“I’m not good at this kind of thing, remember? I failed the test,” I point out. My talents seem limited to interacting with Residents, and all that makes me is a sympathizer, according to Gil. “You’re a veiler—what if you just make something for me?”

“I could. But you need the practice.” She flicks my knee with her finger. “Besides, anything we make with our consciousness creates a bond. You’ll feel better in a dress you make yourself. Trust me.”

I stare at the material on my clothes, wondering how long it would take to make it shift. If it’s even possible. “Where do I begin?”

Shura jumps up from the bed and pulls me by the hands so I’m standing in front of her. “It’s like anything else,” she says, positioning me in front of the mirror. “You start from the bottom and work your way up.”

When I see him, the words fly out of my mouth like a chemical reaction. “What are you doing here?”

Gil is in the center of the sparring ring, hands firmly in his pockets. “You didn’t show up for dance lessons.”

“I hope you didn’t come all this way for an apology.”

“The Dawn Festival is in a week,” he says matter-of-factly. “Learning to waltz could mean the difference between getting through the night and blowing your cover.”

“I don’t care.” I repeat his words, immediately hating how petty it sounds.

His lip quirks. “And yet you’re still making time to train.”

I push past him and find the makeshift punching bag near one of the weapons racks. “You don’t need to be here. I can train on my own.” I throw jab after jab, savoring the sound of the bag popping beneath the weight of my punches.

Gil doesn’t budge. “The mission has to come first. Those are the rules.”

“I know that.” Pop.

“However we feel about each other can’t matter.”

Pop. Pop. Thwack. “I have no feelings about you whatsoever. It’s called indifference.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

I punch the bag as hard as I can, and it goes flying back into the wall with supersonic force.

I stand with my fists still up, stunned. The bag teeters for a moment before toppling on its side. Stretching my fingers, I stare at my palms with a hazy focus, going back and forth between my hands and the fallen bag.

I did that.

Gil sniffs from behind me. “Not bad. You have no self-control whatsoever, but not bad.”

I spin around, eyes wide. “What is it you want?”

He lifts his shoulders simply. “I want what Annika wants—what we all want.” His hazel eyes look as if they hold the weight of the entire Resistance within them. “I want to be free.”