I grab her elbow.
“You need?—”
“I need to finish this.”
She shrugs out of my grip and slaps the shard into the input port. The console flares to life, code scrolling like furious scripture.
I watch her fingers dance.
Behind us, the sealed door vibrates once. A second time. They're trying to override it.
“Kristi.”
“Just a few more lines…”
“I’ll hold the line.”
She pauses.
Looks at me.
Eyes wide. Bright. Terrified.
But not weak.
“You always do,” she says.
Then she leans in and kisses me.
It’s not desperate. It’s not soft.
It’severything.
And it might be the last.
CHAPTER 27
KRISTI
The launch panel watches me. That’s what it feels like, anyway. A monolithic slab of cold luminite and pulsing light, spitting status alerts and biometric prompts in a steady, almost bored cadence. Whoever designed this system knew nobody would ever get this far down. They built it like a verdict with no appeal.
Triple-layer encryption.
Algorithmic locks swirling like fractals under glass.
My uncle’s biometric signature woven into the very foundation of the access code, like a ghost crouched in machine logic, sneering at anyone who might try to break it open.
I brace both hands on the console, try not to think about how slick my palms are getting with blood and sweat. My side throbs with every breath—hot, wet, pulsing to the plastic beat of the alarm howling somewhere above us.
It’s fine. I’ve coded under worse.
Okay, maybe not worse.
“Talk to me, Kristi,” Kenron’s voice rumbles over the concave hiss of a charging pulse pistol. He doesn’t turn when he says it. He’s fixed on the hatch, shoulders squared, every muscle ready to launch if someone breaks it open.
I don’t look back. Can’t.
“Fail-safe is engaged,” I say through gritted teeth. My fingers are flying—touch, press, drag—bypassing one encryption lattice after another. “The core’s running override algorithms I’ve only seen in deep council docs. Dennis doesn’t trust anyone.”
