Send.
The uniform comes off fast, practiced, rolled up and tossed in the corner. The heels are kicked off next. The mirror reflects a version of me that looks wrong without the hat, hair finger-coiled into place, lipstick still perfect like I didn’t just help nearly turn an international flight into a crime scene.
I’ve got to get rid of that. Taking the uniform again, I wipe the lipstick off like it’s offended me.
My phone stays stubbornly silent.
I pull the jeans on, tug the shirt over my head. My boots wait by the door. I glance at the phone again.
Nothing.
Alejandro finishes before I do. I hear his steps stop just outside the dressing room.
“Saint,” he says quietly. “You good?”
“Almost.”
I text Grim again.
SAINT: Inside the terminal. Need to move.
Still nothing.
I run a quick network check again, more out of superstition than necessity. Everything remains clean, which somehow makes my skin crawl more. Silence is never neutral.
“You need help with your fucking zipper or something?” Alejandro asks. “Because wereallyshould go.”
“I’m fixing my hair.”
“That is not a priority.”
I yank open the door, hiding my body behind it like I’m still dressing. “The last man that fucked with my hair is dead. You wanna be next?” I shut the door before he can answer. All I get from the other side is a frustrated huff.
I stare at the laptop, my reflection ghosted in the dark screen, warped by the dim light of the dressing room. It has been useful. More than that. It’s been my advantage, the thing that let me stay three steps ahead while everyone else chased shadows.
But Grim isn’t answering.
That’s the problem.
He should have answered by now. Even a single word. Even a curse. Silence from Grim is never neutral. It means he’s busy, compromised, or cutting a line onpurpose, and none of those options end well for the person still holding the data.
If this machine falls into the wrong hands, it won’t just tell them what we know. It’ll tell them who to burn.
And Alejandro won’t wait forever out there.
I can already feel the clock tightening, the thin thread of patience he’s holding snapping closer to the end. He’ll come in if I take too long. He’ll push. He’ll force movement. And once that happens, this stops being my decision.
I glance at the flip phone on the bench, willing it to light up, to vibrate, to give me anything at all. A single message would be enough. One word to justify keeping this alive.
Still, nothing.
Fine.
I look back at the laptop. This thing has become a liability, not because it exists, but because I’m the only one still listening to it. Too traceable. Too valuable.
The decision lands clean and hard.
I wipe it.
