I crawl.
Over a fence. Down a slope. Into the trench near the koi recycling system. I slide through filth and algae and cold, greasy water, biting down a scream as my leg twists wrong.
When I come up, I’m in the lower district piping tunnel.
Safe. For now.
I limp through the conduit, one hand braced on the rusted wall, my bag still tight against my ribs.
When I surface, the lower city’s breathing.
Neon signs sputter above narrow alleys. Spiced steam rolls from a corner vendor. A child sings in broken Vakutan while her mother trades smuggled ration cards. The world turns.
And I—bleeding, filthy, half-dead—Ismile.
Because I made it.
Because now we have everything.
Proof. Names. Orders. A kill-switch labeled “justice” just waiting to be flipped.
And as I disappear into the shadows of a city that eats liars alive, I whisper to the air:
“Your move, Dennis.”
CHAPTER 24
KENRON
“Hey, Honey,” Kristi gasps as she staggers into the light. “I’m home…”
I rush up and catch her before she hits the floor. She’s lighter than I remember. Or maybe I’m just running too hot to feel the weight.
Her blood soaks through my shirt, hot and slick and real. My arms are locked around her thighs and shoulders, one of her boots dragging where I couldn’t hook it right. Her breath’s short. Shallow. Wet.
The second I hit the resistance hub’s blast doors, I start shouting.
“Medic! Now! Get me someone with a bag and a fucking pulse!”
The guards scramble. Someone swipes the seal and the door hisses open, stale recycled air hitting me like a wall.
I don’t stop moving.
Kristi’s head lolls against my chest. She mutters something—half words, broken syntax. “—in the bag... the shard... secure it...…”
“I got it, sweetheart. You did good,” I whisper, stepping over crates and past startled volunteers. “You did damn good.”
The med station’s tucked behind the old bar, where liquor used to flow and now adrenaline does. Two field techs are already sliding gloves on. One of them, a Drevia woman with cybernetic eyes, barks, “Lay her flat! Triage kit ready!”
I lower Kristi onto the gurney and instantly feel like I’ve stepped out of my own skin.
She’s there. Pale and bleeding. Chest rising. Just barely.
But I’m across the room already. Watching. Burning.
“Laceration to the femoral region—tourniquet,” the medic says. “Get the coagulant foam!”
“I’m awake,” Kristi rasps. Her hand reaches out, fumbling for my arm. “Ken…”
