“Elias,” she said, still in German, but slow enough that even I caught the meaning. “Check him.”

He started toward me. The shotgun stayed in his hands, angled low but ready. Each step was deliberate, measured, like he’d done this too many times to hurry now.

“Keep your hands up,” he said. “Wenn sie runtergehen, I pull the trigger. Don’t test it.”

“I won’t,” I said.

He circled me once, keeping just out of arm’s reach. His gaze moved over clothing and seams, searching for shapes that didn’t belong.

“Roll your sleeves,” he said. “Ärmel hoch. One arm at a time. Slow.”

I unclasped one hand from the other, feeling the tremor in my fingers, and pinched the cuff of my sleeve. I rolled it up to my elbow. The air bit at the bare skin. Old scrapes from training. A few pale scars. Nothing else.

“Other arm,” he said.

I repeated the motion. My hands felt clumsy. The cold and the adrenaline were starting to blur together.