She doesn't see the sanctuary. She sees a cage.
I have spent six hours fighting rusted bolts and rewiring electrical panels to give her breath. And I have translated it into rejection.
"I am not afraid of you leaking," I say. It is the most honest thing I have ever said. "I am afraid of us drowning you."
She wraps her arms around herself. My hoodie pulls tight across her shoulders.
"Euan," she says. "The cables. Why 'Nova'?"
I look down at the black snake. The poetic nonsense. The glitch in the system.
"Temporary nomenclature."
She doesn't believe me. She looks at the vent, then back at me.
"Go to sleep, Euan," she says softly. "The air is fine."
She turns and walks away. She takes the path I haven't marked yet. She misses the optimal exit route by two meters.
I watch her go.
When the door clicks shut, I sit back down on the floor.
I pick up the label maker.
I type: SYSTEM_FAILURE.
I stick it to my own boot.
Refilling the data logs for Protocol Z is useless if the subject interprets the data as hostility.
I pull up the airflow schematic.
I increase the fan speed by 10%. Just in case.
I will be the villain who builds her clean air. I will be the cold engineer who isolates her signal.
Better she thinks I am rejecting her than she knows I am terrifyingly, catastrophically attempting to breathe for her.
I check the time. 04:15.
The math still doesn't resolve.
One Omega. Three Alphas.
Probability of survival: Decreasing.
Probability of me stripping this entire venue’s wiring before dawn just to keep my hands busy: 100%.
I pick up the screwdriver.
End of log.
EIGHT
Kit
There is an art to building a defensive perimeter. I should know; I’ve spent half my life taping down cables so Alfie doesn't trip over his own ego and the other half putting my body between the lads and the pavement outside rough venues.
