Jedao still isn't doing well, especially after the difficulty of talking with Fives. There's almost nothing Jedao can or can't do that doesn't feel like he's making it worse. But there's an alchemy of anticipation: just knowing something is coming and not knowing what exactly pricks deep old battle instincts, forces a little of the emotional miasma to make room for the new priority, a glimmer of what real war used to give him. He flies through his lunch shift, pouring himself into the tasks of his hands to keep from wondering and worrying and wondering.

He bolts down a solid meal at the beginning of the shift, plain fare that will carry him a long time, so that it's well settled by the time he gets off. He manages to dawdle all of five minutes. He leaves all of his weapons in his own room, feeling unbearably exposed for it in a way he never does for mere nakedness. He feels like he can suddenly feel every inch of his skin. He debates removing, but ultimately keeps, the Martian military-issue emergency chemical light that Holden gave him, currently unactivated, a slim and subtle bracelet tucked just under his uniform sleeve cuff.

He does knock, once and briskly, it feels polite to give Quentin that momentary alert before the action, but steps in after two seconds whether he hears a response or not. He keeps his breathing even, and thinks wildly that's another reason he shouldn't have picked pistol grip for the hand sign - he's doing it reflexively now. He really needs to work on that tell. But not today.

He forces himself not to look for Quentin, to stare and scour him for clues. He'll find out soon. Jedao turns his back on him, closes the door, and throws the lock.