Margo’s still there, silent.
“I don’t know what happens now,” I say.
“Neither do I,” she replies. “But I do know you’re not alone.”
I nod. My throat’s tight. “Thank you.”
“Be safe.”
The call ends.
I sit in the quiet for a long time, the sound of Kenron’s soft, rhythmic breathing grounding me.
Then I stand, walk over, and kneel beside him.
He stirs, eyes cracking open, drowsy but alert.
“It’s done,” I whisper.
He blinks. “You sent it?”
I nod.
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Then we move.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We burn the system down.”
We don’t have to wait long for results. I barely make it halfway through my caf before the net detonates.
The holoscreen flashes to life with a screech of overlapping alerts—newsfeeds scrambling to keep pace with the leak, anchor avatars glitching under the weight of fresh uploads. First it's just chatter. Then it turns to smoke.
“Unconfirmed reports of chemical payload manifests discovered in Novaria’s diplomatic trade stream?—”
“...grainy surveillance footage allegedly showing a member of the Montana family?—”
“—images retrieved from a catering manifest filed under alias ‘Ken Lorran,’ linked to known ex-military combat chef Kenron?—”
And then I see it.
My own damn face, blown up across a dozen screens. Hair pulled back tight, eyes fierce and focused, flanked by Kenron in full war leathers, his jaw set like he’s already walking into battle. I remember that moment. The alley behind Tarell’s supply outpost. We were just talking, but the image—the image looks like revolution.
“Kristi Montana, niece of Novaria’s own Dennis Montana, seen here possibly consorting with known insurgents?—”
Consorting. Like I’m a mistress, not a soldier.
The spin’s faster than I expected. Cleaner, too. They had this ready. Probably for months. Just waiting for me to slip.
I pace. The floorboards creak under my boots. I haven’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes. I can’t. My skin feels stretched too tight, nerves like live wires sparking beneath it. I half-expect the door to explode inward any second.
Instead, my compad chirps.
A private frequency.
I don’t recognize the code. But I recognize the rhythm. The sharp stutter of a security trace trying to stabilize a secure visual connection.
Only one person still calls me on that cadence.
I answer.
