The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. She’s learned to read my silences, to understand that I need time to process emotional information the same way she needs to talk through analytical problems.
“We’re moving tonight,” I say finally. “After midnight, when foot traffic dies down.”
“Where?”
“Downtown. Union Station area. More crowds, better transit options, places Phoenix can’t control easily.”
“Can you walk that far?”
It’s an honest question deserving of an honest answer. “If I pace myself. Take breaks. Let you help when I need it.”
“Just tell me what you need.” No hesitation, no doubt.
What I need. Not what tactical situations require or mission parameters demand. What I, Cooper McKenzie, need from her.
The distinction matters more than it should.
She returns to the decoded Phoenix communications, and I watch her work. The way she processes information, talks through problems, and builds understanding piece by piece. The academic habits that first irritated me now seem like strategic advantages. She thinks out loud because it helps her process. Simple as that.
I lean back against the concrete wall, eyes closing despite the tactical risk. Blood loss creates fatigue that’s hard to fight, and her presence beside me creates a sense of security I haven’t felt in years. She’s watching for threats while I recover. Standing guard while the guardian rests.
She’s protecting me.
The irony isn’t lost on me. The woman I was hired to keep safe is now the one maintaining security while I deal with injury and exhaustion. But instead of feeling diminished, it feels like a partnership. Like having backup I can trust.
“Cooper.” Her voice pulls me back from the edge of sleep. “These Phoenix communications—they reference a specific timeline. ‘Phase Three authorization pending until target date.’ That’s soon.”
“What happens then?”
“I don’t know, but Phoenix is working toward a deadline.” Her fingers move across the keyboard, pulling up more decoded messages. “And whatever they’re planning requires corporate infrastructure to be in place first.”
The timeline compression makes tactical sense. Phoenix isn’t adapting to our discovery—it’s accelerating an existing operational plan. Whatever Ashfall represents, whatever Phase Three means, we’ve forced it to move faster than it wants.
“How much more can you decode before we move?”
“Give me four hours. I can have most of their recent communications analyzed.”
“You have three hours. Then we prep for movement.”
She nods, accepts the timeline without argument. She understands operational necessities and trusts my tactical judgment, just as I’m learning to trust her analytical expertise.
The pain medication from my go-bag dulls the worst of the shoulder pain, but it also makes thinking harder. My eyelids feel heavy, and staying alert requires conscious effort. But Eliza’s presence beside me, her fingers moving across the keyboard, the soft sound of her breathing—it all creates a sense of security that lets my guard down just enough to rest.
Not sleep. Never full sleep in hostile territory. But rest. Recovery. Letting my body heal while she maintains watch.
“Cooper?” Her voice is softer now, careful not to startle me.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. For trusting me to keep watch.”
The simple gratitude hits harder than expected. She understands what it means for someone like me to be able to rest while someone else handles security. To show vulnerability instead of strength. To accept help instead of providing it.
“Thank you for earning that trust.”
She smiles, returns to her work, and I let my eyes close again, just for a few minutes. Just long enough to allow the painkillers to work and my strength to return.
Outside, the sounds of the city continue—traffic, sirens, the normal rhythms of a place where people live their lives unaware that an artificial intelligence is systematically infiltrating every system that keeps their world functioning.
