“No need.” I picked up the top page and scanned the numbers I already understood. White blood cell count through the roof. Liver enzymes off the charts. Organ systems failing one by one as the biohacking serum that Kovacs had pumped into me continued its work. “Four to six weeks.”
“Could be eight with aggressive treatment.”
I set the paper down, refusing to let my hand shake. The gold lines beneath my skin pulsed brighter for a moment, a web of light tracing along my forearm. They used to only appear during surges of strength or aggression. Now they glowed constantly, a countdown clock I couldn’t turn off.
“Define aggressive treatment.”
Alistair leaned back in his chair, the metal legs scraping against the concrete floor of the medical bay. “We continuethe enzyme therapy, double the anti-rejection meds, add a new experimental compound Kate found in Kovacs’s research. It might slow the cellular deterioration.”
“Might.”
“Yes.” He didn’t sugar-coat it. I respected that about him. “But I should warn you the side effects are significant. Nausea, muscle weakness, potential neurological impacts.”
“So I’ll feel even worse while I wait to die.” I rubbed my thumb against my palm, feeling the strange, slick texture my skin had developed. Not quite human anymore. That had been the point of Kovacs’s experiment, after all. Make a better soldier. Create the perfect weapon. Too bad the programming was eating me from the inside out.
I’d known this was coming. Had felt it in the increasing pain that woke me at night, my muscles cramping as the gold patterns flared beneath my skin. Had seen it in the bathroom mirror each morning, my face growing gaunter, eyes taking on that metallic sheen that didn’t look human. Had felt it in the mornings when my body refused to cooperate, limbs heavy and unresponsive until I forced them into motion through sheer willpower.
But knowing and hearing the confirmation out loud were different things.
Four to six weeks. Maybe eight.
The truth settled into my bones. I was going to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing Alistair or anyone else could do about it. After fifteen years in Special Forces and black ops, running ops that should have killed me a hundred times over, I was being taken out by something injected into my veins while I lay unconscious on a lab table. Not a bullet or an IED or even a knife in some dark alley. Just my own cells turning against me, programmed to self-destruct by people who saw me as nothing but an experiment.
I’d made peace with dying a long time ago. You don’t survive in this business without accepting the risks. But I’d always thought it would mean something. That I’d go out protecting someone, completing a mission, serving some greater purpose. Not fading away in a medical bay while my team watched helplessly.
The worst part wasn’t dying. The worst part was leaving without finishing what we started. Leaving Edge Ops without closure on Innovixus.
Leaving Sophia, the daughter I’ll never get to know.
Leaving Kate.
My chest tightened at the thought of her, a physical pain distinct from the constant burning in my muscles. She’d been working herself to exhaustion these past weeks, splitting her time between ops planning and helping Alistair research potential treatments. I’d told her not to waste her time, that there were more important things for the team’s cybersecurity expert to focus on. She’d ignored me completely.
“You should tell the team,” Alistair said, breaking the silence. “They deserve to know where things stand.”
“They know.” I gestured to the medical equipment surrounding us, the IV lines and monitors that had become my constant companions. “They’re not stupid.”
“Knowing and being told officially are different things.” He crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me with steady eyes that always saw too much. “Especially for Kate.”
I looked away, unwilling to let him see whatever might be visible on my face at the mention of her name. “I’ll talk to them.”
A noise from the doorway pulled both our attention. Kate stood there, arms crossed in front of her small frame. She wore the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, her light brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that told me she’d been workingthrough the night again. The bright blue streak she’d added last week stood out against the brown, vivid as a warning sign.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.
“Long enough.” She stepped into the room, her gaze flicking to the folder in Alistair’s hands before meeting mine. “Your hands are worse today.”
I flexed my fingers, watching the gold patterns flare brighter. “Just means I won’t be winning any marksmanship competitions.”
She didn’t smile. Kate rarely smiled these days.
“You should have gone to the wedding,” I told her. “They would have wanted you there.”
Her eyes sharpened. “I was where I needed to be.”
The words hung between us, heavy with everything we didn’t say.
“You look terrible,” she added, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.
