I need the physical archives.
And if my digital keys are gone… I’m going to have to find another way in.
I catch the elevator and ride it down twelve floors, heart hammering. I’m halfway to the shuttle terminal when I see him.
Dennis.
Tall, chrome suit, slick smile.
He’s outside my building, talking with a security officer. The man points at something on a datapad. They laugh.
I press myself into an alcove.
Dennis turns, eyes scanning the parking strip.
He doesn’t see me.
But his words carry, unnecessarily loud.
“Lock access tight until the vote cycle closes. Anyone who pokes around gets flagged for interview. No exceptions.”
My stomach drops.
I back away.
Slowly.
Quietly.
And run.
By the time I hit street level, my chest’s on fire.
There’s a newsfeed glowing from a wall-screen nearby.
The protest’s airing again.
I force myself to watch.
Kenron’s voice is thunder through static. His jaw’s set, his armor catching light. Flame-colored banners whip behind him. The crowd roars.
And for just a breath, the world pauses.
Because there he is.
Alive.
Untouchable.
Not mine.
He lifts his chin at a chant I can’t make out. I think it’s his name. Or maybe the district’s. His mouth moves in a half-smile that hurts worse than any silence.
He belongs to them now.
Not to me.
My messages are still unanswered.
