Factory reset. Full overwrite. No shortcuts.
The progress bar appears, creeping forward like it has all the time in the world.
I send one more message to Grim.
SAINT: Wiping now. Leaving immediately.
The bar crawls past twenty percent, then thirty. I pull my boots on while it works, fingers moving faster than the machine ever will to fluff my hair out. Make it look like I’ve actually been doing something in here.
A knock hits the door. Sharp.
“Saint.”
“Boots,” I call back evenly. “One second.”
Sixty percent.
Seventy.
Every nerve in my body hums. This is the danger zone, the space between action and consequence where everything can still go wrong.
“Fuck, Saint.” Another knock, harder this time. “We need to leave.”
“I know.”
Ninety percent.
Ninety-five.
The bar stalls at ninety-nine.
Son of a goddamn bitch.Of course it does.
I stare at the sliver of empty space like I can will it to fill. One second passes. Then another. The laptop fan kicks up, whining in protest and I’m afraid he’ll hear it.
“Saint,” Alejandro says, his voice tight now.
“Almost.”
“If you don’t come out in five seconds, I’m coming in.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
The progress bar completes.
I snap the laptop shut, yank the battery free, and shove both under the red pile of the stolen uniform. I straighten and pull my backpack on.
“Hold your fucking horses,” I say, steady as stone, ripping the door open before Alejandro knocks again. I’m holding an armful of red fabric, bundled tightagainst my chest.
“Hold this,” I say, shoving my bag into his hands. “I need to toss these.”
He takes it automatically, eyes flicking down the corridor. “Make it fast.”
I move to the trash can near the registers and dump the uniform. The laptop follows, wrapped but still making a heavier sound than fabric should when it hits plastic.
