“Safe?”
“Safe enough to buy time.”
Her fingers pause over a worn set of gloves, hesitating for the first time. “Time’s a luxury.”
“Time’s what I’m buying us.”
I move to the rig and power it down. No breadcrumbs. No signals. Everything we touch from now on has to vanish the moment we leave it. I strip the drive, smash the tracker, scatter the parts down the disposal grate behind the sink. Every motion calculated. Efficient. No noise.
She pulls the strap tight across her shoulder, eyes flicking to the window as another drone sweeps low and slow down the avenue. The lights pulse faint blue through the cracked glass. We freeze. Wait. Count the seconds.
Gone.
“We’ve got six minutes before the next pass,” I say, watching the shadows on the wall.
“I’m ready.”
I believe her.
The city outside’s different now. Something’s shifted. I can feel it in the air, in the way the walls vibrate underfoot. Like the grid’s out of rhythm—like something’s coming unhinged just below the surface.
I’ve already mapped every route in my head. Three tight alleys, two submerged tunnels, one bridge long since declared unstable. Fastest one takes nine minutes at full push. Easiest to cover tracks takes eleven. I settle on the middle path—eight and a half with room to bleed if needed.
I sling my satchel over one shoulder—lighter than it should be, but heavier in consequence. Ration tabs, sensor scramblers, half a charge of thermo paste, and two blades with edge treatments no Coalition scanner can read. I don’t carry trophies. Just tools.
Kelsea checks her sidearm—not much more than a pulse pistol, but clean and unmarked. She looks at me, waiting for the signal.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods once. “You?”
I flash a rare grin. “Always.”
CHAPTER 22
KELSEA
The warehouse is colder than I expected.
It creaks when the wind cuts through the metal slats—long, high groans that echo like ghosts caught in rust. Every time I try to shut my eyes, that sound creeps under my skin, makes my heart skip like it’s waiting for footsteps behind it. But there’s nothing. Just wind. Just silence. Just the hollow cough of a building that forgot how to be lived in.
Roja’s across the room, near the freight doors. He hasn’t spoken in a while, just paces like he’s counting something invisible. Every so often, I see him glance toward the exit, eyes sharp, body wired like he’s already halfway to bolting.
I wish I had that kind of stillness. But my mind’s on a loop.
The projection feed flickers on my wristpad. No matter how many times I scroll, it keeps snapping back to the same headlines. Same shaky footage. Same Coalition news faces plastered across every sector net.
“Cleric Vasso denies charges amid mounting evidence.”
“Anonymous sources reveal fugitive human’s past…”
And there it is. My name. My real name. Broadcast in every language across ten systems. I hear it in my head now, not in Roja’s voice, not in Ceera’s, but in the cold clipped tone of a news anchor reading it off a script like I’m a case file.
I pull my knees up tighter and try to focus on the dust drifting through the shafts of pale light overhead. Tiny motes floating in silence. They move like time is syrup. Like the world’s still turning out there, but we’re paused. Waiting to see which door gets kicked in first.
“You’re not sleeping.”
Roja’s voice cuts through the static in my head. Low. Careful.
