Unshakable.
I pull the collar of my coat up against the wind.
And for the first time since the day I broke him, the deepest part of me whispers a single promise—not to him. Not yet.
But to myself.
You will not let this burn.
I start walking.
And I do not look back.
Later, I still find no solace. There’s no “ping.” No slight vibration in my comm pad. No silent flash of Tek-light. Just static, the same as last week. And the week before.
So I surrender.
Ink and paper.
It feels archaic. Against every instinct I’ve honed inside legislative halls and high-polish boardrooms. But the keyboard hasn’t answered. The screen hasn’t blinked back. So I go analog.
The paper is heavy, cream-toned. Handmade Vakutan–Terani hybrid fiber—something I tucked aside for perfection in less urgent times. I pull out the fountain pen, black-ink cartridge, and I settle at the small table in my living room. The skyline outside bleeds violet and silver, city lights shimmering like falling stars. One more hour of dusk before the neon takes over.
I begin:
Kenron—
I am not writing to apologize.
I am writing to tell you the truth.
The warmth of the lamp at my shoulder brushes the paper softly as I write. My hand moves in long, exact strokes. I try to steady the tremor in my fingers and fail. The ink feathers at a corner where I grip too hard.
I found the files. The ones hidden under ZP-1397. Directive Echelon. Nanite activation vector. Non-human host protocol.
I know your door was marked. The audit tag on your back door was no accident.
I helped open the door, Kenron.
And I’m coming to help close it—I will not walk away.
I pause and lean back, my back creaking like ancient wood in the chair. I smell the soft hum of the city behind the glass, thirsting for life. My stomach coils.
I cannot ask for forgiveness. I will not pretend I did not know.
There’s a shard of data. Copies of funding logs, genetic specification drafts, species-specific kill vectors.
I have it. I stash it with someone who trusts you.
I’m going to undo what we started.
If stepping into this fight kills me… I’m ready.
I sign my name on the last line:Kristi Montana. Then I fold the letter, tuck it into a pale-green envelope stamped with a discreet seal—the restaurant crest in miniature. I walk to the kitchen staff’s door.
It’s Kiv again. I see the flicker in her crest when she opens the door. What expression is that? Surprise? Fear? Hope?
“Here,” I say, voice low. “For the chef.”
