“Don’t care.”
“We’re within our rights to?—”
“You’re not.”
My voice drops to a growl, thick with something old and cold. “This block’s under union jurisdiction. You step farther in, you’ll have a neighborhood swarm.”
They glance at each other. We all know they weren’t expecting resistance. Especially not from someone like me.
“You obstructing an investigation?” the tall one dares.
“I’m stopping a mistake.”
They hesitate. The short one mutters something into his comm. Probably a supervisor. I watch their hands. Always the hands.
Then they back off. Not scared. But smart enough.
As they turn, I add, “Next time you show her face, I won’t ask questions first.”
They don’t answer. Just disappear around the corner, boots hitting the concrete a little faster than when they came.
I wait until I can’t hear them anymore, then duck back inside.
Kelsea’s standing by the window, blade back in her hand.
“They show it?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She exhales through her nose. “And?”
“They won’t be back.”
I watch her grip the hilt tighter. She nods once. Then she walks past me to the rig.
Not running.
Not hiding.
We both know the game’s changed.
And neither of us is playing defense anymore.
That realization settles in my chest like a slow burn. Not a spark—no. This is something heavier. A shift in gravity. We’ve stopped reacting. Now we move. We set the pace. Our enemies don’t get to pick the terms anymore.
The silence between us isn’t dead space—it’s the weight of intention.
I roll my shoulders, loosen the claws, crack the tension from my spine like I’m shedding old skin. She stands by the rig, watching the static hum across its screen, but her mind’s already further out. Planning. Calculating. Ready.
I start the clean-up in silence.
Not because I’m trying to be stoic. Not for any poetic reason. It’s just... what you do. What I do. When the end of something’sthis close, you don’t dress it up. You wipe it down. Strip it back. Burn it clean.
My claws move on instinct—grabbing, flipping, folding, discarding. The stale air in the room smells like copper and carbon, old food, broken sleep, and her shampoo. It’s all baked into the walls now, like we lived here longer than we did.
Kelsea doesn't talk. She's across the room, sitting on the edge of the cot, back straight, hands moving in a slow rhythm as she packs her things. Not rushed. Not detached. Focused. I think she knows this part matters to me, even if I won’t say it.
I move to the sink, pop the false bottom. My claws slip into the groove by memory, and the last data chip slides into my palm—tiny, almost weightless. But this little bastard’s got everything. Burners. Codes. Emergency clearance pings. Bits of Ceera’s original voiceprint, too. Things we were never supposed to keep. Things we sure as hell can’t take with us.
