover.
Not behind a pillar. Not behind a barricade. Out. Into the open space between the Saints' final perimeter and the CSD's advancing line. The space that no sane person would enter because the space was a kill zone for both sides, the no-man's-land where bullets from every direction converged.
Her body moved. Not Zara's movement, the hesitant, improvised, pit-fighter movement that two years of underground brawling had created. Specter's movement. Fluid. Fast. The cybernetic eye tracking targets with a precision that exceeded her conscious processing, the augmented muscles firing in sequences that her brain hadn't ordered, the conditioning taking over because the conditioning had been designed for exactly this: the moment when the situation exceeded the capacity of conscious decision-making and the body needed to operate on its own.
She fired. The rifle kicked. A CSD soldier behind a pillar, exposed elbow, the joint gap that the body's design made inevitable, took the round and lost the arm's function. She pivoted. Fired again. Another joint. A knee. The soldier dropped. She moved, two steps left, fast, the lateral motion that the Ghost on the walkway had used, the movement that violated the normal physics of human locomotion because the muscles producing it were operating under protocols that normal humans didn't have.
Three CSD soldiers turned their fire toward her. She was already behind a pillar. Not the pillar they were firing at, the one adjacent to it, two meters left, the position she'd moved to in the fraction of a second between their trigger pulls and the rounds' arrival. The rounds hit the first pillar. She fired from the second. Hit a shoulder. Hit a wrist.
Joints. Always the joints. The body bends at seventeen points, and every bend is a gap.
The CSD advance stalled. Not because she'd killed anyone, she hadn't, the shots were wounds, disabling, the particular marksmanship of someone who was removing combatants without ending them because removal was more efficient than killing. A dead soldier is still. A wounded soldier requires two others to carry him. Every wound cost the CSD three soldiers.
Kael saw it. Used it. The stall gave her fighters time to redistribute, shifting fire, reinforcing the south pillar line, converting the eight-minute timeline into twelve. Maybe fourteen.
Still not eighteen. But closer.
Zara made it back behind the perimeter. Her hands were shaking again, not from fear, from the aftershock of the conditioning running her body like a puppeteer running a marionette. She'd moved as Specter. Fought as Specter. The rifle in her hands had done things that Zara couldn't do and that Specter could, and the difference between those two people was shrinking with every engagement.
"Commander." Maret's voice. Sharp. The communications specialist was standing at the receiver, her hand on the dial, her face carrying the particular expression of someone who'd found something in the static. "Signal. Not Viktor. Different frequency. CSD command channel, I can't decrypt the content, but the header codes are..." She trailed off. Adjusted. Listened. "Commander. A new formation is entering the district from the east. CSD reinforcement element. Ten vehicles. They're eight minutes from our position."
Reinforcements. CSD reinforcements. Eight minutes.
The same eight minutes that the Saints had left.
The math collapsed. Ten vehicles of reinforcements arriving in eight minutes, adding fresh soldiers to a force that was already winning, converting a fight that the Saints might have stretched to fourteen minutes into one that wouldn't last past the reinforcements' arrival.
Fourteen minutes. The broadcast was eighteen minutes away. The gap had been ten minutes. Now it was four. And the four was being filled by ten CSD vehicles carrying enough soldiers to end the fight before the broadcast could begin.
The receiver crackled. Static. Maret worked the dial. The window opened, narrow, thin, barely enough for a voice to pass through.
Not Viktor's voice. Jin's.
"...broadcast array ready... repeat, array is live... decrypted data loaded... waiting for Commander authorization to transmit... fifteen minutes to final calibration... fifteen, not eighteen... repeat, fifteen..."
Fifteen minutes. Not eighteen. Jin had cut three minutes from the timeline.
Fifteen minutes. The reinforcements were eight minutes away. The perimeter would hold for twelve, maybe, if the reinforcements were slower than expected, if the CSD soldiers on level four didn't push before the fresh troops arrived.
Seven minutes. The gap between survival and the broadcast was seven minutes. Fifteen minus eight. Seven minutes that needed to come from somewhere.
Zara grabbed the transmitter. "Jin. You have to cut it. Cut everything you can. Cut the calibration. Broadcast raw if you have to."
Static. The window thinning.
Jin's voice, fast, the words tumbling over each other: "...can't broadcast uncalibrated, the signal won't lock to Ghost frequencies, it'll scatter, they won't receive it, it'll be noise, I need the calibration to target the—"
The window closed. The static returned. Jin's voice dissolved into the particular electromagnetic noise of a flooded district that was consuming every signal that tried to cross it.
Seven minutes. Seven minutes between the broadcast and the reinforcements, between the signal and the silence, between the data reaching the Ghost operatives' augmented receivers and the CSD's fresh troops ending the fight before it mattered.
On the western walkway, the female Ghost stood at the midpoint of the bridge. Her back to the Saints. Her face toward the CSD staging area. Blocking the walkway. Holding her position against her own side for reasons she'd articulated as questions rather than answers.
Twenty CSD soldiers on level four. Ten vehicles approaching from the east. Thirty-four Saints fighters in a twelve-meter perimeter. Fifteen minutes to broadcast. Eight minutes to reinforcements.
And somewhere in the Pipeline, in a subsurface junction beneath the flooded streets, a teenage hacker was trying to turn a network of corroded pipes into an antenna that could change everything, if the everything still existed in fifteen minutes.
Kael appeared beside Zara. Blood on her face from the cut above her eyebrow. More blood on her hands, not hers, someone else's, the transferred evidence of contact with a wounded fighter during a repositioning.
"The reinforcements," Kael said.
"I heard."
"We can't hold against reinforcements, Commander. Not with what we have."
"We don't need to hold against reinforcements. We need to hold for fifteen minutes."
"That's the same thing."
Zara looked at the western walkway. At the Ghost standing on the bridge. At the operative who'd read the harvesting data and found her own identification number in the extraction quotas and who was now standing between two armies because the ground she'd been standing on was made of other people's bones and she couldn't stand on it anymore.
"Maybe not," Zara said.
The transport fans screamed in the flooded street. The reinforcement column was approaching from the east. The CSD soldiers on level four were preparing the next push. The clock was counting down to a moment that would arrive whether anyone was ready for it or not, and readiness was a luxury that the situation had long since ceased to provide.
Fifteen minutes.
Deshi passed behind the perimeter. The canteen in his hand. His route. His schedule. The boy walked past his grandfather's covered body without looking down, because looking down was a door he couldn't open yet, and the only doors he was opening were the ones that led to the next fighting position and the next empty canteen and the next person who needed water more than he needed to grieve.
The water was warm. The water was enough.
Fourteen minutes, fifty seconds.
