My door visits go nowhere.
And every second I used my privilege to keep quiet, he used fire to keep them alive.
I hitch a ride on a public transport rail and drop onto a sidewalk miles away from home. I dig out a redundant access point login chip—a relic from my internship days far before the Senate. I jack in from an old entertainment kiosk.
Nothing.
The lockout is total.
My own name is a dead key card now.
I’m an exile in my own world.
And the truth isn’t hiding anymore. It’s just behind a door I can’t open with a smile and a signature.
I breathe in cold air. I breathe out smoke.
“I’m done apologizing in text,” I say to nobody.
The kiosk boots me out with a beep.
I tuck the chip into my pocket.
Time to stop hiding.
Time to find a way to fix what I broke—even if it burns down everything I believed in.
Even if I have to break into the one place I swore to protect.
I turn my collar up against the wind and head toward the Old District. Toward the physical vaults.
It’s time to see what Dennis is really hiding.
CHAPTER 14
KENRON
The protest footage loops on the cracked display in the back of the prep kitchen. I watch myself speak, jaw tight, hands clenched around the mic like I could wring blood from it. The words boom from the cheap speakers: “We built this district with our hands, our fire, our sweat!”
It sounds powerful.
But it feels hollow now.
There’s broth bubbling on the back burner, scorched just enough to taste like ashes. I haven’t changed out the filters in two days. Everyone says the kitchen smells like roasted fennel and sharp cumin. I can’t smell anything but smoke and metal.
I scrub my palms against the towel tucked into my belt and shut off the screen.
I’m so goddamn tired.
Of being the voice. The banner. The battle cry.
I never wanted to be a hero.
I just wanted to cook.
And her.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
